Page 4 of Golden Bond (Pleasure Palace #1)

Chapter

Three

CALLIS

T he morning light had already spilled through the high window when I woke.

The covers had slipped to my waist. The air was warm and dry, touched with the faint scent of citrus and rising bread. I sat up slowly. My body ached in places I hadn’t expected—shoulders, neck, the small of my back—as if I’d been holding tension even in sleep.

I crossed to the basin. The stone beneath it was warm.

Not from fire. From sunlight.

I had read once about such stones—gifts of the sun gods, just as the moonstones lit the night. They absorbed the day’s heat and passed it gently on to whatever touched them. It wasn’t magic. Not exactly. But it felt like more than stone.

I dipped my hands into the water, and it was warm, too. I cupped it over my face, letting it trickle down, then again, until I felt fully awake .

The seret lay folded at the end of the bed.

I dressed slowly, smoothing the fabric over my shoulders, pinning it at the hip as I’d been shown.

It clung to me again, reminding me that I was not in the life I knew.

I considered leaving my shoulder bare, like some of the others did, then fastened the fold firmly into place.

I wasn’t ready to be seen like that.

When I stepped outside, the world had bloomed again.

Birdsong laced the air. The breeze carried the scent of orange blossom and rosemary. Ahead of me, a small group of boys strolled the path toward the dining terrace, their laughter easy and unguarded.

They wore the seret like I did, though not quite.

One of them, tall and honey-skinned, had let his fall deliberately low across his waist. His left shoulder was bare, his torso exposed in full sun.

He knew he was beautiful. Knew the way his muscles shifted when he walked, the way his head turned just slightly as they passed beneath a flowering arbor.

His companion nudged him and whispered something.

The boy laughed, tossed his curls, and straightened his posture with a casual roll of his shoulder.

It was deliberate. All of it.

A performance. An offering.

He wants to be chosen , I thought. He’s asking for it.

The summoning spared you from some of your duties, though it didn’t seem to me a fair bargain.

I followed at a distance, feeling like a shadow trying to pass for a flame.

The dining terrace opened onto a wide stone platform shaded by climbing vines and open to the morning air. The high table—long and curved—was already spread with food. Servants moved between it and the kitchens, replenishing platters and pouring wine.

The scents struck first—sweet and savory, fresh and rich.

Ripe figs and sliced peaches. Warm bread split open to release steam. Aged cheese, creamy and sharp. Bowls of honey and dark jam. Small carafes of watered wine gleaming ruby in the sun. Everything arranged with the same careless perfection I had seen in the courtyards.

I lingered at the edge of the terrace, unsure if I was meant to wait or approach.

A young man waved me over.

He had black curls cropped close and a wide, generous smile. His seret was neatly draped, but the pin at his hip was golden, which meant something—I didn’t know what.

“You’re new,” he said as I approached.

I nodded.

“Sit with us,” he said, patting the seat beside him. “Unless you’re fasting.”

“I’m not,” I murmured.

He grinned. “Then don’t let the gods think you’re ungrateful.”

I sat. The cushion was soft. The warmth of the sun on my back warred with the cold knot in my stomach.

“I’m Lysian,” the boy said. “This is Ferel”—he gestured to the cocky boy with the bare chest—“and that’s Iro.”

Iro was quieter, broad-shouldered and olive-skinned, his dark hair braided down his back. He nodded once, a small but not unfriendly gesture.

“I’m Callis.”

“Welcome, Callis,” Ferel said with a smirk, reaching for a fig and biting into it with theatrical pleasure. “Have you seen much of the place yet?”

“Not… not much.” I reached for a piece of bread, my fingers brushing the crust. “I arrived yesterday.”

“The first day’s always strange,” said Lysian. “Second isn’t much better.”

They laughed. Even Iro cracked a smile.

“Have you seen the eastern pools?” Ferel asked. “Or the Temple of Velna? Or—gods, the silver stair? If you go up just after dawn?—”

“I saw the Temple of Elyon,” I said, before I could stop myself.

Their eyes turned toward me.

“It was beautiful,” I added quickly, reaching for cheese. “Quiet. And familiar.”

Lysian tilted his head. “You were a temple boy, then.”

“A scribe.”

“Then you’ll want to find the library wing. Aerius keeps his house near the terraces.”

I nodded, chewing slowly. The cheese was sharp, but rich. The bread still warm.

“What did you see there?” Ferel asked, his voice too casual .

My hands froze for the smallest moment.

Breath. Hands. Silk slipping down golden thighs. A moan swallowed by another man’s kiss.

“Nothing,” I said, too quickly. “Just the statue. I’d copied it before. I wanted to see it with my own eyes.”

They let the moment pass. No smirks. No nudges. Just another bite of bread, another sip of wine.

I swallowed hard and reached for a peach slice. It tasted of sun and something sweeter—so ripe it nearly dissolved on my tongue.

“You’re not like the others,” said Iro, quietly. “You move like someone who’s still trying to stay invisible.”

Ferel elbowed him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Lysian turned to me. “If you want quiet, walk the western path. The one behind the citrus trees.”

Ferel nodded. “It leads into the forest. Still part of the complex, walled in. Sometimes you won’t see anyone for hours. Which, if your expression tells me right, sounds perfect.”

I gave a weak smile. “Thank you.”

They said nothing more. Just passed the jam, filled their cups, and let the morning stretch long and golden around us.

And for a moment, I almost believed I could stay.

After breakfast, I parted ways with the others. Lysian gave me a warm nod, Ferel flashed a wink that I tried not to interpret, and Iro simply offered a parting glance, unreadable but not unkind .

I turned toward the western edge of the palace grounds.

The path curved gently past the front gardens, which by now were full of late-morning sun.

A cluster of young men lounged beneath the colonnades—three of them, half-draped in loose fabric, bronzed and beautiful, with limbs stretched across benches like they were part of the architecture itself.

One leaned back on his elbows, hair shining gold in the light, while another peeled some fruit with a small blade and offered slices to the others.

Their voices were low and smooth, punctuated by laughter.

They noticed me.

I kept walking.

Their conversation did not stop, but their tone shifted. One of them said something too quietly for me to catch. Another laughed again, softer this time, eyes still flicking toward me.

It could’ve meant anything.

But I knew it meant me.

I felt the heat crawl up my throat. My hand clenched slightly at my side, but I didn’t stop. I walked past them with my chin held level and my eyes fixed forward.

They didn’t matter. That’s what I told myself.

I passed through a thicket of citrus trees. Their branches arched low, heavy with bright fruit. The scent of rind and blossom was dizzying—sharp, sweet, and clean. Bees hovered lazily near the blooms, indifferent to me .

A single peach, flushed gold and pink, hung within reach. I stopped.

I don’t know why I picked it.

Maybe to feel in control of something.

The fruit came away in my hand with a soft snap. Its skin was warm from the sun. I wiped it on my hip and brought it to my mouth.

The first bite gave way easily—velvet skin, then soft flesh beneath. Sweetness exploded on my tongue. Not cloying. Bright. Ripe.

Juice ran instantly down my chin, slipping across my throat and onto my chest.

I staggered one step and caught myself with a breath.

I tried to wipe it with my hand, but the juice only slicked across my fingers, already sticky, already stained with the scent of summer.

I took another bite, slower. It was messy, impossible not to be.

My lips dragged across the skin and I felt the juice welling again, sliding over my lower lip, then tracing a slow line between my collarbones, down the shallow channel of skin where breath rose and fell.

I had never eaten like this, not in the temple, not at home.

There was something reckless about it. Indulgent.

I hated the way it made me feel.

The cloth of the seret clung where the juice had touched it. My fingers were tacky. My chest shone slightly in the sun.

I took the last bite of the fruit and tossed the pit into the underbrush .

The path narrowed now, growing darker as the trees thickened. The air turned cooler, the light filtered through a canopy of swaying green. Somewhere ahead, I heard the murmur of water.

I followed it.

A stream curved across the clearing, wide and slow here on the plateau. It must have come down from the mountains, though it moved with unhurried grace. The surface shimmered where the light touched it, dappled and silver.

I knelt at the edge and reached in.

The water was cool and clean, sliding over my skin like silk over marble. I scrubbed my hand with my thumb, trying to rid it of every trace of sweetness. It didn’t matter that no one was here. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t being watched.

I still felt exposed.

I leaned lower and splashed some water onto my chest, watching it bead and run in rivulets down my skin. The place where the peach juice had dried felt sticky still, no matter how many times I rinsed it.

I sat back on my heels, bare knees pressed to the earth, and looked out over the stream. The trees rustled gently above me. Sunlight moved in shifting patterns over the surface.

It was beautiful here.

Quiet.

And still, I couldn’t settle.