He shook himself out of the growing rigor, and blinked away from the eye trap. Even my house feels alien since he arrived. It’s not safe anymore.
He wanted to turn the lights on to shake off the settling dread but didn’t. The mere thought that it might attract Slater made him cringe and confirmed his realization that Slater’s presence had rearranged his life-style and kicked him out of his comfort zone.
I’m sneaking to my own kitchen like a fucking thief so I don’t have to bump into him. I’ve only known him for a couple of weeks, yet I had to give up so much to accommodate him. He is too high-maintenance to keep. I can’t afford this asset. It’s not smart. I should get rid of him.
Heaving a sigh, Talha shuffled up to the refrigerator and pulled the door open. The bright light stabbed him in the eye. Blinking, he searched the empty shelves until his gaze stumbled over the frying pan Slater used today, a sticky note attached to it.
‘Ağam için.’ Slater’s handwriting, stretching over the note, resembled a bunch of squished bugs, as the note said, ‘for Agha’.
“Agha[20]…” Talha tasted the old-fashioned honorific title of the Ottoman Empire and couldn’t help a chuckle as his mood lifted. “Who talks like this?”
Did he really wait for me? Cook for me? He even left me a note… Talha granted a long, suspicious look at the frying pan before pulling it out and putting it on the stove. “God, I hope I don’t die from your hellish cooking…”
THE CAWING OF A CROW reached Talha’s ears; he stretched and rolled to his other side. Slapping the cool linens with his palm, he yawned and pried one eye open. Playful beams of the waking sun, flooding his room, repainted the pale blue silk of his linens into silver and pink. The fresh air, carrying echoes of the night’s rain, washed the room in the distinctive smell of ozone and brought the loud chirping of morning birds.
He opted to stay in bed for another twenty minutes, enjoying the cool silk wrapping around his overheated skin, but his gaze fell upon the immobile body laying on the floor. Red splatters marred everything around, and Talha’s consciousness, numbed after sleeping, immediately provided a recollection of the severed head of Bekir Asani.
Talha jolted upright then blew out a strained sigh, as the familiar combat gear and messy mop of Slater’s black hair settled into the picture. The red stains, he mistakenly took for blood, appeared to be the distressed colors of his red and white carpet. Slater’s chest rhythmically rose and fell in deep, calm breathing; his hands rested under his cheek, legs tucked to his chest. He looked peaceful, young, and vulnerable.
Does this count as a win or loss? Should I be happy he isn’t in my bed? Unable to find the answer, Talha grabbed a pillow and threw it at Slater. Making a few flips in the air, the pillow smacked against Slater’s back, making the younger man jerk. Sitting up, Slater gawked around. His cautious eyes flickered to Talha’s, then gradually switched their attention to the pillow. A wide smile stretched his lips.
“Thank you, Master.” Squishing the pillow in his arms, he slumped to the carpet and wrapped his body around its fluffy softness.
“What are you doing?” Feeling tired, Talha wished he hadn't woken up.
“Sleeping.”
“Why are you in my room again?”
“Master shouldn’t worry. Slater won’t do anything. Slater will sleep.” Rubbing his cheek against the pillow in a child-like gesture, Slater closed his eyes.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“The house is stripped of security. In an attack, Master wouldn't be able to protect himself.”
“Don’t fuck with me! I can protect myself. And how can you possibly protect me, if you missed a fucking pillow?”
The corners of Slater’s lips curled up, bringing a satisfied expression. “Slater didn’t miss. Slater allowed Master to hit.”
“Bullshit!” Talha argued.
“Slater stays with Master,” Slater murmured and buried his face in the pillow.
EVERY MORNING THE SCRIPT REPEATED ITSELF. Talha woke up with Slater sleeping on the floor by his bed. Annoyed, he kicked him out, but with every passing day, he felt more comfortable around the ripper. He even thought that maybe he could get used to Slater’s constant presence, as he got used to his bodyguards. Despite being troublesome, bratty, and needy, Slater didn’t act aggressively; at least he hadn’t attacked anyone yet. That thought gave Talha a small hope that he was moving in the right direction.
The rumor that Talha possessed Iblīs had spread, delivering the first results. The recalcitrant groups of Kurds that had refused to acknowledge anyone’s authorities, one by one, joined the Demir Group. The ones who didn’t—cleared the streets and moved to the outskirts. The territories, he’d fought for with blood and fire, fell at his feet with a single name—Iblīs. The income from the drug and weapon distribution doubled within a week and kept growing. The business organizations that sought Asani’s protection now begged for his support, and for that alone, Talha was determined to try harder and keep Slater satisfied.
Slater’s behavior, changing for the better, stirred in Talha’s head the first thoughts about bringing the staff back to the mansion. He was ready to give the order when one day the ripper missed dinner and came home clouded in the metallic smell of blood.
Talha knew that something had happened even before his eyes located the dark spots covering Slater’s combat gear and the dried blood under his fingernails. Standing in the middle of the hall, Talha couldn’t miss the ripper dropping his chin as he passed by. Sparing Talha no glance, no greeting, he aimed for the stairs. Already knowing the answer to his question, Talha asked anyway, “What have you done?”
Slater halted. His shoulders drew up as he brought his hands to his face, then clenched his fists in the air. His body twisted bending left then right as if he was fighting an urge that burned him from within.
“A mess, Master.” Slater’s voice came out harsh, jittery, aggressive. He didn’t look back but rushed upstairs as if trying to escape Talha’s company as soon as possible. “Clean it, Master, or you are useless to me.”
Talha’s hand, moving on its own, dug into his pants pocket and grabbed the phone. Unblocking the display, he dialed his informant. His mouth watered as word-by-word the police officer described the bloody picture of another slaughter. Seven people had been murdered in the Gazi Mahallesi neighborhood. All of them were gutted, their organs fed to a pack of stray dogs.
He vaguely remembered going upstairs and looking around. Down the corridor, behind the glass door that led to the terrace, the black figure stood by the white balustrade. With his shoulders hunched forward, Slater looked down. Without thinking, Talha stomped toward the terrace. Shoving the door open, he stepped out and into the cigarette smoke swirling around the reaper. His left palm landing on Slater’s shoulder, and he clenched his right fist, ready to break Slater’s nose when a row of cigarette burns ulcerating Slater’s forearm captured his eyes. Some had crusted over, suggesting they were at least a few days old, the others were fresh. The white deep ones, where the burning tip had pressed into the skin over and over again looked like moon craters against his skin.