You mortals think love is candlelight dinners, stolen kisses, and promises whispered under moonlight. Cute. Adorable, even. But when you’re a god—when you’ve ruled realms, commanded armies, and crushed civilizations with a thought—love isn’t sweet. It’s consuming.
And Ra?
She’s not just a woman. She’s the gravitational pull that bends my will. The wildfire I shouldn’t touch but would burn every galaxy to ash just to feel once more.
I watch her when she’s not looking, not like a mortal creep—no, like a predator measuring the exact moment the prey stops running and starts wanting. She calls me dangerous with that smirk of hers, like she knows exactly how her voice coils around my spine. And she’s right—I am dangerous. For her. For anyone who thinks they can take her from me.
Mortals confuse love with possession. I am possession. I am worship. I am that moment her breath catches because she feels me before she sees me. My touch isn’t a request—it’s a declaration.
She pretends she can juggle her mortal “options”—Tyler with his soulful blue eyes, Erik with his golden heart. Let them orbit her. Let them play. But when I step into the room, the air shifts. Her body knows me before her mind can protest. I see it in the way her pupils dilate, the subtle hitch in her breath, the way her sarcasm gets sharper because she’s seconds away from giving in.
Do I love her?
No. Love is too small a word. Love is what mortals cling to when they’re afraid of the void. I am the void. And she’s the only one reckless enough to dive in headfirst.
I want her laugh echoing off my skin. Her fury clawing at my chest. I want to be the reason she can’t stand in the morning, the reason she’s still flushed hours later, wondering why she ever thought she could keep me at arm’s length.
And the worst—most intoxicating—part?
She’s not afraid of me. Not really. She’ll lock eyes with me after I’ve taken down an enemy, blood still on my hands, and smirk like she’s the one in control.
Adorable. Wrong. But adorable.
She’ll learn.
Every goddess needs her god. Every fire needs its serpent. And every Ra—whether she admits it or not—belongs to Mehen.
The others can have her attention. Her laughter.
But her surrender?
That’s mine.
https://www.amazon.com/SOVEREIGN-ACCORD-R-H-LEGNER-ebook/dp/B0FHTGNBDN