I do not compete.

That is the first thing humans misunderstand about gods.

Competition implies uncertainty. It implies scarcity. It implies that something essential might be taken from me if I am not vigilant.

I am vigilant.

 I am not uncertain.

Ra stands with them—men, pets, histories stacked like furniture around a woman who has never belonged to a room. She wears gold the way some people wear skin, as if ornament is simply another language for power. Burgundy braids frame a face that knows exactly how much gravity it carries and refuses to apologize for it.

She laughs.

That laugh is a blade.

Not because it’s cruel—because it’s aware. Because she knows I’m here and chooses pleasure anyway. Because she enjoys the friction of being observed without being claimed.

She always has.

Tyler is pretending to be relaxed. I can smell the violence in him like ozone. Erik is standing still, spine disciplined, loyalty tightened into a suit that doesn’t quite fit his pulse anymore. Lion watches like a blade in a sheath, restless, insulted by the concept of patience.

They all believe they are present.

I am inevitable.

I let the shadows take me the way a king lets a rumor spread. I do not touch her. Touch is for people who need confirmation. I let my attention do the work. Attention is heavier than hands when you know how to apply it.

Ra’s breath pauses.

There it is.

That fractional stillness—muscle memory from lifetimes where gods were not theoretical, and desire was not negotiated through politeness. She does not turn. She doesn’t have to. Her body recognizes the pressure like a long-forgotten language clicking back into place.

Good.

I am not here to take her.

I am here to remind her what cannot be erased.

Humans mistake restraint for mercy. It is not mercy. It is craftsmanship. I wait because waiting sharpens her awareness. I wait because she enjoys the tension the way some people enjoy music—subtly, deeply, without asking permission.

She lifts her chin.

Daring the dark.

I smile where she cannot see it.

They think devotion looks like loyalty. They think it looks like waiting in line, like patience that asks for reward. Devotion does not ask. Devotion assumes.

I have watched civilizations rise and collapse in the time it takes her pulse to betray her. I have seen desire rot when it rushes. I have seen power turn cheap when it begs.

I will not beg.

I want the moment her discipline fractures—not because I force it, but because she stops pretending it was ever whole. I want the second she admits that being watched feels like being known. That being desired without apology feels like home.

She told me Erik and Tyler cannot be barred or harmed.

I agreed.

Not because they matter.

Because she asked.

Gods understand hierarchy. I understand hers.

Lion shifts, restless. He resents my patience. He mistakes it for weakness. Let him. Hunger always outs itself eventually.

Ra smiles at something—polite, distant—and I feel the echo of it under my skin like a promise. When I finally close the distance, it will not be gentle. It will not be polite. It will not ask her to be anything other than honest.

She will smile when I take my fill of her attention.

Not because she’s afraid.

Because she likes being wanted with teeth.

Let them hover.

 Let them protect.

 Let them pretend proximity equals claim.

She was never meant to be kept.

She was meant to be devoured in devotion.

And she knows it.