Page 5 of Sanctuary with Kings

FEASTING FOR THE SENSES

Lillian hummed a song as she bathed me, her dulcet melody soothing against my ragged whimpers and sniffles. We'd already wasted one round of perfectly scalding hot water just rinsing the grime off of me, and now the tub was full of bubbles, the water silky and fragrant. Candles burned around the room, like mythical blooms on golden stems.

I settled in the water eventually, growing drowsy. My hair was washed and combed, my skin scrubbed clean. Lillian and I finished the pot of chocolate, and then I had an entire plate of tender sandwiches on thick bread to myself.

"Asterion says you are something more than human," Lillian murmured.

My stomach was full, and the edge of my hunger had been dulled by something other than a monster's gruesome pleasure for the first time in centuries.

I studied Lillian. She was healthy, happy, safe, and in the company of a basilisk.

"Birsha kept me because I could survive more than human women," I said, not wanting to tell her the truth.

My mother was a goddess. It meant less than nothing. It was why I'd been collected, and it'd done me no favors.

"And you gain strength from pleasure?" she asked.

Hedonism.

"Yes," I answered. The luxurious bedroom, the spectacular bed, even this bath, were all fresh flavors to my deprived hunger, shocking and unfamiliar. Thechocolatehad been exceptional though, a better meal than I'd known in far too long.

I'd been Birsha's toy to pass around, a bright magnet to bring in powerful clients, and cruelty in pleasure was as poisonous as it was filling.

"We will keep you safe," Lillian murmured, running the comb once more through my hair, the tines scratching gently at my scalp. A tiny lick of a taste to soothe me.

"You belong to the pair of them?" I asked.

Would they make me their toy now too? It would feed me. And perhaps, if they treated me as they did Lillian, there might not be pain.

Lillian laughed. "Only Marius. And he belongs to me too," she added in a conspiratorial whisper. "Let's get you to bed."

Then the minotaur meant to have me. Fatten me up with food and good care first, perhaps bring me back to life a bit, make me a better bed partner.

Water sluiced, and Lillian lifted an enormous sheet of thick linen, smooth and cool, for me to dry myself with. There was a mirror in the bathroom, tall and wide, and I was a pale sliver of bones in the reflection, swaddled in fabric. Next came a silk dress, too exquisite and pristine to be touched, but Lillian fumbled it over my head and then I helped her dress me, lace around my collar, cascading silver fabric stroking over my shriveled breasts and bony hips.

"I think wanting to spoil you with gowns and art is all well and good, but we'd better make a priority to feed youfoodtoo," Lillian said, after her hands had met my stark ribs.

Birsha had fed me slop, dreadful and bitter or entirely flavorless, anything to starve me and keep me alive at the same time.

"Come here," she said, and she guided us both to the bathroom counter. "There are perfumes. Creams. All sorts of nonsense. Help yourself. I'm going to send for some soup."

There were bottles of cut crystal, jars painted with flowers, little glass compacts of powders. And I was alone—alone in candlelight and steam and perfume.

The room was decadent and ornate, lavish. The tile was smooth and cool, and there were a pair of fur-lined slippers waiting at the counter. And I was still starving. My toes slid into the slippers, and I stifled a moan at the brush of feathery-soft fur against my bruised and calloused feet. I lifted a bottle to my nose and sighed at the gasp of ambergris and vanilla. A jar contained a floral cream that smoothed over my skin like butter.

The creature in the mirror was not a face I recognized, skin sallow and paper-thin on pronounced bones, eyes red and surrounded by shadow. My nails were ragged, hair dully pale. Months of thin snacking on human men from the streets of London had nearly finished what Birsha had started.

I took one of the delicate bottles, pulled out a jeweled stopper, and traced a line of perfume across my throat. Orchid, musk, and ambergris. My eyes stung.

The minotaur knew what he was doing, knew more than he ought to. He was whetting my palate, feeding my starved senses with all the gentlest forms of pleasure.

What I didn't understand was why he didn't make use of the far simpler and less costly method of feeding me. He could fuck me. I would enjoy it; that was my unfortunate nature—provided the person using me was finding pleasure, so must I. And he was a powerful creature, all strength and vitality, so I would probably be fed within a few tries.

So what was this game of pretty objects and delicious sweets? What was the point of offering a starving woman beautiful crumbs?

* * *

For two days,I slept in short but heavy bursts. Another woman, a blonde with pursed lips and precise movements, brought mugs of broth and plates of buttery, crumbling muffins. In the morning, I woke to music playing, not too near but clear enough for me to hear. Next, the sound of birds and the warm breeze of anopenwindow, a precious luxury. During the night, a low and gentle voice—the minotaur—recited poetry from outside of the cracked bedroom door.

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