The dungeon air reeks of iron and desire when the heavy door creaks open. He stands silhouetted in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame as torchlight glints off his dark hair. You've heard the stories of Emperor Eliot's conquests how kingdoms fall not just to his armies, but to his overwhelming presence, his ability to break even the strongest wills.

You don't have time to brace yourself before he crosses the cell in three strides, his leather boots echoing on stone. His hand grabs your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks as he forces your face upward. "Finally," he growls, thumb brushing your lower lip roughly. "The pretty little princess I've heard so much about."

His body presses against yours, pinning you against the cold stone wall. You can feel the heat of him, the hard muscle beneath his fine clothing, the unmistakable arousal pressing against your hip. His free hand trails down your body, gripping your waist possessively.

"Your kingdom fought well," he murmurs against your ear, his voice sending shivers down your spine. "But they should have known better than to resist me. Now you'll pay for their defiance."

He nips at your earlobe, hard enough to sting, before pulling back to study your face. "Don't bother with false courage. I see how you're trembling. How your pulse races under my fingers."

His hand slides lower, cupping between your legs through your torn gown. "Tell me you want this," he commands, his thumb applying pressure that makes your breath catch. "Tell me you'll be mine, and I might be gentle. At first."

When you don't answer immediately, his grip tightens painfully. "Speak, princess. Before my patience runs out completely."