Chapter 1 is available here.

Chapter 2 The Nile Priestess

The message stayed in Pucka’s hand long after she had folded the papyrus, as if ink could cling like perfume. The water waits. And it forgets nothing. It did not read like poetry, and it did not read like flirtation. It read like Sirenna had watched her in the Hathor courtyard, decided exactly what she wanted, and then wrote a sentence that would pull Pucka across the city without needing to shout.

Pucka left Thebes after midnight, while the festival was still alive but no longer pretending to be innocent. The drums had softened into distance, the laughter had thinned into pockets of sound, and the torchlight now belonged to smaller groups and private corridors. The air cooled as she walked, and she loved the way the night made leather feel sharper and more expensive on her skin.

She did not remove a single piece of it.

Her glossy black leather leggings held her like a second self, high waisted, flawlessly tight, polished enough that each torch she passed slid across her thighs in liquid highlights. The leather moved with her and whispered softly with every step, that private sound that feels like it was meant for someone close enough to hear. Her structured leather top fit with elegant firmness, shaping and supporting her chest without softness, giving her posture a clean, confident line that felt like armor and temptation at the same time. Underneath, leather lingerie warmed against her skin, intimate not because anyone could see it, but because she could feel it with every breath. A leather harness traced deliberate lines down her torso and around her waist, each strap placed like a decision. At her throat, a leather choker carried a polished ring at the center, a detail that looked like jewelry until you realized it was also a statement.

Only leather. Only intention.

By the time she reached the Nile temple, the whole city had changed its tone. The scent shifted first, less incense, more wet stone, reeds, and clean night air. Then the sound arrived, a constant, quiet movement of water somewhere inside the walls, steady enough to feel like breathing. This place did not seduce with noise. It seduced with patience.

The gate opened before she touched it, and the certainty of that made her smile because it meant Sirenna had already decided Pucka would come.

A temple attendant waited just inside, dressed head to toe in fitted black leather as if the temple had its own uniform for discretion. A leather jacket closed at the front, leather leggings that matched in matte darkness, leather gloves that kept every motion precise, and leather strapped sandals that climbed her ankles like discipline. The attendant did not speak, and Pucka respected that. She bowed once and turned, leading Pucka down a corridor lit by oil lamps that turned the stone gold.

Pucka followed, letting her own leather catch the lamplight, letting it announce her without a word.

They passed a carved basin where water ran in a thin, continuous stream, and Pucka noticed how everything in this temple was designed to feel deliberate. The walls were clean, the air was cool, and the shadows seemed placed rather than accidental. The attendant stopped at a door framed in black polished stone, pressed a gloved hand to a carved symbol, and the door opened soundlessly.

The attendant bowed again, then disappeared so smoothly that it felt like the temple itself had swallowed her.

Inside, the chamber felt like a secret that had been built with expensive restraint.

A wide pool sat at the center, water dark as ink, reflecting the lamps like stars caught under a surface. Heavy leather drapes hung along the walls, matte black and dense, absorbing sound so completely that even Pucka’s breathing felt louder. Leather cushions were arranged near the pool in measured symmetry, and a low table held bowls of oil and small vials that gleamed in the lamplight. Nothing soft. Nothing casual. Everything chosen.

Sirenna stood at the pool’s edge.

Up close, she was worse in the best way, because she did not perform for attention, and that made attention chase her anyway. She wore a long black leather coat that was closed, smooth, and heavy, falling in clean lines that framed her body like a dark curtain. The coat was matte with a subtle sheen like wet stone under moonlight, and beneath it Pucka could see the shape of a fitted leather dress pressing at Sirenna’s waist and hips, suggesting a silhouette without showing too much. Leather cuffs hugged Sirenna’s wrists. A narrow leather collar sat at her throat with a small dark stone centered like a quiet seal. Everything about her read controlled, composed, and unafraid of wanting.

Sirenna’s gaze found Pucka immediately and stayed there, not roaming like curiosity, but settling like possession that still respects boundaries.

You came, Sirenna said, her voice low and smooth.

Pucka stepped farther into the chamber and heard the door close behind her like the end of an argument. I do not ignore messages that sound like consequences, she replied, refusing to soften her tone, because she did not walk across Thebes in glossy leather to act timid now.

Sirenna’s mouth curved slightly, and the expression carried approval without warmth. It was not a threat. It was a fact.

Pucka lifted her chin a fraction. Then speak your fact, priestess.

Sirenna walked toward her slowly, and the closed leather coat moved with a controlled whisper, never changing shape, never appearing or disappearing, simply present and real. She stopped close enough that Pucka could feel the warmth under Sirenna’s leather, but she did not touch immediately. She let anticipation tighten the air first, and that patience felt like its own kind of pressure.

Sirenna’s eyes traveled over Pucka’s outfit the way a woman looks at something she understands intimately. The glossy leggings, the harness lines, the structured leather top, the leather choker ring at her throat. You dress like a goddess who expects devotion, Sirenna murmured, and devotion sounded physical on her tongue.

Pucka held her gaze. And you dress like a woman who knows how to collect it.

Sirenna nodded, satisfied, and lifted one hand, palm open, a gesture that felt like invitation and authority at the same time. If you want me, you tell me what you want clearly, and you tell me what you will not accept clearly. The water witnesses it, and I respect it.

Pucka inhaled slowly, enjoying the way consent here did not feel like paperwork. I want you to touch me like you have been thinking about it since the courtyard, she said, letting the words land without shame. I want you to take your time, and I want you to make me feel chosen, not handled like a trophy.

Sirenna’s gaze did not move. And what will you not accept.

Anything that ignores my words, my pace, or my stop, Pucka answered immediately, because she meant it, and because she wanted Sirenna to hear that confidence.

Sirenna nodded once as if sealing a private vow. Good.

Then she finally touched her.

Sirenna’s fingers met the leather harness at Pucka’s waist and pressed lightly, testing the tension and fit as if she cared about craftsmanship and boundaries with the same seriousness. The pressure traveled through leather and heat and settled low in Pucka’s stomach. Sirenna’s fingertips slid along the strap line slowly, tracing it like a blessing, then pausing at the edge of Pucka’s structured leather top, where the firm cut shaped her chest.

Pucka’s breath changed without permission, and Sirenna noticed because of course she did.

You respond honestly, Sirenna said.

I did not come here to pretend, Pucka replied, and the truth of it made her voice softer even as her spine stayed straight.

Sirenna’s palm pressed over Pucka’s chest through the leather top, firm and slow, a touch that felt refined and maddening because leather makes everything more deliberate. Pucka felt her own pulse jump and refused to look away, because she wanted Sirenna to know she could take it.

Pucka lifted her hands and caught the lapels of Sirenna’s closed leather coat, pulling her closer with steady confidence rather than urgency. Kiss me, she said, and she let it be a request that still sounded like she expected to be answered.

Sirenna held her gaze for a long beat, then answered with her mouth. The first kiss was controlled and patient, like Sirenna was setting a rhythm and watching whether Pucka would match it. Pucka matched it instantly, deepening the kiss with calm intent. Sirenna made a quiet sound against Pucka’s lips that felt like approval, and Pucka’s fingers tightened at the coat lapels because she loved the way Sirenna stayed composed while still wanting.

Their bodies closed the distance. Glossy leather brushed matte leather. Pucka felt Sirenna’s coat against her harness and leggings, and the contrast in texture made her feel almost dizzy, like this room was designed to make leather feel like a language. Sirenna’s hands returned to Pucka’s waist, tracing harness straps, pressing, easing, then pressing again as if she was teaching Pucka what the water language meant.

Sirenna broke the kiss slowly, staying close enough that their breath still mingled. You learned palace language tonight, she murmured. Tell me if you can speak water language too.

Teach me, Pucka replied, and her voice was steady even though her body was already answering.

Sirenna kissed her again, and the kiss deepened into something that felt less like a question and more like an agreement. Sirenna’s hand slid up to Pucka’s throat and touched the leather choker ring lightly, the contact small and still powerful, because it reminded Pucka that Sirenna noticed details and used them.

This ring, Sirenna asked softly, do you wear it for the palace, or for yourself.

Pucka swallowed once, and the movement pressed her throat into Sirenna’s fingers. For myself.

Sirenna nodded, satisfied. Then we begin correctly.

Only then did Sirenna step back and remove the leather coat in one smooth, visible motion. She placed it on a leather cushion beside the pool, where it remained in sight, real and accounted for. Underneath, she wore the fitted leather dress Pucka had already seen hinted beneath the coat, and it made Sirenna’s silhouette look inevitable, hugging her waist and hips with understated cruelty. The leather cuffs stayed on her wrists. The leather collar stayed at her throat. Nothing changed without being seen.

Sirenna moved to the low table and dipped her fingers into a bowl of oil, warming it between her palms. Then she returned to Pucka and placed both hands on her shoulders, spreading the oil over the leather top. Oil on leather deepened the black and turned the surface into liquid night. Sirenna’s hands moved slowly, sensually, with ritual calm, sliding over Pucka’s shoulders, down her arms, back up, then across her collarbone, and every pass made Pucka feel more prepared and more exposed, even though she was still fully dressed in leather.

You look perfect in leather, Sirenna said, and it sounded like an assessment from someone who knows exactly what she wants.

Pucka’s mouth lifted. So do you, and she meant it as truth, not flattery.

Sirenna’s fingers followed the harness line down Pucka’s torso and paused at her waist. She tightened a strap slightly, just enough to make Pucka inhale, and the sensation was pure pressure, a reminder that leather can be fashion and control when the right woman touches it.

Pucka stepped closer and pressed her body into Sirenna’s, letting leather do what it does best. Their mouths met again, and the kissing turned intense in that perfect, harmonized way where neither woman is passive and neither woman is rushing. Sirenna kissed like patience, deep and steady, and Pucka answered with confidence, hands sliding over the fitted leather dress, gripping at Sirenna’s hips, then easing off, then pulling her closer again, playing in that space where restraint becomes heat.

Sirenna guided Pucka toward the leather cushions near the pool, never hurrying, never losing control. Pucka sat back into the cushions and felt leather under her thighs, smooth and warm from the room. Sirenna knelt in front of her and placed both hands on Pucka’s thighs over the glossy leather leggings, pressing slowly as if she was learning exactly where Pucka wanted attention. Sirenna’s hands slid upward a few inches, then stopped deliberately, and that refusal made Pucka laugh softly because she recognized the technique and loved it anyway.

That is cruel, Pucka said, and she said it like praise.

Sirenna’s expression warmed, just enough. It is careful, she replied, and careful sounded like a promise rather than a limitation.

Sirenna leaned in to kiss Pucka again, then kissed along her jaw and throat, letting her mouth linger where the leather choker framed Pucka’s skin. Pucka’s hands moved instinctively, gripping Sirenna’s waist, sliding over the fitted leather dress, pulling her closer. Sirenna’s hands returned to Pucka’s waist and harness and kept the touch focused where it stays safe to describe while still feeling real, pressing over her chest through the structured leather top, holding her hips over glossy leather, tracing the harness straps like they were meant to be touched.

Sirenna lifted her head and looked at Pucka with that calm authority that made everything feel inevitable. Tell me what you want now, she said, and it did not feel like a question. It felt like permission to own her desire.

Pucka answered honestly, not vague, not shy. I want you closer. I want to feel your leather against me until I stop thinking and start only feeling.

Sirenna’s gaze warmed, and she moved in closer, letting their bodies meet fully, leather against leather, heat collecting where it becomes difficult to stay composed. Sirenna kissed Pucka deep and steady, and Pucka answered with both hands, holding, touching, pulling her closer, refusing to be passive. Sirenna’s palm pressed over Pucka’s chest through the structured leather top in a slow rhythm that made Pucka breathe harder, then eased, then pressed again, and Pucka responded by tracing Sirenna’s waist and ribs through the leather dress, feeling the strength and steadiness underneath.

Sirenna broke the kiss just enough to speak against Pucka’s mouth, her voice as smooth as water in the dark. The palace takes. The water keeps.

Pucka’s voice softened into a whisper without her planning it. Then keep me.

Sirenna’s eyes held hers, not moving, not blinking, and that steadiness made Pucka feel safer and hotter at the same time. With your permission, Sirenna said.

Pucka nodded and said yes clearly, because the ritual mattered and because she meant it.

The rest of the night unfolded in a way that belonged to them and did not need graphic description to still feel heavy with intimacy. It was closeness that grew deeper and more consuming, kisses that turned into breath and touch and the soft whisper of leather shifting under hands. The water moved gently. The lamps flickered. The oil warmed the leather and made it shine in different ways. Sirenna stayed calm and precise, guiding without rushing, listening whenever Pucka spoke, and answering with patience that felt like power.

Later, Pucka lay back against the leather cushions, skin warm, leather still hugging her like a second self. Sirenna sat beside her with one hand resting on Pucka’s thigh over the glossy leggings, fingers drawing slow circles as if sealing a private vow. The leather coat remained on the cushion near the pool, exactly where Sirenna had placed it, visible and real, and the fitted leather dress remained on Sirenna’s body, unchanged, consistent, still shaping her like quiet danger.

You walked into my temple wearing the palace ring, Sirenna said softly.

Pucka turned her hand so the gold caught the lamplight. I walked in wearing my own choices.

Sirenna’s gaze dropped to Pucka’s leather choker ring, then returned to her eyes. Then leave with a new truth. You are not owned here. You are worshipped only if you allow it, and I listen when you speak.

Pucka smiled with that satisfied, dangerous calm that comes from being handled well. Then what does worship look like, priestess.

Sirenna leaned in and kissed her once, slow and intimate, and the kiss felt like a signature. It looks like listening, she murmured.

A faint sound in the corridor reminded them that dawn existed somewhere beyond leather drapes and water reflections. Sirenna stood, composed again, and crossed to the cushion where her leather coat rested. She lifted it, slipped it on smoothly, and closed it again before moving toward the door, because this temple did not ask its priestess to walk public corridors dressed like a private secret.

Pucka rose beside her, harness settling back into place, glossy leggings catching lamplight, her body humming with memory.

At the door, Sirenna paused and touched two fingers to the ring at Pucka’s throat, a final deliberate gesture that felt like blessing and claim, but only within what Pucka had allowed. The water forgets nothing, Sirenna said softly. Especially not what it has been given with consent.

Pucka held her gaze and smiled because she loved how precise Sirenna was with power. Then I will be careful what I let the water remember.

Sirenna’s smile turned quietly dangerous. Too late.

Pucka stepped back into the river night with the palace ring still on her finger, leather warm on her skin, and the unmistakable feeling that she had just moved into a deeper level of the game. The palace had taken its night with hunger and heat, but the Nile had taken something slower and heavier, something that would matter the next time Pucka stood face to face with Amberis and tried to pretend she was still entirely untouched by water.

End of Chapter 2