I was drowning in a life that looked perfect from the outside, and the only person who could save me was the one I was supposed to forget.
For days, I avoided him. Focused on my duties with single-minded determination, wore Luka's pendant like an armor against my own desires, and forced myself to smile when he kissed my hand in front of the court.
Each public display of affection felt like another chain around my neck, beautiful and suffocating in equal measure.
"You're glowing, Princess," Lady Cordelia commented during the morning reception. "Marriage suits you."
I smiled and nodded, playing the part of the blissful bride-to-be while inside I felt myself unraveling thread by thread.
The more I performed happiness, the more hollow it felt. The more Luka loved me, genuinely, completely, with the kind of devotion poets wrote about, the more I felt like I was drowning in someone else's life.
"Are you feeling well?" Luka asked one evening as we walked through the palace gardens. "You seem... distant lately."
"Just tired," I lied, the same excuse I'd been using for weeks. "Wedding preparations are exhausting."
His concern was genuine, his suggestion that I rest more born from real care. I let him kiss my forehead and tuck me into bed like a child, then lay awake staring at the ceiling until dawn.
The breaking point came one evening when I was returning from yet another diplomatic dinner. I'd taken a longer route through the palace, needing air, needing space from the suffocating weight of everyone's expectations.
That's when I saw him.
Rios stood alone in the Practice Hall, his shirt damp with sweat, a practice blade in his hand. Even in the dim light, I could see the fluid power in the way he moved, the controlled violence of each strike against the training dummy.
The air between us crackled with electricity the moment I stepped into the doorway, walking in without a word.
He saw me but didn't speak, just continued his forms with that precise control he brought to everything. But I could feel the tension radiating from him, I could see it in the slight stiffening of his shoulders.
"You don't get to ignore me," I said finally.
He lowered the blade, his silver-gray eyes meeting mine without flinching. "You're not mine to acknowledge."
The words hit like a slap. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you made your choice." His voice was calm but cold. "You wear his pendant. You share his bed. You have what you wanted."
"You think I wanted this?" The anger erupted from me like a dam bursting. "You think I chose this?"
"Didn't you?" He set the blade aside, turning to face me fully. "You could have said no. Could have walked away. But you wanted the crown, the comfort, the safety. Now you have it."
“I wanted control,” I snapped, my voice shaking as I stalked across the training hall toward him. “But I still feel owned.”
Rios didn’t answer. He didn’t move, just stared at me, chest heaving from the sparring session he’d barely finished, sweat glistening along the sharp line of his jaw.
The silence between us crackled—too loud and too intimate, packed with every word we hadn’t dared to say.
We stood there breathing hard, facing off like combatants, but what hung between us wasn’t battle. It was a need, wild and pulsing, far too long denied.
And then I moved. I closed the space in three sharp steps and kissed him hard.
There was nothing soft about it. No gentleness, no grace. Just mouths clashing, teeth scraping, lips bruising.
I bit his bottom lip and he groaned against my mouth like I’d torn something out of him. His hands tangled in my hair as he kissed me back with a force that made my knees buckle.
Control fully shattered.
He spun us, slamming me back against the low practice bench. I gasped as he tore his shirt over his head, the fabric sticking to his skin.
My hands were everywhere—over the hard planes of his chest, the ridge of muscle along his abdomen—but when they slipped behind him and touched the smooth curve of his beautiful wing, everything changed.
His entire body jolted and Rios froze—just for a breath before he groaned. Low. Wrecked. “Damn it, Penelope— Don’t—”
But I didn’t stop. My fingers traced the base of the wing, where skin fused with the scarred plane of his back, just beneath the spot where the second wing should have been.
The shiver that rolled through him wasn’t just physical—it was visceral.
“You like that?” I breathed, stunned.
His eyes were wild when they met mine, pupils blown wide.
“No one touches it,” he growled, voice rough. “Not even me.”
I kissed him again, softer this time, and dragged my nails lightly along the seam of his wing.
He shuddered and then snapped.
He lifted me onto the bench, pulling at my dress until it bunched around my waist. I was bare beneath, soaked and aching, and he cursed low against my collarbone when he saw it.
“You’ve been like this for me,” he growled, dragging his fingers through the wet heat between my thighs.
I moaned, rocking into his hand.
“I’ve thought about this,” he said roughly, pressing me back flat. “So many nights.”
He didn’t wait for permission, because I’d already given it.
Rios thrust deep and hard, like a man who’d been holding back for too long and couldn’t anymore. My back hit the wall behind the bench, and I cried out, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer, deeper.
I cried out, fingers clawing at his shoulders as my body stretched to take him. It burned, but the kind of burn that made me feel alive.
That told me I wouldn’t be the same after this.
“Rios— Oh God—”
His mouth was everywhere, my jaw, neck, collarbone, biting and kissing, teeth grazing skin like he wanted to leave evidence.
His rhythm was brutal, relentless, hips slamming into mine with raw force, every thrust lifting me slightly off the bench. And I touched the wing again.
He choked on a moan, hips stuttering. His head dropped to my shoulder.
“Shit,” he groaned. “You don’t know what that does to me—”
“Yes, I do,” I gasped, rocking against him, fingers caressing that seam of wing and scar. “You feel everything here, don’t you?”
His only answer was a guttural sound torn from deep in his chest.
He grabbed my hips, holding me in place, and started taking me harder—rough and frantic, his control unraveling with every stroke.
The bench creaked beneath us, legs scraping against the stone floor. My moans turned into cries. His name spilled from my mouth like prayer.
“Fuck,” he groaned, resting his forehead against mine, breath ragged. “You’re so damn tight. You feel like—” He cut himself off with a growl, thrusting hard again. “Like you were made for me.”
“Don’t stop,” I choked out, voice trembling. “Please, Rios, don’t stop.”
He grabbed my hips, dragging me roughly to the edge of the bench with each stroke. Every thrust hit deep, sharp, like he wanted to carve himself into me.
The sound of our bodies slapping together echoed in the vast, empty space—feral, obscene, and utterly perfect.
“You want it like this?” he snarled, jaw tight as he slammed into me. “Tell me.”
“I want it,” I gasped. “I want all of you.”
He let out a low, broken moan and then obeyed. His thrusts turned brutal, unrelenting. The bench scraped against the stone floor with every movement.
Sweat dripped down his temple, his muscles straining as he held himself over me, inside me.
“Fuck,” he growled, kissing me again, messy, wet, his mouth dragging across mine. “I can’t hold back with you.”
I panted. “I don’t want you to.”
He kissed me again, biting my lower lip, his hand tangling in my hair and pulling, exposing my throat. I moaned loud and helpless, back arching beneath him.
Then his eyes met mine and there it was. That edge of something unspoken, something fragile and too much. And still, he gave it to me. Every last inch.
When I came, it wasn’t sweet or soft. It was chaos.
My entire body seized, toes curling, nails digging into his back—right at the base of his wing—and he shattered with me.
He buried himself deep, his groan breaking into a cry of my name, his hips jerking as he spilled inside me. He held me like he couldn’t let go, trembling, panting, ruined.
We collapsed together on the narrow bench, breathless, bodies tangled, slick with sweat and need. The scent of sex and skin clung to the air, thick and raw.
I lay with my cheek against his shoulder, listening to the way his breathing slowed. His wing curled slightly behind me — not defensive now, but open. Unconscious. Trusting.
“I still might hate you,” I whispered, throat raw from moaning.
Beside me, Rios didn’t move. His fingers slid into my hair again, slow and gentle now, brushing it from my face.
“No,” he said quietly. “You don’t hate me.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead to mine. “You hate what you are when you’re with me.”