The next morning, the air inside the palace tasted like heat and silence.

Amira woke in silk sheets, but her body ached in places the fabric couldn’t comfort. Her wrists bore faint red marks from the way the Sultan had held her. Her throat still carried the ghost of his voice whispering possession into her skin.

She sat up slowly. The sunlight pouring through the carved windows painted golden patterns on the stone floor. A low wind whistled outside, dragging fine desert sand across the ...