voices of light.

.

demir is the angel hidden behind constantin’s nightmares, threatening to escape. he was the hope hidden underneath all the bad of pandora’s box. the freedom that was in his reach, but he did not go after. the loud warning bells sounded louder whenever he was near him. there was no point in continuing with the charade, somewhere along the line things had changed. it couldn’t be more than a couple of months since he met the guy, but somehow demir had broken past his defenses and situated himself too close to his heart.

love, although a foolish emotion, was one that always blinded constantin. falling in love was as simple as gazing into somebodies eyes just to see himself reflected on them. he saw himself falling for a smile, a dimple, the soft touch of a hand. with each new person he gave himself away, and somehow at the same time he gave nothing of himself. demir. with demir it felt like he was simply the broken man that couldn’t go on being hidden behind a last name. with demir he found a kindred spirit, someone who he could be the lowest, barest, simplest form of himself.

maybe that was love? was he in love? no, he wasn’t. but in demir constantin found love for himself. “i do, don’t i?” he laughed, leaning forward hand grasping the glass holding his water. “i don’t know, there’s something so romantic about the night. i wouldn’t want it to be destroyed by some writer putting a tick on a pillow. one that slowly destroyed the life of my most loved one.”

. . . .

he was in constant contradiction with himself. his head always overpowered his heart, but how deep he could run. his head was necessary. impartiality was necessary. tuning out the sadness, the rage, the love, the regret, that ran through his veins was necessary. emotions had no place. they were distractions. how much worse he would be if he listened to his heart. how off the family would be if he listened to his heart. how he would ignore his father’s molding, azra’s input, all that made the necessary cruelty, if he listened to his heart. a thinker. never a feeler. 

but he wanted to feel. and ‘to want’ was a feeling in and of itself, was it not ? but all feeling had been pushed so deep, he knew not how to access it. he knew not how he could bring himself to feel. and yet, the other man – that half of his soul, some connection he could not explain –  had the ability to draw it out. the other man had the ability to access demir’s heart, replace thinking with feeling. or as close as he could now get to feeling. and, for that, he was forever grateful for their chance meeting by the oak. for that, he was forever grateful for estelle’s great betrayal. 

iron cloaked itself in velvet. metal cloaked itself in silk. what it was, he didn’t know. what it was, he didn’t care to know. he, who searched for answers in everything, did not mind going answerless this once. “ ah, don’t sell parasites so short, ” he replied, waving a hand. “ recall john donne: in this flea, our two bloods mingled be. parasites may, in fact, be the very epitome of romance. ”

.

“that’s where you’re wrong,” cecilya said suddenly and firmly, her face alight with sheer joy about the final card she had to play. or maybe the second to final. her father always told her that the best cards that you had up your sleeve where the ones you never play.

“there is an arslan that will be purer than both my first son and azra’s possible future son. one that is made of my blood and that of someone bearing the same name, making him a legitimate heir to the bloodline untainted by anything else,” cecilya tells demir, a smile on her lips. her desire for a baby and everything it had led her to had given her something that she now realised was more valuable to her family than she was; something they would never be able to edit out. “i’m pregnant and the baby is max’s, meaning it will be born into this family with a single last name and single bloodline really. you always talk of how it is men that should have a seat at the table and yet you ignore that you already have a brother by law and by name. blood is thicker than water but water is far more refreshing.”

. . . .

expression was not something demir often executed. expression towards cecilya’s reveal was no different. had it not been for the aspect of maximus, it would have been no more surprising than the last. but he felt no shock over her finding a way to have a ‘pure’ arslan. rather towards maximus’s betrayal. although demir’s treatment of him had not changed, the younger man had been distancing himself. yet never did he think the one he, and only he, was willing to call his brother would go behind him in such a way. then, the younger man was left out of discussions even more than cecilya was. he was to serve, not to be served. had he even realized cecilya’s intent ? 

but that was to be thought of at a later date. to be answered at a later date. for he needed the answer. all he ever needed were answers. 

the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. “ maximus has never asked to be a part of this business. he knows less about it than even you were allowed to know, ” he replied, tone flat. always flat. never show emotion. “ your child, if a son, will still bear foreign blood. there will never be such a thing as a pure-bred arslan. ” ... at least if he had anything to say about it. “ in any case, your son is too young to be judged as a worthy heir. as are your and azra’s unborn children. ” didn’t they know that ? “ this is a debate to be had when all children have been born. ”

.

if constantin’s pupils dilated at the sight of demir walking towards him, it did not mean that he found the other guy attractive. if his pulse quickened it did not mean that his heart beat faster at the presence of the other guy. if his breath got stuck in his throat it did not mean that demir left him breathless. if every one of those things it happened, he was sure it did not mean he wanted more from the guy. it meant that he knew the dangers of stepping into this friendship, of surrounding himself so fully in someone so addictive. an alarming sound of warning bells began ringing through his head, eyes unfocused as he tried to drown them out.

denial. denial was his favorite friend. it was a comforting weight surrounding his shoulders, bringing him down onto earth. connecting him to the ground when he threatened to float away. constantin knew pain, but he only allowed himself to feel so much before he began denying it. it did not hurt. there was no pain in the breakups. no pain in the maybes. no pain in the forgotten. there was so much. there was no pain in life if he did not allow it to deeper inside of him.

eyes closing before he opened them once more, a smile spreading across his face hiding everything that had just happened. “you mean to tell me we aren’t living a gothic novella? i thought the murder, and creepy mansions said it all.” he laughed, sliding a napkin onto his lap. fingers flicking above the candle’s flame, letting the warmth sting slightly before pulling his hand away. “i suppose i’ll have to make sure i enforce a theme for next time.”

. . . .

demir would be lying if he said there was not something comforting about the other man’s presence. he emitted warmth. in a cold world, he was the only flicker demir needed. in paranoia’s sweet embrace, he seemed the only one who could grip him. in a distant world, he was a beacon. his family composed the storm that could strip his ship of its very bones, the other man could lead him to shore. for that, and for that alone, he thanked estelle. estelle, who had been a part of the storm. as with all who thirsted for power.

all he ever searched for were answers. what was the next right move to make ? who, truly, were the arslans ? how could he live with his head and his heart ? he needed answers. he craved answers. he lusted not for power, he lusted for the answers to all the questions that preceded him. and yet, he had no question in regards to who he was to constantin. he did not question it. there was nothing to question. they simply were. constantin, the heart. demir, the head. 

“ you make a fine point, ” demir remarked, placing the napkin upon his own lap as he thought of the gothic criteria. they had the victorian mansions, the grotesque, the grey morality, the grandfather clocks. “ upon second thought, if a book were to be written about the night alone, i’d be appalled if it weren’t framed as gothic. ” as for a gothic film ? demir would happily provide the score, the songs composed by men long gone.

.

“you make it clear that your allegiance is more with her than what is for the best of this family,” cecilya remarks, her tone scornful. she looks at him now and is beginning to think he is just the man who must be squashed by this life or her sister, a barrier in the way. azra will never be happy with her silent place, she is a woman who demands attention and power, not a lifetime in the shadows of a brother who’s place she could have if only she were born different. “you pray for a boy to carry on this bloodline and blood lust, but you rely on the fact that this child will ever be an arslan. an athanas doesn’t bare the same burden that you claim to.”

cecilya looks at him long and hard, she waits for him to deserve a final blow, a final card. she knows now her brother will never react, that he has maybe never loved her at all. all the time and energy she spent loving and caring for her siblings alike was a waste, they don’t care about her any more than her father ever did. they would sooner see her suffering and in pain than to ever life a finger to relieve her and now she wants to see them suffer; she wants to see demir admit that he is weak like a puppet. played by strings he’s never controlled. she wants to see azra suffer and cry and for once in her life know how it feels to have all you love torn from you. she wants to see both their faces as their empire crashes to ground and falls into a million pieces along with every piece of their importance.

“there’s but one series of events that you didn’t account for. your heir is already born and he is my son. he is an arslan and therefore he is your successor,” cecilya points out, her small features sharp and full of genuinity. there is no lie. it is true. she has tracked down the baby that was torn from her and now she knows for sure that she will use the resources at hand to get him back. he is the key to this family, he will be the successor of a disgusting empire and she will spit in the wounds of anyone who argues with her. “our father was a terrible man but his ego really did live on without him, he could never part with a last name when it belonged to a little boy, demir. even if he didn’t desire me to ever be a mother. i think i’m beginning to discover right where i belong.”

. . . .

“ and what do you think is best for this family ? ” he asked, question both rhetorical and open, clear that whatever she would say wouldn’t be considered right in his mind, but still optionally open. what was best for the family was strength, strategy. he possessed it. but he did not possess it in the manner best suited for the business. azra, on the other hand, did not hesitate in her ruthlessness. an allegiance with her was an allegiance with the family. and what a shame it was that the two sisters were too caught up to see that. “ this child will be raised an arslan. if it does not bear the same last name, then it will. ” he understood. the child was a bargaining chip. it would bear the athanas name until the attention of the athanas family had turned away. then, if she had the sense he believed her to have, it would bear theirs. an athanas could not be the head of the family. and even she would die one day.

they had been doomed since birth, but the collapse they would all bear, in whatever form it chose to take, was hastened the moment aydin was slain. the only son did not ask for his legacy. the eldest daughter was not allowed power. the youngest was to be left out of the inherited world entirely. the young boy, distanced only by a lack of shared genetics, knew little about their world. demir did not long for his family to crumble as they had – for cecilya to hate him, for maximus to resent him for reasons he did not fully comprehend – but it was one of the many inevitabilities. and he had been holding his cards far closer to his chest. if he could not trust the young boy he had considered a brother, who could he ? cecilya and her rising anger no longer made the list.

humming in response, it was nothing unexpected. he was far more curious over how she had found the child, where it had been, than he was concerned. azra and cecilya could duel over whose son, on the chance that azra’s child would be a son, would take his place amongst themselves. of course, if he found a woman to bear a son for him, all of their bets would be lost, but it was not of current concern. he had time. “ your child is just as much an arslan as azra’s will be. ” yes, in spite of their family’s immorality, there still would never be a wholly arslan child. “ but you must recall that our father’s partners witnessed his sale. he was considered unwanted and they will remember that, just as they will remember vidal’s last name if azra’s child so happens to bear it upon its birth. ”

i have no name for this playlist oh my god.

.

“you two may matter in this crooked town but there’s a whole world out there where you don’t at all,” cecilya exhaled in response to her brothers point. maybe she had not known exactly how deep the connections ran but she had an advantage and she knew it, somewhere out there in the world there was someone waiting for a way to take down the arslans and she would find them and hand it over. she would shove the knife through her siblings beating heart knowing they would never hesitate to do the same to her. demir may have had no real backbone but she knew azra wouldn’t think twice, “don’t yous ee that our reckoning is coming?”

she was shallow. she was self centred. her world had always been small and full of idle gossip but for once it tasted so sweet to be the one that was meant to know nothing, “i’ve heard a rumour that a new police chief might be coming to this little town of ours. how will you get to him? bribery, sex, maybe set his house on fire?”

she crossed her arms and didn’t wait for an answer. they had schemes but she did too and she knew above all, the one thing that she had learned locked in the wrong office cabinets and hiding under desks throughout her childhood; no woman was welcome at the table. no matter how ruthless, allowing a woman to head your family would only lead to shame and being discounted. no business partner had ever wanted to deal with a woman, they were just pretty possessions like herself and her mother. if they knew that azra was the one leading them into the dark then they would never agree, “what if all our partners were to know the truth? what if they were to know that the real face of the arslan family was azra arslan, a sexual schemer who got herself tied up with an athanas bastard? what a crossroads that would be. how many of them do you think would still be on your side? no longer a lion but just a sheep, unfit for any kind of power or control.”

. . . .

“ the whole world does not matter to us, ” he hummed. they were the iron fist of a region. there were times in which spanning was necessary, in which spanning was advantageous, in which spanning was to be desired, but they did not count on the world. they were immortal in the hearts of the few. perhaps they would exist in the pages of history one day. but organized crime was no longer romantic, no longer lusted after by the public. until the day the legacy died, immortality in the hearts of the few was better. safer. and more intriguing. “ our ‘reckoning’ will come only when our bloodline is lost. azra is already carrying it on. ” and if the child was not male, then not all was lost. he had time. she had time. 

he possessed no worry over the new chief. it did not take bribing the chief. the chief needed the force, the chief did not work on his own. the moles that existed within the walls of the vertmoor police department would remain. the first chief had had no such affiliation with the arslan’s affairs. he hadn’t the time to say it, but perhaps it was better if cecilya remained in the dark. it became increasingly apparent that the more bad she saw in azra and himself, the more trust she put in others. the more trust she put in anyone who did not care for them.

part of demir’s unspoken training, molding, was thinking, strategizing. perhaps he had begun to take it to lengths his father had not, time consuming him, but it aided greatly in the long-run decisions. “ azra is an intelligent woman, ” he remarked, “ which is why she will stay in her place and i will stay in mine. ” he would not try to defend himself. he would not try to say he was the true head any longer. he had accepted his fate. and he had planned around it. all he would do was offer a vague answer to the sister he was beginning to trust less than the power-hungry black widow. it was known that the closest taste azra could have to utter power would come in the form of continuing to use his face, thus keeping the both of them in the position they were meant to play. if she were to step forward, it would be murder-suicide for the family name. he would not be in power. she would not be in power. but, the more cecilya berated and distanced herself from him, the less he was willing to divulge. “ we know where we belong. ” after a second of a beat, barely enough time for her to get any word in edge-wise, he asked the one thing he had left to know: “ do you ? ”

sullivanmock​:

clearliquors:

BOLD what applies to your muse.

PLACE IN SOCIETY

financial: wealthy / moderate / poor / in poverty.

medical: fit / moderate / sickly / disabled / disadvantaged.

education: qualified / unqualified / studying.

criminal record: yes, for major crimes / yes, for minor crimes / no.

FAMILY

married - happily / married - unhappily / engaged or betrothed / partnered / single / divorced / separated.

has a child or children / has no children / wants children.  

close with sibling(s) / not close with sibling(s) / has no siblings / sibling(s) is deceased.

TRAITS + TENDENCIES

extroverted / introverted / in between.

disorganized / organized / in between.

close minded / open-minded  / in between.

calm / anxious / in between.

disagreeable / agreeable / in between.

cautious / reckless / in between.

patient / impatient / in between.

outspoken / reserved / in between.

leader / follower / in between.

empathetic / unemphatic / in between.

SEXUALITY + ROMANTIC INCLINATION

heterosexual / homosexual / bisexual / asexual / pansexual.

sex repulsed / sex neutral / sex favourable.

romance repulsed / romance neutral / romance favourable.

sexually: adventurous / experienced / naive / inexperienced / curious.

potential sexual partners: male / female / agender / other / none / all.

potential romantic partners: male / female / agender / other / none / all.

ABILITIES

combat skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none.

literacy skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

artistic skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

technical skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none.

HABITS

drinking alcohol: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

smoking: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess. 

other narcotics: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

medicinal drugs: never / sometimes  / frequently / to excess. 

indulgent food: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess. 

splurge spending: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

Nervous sounded like such a silly word when he really thought about it. He was *nervous,* Nervous. Nervous. Nervous. It’d be his first time with him. There was no way he could consider all those other times as one, after they hadn’t been planned. The other seemed to have a knack for finding him in a moment of self-indulgence or self pity, but not this time. Everything had been carefully prepared, so he wouldn’t catch him by surprise.

Their first hangout. Planned hangout. Alone with each others company, only. There was something to be said about the person they dated, it had brought them together. “So nervous,” he whispered to himself, eyes glancing up from his place at the table. The candle was lit, the light was dimmed and the food was prepared. It felt almost romantic, and scary. Constantin always found himself fearing their time together. Fingers tapping against the table he waited for him, eyes glancing towards the door. @demirarslan​

. . . .

to say it lacked familiarity would be an obvious lie – obvious to himself. enacting upon the bidding of azra: familiar. being berated and frozen out by cecilya: familiar. becoming a stranger to maximus: familiar. it was not meant to be. none of it was meant to be. none of it lied in the plans, in the blueprint. and yet, it was all sprawled out before him. his father had molded him like clay. and yet, he was still unable to take full control of the situation. of any of the situations. everything was falling. everything was crumbling. all he had left was his empire. but an empire was not enough.

there was but one good thing that sprang from the divergence of the blueprint. a friendship forged with a man who somehow understood. a man who he, too, somehow understood. a bond that possibly went deeper. friendship was so very surface. yin-yang, the missing piece, souls that converged. it was not friendship. it was something he could not define and did not need to define. and he needed to define all.

he approached the proposed venue, finding the other with ease. not for appearance. for aura. for the romantic who would strap himself to a vessel simply to know what it felt like. what the sea and the wind really felt like. “ a fine touch, ” he hummed as he took his seat, nodding to the candle. how fine, the fire. “ if it were a candelabra, i’d be inclined to suggest we’re in a gothic. ” demir seldom found himself nervous, seldom found himself grasping at straws for conversation. more often than not, the conversation simply happened. but something about this was, for once, unfamiliar. how nice. how frightening.

*

“but i do, demir,” she says, her eyes directed on her brother who stands there in all his glory. he is merely a shadow of some devilish womanly shape. he thinks her weak, stupid, that she knows nothing. even azra has never considered that she may one day grow tired and sick of the way they behave. her eyes are hard (they have never been this way before) when she looks at him, she feels her fathers blood in her veins pumping away. what a fool he would think demir was if he could see him now. what an evil man he was and how his daughter follows in his footsteps but in aydin’s eyes, it was only a son who sat at the head of the table. “i know the truth and if you dare to frame neek silva as our father’s murderer then i will tell it to the world.”

her gaze doesn’t waver, she watches him, “you are not the head of this family, you aren’t really in charge of anything. maybe you’re the stupid one,” she points out thinking about it. there is no way that this was the best plan that could of been made, it’s simply the most swift and that reeks of her siblings thoughts. they think that the fastest solution is the best. she is sick of them. she is sick of this. “aren’t you meant to be a man and take charge of your own life? aren’t you meant to be our father’s predecessor?” 

she doesn’t allow time for an answer to that question, she turns away but she is looking at him over her shoulder with the smallest smile on her face although her eyes are dead. fury burns beneath her skin, she hates him and she hates azra more than she has ever hated anything. she means it when she speaks, “if you continue to take whatever action you see fit led by our sister then i will make sure that the truth comes out and when the authorities come and ask me about it then i will cry an ocean for a family who are dead to me. i will break my fragile little heart right in front of them and speak of how very scared i was and how you both conspired against neek silva to hide your guilt. i will destroy this family, this business and the both of you and i will have a smile on my face as soon as i’m alone again,” she paused, her lips closed. the smallest edge of a smile pulled at her lip, “you can tell azra what i said. what are you going to do to control me? kill me? hurt me? like father, like son. or daughter.”

. . . .

he allowed her to rant. he allowed her to berate him. he allowed her to attempt to shake him to his very core. but she still knew so little. not only about the business, but about him. he could not blame her. he could not expect she know every little intricacy of the inner mechanisms or of his own being. but she was projecting nothing new. nothing that stuck. nothing that made him rethink himself. nothing that made him rethink the business. nothing that made him feel as though anybody involved in the fire was in any danger. because they knew. and who would they rather arrest: a man who tried to expose all they could not, or a group who left them alone as long as their payments were met ? they had eyes inside. neek silva did not. cecilya did not seem to understand that. and that was yet another reason...

he was never meant to take charge of his own life. that was the point of it all. the point that cecilya missed. his father’s life was passed down to him. like his father’s ghosts, his father’s spirits, his father’s life was now his. he sat at the head of the table because his father wanted him to. he nodded because his father wanted him to. never had he had the chance to consider a life outside of the arslan family business. azra had made her own living within it. azra had done so by her own volition. by choice, she had inherited unspeakable crimes. by force, demir had inherited many. sometimes he liked it. sometimes he loathed it. his father: a role model, but how good ?

as cecilya finally wrapped up her rant with the outrageous question ( although he would not be shocked if it was an action azra would consider ), he huffed. it was not out of aggravation. it was not out of nerves. it was out of the simple matter at hand that she was so certain of it all, but what she was so certain of were falsehoods. “ how do you believe we’ve gotten away with what we’ve done for so long ? ” he asked, unsure of whether or not it was rhetorical. “ do you not believe somebody has attempted to take us down before ? we are not a limited organization. many are already aware. ”

“including the power that you find yourself so entitled to.”

cecilya was tired of her siblings endless scheming and the crimes they committed without so much as a thought to others. no, she may not have been a problem solver herself but setting a mans house on fire seemed like it was crossing a line. had they even known if the body was in there or not? it seemed to her that they might have been smart but in that moment she was the one in possession of all the common sense. “surely having your house set up in flames would only make a man like that more intent on exposing the truth. did you ever think of that?”

. . . .

“ he has no truth to offer. ” their business was one of strategy, not of certainty. everything they could think through, they did. however, there were always some facets that were left to chance. chance backed by strategy, yes, but not chance backed by certainty. and that was nothing but another reason why the doors were shut on cecilya. he would have no truth to offer. he would have stories, but those stories would need explanation. if the body had somehow been preserved, silva would still have to answer the question of why he had it in the first place. for all they could not guarantee, they were able to at least ensure that silva would be put in an undesirable position. “ electrical fires have never sparked inspiration, only grief. ”

“Welcome to my humble bakery,” Florence looked up from behind the counter as the bell over the door chimed, greeting the person coming in with a smile. “I just finished a fresh batch of red velvet cupcakes, two for one special!”

. . . .

a man’s house had burnt to the ground, courtesy of his final nod. remnants of a home should not be a victory. and yet, no decision could have been wiser. no decision could have spared them more grief. the bakery was not out of celebration. demir would be a regular if he went to the bakery every time a grey plan succeeded. but something did feel different. 

the young woman standing behind the counter possessed that same aura of those who had not let themselves get wrapped up in the misdeeds. those who faced nothing but collateral damage. those who knew vidal athanas and all of his associates by name alone. how nice a life one must be. 

“ alright. ” red velvet. for as simple as they were, they looked of luxury. “ two red velvet cupcakes, then. ”

it was not the best idea but she didn’t have to see that just yet. she wanted to see what had happened, what terrible thing had occurred because she was sure that it was her fault in the long run. whether she wanted to change it or not she would always be an arslan and something bad seemed to run in their veins from father to son, to daughter, generation of generation of cold and ruthless people who put their reputation before others. she stared at the ruins of neek silva’s house from behind police lines and how the walls and everything that was inside was contorted made her feel sick. her stomach turned looking at the way everything had turned into nothing in the space of one evening. that scared her.

For a town full of rich people who seemed to all find themselves in conundrums of murder, disappearance and physical attack, the people seemed blinded by the happenings around them. All it took was money and a little too much pride to get in the way of common sense and working towards the common good; did they know what GOOD was?

It was true that some would say he too was INSANE, he had stolen a body from a devious and questionable foundation that seemed to know no limits in their experimentation. It was clear that at least they were limited to being unable to revive the dead judging by the corpse that was now in his basement waiting for an opportune time to show the world how truly awful things had gotten. For years he had been hell bent on exposing the foundation and everything it stood for but now he saw clearly with wide open eyes that corruption ran deep as if flowing through the water or crushed into Vertmoors strawberry jam. Nobody had escaped it even if they thought they were merely onlookers.

He stood in Vertmoor’s town square, the very spot that Summer Fest normally began but it had ended a long time ago and now it was the perfect spot for him to discuss the issues on his mind, “And we’ll be gathering here, in this very spot at around three o’clock to begin the march against human trafficking. Remember, if you don’t turn up then you’re contributing to the common evil that holds us back in this world.”

. . . .

and there it was. neek silva, further proving his status as a bell-ringer. neek silva, putting his own platform above all. even before the man had stolen his father’s body, demir had a distaste for him. he held himself in high regard. he held himself as the hero vertmoor needed. and yet, he was no more or less man than demir was. he was no more or less man than vidal was. he was no more or less man than anybody who worked within the foundation that he so detested. and he would never admit it. but there was a fragment that was just as despicable. the only difference between his despicable fragment and the despicable heart of the many was that his had a martyrdom about it. but was it truly such a martyr ? would it die for its causes ? even if it would, would it die for its causes out of genuine care ? or out of desperation to prove that it was the only heart left within vertmoor ?

“ a guilt-trip does not make a successful protest, ” he stated. “ it is just as reprehensible to attend out of guilt as it is to not. perhaps more so. ” and that was not even beginning to delve into why some may not be able to turn up, why some would hear the words of neek ringing through their minds as they were housebound for ample cause. “ if you long for the people to listen, the crowd must be impassioned. a half-hearted crowd whispers. what good has that ever done, silva ? ”

he would not bring his father up. that would do nothing but muddy it all. demir was not meant to know that neek silva had what remained of aydin arslan. neek silva certainly wasn’t meant to know all of the arslans knew. the knowledge was better if kept silent around the man and all those he associated with. what they could do of all the possibilities they were still debating worked far better without neek’s knowledge. as far as the other man was concerned, he was two steps ahead of them. as far as the other man was concerned, he knew far more than any of the arslans combined.

.

She hated him just as much as she loved him and which one won depended on the day. There had never been someone who had so easily mad her angry yet made her happy in a way quite like Demir. Maybe that was why it was proving so difficult to let go of him. They were similar in many ways but it was their differences that wouldn’t acquiesce to play nice. Like a recluse spider and a rattlesnake, both were deadly, they just had different approaches on how to get the job done. Sighing, Estelle rubbed her temple once more, the looming migraine moving over the horizon of her mind. She wanted to get home but knew her mother wouldn’t want her there after her push for more protection. It was for her sake. For her safety. Did anyone think it was easy for her to oppose her mother’s wishes? “Enough of this. I’m tired of it. Let’s be honest for once, shall we? Your father is dead and each of you said he was on a business trip. Where?” Estelle asked, there was something strange about all of this ( obviously ) but something about all of his siblings and even him, didn’t seem right. “I find it strange he was supposed to be traveling and yet, his body is here. Don’t you think that’s bizarre?”

. . . .