The cabin felt like a pressure cooker, the walls of carved granite closing in as the heavy, rhythmic drumming of the monsoon outside faded into a dull hum. For Zarina, the world had shrunk to the four corners of this narrow medical cot. As she leaned over the unconscious man, the sterile scent of antiseptic and the earthy, musk-heavy smell of rain-soaked skin filled her lungs, intoxicating her senses. Her breath hitched, a tiny, ragged gasp escaping her parched lips as her gaze traveled the rugged, impossible landscape of his body.

  She was a doctor; she had seen thousands of bodies, but none like this. His torso was a masterpiece of hard angles and fluid grace—defined abdominal muscles that rippled even in sleep, a chest that rose and fell with a powerful, subterranean rhythm. A heat began to bloom low in her belly, a tightening, raw, primal need that she had buried under years of antidepressants and isolation. Her nipples instantly hardened, pricking painfully against the thin, functional fabric of her medical tunic. A flush crept up her neck, staining her pale, translucent skin a deep rose as her cheeks burned with a fever that wasn't clinical.

  It wasn't a gentle arousal; it was a magnetic pull, a gravitational collapse. Her hands, usually steady and cold, trembled as she reached out. Her long Orosian nails—obsidian points of lethal beauty—traced the deep lines of his washboard stomach. The moment her skin made contact with his, a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity coursed through her. A violent shiver racked her body, starting at the base of her scalp and ending in a throbbing, insistent pulse between her legs. Her touch became bolder, fueled by a numb desperation to feel something, anything, other than the void. She pressed the heel of her hand against his solar plexus, feeling the furnace-like heat of his core. A low, guttural groan rumbled in her throat. She was thoroughly soaked, her center slick with a desire that felt like a screaming plea for release. Her body was a symphony of yearning, begging for this man—this stranger—to wake up and claim her, to break the ice of her loneliness with the fire of his presence.

  But the physician in her, the part of her that had sacrificed a decade to the study of life and death, flickered to life. Sensing his elevated body temperature, she pulled herself back from the precipice of her own hunger. She grabbed her hand-held bio-scanner, running it over his chest.

  Nothing.

  The device showed no infection, no known mountain pathogen, and no physiological reason for this radiating heat. Most sub-humans on Oros had a lower metabolic baseline due to the thin air, but this man... his baseline was 37°C. His pulse was a heavy, alien rhythm—steady, slow, and terrifyingly powerful. What is he? she wondered, her mind racing through the taxonomic registers.

  She donned her high-magnification medical glasses, leaning in so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips. She noticed a slight irritation, a faint ring of redness at the corners of his eyes. With steady, practiced hands, she picked up a pair of fine-tipped forceps. She delicately pinched the edge of a lens resting on his cornea and slid it free.

  The moment the lens came away, Zarina froze. The air in her lungs turned to liquid lead. Cold sweat broke across her brow, and her face turned a deathly, chalky white. Her breathing became a ragged, panicked mess.

  The eye beneath the lens was not brown, nor green, nor slate. It was a vivid, swirling, glowing crimson.

  She was looking at a Human. Not a merchant, not a mercenary, but a "Saint" in the flesh. Her mind flashed back to the illicit, she saw on social media—images of the new Patriarch of the House of Ghazzawi. The man on the bed was Khalid Ghazzawi, the rightful Wazir of Oros, the master of the very House that her people served.

  She stood paralyzed by a fear so ancient it was written into her DNA, until, suddenly, Khalid’s eyes snapped open.

  He sat up with a fluid, terrifying grace, moving as if the crushing fatigue of altitude sickness had never touched him. He didn't blink; he simply stared at her with those glowing red apertures. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face—a look that was both predatory and unnervingly charming.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "I feel good now, Doctor," he said. His voice was a rich, dark baritone that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of her bones.

  "Yes... yes... your blood pressure is normal," she stammered, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. She tried to step back, to regain some semblance of professional distance, but her legs felt like water.

  Khalid’s gaze darkened with a playful edge. He leaned forward, the heat from his body washing over her. "Well, I am not talking about my blood pressure. I am talking about how good I feel being treated by such a beautiful doctor."

  The words hit Zarina like a physical blow to the chest. She had craved such kindness, such a simple acknowledgement of her womanhood, for so long that her face turned a deep, burning crimson. She felt exposed, as if those red eyes could see right through her medical tunic to the shivering, lonely girl beneath.

  "What's your name, Doctor?" he asked, his voice dropping to a confidential silkiness.

  "Zarina... Your Highness," she whispered, her head dropping in instinctive shyness. The weight of his status was a mountain she couldn't climb.

  Khalid raised an eyebrow, his expression sharpening into something more intense. "Your Highness?"

  Panic flared in her. She realized she had given away her discovery. She shivered under his gaze, her hands twisting in the fabric of her coat. "Your eyes... they were irritated by the lenses. I didn't mean to pry, I—"

  Khalid didn't let her finish. He swung his muscular legs off the bed and stood. He was much taller than he had seemed lying down, a tower of masculine authority. Zarina backed away instinctively until her spine hit the cold, unyielding stone wall of the cabin. She was trapped. She looked up, helpless and breathing heavy, as he moved into her personal space, his chest nearly brushing her own. He leaned in, his face inches from hers.

  "Then a little secret is between us," he murmured, his eyes locking onto hers.

  "Yes, Your Highness," she blushed, her voice barely audible. He leaned in, his face so close she could feel the heat of his skin. "Drop the 'Highness' part" he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that made her knees buckle. "Someone who has touched me as closely as you have should not use such formal terms. I will meet you again, Doctor. I promise."

  He turned to leave, his movements sharp and decisive, but a sudden, desperate fear broke through her shyness. The thought of him walking back into the war-torn peaks, back into the path of the Mallick executioners, was unbearable.

  "Please!" she cried out, her voice cracking. "Do not meet me here. I don't want you to get hurt again."

  Khalid stopped at the door and laughed—a genuine, dark, and melodic sound. "Oh? Is there someone who cares for me that much?" He stepped back toward her, pinning her with a look that made her knees tremble. He leaned his mouth close to her ear, his warm breath sending a fresh jolt of electricity through her. "Is this care only for me, or for everyone? I hope it is only for me, and no one else."

  Zarina’s ears turned crimson. The possessiveness in his voice was a drug she hadn't known she needed. She couldn't find the words to reply; she could only stare at him, her lips parted in silent shock. Khalid’s eyes then drifted to her golden hair, his gaze lingering on the smooth, unbraided locks around her ears.

  "Did you get married before? Or have someone?" he asked, his voice suddenly grave.

  "No. Never," she blurted out, the truth spilling out of her before she could censor it.

  Khalid smiled—a slow, triumphant curve of the lips. "Good."

  As he reached for the door handle, she remembered the small silver discs sitting on the tray. "Wait! Your lenses! You can't go out with your eyes like that."

  "Oh, thank you. You're right. Without them, there is a little trouble outside," he said, turning back. He didn't just take the lenses; he reached out and took her hand in his. His skin was burning hot, his grip firm. He lifted her hand and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers.

  Zarina’s mind went completely blank. Her senses were overwhelmed by the touch, a Human who had just marked her as his own. By the time she regained her bearings, her heart hammering a frantic "Oh, shit..." against her ribs, the door was clicking shut. Khalid was gone.

  She left the clinic early that day, the crushing, leaden weight of her depression momentarily lifted by a manic, terrifying joy. She soared through the monsoon back to her room, the wind no longer feeling cold. Back in her small, messy apartment, she rolled on her bed, her mind spinning through every impossible possibility.

  She was thirty-two; he was twenty-six. She was six years his senior—older even than her own sister, who already had a family. The insecurity gnawed at her, a sharp reminder of the years she had wasted in the dark. But it was eclipsed by a desperate, blooming hope. If he took her—not as a wife, perhaps, but as a concubine, a secret lover of the House Ghazzawi—it would be more than she had ever dreamed of in her loneliest nights. For the first time in years, the "What If" scenarios in her head were no longer about the boys of her past, but about a future with a King who had seen her, touched her, and promised to return.