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Pulling away, he nodded at the doctor. “Proceed, Çetin.”
“Are you sure?” Çetin’s voice sounded reluctant. “I’ve never denied you anything, but this seems particularly—”
“Necessary,” Cem snarled. “Do it.”
“As you wish.” The doctor sighed, braced his shoulders, and commanded, “Guards. A table, please.”
Instantly, the two guards leapt into action and dragged the single wooden table to the edge of the medieval chair where I was strapped. Without another word, the doctor unloaded a few things from his bag: gauze, bandages, packaged sterilised scalpels, alcohol, and finally, a syringe full of liquid.
His eyes met mine with an apologetic wince. “This won’t hurt as I will administer a local anaesthetic—as per your father’s request, but I suggest you look away.”
“No, he is to watch,” Cem said coldly. “I don’t want him in pain. This isn’t about pain. This is about removing the past. It’s about proving he is more than he thinks he is, and no number of tricks or time can save him.”
I couldn’t catch a proper breath.
Fuck...no.
He can’t be serious.
He wouldn’t cut me again.
Would he?
Looking at me, he added, “Your past ends right now, Aslan. That dreadful tattoo will be removed, and with it, any ideas you can ever return to that life. Your future is bright, and it is here, not there. You are so close to embracing it. I’m not going to waste any more sessions on you. Not when you are ready, and I need you by my side.”
Slicing fear cut through me. “What the hell are you going to do?”
“Çetin. Please tell my heir what is about to happen.”
“Of course, efendim.” The doctor bowed his head and ran a soaked pad all over my arm, wiping my tattoo thoroughly. The sharp whiff of disinfectant shot up my nose, hinting that if my neurons were seared from the thousands of shocks over the past few years, my sense of smell had returned at the worst possible time.
“I will numb the area and then surgically remove the epidermis and dermis layers of your skin. Depending on the size of the removal, I will either apply a skin graft or sew up the ends of the wound. You will have a decent scar after the surgery, but your forearm will no longer bear any ink. You will suffer no ill effects. I give you my word on that as a physician.”
I went deathly cold, glowering at my torturer. “Cem...don’t.”
“I am your father.” Cem crossed his arms. “Address me as such.”
“Baba, please.” I shivered and struggled in the chair, speaking a string of Turkish. “Don’t. Don’t cut me again. I don’t want you to take another part of me. Please.”
I hated that I went straight to begging.
No cursing.
No commanding.
Just straight-up whimpering because if he took my tattoo...if he took Neri from me. Took myself from me.
I had nothing left.
I’d be lost.
Lost and broken and...
Fuck.
He’ll win.
I wouldn’t be able to withstand him.
