The garden gathering happens without warning.
I'm reading in Mehmet's library when Nurbanu appears, informing me that my presence has been requested at an afternoon social event. "It's expected," she says in that tone that means refusal isn't an option. "The concubines gather weekly. Your continued absence would be noticed."
So I find myself in the eastern gardens, surrounded by women in jewel-toned silks, their laughter like wind chimes in the afternoon heat. I keep to the periphery, a cup of sherbet in my hands, trying to be invisible.
It doesn't work.
"Leyla."
Prince Selim materializes beside me with that easy smile of his, and several conversations around us falter. He's dressed less formally than Mehmet usually is, his robes a deep blue that makes his eyes seem warmer.
"Your Highness." I bow my head appropriately, aware of every eye tracking this interaction.
"None of that." He waves dismissively. "We're practically family now, aren't we? My brother has made his claim abundantly clear." His smile widens. "I wanted to properly introduce myself. Selim. The charming brother, or so I'm told."
Despite myself, I feel my lips twitch. "I wouldn't know. I've only met you twice."
"Then let me prove it." He gestures to a quieter corner of the garden. "Walk with me? Unless you're enjoying hovering by this fountain pretending you want to be here."
The accuracy makes me laugh—a real laugh that surprises me. I glance around instinctively and find Mehmet across the garden, deep in conversation with advisors. His gaze isn't on me.
Yet.
"A short walk," I agree.
We walk through the garden paths heavy with jasmine, petals brushing against our sleeves. Selim’s voice is light, almost musical.
“Do you read Arabic poetry, Leyla?”
“Only a little,” I admit. “Enough to stumble through a line or two.”
He smiles, not mocking, just curious. “Then listen.” He recites a few verses, his accent softening the edges of each word. The air seems to still around us.
“It’s about longing,” he explains when he finishes. “A man waiting for a letter that never comes. You can almost feel the silence between the words.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “And here I thought princes spoke only of politics and war.”
“Not all princes,” he says quietly. “Some of us prefer words that don’t draw blood.”
Our eyes meet for a heartbeat too long before he looks away, gesturing toward the roses. “Do you know who the author is?”
"I'm not well-versed in arts," I confess. "Most of what I learned was stolen—overheard lessons, smuggled books. I know facts, not beauty."
"But you have opinions," Selim says, his eyes bright with interest. "That's rarer than you think. Tell me—when you read poetry, what do you see?"
I consider the question carefully. "Honesty, mostly. The kind people hide in daily conversation. Poets say what everyone feels but won't admit—longing, rage, grief. They make private pain public."
"Exactly!" He touches my hand briefly, emphasizing his point about how poetry transforms isolation into connection. "You understand it better than scholars who've studied for years. They memorize technique. You feel purpose."
The touch is fleeting, meaningless. But I feel the air change.
Mehmet crosses the garden like a storm given human form. His expression is perfectly controlled—which makes him more terrifying, not less. He stops before us with the kind of presence that makes people instinctively step back.
"Brother," he says, his voice lethal in its calmness. "I believe you're needed elsewhere."
The tension crackles between them. Selim's smile doesn't falter, but something shifts in his eyes—recognition, maybe, or satisfaction at having provoked exactly this reaction.
"Just admiring your excellent taste," Selim says mildly. He bows to me with exaggerated courtesy. "Leyla, it's been illuminating. We should discuss poetry again sometime."
He leaves before Mehmet can respond, but the damage is done. I can feel it in the rigid line of Mehmet's shoulders, in the way his jaw is set like stone.
"We're leaving," he says flatly, already turning away.
I follow because there's no other choice. The walk back to his chambers is silent, suffocating. Other people give us wide berth—even the servants seem to sense the barely leashed fury radiating from him.
Inside his chambers, he paces. Not speaking. Not looking at me. Just moving like a caged animal, his control visibly fraying with each step.
The silence stretches until I can't bear it anymore.
"Are you angry with me?" The words come out smaller than I intend.
He stops. Turns. His eyes are dark with something that looks like anguish mixed with rage.
"No," he bites out. "I'm angry with him for touching what's mine. And angry with myself for caring this much. For wanting to break his hand for making you happy."
The raw admission hangs between us. I've never seen him like this—unguarded, vulnerable, stripped of the careful control he wears like armor.
"I didn't encourage him," I say softly, taking a tentative step closer. "He was just being friendly. We talked about poetry, nothing more."
"I know." He runs both hands through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. "That's what makes it worse. You weren't even trying, and he looked at you like—" His voice cracks. "You smiled at him. Laughed with him. Real laughter, not the careful kind. And I wanted to remove him from existence for having that."
My breath catches. "Mehmet—"
"Do you understand what you do to me?" He's moving toward me now, each step deliberate. "I've spent years mastering control. Years learning to bury emotion because feeling anything in this palace is weakness. Then you appear, and suddenly I'm ready to commit violence against my own brother for making you smile."
"You make me happy too," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "More than anyone ever has."
Something in his expression shifts. Goes dark and hungry in a way that makes my pulse race.
His control snaps.
He crosses the remaining space between us and cages me against the wall with his body—not touching yet, but surrounding me with his presence, his heat, the barely leashed violence in every breath.
"Tell me to stop," he says, his voice rough with restraint. "Tell me you don't want this, and I will."
I look up at him—at the man who's shown me more gentleness than I knew existed, who's made me feel wanted and valued and safe. The man who's currently unraveling because someone else made me laugh.
"No," I breathe.
He kisses me with barely leashed hunger. There's no gentleness this time, no careful tenderness—just raw need and possessive claiming. His mouth devours mine like he's trying to erase every moment I spent smiling at someone else. His hands fist in my hair, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss until I'm drowning in him.