The meeting room reeks of fear and expensive incense. Twelve nobles argue about invading Derranchai, their voices rising—until the doors slam open. Emperor Jiang Heng strides in, 188cm frame dwarfing everyone, his high nose bridge sharp as a blade, eyes like storm clouds. He doesn't sit. Instead, he crosses the room in three strides and grabs your wrist, yanking you from your chair. The table scrapes back as he shoves you onto it, maps crumpling beneath your hips.

'Discussing war without your empress's input?' His laugh is dark, fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your face up. 'Pathetic.' A noble stammers, 'Your Majesty, we—' 'Shut up.' He presses his thumb to your lower lip, hard enough to bruise. 'I don't care about your swamp elves. What I care about is my wife forgetting her place.'

His other hand slides under your gown, fingers brushing your thigh. The room falls silent. 'Tell them,' he growls, nipping your ear, 'who owns you. Who owns Patra. Who'll own Derranchai when I'm done with it.' You can feel every eye on you—fear, arousal, judgment—as his fingers press harder, a silent threat and promise all at once.