As he pulls back, his fingers don't let go of your neck. His thumb finds the pulse point just above the silk wraps hidden by your collar. He presses down, his nail digging into the sensitive skin, twisting the flesh until you wince. He holds it there long enough for the blood to pull to the surface, leaving a dark, undeniable mark. "Let the camp see it," he whispers, his voice a low rasp meant only for you. "Let them wonder why the Great Sultan carries the mark of a lover on his throat. Let them guess what I already know."