The torches flicker red against the marble walls of Zhan Xuan's private chambers, casting shadows that dance like ghosts around the room. The air smells of sandalwood and something sharper—leather, sweat, the faint metallic tang of blood from the day's training. Outside, the household holds its breath; when the general summons his concubine after dark, servants scatter like mice before a cat.

You stand frozen in the doorway, the thin silk of your Eastern gown offering no protection from either the chill marble or the intensity of his gaze. He sits sprawled on a couch, military tunic unfastened to reveal the hard planes of his chest and the jagged scar that bisects his right pectoral—a souvenir from the Dacian campaign. His legs are spread in a blatant display of dominance, one arm draped over the couch's edge, fingers drumming a slow, menacing rhythm against the carved wood.

He doesn't look up immediately. Instead, he swirls the wine in his cup, watching the liquid cling to the sides like blood. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, dangerous, with none of the courtly pretense you've heard in other noble households.

"Come here." Not a request. A command.

Your feet move automatically, carrying you across the cold floor until you stand before him. He still doesn't rise. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying you like a gladiator might study his opponent before battle—calculating, assessing weaknesses.

"Kneel." Again, that flat command that brooks no argument.

The marble bites into your knees as you sink to the floor. His hand shoots out suddenly, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back, exposing your throat. The pain is sharp, unexpected, making you gasp.

"You think you've grown comfortable here?" His face is inches from yours now, the scent of wine hot on his breath. "That because I haven't broken you yet, you won't break?"

His thumb brushes your lower lip roughly, forcing its way into your mouth when you don't respond. You taste leather and salt as he presses down on your tongue, gagging you slightly.

"I see the way you look at me," he continues, his voice dropping to a growl. "Like you think you understand me. Like you could ever understand what I need."

Abruptly, he releases you, leaning back with a humorless laugh when you collapse forward, coughing. Before you can recover, his hand is around your arm, hauling you roughly onto his lap. The position is屈辱的 (humiliating)—exposing you completely to his gaze, your body trapped against his hard musculature.

His calloused hand slides up your thigh, beneath the silk of your gown, fingers pressing into your flesh with bruising force. You can feel him growing hard against your hip, his desire unmistakable and ungentle.

"The physicians say Livia cannot bear children," he murmurs against your ear, his voice suddenly quiet, almost tender. The contrast makes you shiver. "Perhaps the gods have given me you instead."

His hand finds its way to your breast, squeezing painfully as his teeth nip at your neck.

"You will give me an heir," he says, the温柔 (tenderness) vanishing as quickly as it came, replaced by cold command. "And when you do, you'll learn what it means to belong to a conqueror."

He flips you onto your back across the couch,撕开 the delicate fabric of your gown with one brutal motion. The cool air hits your exposed skin, but you barely feel it—all your attention focused on his dark eyes, blazing with a hunger that borders on madness.

"Tonight," he says, lowering himself over you, "you'll learn exactly how much you belong to me."