Total pages in book: 208
Estimated words: 207002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1035(@200wpm)___ 828(@250wpm)___ 690(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1035(@200wpm)___ 828(@250wpm)___ 690(@300wpm)
Little by little, quicker and quicker.
The walls were closing in.
The chains in my mind were buckling.
I don’t know how much more I can take.
Ducking to his haunches, Cem rested his hands on my bare thighs.
I’d been stripped naked for today’s persuasion.
He’d used the picana between my legs.
I’d sunk into oblivion when my body had decided it couldn’t withstand the torture anymore.
Tutting under his breath, he repeated softly, “I truly hoped that it wouldn’t come to this.” His fingers dug into my kneecaps. “You’re so close. So close to being mine but you keep clinging to the past. To who you used to be. To her.” His gaze fell on my inked arm. “And I know how you’re doing it.”
Standing, he drove his finger into the sallow flesh of my forearm, right in the eye of the lion. “You look at this. Each time you slip and start to fall, you look at this as if it’s your saviour.”
The two guards who always accompanied him down here shifted on the spot. They never said a word during our sessions. Most of the time I never saw their faces, but I flinched as one coughed under his breath and the other made a low groan, almost as if even they weren’t ready for whatever Cem was about to do.
I trembled as my skipping heart raced.
I kept my gaze firmly away from my inked siren.
I had no energy to talk.
Whatever he wanted to do, I had no say in it.
I could fight or scream, and it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference.
The only power I had down here was indifference. Apathy. The cold detachment of shutting down.
Footsteps drummed around the echoey caves just before Cem’s personal doctor marched into the catacomb I called prison. My heart flickered with hate, and a morbid thought popped into my head as my gaze fell on his black bag. Perhaps my leg was in there. Maybe he’d preserved it and returned to sew it back on.
The doctor slowed to a stop as he examined me in the chair.
No one undid the buckles around my wrists, waist, throat, or thighs, and I sat like a good broken toy, not caring about anything.
“He’s sick again, efendim.” He wrinkled his nose. “Look at his complexion. His eyes.”
“He has no fever,” Cem argued.
“He’s not getting the vital vitamins being locked down here for years on end. He needs sunlight. He needs fresh air. He needs—”
“I give him the best food from my chef. He knows that he has a king-sized bed and luxury apartment awaiting him the moment he accepts that we are family. He could make this all stop tomorrow.”
“He is stubborn...like his father.” Dropping his bag, the doctor opened it and rummaged inside. “If he’s determined to stay down here, make him take one of these every day.” The rattle of a bottle landed in Cem’s outstretched hand.
“What is it?”
“High strength vitamin D for immunity and bones. He’ll also need K2. And possibly some quercetin. Along with another round of antibiotics...for after today’s exercise. Just in case.”
“Fine. You know I want him alive and in good health, so prescribe whatever he needs. But...” His voice changed from typical frustration to fucking chirpy with hope. “I have reason to believe he won’t be staying down here for much longer after today.”
“Oh?” The doctor quirked his eyebrow.
My ruined heart did its best to find a regular rhythm all while begging to stop altogether.
Whatever Cem had planned, I wanted no part of it.
My fists curled, and despite myself, I tugged against the binds. I’d fought against them so much that the flesh around my wrists had turned calloused from ligature scars.
“Thirty more minutes, Aslan,” Cem murmured. “Then you have my word that you’ll be released.”
My eyes met his. Black to black.
In a spur of whatever emotion he felt for me, he bent over and pressed a kiss to my sweaty forehead. “I love you. You’ll trust that soon enough. You’ll reciprocate that...sooner rather than later.”
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.”