Chapter 54: The Sacred Bath

Syris stood in the shadows of the archway, his breath caught in his throat.

What she was doing became immediately, paralyzingly clear.

Ren reached behind her neck and untied the knot of the black silk halter. The fabric fell away, pooling at her feet. Next came the shimmering green snake-skin skirt. She unknotted it at her hip and let it slide down her legs, stepping out of it with a grace that made his mouth go dry.

She was naked.

Syris had seen her naked before. Just hours ago, in his bed, covered in mud and soot. But, this was different.

The Garden of Shadows was dim, lit only by the bioluminescent moss and the soft, internal glow of the thermal pond. The light painted Ren’s pale skin in hues of soft blue and violet. She looked like a moon spirit who had descended to earth to bathe.

She stepped into the water.

Dip.

The pond here was sacred. It was the hottest vent in the palace, reserved strictly for the King’s molting cycles. For a servant—let alone a prisoner—to bathe here was a crime punishable by flaying.

Syris should have been furious. He should have marched out there, dragged her from the water, and thrown her back in the dungeon for desecrating his private sanctuary.

But his feet wouldn’t move.

He watched as the water rose to her thighs, then her waist. She shivered slightly as the heat enveloped her, a soft sigh escaping her lips that echoed in the silent cavern.

Syris gripped the stone of the archway, his knuckles turning white.

She was perfect.

Without the mud, without the oversized robes, he could finally see her. She was soft where he was hard. Curves where he was angles. He traced the line of her spine with his eyes, the gentle slope of her shoulders, the way her waist nipped in before flaring out into hips that his hands itched to hold.

He saw the red marks on her wrists—bruises left by his guards.

A growl rumbled deep in his chest, low and involuntary. ’I did that,’ he thought, a sharp pang of guilt mixing with the desire.

Ren submerged herself fully, ducking her head under the surface. She came up sputtering, shaking her hair like a wet dog. Water droplets flew in an arc, glittering like diamonds in the dim light. She slicked her wet red hair back, revealing the delicate column of her neck.

She began to wash.

She didn’t have soap, so she used the mineral-rich water, rubbing her arms, her chest, her legs.

Syris watched every movement. He watched her hands cup the water and pour it over her breasts. He watched the way the colored water sluiced down her stomach, pooling in her navel before cascading lower.

His vision tunneled. The rest of the world fell away. There was only the heat of the garden, the scent of sulfur and roses, and the woman in the water.

He was hard. Painfully, undeniably hard.

The primal snake inside him was thrashing. It didn’t care about the burnt vipers. It didn’t care about the stolen key. It wanted to slide into that water. It wanted to coil around her, to press her against the edge of the pool, to claim her in the sacred pond until she forgot her own name.

Against his better judgment—against every law of the Clan and every shred of his pride—Syris took a step forward.

He couldn’t help it. He was drawn to her like a moth to a flame, like a cold-blooded creature seeking the sun.

He wanted to touch her skin while it was wet. He wanted to taste the mineral water on her lips. He wanted to tell her that the pond was forbidden, but she was the only thing allowed in it.

He took another step, his boots silent on the moss. He was five paces away. Four.

He was going to do it. He was going to walk into the water fully clothed and take her.

“My King?”

The voice shattered the moment like a hammer hitting glass.

Syris froze. The spell broke violently.

He spun around, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Lyssa was standing at the entrance of the corridor, holding a basket of snake skin. She was staring at him, her green eyes wide with confusion. Then, her gaze shifted past him, toward the pond where Ren was blissfully unaware, floating on her back.

Lyssa’s eyes narrowed. Her nostrils flared.

“What…” Lyssa began, her voice pitching up in outrage. “Is that the Mammal? In the Sacred Pond? What are you staring at so intently, My King?”

Syris stepped in front of her instantly, using his broad shoulders and the heavy velvet cloak to block her view of the naked woman in the water.

Panic and rage warred in his chest. He had been caught. Caught peeping like a common pervert at a prisoner he was supposed to be punishing.

His face flushed, a rare display of heat for the Snake King.

“Nothing,” Syris lied sharply.

“Nothing?” Lyssa tried to peer around him. “But she is desecrating the—”

“I said NOTHING!” Syris snapped, his voice booming in the enclosed space.

He grabbed Lyssa by the shoulders and physically turned her around, marching her back toward the corridor with forceful, frantic steps.

“But King!” Lyssa protested, stumbling. “She must be punished! The pond is for you alone!”

“I will handle it!” Syris growled, shoving her gently but firmly toward the exit. “Go back to the Nest! Do not speak of this! Do not look back!”

“But—”

“GO!”

Syris didn’t wait. He didn’t look back at the pond. He couldn’t. If he looked back, he wouldn’t leave.

He marched down the hallway, his robes rustling furiously, his body burning with unfulfilled desire and the shame of almost losing control.

He needed a cold bath. He needed to meditate.

He needed self-control.

The terrifying truth was that he was slowly losing the will to fight his own feelings.

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