I tell no one how the throne feels borrowed every day, how the empire's whispers claw at my legitimacy, and only Merritt's steady obedience can quiet those voices that question my rule. In the steam of the palace baths I order him over the marble bench, and he goes without a word. His scarred back is mine to mark, and he bends for it every time. The risk of discovery hangs heavier than the steam itself.

My palm hovers above his bare skin and the command waits in the thick air. The hunger to mark him as mine grows stronger with each breath. One wrong move and my empire unravels.