I had always known that if I survived long enough, I would eventually be bargained like land.
Not traded for peace—peace was a lie fathers told themselves—but for control.
Still, standing in the heart of Alexandria's imperial palace, facing the man they called the Tyrant Emperor, I realized how naïve I had been to believe I could dictate the terms alone.
Romulus did not sit.
He stood before the low obsidian table between us, bare feet against polished stone, dressed in the customary desert garb—loose linen trousers secured low at the waist, his chest unbound, skin bare to the heat and the brazier light. Gold caught at his throat, at his wrists. Nothing about him was defensive. Everything about him was ownership.
He had listened.
That alone unsettled me.
I had revealed everything.
The healing. The dreams. The sister he kept alive through physicians and prayers that no longer worked. I had spoken calmly, steadily, as if my heart had not been trying to break free of my ribs the entire time.
I had wagered my worth.
Now, he weighed it.
Silence stretched, heavy as the desert air before a sandstorm.
"You offer much," Romulus said at last.
His voice was not loud. It did not need to be. It carried authority like heat carries fire—inevitable, consuming.
"But you speak as if you are the only one placing a bet."
His gaze lifted to me fully then, dark eyes sharp, assessing not just my words but my spine, my breathing, the way I held my hands folded before me like a court-trained daughter instead of a woman who had just offered to outplay an empire.
I did not lower my gaze.
"I am offering what no one else can," I replied. "That gives me the right to terms."
A corner of his mouth curved—not quite a smile.
"No," he said. "It gives you the privilege of negotiation."
He stepped closer.
One pace. Then another.
I felt it—not fear, not desire alone, but something more dangerous. Awareness. The sense that the space between us was no longer neutral ground.
"You will have your wager," Romulus continued. "I accept it."
My breath loosened.
Then he tilted his head slightly.
"But you will also accept mine."
Of course.
I had expected this. Prepared for it. Still, my fingers tightened against one another.
"Speak them," I said.
His gaze flicked—not to my face, but lower. Not with lewdness. With intention. With calculation.
"You will not be named a concubine," he said. "Not in contract. Not in title."
My pulse stuttered.
Relief flared too quickly—then died just as fast when he continued.
"But you will fulfill the role."
The words landed like a blade wrapped in silk.
I forced myself not to react. Not to flinch. Not to betray the sudden heat crawling beneath my skin.
Romulus circled the table slowly, like a predator that had already decided the outcome.
"The harem of Alexandria," he said, "is not a collection of idle women waiting for pleasure."
I already knew this. Every empire hid its spies behind silk and perfume.
"They are gifts," he continued. "Offerings. Tributes. Chosen by my council. By nobles. By foreign courts. Each woman brought here carries ears that do not belong to me."
He stopped in front of me.
"They watch," he said. "They listen. They whisper."
I met his gaze steadily.
"And you intend for me to be seen," I said.
"Yes."
Not cruel. Not mocking.
Final.
"If you wish to be my ally," Romulus said, "and not merely a hostage bride sent to soothe a border, then you will show them you are not here by force."
My throat tightened.
"You will show them," he went on, "that you are here because you are favored."
The word echoed.
Favored.
"I will not parade you in daylight like a prize mare," he said. "But the palace breathes at night. Walls listen better when the lamps are low."
Understanding settled into my bones.
He was not asking for submission.
He was demanding proof.
"If you want protection," Romulus said quietly, "you will earn it."
The brazier crackled. Somewhere beyond the walls, water flowed through palace channels, soft and endless.
I thought of Constantine.
Of my father's cold eyes as he sent me away. Of Alexus, silent with fury. Of Arthur—Arthur, who would have argued, pleaded, fought.
None of that mattered here.
This was Alexandria.
This was Romulus.
"And if I refuse?" I asked.
His gaze sharpened—not with anger, but with something colder.
"Then you will still sleep under my roof," he said. "Still be bound by treaty. Still be watched."
He leaned closer, just enough that I could feel the heat of him, smell the faint spice and desert on his skin.
"But you will stand alone."
I understood that too.
A woman unclaimed in a harem was prey.
I straightened.
"You want me to win your favor," I said evenly. "In a den of women trained to survive on scraps of it."
"Yes."
"So they will fear me," I said.
"So they will understand," he corrected, "that you are not replaceable."
Silence stretched again.
Inside, my heart raced—not with humiliation, but with something sharp and alive. This was not the fate my father had intended for me.
This was worse.
And better.
"I will not be touched against my will," I said.
Romulus did not hesitate.
"I have no interest in obedience without choice."
The words should not have affected me.
They did.
"And my abilities?" I asked. "They remain mine."
"For now," he said. "You will decide when to offer them."
I exhaled slowly.
Outside, the desert sun was sinking, bleeding gold into the horizon. Inside, a different kind of dusk settled.
"I will not debase myself," I said quietly.
Romulus studied me, then nodded once.
"Good," he said. "If you did, you would bore me."
Something flickered between us then.
Not warmth.
Recognition.
"You will dine with me publicly," he said. "You will walk the gardens when you choose. You will be seen where you wish to be seen."
His voice lowered.
"But at night, you will come when I summon you."
The words were measured. Controlled. Heavy with implication.
I did not ask what would happen then.
We both knew.
I bowed—not deeply, but properly. A princess's bow. Controlled. Unbroken.
"Then I accept your counteroffer," I said. "On one condition."
His brow lifted slightly.
"I will not pretend affection," I said. "I will not fake desire."
Romulus's gaze darkened, something unreadable passing through it.
"Good," he said again. "I despise lies."
He turned away, already dismissing me, as emperors did when they had decided a matter.
"You will be escorted to your chambers," he said. "Prepare yourself."
"For tonight?" I asked.
He glanced back once.
"No," he said. "Tonight is for anticipation."
The doors opened.
As I stepped forward, my legs steady despite the storm inside me, I understood the truth at last.
I had not escaped being sacrificed.
I had simply chosen the blade.
And I would make sure it cut both ways.
The doors had already begun to close when his voice stopped me.
"Almera." Romolus called.
I turned.
Romulus had not gone out. He stood where the firelight framed him in gold and shadow, bare skin catching the glow like a living statue carved from sun and war.
"By morning," he said, "you will fulfill the first proof of your wager."
My pulse quickened.
"You will heal my sister, Cecilia."
The name settled heavily between us.
Not a request.
A command—but one layered with consequence.
"If you succeed," Romulus continued, "there will be no delay."
I lifted my chin. "No delay in what, Your Majesty?"
His gaze sharpened, intent narrowing like a drawn blade.
"Our wedding."
The word struck harder than any threat.
Not a concubine's elevation.
Not a quiet binding in shadow.
A wedding.
"The court will witness it," he said. "The council will be present. The harem will hear of it before the sun reaches its peak."
My breath caught, just barely.
"No concubine," Romulus went on calmly, "has ever been granted that honor."
I understood immediately.
This was not merely reward.
It was strategy.
"They will see," he said, "that you are favored."
His eyes moved over me then—slow, deliberate, unhidden. There was no attempt to veil it with courtesy or politics.
"And they will believe," he added, "that I chose you because I was entranced."
Heat crept beneath my skin, unwanted and undeniable.
"Your beauty," he said plainly, "will be the reason they accept without question."
I said nothing.
Inside, my thoughts raced.
A public wedding would fracture the palace overnight. Every whisperer, every woman planted by foreign hands, every councilor who believed Constantine still held leverage over Alexandria would be forced into the open.
Romulus was not merely binding me to him.
He was laying bait.
"They will scramble," he continued, his voice low with quiet satisfaction. "Those who serve other masters always do when the board shifts too quickly."
His gaze locked onto mine again.
"And when they move," he said, "we will see who still has dealings with your homeland."
Constantine.
My father.
Noel Abelfort.
Every shadowed alliance that had believed me a pawn would now be forced to react.
The game would begin at dawn.
"If you fail," Romulus said evenly, "you will still belong to Alexandria."
I nodded once.
"And if I succeed?" I asked.
A pause.
Then, slowly—
"You will stand beside me," he said, "not behind me."
The doors opened fully then, servants waiting with bowed heads, unaware that the palace itself had just shifted.
As I stepped forward, my heart steady despite the storm within, I understood the truth of what he had done.
Romulus had not accepted my wager alone.
He had turned it into a declaration.
By morning, I would either save an empress's sister—
Or become the most dangerous woman in Alexandria.
And either way, there would be blood before peace.