Page 5 of Accidentally Ever After (Wings & Whispers #1)

“The proper greeting for a lesser noble is a quarter bow, maintaining eye contact,” Instructor Thaelon droned, demonstrating with the stiffness of someone who’d been teaching the same material for several centuries.

“For those of equal rank to yourself—which, as consort to the prince, includes only the highest ministers and visiting dignitaries—a slight incline of the head is sufficient.”

I mimicked the movement, trying not to yawn. We’d been at this for three hours already, and my brain felt like it was leaking out my ears.

“No, no, Consort Morgan,” Thaelon sighed, his pale blue wings twitching in disapproval. “The angle is critical. Too deep and you diminish your station; too shallow and you give grave offense.”

“Sorry,” I muttered, not for the first time. “How about I just wave and say ‘what’s up?’”

Thaelon looked horrified. “Absolutely not!”

It had been a week since my arrival in the Autumn Court, a week since the moonbloom grotto and that kiss that still invaded my dreams. Caelen had been true to his word about not rushing me, but also determined that I learn how to function at court without causing an international incident.

Hence, daily lessons with Instructor Thaelon, the court’s etiquette master and possibly the most boring fairy in existence.

“Let us move on to proper wing greetings,” Thaelon continued, extending his gossamer blue wings. “While you lack wings yourself, you must understand their language to interpret the intentions of those around you.”

This, at least, was interesting. I’d been fascinated by how expressive fairy wings were—how they reflected emotions their owners’ faces might conceal.

“Wings held high and fully extended indicate aggression or territorial display,” Thaelon explained. “Folded tightly against the back suggests submission or deference. A partial extension, like so—” he demonstrated, “—indicates interest in conversation but maintained personal boundaries.”

“What about when they kind of… flutter?” I asked, thinking of how Caelen’s wings sometimes trembled when we were close.

Thaelon’s face took on a pinched expression. “That would depend on the context. In formal settings, it could indicate impatience or disagreement. In… personal situations… it might suggest other emotions not appropriate for this lesson.”

I bit back a smile. “Got it.”

“Now, regarding proper addressing of the king…” Thaelon continued, but was interrupted by the chamber door opening.

Caelen entered, dressed in what I now recognized as semi-formal attire—a silver tunic with intricate embroidery that left his arms bare and emphasized his broad shoulders, and those typical fairy pants that left little to the imagination.

His hair was partially braided back, revealing the sharp angles of his face.

“Your Highness,” Thaelon said, bowing deeply. “We were not expecting you.”

“Clearly,” Caelen said, his eyes finding mine with amusement. “I thought perhaps Consort Morgan might benefit from a break in his studies.”

My heart did a stupid little flip at the sight of him. We’d had dinner together each evening, but during the days he was often occupied with court business while I was trapped in endless lessons.

“We still have much to cover,” Thaelon protested weakly.

“I’m sure it can wait until tomorrow,” Caelen said firmly. “Unless you wish to contradict your prince?”

Thaelon’s wings flattened against his back. “Of course not, Your Highness. We shall resume tomorrow, Consort Morgan.”

As soon as Thaelon had scurried from the room, I slumped dramatically in my chair. “My hero. Five more minutes of proper napkin folding techniques and I might have impaled myself on a salad fork.”

Caelen laughed, the sound still thrilling me after a week of hearing it. “I thought you might appreciate rescue.” He moved closer, and I caught the now-familiar scent of him—thunderstorms and wild honey. “How are your lessons progressing?”

“Well, I now know seventeen different ways to bow and the proper term for addressing the third cousin of a minor noble from the Spring Court. Crucially important information.”

“Indeed,” he said, eyes twinkling. “One never knows when one might encounter the third cousin of a minor Spring noble.”

I stood, stretching muscles stiff from sitting for hours. “Please tell me you’re breaking me out of etiquette prison for the rest of the day.”

“That was my intention.” His wings extended slightly in what I now recognized as pleased anticipation. “I thought perhaps we might continue your education in a more… practical manner.”

“Meaning?”

“There is an aspect of fairy culture Thaelon is unlikely to address,” Caelen said, stepping closer. “One I believe would benefit you to understand.”

Something in his tone made my pulse quicken. “What aspect is that?”

“Wing etiquette between… intimate partners.”

I swallowed hard. Since our kiss in the grotto, we’d maintained a careful distance—friendly, flirtatious even, but without crossing the physical boundaries I’d requested. This felt like a deliberate step across that line.

“Is this part of my official consort training?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Consider it an elective,” he replied, his voice dropping lower. “One you are free to decline.”

I should have declined. Should have stuck to my plan of keeping emotional distance while I figured out an escape plan.

Instead, I heard myself say, “I’m interested.”

His wings fluttered slightly—that telltale tremor Thaelon had so carefully avoided explaining. “Excellent. Shall we use my private study? It offers more… discretion than the instruction chambers.”

I followed him through the palace corridors, nodding awkwardly at passing courtiers who still stared at me like an exotic zoo exhibit. Caelen led me to a wing of the palace I hadn’t explored yet, eventually stopping before an ornate door inlaid with what looked like mother-of-pearl.

Inside was a surprisingly cozy chamber—still grand by human standards, but intimate by fairy ones. Bookshelves lined the walls, comfortable seating was arranged around a fireplace burning with blue-purple flames, and large windows overlooked a private section of the gardens.

“My sanctuary,” Caelen explained, closing the door behind us. “Few are permitted entry.”

“I’m honored,” I said, meaning it. The room felt personal in a way no other space in the palace did—there were books with creased spines, a half-finished chess game on a side table, a cloak tossed casually over a chair.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he said, gesturing to the seating area.

I chose a plush armchair, sinking into cushions that seemed to mold perfectly to my body. Caelen hesitated, then chose to sit on a low couch across from me rather than crowding me. The consideration in the gesture wasn’t lost on me.

“So,” I said, trying to sound more nonchalant than I felt, “wing etiquette for intimate partners. Is this going to be on the test?”

His lips curved. “There is no test, Blake. Though I do hope you’ll find the information… useful.”

The way he said my name—like he was savoring it—made heat rise to my face.

“Among my kind,” he began, his tone shifting to something more instructional, “wings are not merely appendages for flight. They are extensions of our emotional and physical selves. Highly sensitive and deeply connected to our… pleasure centers.”

“Yeah, I kind of got that in the grotto,” I said, remembering how he’d responded when I touched his wing.

A violet flush spread across his cheekbones. “Indeed. What you may not understand is the significance of wing-touching between partners. It is considered the most intimate form of contact—more intimate even than traditional sexual acts.”

“More intimate than sex?” I asked, skeptical.

“Think of it this way,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “Your human sexual organs are sensitive, yes, but they are designed for sexual contact. Wings are not. They are vulnerable, essential for survival and mobility. To allow another to touch them is to place absolute trust in that person.”

Put that way, it made sense. “So when I touched your wing in the grotto…”

“You were, in fairy terms, being extremely forward,” he finished, though his expression held amusement rather than censure. “Not that I objected.”

“Good to know I was basically groping you in public,” I said with a groan. “Add that to the list of cultural faux pas.”

“The moonbloom grotto is hardly public,” he corrected. “And I invited the contact by extending my wing to you first—a clear invitation in our culture.”

“Oh.” I considered this. “So what are the rules here? When is wing-touching appropriate?”

Caelen’s expression grew more serious. “Between committed partners, wing-touching is reserved for private moments. The wings themselves have… zones… of varying sensitivity.” His own wings shifted behind him as if responding to the topic.

“The base where they join the back is most intimate, while the outer edges are less so, though still sensitive.”

“And in public?”

“A brief, formal touch of greeting between bonded partners is acceptable—typically a brush of fingertips against the outer edge, like so.” He extended one wing slightly and demonstrated the motion with his own hand. “Anything more would be considered inappropriate for public view.”

I nodded, fascinated despite myself. “That makes sense. Like how humans might hold hands or share a quick kiss in public, but save the more intimate stuff for private.”

“Precisely,” he said, looking pleased at my understanding. “In private, however…” His voice dropped lower, and his wings extended slightly. “In private, wings can be the center of extremely pleasurable experiences.”

The temperature in the room seemed to rise several degrees. “Is that so?”

“Would you like me to demonstrate?” he asked, his eyes darkening to that indigo that made my stomach flip.

This was the moment to back away, to maintain the distance I’d been insisting on. Instead, I heard myself say, “Yes.”