Mehmet leads me through corridors I haven't seen before, his hand warm around mine. We pass guards who bow without meeting our eyes, servants who press themselves against walls as we walk by.
The palace reveals itself in layers—each turn more private, more secluded, until we reach a set of doors carved with intricate patterns that seem to move in the lamplight.
"No one comes here," he says, producing a key from somewhere within his robes. "Not servants, not advisors, not even my brothers."
The lock clicks. The doors swing open.
I step inside and forget how to breathe.
The library is magnificent in a way that makes my chest ache. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line every wall, packed with volumes that seem to glow in the afternoon light streaming through windows overlooking the private gardens.
Ladders on wheels provide access to higher shelves. Reading nooks are tucked into corners with cushions that look soft enough to sink into. Maps are spread across tables, globes positioned near navigation instruments I can't name.
It's not just a collection. It's a sanctuary.
"Oh," I whisper, and the sound feels too small for what I'm feeling.
Mehmet moves past me, lighting lamps with practiced efficiency. "Persian poetry here. Greek philosophy along this wall. Military treatises and histories there. Arabic texts in the corner—some dating back centuries."
I drift toward the nearest shelf, my fingers trembling as they trace spines. The titles blur together—languages I recognize and some I don't, subjects ranging from astronomy to medicine to warfare. My hand pauses on a volume of Persian poetry, pulling it free reverently.
"Take whatever you want." His voice comes from behind me, low and certain. "Read. Learn. No one will stop you here."
The casual permission feels impossible. Dangerous. Like something that will be snatched away the moment I believe it's real.
"I can't just—these are yours. Your private—"
"They're ours now." He settles into a chair near the window, selecting a thick military treatise from the stack beside him. "Everything that's mine is yours, remember? That includes this."
I clutch the poetry collection and try to remember how to function. He opens his book with the easy confidence of someone who belongs here, who's spent countless hours in this space, and gestures to the cushions near his chair.
I sit because there's nothing else to do. Because refusing would mean leaving this room full of knowledge I've craved my entire life.
The poetry opens to a passage about nightingales and roses, the Farsi flowing like music across the page. I lose myself in it—the rhythm, the imagery, the way words can create entire worlds.
Time becomes meaningless. I read one poem, then another, occasionally glancing up to find Mehmet absorbed in his treatise, making notes in margins with precise handwriting.
It's domestic in a way that startles me. Comfortable. Like we've done this a thousand times before rather than this being the first.
I turn another page and find a poem so absurd—comparing a lover's devotion to a donkey's stubbornness—that I laugh before I can stop myself. The sound escapes too loud in the quiet library.
Mehmet looks up immediately. His gaze locks on my face with such intensity that my breath catches.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious under that stare.
"Nothing." But he doesn't look away. Doesn't return to his reading. Just watches me like I'm something rare he's trying to memorize. "Keep reading."
I try. I really do. But his attention feels like a physical weight, and the words blur together because I can feel him watching, can sense the hunger in that gaze even without looking directly at it.
He looks at me like I hung the moon. Like I'm something precious and perfect rather than the broken, discarded thing my family taught me I was.
I don't understand it. Don't understand why the Empire's heir would look at me—me—with that expression.
But God, I want more of it.
I close the book carefully, setting it aside. My hands twist in my lap as I gather courage I didn't know I still possessed.
"Mehmet?"
He sets down his treatise immediately, giving me his complete attention. "Yes?"
The words tangle in my throat. I feel stupid even thinking them, let alone saying them out loud. But I remember last night—his arms around me, the safety of being held, the promise he made about waiting until I asked.
"I—" My voice cracks. "Would you—I want—"
"Tell me what you want, Leyla." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Use your words."
Heat floods my face. "I want you to touch me. Like you did that first night. I want—I want to feel wanted again."
The confession hangs between us, vulnerable and terrifying.
Something shifts in his expression. Goes dark and hungry in a way that makes my core clench. He stands slowly, crossing the space between us with deliberate steps that make my heart race.
"Say that again," he commands softly, standing before me. "Make sure."
"I want you." The words come easier this time, stronger. "I'm choosing this. Choosing you. Please."
He cups my face with both hands, tilting it up to meet his burning gaze. "Do you understand what you're asking? What it means?"
"I'm asking you to make me feel like I matter. Like I'm not just—" My voice breaks. "Like I'm worth something."
"You are." His thumbs stroke my cheekbones with devastating gentleness. "You're worth everything, little dove. And I'll spend however long it takes proving that to you."
Then his mouth claims mine, and I'm drowning in the taste of him—cedar and promises and possession. He kisses me like I'm air and he's been suffocating, like he's been waiting for permission to unleash something barely contained.
When he breaks away, we're both breathing hard.
"Here?" I whisper, glancing around at the books surrounding us.
His smile goes predatory. "Here. In my sanctuary. So every time I sit in this room afterward, I'll remember you falling apart for me."
The words shouldn't affect me like they do—shouldn't make heat pool low in my belly, shouldn't make me ache with need. But they do.
He undresses me slowly, his hands reverent on silk and skin. Each layer removed reveals more of the body I've been taught to hate, but he touches me like I'm something precious. Something worth worshipping.
"Perfect," he murmurs against my shoulder as the last garment falls away. "Every inch of you, perfect."
I want to argue—want to list all the ways I'm not perfect, all the flaws my family catalogued with cruel precision. But his mouth silences those thoughts, kissing paths across my skin that make me forget how to form words.
He lays me back on the cushions near his reading chair, positioning me in the afternoon light streaming through windows. His gaze rakes over my exposed body with such raw hunger that I feel it like a brand.
"Tell me you're mine," he commands, his hands mapping my curves with possessive certainty.
"I'm yours." The admission comes breathless, honest. "Only yours."
"That's right." His mouth finds my breast, teeth grazing the sensitive peak until I gasp. "And I take care of what's mine."