Currently, Bastian was resting below deck, while Az worked tirelessly with the ropes and sails, bare-chested as his muscles rippled with strength as he tugged the ropes and tied them off, pulling them at Vale’s direction.
She exhaled lowly, a sound the wind seemed to echo.
"I want you to look at me," Graves said, stealing her attention from her perusal of the deck.
Luella met his eyes. "This is a useless endeavor. I cannot fly."
She felt Vale’s attention, prickling at her nape.
"Because you haven’t tried," Graves advocated, backing away from her until he stood near a pole, while Tharen leaned against a barrel, arms crossed and jaw clenched. "The first step to flight is not flying. It is merely walking. You must relearn everything you know. When we arrive at"—Graves’s eyes narrowed as he quickly looked away, as if to gather himself, before he turned back to her—"the Fallen Isles, you cannot appear weak. The Fallen prey on weakness, especially that of an angel."
His knowledge spanned centuries, yet his words hinted at personal experience.
"I can w-walk." She stumbled over her words when her wandering eyes found Tharen’s.
Graves arched a dark brow. "Walk to me."
She suppressed a sigh. He had returned to his reticent manner. No longer the free-speaking male she had encountered on the deck that night, when he had tasted her lips and touched her breast.
Luella’s fingernails scratched against the wood behind her. She hadn’t realized, but this whole time, she had been supporting herself against a post. Her legs trembled as she left its safety, wind ruffling her wings and catching in her blouse.
Each step forward felt like surrender.
She gasped on a rough intake of air as the wind surged, a punishing push that sent her crashing to her knees, thudding harshly against the wood. She was caught between storm and shame.
Her white hair hung in her face, obscuring her vision until Graves’s boots appeared in her line of sight. She looked up to him, feeling naive.
"Youcannotwalk. It’s not a fault of yours, sweetheart." Graves’s tone dipped low. "Don’t let yourself be overcome by it."He held out a hand for her, and she stared at his palm, taking it with reluctance. His fingers wrapped around hers, tugging her to a stand. She fell into him, catching herself with her hands on his forearms. The purple stone of his amulet was damp from the mist, and she reached out, fingers nearly brushing it before he jerked away, causing her to stumble anew. "Walking on your tiptoes is not to be done forever, merely a momentary solution until you learn how to properly balance yourself."
He still held her hand, keeping her upright. She felt foolish, like a newborn stumbling on fragile legs. She yearned to stretch her wings and fly free, even if that meant begging this male for help.
Luella bit her lip. "Then, how must I learn?Teach me," she implored.
And so, he did.
Graves pressed a palm to her back, straightening her spine—nearly touching her wings, but not quite. "I imagine you’ve been tutored on etiquette for a princess," he started. "This is similar, but incredibly different, all the same."
He moved her body just so, crouching to lift her foot and place it back down, shifting the direction of her toes to face forward and not inward. She watched him as he stood, his eyes never leaving hers as the tips of his fingers brushed up the sides of her legs. Heat curled inside her veins, roaring hotter as he touched the side of her neck, sweeping her hair back to reveal the pale line of it—the bruises from Bastian’s fangs, healed almost entirely.
Graves’s rough fingers slid under her jaw, firm but slow, coaxing her head straight, forcing her eyes away from him.
"Envision a rope tethered to your neck, keeping you upright," Graves rasped as he stroked over the side of her neck. "You can’t look down, and you can’t look away—you must keep your eyes forward, for the rope demands it." He came to standbefore her, still holding her neck straight, trapping her. "Say you understand."
"I—" Her voice broke. "I understand."
He hummed, the noise dripping with satisfaction. "Then I will release you, but you won’t move."
This time, she answered before he could ask her to. "I won’t move."
"Good," he hummed, letting her go carefully and walking backward until he stopped by the post a few paces from her. "Begin."
The raven shifter saw to her lessons, sending her wobbling away from him, as he stood by his post, a hand outstretched, poised to catch her as he demanded in that low, gruff voice of his,Come to me.
Again and again, she fell. Each fall earned no judgment, only calm repetition:Again.
Somewhere between one fall and the next, something inside her cracked—not from pain, but from yearning. She didn’t want to fall in front of him. She didn’t want tofailin front of him.
The shame didn’t lessen, but something else began to stir alongside it. Quiet defiance, soft as air. This wasn’t just about pleasing Graves.
