şu ayağı yere basmayan cümlelerle adama saldırmak.. neyse..
He learnt ball-room dancing, methodically with a teacher, and then danced whenever possible, but always as if he was on parade. He frequented the drawing-rooms and tried to become the society gallant, making love to the ladies of Sofia, but they found him excessively gauche. He was a smartly turned-out and wellset-up Turkish officer and that was all. They had no liking for Turks, at any time, and Mustafa Kemal was neither good-looking nor attractive. His manners were crude. Either he stalked stiffly about with his face set and grey, or he talked abruptly. He had no small talk, no easy gallantry or ready flattery. He understood nothing of the pleasant play of light flirtation. He bluntly demanded that each lady should bed with him; if she refused he ceased to be interested, but, as bluntly, asked another. For a short time he was half in love with a fluffy-haired pretty girl, the daughter of General Kovatchev, but she gave him the cold shoulder. Very soon the ladies found him an uncouth fellow, the traditional Tartar in contrast to Fethi, the suave, polite, easygoing
Turk. They laughed at his dancing and his attempts to learn the drawing-room manner. They found him a prodigious bore and forgot him.
And Mustafa Kemal, touchy and sensitive, became more lofty and aloof than ever. He began to hate the society women with their soft ways and their chatter, who would not make love wholeheartedly and yet teased and tormented his desire, who sneered at him, and who would not make a hero of him.
With men-and especially men who were deferential-and with the loose women of the capital, Mustafa Kemal was far more at ease. With these, in the cafes and the brothels, he drank and revelled night after night far into the dawn. He gambled and diced for hours against anyone who would sit
A job to serve the king
When the door bangs open at dawn, I’m not frightened. Security searches are normal, though we usually only get one or two a year. This will be the third.
“C’mon, Gee,” I mutter, helping her out of her cot and down the ladder. She moves precariously, leaning on her good arm, and Mom waits for us on the floor. Her arms close around Gisa, but her eyes are on me. To my surprise, she doesn’t look angry or even disappointed with me. Instead, her gaze is soft.
Two officers wait by the door, their guns hanging by their sides. I recognize them from the village outpost, but there’s another figure, a young woman in red with a triple-colored crown badge over her heart. A royal servant, a Red who serves the king, I realize, and I begin to understand. This is not a usual search.
“We submit to search and seizure,” my father grumbles, speaking the words he must every time this happens. But instead of splitting off to paw through our house, the Security officers stand firm.
The young woman steps forward and, to my horror, addresses me. “Mare Barrow, you have been summoned to Summerton.”
Gisa’s good hand closes around mine, like she can hold me back. “W-What?” I manage to stammer.
“You have been summoned to Summerton,” she repeats, and gestures to the door. “We will escort you. Please proceed.”
A summons. For a Red. Never in my life have I heard of such a thing. So why me? What have I done to deserve this?
On second thought, I’m a criminal and probably considered a terrorist due to my association with Farley. My body prickles with nerves, every muscle taut and ready. I’ll have to run, even though the officers block the door. It’ll be a miracle if I make it to a window.
“Calm down, everything’s settled after yesterday.” She chuckles, mistaking my fear. “The Hall and the market are well
Sayfa 57
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Cloth mother… a mother, soft, warm, and tender, a mother with infinite patience, a mother available twenty-four hours a day, a mother that never scolded her infant and never struck or bit her baby in anger.
She remembers
I’m thrown physically back from the crash of power against power. I
fall, hitting the ground hard, though I barely feel it.
I feel everything inside so much more.
The intruder in my head screams, and the sound is like a wailing
wind I think I’ve heard before. The screeching scrapes against the walls of
my skull, making me convulse against the filthy ground.
It fights, tries to flee, but the rot seizes it anyway.
In seconds, my rooting ally constricts around the invading worm and
withers it to a pulp. Instantly, memories spew up from its disintegrating
corpse like they’ve been sprung from the satchel of a thief.
The memories fall like rain, pooling in the gaps and crevices that
have been burrowed through me. As they fill, I get a scattering of memories
that bury back in my depths where they belong.
I see myself being dumped in this cell. See Una pressing her bony
fingers against my dazed form. See me being dragged there and the palace’s
courtyard filled with soldiers. It all flows in backwards.
My mind makes connections just as the scenes burst behind my eyes.
Ludogar, murdered. Emonie’s ear butchered. Wick knocked
unconscious. I remember their names, their faces.
What were we doing here? Why were we captured?
Vulmin Dyrūnia.
A flash of the symbol from the ring Emonie passed to me. Of a
broken-winged bird…
Wick, Emonie, Ludogar.
Then another name whispers in my ear.
Lyäri.
The restored memories jolt my eyes open just as the root in my head
withers away, utterly spent. I sit up from where I was sprawled on the floor.
I’m panting, covered in sweat and shaking from the rush of adrenaline.
It worked. It actually worked.
A Perfect love Declaration
“So fucking devastated that I was going to lose you,” he replies,
stark honesty rumbling out of his gravelly voice. “That I was going to lose
you before I could tell you that I love you.”
Breath sucks in between my lips, my eyes widening as I stare at him.
“Love?”
He pauses and studies my face like his dark brown eyes are soaking
up every inch of me. “Yes, Rissa Bell. I fucking love you.”
My mind sputters, heart skipping. “But…we barely know each other.
We’ve barely spent any time together,” I say in a rush, looking around like
excuses are going to start falling onto the floor so I can pick them all up.
“We can’t even stand each other!”
He smirks. “We like the fire. We each don’t back down to the other,
and we like it that way. So don’t lie and try to act like we can’t stand each
other, because we both know that’s not true.”
My pulse feels like there are a thousand birds taking flight within
every vein, fluttering all over.
“You almost died,” he says again. “And I’ll never fucking forget
how close it was. Just like I won’t waste any more time now that we’ve
gotten a second chance. We can’t fight this anymore, Rissa. I’m claiming
you as mine.”
I stare at him. Mouth opening and closing like a struggling fish. “Are
you out of your mind? You can’t just…claim me!” I say shrilly.
“I just did.”
My back stiffens. “I am an independent woman. I decide who to be
with.”
“You’ll decide to be with me.”
My teeth grind. “You cocky son of a bitch.”
“And yours.”
“Mine?” I scoff and try to slap his hand away from my waist, but he
pays the swat no mind, his touch still holding me. “What, you’re mine until
What else did he keep from you?
“May I?”
I don’t answer or nod, but I tip my chin up slightly, and that’s invitation
enough. He reaches forward and gently begins to dab at the wound, the
sting making me flinch.
“I’m sorry.”
His words are gentle but steady—same as the swipes against my throat.
“For what part?” I ask, my voice croaky from disuse or emotion. Maybe
both.
The cloth is dipped again and again, new warm water to wash away the
dried blood, to clean the cut.
“You weren’t supposed to get hurt.”
My brows rise at his admission, even as indignant anger rises up,
shouldering past the numbness I’ve felt for the last few hours.
“The slice against my throat is the least of them,” I reply, and I mean it.
I pull away from his ministrations and lie all the way back, dipping my
head and hair beneath the water. With eyes closed, I let it envelop me, let it
press into my skin, let the warmth soothe my body like I wish it could
soothe my aching heart.
When I sit back up, I take a gulping breath and rest my head against the
back of the tub, my eyes landing on Midas. I don’t cover up the hurt and
anger there, don’t mask it from him.
Midas nods, like he accepts what I’m silently telling him.
“I know,” he says again, just like he did in the bedroom. “I know what
you’re thinking.”
What I’m thinking isn’t nearly as bad as what I’m feeling, but I don’t
say that.
“I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it,” I tell him, my tone
accusatory. “And as nervous as I was, as gutted, some part of me thought
that you’d have a plan. That you wouldn’t go through with it.”
My breaths come quicker, the water line rising and lowering over my
