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„Du warst so ein braves Mädchen. Jetzt komm.“ Er hat nie nach Bildern gefragt. Hat mir nie seinen Namen gesagt. Er hat mir einfach nur gesagt, was ich tun soll—wie ich mich berühren soll, wann ich aufhören soll, wie ich atmen soll. Und ich habe zugehört. Jedes einzelne Mal 😮‍💨. Ich sollte doch klug sein. Kontrolliert. Perfekt. Aber unter seinem Befehl war ich nichts als Verlangen und Hitze und Bedürfnis. Er ließ mich mich sicher fühlen im Loslassen. Bis zu dem Tag, an dem ich meinen bewerteten Ordner öffnete und mein Höschen zwischen den Seiten fand… und aufsah, nur um meinen Professor dabei zu erwischen, wie er mir zusah, während ich zerbrach 🔥. Kapitel 1 [Sichtweise Sophie] „Ahh…“ Das Geräusch entweicht meinen Lippen, bevor ich es zurückhalten kann. Ein Stöhnen. Sanft. Getimt. Abgemessen. Fast wie ein Reflex. Nicht, weil ich etwas fühle. Nicht, weil ich es will. Sondern, weil ich es soll. Ethans Gewicht drückt auf mich, seine Brust feucht an meiner, seine Stöße mechanisch wie ein Körper im Autopilot. Er beginnt immer langsam, als glaube er, es würde sich zu etwas aufbauen – tut es nie. Der Raum ist dunkel, aber ich halte die Augen offen, fixiere den Deckenventilator über uns, während er knarrend langsame Kreise dreht. Ich versuche, die Umdrehungen zu zählen. Alles, um mich zu erden. Ich denke nicht an Ethan. Ich denke an meinen Vibrator – den rosafarbenen, den ich in meiner Sockenschublade verstecke. Ich denke daran, wie es sich anfühlt, wenn ich es selbst mache. Wenn ich die Kontrolle habe. Wenn niemand über mir keucht, als würde er eine Stechuhr bedienen. Ethan stöhnt, tief und müde, und verlagert sein Gewicht. Missionarstellung. Immer Missionarstellung. Er versucht nie etwas anderes. Ich kenne diesen Rhythmus wie meine Westentasche. Quarterback-Rhythmus. Vorhersehbar. Alles Kraft, keine Finesse. Früher war er der Goldjunge unserer Highschool – Letterman-Jacke, Grübchenkinn, stolze Eltern auf den Tribünen. Und ich war wohl das kluge Mädchen, das an seinem Arm gut aussah. Wir sind seit der elften Klasse zusammen. Damals schien das genug. Gewollt werden. Ausgewählt werden. Aber jetzt? Jetzt liege ich reglos da, starre ausdruckslos, während er sein Ding macht, in dem Wissen, dass ich nicht kommen werde. Wieder einmal. Es ist seit Jahren so. Ich will schon seit einer Weile mit ihm Schluss machen, aber er ist so… vertraut. Seine Stimme, seine Hände, sogar der Geruch seines Parfums – irgendwas von Axe, immer ein bisschen zu stark. Ich hasse Veränderungen. Schon immer. Aber heute Nacht versuche ich es. Ich umfasse sein Kinn und spüre, wie sich dort Schweiß sammelt. „Schatz, kannst du... ein bisschen härter?“ flüstere ich. Er antwortet nicht. Bewegt sich einfach weiter, wie ein verdammtes Metronom. „Was, wenn wir...“ Ich winde mich unter ihm, winkle meine Hüften an, versuche, ihn zu lenken. „... es mal von hinten versuchen?“ Er hält inne. Nur für einen Moment. Dann, mit einem kurzen Schnauben: „Nein. Warum an etwas rütteln, das funktioniert?“ Mein Magen zieht sich zusammen. Funktioniert für wen? Ich beiße mir auf die Lippe, bemühe mich, nicht zu seufzen. „Klar. Ja.“ Ich versuche, die Stimme in meinem Kopf zum Schweigen zu bringen. Die, die ihn immer mit den Männern in den Büchern vergleicht, die ich heimlich unter der Bettdecke lese. Bücher, in denen das Mädchen gegen die Wand gedrückt wird, immer wieder heftig kommt und dabei seinen Namen keucht. Wo Kontrolle eine Waffe ist und Hingabe verdient werden muss. Ich sage mir, ich soll aufhören, diesen Mist zu lesen. Diese düsteren Liebesromane sind Fantasie. Fiktion. Sogar gefährlich. Aber Gott, wenigstens lassen sie mich etwas fühlen. Ich presse meine Hand gegen seine Brust, um ihn zu stabilisieren. Er grunzt, genervt. „Was jetzt?“ Ich zögere, bevor ich schließlich sage: „Was, wenn du... mich würgen würdest?“ Er hält inne. Eiskalt. „Also, nicht fest“, füge ich schnell hinzu, meine Stimme ganz klein. „Nur ein bisschen. Das ist so ein Ding. Manche machen das manchmal...“ Schweigen. Dann verzieht sich sein Gesicht vor Ekel. „Was zum Teufel stimmt nicht mit dir?“, sagt er scharf, zieht sich mit einem schmatzenden Geräusch aus mir zurück und rollt sich von meinem Körper, als wäre ich ansteckend. Ich blinzele ihn an, wie vor den Kopf geschlagen. Meine Hände tasten hektisch nach dem Laken, bedecken meine Brust, obwohl wir das schon hundertmal gemacht haben. „Ethan—“ „Du hast gerade echt die Stimmung gekillt“, sagt er und greift nach seinem Handy auf dem Nachttisch. „Willst du jetzt beim Sex misshandelt werden? Jesus, Soph.“ „Ich habe nicht ‚misshandelt‘ gesagt“, murmele ich. „Es ist... es ist nur so ein Kink, weißt du. Es ist nicht so—“ „Oh, also stehst du jetzt auf so abgefuckten Scheiß?“, unterbricht er mich und steht auf. „Was, willst du jetzt, dass ich dir ins Gesicht schlage? Dir in den Mund spucke? Soll ich dich gleich noch eine verdammte Schlampe nennen?“ Die Vorstellung, dass Ethan das wirklich mit mir macht, hat mich gerade feucht werden lassen. Scheiße. „Das habe ich nicht gemeint“, flüstere ich und schrumpfe in mich zusammen. Meine Wangen brennen. „Gott, deshalb schaue ich keinen Porno mit dir“, schneidet er mich ab und beginnt auf und ab zu gehen. „Du bekommst diese Ideen in deinen Kopf von TikTok oder irgendeinem billigen Schmuddelbuch, von dem du denkst, ich weiß nicht, dass du es liest, und plötzlich soll ich was—dich dominieren?“ „Ich...“ Ich klammere mich fester an das Laken. „Ich komme in letzter Zeit selten, Ethan. Ich dachte vielleicht—“ „Wow.“ Er wirbelt herum. „Also ist das jetzt meine Schuld?“ „Nein! Ich habe nicht—“ „Du hast Probleme“, fährt er mich an. „Vielleicht solltest du mal darüber nachdenken, warum du überhaupt auf so einen Scheiß stehst.“ Die Worte treffen wie Eiswasser. Ich sitze da, nackt und bloßgestellt, und sehe zu, wie er seine Boxershorts vom Boden aufhebt. Sein Rücken ist mir jetzt zugewandt, die Schultern angespannt, voller verletztem Stolz. „Ich stehe auf gar nichts“, sage ich, kaum hörbar. „Ich versuche nur herauszufinden, warum ich nichts fühle.“ Er erstarrt mitten im Schritt und seine Stimme wird gefährlich leise. „Nichts?“ Ich sollte zurückrudern. Mich entschuldigen. Es wieder gut machen wie immer. Aber irgendwas reißt in mir. „Nichts“, wiederhole ich, diesmal lauter. „Drei Jahre, Ethan. Die letzten verdammten drei Jahre habe ich es nur vorgetäuscht, weil du mich nie gefragt hast, ob es mir überhaupt Spaß macht.“ Langsam dreht er sich um. Sein Gesicht ist ein Sturm. „Also hast du mich die ganze Zeit belogen?“ „Hast du dich selbst belogen?“, schieße ich zurück und überrasche uns beide. „Hast du wirklich geglaubt, diese kleinen theatralischen Stöhner wären echt? Dass ich jedes Mal exakt nach zwei Minuten wie ein Uhrwerk komme?“ Sein Kiefer arbeitet. „Du benimmst dich wie eine Zicke.“ „Nein, ich bin ehrlich. Endlich.“ Ich stehe auf, halte immer noch das Laken fest. „Weißt du, woran ich denke, wenn wir Sex haben?“ Er antwortet nicht. „An meine Einkaufsliste. An meine Soziologie-Hausarbeit, die ich bis Montag abgeben muss. Ob ich das Glätteisen ausgemacht habe.“ Meine Stimme wird stärker. „An buchstäblich alles, außer an dich!“ „Fick dich, Sophie.“ „Hast du schon. Wie immer schlecht.“ Die Stille dehnt sich zwischen uns wie ein Abgrund. Er starrt mich an, als hätte ich einen zweiten Kopf bekommen. Als ob das Mädchen, das jahrelang nachgiebig und lieb war, plötzlich Fangzähne hätte. „Weißt du was?“, sagt er und zieht sich seine Jeans an. „Du hast recht. Das ist total beschissen. Wir sind total beschissen.“ „Endlich etwas, worin wir uns einig sind.“ Er schnappt sich mit scharfen, wütenden Bewegungen seine Schlüssel von meiner Kommode. „Ruf mich nicht an.“ „War auch nicht vor.“ Die Tür knallt so heftig zu, dass meine Bilderrahmen klirren. Wird sie jemals jemanden finden, der wirklich weiß, was sie will? 🤔 Lies Bitte härter, Professor, jetzt! 🔥

"We're both drunk. And your first time… Fuck, Adison… Your first time shouldn't be because I'm jealous and possessive and completely out of control." "What if that's exactly what I want?" "Adison," His voice cracked. "What are you—" "Showing you what I want." Third button. Fourth. "Since apparently words aren't working." The shirt fell open. Burgundy lace underneath—that bra I'd packed thinking I'd never have reason to wear it. Guess I'd been wrong about that. His eyes went dark. Pupils blown wide. Breath coming faster. I trailed my fingers down my stomach. Slid them under the hem of my skirt, and watched his control fracture in real-time. I let my nails scrape lightly over my skin, teasing, like I was just stretching—but we both knew better. My skirt was already bunched up around my thighs, and I caught the exact moment Jake’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. His veins popping like he was trying to strangle the damn thing instead of driving it. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice rough like gravel scraped raw. His jaw clenched, eyes darting to me for a split second before focusing back on the road. “You’re killing me…” “Good,” I purred, sliding my hand lower, between my legs. “Maybe you deserve it.” My thighs parted just enough to give him a glimpse, the barest flash of my lace panties, damp and clinging to me. He groaned, a sound so fucking primal it sent a shiver down my spine. I let my thighs fall open completely and my fingers dipped beneath the lace, brushing against my slick folds. I gasped softly, just loud enough for him to hear, and watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “Princess…” he hissed, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon.

“Does it bother you,” he asked, “when I touch someone else?” I had a girlfriend. He knew that 😔. And yet Blaze watched me like I already belonged to him. When I kissed her, it wasn’t desire—it was defiance. And he saw right through it 😡🔥. The jealousy in his eyes scared me… because part of me wanted it. Wanted him to care. Wanted him to fight for me the way no one ever has 🖤. I was supposed to be straight. Supposed to be normal. But nothing feels right when he’s near ❤️‍🔥. Chapter 1 Asher’s POV The transfer students file into the arena one by one, and I couldn't care less about any of them. My skates are already laced, my stick taped fresh this morning, and my mind locked on one thing only—the captain title I've been chasing for three goddamn years. Coach Wellington hinted that today's scrimmage would seal the deal. Three years of six AM practices, bloody knuckles, and muscles screaming for mercy. Three years of being the first one on the ice and the last one off. This is my moment, and nothing is going to take it from me. I stretch my shoulders, rolling the tension from my neck, when a laugh cuts through the noise. Not just any laugh. A laugh I'd recognize anywhere, even after all this time. My heart slams to a stop. I turn, and there he is. Blaze Wilson. Messy hair falling into warm brown eyes, that same easy confidence radiating off him in waves. Taller now, broader in the shoulders, but unmistakably him. The boy who learned to skate because I dragged him onto frozen ponds when we were ten. The boy who cried when his family announced they were moving across the country. "Promise me we'll meet on the same ice again someday." His hand was gripping mine so tight it hurted. "Promise me, Ash." I promised. I meant every word. For years, that promise fueled me through brutal mornings and aching muscles. Every time I wanted to quit, I remembered his face. I never imagined it would come true like this. Blaze walking into my arena, wearing my school's colors, grinning at me across the rink. "Ash! It’s you!" He closes the distance between us in long strides, and his face breaks into that smile I remember. The one that used to make everything feel okay. "Told you we'd end up here!" My chest floods with something warm and unfamiliar. My best friend is back. We're finally on the same team, same ice, same dream. "Blaze." His name feels strange on my tongue after so long. "I can't believe you're actually here. When did you… How—" "Transferred last week. Wanted to surprise you." He throws an arm around my shoulders, squeezing briefly. His grip is stronger than I remember. "Missed you, man. We've got a lot of catching up to do. You have no idea how long I've waited for this." I want to grab him, ask about everything I've missed, tell him how much those childhood memories carried me through lonely nights when hockey felt pointless. The words pile up in my throat, but before I can say anything, Coach Wellington's whistle pierces the air. "Alright, listen up!" His voice echoes through the arena, cutting through conversations. "Today's scrimmage determines your positions going forward. I need to see what you're made of. Everyone on the ice in five!" The transfer students scramble to gear up. Blaze squeezes my shoulder one more time before stepping back, that grin still plastered on his face. "See you out there, Ash. Try to keep up." I watch him go, something uneasy stirring in my gut. Try to keep up. What does that mean? He's competing for captain too? The scrimmage starts, and I throw myself into every play with everything I have. This is what I've trained for. Every drill, every sacrifice, every moment of pain—it all comes down to this. I push harder, faster, determined to prove I deserve that C on my jersey. Then I noticed Blaze. He moves across the ice with a fluidity that makes my stomach drop. Every pivot, every shot, every defensive read comes to him effortlessly. Naturally. The techniques I spent years mastering through blood and repetition, he executes without even trying. I steal the puck from a defender and drive toward the goal, legs pumping, vision tunneled on the net. But Blaze appears out of nowhere, checking me clean off my line with a hit that rattles my bones. The puck lands on his stick, and three seconds later, it's buried in the back of the net. "Nice try." He skates past me, close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne beneath the ice and sweat. He winks. "Almost had me there." My jaw tightens so hard my teeth ache. Almost. The story of my goddamn life. The scrimmage continues, and every minute makes it clearer. Blaze isn't just good—he's extraordinary. He reads the game three moves ahead, anticipates passes before they happen, commands the ice without raising his voice. The other players gravitate toward him instinctively, following his calls, trusting his decisions. I trained for years to be this good. Sacrificed parties, relationships, sleep. And he just... is. By the time Coach blows the final whistle, my lungs burn and my legs shake. Sweat drips down my spine, soaking through my jersey. But the physical exhaustion is nothing compared to the cold dread pooling in my chest. "Gather around!" Coach Wellington waits until we form a loose circle. His eyes scan the group, landing briefly on me before moving to Blaze. "Solid performance today. Exactly what I needed to see." I straighten my spine, ignoring the tremor in my muscles. This is it. Everything I've worked for. "We need a new captain who can take us to championships," Coach continues, his voice carrying across the silent arena. "Someone who can lead on and off the ice. Someone the team will follow into battle." My heart pounds against my ribs. Three years. Three years of being overlooked, of waiting my turn, of proving myself over and over. "Based on today's performance..." Coach pauses, and the silence stretches. "Blaze Wilson will lead this team." The words hit me square in the chest, knocking the air from my lungs. For a moment, I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything except stare at the ice beneath my skates while the arena spins around me. All teammates clap and cheer. Someone slaps Blaze on the back. He accepts it all with that easy grace, nodding to the team, smiling that perfect golden-boy smile. Then his eyes find mine across the circle. He winks. Actually winks, as if this is just another game we're playing. Maybe for him it is. I search his face for something—an apology, hesitation, acknowledgment that he just took everything from me. But there's nothing. Just confidence. Just that charm that everyone falls for without question. The warmth I felt earlier twists into something bitter. Something sharp and ugly that digs between my ribs and refuses to let go. "Ash!" Blaze skates toward me, still grinning. "We should celebrate later, yeah? Captain's gotta buy the first round, right? Let me take you out, catch up properly. It's been way too long, man." I stare at him. At this boy who learned to love hockey because I loved it. Who promised we'd share the same ice someday. Who just waltzed back into my life and stole the only dream I had left without breaking a sweat. My hands curl into fists at my sides. The childhood friend I missed for years suddenly feels like a stranger wearing a familiar face. Like an enemy. "Congratulations, Captain." The words come out flat. Dead. Nothing like how I imagined this reunion would go. Blaze's smile falters, confusion flickering in his brown eyes. "Wait, wh– Ash, come on. Don't be like that. We're on the same team now. Isn't this what we always wanted?" What we wanted. As if anything about this is what I wanted. "I have to go." I turn before he can see what's cracking behind my eyes. "Early class tomorrow." "Ash, wait—!" But I'm already walking away, the sound of his voice chasing me across the arena. I don't look back. If I do, he might see it—the devastation, the betrayal. The bitter realization that promises made at ten years old mean nothing when natural talent trumps years of sacrifice. Chapter 2 Asher’s POV Sleep doesn't come that night. By morning, I give up trying. The arena is empty at five AM. Just me, the ice, and the echo of my skates cutting through silence. I've been here for an hour already, running drills until my muscles scream and my lungs burn with cold air. If I can't be captain, I'll be undeniable. I'll be so damn good they'll have no choice but to finally notice me. My stick connects with puck after puck, sending them into the net with satisfying thuds. Sweat drips down my spine despite the chill. This is what separates me from everyone else—while they sleep, or party, or fuck, I work. Yesterday replays in my head on a loop. Coach's voice announcing Blaze as captain. The way my stomach dropped. The way Blaze winked at me across the circle, oblivious to the devastation written across my face. The doors bang open around six-thirty, and voices flood the space. I don't look up. Don't acknowledge the teammates filing in, the shuffle of gear bags, the lazy morning chatter. I focus on my form, my speed, my precision. Everything I can control. Then I hear him. Blaze's laugh carries across the rink, warm and easy, and my jaw tightens on instinct. I glance over despite myself. He's surrounded by teammates already, slapping shoulders, cracking jokes, radiating that effortless charm that makes people gravitate toward him. One day as captain and he owns the room. I turn back to my drills, grip tightening on my stick. Skates whisper across the ice behind me. Close. Too close. "Nice moves," he says. The way he says it—slow, deliberate—makes something twist in my gut. I ignore it. "Don't you have a team to lead, Captain?" "I'm leading right now." He tilts his head, studying me with those warm brown eyes. "Showing up early to check on my hardest-working player." "I don't need checking on." "Sure you don't." His grin widens. "That's why you've been out here since before dawn, running the same drills over and over. Totally normal behavior." "It's called dedication. You should try it sometime." "Ouch." He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt. "That one actually stung, Ash." Coach Wellington's whistle saves me. We gather at center ice, and I position myself as far from Blaze as possible. It doesn't matter. I feel his gaze on me the entire time Coach explains today's formations. The drills are brutal. Exactly what I need. I throw myself into every play, pushing harder than anyone else. But Blaze matches me at every turn. Faster. Smoother. Reading the ice three moves ahead while I'm still processing the first. "Partner drills!" Coach bellows. "Carpenter, Wilson—you're together." My stomach drops. Blaze skates over, looking far too pleased. "Lucky me." "Shut up and run the drill." We move through the formations, bodies forced into close proximity. Pass, receive, pivot, repeat. His stick brushes mine. Our shoulders collide on a turn. Every point of contact sends unwanted awareness sparking through my nerves. During a brief pause, Blaze leans in. His breath ghosts against my ear, warm in the frozen air. "Why do you tense up? Every time I get close." I jerk back, pulse spiking. "I'm not—" "Relax, Ash." His voice drops lower, teasing, almost intimate. "I don't bite. Unless you ask nicely." Heat crawls up my neck. "Touch me again and I'll break your stick over your head." Something sparks in his eyes—not anger, but delight. "You can try. But we both know you'd fail." That's it. I slam my shoulder into his as I skate past, hard enough to make him stumble backward. Childish? Maybe. Satisfying? Absolutely. His laugh chases me across the ice. "There he is. Missed that fire!" I don't respond. Can't respond. Because if I open my mouth, I'll say something that reveals how much he gets under my skin. The rest of practice passes in a blur. By the time Coach calls it, my body aches and my mind is in chaos. In the locker room, I peel off my gear in silence. Around me, teammates cluster around Blaze. Everyone hangs on his every word, captivated. One day. That's all it took for him to become everyone's favorite person. Three years of me building respect on this team, and he waltzed in and surpassed it without trying. I grab my bag and escape. The cold air outside hits my face, and I exhale slowly. “Rough day, baby?” I turn. Amelia stands by the entrance, bundled in her oversized jacket, dark hair spilling over her shoulders. "Something like that." I close the distance, and she rises to press a kiss to my cheek. "Want to talk about it?" "Not really." She doesn't push. That's one of the things I appreciate about my girlfriend—she knows when to let things go. Her fingers thread through mine, and for a moment the chaos in my head quiets. I have this. I have her. I don't need Blaze's friendship or approval. We start walking toward the parking lot. She's talking about something—her classes, maybe—but my mind drifts. "Ash." She tugs my hand, pulling me to a stop beside her car. "You haven't heard a word I said, have you?" "Sorry. Just tired." She sighs, stepping closer, arms looping around my neck. "You're always tired lately." Her fingers play with the hair at my nape. "You know how long it's been since we've actually spent time together? Real time?" "I know. I'm sorry." "Three weeks, Ash." She rises on her toes, lips brushing my jaw. "Three weeks since you've touched me properly. I miss you." Her voice drops. "I miss your hands on me. Miss feeling you against me." She kisses me—soft at first, then deeper. I kiss her back because that's what I'm supposed to do. Because she's my girlfriend and she's beautiful and any normal guy would be dragging her into the backseat right now. But my mind won't quiet. Won't stop replaying brown eyes tracking me across the ice. I pull back gently. "I'm really tired today, Ames. Practice was brutal." Disappointment flickers across her face. "It's always practice." "I know." I press a kiss to her forehead. "After the season settles down, I promise. I'll make it up to you." "You mean after you figure out whatever's going on with the new transfer?" She says it lightly, but there's an edge underneath. I freeze. "What?" "Blaze." She tilts her head. "You've mentioned his name like six times since he got here. More than you've talked about anyone on the team in three years." "Because he's annoying. He stole my captain position. Of course I'm going to talk about him." "Mm-hmm." She doesn't look convinced. "Just don't let him get in your head, okay?" "He's not in my head." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "If you say so." She drives off. I stand alone in the parking lot, her words echoing. You've mentioned his name like six times. Have I? Maybe I've been so focused on how much he irritates me that I haven't noticed how much space he's taking up in my thoughts. Then I feel it. That prickling awareness at the back of my neck. I glance over my shoulder. Blaze stands at the arena doors, arms crossed, still in his practice gear. He's not smiling anymore. That easy charm is stripped away, replaced by something I can't read. Something that makes my chest tight and my throat dry. Our eyes lock. One heartbeat. Two. I force myself to turn away. Walk to my car. Don't look back. But I feel his gaze burning into my back the entire way. I tell myself I don't care what Blaze thinks. Tell myself that look meant nothing. I'm still telling myself that hours later, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, haunted by brown eyes that see too much. What starts as a stolen title turns into a rivalry that refuses to stay professional. 😈 Read Score Me, Captain now! 🧊

Her POV: I was the High Priest’s unwanted stepdaughter—half-Greek, hated, and humiliated all my life 💔. Betrayed by my sister, discarded by my betrothed, and offered to the Pharaoh’s harem like a piece of livestock, I thought my fate was sealed 😔. But the stranger who saved me in the alley… the man who dragged me out of the Nile when I tried to drown… the one who kissed me like he’d been waiting centuries… he was no stranger at all 😳🔥. He was the Pharaoh—Ramesses, touched by gods, feared by everyone. Now I’m trapped between the man he is… and the monster living inside him ❤️‍🔥🖤. Chapter 1 POV Persenet His hands are in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat, and I can't breathe, don't want to. Crimson eyes burn into mine with hunger that makes my whole body ache. Dark-red hair falls like a curtain around us as I pull him closer. His mouth is hot against my pulse, teeth grazing skin that burns for more. The air between us tastes of myrrh and something… darker. Something ancient that calls to a part of me I don't recognize. "Mine," he growls against my throat. The word vibrates through my bones like temple drums, and I'm agreeing. Begging, arching into him as his hands slide lower. Claiming me with a possession that should terrify but instead makes me feel whole when his fingers reaches— "Enet!” Tameri's voice shatters everything. “By Hathor, you're moaning like a cat in heat!" She yanks me from sleep into harsh morning light that streams through the narrow window of my chamber. My body still throbs from the phantom touch of a man whose face dissolves like smoke the moment my eyes open. Every time. Every cursed time, I lose him before I can see who torments my dreams with pleasure that feels more real than my waking life. "We need to prepare for temple service," my friend continues, already pulling back the rough linen curtains to flood my small chamber with Ra's first light. The room—if you can call a storage alcove converted to house an unwanted daughter a room—fills with the sounds of Thebes awakening: vendors hawking bread, donkeys braying, the distant chant of priests greeting the sun. "Unless you plan to explain to your stepfather why his wife's bastard daughter is late to her duties?" I groan, pressing my palms against my eyes. The dream clings to me like oil on water, impossible to wash clean. "Give me a moment…" "Was it the same dream again?" Tameri asks, her voice softening as she sits on my sleeping mat. "The one with the stranger?" The shame floods through me like the annual inundation, drowning everything in its path. How can I explain that these dreams started three months ago, the very night Khenti left for his campaign? How can I tell her that every night since, I've betrayed the man I love in visions so vivid I wake tasting another's kiss? "Yes…" My voice comes out smaller than I intend, heavy with the guilt that gnaws at my ka like a hungry jackal. "Tam, what's wrong with me? Soon, I become officially bound to the man I've loved since I was fourteen, and yet I dream of another's hands, another's mouth—" "It's just a dream, habibti." She squeezes my shoulder. "Dreams mean nothing when a real man of flesh and blood waits to make you his wife. The gods send us strange visions to test our resolve. Besides…" she adds with a wicked grin. The one that reminds me why she's my only friend in this house of hidden hatreds. "Perhaps it's Khenti in your dreams, transformed by your sleeping mind into something more... exotic. More dangerous." I want to believe her, but I know Khenti's touch. Gentle and hesitant, treating me like I might break, like the taint of my Greek blood makes me fragile. The stranger in my dreams handles me like I'm already his, like I've always been his, like I was born to burn beneath his hands. "Come," Tameri urges, pulling me to my feet. "We must hurry." I dress quickly in the rough-spun linen appropriate for a servant, though technically I'm the High Priest's stepdaughter. The distinction matters little when everyone knows the truth. I'm the visible reminder of my mother's shame. The Greek sailor's bastard she couldn't hide or destroy. My fingers work automatically, securing the heavy black wig that hides my greatest disgrace: hair the color of coastal sand or straw. Clearly inherited from a father who sailed away before I drew my first breath. We walk through the dawn streets toward the Temple of Anubis, the city of Thebes awakening around us in a symphony of life and commerce. I keep my head properly bowed, my wig heavy and secure, though sweat already gathers at my nape in the growing heat. "Three months," I murmur to Tameri as we passed a statue of Thutmose III. "Three months of military campaign, and Khenti returns today. His last letter promised—" "That he'd make you the happiest woman in all of Egypt," Tameri finishes, having helped me read it dozens of times by lamp when the house slept. "See? No more guilt about dream strangers. Your real beloved returns to claim you." The Temple of Anubis rises before us like a mountain of shadow. My sister stands at the entrance in her pristine white linen across one shoulder, draped perfectly. Her skin kissed by the sun, her breasts adorned with gold that catches the light like small stars. Nefertari's smile could fool the gods themselves. Warm and welcoming, the picture of a devoted priestess greeting the dawn. Until the crowds pass. "Persenet," she says, and my name becomes something dirty in her mouth. "You're nearly late. Again." Her dark eyes, so like our mother's but holding none of her former warmth, scan me with practiced disgust. "The offering stones require scrubbing before the morning prayers. The blood from yesterday's sacrifices has attracted flies. Surely even someone of your... background can manage that?" "With respect," Tameri begins, her chin lifting in that dangerous way that's earned her beatings before, "Enet works harder than—" "Than a properly-born daughter needs to," Nefertari cuts her off smoothly. "How fortunate that the High Priest tolerates his wife's... earlier mistakes. How generous that he allows the half-Greek bastard to serve in holy spaces at all." The words shouldn't still hurt. I've heard variations of them for years, since my childhood, since my mother married the High Priest Ptahmose and I became the shameful secret everyone could see. But Nefertari has perfected the art of making old wounds bleed fresh, finding new ways to twist the knife of my existence. "Speaking of fortune," she continues, adjusting her real dark hair, unlike mine, "I hear whispers from the military quarter. They say a certain general's son returns today with glory and promotion. I wonder if he is as desperate to meet you as you are..." Before I can process the strange glint in her eyes, commotion erupts at the temple entrance. Soldiers' voices carry across the courtyard, bronze armor clanking, horses snorting, and Nefertari gasps with perfectly practiced delight. "By Anubis, they're here already!" My heart stops. Starts. Races like a spooked horse as Khenti strides through the gates. Three months of military campaign having bronzed his skin and hardened his frame. His eyes search the courtyard with an urgency that makes my pulse sing. I'm already moving, dignity abandoned, my love's name rising in my throat— But Nefertari is faster. She glides across the stones with a priestess's practiced grace, her hips swaying in the rhythms taught in the sacred dances. She reaches him while I'm still halfway there, my servant's rough sandals catching on the uneven ground. I stumble to a halt, watching as my sister's hands touch the arms of my future husband in greeting. Watching as his eyes linger on the sway of her hips, the curve of her neck. Before finally—finally—finding me frozen like a fool in the middle of the courtyard. Oh my God! 😱 You’re not ready for what happened next! 🔥 Read The God’s Favorite Now! ❤️‍🔥