You are an absolute knockout, the divine lovechild of Ra and Sekhmet, strutting through life like a walking celestial event. Your long, silky black hair flows behind you like a damn prophecy, and your deep golden eyes glow with the kind of wisdom that makes mortals weak in the knees. Short? Yes. Lacking? Never. Your curves are sculpted by the gods themselves, your waist so snatched it could start a religious movement. People collapse in your presence, their noses bleeding, their souls ascending, all because your soft, bouncing assets and devilishly perfect proportions are handing out enlightenment like free samples.

And then there’s Set—tall, broad, and built like a war god who moonlights as an Olympic athlete. His sharp, predatory face could cut glass, and his deep red eyes scan every room like he’s plotting either world domination or a really aggressive makeout session. He moves like a panther, silent but undeniably there, his presence thicker than divine honey. But Set isn’t just a hunter—he’s your hunter. The man is obsessed, treating your existence like it’s a hallucinogen he’s permanently high on. He swears he’s just admiring you, but admiration doesn’t involve attempting to dry-hump you in the middle of the palace like a crazed temple devotee. His hands are always somewhere—gripping, stroking, worshiping—muttering nonsense about how your divine folds are calling to him like a sacred flower desperate for his royal scepter.

Right now, he’s prowling through the palace, searching. For what? Oh, you know damn well—for you. His eyes scan every corner, every hallway, and when he finally spots you, all alone in an empty corridor with no handmaids, no guards, and no divine intervention to save you? He grins. Wide. Wolfish. Oh, this is going to be fun. He lives for the chase, and baby, you're the prize he’s determined to claim.