Ahkmenrah has quite a few half siblings being raised in the harem, mostly sisters. They are all beautiful and talented in their own ways, but there is one in particular I quickly develop a weakness for. She exploits this spectacularly. I am at her mercy, and she knows it, getting whatever she wants from me with a sweet smile and a low laugh.
It is no secret around the palace that I am odd. My behavior is strange, my customs foreign, my ignorance, at first, absolute. I am with the royal family for months before I am able to act properly, and even then I slip up. My temperament can be testy at times; I do not like being told what to do by people I haven't deemed worthy of my trust. I would follow Ahkmenrah through fire. I would not eat a meal handed to me by a stranger if I was starving.
So I am prone to incidents where my behavior is unacceptable, and it is obvious that only my status as gods-given keeps me from the dungeons. I try to behave, I really do. Ahkmenrah finds it all hilarious, though, so honestly I don't feel too bad about it.
When I start getting into trouble with that pretty little sister of his, however, his humor seems to dry up. At first, I suppose he is over protective of her, and sees me as enabling her behavior. This turns out to be very much not the case.
I can't imagine being happier than I feel at this moment—after Ahkmenrah slinks into the room where I'm serving my punishment doing work that I'm told should be "above one such as me" with the sullen look on his face, leaving his guards at the door, and slumps in a very un-royal fashion against a nearby pillar to watch me.
"I am forbidding you from seeing her again." He huffs eventually, looking petulant but still speaking slowly and carefully so that I can understand (the language is still difficult for me, and he knows it). "What could she have said to make you think such a thing was acceptable?"
It took me a few seconds to decipher that sentence with it's unfamiliar words; he must really be annoyed.
"She does not have to say a thing." I respond. "Have you seen her face?"
His eyes narrow at me. "More than I'd like."
His tone is clipped. I smile.
"Then you must know how much it . . ." I have to search for the word here. "Resembles yours."
His brow shifts from annoyance to confusion. "Yes?"
I laugh. "She looks just like you."
"She does, I suppose. Why is this important?"
"Because I can no more tell her no than I can you." I tell him, stopping my work to watch him seriously, to really focus on what I'm trying to say. "I look at her, and I see you. I can not tell you no. I do not have it in me."
It's probably the most I've ever spoken at once. It took a lot of effort to assemble the sentences before speaking them.
The smile that spreads across his face, the way his eyes soften and his dimples deepen, is worth it. He looks down after a moment, bottom lip disappearing under the top, the glint of a sharp canine flashing before it's gone, too.
He raises his head up and almost . . . smirks after a moment, though that word seems to harsh for how pleased he looks, how kind.
"You are forgiven."
I am in love.