He ruled an empire without mercy. And yet, when he touched me that night, it wasn't power I feared—it was how easily I bent beneath it.
The night I lost my name, it rained.
Not gentle rain. Not forgiveness.
A storm that cracked heaven wide open, lightning splintering the palace roof as I was dragged through incense-choked corridors.
I was nineteen. Dressed in silk.
Drugged.
My father's voice echoed even louder than the thunder.
"Your uncle has committed treason. If you fail, they will execute us all."
I wanted to scream, but the powder they fed me dulled my voice, softened my limbs. All I could do was stumble forward as servant hands stripped me, bathed me, painted my skin in shame.
They left me on the Emperor's bed.
My fingers gripped the sheets, slick with sweat and dread. I couldn't tell if the heat beneath me was from the man who had just left—or the one about to arrive.
And then, he came.
Damien Drake.
The golden tyrant.
The boy who once spat in my food.
Now a man crowned in blood, wearing gold like it belonged to his bones.
He didn't speak at first.
Just watched.
And in that silence, I remembered all the ways he had tried to erase me.
At thirteen, I pulled him from a pond, breathless and unconscious.
I saved his life.
He responded by branding me a pervert, forcing me to kneel in the sun until my lips cracked and my skin blistered.
I was the delicate one. The quiet boy with long lashes and a voice too soft to be respected.
To Damien, I was a threat he didn't know how to name.
And so he called me one thing, over and over:
"Disgusting."
Now he stood above me again.
But this time, with a blade drawn.
"Even like this," he said, voice low, "you're still revolting."
The steel kissed my throat.
I didn't flinch.
I couldn't.
All I said was:
"Then kill me. Please."
His expression didn't change. But his hand moved—not to end me, but to touch.
Fingers cold with cruelty dragged across my lips, slipped inside, wet and mocking.
I gagged.
He leaned down, voice rough.
"Do you think I want this? Do you think I wanted you?"
I tried to shrink away.
But the drug betrayed me.
My body arched without permission, breath hitching.
He saw it.
And he smiled—just slightly.
"Even your shame is dishonest."
Then he pressed his mouth to mine.
It wasn't a kiss.
It was a claim.
I remembered the stories: that he had taken no queen in five years. That the palace beds were cold.
Now I knew the truth.
They weren't cold.
They were silent.
Because he had built a kingdom where no one touched him unless he allowed it.
And tonight, he allowed it.
Allowed me.
But only to break me.
—
Later, when I was alone again—sore, wrapped in silk I couldn't remove—I remembered my father's voice one more time.
"You're the only one beautiful enough to tempt him. Use it."
As if my body were a blade, or a gift.
As if survival was seduction.
But Damien didn't want beauty.
He wanted obedience.
And I had given him neither.
So he punished me.
And the worst part?
He didn't even need to raise his voice to do it.