No Way Out

By Amelie Vesper

No one escapes Arslan. Not even her.

Arslan was raised to be more than a man—he was forged into a weapon. Cold. Precise. Lethal. The heir to a dynasty built on blood, silence, and power, he lives by one unbreakable rule: eliminate every threat to the Arslan name.

But Ivana was the threat he never saw coming.

She carries secrets capable of toppling empires. Secrets that made her the perfect target… and the one woman Arslan can't forget.

Ivana ran. She changed her name, buried her past, erased every trace of the life she left behind. She thought she could hide. She was wrong. You don't escape a man trained to hunt.

The closer Arslan gets, the more the line between duty and obsession blurs. His mission is no longer about family honor—it's about her. About the fire she sparks in him. A dark, dangerous desire that defies logic, breaks every rule, and threatens to consume them both.

Now Ivana must decide: keep running… or surrender to the man who has already claimed her.

In Arslan's world, there's only one truth: once he decides you're his, there's no way out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amelie Vesper
• Release date: Oct 1, 2025
• ISBN: 9798232607548

Amelie Vesper

Amelie Vesper crafts dark romance, suspense, and thrillers that explore obsession, danger, and forbidden desires. Her gripping stories pull readers into shadowy worlds where passion burns, secrets unravel, and nothing is ever as it seems—perfect for those who crave the darker side of love.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Ivana Yazgan

I CHANGED MY NAME FOR the third time that year.

This time, I chose something short, forgettable. A name that didn't carry the weight of the past, nor the promise of the future. On paper, I was Elif Kaya. Twenty-seven years old. Unemployed. Discreet.

In practice?

I was a ticking time bomb with time almost up.

The bus station was unseasonably cold for early spring. The dry air was scratchy, the sky the dull color of worn iron. I carried an old backpack, a secondhand laptop, and the constant suspicion that someone, somewhere, was still tracking me.​

I didn't look back when I got off. I never did. It was safer that way.

The small town east of Ankara seemed like a place where people knew too much about other people's lives and yet didn't care enough. Perfect for going unnoticed... or dying alone.

Both options were on my radar.

I took a cheap taxi and gave the fake address with the practiced calm of someone lying to survive. A furnished room, rented through an app, with the identity of a woman who no longer existed.

The landlady looked at me suspiciously, but the advance money silenced her.

In the room, the walls were a dirty beige, and the bed creaked with every shift. It smelled musty and suspicious, but the Wi-Fi worked, and the windows had heavy curtains. It was what I needed...or what I deserved.

I opened my laptop. The files were encrypted, hidden beneath layers of protection. Still, the mere fact that they existed made my stomach churn. That data could destroy more than just companies.

They could destroy people with too much power. Men like Emir. Families like the Arslans. And with them... anyone who dared raise their voice.

I closed the screen with more force than I should have.

It didn't matter. No one would find me there. I had disappeared from the world. I had become smoke. And even if they knew what I knew... who would care about a woman alone, accused of corporate theft, and emotionally unstable?

A ghost doesn't attract attention, and I was good at that. At least I thought I was... until my phone vibrated with an unknown number.

My hand froze over the device. I stared at the screen as if it might bite me. There was a single message with no identified sender.

We have your name and location. If you want to survive, answer.

My heart sank in my chest, my hand trembled, and for the first time in weeks... fear was louder than the silence.

The room seemed smaller after the message. The previously neutral walls curved toward me, as if they heard my rapid breathing and absorbed my panic. The overhead light flickered with an uneasy electrical oscillation, casting erratic shadows across the corners of the room. A faint smell of rust mixed with dust permeated the air, making it thick, almost unbreathable. I felt my stomach tighten with the sensation of being watched, unaware of where the gaze was coming from.

I held the phone for too long before answering. The screen went dark, and I had to tap it again, as if the device, too, was hesitant to connect me to whatever was on the other end.​

When I finally raised the phone to my ear, my voice was quieter than I'd like. Maybe out of caution, or maybe because fear always knew how to make me small.

— Hello?

The silence that followed was not technical... it was calculated and, for that very reason, more terrifying.

After four seconds that felt like an eternity, a man's voice filled the space between us: deep, clear, without any urgency, but charged with authority.

— Ivana Yazgan. You're becoming predictable.

My fingers gripped the device tightly, my heart pounding against my chest as if trying to escape before me. No one had called me by my real name in months. No one should have been able to find me; I'd cleaned everything, I was careful... I was invisible.

Who are you? I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, even as every part of me screamed.

The laugh that came from the other end was low, a restrained mockery. Then the voice returned to its impersonal tone, but with a weight that made me freeze.

The only person trying to keep you alive right now. Someone, he said slowly, who believes you know more than you should. And that, Ivana, is a problem. For both of us...

I looked around, as if the old furniture and ceiling fan might offer some answer. But everything there seemed to echo what that voice was saying: you have been found.

— I don't have anything that interests anyone — I lied, even though I knew it wouldn't be enough.

— Yes, there is! You know that many are willing to kill you for this.

A shiver ran through me. I tried to ignore it, as if my body weren't reacting instinctively. But I couldn't anymore. The pressure in my lungs, the bitter taste in my mouth, the trembling in my knees. I knew what they were talking about. The data. The files. The damned encrypted folder I swore I'd never open. The truth I'd accidentally discovered and that had become a sentence.

— So why call me? Why not just let them find me?

This time, he didn't laugh. He didn't even take long.

Because I was sent to stop this. Someone paid dearly for you to keep breathing. Now, get up, pack your backpack, and wait. You'll be picked up in twenty minutes. Don't do anything stupid.

The call dropped before I could react.

I stood there in the middle of the stuffy room, hearing only the sound of my heart and the hum of the rusty fan above the bed. Something inside me snapped... not like someone breaking down, but like someone realizing there was no going back.

My hands acted before my mind. I shoved my laptop into my backpack, shoved my clothes in the back with mechanical haste, and grabbed my fake passport and spare cell phone. Every movement was an uncomfortable reminder that I was back in survival mode: the phase where you don't think, you just run.​

As I opened the bedroom door, the night air hit me with a dry breath, thick with gasoline and cigarette smoke. The street was too quiet for a small town. Yet I knew: somewhere, someone was already moving, and if this man was telling the truth, my life depended on trusting a stranger.

Again...

I waited on the sidewalk for long minutes, motionless as a statue pretending to belong. My light coat was useless against the cold wind that danced through the narrow streets, sweeping dry leaves and crumpled packages that swirled at my feet like signs that the world remained indifferent to my urgency. The street seemed asleep, its windows closed and ancient streetlights casting flickering yellow lights over the cracked sidewalks. There was no traffic, no voices, no footsteps... only the hum of streetlights and the suffocating feeling that something was about to happen.

I kept my backpack firmly on my back, my right hand in my pocket, wrapped around a pocketknife key. Well, it wasn't a weapon, but maybe it gave me the illusion that I could react if it were a trap.

Because it could be...

The corner of the next block offered a blind spot. Any car coming from there would only be visible at the last second. My eyes were already dry from staring into the darkness, trying to spot movement. My mind, trained as it was to rationalize, vacillated between the hope of escape and the panic of exposure.​

Time was no help. The wait was more consuming than the fear. Until he appeared...

A large, black vehicle with tinted windows glided down the street like a silent predator. No license plate visible. No markings. Low beams. It stopped a few meters from where I stood, its engine still running, a deep, steady roar filling the silence around it. The rear door on the opposite side opened with a soft click, as if expecting me to climb in without question.

My feet hesitated. My body wanted to run in the opposite direction, but my mind whispered: there are no other options. Fear already knew me by name. Death, if it wanted to reach me, would do so anywhere.

I crossed the street with firm steps, but my heart was pounding violently in my chest. The air inside the car felt thicker as I got in, as if it carried too many secrets. The interior was dark, but fragrant and spotless. Made of leather, polished wood, and a subtle scent of recent cleaning. Everything there was silence and dominance, not a sound or a word. Only the man in the passenger seat, his posture straight, his cell phone in hand, who didn't even look at me.

He spoke to the driver, in a language I didn't immediately recognize: curt, firm, probably an order. Then the car began to move. I didn't ask where we were going. I didn't question who they were.

I was too tired to resist...

I leaned my head against the window, watching the city pass by like shadows of light and concrete. My hands remained closed around the strap of my backpack, as if it were still my only source of safety. But deep down, I knew: something had changed the moment I got into that car.​

I was no longer a fugitive.

Now... I was a target.

Or a piece from a larger game and the board had just been turned over.

CHAPTER 2

Cem Arslan

THE DULL THUD OF PUNCHES reverberated off the stone walls of the private gym set up behind the Arslan mansion. The space was spacious but gloomy. There were no windows, just a row of industrial light fixtures hanging from the high ceiling, casting harsh white light onto the rubber floor. Modern equipment, a punching bag, weights lined up, a mat in the center, and a single bottle of water forgotten on the wooden bench against the wall. This was my refuge... and my prison.

I trained every morning before sunrise, not out of habit, but out of necessity. The silence of dawn was the only sound I still respected. There were no cars, no family voices, no phone calls, no orders disguised as advice. Just my rhythmic breathing, the impact of my fists against leather, and the sweat trickling down my temples. In boxing, in weightlifting, in pain management, I was still the same old Cem. The only one I trusted...​

My muscles burned with each blow, executing the sequence with military precision: Straight, Cross, Hook, Step, Retreat, Restart... It was a mechanical cycle, but effective, like me. The kind of man who molded himself to protect and, in the end, always ended up alone.

The bag shook with the last, hardest impact. I took a step back, my chest rising and falling in heavy waves, and stared at my reflection in the mirror glued to the wall. The stubble, the sunken eyes, the subtle scars on my abdomen and shoulder. I had once been cleaner, younger, more hopeful, but the battlefield and family politics could strip that away.

I grew up with rules engraved in my bones: Arslan doesn't fail. Arslan doesn't feel. Arslan protects the name above all else.

The problem was that wars weren't always fought on the outside. I, though intact on the outside, carried too much shrapnel on the inside. Soldiers killed under my command, missions with ends no one could question, and a life that distanced me from people more than it brought me closer.

I was deep in thought: sweaty, out of breath, my gloves hanging from my wrists, when the gymnasium door opened without warning. My older brother entered with firm steps and an impeccable suit. Emir Arslan. The sharper version of our father.

We have a problem, he announced without preamble.

I took off my gloves, threw them on the bench, and grabbed the towel to dry my face. I didn't ask what the problem was. He didn't waste time with trivialities. If he had come in person, it was serious.

Someone’s back? I guessed, grabbing the water bottle.

— Not someone. Her.

The word hung in the air, laden with meaning he didn't need to explain. My body tensed before I could stop it. I braced my hands on the back of the seat, feeling the sweat dripping from my chin, and waited.

Ivana Yazgan, he continued. We have information that someone is trying to eliminate her. And she has access to data that compromises companies that could, sooner or later, touch our shadow.

Will she talk? I asked dryly.

— We don't know. But we can't take the risk. She's vulnerable. Hidden. And, for now, alone.

I looked up at him. Emir wasn't asking me for favors. He was giving orders. But there was a different weight that morning. Something unspoken.

And what does our father think of this? I asked, just to test the waters.

Emir gave a humorless smile.

— It was his idea to get you into this.

I nodded slowly. The decision was made before I knew it. It was always like this. I pulled on the dark shirt hanging on the chair and followed my brother out of the gym, my footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway of the estate.

Then let us protect her, he said finally.

But inside me... something warned me that this mission would not be like the others. And that the woman I still didn't know would be the kind of risk that no amount of armor could contain.

I WATCHED HER CROSS the street with a stride far too firm for someone so visibly exhausted. Ivana Yazgan carried her own soul on her back along with her backpack, and I realized it the moment she approached the car. The way she held her spine straight, even with her shoulders clearly too heavy, said everything I needed to know about the kind of woman I was about to protect. She wasn't fragile. She was just tired. Which, more often than not, was even more dangerous.

As soon as she got into the car and closed the door, the air seemed to change. It became denser. More subdued. As if the car itself absorbed the weight of her presence. The impeccable black leather of the seats, the polished dashboard, the scent of wood and cleanliness... everything screamed control, but she didn't. The woman simply remained silent. She didn't ask questions, nor did she pass judgment.

He simply settled into the seat with his backpack pressed against his body, trying to hide his vigilance behind his exhaustion.

I didn't look directly at her... not yet. In the rearview mirror, I caught her image: the loose strands escaping from her hood, her expression nearly erased with resistance, her fingers clenching the strap of her backpack as if it were her last remaining anchor. It was the kind of fear that announced itself not in screams, but in calculated silences. And I knew that kind well.​

I gave the driver the order in Bulgarian— an ancient code few would understand outside our network— and the car took off without any formal explanation. If she wanted to know where we were going, she could ask. However, I had already noticed: she preferred control to exposure. She wasn't the type to beg. She was the type to study, wait, and attack if necessary.

As the city lights began to fade behind us, I watched her lean her head against the window, her face half-illuminated by the streetlights we passed. Her expression was one of surrender, but not surrender. It was the surrender of someone accepting life a little longer, even if trust had died in the process.

There, in the silence that settled between us like a fourth presence in the car, I understood: she was part of something bigger. A key piece. And that, in my world, meant only one thing: someone would soon try to snatch her from the board, and from the moment she got into that car, that someone would have to get past me first.

CHAPTER 3

Ivana Yazgan

THE FIRST THING I NOTICED about him wasn't his eyes. Or his posture. It was his silence. The kind of silence that doesn't fill a space... it dominates it, occupies it completely, like an ancient shadow carrying an echo of something no one dares name. When I opened the door and stepped outside, the air was already thick with his presence before I could even focus on his features.

He didn't need to say anything. He just stood there. Still, rigid as stone, and exactly how I imagined Cem Arslan would be.

Tall, broad-shouldered, arms crossed firmly against his chest. He wore black from head to toe: a tight shirt, military jacket, and boots. A short beard outlined a masculine face, marked by hard features, eyes so dark they bordered on black, leaving no room for vulnerability. There was absolute control in every inch of the man. A restraint of gestures, expression, emotion... and I recognized it.​

Not because he introduced himself, but because I studied this family too much to not know who he was.

Cem Arslan. The middle brother.