Murtasim paced the length of his private chamber, his jaw clenched and thoughts churning. His gaze fell on the entrance to Meerab's wing of the palace, the place he had ordered to be fortified with guards, ensuring her every move was within his control. But tonight, the mere thought of keeping her locked away, of imposing his power upon her, stirred an unease he hadn't felt before. What was this sudden feeling in his chest, this gnawing need that went beyond conquest, beyond possession?
Murtasim shook his head, unwilling to label the strange, unsettling emotions that had begun to claw their way into his heart. For a man like him-raised to be ruthless, merciless, and without weakness-this vulnerability felt foreign. He, who had stormed kingdoms and crushed rebellion with his bare hands, was beginning to feel...concerned. And all for a woman who refused to yield, who met his every advance with cold silence, her gaze as icy as a winter storm.
It had started as desire-a primal, possessive need to claim her, to make her submit. But now... now, he found himself watching her in moments she wasn't aware of. He found himself haunted by the curve of her lips, the defiance in her gaze, the way she moved with a quiet grace that was somehow louder than a scream. She haunted him.
For the first time in his life, Murtasim realized he wanted more than obedience. He wanted her to look at him without that cold indifference. He wanted her to see him-not as the conqueror, but as... something more. And he was willing to do whatever it took to make her feel something, anything, other than hatred.
---
The next morning, Murtasim stood at the edge of the garden, watching as Meerab, with her soft yet determined steps, wandered through the roses. She didn't know he was watching her from afar, and for a moment, he allowed himself to admire her in silence. The sun cast a warm glow on her face, illuminating her features, and he was struck by how incredibly... ethereal she looked, almost untouchable.
Gathering his resolve, he decided on a simple gesture. The thought of offering her flowers felt foolish, almost trivial, but it was a start. He plucked a rose from a nearby bush, its rich red petals delicate in his calloused hands, and approached her.
She noticed him immediately, her expression shuttering as she straightened. Her gaze was wary, guarded, as if preparing for yet another confrontation. But he forced himself to soften his gaze, to let his own defenses down, just a bit.
He held out the rose, a hesitant smile playing on his lips. "For you."
She looked at the rose, then at him, and back at the rose. Without a word, she turned away, leaving him standing there, his hand still extended, the rose dangling between his fingers. The sting of rejection, sharper than he expected, settled into his chest, and he bit back a curse.
"Meerab," he called, his voice low and strained. She paused, but didn't turn to face him. "I only wish to make things... easier between us."
"Easier?" she echoed, her tone carrying a hint of sarcasm as she finally turned, her gaze as sharp as steel. "You think a flower will change anything, Murtasim? That a rose can make up for what you've taken from me?"
His jaw tightened, but he forced himself to remain calm. "I don't expect forgiveness, Meerab. I know I've wronged you. But I wish to... bridge the distance between us."
She looked at him, and for a moment he thought he saw something soften in her gaze. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced once more by that cold indifference that made his chest ache.
"Distance?" she repeated, her voice soft, almost mocking. "Murtasim, the only distance I seek is the one that takes me as far away from you as possible."
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving him standing there, the rose forgotten in his hand, his heart heavy with the realization that his charm, his power-none of it meant anything to her.
---
Over the next few days, Murtasim made subtle attempts to bridge the gap between them. He ensured her meals were prepared with the utmost care, each dish meticulously crafted to her taste. He arranged for her to have access to the palace's vast library, hoping she might find some small comfort there. He even refrained from imposing his presence, allowing her a degree of freedom he granted to no one else.
But each gesture was met with silence, each attempt at kindness ignored. Meerab was like a walled fortress, and every time he thought he had found a way in, she would only reinforce her defenses, retreating further and further behind her cold, unyielding facade.
One evening, he found her seated in the library, her gaze fixed on the pages of a book she wasn't truly reading. He stepped into the room, his footsteps careful, his presence gentle. She didn't acknowledge him, didn't even look up, but he could feel the tension in the air, the unspoken battle of wills between them.
"Meerab," he said softly, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice, "I had something prepared for you. A dinner. Just the two of us."
She finally looked up, her eyes filled with an emotion he couldn't quite place. "Is this a command, Murtasim? Because if it is, I will come. But if you expect me to enjoy it, then you will be disappointed."
His heart clenched at her words, but he forced himself to remain calm. "It's not a command. It's an invitation."
She closed her book, her gaze steady as she looked at him. "Then I decline."
The rejection hit harder than he anticipated, a dull ache settling in his chest. But he wasn't ready to give up. Not yet.
"Meerab, please," he murmured, his voice soft, almost vulnerable. "I only wish to spend time with you. To... to show you that I'm more than the man who took you captive."
She looked at him, her gaze piercing, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw a flicker of understanding. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him standing there, exposed, vulnerable, and utterly defeated.
Without another word, she rose from her seat and walked past him, leaving him alone in the library, the weight of her indifference pressing down on him like a leaden shroud.
---
As the night deepened, Murtasim found himself standing in the garden once more, staring up at the sky, lost in thought. The stars seemed indifferent to his turmoil, their cold, distant light a reminder of the isolation that now gnawed at his heart.
A sound behind him drew his attention, and he turned to see Meerab standing there, her expression unreadable. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words.
"Why do you care, Murtasim?" she asked, her voice soft, almost vulnerable. "Why do you care if I like you or not?"
He hesitated, his gaze dropping as he struggled to find the words. "Because... because I don't want you to hate me."
She laughed, a soft, bitter sound that cut through the night like a knife. "Then you should have thought of that before you took everything from me."
He flinched at her words, the weight of her accusation settling heavily on his shoulders. "I know. And if I could change things, I would. But... but I can't. All I can do is try to make things right now."
She shook her head, her gaze filled with a mixture of pity and disdain. "There is no 'making things right,' Murtasim. What you've done cannot be undone."
He took a step forward, his hand reaching out to touch her, but she pulled back, her expression hardening. The rejection stung, but he forced himself to stay calm, to keep his emotions in check.
"Then let me at least try," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Let me try to show you that I'm not the monster you think I am."
She looked at him, her gaze filled with a sadness that cut deeper than any sword. "Murtasim, you may not see yourself as a monster. But to me, you will always be the man who destroyed my life. And no amount of roses or dinners will ever change that."
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving him standing there, his heart heavy with the weight of her words.
