Page 22 of Golden Bond (Pleasure Palace #1)

We passed a herb shop tucked between two domed residences, the scent of crushed thyme and dried lemon rind drifting on the wind.

Beyond that, a square opened before us, quiet now, though I could still hear the whisper of water from the central fountain.

I paused for a moment there. Let the night breathe around us.

Callis’s fingers curled a little tighter around mine.

“You’re not taking me to the docks, are you?” he asked, teasing gently.

I smiled. “Almost.”

The descent grew steeper as we left the upper city behind.

The streets widened. Laundry hung between windows on high wires, and cats lounged on warm steps.

A boy was singing to himself near a bakery’s back door, kneading dough with clumsy fists.

The smell of sea salt and fish brine crept in from the wind, stronger now.

At the final turn, the city dropped open before us— broad and dark and restless. The docks stretched out like fingers into the bay, torches flickering along the piers. Boats rocked in their moorings. Sailcloth snapped against wooden masts. I led him all the way to the end of the third pier.

The ship waited there.

It was modest, with pale sails bound tight and the name Velona’s Grace etched in curved script on the hull. Deckhands moved about with quiet efficiency, securing crates, checking ropes. They nodded to me as we passed.

Callis stopped walking when he saw it.

“This is bound for?—”

“Your island,” I said. “Yes.”

He looked at me, stunned.

“I asked the captain to wait a few extra days. Just until the rite is complete. There’s a berth reserved for you, if you want it.”

Callis was quiet for a moment. The torchlight gilded his face, caught in the loose curls at his temples.

“And the crates?” he asked, voice barely audible.

I turned slightly. The crew had stacked them neatly by the loading ramp—ten in total, sealed and marked with my sigil.

“They’re yours,” I said. “Or rather, for your temple. Glossaries, monastic records, first-cycle scrolls, a few interpretive texts. Even a replica of the old maps of the southern archives. I know your chapel had scraps at best. I wanted you to have more.”

He stared at the crates. “You copied them all? ”

“I gave what I could spare from my own shelves. And paid scribes for the rest.”

His brow furrowed, his mouth parting slightly like he meant to speak—but no sound came.

I stepped back from him, just a little. Let my hand fall from his.

“I know this bond will end. I’ve known it since the beginning.” I tried to keep my voice steady, but the ache behind it betrayed me. “But I wanted… I wanted you to leave with something that might make the return easier. Something lasting.”

He turned toward me then.

I met his eyes.

And it hurt.

Gods, it hurt.

I had tried to play the part of the gracious host, the elder Thorn, the wise man preparing his young bondmate for his next chapter. I had done everything right. Given freely. Loved gently. But still—it was Callis’s eyes that nearly undid me.

There was something swimming in them I couldn’t name. Wonder. Guilt. Grief. I didn’t know. I didn’t ask.

I just smiled like it didn’t kill me. Like it didn’t feel like the tide pulling away from the shore for the last time.

“Come,” I said softly. “It’s late. You’ll want to be rested for the dawn.”

The lamps were low when we returned.

Outside, the palace had begun to still. The corridors quieted, the winds hushed. In our rooms, only the soft crackle of flame in the bronze sconces lit the dusk-dimmed walls, warm and gold.

Callis undressed slowly tonight, his eyes on me the entire time.

No teasing. No shy glances. Just quiet knowing.

I stepped forward and undid the clasp of his belt, let the soft fabric fall. I kissed his shoulder, then the side of his neck, and he leaned into it—not urgently, but with the weight of days. With trust. With want.

We made love as if we had done it a thousand times—just slow, steady movements, like prayer.

I guided him onto his back, kissed the length of his throat, and watched his lashes flutter as he opened to me without hesitation.

My hands mapped the terrain of his body—over the hollow of his hips, the smooth rise of his thigh, the soft curl of hair below his navel. Every place I touched, he warmed.

When I slid inside him, his legs wrapped around my waist like instinct, like need. He gasped, hands flying to my shoulders, then held me there as our foreheads pressed together.

I rocked into him slowly, deliberately, each thrust a quiet declaration.

He met me in kind, his body eager, pliant, desperate to hold all of me.

I kissed him deeply, hands in his hair, holding him as close as the bond would allow.

The sounds he made were soft—breathless moans, sighs of pleasure that seemed to come from someplace holy.

He arched into me and sighed my name, not as a question or plea, but as something certain.

His fingers dragged down my spine as I moved harder, deeper. He clung to me as the tension built, his mouth parting around broken words, his thighs trembling around my hips.

I cradled his face when he came apart—his body shuddering under mine, his release painting his chest in hot, white streaks. I kissed the corner of his open mouth, still moving until he pulled me with him into the same, staggering crest.

Held him through it, murmuring into his skin, letting him take me with him.

Letting the bond take us both.

And afterward, I didn’t let him go.

We stayed pressed together, skin damp with heat, the scent of sweat and salt and incense still faint in the air. His head rested against my chest, his fingers moving absently over my ribs as if trying to memorize me through touch alone.

The bond pulsed low and steady, like waves against the inside of my ribs. I could almost hear it.

I could almost believe it would stay.

My hand slid down and found his.

“You’re the only bright thing that’s ever happened to me,” I whispered.

He blinked up at me, brows lifting with a startled softness. “You’ve lived a life of abundance,” he said, quietly. “Look around you.”

His fingers gestured to the silk-draped walls, the carved canopy bed, the moonlight kissing the terrace garden through parted curtains.

“This palace,” he murmured, “these books, your place in the Order—how can you say that? ”

I looked at him.

Really looked.

He didn’t say it out of cruelty. He said it because he believed it. Because to him, abundance was beauty. Was ease. Was luxury and light.

But I had walked through these halls for years, untouched by any of it.

“None of it ever touched me,” I said. “Not the way you have.”

He went quiet.

Then he curled in a little closer, resting his head over my heart, as if listening to the bond where it pulsed beneath my skin.

We said nothing more.

But as sleep began to claim us both, I felt the bond thrum once more—soft, slow, reluctant.

Like it, too, knew its time was nearly done.