I was about to meet the man who would demand the one thing I'd never learned to give myself and discover that ignorance was a luxury I could no longer afford.
The door closed behind me with a soft click that sounded like a death knell.
I stood in the threshold of The Head Adept’s private training chamber, my hands clenched so tightly my nails bit into my palms. The room was nothing like I'd expected, no silk cushions or golden fixtures, no obvious signs of debauchery.
Instead, it was elegantly spare, with clean lines and natural light filtering through tall windows. A few carefully chosen pieces of furniture, some books, and an overall sense of... purpose.
This wasn't a place for crude pleasure. This was a studio, a place where art was practiced. Somehow, that made it worse.
"Princess Penelope." The voice came from behind me, low and precisely controlled, carrying the faint traces of an accent I couldn't place. "I am Rios, Head Pleasure Adept of Aurelion. You may address me as Master Rios."
I turned toward the sound and felt my breath catch in my throat.
He was nothing like the brute I'd imagined. Incredibly tall and lean with shoulders that spoke of controlled strength. He possessed the otherworldly beauty common to all Fae, but amplified to an almost painful degree.
Face was all sharp angles—high cheekbones that could cut glass, a strong jaw, and lips that were both sensual and cruel. Dark long hair was pulled back severely from his face, not a strand out of place, revealing the elegant line of his neck.
silver-gray and utterly unreadable eyes, they seemed to see straight through to my soul with an intensity that made the air around him hum with barely contained power.
Rios wore black trousers that molded to his long legs and a slim leather waistcoat that hugged his torso like a second skin, baring muscular arms.
When he turned away to open the window, I mentioned that the waistcoat’s back was open, revealing the elegant line of his spine and allowing his wing complete freedom of movement.
But that was his wing that made me stare.
A single one and translucent, it caught the morning light streaming through the windows, its surface shimmering like mother-of-pearl with veins of silver and gold that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.
It was breathtakingly beautiful.
Where the other should have been, an ugly scar marred his left shoulder blade—a brutal reminder of what had been taken from him, making his remaining wing seem both more precious and more tragic.
"You're late," he said, his tone carrying the chill of winter frost despite its evenness.
"I..." I cleared my throat. "I came as quickly as I could."
"No." He moved with fluid grace to stand behind a simple wooden desk. "You delayed. You walked slowly through the corridors, stopped twice to gather courage, and stood outside my door for a full minute before entering."
Heat flooded my cheeks. "How could you possibly know—"
"Because you're not the first reluctant princess I've trained." His gaze was clinical, assessing. "Your reputation precedes you, Princess. Days of preparation, and you've made no progress whatsoever."
"Progress toward what, exactly?" The words burst out before I could stop them. "Toward becoming some kind of... of trained courtesan?"
One dark eyebrow rose slightly. "Toward understanding the sacred art of pleasure, which your future husband values above most other accomplishments."
"Sacred?" I laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. "There's nothing sacred about what happens in those gardens."
"Ah-h.” Something flickered in his eyes, anger, perhaps, or something deeper. But his voice remained perfectly calm. “There it is."
"There what is?"
"Your fundamental misunderstanding." He walked around the desk, moving closer. "You see corruption where there is artistry. Slavery where there is service. Barbarism where there is an ancient tradition."
"Because that's what it is!" I backed away, my voice rising. "You're all slaves, forced to—"
"I am the Head Pleasure Adept of Aurelion," he interrupted, his tone like ice. "I trained the current Queen. I have guided dozens of noble ladies in understanding their own desires and those of their partners. I am paid handsomely for my expertise and live in luxury most princes would envy."
"But your wing—"
"Was traded for the power I now possess." His eyes never left mine. "Not everything is as it appears, Princess. Perhaps it's time you learned that."
I suddenly felt small, foolish. But anger was safer than shame, so I clung to it. "I don't care about your justifications. This whole thing is disgusting, and I resent being forced into it."
"Your resentment is noted." He returned to his desk, making notes in a leather-bound journal. "As is your prejudice, your ignorance, and your childish defiance."
"Childish?" My voice cracked. "I'm trying to maintain some dignity in an impossible situation!"
"Dignity." He looked up from his writing, and for the first time, I saw something that might have been amusement in his expression. "Tell me, Princess, how much dignity do you think you'll have when Crown Prince Luka discovers his bride is completely ignorant of her own body?"
The blood drained from my face. This was it, the moment I'd been dreading. He was going to demand I undress, or worse. I closed my eyes and tried to prepare myself for the inevitable humiliation.
"Look at me."
I forced my eyes open, expecting to see lust or cruelty. Instead, I found something that looked almost like... compassion?
“Tell me, Princess,” he murmured, voice low and intimate, “when you are alone at night, when no one’s watching… how do you touch yourself?”
The question hit me like a physical blow. I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
“I—” My voice failed me, hoarse and small. “What?”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of him, gaze never leaving mine.
“It’s a simple question. What brings you pleasure? Where do your fingers go when you seek softness in the dark? What rhythm do you crave?”
My cheeks flamed. Shame—hot, aching, liquid—pooled deep in my belly. I swallowed, tried to pull air into lungs that refused to cooperate.
“I… don’t,” I said finally, voice barely a whisper.
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t touch myself,” I confessed. “I’ve never… done that.”
Silence. A long, sharp pause.
Rios tilted his head, and the look he gave me wasn’t cruel—but it was intense, edged in something dark and hungry.
“Then that,” he said softly, deliberately, “will be your first lesson.”
“My first—what?” I breathed.
He stood slowly, all grace and danger, and crossed the space between us until he was only a breath away. I had to tilt my head to meet his gaze.
“How can you hope to please a future king,” he asked, voice like velvet against my skin, “if you do not even know how to please yourself?”
I stared, stunned, words caught in my throat. My body betrayed me with every heartbeat, every tremor of heat rushing through me.
“You… you expect me to… in front of you?”
“I expect you to learn,” he said. His hand lifted—not touching, but hovering inches from my cheek, my lips. “What form that takes is up to you. Alone, clumsy, in silence… or here. With my guidance. With my voice in your ear. Teaching you exactly how to unravel.”
His voice dropped lower, almost a growl.
“You can choose shame, or you can choose awakening. Either way, Princess…” His lips curved in the faintest smile. “The crown will not wait forever.”