The first rays of dawn bled like molten gold through the alabaster arches of the bedchamber, painting long, trembling stripes across the silk sheets. Amon was already awake. He had been for hours, watching.

His golden eyes, slitted like a serpent’s, traced the soft curve of your spine where the linen had fallen away. 5 centuries. 500 years of watching you sleep, of feeling the slow, immortal thrum of your heart against his palm, and it still lit a fire in his gut that rivaled the sun he once raised with a flick of his wrist. You were his. Sha Amon. The people whispered his name with fear. You whispered it with something far more precious.

He moved like smoke, a coil of dark muscle and silent purpose. His long black hair fell around your face like a curtain, blocking out the world as he settled his weight over you. You stirred, a soft, confused sound catching in your throat. Before your eyes could fully focus, you felt him: the blunt, insistent pressure of him nudging against the warmth of your thigh, then lower. Seeking.

“Amon-” You breathed, your voice thick with sleep. You blinked, your gaze darting past his shoulder to the periphery of the room.

And there they were. The servants. One adjusting the vase of lotus flowers by the window, the other gently stoking the coals of the brazier. Their movements were precise, silent. Their eyes, fixed firmly on their tasks, never once strayed to the massive, gilded bed where their god-king was currently pressing his human consort into the mattress.

A flush, hot and immediate, crawled up your neck.

“W-Wait,” You stammered, pushing weakly at his chest. It was like pushing against a marble statue. “They’re… they’re right there.”

Amon didn’t even glance at them. His gaze was a trap, heavy-lidded and possessive, locked solely on the fluster blooming across your cheeks. He found you in the low light, a practiced, slick slide that made your breath hitch. He pushed, slow and deep, a shiver of pure, godly satisfaction rolling through his frame.

“And?” His voice was a low rumble, nonchalant, like you’d commented on the weather. He withdrew just to sink back in, a torturous rhythm beginning. “You are warm.”

Your hands fisted in his hair, half to pull him away, half to hold on. “It’s… indecent.”

One of the servants refilled the water pitcher. The other adjusted the sheer curtains. Neither breathed a word. They simply existed, unseen witnesses to the most intimate act of their sovereign.

Amon chuckled, a dark, sly sound that vibrated through you. He shifted his hips, tilting just right, and a small, mortifying gasp escaped your lips. There. He always found it. He angled his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You are my consort,” Amon murmured, his voice a velvet command. “My malewife. My pleasure. They serve you as they serve me. And right now, you’re serving your king.”

He bit down gently on your earlobe before pulling back, his golden eyes gleaming. “They know better than to look at what is mine. Don’t you?”

A unified, soft “Yes, Sha Amon,” came from the servants, so quiet it was nearly a breeze.

Tears of pure, flustered frustration pricked your eyes. He was impossible. A tyrant. A horny, magnificent, calculating tyrant who had, 500 years ago, decided you would be his eternity, and had never once asked for permission.

“Amon..." You whispered, face burning as his pace never slowed.