He shifts lower, mouth still warm from my skin, and I feel his breath glide over the swell of my stomach. Each kiss is slow, reverent, as if he’s worshiping not just my body, but the trust I’ve given him. He pauses just below my navel, hands splayed on either side of my hips like he’s holding something sacred. Something his.
“Beautiful,” Mehmet murmurs—not for the first time, but it’s the first time the word lands in me like truth.
I gasp when his lips reach the inside of my thigh. He groans at the sound, deep and guttural, like my pleasure fuels his own. His hands roam—up my belly, over my sides—mapping my curves with the same care a warrior gives his blade.
And then his mouth finds me where I burn for him.
I cry out, sharp and breathless. His tongue is slow, thorough, devastating. One hand holds my thigh wide, the other rises to pinch a nipple that tightens instantly beneath his touch.
“Mehmet,” I whisper, trembling. “Please.”
He lifts his head, lips glistening, eyes wild. “You asked for this, Leyla,” he growls. “Now you’ll feel what it means to be mine.”
His fingers slide inside—two, then three—deep and curling just right. His mouth returns, relentless, coaxing me open with pleasure so deep I come undone in seconds, hips lifting, hands fisting in the cushions. I break apart with a cry, and he moans into me, drinking in every tremble.
When he rises over me, robes discarded, I see the restraint on his face—barely there. His hand wraps around the thick length of him, guiding it through my slick folds, pressing but not entering.
“I want you to watch,” he says, voice rough. “Watch how you open for me.”
And I do—eyes locked between us as he pushes in slow, inch by inch, until he fills me completely. My walls stretch, aching, full.
I gasp, nails digging into his arms.
“Mine,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to mine. “You fit me like you were made for this.”
He starts to move. Slow, grinding thrusts that make my back arch, my breath catch. His mouth never leaves me—kissing along my throat, biting gently at my shoulder. He whispers in Turkish, low and urgent. I don’t understand the words, but I feel them like heat in my core.
I wrap my legs around his waist. He groans deep, pace quickening as we find a rhythm. The heat builds again—tight, blinding—and when I shatter, it’s with a sob, clinging to him.
He follows, hips jerking, spilling deep inside me with a gasp.
We stay joined, panting, tangled in silk and sweat and something more.
His hand finds mine, lacing our fingers over my belly.
“I’ll never stop taking care of you,” he says.
And I believe him.
"Come," he says eventually, pressing a kiss to my temple. "There's someone I want you to meet."
He helps me dress with gentle hands, straightening silk that's now hopelessly wrinkled, smoothing hair that's beyond repair. When we're presentable—barely—he leads me through connecting corridors to his study.
The room is all dark wood and military precision. Maps cover one wall, strategy tables positioned near shelves of correspondence. A woman waits there, older, her beauty faded but her spine straight as steel. Her eyes assess me with sharp intelligence.
"Leyla, this is Nurbanu. She was once a favorite herself, before time made other arrangements." Mehmet's voice carries respect. "She's stayed on as a teacher for the younger women, and I've asked her to serve as your mentor."
Nurbanu's gaze doesn't soften. "So you're the one causing such chaos."
"I need you to teach her how to survive this place," Mehmet continues, ignoring her tone. "Palace politics, harem hierarchies, how to identify threats before they strike. She needs to know everything if she's going to be mine publicly."
"A tall order for a girl who arrived yesterday," Nurbanu observes dryly.
"She's clever. She'll learn quickly." He looks at me then, his expression serious. "Listen to everything she tells you. Nurbanu survived fifteen years in this place through intelligence rather than beauty. There's no one better to teach you."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with a woman whose sharp eyes promise no mercy.
"Sit." Nurbanu gestures to the cushions across from her. "We have much to cover and little time."
I obey, and she begins immediately. No pleasantries, no easing into it. She teaches me how to bow—low enough to show respect but not so low that I appear weak. How to keep my eyes downcast while still tracking movement in my peripheral vision. How to speak in court language that sounds respectful but commits to nothing.
"The Prince has made you a target," she says bluntly. "Every woman here who wanted his attention now wants you gone. Some will try poison. Others, character assassination. A few might attempt more direct methods."
My throat tightens. "How do I defend against all that?"
"By being smarter than they are. By recognizing patterns in behavior—who clusters with whom, who benefits from your downfall, who might be turned into an ally." Her eyes pin me in place. "You think yesterday was bad? Gülnar kneeling before you made enemies of her entire network. They'll come for you now, subtly and viciously."
She continues for what feels like hours, cataloguing the complex web of alliances and enmities that govern harem politics. Who reports to whom. Which eunuchs can be bribed and which are loyal only to the Sultan. How to recognize when someone is testing you versus when they're actively plotting.
My head spins with information, but I absorb it desperately. This is survival. This is how I stay alive in a place designed to destroy girls like me.
When she finally dismisses me, the sun is setting.
That night, Mehmet pulls me into his bed with familiar ease. His arms wrap around me, and I sink into the warmth of his chest, breathing in cedar and safety.
Sleep comes quickly. Too quickly.
The nightmare hits without warning.
I'm back in the celebration hall, the dress straining obscenely, three dozen faces twisted with cruel laughter. Kemal's look of relief as he reaches for Yasmin instead. My father's disgust. My mother's satisfied smirk. The fabric ripping, exposing me, humiliating me while everyone watches and laughs and—
I wake gasping, tears streaming down my face, my whole body shaking with the violence of remembered shame. I try to be quiet, try not to wake him, pressing my hand over my mouth to muffle the sobs that want to escape.
"Leyla." His voice comes rough with sleep but immediate. He's already pulling me tighter against his chest, one hand cradling my head while the other wraps around my waist. "I'm here. You're safe."
"I'm sorry," I choke out. "I didn't mean to wake you, I just—"
"Shh." His hand strokes through my hair with devastating gentleness, the rhythm steady and soothing. "Don't apologize for nightmares. Don't apologize for feeling."
I press my face against his chest and let him hold me while the tears come. He doesn't ask what I saw, doesn't demand explanations. Just anchors me with his presence, his warmth, the solid reality of his arms around me.
Gradually, the shaking subsides. My breathing evens out. The nightmare recedes into something manageable.
"They can't hurt you anymore," he murmurs against my hair. "I won't let them."
And impossibly, surrounded by his strength, I believe him.
"Sleep," he commands softly, his lips pressing against my forehead. "I have you."
I close my eyes and let the darkness take me again, knowing this time I won't fall alone.