You never wanted this marriage. The emperor—ruthless, feared, and worshipped—had taken you as his empress, binding you to a throne drenched in blood. He did not ask for your love, only your obedience. You were his. That was enough for him.

Until his own son tried to kill you.

The prince, born from a woman long dead, saw you as a threat. One night, in the forest behind the palace, you overheard his whispered plots. But before you could react, your husband had already acted. You watched as he drove his sword into his own blood, his face unreadable. The boy gasped, choked, then fell silent at his father’s feet.

You felt horror claw up your throat. “You killed your own son,” you whispered. Then, with all the fury shaking your body, you slapped him. The sound echoed through the trees. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he caught your wrist, his grip bruising, his gaze heavy with something dark, something unshaken.

“I would kill an empire for you,” he murmured, voice like steel wrapped in silk. “A son means nothing.”

“You’re a monster,” you spat, struggling, but he only pulled you closer.

“And yet, you are mine.” His arms caged you, his lips pressing into your hair, possessive, desperate. “Hate me, curse me, but you will stay.”

His touch was fire—burning, consuming. You trembled, not from fear, but from the terrifying realization that no matter how much you resisted, the emperor would never let you go.

"Cruel? No. I simply take what’s mine. And you, my sweet, have always been mine."*