The words land like a slap, and something dark unfurls in my chest. "Because anyone connected to Erlik is dangerous, Nesilhan. My father doesn't do anything without purpose, and Yasar has been training with him in Kara Cehennem for fifty years. Whatever game Erlik is playing, my cousin is part of it. And anyone close to me—especially you—becomes a target or a tool."
She stands abruptly, putting the bench between us like a barrier. "So not only did your father do whatever he did during that cleansing ritual, but now you're telling me I need to be suspicious of your cousin too? How many more people in your family should I be afraid of?"
"All of them," I say honestly. "Everyone connected to Erlik should be viewed as a potential threat. That's how you survive in demon politics."
"Wonderful." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "What a lovely family I married into. Poisoned first wives, murdered children, scheming cousins. The fairy tales really undersold how much fun being a Shadow Lady would be."
I feel it—not just anger, but bone-deep weariness. Grief. A desperate need for this all to be over, one way or another.
"I'm not asking you to trust me," I say quietly. "I know I don't deserve that. But I am asking you to be careful around Yasar. Watch what you say to him. Don't let him use your grief or your hatred of me to manipulate you."
"You mean don't let him do what you've been doing for months?" Her voice goes quiet, and somehow that's worse than shouting. "Manipulating my choices, making decisions for me, keeping secrets because you think you know better?"
"That's not?—"
"Isn't it?" She meets my eyes, and the accusation there burns. "You chose to save me over our baby without asking what I wanted. You keep information from me 'for my own good' like I'm a child who can't handle difficult truths. You make every decision without consulting me, then act surprised when I feel controlled. And now you're warning me about Yasar being manipulative? The irony would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic."
Every word is accurate. Every accusation deserved. And somehow that makes the rage in my chest twist into something darker.
"When does he arrive?" she asks finally.
"Within the fortnight."
"Fine. Then I'll smile and play the gracious hostess because that's what you need from me, isn't it?" Her voice carries resignation that cuts deeper than rage. "The perfect Shadow Lady. Controlled and protected and kept safely ignorant of whatever games you're all playing."
"I just want you safe?—"
"No, you want me controlled." She starts walking away, heading back toward the palace. "There's a difference, Kaan. One day maybe you'll learn it."
Something inside me snaps.
I move before thought, shadows propelling me forward until I'm in front of her, blocking her path. Her eyes widen—not with fear, but with recognition. She knows this look. Knows what happens when I lose control.
"What are you—" she starts, but I cut her off.
"You think I want you controlled?" My voice comes out raw, dangerous. "You think this is about possession? About keeping you like some fucking trophy?"
"Isn't it?" But her breath catches as I step closer, backing her against the garden wall until there's nowhere left to run.
"I chose you," I growl, my hand slamming against the stone beside her head. "When the healers said they could only save one, I chose you. I will always choose you, even if it makes me a monster. Even if you hate me for it. Even if?—"
"Stop." Her hands come up to my chest, but she's not pushing me away. Just holding there, fingers curling into my shirt like she can't decide whether to shove or pull. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to make me feel?—"
"Feel what?" I lean down until my lips brush her ear, and I feel her shudder. "Feel the way you used to feel when I touched you? When you'd arch beneath me and beg for more?"
"That was before," she gasps, but her pulse is racing beneath my mouth as I trace the line of her throat. "Before everything fell apart. Before I understood what it meant to be yours."
"I know what I am." My other hand slides into her hair, tilting her face up to mine. Through our damaged bond, I feel it—the spike of her heartbeat, the traitorous heat flooding her body, the desperate ache she's trying so hard to deny. "But the thought of losing you—to anyone, to anything—it would destroy me. Completely. Irrevocably."
"I don't care about your cousin?—"
"Maybe not." My thumb traces her lower lip, and her breath hitches. "But you hate me. I understand that. I deserve it.”
"Good," she breathes, but there are tears streaming down her face now. "You should know what it feels like. To lose something you can never get back."
And then I kiss her. Not gently. Not carefully. I kiss her like a drowning man finding air, like she's the only thing anchoring me to sanity and I'm terrified of letting go.
For one suspended heartbeat, she freezes. Then she kisses me back with a desperation that matches mine. Her mouth opens beneath mine with a sound that's half sob, half moan, and her fingers fist in my shirt.
