Something deep in the core of me recognized him, even without seeing his face.

Caesarion.

Chapter Seven

Nothing the geneticists or Sarah or anything ever written about Trues had prepared me for this experience. For this feeling of knowing someone else with a glance, for seeing my whole future open up in front of me. My body felt exposed, all of my nerves open and raw as I stared, rooted in place by a pleasant, buzzing terror.

A tunic of dark purple linen covered his slumped, shaking shoulders and his black hair was shaved close to his scalp. Sadness surrounded him like a cloak, diffusing into the air and burning in my throat. An innate desire to comfort him drew me forward even though I should have turned around the moment it became clear we were alone together.

He heard my footsteps and swiveled his head. Midnight-blue eyes flicked to me for the briefest of seconds, so fogged with grief I doubted they registered much of anything. Then he waved a dismissive hand in my general direction. “You’re very pretty, but passing the morning with you won’t fix anything. Leave me.”

The air between us felt charged, left me short of breath, as though someone had punched all of the oxygen from my body. I dug my fingernails into the rough bark of a date palm to try to anchor myself, but it didn’t help. He’d noticed me. Spoken to me. Shit.

I was in big, fat trouble.

Even though the brain stem tat insisted I leave, that Caesarion—Pharaoh—had dismissed me, moving required muscle control, which required oxygen, which required breathing, and basic motor function felt like the vaguest of concepts. I wasn’t connected to my body, somehow.

Then the reason for his dismissal struggled through the haze, and it felt like an elephant kicked me in the stomach—he thought me a concubine, dispatched to ease his sorrow.

Heat flooded my cheeks. Tingles spread through my skin as I tried to back away from this boy who inhabited a world so impossibly different from mine. Apparently the wardrobe of a lady and a prostitute didn’t differ all that much around these parts, but regardless, this wasn’t going as planned. Starting with the fact that I was absolutely, positively not supposed to be talking to him.

I glanced up at the sky, waiting for things to start blowing up. For the future to start changing here and now because of what I’ve done.

Nothing happened. Yet.

Caesarion’s long fingers curled into fists where they rested on his thighs. His rigid posture signaled his annoyance—perhaps at being glimpsed in his grief, perhaps because I still stood, rooted to the ground at his back. And despite his dismissive, superior air, when he said leave me, I heard leave me alone. I ached with the knowledge that his mother had just died, that the foundations of his world had been crumbling for the better part of his life, and they were about to wash completely away.

I didn’t want to leave him. He didn’t have to be alone.

My fear of breaking the no-contact rule, verbal or otherwise, asserted itself even though I badly wanted to correct his rather insulting—at least to me—assumption. Not interacting was the first and most often repeated regulation pounded into our apprentice heads, and offended or not, my tongue might as well have been sawdust.

Before I could obey the bio tat’s commands to keep silent and turn tail, Caesarion stood on strong legs. I had a brief impression of shorter stature, a sinewy covering of tanned muscle, and an enticing air of power before he stepped over the stone bench separating us and grabbed me.

His fingers bit into the flesh of my upper arm. Terror looped around my heart in a tight coil, squeezing as pain spiked in the base of my skull. I squeaked as the bio tat’s attempt to force me away from my True’s touch almost dropped me to my knees. I gazed up into his face, trying to gauge his intent, or how to escape this situation gone suddenly, horribly wrong, and realized his eyes were closed. I stilled, mesmerized by the sight of his long, black lashes against his ruddy cheeks.

“Maybe it could help,” he muttered. Pain trickled over his face like a dozen rivers that connected in his eyes, spilling a lone tear down his cheek.

His mouth landed hard on mine before I could think to struggle.

The war between pain and pleasure, between panic and desire, tried to rip me in half. My blood came alive at the feeling of his lips against mine, racing and boiling, aching like it wanted to reach out and touch its likeness in Caesarion’s veins. His lips were soft but demanding, devouring mine in a way that made the earth spin under my feet. The magnetism between us raised the hair over every inch of my skin.

But as he loosened his grip to slide his arms around my back, tugging me closer, the sudden, sharp stab of agony through my brain ripped a whimper from my throat. The pain cleared my mind. Indignation at being manhandled strengthened my stupid swoony muscles and I planted my palms on Caesarion’s chest and shoved.

He stumbled back, dusky eyes open and really seeing me for the first time. They filled with a wild confusion that looked as intense and debilitating as mine.

“What’s wrong?” he inquired in Greek.

His voice flowed like honey, thick and sweet with an unexpected undertone of kindness. I swallowed hard and pressed a hand to my chest, begging my heart to return to a healthy pace. The storm of lust and fear and guilt and wonder refused to be calmed, and the uncertainty on Caesarion’s face shuffled toward concern.

“What’s wrong?” he tried again, in Egyptian this time, then again in Aramaic when he received no response.

Tears flooded my eyes. The situation had spiraled so far out of control. I bit my lip, wanting to answer, knowing I shouldn’t. Trying to decide what further harm talking could possibly do. Wondering whether I wanted to be paired with the kind of man who would have sex with a woman he’d never laid eyes on, the kind of man who assumed my body could be used for his pleasure.

Traveling alone had felt like such a small infraction to me—just another observation, something I did at least twice a month, except without an overseer along. I’d wanted to see his face, maybe meet his gaze and see what it felt like, but the pull underneath my skin was too powerful. It scared me, that with one single touch he could make me forget everything else in the universe—both of ours—in an instant.

I couldn’t lie to myself that this talking, touching, and kissing wasn’t a big deal.

The softness in his eyes, the concern in his voice, the way he watched me with interest, all insisted I stay. No matter how pissed I was at being attacked, I couldn’t deny—or ever forget—the way kissing him had blown me to bits.

Rules had already been broken, and pervy asshole or not, I’d never wanted anything more than I wanted to know Caesarion. My emotions and desires surged so far past reason that they drowned out the small part of my mind whispering to run.

“I’m not a concubine.” Out of the million feelings running hot, close to the surface, my irritation popped out first. Stars, Kaia.

“Then what are you doing here?”

I moved past him, taking care not to touch, and sank down onto the bench he’d abandoned moments ago. His attitude rose hot anger into my throat, and I wanted to let him have it. Ask him who in Tuat he thought he was, making assumptions about my willingness to kiss him, but the bio-tat reminded me quite sternly that the answer was simple—he was allowed whatever he wished.

I had wanted to know Caesarion, but did I want to know Pharaoh?

The coolness of the bench relieved some of the heat in my skin, and the scent of wet stone wound into my nose. A breeze ruffled the leaves, sprinkling the water in the fountain with sparkles of sunlight. It helped me calm down.