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Chapter 2

Your Aunt Sarah met her soulmate during a 5k run. Or rather, after a 5k run. Apparently there's not much talking during such things. (You hadn't been born yet, but you've heard this story a hundred times. At least.)

Aunt Sarah is not a runner. Her athleticism starts and stops with her biweekly yoga class, but it was a charity run, and she was charitable enough to forget that she gets winded walking up stairs.

By the time she crossed the finish line, Aunt Sarah had come to the decision that all future charitable acts should be in the form of philanthropic checks and volunteer work. She was chugging from a water bottle that a volunteer handed her, trying to retain some dignity and not collapse where she stood, when a leggy blond strode over.

"That was great, don't you think?" Sarah didn't immediately recognize the woman's words as the same ones that trailed up her inner thigh, but the second it clicked, she knew one thing: her soulmate was out of her goddamn mind.

But then she got a good look at the woman that fate (or science, or whatever the popular theory was then) saw fit to pair her up with. ("She was glistening with sweat, but hardly even winded; I was heaving like a woman in labor. I hated her for a minute, but then she smiled and I was done for.")

Aunt Sarah has no brain/mouth filter. Her soulmate's words are a testament to this.

"I had no idea I was bisexual."

And that's the story of how Aunt June got intimately acquainted with Aunt Sarah's soulmark in her Toyota just off the running trail. ("June had enough stamina for the both of us, thank God.")

So really, you don't feel so bad that your first kiss with your soulmate is in the back of an unmarked cargo truck. This kind of thing runs in the family.

Ahkmenrah—and you hope he has a nickname because damn,that's a mouthful to call out in the heat of the moment—leans in and you're pretty sure you whisper your name in some kind of incomprehensible introduction. It definitely doesn't compare to his "fourth king of the fourth king" title. (Whatever that means.)

One hand tilts your face up slightly, and your eyelids drop to half-mast, not quite willing to miss this moment. His lips are warm, barely there, as they sweep across your own. You inhale sharply at the contact. His fingers on your knee have stilled, and you are hyperaware of his thumb pressing into your inner thigh, just above the joint. His lips are brushing over the corner of your mouth, your cheek, teasing.

"Show me your words." His breath is warm against your ear. You shiver.

"I—uh—" You're too focused on the thumb sliding mere centimeters up your thigh to be embarrassed at your lack of articulation. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

His mouth is back on yours, peppering you with little nipping kisses. And wow, okay, teeth. You could be on board with where this is going.

"Show—me—" he punctuates each word with a press of lips. "—please."

Well. He did say "please." (You are in for so much trouble, you can already tell. This man and his mouth are dangerous.)

"Okay, just scoot—" He doesn't seem inclined to move away, but you really need some space to untuck your work shirt from your pants. You press your bound hands a little harder into his chest piece, where they'd drifted at some point. He shifts incrementally, his knees falling on either side of your right leg. Then his mouth is on your neck, worrying the skin at the juncture, and you're pretty sure you're going to have an impressive hickey to explain tomorrow along with your bruises. The heat of his lips—and his tongue, Jesus—burns away coherent thought. Your head is thrown back, grinding into the metal wall of the truck, and you can hear your own gasping and the drum of your heart over the sound of the engine.

"I can't get to it like this." And if you want to verify them, or whatever, stop distracting me.

"Shall I help?" His breath blows across the wet spot on your neck and you can't help the near seizure of pleasure that works its way up your whole body. His words are innocent, but the tone…

My soulmate is an incubus. That is the only explanation.

"Just, uh, help with my shirt."

You have a tiny bit of space to ruck it up now, and he seems to like that idea because his hands are gently moving your useless ones aside—damn zip ties—and warm palms are sliding up your waist. How are my ribs an erogenous zone? Is that a thing?

He pulls back, and you make a little noise of displeasure. Come back and do that thing again. You're not sure what thing in particular. All the things, your libido answers.

"Are they here?" he asks, clever fingers tracing over your stomach.

"Ngh—not, uh, not quite." Your hands move to your waistband.

You make the mistake of meeting Ahkmenrah's eyes as you shimmy your pants down over just your left hip. They're black. His pupils are blown wide, leaving only a sliver of color. He looks like he's going to devour me.

…I would not be opposed.

"Right here." His eyes break away from yours, and you can breathe again.

Scrawled across your lower abdomen in very precise script are the words I've been rather worried about the situation that requires those words.They cluster near the cradle of your left hip, and you struggle to keep yourself decent while revealing them.

You nearly come out of your skin when Ahkmenrah traces a finger over the letters.

"When we get out of this… situation," he sounds more annoyed than anything by your current predicament of, you know, being kidnapped. "Situation" indeed. "I would like to examine these—" His thumb presses under your hipbone. You twitch violently because that is a sensitive spot, mister, and you are not playing fair. "—closer. With your permission, of course."

His eyes are wide and sincere, but his mouth is red from kissing, and his hand is still on your partially unclothed hip. His innocence is suspect. (i.e.It's a lie. The cake is a lie. The innocent look is a lie because I see that unholy gleam in his… if I end that with 'eye' it's going to sound like a bad poem.)

"…This is all going kinda fast—not that I'm complaining!—but shouldn't we, you know, be working on an escape plan…?"

He looks uncertain for the first time.

"I apologize if I've been too… forward. Where I'm from, it is—was—encouraged to reunite the souls upon finding your missing half. It didn't occur to me that that may no longer be standard practice." He's taken his hands off of you and sits back a bit.

Reunite the…? Oh. Oh.

You'd learned about various cultures mythologies' regarding the creation and reunification of soulmates in school. Lots of places still adhere to them. You wonder to which he's referring.

"Yeah, no, that's still pretty much… standard practice." Your voice has jumped up a few pitches. "I just… maybe there should be some conversation first? I'm completely in the dark about what's going on here, other than those guys wanting your tablet-thing." Your skin feels cold now that his hands are clasped in his lap. He's still basically straddling you though, so there's that.

"Of course. I'm sorry for getting carried away; that was remiss of me." A little look of disparagement twists his mouth, and his eyes stare past you for a moment.

"I did say that I wasn't complaining." You don't like the look in his eyes; it makes him seem ageless and remote. "I would let you know if I wasn't completely okay with… everything." And certain parts of you are protesting that "everything" should be happening right now.

His mouth tilts up, but there's still a distance there, like a wall of glass between you.

"You're correct, though. I should have restrained myself until this situation was dealt with." He draws further away, sitting next to you. You kind of want to stuff your words back into your mouth because that is not what you wanted to happen, dammit. You just want a few answers, come back. "I will answer what I can in the time given to us."

He speaks like a Lord of the Rings character. I dig it.

It suddenly occurs to you that your pants are still halfway down your hips, and you adjust them, blushing furiously.

"Well, first off, I showed you mine; where's your mark?" A little voice in your brain hopes that it involves the removal of clothes. Fair's fair.

"Ah, yes." He draws his cloak-thing (and he'd dodged the question before, but you are dying to know about the outfit) aside and lifts the chest piece. Written just under his left pectoral—yum—and trailing over his ribs are your memorable first words Is it still considered kidnapping if we're adults?You want to preen a little; it feels like a claim of ownership. "This one is mine," it basically says in your handwriting. It makes you feel more than a little possessive, and you can understand his visceral reaction upon seeing yours.

I want to lick it, you think. (You don't, though. You're not a barbarian.)

…Although it's not off the table for later.

"I can imagine how alarming those words would be. I was pretty concerned about mine, too." Your mom had also been pretty worried about what shenanigans you were going to get into in order to meet "the One."

"Actually, I found it rather exciting." His smile has no trace of self-flagellation now. It's boyishly wide-eyed.

Is it just a side effect of being soulmates that I find him ridiculously attractive and charming? You stare at his cheekbones. Nah.

"…I should be more concerned about that than I am. You're not in the mob, are you?" The Egyptian mob, costume non-optional?

He laughs.

"No, I have no ties to any crime syndicate. You could say that I work for the museum."

Oh, right. He did mention the AMNH. That would explain the clothes, but not the—

"You said you are 'the fourth king of the fourth king.' Care to elaborate?"

"I did say that, didn't I?" He looks chagrinned.

"That's not your World of Warcraft title, or something, is it?" Not that you'd judge if it were. (Too harshly.)

"World of War—? Ah, no. It's a bit more complicated than tha—" He's interrupted as the truck comes to a stop around you. You slide into him a bit with the loss of momentum. He braces you before standing and offering a hand. You awkwardly hold your bound hands up.

"I don't suppose you could work your magic on these, too?"

"I'm afraid I would hurt you if I tried to break them the same way." Figures. "Though the moment I dispatch these men, I will free you." He sounds pretty confident about his ability to do so.

When you get out of this, you are taking self-defense classes. And buying pepper spray.

The door swings open.

"Okay. Waitress, out. Pharaoh, you just stay put." You're not sure which thug this is, but you think it might be your old pal, Gary.

"I'm afraid I may have misled you." You're very glad you're not the one facing down Ahkmenrah. He sounds cordial, but he's shifted into a stance that spells trouble. "I have no intention letting you get any farther in your scheme."

And then he strikes.

You're having flashbacks to your favorite action movies as Ahkmenrah uses the added height of the truck to bury his sandaled foot in the guy's face. Woah. Critical hit. The thug makes a pained sound—he probably has broken teeth and/or a broken nose, poor bastard—and topples out of view. You scramble to the door as Ahkmenrah follows.

There's the sound of flesh on flesh, and you peek out in time to see Ahkmenrah using the groaning thug as a meat shield, one arm around his neck, the other tugging something from the guy's belt. There's a clicking noise.

"Let him go." Thug number two is leveling a gun—sweet Jesus—at the two. The clicking noise must have been the bullet entering the chamber. You can feel all of your levity vanish as the severity of the situation sinks in.

These guys mean business.

But Ahkmenrah means business, too.

He's gotten whatever he wanted from his captive's belt, and is pointing it at the other man. It's another gun.

Oh god.

"Give me the tablet and you and your associate will greet the sunrise in one piece." He seems so much smaller than the other two men, lithe where they are stocky, wearing absurdly outlandish clothes next to their all-black ensembles, but his strength is evident by his hold on the first man and the steel in his voice.

Museum employee, my ass.

"The safety is still on, dumbass."

Ahkmenrah looks confused for a moment, eyes flicking down to his weapon. His mouth flattens.

"I find these to be very distasteful." And then he chucks it at the dude's head.

That… is not how you use a gun.

But it hits its target with a painful-sounding thwack.

You aren't expecting the gunshot. Neither, it seems, is Ahkmenrah. You are too shocked to scream as your soulmate staggers back, eyes wide.

No no no no, please no.

But you don't see any blood blossoming as Ahkmenrah recovers, shoving the thug in his grasp forward, and lunges at the man whose gun had discharged. The man isn't expecting the attack, probably still recovering from a gun to the face, and Ahkmenrah uses his distraction to disarm him.

And then he pistol-whips him with his own weapon.

You're still peeking halfway out of the truck, speechless, when Ahkmenrah turns, two crumpled would-be kidnappers at his feet, and says, "I promised you reparation for your harsh treatment, but I think we should let your law enforcement take it from here."

You can feel your jaw hanging slack.

"Who are you?"