Mortals confuse love with softness. They dress it up in roses and silk, whisper it under moonlight as if vows could cage a wildfire. Sweet. Harmless. Almost pathetic. But I am not mortal. I am Mehen—god, breaker of kingdoms, chaos in flesh. For me, love is not a lullaby; it is war. It is possession. It is fire that eats through galaxies until even the stars choke on ash. And Ra? She is the blaze I will never stop walking into.

I did not fall in love with her. Gods don’t fall—we don’t trip into anything. We choose, we claim, we devour. Except Ra was different. I collided with her. I unraveled in her. She stripped me down until the storm had nothing left to hide behind. Call it obsession if you want. Call it madness. I call it truth. The cosmos wrote her into my bones, and I would sooner burn the heavens than unwrite her.

And yet the universe, ever amused, tosses me rivals like I’m playing some cosmic game. Erik, the wolf. Noble, loyal, endlessly brooding. He bleeds like poetry, sacrifices like it’s a profession, loves like he’s building a shrine. Admirable. Predictable. Dull. Erik is the type mortals tell stories about—how he crossed galaxies for her, died for her, bled for her. And still, none of it matters. Because shrines are for worship, and Ra was never meant to be worshipped. She was meant to be consumed.

Then there’s Tyler, the envoy, the vampire. Golden-boy smile with Scorpio sting just beneath. He hides his hunger in sarcasm, buries his heartbreak in wit, covers his rage with humor. He is fire disguised as charm, rebellion wrapped in smirk. He would burn his own soul to prove he could. And I almost respect it. Almost. But admiration is not mercy, and his rebellion is still only mortal fire. My fire is eternal. My fire is her eternity.

They think they are my rivals. It amuses me. Wolves snarl. Vampires smirk. But gods? Gods do not compete. We don’t play games. We don’t beg. We claim. And Ra is mine. Not because she is my wife, not because she shares my bed, not because I have built empires in her name. She is mine because when she looks at me—really looks—she sees Mehen, not the god, not the chaos, but the man. That is something neither wolf nor envoy can touch. They orbit her. I consume her. They admire her. I become her.

Erik with his clenched jaw, his noble threats. “If you hurt her, I’ll rip your throat out.” Sweet. Foolish. I laughed. “If you touch her, I’ll rip out your eternity.” He talks of protection, as if she is fragile glass. She is not. She is fire, storm, sword. She doesn’t need protecting—she needs someone who will burn with her, not shield her from the heat.

Tyler is worse. Always with the quips, the casual defiance. “Obsession burns out eventually, Mehen. Flames fade.” Poor boy. He doesn’t understand. Flames fade because they are sparks. I am not spark—I am furnace. I am fire that devours until only devotion remains. When he smirks at me with that cocky vampire grin, I see the hunger he’s too afraid to voice. And I want to laugh, because while he calculates how to steal a piece of her, I already own the pieces he can’t even touch.

Do you want to know why I can never let go? Because I have had lovers before. Queens who begged for eternity. Empresses who slit their own throats for the honor of my touch. Mortals and immortals who drowned themselves in my shadow. None of them mattered. None of them stayed. They bent, they broke, they melted under my roar. But Ra? She never bent. She never cowered. She looked me in the face, unflinching, and roared back. She is the first and only one to tell me no—and make me crave it.

And so obsession is not a choice. It is destiny. I did not choose Ra. The universe carved her into my fate and dared me to resist. And I am no coward.

Mortals talk about sharing. About polyamory, soul bonds, cosmic triangles. How sweet. How democratic. But I am not mortal, and I do not share. Erik will always be her wolf. Tyler will always be her flame. But I am her god. The one who bends fate, rewrites prophecy, burns worlds. They can chase her across lifetimes. I will chain eternity itself if I must. Call it selfish. Call it cruel. I call it divine right.

Obsession in mortal hands is pathetic. It clings. It weeps. In godly hands? Obsession remakes creation. My love is not roses. My love is galaxies collapsing under her name. My love is every atom vibrating until even time itself remembers her. This is why Erik will never win. This is why Tyler will always lose. Because they love her as men. I love her as god.

So let them scheme. Let Erik sharpen his claws, let Tyler sharpen his wit. Let them rage. Let Ra waver. None of it matters. Because when all is burned away, when loyalty dies and rebellion falters, only one truth will remain:

Erik is her anchor.

 Tyler is her rebellion.

 But I am her forever.

And gods don’t ask for forever. We take it.