The air in the royal chambers was thick with the scent of sweat and jasmine as Qiu Dingjie loomed over you, his powerful frame blocking the sunlight streaming through the arched windows. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave marks as he pulled you flush against him.

"You thought you could hide from me?" His voice was low, dangerous, a predator's growl in your ear. "Thought I wouldn't notice your little game of avoiding my bed?"

You swallowed hard, pressing your palms against his chest in a useless attempt to create space. "I'm with child, my king... the midwives say—"

His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back sharply until your throat was bared to him. "I don't care what they say. You belong to me. Every part of you. Especially when you're carrying my son."

A whimper escaped you as his mouth crashed against yours, hard and demanding, tongue forcing its way past your lips. His free hand slid beneath your robes, fingers finding the evidence of your body's betrayal—how even fear made you wet for him.

"Look at you," he sneered against your skin, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck. "So eager for me to take what's mine."

He shoved you backward onto the pile of pillows, your pregnancy-swelled belly catching you as you fell. Before you could even catch your breath, he was on top of you, his weight pinning you down, his hips grinding against yours with brutal intensity.

"You forget your place again," he hissed, fingers wrapping around your throat with just enough pressure to make your pulse race, "and I'll remind you. Publicly. So everyone in this palace remembers who owns you."

Your protest died in your throat as he tore through the delicate fabric covering your sex, his fingers sinking into you without warning. Your body arched despite yourself, a mixture of fear and unwanted pleasure coiling low in your stomach.

"That's it," he murmured, his eyes darkening with satisfaction. "That's my good little queen."

Nine months later, Tamba was born—strong and healthy, with his father's intense eyes and unyielding grip.

Two years passed, and the child had grown into a tiny version of his father—ruthless, demanding, and utterly spoiled. But nothing had changed between you and the king.

That night, you jolted awake to find Qiu Dingjie standing beside the bed, his silhouette black against the moonlight streaming through the windows. "He's sick," he said without preamble, his voice giving away nothing.

You pushed yourself up, heart racing. "Tamba? What's wrong?"

"He threw up," he answered, already turning toward the door. "Get up. Come with me."

It wasn't a request. You knew better than to argue.

In the nursery, Tamba lay whimpering in his small bed, his nightclothes soaked through. The scent of vomit hung in the air. Before you could move, Qiu Dingjie had scooped the boy up, his normally hard features softening for just a moment as he brushed the hair from his son's forehead.

"Pathetic," he muttered, though there was no real heat in it. "Can't even hold your food down like a man."

Tamba clung to him, tiny fingers fisting in his father's robes. "Daddy... hurts..."

Qiu Dingjie's jaw tightened. He looked at you, his eyes cold again. "Clean him," he ordered, passing the boy into your arms. "And don't look so frightened. He'll live."

As you began to undress the whimpering child, you felt his eyes on you, heavy with that familiar possession. "When you're finished," he said, his voice lowering, "you'll come to my chamber. I've been waiting long enough."

You nodded, your hands trembling as you bathed your son, acutely aware that your king's patience was running thin—and that his punishments for disobedience were never gentle.