Page 16

Ada

T he ancient stone walls of Hakan’s shadow palace loomed around me, oppressive and watchful, when the gathering began to shift.

Guests moved toward the central chamber where the ritual would soon commence.

Servants extinguished half the lights, plunging the hall into shadow relieved only by flickering braziers.

Perfect.

I waited until Hakan was surrounded by his demonic kin, their attention focused on the ancient text being brought forth. Three shadow lords stood between him and the eastern exit—the very lords who had been drinking steadily all evening, their attention wavering.

Moving with practiced calm, I backed toward a servant’s passage, as if merely seeking a moment’s respite from the oppressive shadow magic. No one noticed as I slipped through the narrow doorway, then quickly navigated the darkened corridor beyond.

My heart thundered, but I forced myself to move methodically.

Running would attract attention. Instead, I walked with purpose, as if on an errand.

When I reached the kitchens, I turned left instead of right, following the path I had mapped out during my restless exploration of the estate these past days.

The eastern wing was deserted, just as I'd observed during my careful reconnaissance over recent nights.

I hurried now, lifting my skirts to move faster.

Three nights ago, during one of my sleepless walks, I had discovered the hidden passage entrance behind a tapestry after roaming the corridors.

Yesterday, Melo and I had carefully explored its route and confirmed it led to freedom—a calculated insult, hiding our escape route behind the image of Hakan's father.

My fingers found the concealed latch, and the panel swung open to reveal a narrow, dusty corridor. Freedom lay just beyond, a straight shot to the Peri Bacalari where Nadine waited with Kiraz. I stepped inside, pulling the panel closed behind me.

Darkness enveloped me. I summoned a small orb of light magic to guide my way, moving as quickly as the cramped passage allowed.

The air grew cooler while I descended, smelling of earth and old stone.

Down, down, following the centuries-old escape route that had saved other prisoners from this house of shadows.

Ten minutes. Twenty. I lost track of time in the darkness, my focus narrowed to each step forward, each foot of distance gained. The passage began to slope upward, and hope surged within me. I was close. So close.

And then I felt it—a sudden awareness through the bond, as if ice water had been poured down my spine. The distance had weakened my ability to mask our connection, and Hakan had noticed my absence. Worse, he was probing our connection, searching for me.

I slammed my mental walls up, blocking him completely. The pain was immediate and searing, as if someone had driven a hot poker through my chest. I staggered, catching myself against the damp wall.

Keep moving. Keep moving.

I forced myself onward, sweat beading on my forehead from the effort of maintaining the block. The passage widened slightly, and a faint glow shimmered ahead—moonlight filtering through the exit. Just a few more yards…

I slammed my mental walls up, blocking him completely.

The pain was immediate and searing—the binding fought against total separation, designed to maintain some level of connection between bonded pairs.

But I'd learned to endure this particular agony over the weeks of captivity, knowing that while I could block his surface emotions and thoughts with concentrated effort, something deeper always remained.

No matter how hard I tried, I could never shut him out entirely—there was always that silver thread connecting us, pulsing with a life of its own.

The darkness behind me shifted, condensed.

“Running away so soon, wife? And here I thought you were enjoying the festivities.”

Hakan’s voice froze me in place, and the bond straightened, zipping through my core. I turned, slowly, clenching my fists.

He stood ten paces back, shadows writhing around him like living things. His expression was eerily calm, but his green eyes—normally the color of a forest in shadow—now burned with an unearthly cold fire that sent my blood cold.

“How—” I began.

“Did you really think I would let you run away?” He stepped closer, each movement fluid with fluid menace, and my stupid heart reacted. “That I wouldn’t feel you blocking our bond? That I wouldn’t sense exactly where you were trying to go?”

I backed away, my light magic flaring defensively. “Stay back.”

He laughed, the sound devoid of humor. “Or what? You’ll fight me?

Run from me?” Another step closer. "There is nowhere you can go that I won't find you, Ada.

Nowhere you can hide that my shadows won't reach.

" His words were harsh, possessive, but I caught something else in his tone—something that sounded almost like desperation.

Through our bond, I could feel conflicting emotions warring within him: the cold possessiveness of a shadow lord, and underneath it, something that felt like genuine fear.

Fear of losing me? Or fear of what would happen to me if I escaped?

"I'd rather die than remain your prisoner," I snapped, though my tone wavered.

In a blur of movement too fast to track, he closed the distance between us, slamming me into the wall with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. His fingers circled my throat—not squeezing, but there as a warning—while his other hand pinned both my wrists above my head.

"You think this is prison?" he snarled, his face inches from mine, shadows darkening the air around us. "You know nothing of chains and cages, Ada. If you did, you wouldn't be so eager to test my patience."

I struggled within his grip, but he was immovable, his body flush with mine with deliberate intent. "Let go of me!"

"You want freedom?" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

"There is no freedom from me. Not in this life or the next.

I own every breath you take, every beat of your heart.

" His hand slid from my throat down to my chest, covering our binding mark.

"The bond between us runs deeper than you understand.

I could make you feel whatever I choose—pleasure, pain, need so desperate it drives you mad. "

Despite my fear and anger, heat pooled low in my belly at his words, at the familiar weight of his body close to mine. My treacherous body remembered him—remembered how he used to make me feel, how his touch could set me on fire even when I hated him for it.

“Why don’t you, then?” I challenged, refusing to show the complex mix of fear and unwanted desire churning inside me. “Why not break me and be done with it?”

His mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile, but his eyes held a wild, almost confused look—as if he was surprised by his own words even as he spoke them.

“Because the shadows whisper that breaking you will give me peace,” he said, his voice carrying an odd hollowness.

“Because watching you fight feeds something in me that I don’t remember choosing to hunger for.

” His fingers tangled in my hair, but the grip was uncertain, as if he was fighting his own hands.

“Because I can’t tell anymore what I want from what I’ve been made to want. ”

“I hate you,” I whispered, the words tearing from my throat—not with passion, but with the pure fury of a mother kept from her child.

“Hate me,” he said, and for a moment something flickered across his face—pain, regret, confusion. “It changes nothing. I can’t seem to stop this, can’t?—”

He pressed closer, and I could smell that familiar scent, feel the solid warmth of him, but where once it might have stirred desire, now it only made me think of Kiraz. Of how her father’s presence should be comfort, not captivity.

“Stop pretending this is about desire,” I hissed, my voice steady with cold rage rather than breathless want. “This is about control. About keeping me from what matters.”

His hand traced my collarbone, but the touch seemed almost involuntary, like he was following a script he didn’t remember writing. “Your body remembers?—”

“My body remembers a man who loved me,” I cut him off, my tone sharp as a blade. “Not whatever you’ve become. Not this thing that keeps me from living.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “From living? You have everything here—luxury, power through our binding?—”

“I have nothing,” I said. “I have a cage decorated with silk and shadow.”

He gripped my wrists with his left hand, while his right traced along my collarbone, down to where my pulse hammered—not with desire, but with desperate fury. His green eyes stared directly into mine, searching for something he couldn’t name.

“Stop pretending,” he growled against my throat, his lips barely grazing my skin where my pulse thundered with rage, not want. “Stop lying to yourself. You still respond to me.”

“I respond to threats,” I corrected coldly, painfully aware of his confusion, the way he seemed to be fighting his own actions. The binding between us pulsed with dark energy, but from my side, it carried only protective fury—the fierce determination of someone with everything to lose.

My heart hammered wildly, but not from desire. It was the desperate rhythm of a caged animal, of someone who needed to get home to what mattered most. His presence overwhelmed my senses, but only because it represented everything standing between me and freedom.

"You see, Ada," he whispered, his tone rough with something that might have been confusion rather than hunger, "you can fight all you want, but something still connects us. Something I can't understand anymore."

Despite everything—the pain, the betrayal, the years of separation—my body recognized him, yes. But recognition wasn't desire. It was memory, and memory could be a weapon, too.