Under the turquoise dome

In the heart of a Ramadan night, when Topkapı Palace had sunk into thick silence and only the sound of water in the marble fountains could be heard, Natasha slipped past the golden curtains of the private hammam. The air was heavy with steam of rosewater and amber; droplets slid like pearls over bare [skin.

At the far end of the bath, beneath the turquoise dome, sat Leyla—the new concubine of the harem. Her skin the color of fresh honey, her hair cascading to her waist, black as a starless night. Almond eyes, dark and full of secrets. The Sultan had not yet taken her to his bed; they still called her the “Crimson Virgin.”

Natasha approached without a sound. Her foot slipped on the wet marble, but Leyla lifted her head and smiled—as if she had known all along who was coming.

“You’re that Georgian dancer everyone whispers about?”

Her voice was like pomegranate syrup—sweet and warm.

Natasha only nodded. The silk towel fell from her shoulder; her body gleamed beneath the torchlight: small, firm breasts, narrow waist, hips sculpted by years of training in ****.

Leyla reached out. Her fingers glided over Natasha’s breast, caught the nipple, rolled it slowly. Natasha’s breath hitched; for the first time, someone touched her not to kill, but to want.

“I’m afraid,” Leyla whispered, but her eyes begged more.

Natasha bent down, pressed her lips to Leyla’s. A soft kiss, then deep—like trying to swallow fifteen years of hunger in one gulp. Leyla’s tongue was warm, playful; Natasha tasted clove and cinnamon.

Natasha’s hands traveled lower—over the flat stomach, then between Leyla’s thighs. Leyla trembled, but parted her legs. Natasha’s fingers slipped inside—wet, burning, like a secret spring in the winter of the harem.

Leyla moaned; the sound echoed off the dome. Natasha circled the swollen bud with her thumb while two fingers moved in and out. Leyla arched her back, pressed her breasts against Natasha’s; their nipples rubbed together like two swords in love.

“More… please…” Leyla begged.

Natasha lifted her onto the edge of the pool, knelt, and buried her face between Leyla’s thighs. Her tongue—black serpent of ****—now danced for life, swirling over Leyla’s clit. Leyla clutched Natasha’s red hair, pulled hard, her body shaking like a broken bow. She came with a scream that dissolved in the steam; her release poured over Natasha’s tongue, warm and sweet.

Natasha rose, lips glistening. Leyla pulled her down on top of her. Now it was her turn. Her fingers fluttered like butterflies over Natasha’s body—breasts, stomach, inner thighs… then her tongue found the place no man had ever seen. Natasha lost control for the first time in her life; her legs locked around Leyla’s head, hips rising, and with a cry that came from the depths of Siberia, she shattered. Waves of white-hot pleasure swallowed her whole.

Minutes later they lay entwined, steam swirling around them. Leyla traced the old scar on Natasha’s ribs.

“Who gave you this wound?”

Natasha gave a bitter smile. “Someone I loved.”

Leyla pressed her forehead to Natasha’s. “Now I’m here.”

Natasha closed her eyes. For the first time in fifteen years, she felt the cage break.

But in the dark corner of the hammam, a shadow moved. One of the black eunuchs had seen everything.

Tomorrow morning, the Valide Sultan would know.

That night, Natasha slept in Istanbul for the first and last time—in the arms of a woman who could have been her love, or her ****.

Both.