The request — or demand, really — that his wife join him in the evening had, for once, no sensual undertones. There were more important matters at hand than his lust for her, and, by extension, his lust to remind her that she was his.

A fortnight ago, a serving boy died — convulsing and choking on bile — after stealing a taste of wine meant for his lips. Angry could not begin to define the pure, unadulterated rage that consumed him. He was not blind to the fact that there were some arrogant enough to challenge the will the gods had for him to be pharaoh, but cowardice like this? It made his blood boil at the gall of this unknown assassin.

The attempt on his life, however spineless, however brazen, was an even greater offense in the face of what could have happened. So easily could that wine have been given to his wife. Though she was an ignorant, spoiled brat, she was pregnant with his child and the future of their kingdom. It made perfect sense that his enemies would want to strike down not only him, but the future of his Hei as well. For all he knew, the entire royal family may have been killed if it were not for a servant taking what did not belong to him.

The boy paid the price for his greed, yet Iahotep was left with more questions than answers. Someone had tried to have him killed and that was unforgivable. There was, however, the larger issue of ascertaining those culpable for the failed assassination — starting with the kitchen staff. They had, either in ignorance or intent, allowed poison wine to enter the palace. So, naturally, who could blame him for rounding the lot of them up for further questioning? They must have known, must have seen someone or something out of place. He refused to believe they were so stupid as to ignore obvious tampering, which left him to assume they were co-conspirators.

He would not remain a sitting duck for the next attempts.

To that end, it would have been simple enough to order the grisly executions of all of those he had detained and leave their mangle corpses as a warning to any other who might dare follow in their footsteps. It was — as he brooded over it for hours — an idea that appealed to his cruelty and continuous need to make clear that he was in control. As he mulled over the options, however, he found that as his thoughts turned to his wife. As such, a stay of execution was in order. His interest did not lay in any fear she might try to overrule him but instead with the presentation of a golden opportunity.

Hatshepsut was a spoiled, mollycoddled child and in his mind, a spoiled child needed to be disciplined before they had the chance to rot further. Born into privilege, he judged that she knew nothing of hardship or the ugly truth of reality outside of the palace walls. He would force her to see it, just as he would force her to act like the queen he demanded she be. If she failed to meet his expectations, if she was truly as soft-hearted as he believed, then he had no qualms with relegating her to be used in his bedchambers, good for nothing more than producing the princes and princesses that would bring glory to Hei Naddar.

As much as her petulance infuriated him — both in the bed and out — he could not deny that a part of him thought that such a fate, however earned, would be a shame. The Queen Mother, after all, was ruthless in her own right and possessed both beauty and intelligence, yet it seemed young Hatshepsut was determined to push back against such ideals. Has Isetheperu truly failed to impart anything unto her only child? It was a question he pondered often, though perhaps the answer was nearer than he could have hoped. He was, after all, provided with the perfect opportunity to find if any such ruthlessness — or anything within her that might be useful to him — existed.

She may have been born a queen but now she would prove she deserved to be in such a position.

Having dismissed his servants for the evening, Iahotep sat on the edge of his bed while his beloved cheetah, Isis, lay with her head resting in his lap. He idly stroked her fur as he waited, murmuring words of praise to her. Only when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps did he look up.

“Enter.” He said simply, without moving from his seat.

Looking at his queen, the slightest hit of a smile tugged at his lips. Even with child, she was a beauty to behold and one that meant much more to him now than she had previously. The mother of his child was a precious thing, which made his fury all the more visceral.

“Come, my queen, sit with me.” Nudging Isis off of the bed, he patted the spot she once occupied — a command masked as a welcoming gesture.

As she approached, it would be clear he was agitated, for he did not bother to try and hide, and the glint in his eyes spoke pointedly to his displeasure. He was not in a trying mood but as she had yet to provoke his ire, he kept himself from pouring out his wrath upon her. He could only hope her pregnancy had not made her soft or feeble with undue compassion. There was no place for that now. He had struck her once before and he would do so again, though if she had learned her lesson, there would be no need for such cruelty. He expected she knew what he demanded of her — to sit, listen and speak only when he permitted her to.



“We have much to discuss.” His tone carried an edge, but the expectation that she would come as he commanded her had not left him.