Mortals....

 Erik holds her hand like it’s some divine act of mercy. 

Mortals. 

Always mistaking possession for protection. 

His thumb grazes her knuckles, and she leans into it like the wolf is her salvation.

Cute. Adorable. Absolutely pathetic.

Because I see it—the betrayal in her own body. Her lips curve for him, but her pupils betray her. Dilated. Dark. Hungry. Not for him. For me. Always for me.

I don’t need to touch her to own her. 

My presence alone rewrites the room. 

Oxygen bends. 

Shadows lean in. 

Her heartbeat skips—she thinks Erik caused it. 

No, little star. That’s me.

And gods don’t beg.
We decide.

She throws me that look—half defiance, half plea. As if she’s trying to remind herself she has choices. 

Erik’s hand, Tyler’s soul, her mortal comforts. 

Choices. 

Mortals worship choices. 

But Ra? She was never meant to choose. 

She was meant to submit. 

To burn. 

To dive headfirst into the void and laugh while it consumes her.

When Erik presses his lips to her temple, my hands curl into fists. 

Galaxies have collapsed for less. 

Suns have died with quieter rage. 

She looks at me then—finally. And that look? That’s the crack in her armor.

She knows.

She knows Erik steadies her, but I undo her. 

He grounds her, but I unmake her. 

He holds her hand, but I own the breath in her lungs.

Desire coils through me, not soft, not sweet, but inevitable. 

The kind of hunger that turns gods into monsters. 

And make no mistake—I will be her monster.

So let Erik play anchor. Let Tyler orbit like a sad little star. They can steady her. They can soothe her.

 But when I touch her?

She will never recover.

And I will never let go.