His smile falters. Good.
"Foreplay's for people who care about consent," I continue, launching myself at him. "You remember consent, cousin? That thing you ignored when you let my father bind you to my wife?"
This time we collide ready. His elbow catches my ribs—I hear the crack before I feel it, a sharp snap followed by blinding white heat that steals my breath. But I've fought through worse. I've fought through having my soul ripped apart. A few broken ribs are nothing.
My fist hammers his kidney. He grunts, doubles slightly, and I use the opening to drive my knee into his stomach. We go down together, rolling through mud that's turning red with our blood.
No grace. No elegance. Just two immortals who've forgotten they're supposed to be civilized, beating the shit out of each other while the sky weeps and thunder applauds.
His fist catches my jaw—not a glancing blow but a full connection that sends lightning shooting through my skull. The world tilts sideways, stars exploding across my vision. I taste copper, feel a tooth loosen, and for a moment I'm not sure which way is up.
Doesn't matter. I find his stomach with my knee anyway.
He grunts.
Around us, the training ground has gone silent. Every soldier frozen mid-motion, weapons lowered, mouths open.
Let them watch. Let them see what happens when you touch what belongs to me.
"The binding." I circle him, mud sucking at my boots. "My father's binding. To my wife."
"Ah." Yasar circles opposite, and I take a moment to appreciate my handiwork—blood streaming from his nose in twin rivulets, one eye already swelling shut, his perfect jaw nowdecorated with the beginning of a bruise that will be spectacular by morning. His immaculate training leathers are torn at the shoulder, caked with mud that's mixing with the blood dripping from a cut on his forehead. He looks almost human. Almost touchable. Almost like someone who bleeds and breaks like everyone else.
"So she finally told you," he continues, spitting blood onto the mud between us. A tooth follows. "How did that conversation go? Before or after you fucked her?"
I lunge. He sidesteps but not fast enough—my fist catches his ribs. Crack.
"Before," I snarl. "Right after she screamed my name. Twice. You want to know what else she told me while she was naked in my bed? While she was choosing me over whatever pathetic claim you think you have?"
"Enlighten me." He recovers faster than he should, lands a vicious hook to my jaw that sends fresh stars cascading through my skull. The world rings like a struck bell. "Though I'm sure your version will be delightfully biased."
We circle again, both breathing hard.
"She told me you kissed her." The words taste like poison, like ash, like every nightmare I've ever had about losing her. "While I was fighting a fucking war, you were here. With her. Doing what, exactly? Providing comfort? Offering your shoulder to cry on while waiting for the perfect moment to?—"
"Guilty." Yasar wipes blood from his eyes, mud streaking across his face like war paint. That expression is back—smaller now, tighter, edged with something that might be pain or might be satisfaction. "Though 'kissed' is such a simple word for what magic compelled, don't you think? Like calling a hurricane 'weather' or calling your marriage 'functional.'"
"Don't."I close the distance fast, grabbing the front of his ruined leathers. "Don't you fucking dare make excuses."
Our fists collide mid-air—knuckles splitting, blood mixing with rain. We grapple, faces inches apart, close enough that I can see every fleck of gold in his eyes, every micro-expression of the pain he's trying to hide.
"Excuses?" He jerks his knee up. I twist, take it on my thigh instead of somewhere more vulnerable. "I'm stating facts, cousin dearest. Your father's binding doesn't ask permission. It takes. It consumes. It turns desire into compulsion and choice into chains. But please, continue pretending you've never done anything without consent. I'm sure your wife would find that fascinating."
I headbutt him. His nose crunches—definitely broken now. But he doesn't let go, gets an arm around my neck.
"You—" I drive my elbow into his kidney. "Could have—" Another blow. "REFUSED!"
He releases, shoves me back. We separate, staggering.
"REFUSED?" Yasar laughs, and it's a wild sound, broken and bitter and bleeding at the edges. Blood bubbles from his ruined nose as he speaks, staining his teeth red. "Refused ERLIK? The Lord of Darkness himself? The god who created shadow magic and rules Kara Cehennem? You think I had a choice when he decided to play puppet master with souls?"
"Everyone has a choice!" I rush him again.
We go down hard, rolling through mud that's now more blood than water. Fists, elbows, knees—nothing elegant, nothing refined. Just violence in its purest form, two immortal beings trying to break each other because words aren't enough anymore.
"I had the same choice you did," Yasar snarls, getting on top, raining blows. "When the healers said they couldn't save both—you chose her. I chose to accept the binding. We both made our decisions!"
I buck him off, reverse positions. My fist hammers his face. Once. Twice. Three times. "NOT THE SAME!"
