Goya's eyes sparkled, her voice quick and teasing.
"Kanha…" she said deliberately, cutting right to the chase.
Mirha stiffened and quickly raised a hand. "Please… not today," she whispered. She didn't want to revisit the tangled web of court whispers and schemes, not tonight.
But Reka, never one to hold back, leaned forward, her eyes wide with mischief and curiosity.
"Kanha???" she asked, mock-shocked. "Why am I not surprised? It is truly her."
Gina shifted slightly in her seat, her expression calm but sharp, her voice low and deliberate. "It was Nailah who ordered her to be taken to the Emperor's chambers," she explained, her words measured.
Reka blinked, her tone turning incredulous. "Oh… that is truly different from what we were told. I didn't know what to believe, so I waited for you to ask me directly."
Mirha furrowed her brows in confusion. "Wait… what did they tell you?"
Reka's eyes widened, as if the whole story had shocked her afresh. "I'm surprised you don't know…."
Gina's voice cut in, firm but patient. "Say it already, Reka."
Reka took a deep breath, her expression a mixture of hesitation and curiosity. "Nailah said… the Emperor pitied you for not having a suitor, so he took you in as a concubine because you were one of Nailah's favorite maids."
The words hung in the air like a heavy mist. Mirha froze mid-bite, the sweetness of the dessert suddenly lost on her.
Goya leaned back slightly, her brows furrowed. "Seriously??"
Gina shook her head, her lips pursed in disbelief. "Now, why would Nailah lie?"
Reka tilted her head, thoughtfully biting the inside of her cheek. "It must have weighed on her conscience… she did not want everyone to know what she had done."
Mirha exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing. "It's fine," she said softly, almost to herself, her voice carrying a calm resolve. "I thought it was something… immoral."
Reka's jaw dropped slightly. "This deprives you of value!" she exclaimed, but Gina quickly shook her head, gently but firmly. "Enough, Reka," she said.
Mirha smiled faintly, picking up a small piece of pastry and nibbling on it. "It's fine," she repeated, her voice lighter now as she allowed herself a moment of normalcy again. The tension that had briefly tightened her chest eased, replaced by the quiet comfort of familiar friends and the gentle night.
After finishing her dessert, she excused herself politely, brushing off her gown as she rose from the chair. The garden was dimly lit now, the lanterns flickering as the breeze stirred the night air, carrying with it the soft fragrance of flowers and the distant murmur of servants tidying the pavilion.
As she walked through the garden path, the soft crunch of gravel beneath her feet echoing faintly in the quiet, a young maid approached her, bowing deeply.
"Your Highness," the maid said softly, "His Majesty is waiting for you."
Mirha stopped, took a deep, steadying breath, and squared her shoulders. Her heart raced—not from fear, but from anticipation. Every step toward the Emperor felt heavy with significance. The gentle evening air seemed to cool her burning cheeks slightly as she continued forward, her silk gown whispering against the stone path.
She reached the door to Arvin's chambers, her hand hovering for a brief moment over the polished wood, feeling the carved details beneath her fingertips. She inhaled slowly, letting the calm of the garden fill her lungs, and then knocked lightly.
The heavy doors of the emperor's chambers closed behind Mirha with a quiet click.
The room was dim, lit only by the low glow of oil lamps and the dying embers in the brazier. Arvin sat on the edge of the wide bed, robe half-open, elbows on his knees, eyes already locked on her the second she entered. He didn't speak. He just watched.
Mirha didn't pause. She reached up, fingers finding the thin ties at her shoulders, and let the cream silk nightshift slip down her arms. It pooled at her feet in a soft whisper of fabric, leaving her completely bare. Her skin caught the warm light—smooth curves, the gentle swell of her breasts, the dark triangle between her thighs. She didn't hurry, didn't tease. She simply walked toward him, steps measured, eyes lowered in that quiet way of hers.
Arvin's breath caught. His hands flexed on his knees like he was fighting the urge to reach for her too soon.
When she reached him, standing between his spread thighs, he lifted one hand—slow, careful—and brushed his knuckles lightly along her hip.
"You don't have to do this," he said, voice low and rough. "Not like this. Not stripping for me the moment you walk in."
Mirha looked down at him, then placed her hands on his shoulders, steadying herself.
"Yes," she said softly, "but I want to."
That was all it took.
Arvin surged up, mouth crashing into hers in a kiss that was all hunger and no restraint. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him so she could feel how hard he already was, how badly he'd been waiting. He tasted like smoke and want, tongue stroking deep, claiming her mouth while his fingers dug into her hips hard enough to leave marks he'd kiss later.
He lifted her effortlessly, turned, and laid her back on the bed without breaking the kiss. His robe hit the floor somewhere in the motion. Then he was over her, between her thighs, one hand guiding himself to her entrance.
He pushed in slow at first—just the head—watching her face the whole time. Mirha's lips parted on a soft gasp, eyes fluttering. Then he sank deeper, inch by thick inch, until he was buried to the hilt. She arched beneath him, nails pressing into his back, a small whimper escaping.
"Fuck," he groaned against her throat, hips already rolling in shallow thrusts. "You feel… gods, Mirha, you are perfect."
He didn't give her time to adjust. The rhythm built fast—deep, steady strokes that rocked her body into the mattress. The wet sound of him moving inside her filled the room, mingling with her quiet moans and his ragged breathing. He hooked one of her legs over his arm, opening her wider, driving harder, chasing that spot that made her tremble.
She came first—sudden, sharp—walls fluttering around him as she cried out his name in that soft, broken voice. He didn't stop. He fucked her through it, slower for a moment to let her ride the aftershocks, then faster again, chasing his own release. When he came it was with a low, guttural sound, hips grinding deep as he spilled inside her, pulse after hot pulse.
He stayed buried, softening only slightly, forehead pressed to hers while they both caught their breath.
But he wasn't done.
Not even close.
He pulled out just long enough to flip her onto her stomach, hands spreading her thighs again. He entered her from behind in one smooth thrust, deeper this time, groaning at how slick she was with both of them. His chest covered her back, one arm banded around her waist to hold her in place while he fucked her with long, possessive strokes—slow when he wanted to savor, hard when the need overtook him.
Mirha pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, soft whimpers turning into breathy pleas. She was already sensitive, oversensitive, but she didn't ask him to stop. She never would.
He took her again like that—on her knees, face down in the silk—then rolled her onto her side, lifting her leg over his hip so he could slide back in and grind against her clit with every roll of his hips. She came twice more, shaking, tears slipping down her cheeks from the intensity, and still he kept going.
Each time he spilled inside her he would kiss her shoulder, her neck, murmur something rough and reverent against her skin—"so perfect..."—before starting again. He was addicted. He knew it. The way her body took him, the way she stayed open for him, the way she whispered his name like a prayer even when she was trembling—it owned him more than any throne ever could.
Hours later, when the candles had burned completely and her thighs were slick and trembling, he finally slowed. He pulled her against his chest, still inside her, arms locked around her like he'd never let go.
Mirha's breathing was shallow, exhausted, but she turned her face into his neck and he pressed a soft kiss to her head.
"Still… not done?" she whispered, voice hoarse.
Arvin exhaled a shaky laugh, lips brushing her temple.
"Not even close," he admitted, voice wrecked. "I don't think I'll ever be done with you."
She smiled faintly against his skin, already drifting, safe in the circle of his arms.
"Then don't stop," she murmured.
And he didn't.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
The words were quiet, almost fragile, but they snapped something inside him wide open.