Page 37 of Crown of Storm and Silence
Kaan
I'm contemplatingthe various ways one might creatively dismember a particularly persistent merchant when the sound of laughter drifts across the village square like a personal insult delivered by fate itself. Not just any laughter—her laughter, bright and musical and absolutely devastating in its ability to make my dead heart attempt resurrection.
From my perch in the shadows of the baker's overhang, I have a perfect view of the little outdoor seating area where my wife—my wife, regardless of what name she's chosen to hide behind—sits across from Sinan like they're old friends sharing intimate secrets over morning tea.
She's glowing. Literally fucking glowing with that soft golden radiance that means she's genuinely happy, and the sight makes something violent and possessive roar to life in my chest. Five months. Five months since I've seen her smile like that, and she's wasting it on a man who thinks protection means buying her bread and making conversation about the weather.
"—wonderful story about your travels," she's saying, her eyes bright with interest that should be directed at me, dammit. "You must have seen so many fascinating places."
Sinan leans forward with the eager enthusiasm of a man who thinks he's making progress, his green eyes fixed on her face with disturbing intensity. "The northern kingdoms are particularly beautiful this time of year. Perhaps, when you're ready to travel again, I could show you?—"
Perhaps I could show you how your intestines look draped festively around the village fountain.
They're sitting close enough that when Sinan gestures, his hand almost brushes hers. Almost. The restraint he's showing is admirable, really—clearly he's been taught proper courtship techniques. Unfortunately for him, proper courtship techniques assume the woman in question isn't already married to a creature of shadows and barely restrained homicidal impulses.
Nesilhan takes a delicate bite of what appears to be honey cake, and when a small crumb clings to her lower lip, Sinan's gaze fixes on it with the kind of focus usually reserved for religious experiences. I watch him swallow hard, watch his hand twitch like he's considering reaching out to brush it away.
My shadows respond to my mood by writhing with enthusiastic malevolence, spreading across the ground like spilled ink that's developed a taste for violence. The temperature in my little hiding spot drops several degrees as I imagine all the dramatic ways I could ensure Sinan never looks at my wife's mouth again.
Easy, I tell myself. She's having a pleasant morning. Don't ruin it by painting the square in merchant blood. Yet.
But then Sinan does something that makes my control snap like an overstretched bowstring—he reaches across the table and gently brushes the crumb from her lip with his thumb.
The touch lasts perhaps two seconds. Two fucking seconds of skin contact that shouldn't matter, shouldn't register as anything more than a friendly gesture. But the way her breath catches, the way her cheeks flush pink, the soft "oh" of surprise that escapes her lips—it's the most intimately erotic thing I've witnessed in months, and it's happening between my wife and another man.
The shadows around me explode outward with violent enthusiasm, and it's only Emir's sudden appearance that prevents me from doing something spectacularly inadvisable involving destructive applications of darkness and Sinan's respiratory system.
"My lord," he says quietly, materializing beside me with the practiced stealth of someone who's spent centuries preventing his lord from committing acts of public dismemberment. "You look... contemplative."
"Contemplative," I repeat, watching as Sinan's hand lingers near Nesilhan's face for just a moment too long. "Yes, that's certainly one word for it. I was just considering the logistics of various dismemberment techniques. Did you know that if you remove a man's fingers slowly enough, he can watch the entire process? Enlightening."
Emir follows my gaze to the tableau across the square, and I see understanding dawn on his features. "Ah. I see the source of your…contemplation.”
"He touched her," I say conversationally, shadows coiling around my feet like eager pets waiting for a command. "Put his hands on my wife's skin and made her blush like some lovesick schoolgirl. I'm debating whether to start with his fingers or go straight to removing his tongue."
"My lord?—"
"I'm thinking a nice slow evisceration," I continue with the kind of cheerful enthusiasm usually reserved for discussingholiday plans. "Nothing too dramatic—I don't want to traumatize the villagers. Just a light disembowelment, perhaps some decorative arrangement of his internal organs."
Emir pinches the bridge of his nose in the universal gesture of men who've accidentally signed up to babysit homicidal immortals. "Perhaps we could discuss this elsewhere?—"
"Or," I interrupt, warming to my theme, "I could go with something more…personal. Remove his hands entirely. Can't touch what belongs to me if he lacks the necessary appendages. Clean, efficient, sends a clear message to future suitors."
"They're just talking," Emir points out with the patience of a man trying to reason with a particularly unhinged wild animal.
"Just talking," I repeat, and my laugh has enough edge to cut glass. "Emir, my friend, clearly you've never been married. There is no such thing as just talking when another man is making your wife smile like sunshine while you're lurking in shadows like some lovesick fool with abandonment issues."
Across the square, Sinan is telling some hilarious story about his travels, complete with animated gestures that make Nesilhan throw back her head and laugh with genuine delight. The sound cuts through me like a blade, and I have to grip the wall behind me to keep from crossing the distance between us and reminding everyone present exactly who she belongs to.
"You know what really irritates me?" I ask Emir, who's watching me with the careful attention of someone monitoring a volatile explosive. "It's not even that he wants to fuck her—any man with functioning eyes and basic appreciation for beauty would want that. It's that he's being so goddamn noble about it."
"Noble?"
"Look at him," I gesture toward Sinan with barely controlled disgust. "Perfect gentleman, respectful distance, asking permission before he breathes in her direction. Treating her like some precious flower that might wilt if handled roughly."My voice drops to something dangerously soft. "When what she needs is someone who understands exactly how magnificent she looks when she's completely undone."
Emir makes a sound that might be choking. "My lord, perhaps we should?—"
"I know how she responds to being properly handled, Emir," I continue with vicious satisfaction. "The sounds she makes, the way her back arches, how she tastes when?—"
