The Pharaoh’s Favorite novel Chapter 13

“Then let me help you believe,” I say.

As our words hang heavy in the air, a distant clatter breaks the silence. We freeze, our eyes meeting in recognition of the familiar sound – palace guards on their nightly rounds. The echo of their footsteps reverberates through the abandoned temples around us, a stark reminder of our precarious situation. With a final lingering touch, he pulls away and we hurry back, our conversation unfinished.

Dawn painted my chamber walls gold as we slipped inside, our hearts racing from the close call with the palace guards. Amen’s hand was still warm in mine, our fingers intertwined like they’d forgotten how to separate.

I stifle a laugh as Amen pulls me faster, his hand firm around mine, guiding me through the secret paths only he seems to know. My heart still races from the night—its stolen wonders, the golden sand shifting beneath our feet, the dawn stretching endlessly over the ruins of a forgotten god.

We are breathless—partly from the hurried return, partly from the weight of everything we’ve shared.

For a moment, neither of us moves. The space between us hums with something unspoken, something left unfinished in the desert.

Amen is the first to break the silence.

“You should sleep,” he murmurs, stepping closer. His voice is softer now, the teasing edge from earlier replaced with something deeper. “The day will begin soon.”

I smile, but the exhaustion doesn’t quite reach me yet. My mind is still too full, too restless. “And you? Do pharaohs not sleep?”

His lips quirk at the question. “Not often.”

I watch as he lifts a hand, brushing a strand of loose hair from my face. The gesture is slow, deliberate, and my breath stills at the feather-light touch of his fingertips against my skin.

“You’re warm,” he notes, voice quiet.

“So are you.”

He exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I mean from the ride. The desert.”

I step closer, feeling the heat that still lingers between us. “Or maybe something else,” I say, my voice dipping lower.

The moment stretches, neither of us pulling away.

And then, with a quiet sigh, I step back, reaching for the ties of my tunic.

“I should change,” I murmur.

Amen doesn’t move at first. His dark eyes stay locked on me, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Then, slowly, he nods.

I turn away, loosening the ties of my outer tunic, slipping it from my shoulders. Before I can remove the rest, I hear the soft rustle of fabric behind me. When I glance over my shoulder, Amen is undoing his own belt, removing his outer robes with practiced ease.

He is unhurried, comfortable in his movements. As if this is natural. As if undressing in my chambers at dawn is something he has done a thousand times before.

I swallow, forcing my gaze away.

The bed calls to me, and I climb beneath the cool linen sheets, sighing as I sink into their softness. The tension of the night still lingers in my body, coiling low in my stomach, refusing to release me entirely.

Amen watches me from where he stands, bare from the waist up, his robes discarded beside him. He doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he crosses the room, easing onto the bed beside me.

We lie there, side by side, the space between us a thread pulled too tight.

“You are quiet,” he murmurs.

I glance at him, then back to the ceiling. “I have a lot to think about.”

He hums in agreement, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the sheets. “The temple?”

“The temple.”

A pause.

“And… you.”

His gaze sharpens, though his expression remains unreadable. “What about me?”

I reach for him, my hand resting lightly against his forearm.

Something flickers in his eyes. He turns, shifting onto his side to face me fully. The movement brings him closer, so close that the space between us barely exists.

His gaze flickers downward—to my lips, my throat, the rapid rise and fall of my breath.

It would be so easy.

So easy to close the space between us.

So easy to surrender to the tension coiling among us, pulling us closer like the invisible threads of the gods themselves.