2. Not Now
~ MELEK ~
She was hurting. I could feel it in that space in my chest that was her.
She was hurt. Angry. And scared. Like a child. But she was trying to fight it.
I love you.
Melek… please.
I’d never seen her so frank. So vulnerable. The openness in her gaze. The humility. The pleading. It had taken everything in me not to give in and groan, reach for her through those fucking bars—but I’d caught myself.
I had made myself turn my back on her to start eating to reclaim my balance, though the cheese and fruit tasted like sawdust in my mouth. But I needed the sustenance to help me shore up my defenses. Because I had to be on defense. She’d left me no choice!
Do you hear me, Melek? You said God chooses rulers. Well, He chose you as my mate… that makes you King of the Shadekin. Chosen by God…
It couldn’t be. It had to be a lie. A strategy.
Yet, what did she gain? If this had been nothing but a political ploy to defeat the Kingdom of the Krow, she’d done that by slitting Gault’s throat.
My people were now in chaos. And, if she’d wanted to remove me so I couldn’t lead or fight, she’d already had me drugged and helpless. She could have slit my throat, too.
If she wanted to pin Gault’s death on me, why take me away and leave me looking like a possible victim?
It had to be a lie. A strategy . But I couldn’t yet see it.
What did she gain by putting me in a position of power over her people? Why would anyone take a weapon and place it to their own throat—
Then I blinked. A memory roaring back to me from across the years, back in the days when I was a fledgling fighter.
Combat strategy. Sheathing the spear…
It was a warrior’s last defense. When an enemy was well-matched—or even stronger—and the fighter began to tire, fearing defeat, he might open himself to a wounding blow.
Open himself intentionally to take the blade in the place of his choosing, sheath the spear in his own flesh, and in so doing get close enough to his overconfident foe to land a killing blow.
It was a huge risk, and only to be taken as a last resort.
Surely, she wouldn’t… Would she?
Then I scoffed at how deeply even my thoughts were still twined in her thrall.
Yilan was a Queen who’d entered the battle alone, had allowed herself to be taken, manipulated me and others, and appeared trapped when she wasn’t.
She had flirted with my best friend and one of our most skilled Captains, formed a bond with my son, and told me to leave her with Gault when he threatened to torture and rape her.
Then she killed the King without hesitation the moment the opportunity presented .
Would she sheath the spear if she thought it would bring her victory? Yes, she would. She’d do anything she thought necessary. I’d watched her kill without flinching.
She was ruthless, cunning, and far stronger than she appeared.
Also giving, thoughtful, passionate—
I hissed and pushed the unbidden thoughts away.
I had to stop looking at this as if she were only a woman. She was not.
She was a Queen. She was an assassin.
And, God curse me, she was my mate.
Now… what the hell was she up to?
~ YILAN ~
I had forgotten about Turo.
Fuck.
The moment I appeared in the shadows of the stairwell beyond the anteroom, he turned and looked at me, his face lined with fear and grief. He’d been pacing the landing below, waiting. No doubt trying to listen.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I hesitated, and almost walked the shadows to escape beyond him. He was extremely skilled. But I was better. In the dark tower, if I truly wanted to evade him, I could. At least for a short time. And he knew it.
He froze when he saw me, his strong shoulders stiff, one hand going instinctively to his sword, his eyes searching mine.
“Yilan—”
“Not now, Turo.”
His eyes flashed and I flinched.
As far as Turo knew, he was still my betrothed. Our wedding day should have been ten days ago, the night before the Covenant of Peace. At least, that had been the plan before this war came to our doorstep.
Had I escaped the union by assigning the mission of infiltrating the Nephilim to myself? That hadn’t been my goal. But I wouldn’t deny that the impending bond hadn’t made my decision to leave harder.
It should have. Turo deserved a woman who yearned to remain close.
When I declared to my Council that I would be the one to walk the shadows among the Nephilim, they’d been agitated. But not surprised.
Turo had stared at me across that table, though. Not voicing the question—because he was a gentleman, and a fighter. But his eyes had said it all.
Will you be back in time?
Will you be back at all ?
I had assured them all that I would return in a matter of weeks. The throne would be empty a month at most.
And I’d believed that.
When those days had drawn near and I still hadn’t escaped the Nephilim, he’d stopped sending guards and come for me personally.
Convinced they’d found a way to manipulate me into ordering the guards not to intervene, he’d come to save me himself.
Left his post and led the group of our very best shadow walkers into the camp itself, risking his life and theirs to save mine.
Even after he learned I’d stayed by choice—and God, the heartbreak in his eyes—he still hadn’t spoken up. He’d taken every order I’d given, even transporting two drugged and obnoxiously heavy Nephilim through our enemy’s land without question.
He’d called me brilliant for the plan.
And when we pulled it off, he had walked silently, trustingly, at my side for the days it had taken until we all set foot back in Theynor and could finally breathe.
He’d spent every hour of those tense traveling days watching my back. He’d barely slept even though we had guards. And since we had traveled at night and slept in daylight, every morning when we’d settled into our bedrolls, he lay his within arm’s reach of mine in case I needed him.
He hadn’t asked for anything, though his eyes spoke volumes. Yet, we were never alone, and he’d respected both my tension, and the dangerous situation in which we found ourselves.
He had waited, protected, and obeyed.
And when we reached the Palace late last night, he’d transitioned seamlessly into his role as my General—relaying messages, analyzing information from our spies at the front, and issuing orders to achieve every impossible thing I asked for.
Including imprisoning the strongest of the Nephilim not in the dungeon, as he’d assumed, but in a bright, airy turret suite.
It was the first time I saw him pause.
Then he’d been forced to watch while that same Nephilim—who he believed had raped me—snarled and spat and disrespected me.
I’d made him and the others leave so I could speak openly to Melek, and instead of going away, he’d posted himself here to wait.
He would comfort me if I let him.
He would protect me if danger arose.
He would accept my orders, even if he hated them, because he was a good man. And because he loved me .
He deserved so much better than the cesspit I planned to hand him soon.
And yet, in this first moment we were truly alone—and after he’d been pacing here, worried and afraid for me, no doubt straining to hear anything he could in case it spelled danger for me—the first words from my mouth were, not now.
I winced as soon as they tripped off my tongue.
I tried to imagine how I’d feel if I believed the man I loved had been raped, abused, and was now drawing away from me because of what he’d been through. I would be frantic with heartbreak, fear, and rage.
God, he didn’t deserve this.
I had wanted to tell him from the start. I had needed to tell him. Then, when he showed up in the Nephilim war camp, because he had deserved to know. But I couldn’t, because Melek hadn’t even known.
Turo was such a servant, the moment he heard Melek was our King, no matter how much he might despise it, he would be the first to bow and call the Kingdom to stand witness.
No. Turo couldn’t know. Not until I was certain Melek would accept the crown.
But that also meant he couldn’t know why I shied from his touch or avoided being alone with him. And I hated that. Hated seeing the veil pull over his eyes to cover his hurt.
Hated knowing what images he conjured in his mind to explain my detachment.
Hated knowing that in his mind, he was blaming Melek—not me. He believed Melek to be the violent pig that Gault had been.
As Turo’s eyes shuttered and he drew himself to attention, I sighed.
“I’m sorry, Turo. I didn’t mean to—”
“You are entirely within your rights to choose when and how you speak, Yilan. I only worry that he will harm you.”
“I know you do. But please believe me… he will not.”
Turo’s expression went flat then, his eyes dimmed as he stared at me. “I think you do not understand men,” he said darkly.
I closed my eyes and dropped my head, defeated by the circumstances, by a desire to not lie, and yet, just as it had been with Melek, I knew the omission was a horrific offense.
I shook with frustration. I had left the literal cage in the Nephilim camp, only to return home to an invisible prison just as tightly restraining me .
No matter which way I turned, people I cared about would get hurt. It was inevitable. No matter which way I turned, people were walking to war. People would die. It could not be avoided.
And no matter whether I spoke, or stayed silent, the truth would break hearts. Unequivocally.
I sucked in a breath against the sudden pinch in my throat. I was exhausted, afraid, hurt, and aching for the arms of my mate. Utterly unable to reach Melek through his anger. Even though I understood why, it changed nothing about how I felt—
“Yilan, please, what did they do to you?” Turo breathed.
His warm, strong arms wrapped around me, his tall, broad strength pressed close, and his breath fluttered against my cheek as he stepped in to hold me in comfort and support.
I tensed, but his embrace tightened. “You need to speak it, Yilan. It cannot haunt you when it’s brought into the light—”
My breath caught as I stepped back, out of his arms, shaking my head. “I can’t. Turo, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’ve been so patient. But… I can’t. Not now.”
“Yilan—”
I stepped past him and fled, trotting down the stairs as quickly as I could in the thick skirts that would take some time to get used to again.
Turo stopped calling after me, but I heard his footsteps ringing on the stone stairs in my wake. And I knew him well enough to know the look that would be on his face.
His quiet dignity, underlined with worry, and more than a little anger.
Strong jaw, tight because his teeth were clenched.
Fiery eyes, because he was a fighter, and I was tying his very capable hands behind his back—yet he wouldn’t resist.
Turo was a strong man. Almost as strong as Melek. But far more refined. Far more aware.
He believed I had been violated, and demeaned, and it was tying me up in knots that I didn’t know how to unravel.
He wasn’t entirely wrong. But the target of his rage was off. And I couldn’t explain that without taking steps that would have repercussions so far-reaching even I was breathless at the thought.
So, like a coward, I ran.
And like the man of honor and integrity that he was, Turo put his own feelings and confusion aside to protect me in mine.
He followed me, a silent shadow, all the way down to the main floor of the Palace, all the way to the Royal wing, barking orders at any guards along the route who leaped to bar doors at the sight of running figures in the hall.
He cleared the path for me and stopped me having to explain anything to anyone. A mercy I didn’t deserve.
But he stayed on my heels all the way to my personal quarters, where he instructed the guards to open and let me through, then stopped to speak quietly with them once I was inside.
I turned once, as I closed the door, and even though his words were for the guards, his eyes were on me.
Our gazes met and the flicker of his pain shone through before he blinked and turned back to the guards.
But I felt that look like a knife in my ribs.
Please help him to forgive me when all of this comes out, I prayed.
Then I closed the door and turned my back on it, leaning against it to suck long, slow breaths between my teeth until the ache was manageable again.