Page 15 of A Kingdom of Pleasure and Torment

“Confident. Not cocky.” He taps the end of my nose. “Now, continue with this lesson. Don’t worry about the future.”

“But Guardian, I thought this was about both of our futures.” I blink innocently at him.

His expression darkens. He looks like the menacing faeries my mother warned me about. The ones that can’t be trusted, no matter what a heart might say. And while I’ve agreed to so many things, come willingly to his palace of depravity, allowed him to violate my body, I can’t lose sight of what he is. What he could be capable of.

Faster than a flash of lightning in the summer sky, he grips my chin cruelly. There is no friendliness, no pride or indulgence. Only fury at my disobedience. “You are not so skilled at manipulation that you should continue to try it on me. Unless you wish to be chained in my dungeon, under my spell, twisting and screaming from pleasure that will not stop, not even when you sleep. You know I can do it. I did it to you this morning. I can keep you suspended in such a state until the moment of your mortal death. Which I promise, you will plead for.”

My body trembles at the threat.

“Now, do you wish to test me?” he asks, giving my jaw a painful shake.

Tears roll from the corners of my eyes. “No, Guardian,” I manage.

At once, the Luthian I was growing fond of, growing trustful of, returns. He releases me and places a kiss on my cheek. “Good. Then let’s continue with our lesson.”

I suspect that I’ve just learned one far more important than table manners.

Chapter Seven

My second morning starts with a lesson.

A terrible lesson that is not as fun as the lessons of the day before.

“Ouch! Witch!” I hiss under my breath, nursing my reddened knuckles.

The housekeeper, Brujon, flips her stick up and paces behind me. I’m in the dining room for breakfast, learning each of the numerous and complicated arrangements of tableware.

“Pick up the fruit knife,” the old ghoul commands me again.

“As I’ve already explained,” I say through gritted teeth, “Luthian said he never wants to see me feeding myself here. I’m not supposed to touch any of these—”

She snatches my hand and strikes it with the stick again. I shout in pain and outrage. But I will not pick up the knife. I will obey Luthian. And I don’t know which is the fruit knife, anyway.

“Brujon!” Luthian barks as he enters the dining room. “What are you doing to my ward?”

“Educating me on the proper utensils to use at a meal,” I answer before she can.

He frowns at me. “And you will not cooperate?”

“You said I’m not to feed myself, that you wouldn’t have me touch a single fork or glass at your table. I don’t wish to do anything that breaks your rules.” I blink at him, awaiting his reply.

His lips part, but whatever he meant to say stalls there. He waves a hand at the place setting. “You should know these things, even if you’re not meant to utilize them. But Brujon, I didn’t give you permission to punish her. Any punishments she receives will be of my own devising. And far more imaginative.”

The old human huffs in disgust and shuffles off.

“You, come with me.” He turns and walks without checking to see if I follow.

The skirts of my modest gown rustle against the floor as I hurry to catch up to him. The dress is deep blue velvet, sprinkled with blinding diamond stars, with buttons up the high collar and at the wrists of the tight sleeves.

“Why are you dressed like a Librarian of Avalon?” he asks, still not looking at me.

“I’m not familiar with the fashion customs of Avalon, Guardian. I thought I would look studious for my lessons today.” And I didn’t particularly want to dress the way I had for dinner last night for instruction with Brujon.

“What a happy coincidence; I’ve adopted a more professorial attitude.” He takes me down a hallway and pushes open a door.

It’s a library, with shelves so tall, ladders lead to balconies for access. I’ve never seen so many books, nor such beautiful ceilings. Faeries and sylphs wind through a twilight sky over our heads, wings and clouds and diaphanous garments fluttering in enchanted paint.

We walk toward a massive fireplace, flames crackling in its hearth. Before it, where I would have perhaps placed some chairs for reading and a cart for cozy tea, is a long, narrow table, upon which lies the faery I saw in the garden the day before. His arms are stretched above his head, bound to the corners of the table, as are his splayed legs.

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