The sound, sharp and visceral, cracked the silence of the marble room like a whip. Raiha's palm, still stinging, retracted slowly.
Mohammed, the Grand Vizier, a man whose composure was his greatest weapon, turned his head. The red mark blossoming high on his cheek was the only betrayal of his inner storm. His eyes, the color of stormy slate, held hers, cold and utterly devoid of the playful warmth she had come to rely on, perhaps foolishly. The air temperature seemed to plummet with the force of his gaze.
"That was imprudent, Raiha," his voice was dangerously soft, a silken cord tightening around her throat. "What does this mean?"
Raiha, Consort to the Sultan, felt the hot, ugly sting of humiliation rising in her chest, obliterating the fear that should have been there. She was dressed only in a sheer, gold-threaded satin kaftan, her body an open invitation to betrayal, yet it was her mind that felt most exposed.
"Awareness," she spat the word like a curse. "You were aware, were you not? You knew of the new concubine—no, the new Queen. You knew His Majesty not only took her but elevated her to be his sole, formal Queen. You were always aware of her existence and the depth of your master's disinterest in me. And you let me be a fool. You subjected me to this ordeal of waiting, hoping, and believing I still held a piece of his favour! Why? Why the malice, Mohammed?"
He took one slow, deliberate step toward her, forcing her to look up into the chiseled severity of his face. His naked torso, still glistening faintly from his bath, was magnificent and cruel, a testament to the power he carried both in the Sultan's court and in this room.
"There appears to have been a fundamental misunderstanding," Mohammed said, his jaw flexing. There was no apology in his voice, only contempt for her naïveté.
"A misunderstanding?" Raiha's voice broke. Tears of fury, not sorrow, welled in her eyes, scalding her perfect porcelain skin. "You kept this secret—a secret that dismantles my entire existence in this palace—and you call it a misunderstanding?"
He shrugged, the small movement pulling the taut muscles across his chest. "And why should I have to answer to you? I am the Sultan's Grand Vizier, his loyal servant. I do not take orders from the Consort. Your jurisdiction ends where my duty begins, Raiha. Stop pushing the envelope."
He wasn't lying. His job was to serve the Sultan. Her pain meant nothing in the grand tapestry of Imperial politics. Yet, the sting of his brutal honesty felt sharper than any physical blow.
Driven by a desperate impulse, Raiha closed the distance between them. The rich, heavy silk of her kaftan, intended to tempt, now felt like a shroud of desperation. She leaned against his hardness, her eyes, filled with shimmering, angry tears, searching his.
"What do I mean to you, Mohammed?" Her hands clawed at the front of his partially worn kaftan, clutching the linen with painful force. "Please tell me the truth. Are you just using me as a pawn in your political machinations?" she sobbed, burying her face against his chest, inhaling the scent of sandalwood, sweat, and soap—the scent of her secret relief.
Mohammed stood rigid, feeling the delicate tremble of her body against his. He watched her tears stream, the salt trails dissolving the remains of her meticulous kohl. Raiha's grip tightened, demanding an answer that neither of them wanted to hear.
Then, his composure snapped, but not into rage; into a cold, predatory control. He grasped her jaw, his thumb digging into the softness beneath her ear, forcing her head up. He leaned down, his eyes locked on her trembling mouth, and instead of kissing her, he simply licked her lower lip, a quick, possessive dart of his tongue that tasted of betrayal and desire.
"Raiha. Raiha. Raiha," he murmured her name like a warning. "Why the theatrics? It is not as if we are... lovers, are we?"
Raiha loosened her grip, aghast. She pushed back, stumbling a step away, her eyes wide with shock. "What exactly do you mean by that?"
"To be perfectly clear," he said, turning, walking toward the bed to retrieve his discarded trousers, allowing her to see the full, breathtaking breadth of his disdain, "You always came to me. You sent your maid. You whispered the invitation. And I, being a man with appetites and a position that demands certain ... compensations, gladly accepted your invitation. How can I say no to free food?"
"Free food?" she repeated, the words hollow, echoing the depth of his callousness. The Sultan had reduced her status, but Mohammed had reduced her dignity. "Do you really see me as nothing more than an easily acquired meal?"
He finally pulled on his linen trousers, his movements slow and mesmerizingly masculine. He raked a hand through his damp, dark hair, pushing it back from his face. "What other conclusion is there? Do not insult my intelligence by claiming this has become some grand passion. You, Raiha, falling in love? That is entirely out of character for the woman who plots every breath she takes in this palace."
Raiha's chest heaved. "I cannot believe I ever trusted a scumbag like you. A traitor and a dog!"
He moved with the speed of a striking viper, gripping her upper arms fiercely, his fingers biting into the satin fabric and her flesh underneath. He hauled her against him, their faces inches apart.
"This piece of garbage," he ground out, his voice a low growl of pure menace, "this scumbag, knows how to make you scream with raw euphoria, an ecstasy your noble husband has never and will never witness. Tell me, is that something His Majesty, the all-powerful Sultan, does for you?"
"How certain are you that His Majesty is incapable of pleasing me?" she challenged, though her voice lacked conviction.
"If he did, you would not be so quick to spread your legs for me every time the moon hides behind the clouds," he sneered, releasing one arm to shrug, his disdain palpable. "Think about it. What do you imagine his expression will be if he learns that his beloved, and now suddenly dethroned, Consort has been coupling with his Grand Vizier and childhood best friend? Will he forgive your indiscretion or mine?"
"You won't say anything to him," she insisted, shaking her head frantically. "If he finds out, he will execute you—it would be an act of mercy compared to what he'll do to a traitor."
"And that, my dear Raiha, is where your political vision is fatally flawed," Mohammed corrected, pulling her flush against his solid body. He wrapped one hand securely around her waist, tilting her hips against his, while the other began to toy with a thick, dark lock of her hair. "Do you truly think he would kill me for the sake of a woman he has already replaced? When something new arrives, Raiha, the word 'favourite' slips away like sand. That is the nature of power, and men who wield it. After discovering an interesting new toy, we quickly lose interest in the old ones." He leaned down, his breath warm and dangerous against her ear, and murmured, "Think carefully, Consort. Out of the two of us, who would His Majesty, the Sultan, choose to execute—the irreplaceable pillar of his administration, or the disposable former favourite?"
She finally broke free, yanking herself away with a gasp, horrified by the image of her own insignificance he had painted. How dare he speak such brutal, humiliating truths in her ear? He was still shirtless, the embodiment of arrogant confidence, sitting down on the edge of his massive mahogany bed.
"You are going to be sorry, Mohammed. I promise you," she whispered, her voice laced with venom.
He leaned back, resting his weight on his palms, surveying her, half-dressed and trembling with impotent rage, her gold-threaded kaftan glowing in the afternoon light. "You stand before me, Raiha, dressed in nothing but silk and threats, and you think I feel regret?" He patted the rich velvet of the bed beside him. "Come here," he commanded, his voice suddenly thick, raw, and full of irresistible, raw desire. "Let us finish what you started."
She approached him, a moth drawn to the inferno. She stopped inches from him, and his hands found her waist, pulling her forward until the front of her kaftan was crushed against his lap. Then, in a final, defiant act of control, she pushed him back onto the bed and straddled him, her body weight driving him down into the mattress. She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear, her revenge whispered so softly it might have been a plea.
"It's amusing how you threaten like a petulant child, Mohammed. If you truly wanted to inform the Sultan, you would have done so years ago. The fact that you haven't makes me question why. Or," she breathed the final accusation, her lips brushing his neck, "are you the one who secretly loves me, but are simply too much of a coward to acknowledge it?"
The challenge was brilliant. It cut through his armor of cynicism and duty. With a roar of something that might have been lust, or anger, or both, he reversed their positions, rolling her beneath him. His face, fierce and possessive, hovered above hers. He stared at the woman beneath him—his master's concubine, his secret lover, and now his dangerous enemy. He almost kissed her, the tension between them a live wire.
"Raiha," he growled, the desire finally overwhelming the anger, "if you really wanted to be bedded, you could have just stated so. I have no qualms with satisfying your endless hunger. But let us be clear. What I despise the most is an angry woman in my bed. And you, my furious Raiha, know that absolutely does not turn me on."
He lifted his gaze from her mouth to her eyes, forcing her to see the stark, brutal power in his. "Now, stop trying to rule me, and let me rule you."