Page 21 of Crown of Storm and Silence
The silence that follows is deafening. Kaan stands there in the supernatural twilight, and I can feel,his attention sharp as a blade's edge against my skin
"You're afraid of me," he says finally, his voice carrying a note of something that might be pain if I didn't know better. It's not a question.
"Yes," I whisper, because lying seems pointless.
"You should be." His laugh is bitter, sharp-edged. "I am exactly the monster you should run from, Nesilhan. The fact that you don't remember why doesn't make it less true."
The name sends another shiver through me, awakening echoes of recognition I can't quite grasp. "Why do you keep calling me that?"
"Because it's who you are." He takes a step closer, and I fight the urge to flee into the cottage. "Elif is the name of a woman who doesn't exist, a lie you've built to hide from a truth too terrible to remember."
"And what truth is that?"
For a moment, something vulnerable flickers across his features. "That you loved a monster once. That you carried his child and chose to forget rather than face what that meant."
I want to deny it, to tell him he's wrong, that I could never love someone so dangerous, so obviously lethal. But something inside me rebels against the lie. Some part of me recognizes the pain in his voice, the way his shadows curl protectively around him as if they're trying to shield him from further hurt.
"I need to go inside," I say finally, my voice barely steady. "I need—I need time to think."
"Of course." But he doesn't move, doesn't step back to give me space. Instead, he remains exactly where he is, a dark sentinel watching my every breath.
"You said you weren't leaving the village," I continue, gathering what courage I can. "Where will you stay?"
His smile is sharp, predatory. "Close enough to hear you scream if anyone threatens you. Close enough to tear apart anyone who tries to touch what's mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should terrify me. Instead, it sends a shiver of something that might be recognition, might be longing, through my entire body.
"I'm not yours," I say, but the words sound weak even to my own ears.
"Aren't you? Your body knows me, Nesilhan. Your heart recognizes mine even if your mind has forgotten. You can deny it all you want, but we both know the truth."
I turn toward the cottage door, desperate to escape this overwhelming feeling and that voice that speaks truths I'm not ready to hear. But his next words stop me cold.
"Sweet dreams,hatun," he says softly, and the endearment falls from his lips like a caress. "Try not to dream of me."
As if I could do anything else.
8
The Fairy's Confession
Kaan
Isit in my command pavilion, staring at nothing, a goblet of wine untouched in my hand while maps and battle plans lay scattered, forgotten across my desk. The phantom ache where our bond used to live throbs with each heartbeat, a constant reminder of what I've lost.
"My lord?" Emir's voice cuts through the silence as he enters, then stops short. "Are you…all right?"
I blink slowly, focusing on his concerned face. "All right?" I repeat the words as if they're foreign. "Well, let's see. My wife has erased me so thoroughly from her mind that she chose a new name rather than remember her own. She's living as a healer's assistant in a village that smells like goat cheese. And she looked at me like I was something that crawled out from under a rock." I take a sip of wine, grimacing. "So no, Emir. I wouldn't say I'm all right. I'd say I'm having the sort of day that makes one reconsider the benefits of immortality."
Emir closes the pavilion flap behind him, his expression carefully neutral. "What happened?"
"She's alive," I say, the words hollow. "Alive and calling herself Elif. The blood severance destroyed her memories along with our bond—complete amnesia. She didn't recognize me at all. Looked at me like I was a stranger who might harm her." I laugh bitterly. "Which, to be fair, is probably accurate."
Emir's expression grows more concerned. "How extensive is the memory loss?"
"Complete. She remembers nothing—not her name, not her past, not me." I pause, then deliver the next blow. "And there's more. She's pregnant, Emir. Over six months along." I drain the goblet and set it aside with more force than necessary. "She's carrying my child and has no idea who the father is."
For once in eight centuries of service, my general appears genuinely shaken. He processes this information in silence for a long moment, then makes a low sound of understanding in his throat.
