010

Katherine Harrington One thing was painfully clear: I was nowhere near royalty. Not even close. The grand hall stretched endlessly around me, its polished floors gleaming beneath towering windows that flooded the space with unforgiving light. Every step I took echoed back like cruel mockery, reminding me just how out of place I was. And I kept failing. “Again.” The instructor’s voice cut through the air, sharp and unforgiving. I bit back a groan as I straightened my spine, lifted my chin, and felt the weight of three thick books balanced precariously on my head. One apparently wasn’t “challenging enough.” The heels they’d forced me into only made everything worse—whoever invented these torturous things clearly hated women. I took a careful step forward, then another, trying to move with the grace they demanded. My ankles wobbled. The books shifted. I froze, desperately trying to recover my balance, but it was already too late. They tumbled to the floor with a loud, humiliating thud that echoed across the entire hall. A few maids nearby failed miserably at hiding their smiles. I closed my eyes for a brief moment, heat rising to my cheeks, before bending down to retrieve the books and carefully stacking them back on my head. “Perfect posture is not optional,” the instructor said coolly. “A royal does not stumble. A royal does not hesitate. A royal commands attention without ever begging for it.” I swallowed my frustration and began again. Of course. An hour later, my feet were on fire, every nerve screaming in protest, but the lessons continued without mercy. “Turn,” she commanded. I turned. “Slower.” I tried again, this time controlling every movement—heal first, then toe, shoulders relaxed, chin high, every breath measured. “Better,” she admitted grudgingly. “Now greet me.” I blinked, caught off guard. “Greet you?” “Yes. You are entering a gathering. You see someone of status. What do you do?” I forced the exhaustion down and straightened, offering what I hoped was a small, composed smile along with a slight dip of my head—not too low, never too low. “Good evening,” I said, trying to sound refined and effortless. She stared at me for a long, silent moment. “…No,” she said flatly. I exhaled slowly through my nose. “Again.” By midday, I had learned far more than I ever wanted to know: how to walk without looking like I might collapse at any second, how to sit without the slightest slouch (apparently even breathing the wrong way was offensive), how to hold a glass of wine as though it wasn’t my first time seeing one, and how to greet, dismiss, or ignore people without uttering a single word. Most of all, I learned how to endure being corrected every five seconds without losing my mind. “Final exercise,” the instructor finally announced. I nearly cried with relief. “Cross the hall.” That was it? After everything, it felt almost too simple. I lifted my chin, adjusted the imaginary crown they seemed determined to drill into my skull, and began walking—step after careful step. No wobble. No books crashing to the ground. No humiliating thuds. This time, the silence that followed me wasn’t mocking. It was watchful. Attentive. I reached the far end of the hall and turned smoothly on my heel. “…Acceptable,” she said at last. I almost laughed out loud from sheer exhaustion and triumph. “Dismissed.” The word had barely left her mouth before I kicked off the hated heels, sighing in relief as my bare feet met the cool floor. “Careful.” That voice. I froze instantly. Of course he was here. I turned slowly to find Luciano leaning lazily against one of the massive pillars, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with that familiar, unreadable intensity. He’d probably been there the entire time. “For someone so determined,” he added, his eyes glinting with dark amusement, “you fall quite a lot.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “And for someone so powerful, you lurk like a shadow instead of helping.” A pause stretched between us. Then he pushed off the pillar, moving with slow, deliberate grace that felt almost dangerous. “Help?” he echoed, his voice dropping lower as he stepped closer. His gaze flicked briefly down to my bare feet before rising back to my face. “I think you’re learning exactly the way you should.” I crossed my arms tightly over my chest. “I hate this.” A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “I know.” He moved even closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head slightly to meet his eyes. Something in his tone shifted then—quieter, almost approving. “And yet… you didn’t quit.” I looked away first, suddenly unable to hold his gaze. “Don’t sound so impressed.” “Oh, I am,” he said softly, the words carrying a weight I wasn’t ready to examine. “Just not for the reasons you think.” A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. We went to eat after that — a private lunch in one of the cozy dining room. The entire time, I made sure every movement was deliberate: the way I licked a drop of wine from my lower lip, the way I leaned forward just enough to give him a perfect view down the neckline of my dress, the way my foot brushed against his calf under the table and stayed there, stroking slowly. By the time we were alone again, walking through a quieter corridor, Luciano’s patience finally snapped. “Why are you throwing yourself at me like this?” he asked, voice rough with restrained hunger. I stopped, turned to face him fully, and let my eyes darken with pure possession. I stepped into his space until our bodies were almost touching. “I’m not throwing myself at you, Luciano,” I corrected, voice low and sultry, every word a caress. “I’m claiming what’s mine.” I let my fingers trail down his chest, slow and deliberate. “You are my mate. You belong to me. And I’ve decided I’m done waiting for you to realize it.” Before he could respond, I rose onto my toes, slid one hand into his hair, and kissed him — deep, filthy, and demanding. My tongue swept into his mouth like I already owned it. My other hand slid boldly down his body and cupped the hard length of his c**k through his trousers, squeezing with just enough pressure to make him groan into my mouth. Luciano stiffened in shock for a single heartbeat. Then he chuckled — low, dark, and dangerously pleased — against my lips. I pulled back just enough to look up at him through my lashes, my hand still possessively stroking him. “Aren’t you going to throw me over your shoulder,” I whispered, voice dripping with wicked challenge, “carry me to your room… and punish me properly for being such a greedy, impatient little mate?” His eyes flashed with raw hunger.