Page 17 of Golden Bond (Pleasure Palace #1)

Chapter

Nine

AUREN

T he days passed like polished beads on a thread—indistinct at a glance, but each with its own grain and tension beneath the smooth surface.

Callis woke early, always. I knew the sound of his footfalls before I opened my eyes, the whisper of linen, the brief rush of water in the outer basin.

He slipped from the apartments with reverence, never disturbing me, never lingering as though unsure of his welcome.

He didn’t ask where I would be that day, nor did he tell me where he was going.

But I always knew. The Temple of Aerius, the scriptorium, the Gymnasia.

He returned just as quietly in the afternoons, robes smelling faintly of sun and ink, his cheeks sometimes flushed with heat from the baths.

He greeted me with a nod or a polite word—nothing presumptive, nothing intimate—and took his place at the low table where I left the scrolls and volumes each morning.

Sometimes we read in tandem, sometimes I watched him read.

Sometimes he asked questions. Sometimes he didn’t.

On the surface, it was peaceful. But beneath that calm, something strained.

The bond was no longer a suggestion. It had begun to take shape inside me, pressing outward in pulses I felt behind my ribs, behind my teeth.

When Callis entered a room, I felt him before I saw him.

When he passed too close, the bond coiled tight in my belly, humming like string drawn taut across my spine.

He didn’t touch me.

He hadn’t touched me since that first night—not truly, not intentionally—and that absence settled over my skin like hunger left unanswered.

I told myself not to mind. He was new to this.

Young. He didn’t understand what the bond demanded, or perhaps he did and found me lacking.

Maybe he didn’t want this. Maybe he regretted choosing me the moment he’d spoken the vow aloud.

Or maybe—more dangerous still—he was waiting for me to act.

But I had done that before. Had reached too soon, too fast. Had taken interest for invitation. And when it shattered, it had been my fault, not theirs. So I waited now. I watched.

He was beautiful in the way of something still blooming.

His hands were steady when he wrote, but restless when he listened.

His posture was correct, always—shoulders squared, back straight—but his eyes wandered to the edges of every story, curious.

I caught him once rereading the same line three times in a row, eyes glazed not with boredom but with awe.

He’d been tracing the old glosses beside the myth of the Sea-Bride and her mirror.

He hadn’t noticed me watching. I hadn’t said a word.

Each night, the bond grew heavier. Not painful. Not yet. But like a stone added to the hem of a robe, pulling slowly downward.

I began to dream again—unhelpful, vivid dreams where Callis was always just out of reach. Dreams where I woke alone, hot and aching, unsure if the bond had flared or if I had simply imagined his nearness.

I took longer walks. Visited the northern cloisters. Tended the plants in the east-facing hall, pruning roots until the scent of soil and crushed leaf grounded me again. I told myself this was fine. That patience was a virtue. That the bond did not need to be physical to be holy.

But even the gods grew restless when left unanswered.

On the fifth day, I watched him fall asleep reading one of the older fragments, his head tilted, mouth barely parted, fingers curled on the floor beside him. The bond curled tight in my chest then, hot and bright, and it didn’t fade when I turned away.

It stayed through the night. It stayed through the morning.

And by the time the sixth evening came, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could pretend it wasn’t burning me alive .

The next morning, I rose before him. I washed. Dressed without sound. Tried to pray.

But the words wouldn’t come. Only breath—and the bond, coiled under my ribs like something half-starved.

I’d told myself it would ease. That bonds needed time to root.

That whatever ache lived in me was the usual turbulence of new closeness, not a reflection of what he did or didn’t feel.

But each day the weight grew. Each moment he passed beside me without looking, each time he spoke in that gentle, temple-trained tone, made me feel more like a host than a partner. A vessel. A stranger.

And the bond—gods, the bond was so alive.

It curled toward him like a vine seeking sunlight.

Like a flower opening toward warmth. But he never reached back.

Never once touched me, not even by accident.

Not even in sleep. I’d woken once to find him curled far on the other side of the bedding, arms tucked to his chest like he was afraid to take up space. Afraid to be too near me.

I hadn’t moved. I hadn’t dared.

I tried to lose myself in routine. In ceremony.

In the upkeep of the cloisters and the cleansing rites.

I polished the copper basins in the Hall of Repose until they gleamed, taught the dusk prayers to three new acolytes, even spent a half-day translating a petition scroll from a vineyard on the isle of Ithar.

Anything to avoid the slow, molten tension rising in my chest.

But even the scrolls betrayed me.

Every tale we read together seemed suddenly changed. The lovers met in moonlight. The gods whispered through touch. Even the metaphors felt like teeth.

I’d glance at Callis beside me on the bench—elbow nearly brushing mine, face intent on some dusty volume—and my thoughts unraveled.

The way his fingers curled around a stylus, delicate but sure.

The furrow of his brow when he concentrated.

The small, habitual movement he made when shifting his weight: a roll of his shoulder that left the edge of his seret slipping low on one arm, revealing a sliver of pale collarbone and the curve of muscle just above the chest.

The first time I saw it, I turned away sharply. The second time, I didn’t.

He spoke to me in the evenings, and the sound of his voice—warm, unguarded in his excitement about some passage or name he’d uncovered—settled like heat low in my belly.

He didn’t mean to tease. He didn’t know how tightly I was wound. That each moment near him chipped away at the shell of discipline I’d spent years crafting.

And still he offered nothing.

No touch. No glance that lingered.

Perhaps he was shy. Perhaps he was overwhelmed. Or perhaps—perhaps he simply wasn’t drawn to me at all.

That thought lodged like a splinter behind my ribs.

He had chosen me for the bond. Spoken the words with reverence. But desire… desire couldn’t be forced. An d I was no god of light or poetry. Just a Thorn. Just a man trying not to bleed longing into every silence between us.

And silence there was.

It settled between us like the weight of hot wax, fluid and pressing. Sometimes I caught him watching me—but only briefly, only when he thought I wouldn’t notice. He looked away too quickly for me to trust it meant anything more.

So I smiled. I kept distance.

And I burned.

The nights grew warmer.

Not just from the season’s turn, but from something deeper—like heat rising from the foundation of the palace itself. The kind that coiled in your lungs and stayed there, humming just beneath the surface.

We still read together. Always at the long bench, always in the same hush, a moonstone lamp between us and parchment laid wide.

I’d let him choose the scrolls, just to watch the small flicker of decision in his brow.

Just to see his fingers hover and settle.

One night, as he reached for a glossed parable of Elyon’s trials, my hand moved for the same one—and our fingers brushed.

Just a graze.

But the bond snapped taut like a plucked string.

I felt his breath catch. He didn’t pull away. He just froze, eyes on the scroll, body perfectly still except for the sudden shift in the air around him.

I drew my hand back slowly. Waited. Hoped .

But he said nothing. He only opened the scroll and began to read.

The bond pulsed for nearly an hour after that. Slow. Persistent. As if waiting for one of us to name it.

Another night, we sat too close. The bench was long enough to leave space, but we’d drifted across the middle of it, shoulder nearly to shoulder. I didn’t move. Neither did he. His thigh brushed mine once, and I felt him go still again—then soften.

He leaned, just barely, as the light waned and his posture relaxed. His head tilted slightly, the scent of cedar clinging faintly to his hair. I felt myself mirror the lean without realizing.

And then I stood.

Quickly. Abruptly. Before my hand could reach for his.

The bond screamed at the break.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. My skin itched with heat. The bond burned faint and hot beneath my sternum, like coals with no air to feed them. I bathed late—twice—sinking into the cold pool near the northern court. I paced the cloister. I recited prayers I hadn’t used in years. Nothing soothed it.

It wasn’t just tension anymore. It was pressure. Like being asked to hold a full breath for hours, days, without exhale.

I started dreaming.

Not of him directly—at least not at first. But of skin. Of light. Of the warm crush of someone’s weight beside mine in the dark. The dreams left me waking with the sheets tangled and my jaw clenched tight, body half-slick with sweat and need.

And always, the bond throbbed through me like a second heartbeat.

I ran the temple paths at dawn. I let the sand tear my feet bloody. I meditated until my vision blurred. And still, it built.

He was next to me. I could feel it even if I were blind. A pulse, a warmth, a scent that rose each night.

We shared silence like it was sacred. But I was no longer sure it was holy.

It was want.

And it was growing.

The next day, he was late again.

Not by much—but enough.