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“To you, I will be a mistress,” she replied, the word twisting inside her. “And Emir will be humiliated, reduced to living off the charity of his sister’s lover. No, I want a better life for him than that.”

Gideon ran his hands through his hair, clearly searching for an argument that might change her mind. “Then at least take some money,” he said finally. “I can write you a bank draft, something to ensure you’re comfortable while you reestablish yourselves—”

“I can’t accept that,” Leila said immediately.

“Not for you,” he pressed, desperation creeping into his voice. “For Emir. He’s been through hell. Take just enough to keep him comfortable while you search for a way to make an honest living. Don’t let pride prevent you from giving him what he needs.”

Leila shook her head. “We can manage on our own. I need to show him that.”

“Fine,” Gideon said, his voice taking on a harder edge. “Not from me, then. But from Townsend’s stash—you earned that money. You suffered for it, bled for it. It’s rightfully yours.”

“Dirty blood money?” Leila’s voice carried a note of disgust. “Money earned through murder, betrayal, and the suffering of innocents? No, thank you.”

“What will you accept, then?” he asked quietly. “There must be something—some way I can help you.”

Leila was loath to accept his help, but she knew she needed it regardless. “Two passages back to Smyrna,” she said just above a whisper. “Some clothes suitable for the journey.” She paused, then added with painful honesty, “And a kiss.”

Gideon moved before she finished the sentence, crossing the room in quick strides to cup her face in his hands. When his lips met hers, it was with a desperation she hadn’t felt from him before.

The kiss was long and passionate, his mouth exploring hers as if trying to memorize every sensation, every taste, every corner of her mouth. His hands roamed her body with the reverent touch of a man saying goodbye, tracing the curves he would never touch again, the skin he would never kiss.

When he moved to break the kiss, she clutched at his shoulders, her fingers digging into the fine linen of his shirt. “No,” she whispered against his mouth. “Not yet.”

Something snapped within him.

He growled low in his throat and slammed her back against the door with enough force to rattle it in its frame. The impact was biting yet pleasant. Leila relished his weight pinning her against the door.

His mouth found hers again—biting, devouring, bruising. She answered him with the same urgency, kiss for kiss, bite for bite.

His hands roamed her body, touching her breasts, her waist, then moving lower until he cupped her through the fabric of her şalvar. She arched into him, grinding her hips against his touch, her hands pulling at his shirt.

With a growl of frustration, Gideon ripped her şalvar down the middle with a loud tear, seams splitting beneath his fingers until the fabric hung in tattered strips around her legs. Leila whimpered.

He yanked down the waistband of his trousers, freeing himself, while his other hand snaked back to settle between her thighs. He found her slick and ready for him, and the sound he made was guttural, almost broken.

She gasped as he lifted her easily, pinning her hips between the hard door and his body. Her legs wrapped around him instinctively, and then—without warning—he thrust into her with a force that made them both cry out.

He was large and hot, filling her pleasantly just where she needed him. Where she had needed him all her life.

She dug her nails into his shoulders, moaning as he drove into her over and over, fast and deep and desperate for more.

“Yes, Gideon, more,” Leila urged him on, taking each of his thrusts with breathless moans. He stretched her just right, hitting that spot just above her center with every contact that made pleasure pool low in her belly.

He gripped her thighs hard enough to bruise, his hips slamming into hers as if he could bury himself so deep he’d never have to let her go. And all Leila wanted was more of him. More. Harder. Faster.

The door shook behind them with every thrust, the wood creaking in protest.

Their mouths met again and again, not kissing now but clashing—teeth, tongue, breath, tears. Her cries were swallowed by his mouth, his groans muffled by the curve of her shoulder. Hands clawed over skin, memorizing every inch, every shiver, every scar and softness as if touch alone could make the moment eternal.

She came first, writhing against him, her body pulsing around his with blinding intensity. Her nails dug into his back, her cries sharp and helpless as her climax tore through her. He followed seconds later, slamming into her one last time, spilling into her with a hoarse groan.

They stayed like that—pressed together, panting, shaking, still joined.

His forehead rested against hers, both of them soaked in sweat, hearts pounding as one.

He cupped her face and placed a slow, reverent kiss on her lips.

Then, gently and unhurriedly, he pulled out and set her down, her legs trembling as they touched the floor. His hands lingered at her waist for a moment longer, fingers brushing her skin in a final, reluctant caress.