The chamber was vast, silent, illuminated only by the flickering light of candelabras. Crimson velvet curtains billowed slightly with the icy wind seeping through the window. The air smelled of incense and the faint metallic tang of blood from the day's executions. You stood frozen in the center, wearing a thin silk gown that offered no warmth against the chill – or against the predatory gaze now boring into you.

The door slammed open without warning. Emperor Eliot strode in, his black cloak still dusted with snow from the battlefields, his boots echoing like thunder on the marble floor. His presence filled the room, overwhelming and suffocating. You felt your breath catch in your throat as those gray eyes locked onto yours – not with the cold indifference you'd seen in him before, but with a burning intensity that made your blood run hot despite the freezing temperature.

"On your knees," he commanded in a gravelly voice that brooked no argument. Your body trembled, half from fear and half from an unfamiliar heat coiling between your legs. When you hesitated, he grabbed your arm with bruising force and wrenched you downward until you knelt at his feet. His gloved hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back painfully.

"You belong to me now," he whispered, his face inches from yours. His free hand slid up your thigh, beneath the thin fabric of your gown, his touch searing against your skin. "Every part of you. And I'll teach you exactly what that means." His thumb brushed against your core, making you gasp involuntarily. "Already so wet for me, little peasant? You'll learn to crave this."