It’s dark down here, but the narrow hallway is only ten feet or so, and then I’m spilling into the library, which is massive, but smells of musty parchment and stagnant air, despite the fact that the servants come up
here to clean.
I go through the caged-in portion of the library, down another dark hallway, past the atrium, and then I make it to the hallway that leads to the breakfast room. Once I reach the archway, I pause to listen for a moment, giving my sore temple another rub. I can hear King Midas speaking to a servant, and the sound of plates being placed onto the table.
Taking a breath, I head through the doorways and into the small cage that spills out into the room. On the other side of the bars lies a long dining table, filled with exactly six platters of food, six pitchers of drink, and six bouquets of solid gold flowers to match the plates and goblets, Midas’s numeral and gold fetish are ever present.
My stomach churns sourly at the sight of the food, and I’m glad that I won’t be expected to dine with them. I expect it would be a bit off-putting to vomit all over their place settings.
Gray, snowy light from the windows streaks into the room, somehow making all of the opulence seem a bit dimmed. The fireplace roars with flame, but no matter how many fires are lit, it never quite gets warm enough. The fires are always just chasing away the perpetual chill.
My eyes immediately find King Midas at the head of the table, dressed in a handsome tunic, his spiked gold crown sitting perfectly atop his combed blond hair.
King Fulke is sitting at his left, a gluttonous belly hanging over the edge of his waistband. And as is consistent with Fifth Kingdom’s fashion, he’s wearing velvet leggings. He also has on a dark purple tunic—his kingdom’s color—to match. His own golden crown is skewed on his bald head, a careless reminder of his rule, purple gemstones set into it that are the size of my fist.
I have no idea if Fulke used to be a handsome man when he was younger. All I see now is creased skin and an over-plumped body. But the yellowing of his teeth from too much pipe smoking is what makes me cringe. That, and the leer in his dark eyes every time he glances at me. It’s a tie between the two, really.
Right now, it’s not just velvet leggings that are wrapped around his legs. He has two blonde, scantily dressed saddles straddling each of his thighs, the women feeding him bits of pastries and fruit as part of their all-inclusive duties.
Polly sits on one thigh while Rissa straddles the other, giggling as she feeds him berries between her own lips and he gropes their breasts. I guess it’s that kind of breakfast.
When the women see me come in, both of them shoot me irritated glares and then pointedly ignore me. They don’t like me much. Not only because I’m the king’s favored, but because I’m also Fulke’s favorite thing to covet when he comes to visit.
To them, I suppose I’m just competition. Everyone knows what happens to royal saddles who become obsolete. They get tossed aside for newer, firmer, prettier saddles.
Although, I’m convinced that if they actually spent any length of time with me, they’d really enjoy me. I’m ridiculously fun. You kind of have to be when the only person you hang out with is you. I wouldn’t want to bore myself.
Maybe I’ll wait until Midas is in a good mood and then ask if some of the girls can come up to hang out with me one night. I could really use company that doesn’t include silent, stalwart Digby.
Speaking of Digby, he and five other of the king’s guards are standing at attention alongside the back wall, and they don’t even blink at the display of the erotic breakfast. So professional.
The other men dining at the table with the kings are their advisors, and there are two more saddles standing by, one of them massaging the shoulders of one of Fulke’s men, while the other keeps shooting flirtatious looks down the table.
“Ah, Precious,” King Midas purrs from his seat when he notices me approach. “You’ve joined us for breakfast.”
Of course I have, because you ordered me to.
Instead of saying that aloud, I smile demurely with a nod and then take a seat at the pillowed stool that’s placed in front of my harp. I start plucking the strings gently, because I know it’s what my king wants. I’m here to put on a show.
It’s always the same thing. Whenever foreign representatives from other kingdoms come here, King Midas likes to flaunt me. I sit in the breakfast room, safe inside my cage, where the visitors can ogle me and be amazed at the extent of Midas’s power while they eat their eggs and fruit tarts.
“Mmm,” King Fulke says from around the bite he’s chewing as he looks over at me. “I do enjoy looking upon your gold-touched whore.”
I bristle at the term, but I keep my spine straight. You know what’s way worse than being called a saddle? Being called a whore. I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. It makes me want to lash out at him with my ribbons and hit him in the dangles. Instead, I change up the tune on the harp and play one of my personal favorites, “Cock Him in the Cuckoo.” I think it’s the perfect song for my current mood.
King Midas chuckles after taking a bite of fruit. “I’m aware.”
Fulke eyes me thoughtfully. “You sure you won’t change your mind and gold-touch one of my saddles for me?” he asks, even as he kneads Polly’s ass where she sits atop his thigh.
Midas shakes his head. “No. That honor is only bestowed on my Auren,” he replies smoothly. “I like setting her apart.”
Fulke makes a grunt of disappointed amusement, while I bite my lip in pleasure at Midas claiming me. Polly and Rissa both share a look of clear displeasure and start fondling each other at the table, like they want to draw attention back to themselves. “I can see why you chose her,” Fulke says, ignoring Rissa when her hand runs over his crotch. “Her beauty is unparalleled.”
My skin prickles with his roving gaze and with the daggers that Rissa’s and Polly’s eyes are throwing at me. But based on the gleam in Midas’s eyes, I can see how pleased he is. He gets great satisfaction when people envy what he has.
“Of course she’s beautiful,” my king says smugly. “She’s mine.”
My face heats, his possessive tone making my insides go warm. I steal a glance at him through the strings of the harp, my fingers plucking the tune out like an offering.