Princess

The night the hammam, the palace slept under a sky heavy with stars, but Princess Mihrimah—Abdülhamid’s younger sister—did not.

She had watched everything from behind the filigreed screen of the upper gallery. The way Natasha’s back arched like a drawn bow. The way Leyla’s thighs trembled around that red-haired mouth. The way both women came apart like silk tearing under a blade.

Mihrimah was twenty-five, unmarried by choice, and dangerous. They called her “the Sultan’s shadow” because wherever he went, her spies followed. She wore men’s riding boots beneath her feraces and kept a curved dagger strapped to her thigh. No one touched her. No one dared.

Until tonight.

She waited until the muezzin’s call faded, then sent her mute **** with a single jasmine flower and a note sealed in gold wax:

Come to the Moon Pavilion.

Leave the girl. Bring only your tongue.

Natasha came.

The pavilion floated on a marble island in the middle of the palace lake, reachable only by a narrow bridge of moonlight. Mihrimah stood at the entrance barefoot, dressed in nothing but a sleeveless robe of silver tissue that clung to every line of her body. Her hair—black as a raven’s wing—fell to her hips. Her eyes were green, exactly like Natasha’s, but colder. Royal.

“You killed my brother’s war plans,” she said without greeting. “Now I want to know what else that mouth can kill.”

Natasha stepped inside. The doors closed behind her with a sound like a coffin lid.

Mihrimah didn’t waste time. She pushed Natasha against a pillar of lapis lazuli, kissed her hard enough to draw blood. Their teeth clashed; tongues fought like swords. Natasha tasted coffee and attar of roses and pure, royal arrogance.

Mihrimah ripped Natasha’s caftan open with both hands. Buttons flew like startled birds. She bit down on Natasha’s collarbone, marking her, then lower—teeth closing over one nipple, pulling until Natasha hissed.

“You think you’re the only one trained to kill with pleasure?” Mihrimah whispered against wet skin. “I was taught by Circassian women who could make a man die happy before he realized he was dead.”

She dropped to her knees, shoved Natasha’s legs apart, and buried her face between them without warning. Natasha’s head cracked back against the pillar as Mihrimah’s tongue speared inside her—hot, merciless, royal. Two fingers joined, curling, scissoring, while her thumb pressed hard on Natasha’s clit in tight, ruthless circles.

Natasha came in less than a minute, thighs shaking so violently Mihrimah had to hold her up. But the princess wasn’t finished. She stood, licked Natasha’s release from her lips, and smiled like a wolf.

“My turn.”

She pushed Natasha down onto the silk divan, straddled her face, and lowered herself slowly—watching Natasha’s eyes the entire time. The scent of her was intoxicating: jasmine, musk, power. Natasha’s tongue found her instantly, sliding through slick folds, circling the swollen bud that pulsed under her mouth. Mihrimah rode her face without shame—hips rolling, fingers tangled in red hair, pulling hard enough to hurt.

“Deeper,” she commanded in Turkish, then in Russian—because she knew exactly who Natasha was.

Natasha obeyed. She fucked the Sultan’s sister with her tongue the way she had once fucked enemies with poison: slow, then fast, then merciless. She sucked Mihrimah’s clit between her lips and hummed—low, deadly vibration. Mihrimah’s thighs clamped around her head; her back bowed like a bridge about to collapse.

When she came, it was with a guttural cry that belonged to battlefields, not bedrooms. Her release flooded Natasha’s mouth, hot and endless. She stayed there, grinding through the aftershocks, until Natasha’s face was soaked and shining.

Then Mihrimah slid down, chest to chest, heartbeats hammering against each other.

“You’re mine now,” she whispered, biting Natasha’s lower lip. “Not Catherine’s. Not the harem’s. Mine.”

Natasha laughed—soft, dangerous.

“Princess,” she said, rolling them over so suddenly Mihrimah was beneath her, wrists pinned above her head, “I don’t belong to anyone.”

She reached between Mihrimah’s legs, found her still dripping, and pushed three fingers deep inside without warning. Mihrimah’s eyes flew wide; her hips bucked involuntarily.

“Not even,” Natasha continued, curling her fingers, pressing that spot that made the princess see stars, “to the sister of a Sultan.”

She fucked her slowly this time—long, dragging strokes that had Mihrimah begging in three languages. When she added her thumb to Mihrimah’s clit and her mouth to a dark, perfect nipple, the princess shattered again, screaming Natasha’s real name into the night.

Afterward they lay tangled on the ruined divan, moonlight painting silver across sweat-slick skin.

Mihrimah traced the scar on Natasha’s ribs—the one Ivan had left.

“I could keep you here,” she murmured. “In a golden cage inside my cage.”

Natasha kissed her, slow and deep.

“You’d have to catch me first.”

She rose, naked and glorious, walked to the edge of the pavilion, and dove into the black water. By the time Mihrimah reached the railing, there was only a ripple and the faint scent of jasmine on the wind.

Three days later, the Sultan’s fleet burned in its docks.

No one ever proved who poured the Greek fire.

But in the harem, they still whisper that on certain moonless nights, Princess Mihrimah wakes with bruises on her thighs shaped like fingerprints, and a taste on her tongue like Siberian snow and Georgian honey.

And somewhere beyond the Bosphorus, a woman with red hair and green eyes smiles, touches her lips, and remembers the night she made royalty beg.