She watched the delicate chess piece topple. For an instant, its polished surface glimmered in the firelight; then it bounced once on the board, rolling a short distance before coming to rest at the feet of the black king.

I lost.

Until now, she had convinced herself there would be a way—if not to avoid the inevitable—then at least to delay it. Yet the moment of truth had arrived, and she was far from prepared. Panic surged through her, making her heart pound in her ears. She shut her eyes, hoping—praying—for some miracle that would whisk her away before she had to face what would happen next.

"The time has come to settle your debt, Katherine," he said softly, rising from his seat.

As he moved, the curved Damascene hancer at his side caught the light, drawing her gaze. Standing slowly, she contemplated a desperate move: Could she seize it, drive it into his chest, end him before he finished her? Would she even be fast enough, or would he cut her down the moment she reached for it?

He stepped toward her, slipping the dagger from its sheath and raising it so the blade glinted under the fire's glow. "This dagger was a gift from Sultan Murad, Mehmed's father." His voice held a note of almost fond reminiscence. "He oversaw my education in warfare, diplomacy, and governance. He taught me many lessons, including one you just ignored." His gaze shifted to her. "Never attack an enemy you cannot hope to defeat."

A chill of dread knifed through her. He knows... He knows what I was thinking.

With a slight incline of his head, he silently confirmed her suspicion.

"Men have died for smaller offenses than plotting my death. Yet I admire your courage; few would stand where you are now and even consider using my own weapon against me." He smiled. "So, as a gesture of respect, I'll offer you a warning—one that might spare you from rashness and the punishment it would bring."

He extended his free hand, fingers splayed, then drew the blade across his palm in a swift, confident motion. Blood welled but vanished almost immediately as the wound sealed itself.

"I cannot be killed."

Fear jolted through her like lightning.

"What are you going to do to me?" she whispered, voice trembling.

His expression softened, as though her open terror somehow appeased him.

"I meant what I said, Katherine. I want you to come to me willingly, to give yourself to me."

"Willingly..." She lowered her gaze, unable to meet his eyes. "You bought me like a horse at a fair. I'm nothing more than a slave with no rights, no voice. My so-called consent doesn't matter."

Gently, almost tenderly, he reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. "It matters to me."

His hand lingered at her neck, carrying a promise of mercy if she yielded. Despite her hatred and fear, she felt an undeniable craving for the reprieve he offered—for the freedom it might bring. He knew it, too.

For a moment, he simply held her gaze, then inclined his head as though to give her space to retreat. But she stayed, frozen, and he leaned down to kiss her. His lips were cool and firm, the pressure tentative at first, as if he waited for her to decide. Then, gradually, he deepened the kiss. A ripple of sensation ran along her spine—an unsettling mingling of fear and startling pleasure. She stood rigid, but after a suspended heartbeat, she found herself stepping a fraction closer.

Reality blurred. She felt his hands on her shoulders, his grip light but insistent. She raised her own hand to his chest, perceiving the hard muscle beneath layers of fine fabric. He slid one hand into her hair, holding her with unexpected care, yet his kiss was unyielding. A new, foreign thrill coiled in her stomach, chasing away her attempts to think rationally. At that moment, had she been offered escape, she was no longer sure she would take it.

"So eager," he murmured, stepping back. "Unexpected, but you learn quickly."

She stood there, breathless, torn between horror at her own reaction and an involuntary hunger for more. Shame pricked at her, for she despised him—and herself for responding to him. She lowered her gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

She had known the night in the forest that the bargain was her honor for her life—a choice she despised herself for making. She had expected force, pain, not this seductive dance where revulsion mingled with desire. Worse still, she knew he was manipulating her, and yet she could not bring herself to resist. Part of her welcomed his dark invitation.

"What happens now?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

"What would you like to happen, Katherine?" he asked, maintaining his distance, though triumph tinged his tone.

He knew he had already won, having invested only the slightest effort to dismantle her defenses. She realized again, with a stab of humiliation, that he could read her every fear and hope—and he was relishing it. A brutal awareness of how helpless she was cut deeper than any whip could.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I've never... I..."

Her voice faltered, shame and uncertainty stealing her words. His small smile returned, and he stepped closer, threading his fingers through her hair and tilting her chin up. The warmth of his body radiated against her.

"My reluctant slave," he said softly. "So innocent and so afraid. Let me show you what it can be like."