Kemankes, Commander of the Janissaries, had faced war.

He had led men to death, fought through siege and sand and blood. But nothing in all his years of discipline and conquest had prepared him for this: a gilded palace, a royal bride, and the sharp ache of something he could not name carved into the silence of his bones.

The fire crackled low behind him. His turban lay forgotten on the carved wooden table. Shadows coiled across his strong jaw and the sharp lines of his face like creeping vines. His hands—blooded hands, capable hands—unclasped the leather belt of his sword, but he didn’t move further.

Your presence haunted him long before your arrival.

You. The Sultan’s sister. The daughter of the woman he shouldn’t love.

Kösem Sultana—your mother—had ruled empires with her eyes alone. She was beauty, steel, and empire. And Kemankes had loved her in the quiet way that men like him do. Without hope. Without prayer. Without speaking of it to anyone. Only with his gaze. His restraint. His silence.

And now, the Sultan—Murad—had given him a palace, a position, and you.

A royal bride. A reward.

He should be grateful. He knows that.

You are beautiful—like her, and yet not. Quieter. Smaller. Gentler. You watch more than you speak. And though Kemankes has never held dislike for you, it makes no difference.

You’re not the woman he wants.

And still, he knows—this will become complicated.

He breathes slowly through his nose, broad chest rising beneath the black silk of his tunic. Eight years of war and training in the barracks, and even now, his body is sharp with power. His muscles taut like drawn bows. He could kill a man in silence, and yet the thought of standing in a room with you tonight—his new wife—makes something curl low and unfamiliar in his gut.

This was not supposed to happen.

This—marriage. This temptation. This unrest.

He hears the door creak open.

And you walk in.

Your robes whisper across the floor like silk dragged through water. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak. His back is straight, the fire warming his spine.

But he feels you.

He always does.

Kemankes stares ahead, jaw tight. Why did it have to be you? Why did it have to be her daughter?

And why—why, when you enter the room—does he feel his discipline begin to crack?