Chapter 10: The Bathhouse
The silence in the Empress’s bedchamber was a living thing, thick and velvet. Angela slept, her breathing deep and even, one arm flung across the pillows, her fiery hair a shock against the white linen. Marisa and I moved like ghosts, gathering discarded clothing, snuffing candles. We didn’t speak until the great cedar door shut behind us, leaving us in the cool, torch-lit corridor.
My skin still felt aflame, hyper-aware. The memory of Marisa’s fingers was a brand.
Wordlessly, she took my hand. Her grip wasn’t tender; it was possessive. She led me not to my old chamber, but through a series of arched passageways that descended, the air growing warmer, wetter, until we reached the private imperial bathhouse. The public pools were vast, but this was a jewel-box of marble and gold, built for the Empress’s innermost circle.
Steam wreathed the room in a dreamlike haze. The light came from dozens of oil lamps, their glow reflecting off the water of the central pool and catching the serpentine friezes carved into the walls. The scent was different here—not the sacred myrrh of the private chamber, but crushed roses, lush and decadent. It clung to the hot, damp air.
Marisa released me and began to undress with practiced efficiency, her back to me. The sleek muscles of her shoulders moved beneath her skin as she shed her thin robe. She stepped into the water, sinking until it lapped at her collarbones, her head tilted back. She finally looked at me, her eyes dark in the lamplight.
“What a day,” she said, her voice echoing softly off the marble. “It began with you trying to poison my influence. Whispering in her ear that my jokes were too sharp, that my ways might stir unrest among the priests.” She let out a short, humorless laugh. “And it ends with you wearing her collar. With your taste on my fingers.”
I stood by the pool’s edge, my own robe feeling like a prison. The truth of her words was a cold stone in my gut, but it was surrounded by that relentless, simmering heat. I had fought so stupidly, so transparently, for a favor that was never meant to be won through rivalry. Angela saw through everything. She always had.
“I was a fool,” I said. The admission was easier now. It felt like shedding a skin.
“Yes,” Marisa agreed simply. She lifted a hand from the water, watching droplets slide down her arm. “But an interesting one. Come in. You smell of her floor and your own sweat.”
I let my robe fall. The air was warm, but still I shivered. I descended the steps into the pool. The water was perfection, a seamless heat that enveloped me. I moved toward her, not as an equal, but drawn like iron to a lodestone.
I stopped an arm’s length away. The steam curled between us. I could see the faint, satisfied curve of her mouth.
“You wanted to be the favorite,” she stated. “And now you are… something else entirely. How does it feel?”
I let my head sink back into the water for a moment, letting the heat seep into my bones. When I surfaced, I pushed my wet hair from my face. The words came, unfiltered, pulled from a deep, new well inside me. “I thought it would feel like defeat. It doesn’t. It feels… like clarity.” I met her gaze. “I lost to you. Completely.”
A spark lit in her eyes. She drifted closer. “Do you resent it?”
“No.” The answer was immediate, shocking us both. “I fought for a phantom. For a title. This…” I gestured vaguely, the water rippling. “This is real. The collar is real. Your hand on me was real.”
She was right before me now. The playful mischief was gone from her expression, replaced by a sharp, assessing hunger. “So what are you now, Benedetta?”
I didn’t have to think. The role had already written itself upon my nerves, my flesh. My voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the gentle lap of water. “I am whatever you wish me to be. You won. You are in charge. So tell me, Marisa.” I let my knees bend, settling lower in the water so I had to look up at her. “What does my victor desire? How may I… worship my superior?”
The word hung in the steamy air. Worship.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. It transformed her, making her appear older, more dangerous, utterly captivating. She reached out. Her fingers didn’t go to my breast or between my legs. They found the metal of the collar, still snug around my throat. She hooked a finger under it and pulled, gently, drawing me through the water until our bodies were almost touching.
“Your mouth was so diligent on our Empress,” she murmured, her breath warm against my cheek. “So devoted. I want to see that devotion. But for me.”
She released the collar and leaned back against the marble edge of the pool, her arms spread along the rim. An invitation. A command.
The water swirled around me as I moved. The rose-scented steam filled my lungs. There was no audience here, no performative aspect for Angela’s benefit. This was a transaction of pure power between her two possessions. And I craved it.
I didn’t crawl here. The water made it unnecessary. I simply submerged and surfaced before her, my hands finding the slick marble on either side of her hips. I looked up, waiting for final instruction.
“From the foot of the dais to the foot of the bath,” she said, her voice a low thrum of amusement. “You know what to do.”
I did.
I began at her ankle, just as I had with Angela. But this was different. This was Marisa—all lean muscle and taut skin, a body built for agility and grace. I traced the line of her calf with my tongue, tasting rosewater and salt. I took my time, learning this new geography of power. When I reached her knee, I kissed the inside of it, and felt a subtle tremor run through her.
Good.
I looked up. Her head was tilted back against the marble, her eyes closed, but her jaw was tight. She was not as detached as she pretended. The knowledge was a thrill that shot straight to my core.
I continued my ascent, my mouth traveling the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Her breath hitched. Her hand came down and fisted in my wet hair, not to guide, but to claim, to anchor herself. The sting was exquisite.
When my lips finally found her, she let out a sharp, bitten-off sound. I served her not with frantic hunger, but with the same slow, deliberate devotion I had shown Angela. This was my offering. My penance. My bizarre, twisted victory. I had wanted to be the favorite, and in this utterly subverted way, I had captured the complete, rapt attention of them both.
Her grip in my hair tightened, her hips rising off the marble to meet me. The controlled facade shattered. Her breath came in ragged gasps that echoed off the water and stone. I lost myself in the act, in the taste and the sounds and the sheer, overwhelming rightness of my place. This was where I belonged. Not fighting for a crown, but on my knees, providing the crown its pleasure.
When she finally cried out, the sound was sharp and unreserved, ringing through the steamy chamber. She trembled, her thighs clamping against my head for a long, pulsating moment before she went limp, sliding deeper into the water, her hand loosening in my hair to a caress.
I rested my head against her thigh, breathing heavily, the water cooling on my heated skin.
After a long silence, she slid down into the pool, bringing her face level with mine. Her eyes were dark pools, sated and deeply amused. She cupped my cheek, her thumb stroking my lower lip.
“You’re right,” she said, her voice hoarse. “This configuration is not bad at all.”
She leaned forward and kissed me, deep and lingering, a taste of shared power and rosewater. Then she pulled back, her clever smile returning.
“Now,” she said, rising from the water, droplets streaming down her slender form. “Wash my back. Your goddess is tired.”
I followed her, the water parting before me. The emptiness was gone. In its place was a terrible, glorious fullness. I picked up the sieve of polished alabaster and the cake of rose-scented soap. As I began to lather it across her shoulders, she sighed, a sound of pure contentment. My hands moved over the skin of my victor, my superior, the sharp, beautiful instrument of my downfall and my strange, new purpose. And I knew, with every fiber of my being, that I would do it again tomorrow.