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I pulled away and looked into her tear-wet eyes. An awful confession poured out of me. “But I am, Nerida. I am him. I am a Kara.”
“No, you’re mine. You’re a Taylor. Take my name if Aslan Avci is dead. Take my parents’ name. Take me, Aslan. Take me and run. We need to run.” Her tears turned to sobs. “We need to run. Before it’s too late. Run, Aslan. Run, run, RUN!”
I gasped as the nightmare broke.
My broken heart did its best to beat with scrambled impulses as I pushed my weary body upright. The furs around me were warm, but the rock beneath me was mercilessly hard. My missing leg still felt the heat and weight of whatever dead animal kept me covered, and I did what I always did when my dreams bled into the doctrine my father was pushing.
I’m not like him.
I’m not.
I would never hurt her.
I would never sell her.
I was almost sick at the thought.
Grabbing my left arm, I ran my thumb over the inked siren. I bowed over it. I prayed to it. I begged it to help me. To keep me sane. Stay human. Stay hers.
I’m yours, Neri.
Until my last breath, I am yours.
I’m still here.
I still love you.
But I hope you’re moving on.
I hope the pain is fading.
I hope you believe I’m gone because the thought of you in this much agony is too much to fucking bear.
A single tear ran down my cheek as I pressed a kiss to the siren.
The screech of the cell door opening wrenched my head up.
My father strode in, dressed in his typical black suit, polished shoes, and swept-back hair. Deeper grey glimmered at his temples, and a few more lines etched around his eyes, but apart from those signs of ageing, he looked formidable and in no mood to retire—heir or no heir.
Dropping my arm, I swiped at the weak wetness on my cheek and struggled out of bed.
A few accountancy records were stacked by the wooden table. He’d given them to me as a reward for behaving in our last session. I had no idea what I’d done to deserve the gift of numbers, but I’d poured through them. I’d found a few mistakes in his math. I’d relished in the scratch of my pencil and the orderly formation of figures inside my tangled mind.
Cem stopped before me. His gaze swept over my soiled t-shirt and black sweatpants before landing on my tattoo. An awful glint of something appeared, then disappeared in his stare. Slowly, he met my eyes and lowered his chin. “Did you sleep well, Aslan?”
I balled my hands and stood dead straight, my stump hovering above the ground as my right leg kept me balanced. “I did.”
“I did. Thank you, baba,” he corrected me. Tilting his head, he waited with narrowed eyes.
Gritting my teeth, I muttered, “I did. Thank you, baba.”
He grinned as if I was perfect in every way. “You’ve had a few days off. I figured some time away from the machine might do you good. Do you wish to begin, or are you ready to take your rightful place beside me?”
Once again, his gaze snapped to my tattoo before locking back on mine.
I didn’t move.
He asked this each time he came for me.
