Chapter 8: Baths of Submission
The warmth of Callum’s bed was a memory pressed against her skin as Teresa paced her own chambers. Dawn was a grey smear at the edge of the sky, but sleep was impossible. The taste of them—Maeve, Callum, the night itself—still lingered on her tongue. It was a residue that no wine could wash away. She felt frayed, oversensitive, the palace walls seeming to breathe in time with her own restless pulse.
A bath. The thought was simple, cleansing. Her own adjoining bathroom felt too small, too full of her own perfumed solitude. The royal baths, however, would be deserted at this hour, a haven of silent steam.
She was wrong.
The door to the bath complex sighed open on oiled hinges, releasing a thick, perfumed cloud that stung her eyes. The air was heavy with humidity and the scent of lavender oil, citrus peel, and something darker, muskier beneath. The main pool, a vast rectangle of green-veined marble, shimmered under the light of a hundred dripping candles. And in its center, figures moved through the mist like ghosts in a fever dream.
Isolde.
Teresa stopped at the pool’s edge, her feet cold on the mosaic tile. Isolde Von Hess, whose ambition was as precise and cold-cut as a diamond, was pinned against the curved marble wall of the pool, her dark hair plastered to her skull, her mouth open in a soundless cry. Lucien held her there, his body a golden press against her pale form, his hand wrapped in her hair, pulling her head back to expose the long line of her throat.
And behind Isolde, partially obscured by swirling steam, was Maeve. Her blonde head was bent, her mouth at Isolde’s ear, one arm wrapped around Isolde’s torso to cup a breast, the other working relentlessly between Isolde’s legs from behind. Isolde’s body jerked with each movement, a marionette on strings of pure sensation.
“She came to find clarity,” Lucien’s voice cut through the humid air, casual, conversational, though his hips were driving into Isolde with a brutal, steady rhythm. “Isn’t that right, darling? To wash away the mess of the evening.”
Isolde didn’t answer. Her eyes were shut tight, her teeth biting into her lower lip so hard Teresa thought it might bleed.
Maeve laughed, the sound echoing sweetly off the vaulted ceiling. “She found something else instead. Didn’t you?” Her fingers moved, and Teresa could see the slick, rhythmic plunge of them into Isolde’s body from behind. “So tight. So furious. All that icy composure just… melted.”
Teresa’s own breath felt trapped. This wasn’t like the conspiratorial heat of Callum’s room. This was a violation, an unmasking. Isolde, the rival, the chess piece, was being dismantled into nothing but raw, shuddering flesh. And a treacherous, unwanted sympathy curled in Teresa’s gut. She knew what it was to be played by the Perkins twins.
Lucien’s gaze found Teresa’s through the steam. His honey-brown eyes held a lazy, triumphant gleam. “Princess. Come to join the wake?”
Isolde’s eyes snapped open. They found Teresa, and in them was a flash of pure, unadulterated shame before it was swamped by another wave of helpless pleasure as Maeve curled her fingers. A guttural moan tore from Isolde’s throat, choked and desperate.
“She doesn’t want an audience,” Teresa said, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Isolde gasped out, the sentence fracturing as Lucien drove into her harder. “I… oh, god… I don’t want your pity.”
“She wants to come,” Maeve corrected, her voice a sibilant whisper against Isolde’s wet skin. “She’s been wanting to for hours. Watching from the shadows, planning her little moves. It builds up, doesn’t it, Isolde? All that cunning, it has to go somewhere.” Her fingers sped up, the wet, slapping sounds obscene in the vast space. “Let it out. For once in your calculated life, just fucking let go.”
Isolde’s resistance shattered. Her head fell back against Lucien’s shoulder, a raw, continuous scream pouring from her as her body convulsed. It was a seismic release, her back arching violently, her nails scraping against the marble. Lucien kept pounding into her through it, his own face a mask of intense concentration, until with a sharp grunt he stilled, his own release shuddering through him.
For a moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and water lapping against stone. Lucien pulled out, stepping back. Isolde slumped against the wall, her body trembling, spent. Maeve withdrew her glistening fingers, bringing them to her mouth with a slow, considering glance at Teresa.
The steam curled around Teresa’s already-damp chemise, clinging it to her skin. She felt exposed, more so than if she were naked.
“Your turn, Your Highness,” Maeve said, her tone light, inviting. “The water’s lovely.”
Isolde pushed herself upright, wiping her face with a trembling hand. Her gaze met Teresa’s again. The shame was gone, replaced by a hollowed-out defiance. “Yes,” Isolde said, her voice raspy. “Join us. See what it’s like to stop thinking for a while.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a challenge. A shared surrender.
Something in Teresa broke. The sympathy, the caution, the royal dignity—it dissolved in the humid, sex-heavy air. She unhooked the sodden shoulders of her chemise and let it fall to the wet floor. She walked down the steps into the pool, the heated water rising to her waist, then her breasts. It felt like stepping into a different element, a thicker, more truthful world.
Lucien watched her approach, his spent cock already stirring again with interest. Maeve smiled, a predator’s smile. Isolde just watched, her expression unreadable.
Teresa went to Isolde first. She cupped Isolde’s cheek, her thumb stroking over a high cheekbone. Isolde flinched but didn’t pull away. “No pity,” Teresa whispered.
Then she kissed her.
Isolde’s lips were soft, unresisting. There was no art to it, no strategy. It was a communion of exhaustion. When Teresa pulled back, she turned to Lucien. “You,” she said, and there was a command in her voice that hadn’t been there before. “Sit on the ledge.”
Lucien, amused, obliged, settling on a submerged marble bench. Teresa didn’t wait. She straddled him, guiding him into her with a single, sinking motion. He was still slick from Isolde, and the sensation was depraved, electrifying. She moaned, her head falling forward.
From behind, Isolde’s hands came to Teresa’s hips. Her touch was tentative at first, then firm. She pulled Teresa back against her, Isolde’s breasts pressed to Teresa’s back, Isolde’s mouth finding the juncture of Teresa’s neck. It was not the hungry bite of Maeve, but something slower, almost exploratory.
Maeve moved in front, her hands joining Isolde’s on Teresa’s hips, creating a chain of possession. “Look at you,” Maeve murmured, her eyes on Teresa’s face as Teresa began to move on Lucien. “The heir and the aspirant, fucked senseless on the same cock. Poetry.”
Teresa lost herself to the rhythm. Lucien filled her, stretching her pleasantly sore muscles. Isolde’s hands slid around to cup her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples. Maeve’s fingers found her clit, rubbing tight, insistent circles that matched the rise and fall of Teresa’s hips.
“That’s it,” Isolde breathed into her ear, her voice gaining strength. “Take it. Take what you need.”
The encouragement, coming from her, from the woman who’d schemed to usurp her, unlocked something wild in Teresa. She rode Lucien with a frantic, gasping urgency, the water sloshing around them. The sounds she made were animalistic, grunts and sharp cries that echoed off the marble.
Lucien gripped her thighs, his fingers digging in. “Fuck, Teresa, yes… you feel incredible.”
Maeve’s fingers were relentless, the pressure building to a sharp, white-hot point. Isolde’s teeth grazed Teresa’s shoulder. Teresa’s climax detonated without warning, a silent, blinding flash that locked her spine and ripped a shattered scream from her lungs. She shook violently, wave after wave of pleasure obliterating thought.
Through the haze, she felt Isolde shift. She felt Lucien lift her off him, turning her. Isolde was there, her eyes dark and urgent. “Now me,” Isolde said, and it was a plea, not a command.
Teresa understood. She pushed Isolde back against the same wall Lucien had used, her body moving on pure instinct. She dropped to her knees in the water, the surface at her chin. She pushed Isolde’s thighs apart and buried her face between them.
Isolde tasted of sex and salt and surrender. Teresa licked and sucked, using her tongue with a ferocity she didn’t know she possessed. Isolde’s hands tangled in her hair, not guiding, just holding on as her hips began to jerk. Her cries were high, broken things that bounced off the ceiling. It didn’t take long. Isolde came with a sob, her body buckling, her grip on Teresa’s hair tightening to the point of pain.
Teresa rose, water streaming from her face. Lucien was watching, his hand slowly stroking his own hard cock. Maeve was smiling, her own fingers tucked between her own legs, lazily pleasing herself as she observed.
Isolde slid down the wall until she was half-submerged, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She looked up at Teresa, water and tears mingling on her face. There were no words. There was, for the first time, no calculation. Just a shattered, open vulnerability.
Maeve finally spoke into the heavy silence. “See?” she said softly. “No more games. Just flesh. It’s simpler, isn’t it?”
But as Teresa looked from Isolde’s broken form to Lucien’s satisfied smile to Maeve’s knowing eyes, she knew it wasn’t simpler at all. It was infinitely more complicated. They were bound together now, not by politics or alliance, but by this raw, shared secret. The water around them felt less like a cleansing bath and more like a sticky, drying cement.
Somewhere, beyond the steam and the sighing marble, a bell tolled for morning prayer. The world was moving on. They would have to emerge, eventually, and put their masks back on. Teresa reached down, offering a hand to Isolde.
After a long moment, Isolde took it. Her grip was firm. Their eyes held a silent, grim understanding.
The game wasn’t over. It had just changed its board.