Chapter Twelve
Shadows of Jealousy
Kaan
I DRUM MY fingers against the windowsill, watching Nesilhan from my private balcony.
She moves through the eastern garden with a grace that makes my shadows curl with hunger.
Even in captivity, she maintains that infuriating Light Court posture, spine straight, chin lifted, as if she is a visiting queen rather than my possession.
A week has passed since I took Nesilhan against the corridor wall, her moans echoing through the hallway as court members pretended not to watch.
The way she came apart when she realized we had an audience—that flush spreading across her golden skin, her release more powerful than any we shared in private, is burned into my mind like a brand.
She is adapting to my court with unsettling ease.
The servants fear her. The guards respect her.
And I... I can't stop watching her, can't stop remembering the way she surrendered to pleasure while others watched.
"If you stare any harder, you might burn a hole through her," Emir's voice cuts through my thoughts.
I don't turn. "One can dream."
Emir moves to stand beside me, his face impassive as he follows my gaze. "The Council is waiting, my lord. The border dispute requires your attention."
"The border has been disputed for centuries. It can wait another hour."
"And what exactly are you doing that's so important?" Emir asks, his tone hovering dangerously close to insubordination. He is the only one who can speak to me this way and keep his tongue. Most days, I appreciate his frankness. Today is not most days.
"I'm observing my wife," I reply, waving a hand toward the garden where Nesilhan now kneels beside a bed of shadow lilies. "Making sure she's not planning something... troublesome."
"She's not plotting an escape," Emir says dryly. "She's rearranging your grandmother's prized poisonous flower collection."
I squint. He is right—she is carefully transplanting the deadly nightshade, her slender fingers working with surprising expertise. "How domestic of her. Perhaps next she'll bake poisoned cookies for the entire court."
"You could always ask her what she's doing," Emir suggests. "It's a novel concept called 'conversation.' I hear married couples occasionally engage in it."
I shoot him a withering glare. "I preferred you when you cowered and called me 'Your Terrible Magnificence.'"
"You instructed me to never call you that again after the incident with the Altin ambassador."
"Yes, well, I've changed my mind. Bring it back into your vocabulary immediately."
Emir sighs, a sound like wind through ancient cypress trees. "The Council, my lord."
I make a dismissive gesture. "Tell them I'm plotting world domination. Or that I have indigestion. I don't care which."
Below, Nesilhan has been joined by three of my younger shadowlords—Reza, Taner, and Volkan. My eyes narrow as Reza gestures animatedly, clearly telling some story that has captured my wife's attention.
"What are they doing with her?" I ask, shadows darkening around me.
Emir glances down. "It appears they're... talking to her."
"I can see that," I snap. "Why?"
"Perhaps because she's the Shadow Lady now, and it's customary to acknowledge one's mistress?" Emir suggests, each word carefully measured. "Or perhaps because, unlike some people, they understand the value of diplomatic relations."
I ignore the jab, watching as Volkan says something that makes Nesilhan's lips curve upward. Not quite a smile, but close enough to send an unexpected jolt of... something... through my chest.
"She never looks at me like that," I mutter, then immediately regret the words.
Emir's eyebrows rise fractionally. "Like what? As if you're not about to disembowel her beloved pet?"
"I don't disembowel pets," I protest. "Children love me. Ask any of the palace urchins."
"The palace children run screaming when you enter a room."
"Exactly. Healthy fear builds character." My attention is drawn back to the garden as an actual laugh, bright and unexpected, drifts up from Nesilhan. Taner is now demonstrating something with exaggerated movements, and whatever it is has cracked her carefully maintained composure.
Something dark and possessive coils in my chest, tightening with each passing second. My shadows respond instinctively, writhing more aggressively around my feet.
"What are they saying to her?" I demand.
Emir's expression remains carefully neutral. "I'm not a lip-reader, my lord."
"Then become one. Immediately."
"If you're so curious, why not join them?" Emir suggests. "You are, after all, her husband."
I make a noncommittal noise. The truth is more complicated than I care to admit.
In the days since claiming her in the palace corridor, her back pressed against the wall, me feasting on her dripping pussy, her eyes widening with that delicious mix of shame and arousal when she realized we were being watched—I've found myself increasingly.
.. obsessed. Not just distracted. By the scent of her hair when she passes me in the corridors.
By the defiant flash in her golden eyes when I issue commands.
By the discovery of her hidden desires—how her body responds even more intensely when others witness her surrender.
It is becoming a problem.
"The Council," Emir reminds me again, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
"Fine," I growl, turning away from the window. "I'll deal with the doddering old fools. But first..." I stride to my desk and scrawl a quick note, sealing it with shadow magic. "Have this delivered to the garden. Tell Reza, Taner, and Volkan they're needed for northern border patrol. Immediately."
Emir takes the note, his expression unreadable. "Is there an actual threat at the northern border? "
"There's always a threat somewhere," I reply dismissively. "If they can't find one, they can create one. It builds initiative."
"And this has nothing to do with the fact that they made your wife laugh?"
I flash a dangerous smile. "Don't be ridiculous, Emir. I'm simply concerned with the security of my realm. What kind of ruler would I be if I allowed potential threats to go uninvestigated?"
"Of course," Emir says, his tone dry as desert sand. "And what kind of ruler would separate his top border guards from court just because they displayed basic social skills?"
"An innovative one," I reply cheerfully. "Now, shall we go listen to old men complain about sheep wandering across arbitrary lines on maps?"
I sweep past him, shadows billowing dramatically behind me like a living cape.
It is an unnecessarily theatrical exit, but I have a reputation to maintain.
Besides, I need to put distance between myself and the unexpectedly uncomfortable feeling that has surged through me at the sight of Nesilhan's smile—a smile directed at someone other than me.
The Council meeting drags on interminably, as they always do.
Five ancient shadowlords, remnants from my predecessor's reign, whom I keep around because killing them would have been too messy politically.
They drone on about trade agreements, boundary disputes, and the proper protocol for handling Light Court delegation requests.
I slouch in my throne, using my shadows to form increasingly elaborate patterns of tiny warriors engaged in mock battles above the council table. None of the Councillors dare comment on my apparent disinterest, though several shoot disapproving glances at my shadow puppetry.
"—and finally, the matter of your marriage, my lord," Councillor Ates says, his voice wavering with age.
My attention snaps back to the proceedings. "What about my marriage?"
"The Council believes it would be...prudent...to establish certain expectations regarding the Shadow Lady's role," Ates continues, choosing his words carefully. "There are concerns about allowing a Light Court noble unrestricted access to Shadow Court affairs."
I straighten in my throne, shadows darkening around me. "Are you suggesting I can't control my own wife, Councillor?"
Ates pales visibly. "Not at all, my lord. Merely that traditional safeguards—"
"There is nothing traditional about this marriage," I interrupt. "Or have you forgotten that I bound myself to her by blood magic?"
"A political necessity," another Councillor, Murat, interjects. "But one that still requires prudent management. Perhaps restrictions on her movements, limitation of her duties to purely domestic matters…"
"Her duties," I say, my voice dangerously soft, "are whatever I decide they are."
An uncomfortable silence falls over the chamber.
I rise from my throne, moving to the window that overlooks the central courtyard.
Nesilhan is there now, examining the shadow fountain with apparent fascination.
Even from this distance, I can appreciate the graceful line of her neck, the way sunlight catches in her dark hair.
"My wife," I continue without turning, "is not your concern. She is mine to manage, mine to control, mine to..." I trail off, unwilling to articulate exactly what else she is to me. "The Council would do well to remember their place. I didn't conquer the Shadow Throne by seeking permission."
The dismissal of their concerns is less about trust and more about control; no one questions my decisions, regardless of their merit.
But even as I speak the words, something nags at me.
The blood bond that should have given me insight into her thoughts remains frustratingly opaque, as if she possesses some natural barrier I've never encountered before.
The threat in my words is unmistakable.
"Of course, my lord," Ates says after a moment. "We merely wished to offer counsel, as is our duty."
"Your duty," I correct, turning back to face them, "is to execute my will, not question it. Now, is there anything else of actual importance to discuss? Or shall we continue wasting my time with matters I've already settled?"