The footsteps grew sharper, deliberate, echoing against the floorboards. Emrah’s pulse didn’t skip—it calculated. Too late to fully hide, too soon to act normal. In one fluid motion, he leapt onto the bed, sliding under the blanket between the two girls.

  Heat pressed against him from both sides. The soft curve of their bodies, the brush of skin along his arms, the faint scent of perfume—everything hit at once. Their eyes widened, breaths catching, hearts skipping. Better they think it’s scandalous than notice anything else, he thought, tucking the illusion into place.

  The blanket shifted with every tiny movement, pressing them closer than comfort should allow. Efsun’s knee brushed against his leg. Efsane’s hand lingered too near his shoulder. Subtle touches that seemed accidental, yet carried weight.

  A sharp knock froze them all. The door creaked—Sofia. She stopped mid-step, eyes widening as they fell on the tableau: Emrah nestled between two blushing girls, the blanket bunched around them. Her cheeks flared crimson.

  “Oh—sorry about that!” she stammered, spinning on her heel and retreating so fast it sounded like a gust of wind.

  The girls on the bed blinked, caught between embarrassment, thrill, and disbelief. Emrah remained still, a faint, controlled smile tugging at his lips. Perfect, he thought. All attention on this, not what’s really happening.

  The moment Sofia disappeared, Efsun’s voice cut through the tension. “What the hell, Emrah?!”

  Efsane’s eyes blazed as she straddled him, sitting lightly on his lap, a pocket knife pressing near his neck. Heat radiated from her body; her breath, warm and quick, brushed against his cheek. “Now,” she said, low and dangerous, “tell me—what’s going on? What secrets are you hiding?”

  Flustered, heart hammering, Emrah felt the subtle press of her body, the accidental—or intentional—closeness, the warmth that shouldn’t be there. “…When I arrived in Turkey, I… I sort of had these powers. I don’t know how,” he admitted, keeping the truth partial for now.

  Efsane eased the knife into his pocket but didn’t break eye contact. Her fingers brushed his arm lightly as she leaned forward, focusing on his face, burning a blush across her own cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. “Even if you didn’t want to tell me, you could have told Efsun.”

  Emrah felt the care behind her words, rare in their chaotic, bloodthirsty dynamic. “I… didn’t know what to do,” he said softly. At least in the beginning, he added in thought.

  Efsun reached out, fingers tracing along his jawline, thumb brushing the edge of his lips. Heat radiated from her, close enough he could feel it without touching. Their combined focus was complete—dangerous, intimate, impossible to ignore. They’ve forgotten they’re supposed to be enemies. Perfect, he thought, suppressing a shiver of excitement.

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  After a few tense, charged moments, just when the girls wanted to get under his clothes and get more intimate with him, Emrah, who still didn’t want to accept that he had started having feelings for these bloodthirsty girls, told them, “It’s best we get downstairs. Otherwise, they will think that we are doing something before marriage and your reputations will be ruined.”

  The girls froze, caught between disappointment and reluctant agreement, the tension lingering like smoke as they reluctantly let the moment go. Emrah exhaled quietly, adjusting the blanket, letting the stolen heat of the room fade.

  “Come on,” he said softly, still in control. “Downstairs. Before anyone jumps to conclusions.”

  They slipped off the bed, hearts still racing, faces flushed. Efsun brushed past him, hand lingering on his shoulder, while Efsane shot him a long, searching look, unspoken questions hanging between them. Emrah caught it, reading care and curiosity in her eyes—but he said nothing more. Not yet.

  The walk down the staircase was almost surreal. Each step echoed lightly in the mansion, each breath charged with unspent energy. The girls stayed close, their gazes flicking between him and each other, a mix of nerves, intrigue, and quiet admiration.

  Downstairs in the dining room, they froze. Only Aslan, James, and Sofia were present. “Where’s everyone else, Aslan?” Emrah asked, scanning the room.

  “I don’t know,” Aslan replied. “When I woke up, no one was home.”

  Efsane muttered under her breath, “This is… weird. Too quiet.”

  Efsun added, frowning at the empty chairs, “Did they all go out without telling us?”

  James cleared his throat, uneasy. “I haven’t seen anyone either… something feels off.”

  Sofia folded her hands in front of her, avoiding eye contact but clearly on edge. “Should we call them?” she asked softly, voice shaky.

  “Let’s wait a moment,” Emrah said, scanning the mansion calmly, though tension coiled in his chest. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

  Just as breakfast began, a frantic voice cut through the calm. “Emrah! Have you seen Sahra? Where is she?!”

  Yusuf stormed into the room, eyes wide, every line of his face carved with panic.

  Something tightened in Emrah’s chest. He opened his mouth, ready to respond—but before a word could leave, the system spoke.

  {New Quest: Save your family from the hands of kidnappers.}

  {Do you accept?}

  Desperation flared, but so did resolve. Emrah’s voice came steady and sure. “I accept.”

  Silence followed—shock, fear, disbelief—but he didn’t waver. Turning to Yusuf, his tone calm yet resolute, he said, “They’ve been kidnapped. And I know where they are.”

  Efsane leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “How do you know? Tell me now!”

  Efsun’s hand gripped the table edge. “Be careful, Emrah. Whoever did this… they’re dangerous.”

  Sofia finally spoke, voice tight with worry. “We need a plan. What’s next?”

  Emrah met each of their eyes, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. “We move fast. I’ll handle everything. You stay close. No mistakes.”

  A flicker of resolve sparked in the girls’ eyes. Efsane and Efsun leaned slightly closer, instinctively protective, yet aware of the gravity in Emrah’s tone. For a heartbeat, the chaos of the morning—the blush, the accidental touches, the scandalous tableau upstairs—faded into irrelevance.

  The quiet in the dining room returned, tense and brittle. Even Sofia, still recovering from the morning’s embarrassment, watched him with wide, careful eyes.

  This was no longer a game.

  Emrah’s mind raced, already calculating: routes, threats, distances, timing. Every skill, every reflex, every ounce of his strength had to converge. Failure wasn’t an option—not when family was on the line.