I stepped into the hamam and imdiately regretted every life choice that had led here.
The heat hit like a drunken slap—thick, fragrant, soaked in rosewater and male arrogance. The marble underfoot was slick, the air slicker. Sowhere nearby, a fountain gurgled like it was laughing at .
Then I heard it.
Not just the laughter.
Music.
A lute.
Of course there was a lute.
I followed the sound like a bloodhound following the scent of disaster. Around the corner, past a screen of hanging silks, I found him.
Sir Odran.
Lounging in the central bath like he owned it. Reclined, glorious, smugger than a cat on a sun-baked roof, and twice as pleased with himself. His bronzed chest glistened. His arms were spread along the marble edge like he was posing for a statue titled Hubris in Heat.
To his left, a girl was drizzling perfud oil across his shoulder with trembling hands.
To his right, another fed him grapes from a silver bowl, every bite accompanied by a giggle that made want to drown them both in the rosewater.
And behind him—because why stop at excess when you can leap straight into theatrical lunacy—stood a bard.
Also nude.
Lute slung around his neck by a red silk ribbon, strumming away as if serenading a god of war and fuckery.
His tune wasn’t even subtle.
Sothing vaguely romantic with obscene undertones. I caught a lyric about “sweaty valor” and “loins of fire.”
I froze.
Then I exploded.
“You!”
The note from the lute screeched to a halt. The bard blinked at like a startled deer with a musical fetish. One of the groupies shrieked. Odran turned his head, calm as anything, and smiled.
“Well, well,” he said. “Didn’t know they offered house service. Are you working here now? Or just a very motivated tourist?”
“You absolute cockroach in human skin! Where is my loot, Odran?!”
He raised an eyebrow. “Which part? The enchanted dallion? The dagger? The sandal I kept for lonely nights?”
“I will murder you with my own clit ring.”
He turned to the bard. “Play sothing angry. Sothing with vengeance.”
The bard strumd a minor chord. Still naked.
***
Gods.
I hate myself.
I hate that I stepped into the pool. I hate that the water was perfect—hot, silken, lapping at my hips like a lover with patience.
I hate how my skin glowed in the steam and how I knew he was looking.
And most of all?
I hate that I wanted him to.
I moved closer, hissing like a kettle about to boil. “You smug, shiny, soft-handed excuse for a hero—”
He raised a lazy hand. Snapped his fingers.
The groupies pouted. One even opened her mouth, but his look shut her down like a slamd door. They slinked out with exaggerated grace and offended tits, casting glares back at like I’d pissed in their scented oil.
Now it was just and him.
And the steam.
And the awful, unbearable tension between my thighs.
He didn’t say a word. Just watched . That infuriating half-smile plastered on his stupid perfect face. Hair damp, clinging to his cheek. Chest still gleaming. Eyes like mischief and moonlight.
“Stop smirking,” I snapped, stepping closer until only a ripple separated us. “You look like a sex doll that learned sarcasm.”
He laughed, low and warm. The kind of laugh you feel behind your ribs.
And then he did it.
He reached out—slow, deliberate—and brushed a damp strand of hair off my face.
His fingers were warm. His touch feather-light. And my brain short-circuited like a drunk girl trying to do math.
“I missed you too, Saya.”
I—
No.
No no no.
Absolutely not.
Do not lt.
Do not flutter.
Do not let your belly drop like a giggling idiot on a fairground ride.
My chest tightened. My breath stuttered. My mouth opened and closed like a fish that forgot what words were.
You idiot, Saya.
You wet, naked, stupid, pining idiot.
This is how it always goes. He steals sothing, you swear vengeance, he says sothing with that voice and those eyes and that face, and suddenly your legs forget what anger feels like.
I hate him.
I want him.
I hate that I want him.
I hate that I’m thinking about his mouth right now and how good it felt on—
“Say sothing,” he murmured.
“I hope your dick gets mildew,” I snapped, because that’s all I had left.
His grin grew. “Still the poet.”
I should slap him. I should dunk him. I should bite him and not in the fun way.
Instead I just stood there, naked, shaking, furious, horny, and entirely at his rcy.
And gods help —he knew it.
His mouth was on mine before I could slap it.
Or maybe I tried to slap it and missed.
Details blurred when your blood boiled hotter than the water you were standing in.
It wasn’t tender. It was war.
Wet, tongue-heavy war with too much teeth.
I shoved him. He pulled .
I bit his lip. He moaned like he enjoyed it.
Bastard.
“You still sll like lies and sandalwood,” I hissed, nails scraping down his back.
“And you still taste like blasphemy and blackmail,” he growled, grabbing my hips like he was preparing to throw over a table that wasn’t there.
I wrapped a leg around him. “Don’t you dare enjoy this.”
“I’m not made of stone,” he said, already halfway inside .
“I should drown you.”
“Try.”
I did.
Pushed his head under for a full three seconds.
He resurfaced coughing, laughing, eyes full of madness.
“You are completely deranged.”
“You’re hard,” I shot back.
He grinned. “You’re wetter than the pool.”
“Oh, fuck you, Odran.”
“You are.” He thrust. “Right now.”
Every motion felt like a battle. Every gasp, a declaration of war. Our bodies clashed like idiot gladiators—slippery, furious, and too horny to quit.
“Do I enslave you,” he muttered against my neck, “or marry you?”
“Neither.”
“Which would make you feistier?”
“You think you can own ?”
“I think I could leash you.”
“Leash this,” I snarled, and slamd my forehead into his.
“Ow!”
“Your fault!”
“Your skull is pointy!”
“Your dick is cocky!”
We collided again.
Sowhere nearby, the nude bard had started playing sothing slow and emotional.
“STOP THAT,” we both scread in unison.
He flinched and started plucking a dirge instead.
“Better,” I muttered, biting Odran’s shoulder hard enough to bruise.
He grunted. “Are you always this violent in bed?”
“Only with people I hate.”
“Then hate harder.”
“Oh, I will.”
I ca like a curse, biting down on his earlobe just to make a point.
He followed, head thrown back, cursing in three languages and two dialects of regret.
We collapsed, tangled in limbs, half-subrged, breathing like drowning saints.
Silence.
Well—except for the bard. Who was now playing what sounded suspiciously like a wedding march.
“Kill him?” Odran asked, panting.
“Later.”
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