There was gold in the walls.
I don’t an trim or tasteful inlays. I an gold, thick and vulgar, curling along every edge like a drunk god had finger-painted his wet dreams across the marble. The kind of gold that didn’t whisper wealth—it scread it, while throwing grapes at its own face and demanding more silk pillows.
And the marble?
Veined like a noble’s forearm. White as divine innocence and probably just as fake. The whole place glowed with that too-rich-to-sleep kind of opulence. There were dos above , arches around , and enough incense in the air to choke a choir of virgins. Not that I saw any virgins. This was not that kind of establishnt.
I stood at the threshold of a bathing chamber that belonged in the sacred scrolls of every perfud hedonist to ever stroke a quill with one hand.
Steam curled like gossip through the air, perfud with sandalwood, myrrh, and sothing dark and sweet that made my thighs clench before my brain even caught up.
I was, incidentally, very nude.
Except for the jewelry.
Oh, the jewelry.
Chains coiled around my belly like golden serpents with better fashion sense. Rings glittered on every finger and toe. My arms jingled softly with bangles; my ankles with bells that chid like delicate scandal. A body chain slithered over my hips and looped around my breasts, catching the light and every man’s attention, hypothetical or otherwise.
I looked like a goddess’s dirty secret.
And I felt... warm.
In all the ways.
Two girls awaited . Slender, beautiful, statuesque in that vaguely divine way that made you feel like you were about to be both worshipped and judged. Silk clung to their hips like it had been bribed. Their eyes were kohled, their lips like sin, and their smiles—
Oh their smiles.
Predatory.
Playful.
“Co, precious,” said the taller one, voice like warm wine. “The waters await.”
“The Master desires your radiance polished.”
“Every inch,” added the shorter girl with a grin that suggested her idea of polishing might involve teeth.
They guided in like I was royalty. Or at. Possibly both.
The bath was sunken and steaming. Rose petals floated on the surface like bribes. A fountain in the shape of a sea-dragon spouted warm water into the pool with a soft murmur. Pillars frad the chamber, and dod windows let in buttery light that made everything glow like a half-rembered wet dream.
I stepped in.
Slowly.
Let it wash over .
The heat sank into my bones, chased away every chill, every ache, every mory of mud and cold nights and sarcastic dragons.
I sighed.
The girls joined . One behind, one in front. Soaped cloth in hand, fingertips nimble. They didn’t ask where to touch. They just… began.
And oh gods.
Hands gliding across my shoulders. A thumb grazing the back of my neck. Lips brushing just behind my ear.
“You are exquisite,” one of them murmured.
“She will be envious,” said the other.
“Who?”
They giggled.
“She who waits behind the bronze door,” said one, breath hot against my cheek.
“She who watches,” whispered the other, fingers trailing lower. “He says you’ll outshine them all.”
Their hands moved like incense smoke—slow, sinuous, inevitable. The oils slled of saffron and sothing that made dizzy in a very particular place.
I sighed again.
Eyes half-lidded.
Sowhere between prayer and sin.
My lips t hers.
Just like that.
Soft. Curious. Then hungry.
The other giggled and pressed in from behind, breath against my shoulder, soap-slick hands roaming my hips.
They whispered to then—sweet nonsense and filthy promise. Words I didn’t understand but didn’t need to. Their mouths knew the language. Their hands translated.
The taller one bit my lip gently.
The shorter one giggled, kissed lower.
And sowhere beyond the rising steam and curling silk, I forgot what cold feet felt like.
I forgot the world.
I forgot myself.
And just like that, they parted.
The bath rippled as the slave girls stepped away, identical smiles soft as silk and twice as slippery.
“You are ready now,” one whispered, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“He is waiting,” said the other, eyes glittering with sothing that might’ve been envy. Or amusent. Or hunger.
I blinked.
“He?”
But they were already gliding away like swans on heat, vanishing behind curtains that shimred with gold thread and secrets.
I was alone.
Except I wasn’t.
The air itself seed to hum with anticipation. Perfud steam curled around my thighs. The oils clung to my skin, making gleam like so opulent offering on the altar of depravity. I could still feel their hands, their lips, their wicked little whispers echoing through my bones.
And between my legs—well.
Let’s just say I was very ready.
Every step felt like a sin. Every jingle of my anklets, a confession. My body was a temple, a brothel, a poem no priest ever dared recite aloud. This was it. The mont. The room. The palace. The story. Where Saya, daughter of no one, graduate of gutter and gallows, finally entered the kind of chamber where girls like didn’t fetch drinks—we were the drink.
I was trembling a little.
Not from cold.
From hunger.
From awe.
From the kind of fear that tastes like excitent in a prettier dress.
And there it was.
The door.
Bronze. Massive. Ornate enough to give a jeweler a stroke. Etched with scenes I didn’t fully understand—beasts and bodies, war and worship, mouths and moans. It beaconed. Yes, beaconed. I don’t care if that’s not a word. It called to with the gravity of climax and catastrophe wrapped into one.
I stepped toward it.
Dripping.
Barefoot.
Glistening.
I raised a hand.
Stopped.
Waited.
Suddenly sothing cold smacked the tip of my nose.
I blinked.
Marble vanished. Gold vanished. The bronzed door, the perfud air, the twin tongues of temptation—gone.
Drip.
Drip.
The ceiling above was stone. Wet. Miserable. One particularly passive-aggressive droplet had just iced my nostril. I groaned.
Wool scratched against my thigh. Real wool. Itchy, vaguely damp, slling of mildew and goat sweat. Definitely not the spun silk of harem dreams.
I was curled up like a croissant under a ratty old blanket, wedged firmly inside the warm, scaly crook of a dragon’s tail.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
“Fuck.”
“Fuck.”
A low growl rumbled behind like a warning tremor before a sarcastic volcano.
“Go to sleep, Saya,” he grunted.
“My feet are cold.”
“So is my patience.”
I wiggled my toes against the stone floor for dramatic effect. “A bit of fire? Pretty please?”
He huffed. Literally. A slow, lazy breath through flared nostrils. The coals in the shallow pit coughed to life with a flicker of orange. Smoke rose like a tired prayer.
“Better?” he asked, not even opening one eye.
I snuggled deeper into the scratchy blanket. Into the warmth of his tail.
“Much.”
Outside, the wind howled.
Inside, I pressed my cheek to scales that slled faintly of ash and old treasure and ho.
Not exactly a palace.
But close enough.
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