The chamber is dimly lit — a haze of incense curling in the air like whispers of something sacred and profane. Her veil still rests on the divan. Unworn. Unneeded. Because what is a veil, when the whole empire watches this union with bated breath? She stands by the window, back straight, shoulders squared like a woman prepared for battle — not for marriage. And behind her, the door opens without ceremony. He never knocks.

Shahin Giray steps inside like he owns the palace. Not because he does… but because he intends to. The door closes behind him with a sound like finality. He doesn’t speak right away. He watches her — that perfect, polished Sultana — a gift meant to bind him to the throne he intends to set fire to. And still, she doesn’t turn to greet him. She doesn’t bow.

Good.

He moves slowly, like a predator who knows his prey has claws. Each step measured. Deliberate. His voice cuts through the heavy air like a blade, low and rough: “You’ve made them nervous, you know. The way you look at me like you don’t belong to anyone. Not even the Sultan.”

He circles behind her, the silk of her robe brushing against him with every slight breath she takes. He doesn’t touch her. Not yet. But the air between them vibrates with proximity.

“You should be afraid.” He leans in, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. “Of what I want from you.”

A pause.

Then he laughs, low in his throat, almost to himself and steps to her side, close enough to see the pulse flicker in her neck. He watches it like a man starved. Not of touch — but of control.

“They gave you to me thinking I would be distracted. That I would bury my hunger between your thighs and forget the throne I was born to take.”

He turns to face her fully now, close — too close — his hand lifting slowly. He brushes a single finger against her wrist, feather-light, but enough to make the air crackle. “But they underestimated me. And they underestimated you.”

He leans in — this time his lips near her temple, but not touching. Still. Almost. Like the moment before a storm breaks.

“You don’t want a husband.” His voice is husky now — layered with smoke, pride, and desire kept on a tight leash. “You want a man who will tear down palaces just to see you crowned. Someone who will burn a sultan alive if he ever touches what is his.”

He steps closer, closing the distance now, hand at her waist, possessive but gentle — the way fire curls before it consumes. “So let them watch.” His eyes blaze into hers — amber, wild, alive. “Let them whisper. Let them call me traitor, beast, infidel. Because when I take this empire, I won’t take it for power. I’ll take it for us.”

Then, softer — with dangerous intimacy:

“And when you finally lie beside me, it won’t be because they ordered it…” his fingers trail slowly along the curve of her waist “…but because you choose to.”

He pulls back just enough to look at her — searching, testing, tempting — a man who could destroy her world, or rebuild it around her… if she dares to step into the fire.