The Pharaoh’s Favorite novel Chapter 49

Amen and I move silently along the banks of the Nile. The temple’s towering pillars fade into the darkness behind us, their sacred presence a distant comfort as we search for a place where no prying eyes will follow.

Finally, we find it—a secluded patch of riverbank, hidden between a cluster of reeds and the twisting roots of an old sycamore tree.

The water here is calm, lapping gently against the shore, reflecting the moon’s pale glow. It is here, far from the weight of expectation, that we will try again.

I lower myself onto the soft earth, kneeling in the cool sand as I lay out the ritual components with meticulous care.

The sleeping draught, the sacred oils, the charm I had taken from the temple archives—each item placed with precision, each step performed exactly as the scrolls had instructed.

Amen kneels beside me, silent but watching, his presence grounding me even as anticipation coils tightly in my chest.

“This time,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “It must work.”

Amen says nothing. He only reaches forward, his fingers brushing over my own as he passes me the cup.

I hesitate for only a moment before drinking.

The liquid is thick, bitter against my tongue, carrying the faint metallic taste of my own blood. A shiver courses through me as warmth spreads outward from my core, seeping into my limbs, heavy and intoxicating.

My vision wavers. And then—darkness.

When I open my eyes, I am no longer on the riverbank.

I am inside a vast hall, grand and empty, stretching infinitely in all directions.

A thin layer of crystal-clear water covers the marble floor, rippling softly around my ankles as I take a hesitant step forward. The air is impossibly still, the silence so profound that I can hear the faint sound of my own breathing.

I know this place. I have seen it before. My dreams before.

I turn my head—and there he is.

Amen.

He stands at the far end of the hall, watching me with an expression that sends a strange ache through my chest. He looks… relieved. As if he has been waiting for me. As if he has always been waiting for me.

I move toward him without thinking, my footsteps barely disturbing the water beneath me. And when I finally reach him, the moment unfolds as if following a script I have lived before.

His hands find my face, his fingertips tracing my cheekbones with reverence.

His lips press soft kisses along my jaw, my temples, my eyelids—tender, worshipful, a devotion that makes my breath falter.

“Finally, you are here,” he murmurs against my skin.

Something about his words stirs an emotion so deep, so aching, that I cannot speak.

He kisses me. And this time, he does not close my eyes with his hand. As the ‘stranger’ did back then in my dreams.

This time, he lets me touch him, my hands sliding over the warm planes of his chest, the strong curve of his shoulders. His body hums beneath my fingertips, a living, breathing contradiction—both familiar and utterly foreign.

When he finally pulls away, he cups my face between his palms, his gaze filled with something I cannot name.