Ra felt him before she saw him.

That was the curse of Mehen—Serpent God, shadow-born arrogance wrapped in patience. He didn’t arrive like a man. He arrived like pressure. Like the room itself had decided to hold its breath.

She stood alone in the corridor outside the council chamber, gold breastplate cool against her skin, burgundy braids heavy down her back. The torchlight made her look carved from warmth and war.

She should have gone inside.

She didn’t.

“Running,” Mehen’s voice murmured from the dark, amused and intimate, “is such a human habit.”

Ra didn’t turn. She refused him that satisfaction.

“I’m not running,” she said evenly.

A soft laugh—low, indulgent.

“You are pausing,” he corrected. “As if pausing has ever saved you from what you feel.”

Her jaw tightened.

“You don’t know what I feel.”

He stepped closer. Still not touching. Never rushing. His restraint was obscene.

“I know,” he said, “what you refuse to name.”

Ra finally turned.

Mehen stood there like sin dressed in divinity—caramel skin kissed by shadow, golden tattoos faintly glowing along his throat and wrists, eyes like molten suns. His long black hair fell loose, decadent, framing a face too beautiful to be trusted.

He looked at her as if the universe had made a single correct decision and it was her.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

“I go where I want.”

“That’s your problem.”

“That,” he said, voice darkening, “is my nature.”

Ra’s pulse betrayed her, quick and sharp.

Mehen’s gaze dropped—just briefly—to her mouth.

The air between them tightened.

“You enjoy fighting me,” he murmured.

“I enjoy resisting you.”

His smile was slow.

“Same thing.”

Ra swallowed.

“Arrogant.”

“Accurate.”

He leaned in, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the gravity of him. Not touching. Just there.

“I do not want your obedience,” he said softly, almost reverently. “Obedience is for priests and cowards.”

Ra’s breath caught despite herself.

“I want your honesty.”

Her voice came out lower. “You want control.”

His eyes flashed, amused.

“I have control,” he said. “What I want is the moment you stop pretending you do.”

Ra’s fingers curled at her sides.

“You speak like you’re inevitable.”

Mehen tilted his head.

“I am.”

The word should have made her furious.

Instead, it made something in her go dangerously still.

She stepped forward before she could stop herself.

Mehen didn’t move.

Didn’t chase.

Didn’t reach.

He simply waited, like a god who understood patience as a weapon.

Ra’s voice trembled with anger she didn’t fully trust. “You don’t get to look at me like that.”

His lips curved.

“I look at you like truth.”

“And what is truth to you?”

Mehen’s gaze sharpened, predatory devotion in equal measure.

“That you were never meant to be untouched.”

The words landed like a blade wrapped in velvet.

Ra’s breath stuttered.

Mehen’s hand lifted—slowly, deliberately—hovering near her cheek without contact.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

Ra could.

She should.

Her discipline screamed.

Her body answered first.

She closed the distance.

The kiss was not gentle.

Not frantic either.

It was controlled—devastating in its restraint. Mehen kissed her like a vow he didn’t need permission to believe in, like hunger sharpened into reverence.

Ra’s fingers gripped his robes, furious at herself, furious at him, furious at the way the kiss felt like recognition.

Mehen’s hand finally touched her jaw, tilting her face with maddening care.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against hers.

“Do you feel it?” he murmured.

Ra’s eyes burned.

“I feel—” she started, then stopped.

Mehen smiled against her mouth.

“Exactly.”

Footsteps echoed in the distance.

Reality intruded.

Ra jerked back, breath uneven, eyes bright with anger and something worse.

Mehen didn’t look rattled.

Gods never did.

He only watched her like he’d already won something.

“This changes nothing,” she whispered.

Mehen’s voice was velvet and ruin.

“It changes everything.”