The Abandoned Princess’ Secret Bedroom - Chapter 1: The Princess and the Secret Greenhouse

The princess of the Bridgent Kingdom.

The only daughter of the late King Pallun, the younger sister of King Bastian, and a golden feather of the Raven royal family, said to be the sacred bird of the gods.

A scion of the exalted bloodline.

Her palace was once the most luxurious and beautiful, her attire the softest fabrics, free of even the slightest imperfection. The jewels she adorned herself with shone in vibrant hues, as if capturing the light itself. Whatever she wore would instantly become the height of fashion in the capital.

But that was a thing of the past.

Llewellyn was not happy.

More precisely, her life had never been smooth. No, to put it bluntly, her life had been an absolute wreck.

Never had she felt this more acutely than she did today. Llewellyn clenched her teeth, her grip so tight on the hem of her sapphire dress it seemed she might rip it apart. As she entered the banquet hall, announced by a servant, all eyes turned toward her. None of those gazes held a shred of respect for the princess.

The abandoned princess of Bridgent.

That was how people referred to Llewellyn. The princess, destined to become the Golden Raven of Bridgent and hold the highest honor, had been cast aside in disgrace.

The pain of being hurt by their changed gazes was something she had grown accustomed to. But today, her body burned as if she had swallowed fire. Sweat beaded on her skin, threatening to drip, but she tightened her grip on the cooling stone in her hand to steady herself.

She didn’t know how long she could endure, but she had to persevere.

Endurance was how Llewellyn had survived thus far.

If she faltered here, the Dowager Queen Pamela would seize the opportunity to strike. In fact, Llewellyn suspected that her current condition might be Pamela’s doing. If that were the case, standing here at all would be nothing short of a miracle. A single bead of sweat rolled down her jaw.

“Llewellyn, is something wrong?”

It was Bastian, the King of Bridgent and her half-brother, who spoke. His tone was low, meant for her ears only, carrying genuine concern. Llewellyn forced a faint smile and shook her head.

“No, Your Majesty. I’m fine.”

“If you’re unwell, perhaps you should rest,” he suggested, his voice kind and sincere.

For a fleeting moment, Llewellyn almost nodded. She knew Bastian’s worry and affection were genuine. But…

“Your Majesty,” she replied, straightening her posture, “it would be unseemly for a princess of the realm to excuse herself from an important event on account of her health.”

“But Mother…”

The Dowager Queen’s meddling was a constant. Bastian himself was often little more than her puppet, so her interjection came as no surprise.

“Your Majesty, please listen,” Pamela began, her voice carrying the condescending tone of someone feigning concern. “As an elder of the royal family, allow me to offer some advice. The princess must be properly educated. To neglect her health before such a significant occasion is irresponsible. It pains me as a mother, but indulgence has its limits. Members of the royal family must sometimes endure.”

Llewellyn said nothing, her grip tightening around the cooling stone as she focused on calming her overheated body.

“…”

The words hung in the air, a veiled reprimand disguised as maternal wisdom.

“Moreover, isn’t this the return of the master of the Holy Sword, Duke Almandite Hvitserk?”

At the mention of that name, Llewellyn flinched. Noticing her clear unease, Queen Dowager Pamela’s crimson lips curled into a smile. Her olive-toned dress, with its muted hue contrasting starkly against Llewellyn’s vivid blue, was woven with intricate patterns in gleaming gold thread—a testament to her imposing authority. A year ago, Pamela had appeared in a rare purple gown so breathtakingly beautiful that it was still the subject of admiration and gossip.

Waving an ostrich feather fan with elegant nonchalance, Pamela spoke.
“Our dear princess will, of course, welcome his return, won’t she?”
“Yes.”
“I thought as much. After all, you two are childhood friends.”
“…”
“You wouldn’t still harbor childish grudges over his judgment of your late mother’s wrongdoing, would you?”

Though Llewellyn was powerless, Pamela deliberately humiliated her in public to reinforce her own dominance. The House of Hvitserk was the princess’s deepest wound, one that Pamela pressed on relentlessly. Though Llewellyn had already fallen from grace, Pamela made sure to grind her down even further, as if for confirmation.

The gathered nobles clicked their tongues, casting glances at Pamela and Llewellyn. A stepmother’s hatred for her stepdaughter was nothing surprising to them. Especially when that stepdaughter stood to inherit the throne, given that the queen’s son had no heirs.

“That won’t happen,” Llewellyn finally said.

Pamela’s aim was to see her in despair. Running away would only encourage her to torment Llewellyn further. Since being abandoned, Llewellyn had resolved never to rebel against Pamela, no matter what.

Clasping her hands tightly, Llewellyn seated herself beside the king. As a member of the royal family, it was only proper for her to celebrate the return of the master of the Holy Sword—the young Duke Almandite Hvitserk, who had eradicated the kingdom’s plaguing black sorcerers and the monsters they had summoned.

The moment she sat, trumpets sounded, as though they had been waiting for this.

Through the center of the crimson carpet strode a man, his presence so surreal it felt like a scene from a play. Llewellyn forced herself to stare at him, trying to feign composure. It had been six years since she last saw him, and in that time, he had grown even taller. Aside from Sir Tristan Jayard, the kingdom’s foremost knight, there was likely no one in the hall who could rival his height.

With every step, the duke exuded the elegance and dignity of a noble. It wasn’t arrogance—it was the confidence of someone whose very bones were etched with an unshakable sense of superiority from birth.

Under the dazzling lights of the banquet hall, his dark red hair, slicked back neatly, shimmered like polished garnet. He was as striking as a finely crafted gemstone and as captivating as a masterpiece of art, drawing every gaze and captivating every onlooker.

His gaze was neither insolent nor deferential. The perfectly tailored suit clung to his remarkably well-built physique, and his slightly clenched fist complemented his upright posture. As though surveying the room, he cast a fleeting glance over the people, but even the movement of his teal-green eyes exuded a sense of elegance.

The boy she once knew had returned as the dazzling young man she had once imagined.

Llewellyn’s heart pounded wildly. The heat she had tried to suppress began to spread through her body. For an instant, she felt as though her eyes met those striking teal ones. Her cheeks flushed, her body heating up, and she quickly lowered her head, trying to suppress the surge of emotions. Her trembling hands gripped the hem of her skirt.

She doubted she could endure this much longer.

“Duke Hvitserk, come forward,” Bastian rose from his seat to welcome him.

“Your Majesty, it is an honor to see you. I deeply regret that I could not participate on the day your reign’s glory began.”

“Think nothing of it. You had your circumstances. I care not. Hearing of your deeds filled me with such joy that I could scarcely sleep.”

Bastian’s bright smile lit up his delicate face, which resembled the beautiful Pamela’s. Several noblewomen and ladies blushed at the sight.

“All of it was made possible thanks to Your Majesty’s guidance,” Almandite responded humbly.

Llewellyn forced a cold smile. The Hvitserk family, once loyal to her deceased mother, had now become lapdogs of the king, exposing their bellies in submission.

The sight sickened her, but leaving the hall would only make her an easier target for gossip. Above all, she wanted to avoid catching the eye of Almandite Hvitserk.

The duke received endless praise for completely annihilating the cult of black sorcerers, who had terrorized the kingdom by sacrificing humans and sowing unrest. These sorcerers, known for their immense power and devotion to a demon god, were a menace to both the kingdom and the Holy Empire. The monsters they summoned were far more formidable than ordinary ones. To purge their stronghold was indeed a feat deserving of acclaim.

What astounded the people most, however, was that the duke wielded the Holy Sword, which had been thought lost.

But despite all his victories, Almandite had failed to prevent the one thing that mattered most. Llewellyn’s smile grew colder as an inexplicable fury simmered within her.

“Princess Llewellyn, you seem to be in good health,” Almandite remarked unnecessarily.

How dare he! A spark of rage ignited in Llewellyn’s eyes. She vividly remembered the Hvitserk family—her mother’s staunchest allies—dragging her mother away.

Not only that, but they had played the role of jailers, escorting her imprisoned mother to the execution platform for their own safety. Worse yet, they had taken away her precious younger brother, Alphius, leaving Llewellyn utterly alone.

“I never imagined the duke would care more about my health than that of my mother,” Llewellyn retorted sharply.

Her deliberate mention of “mother” was laced with mockery. The room fell into a chilling silence, as it wasn’t immediately clear which mother she was referring to. The nobles began to murmur quietly.

“The princess hasn’t changed, has she?”
“They say she spoke just as coldly to Sir Jayard, the renowned knight.”
“Instead of congratulating someone who saved the kingdom, tsk tsk.”
“She still doesn’t realize her mother’s sins.”

Llewellyn was well aware that her words isolated her further. But what did it matter? She was already the infamous princess with a sharp tongue, embittered by despair after being abandoned. Her life had become a living hell ever since her mother’s death. And twenty days ago, after that incident, her life had plummeted even deeper into the abyss.

Her body sounded an internal alarm.

“I am feeling unwell. Your Majesty, may I have permission to withdraw?”

In the end, Llewellyn admitted defeat and fled.

*

Llewellyn gently touched her neck. The crimson hexagram etched onto her slender throat radiated heat, each breath carrying an unbearable sense of desire. She was wholly consumed by lust. To put it bluntly, she was in heat.

As a princess abandoned after her mother’s death and cast into a detached palace under the king’s scorn, there were no knights devoted to her service. Even the nominal guards assigned to her frequently neglected their duties, choosing instead to train in swordsmanship or leave their posts for extended periods. For reasons unknown, Pamela didn’t seem intent on taking her life, and so Llewellyn thought she was safe.

At least, she had thought so—until twenty days ago, when she was kidnapped by black sorcerers during a hunting tournament.

She hadn’t even intended to attend the tournament but had been forced to by Bastian’s insistence. While the nobles laughed and socialized, she spent her time quietly in a tent prepared for her.

At some point, she must have dozed off. Llewellyn was taken away with her mouth and eyes bound, unable to scream. When she woke, she was tied hand and foot, lying on what she presumed to be a cold altar.

Someone caressed her tenderly. Llewellyn shivered uncontrollably.

The sinister chanting of black sorcery still echoed vividly in her ears. When a sharp pain pricked her neck and blood began to flow, she realized she was being offered as a sacrifice.

“To the god of all that is dark, we beseech the touch of Asmodeus!”

The moment she realized the subject of their ritual wasn’t just any demon but Asmodeus, tears streamed down her face as she trembled violently. Asmodeus—the demon god of lust and one who rivaled celestial beings in power. It was to this entity that she was being sacrificed.

If there was any consolation, it was that she didn’t feel pain—at least, not at first. As the bizarre ritual began, her body grew unbearably hot. Muffled cries escaped her lips through the gag as saliva dripped.

It was agonizing.
She thought she was going to die.
She was terrified.

But the ordeal didn’t last long.

Warmth engulfed her, and a sweet fragrance filled the air. Dazed by the intoxicating scent, she felt hands stroke her neck—cold yet warm, soft yet sharp.

“An amusing girl,” a voice reverberated in her mind.

The moment she heard it, she knew she was in the embrace of Asmodeus.

“An amusing wish,” the voice continued.

A cool hand brushed her forehead.

“I enjoy things that entertain me.”

The demon god of lust personally cursed the human offered as his sacrifice.

“Oh pitiable woman who knows not love. I shall make you learn what love is.
Henceforth, you shall yearn for the pleasures of desire for as long as time allows. Ensnare others, join with them, and learn the joys of love.
To the one who knows not the delight of love, I bestow the mercy of allure. May you discover the pleasures of carnal ecstasy.”

It was a curse to be overwhelmed by lust.

Her neck throbbed with sudden, searing pain. Llewellyn thought she was going to die then and there.

But for some reason, the black sorcerers returned her to the hunting grounds. At first, she believed it had all been a dream—until she heard the voice of her guard searching for her and felt her body burn with uncontrollable heat.

That mad god. What mercy was this supposed to be?!

Since that day, her body reacted fiercely whenever she met a man’s gaze or heard a man’s voice. The mark on her neck constantly urged her to embrace them.

Would things be easier if she simply gave in and took someone to bed? Should she find a lover to ease the torment?

But how?

Llewellyn felt like she was losing her mind. She had thought the pain would eventually subside, but the brand’s curse continued to erode her, tormenting her day and night. The most unbearable part was that the insatiable desire was growing stronger, invading even her waking hours.

At gatherings like today’s banquet, surrounded by men, her body burned even more.

Back in her palace, she dismissed her maids, who had never shown much loyalty or concern for her. Left to her own devices, Llewellyn could easily find solitude. After all, during her abduction at the hunting tournament, neither the guards nor the maids had even noticed her absence for hours.

With a cold smile, she entered the abandoned greenhouse attached to her residence.

Her breath grew hotter, visible puffs escaping her lips. A flush spread across her face, reddening as if she were intoxicated. A searing heat pulsed between her legs.

What had started as an itch had grown into a dangerous, blazing need. The curse, which had once confined itself to the night, now plagued her during the day.

At this rate… she would truly break, disgracefully and irreparably.

If she did, the risk of scandal would rise. Branded as a lascivious woman, she might lose the option to seek refuge in a convent—the only path left to escape the kingdom without marriage.

Her breathing grew heavy, lips parted as a rosy flush spread across her pale face, radiant with an otherworldly glow. Her body exuded a sweet and intoxicating scent, the fragrance of irresistible allure. Heat surged to her head, boiling her thoughts.

It was fortunate no one saw her like this. Llewellyn collapsed onto the rotting bench, letting out a stifled groan. The cooling stones she had tried to use were long useless against the curse.

The hexagram on her neck flared with a dark crimson glow.

Creak.

The greenhouse door opened, and a shadowy figure stepped inside.

Her body reacted before her mind could catch up.

A man. A man. A man who could satisfy this unbearable yearning. Llewellyn sprang to her feet.

“Princess?”

The deep timbre of his voice was like a trigger. The hexagram burned hot, as if declaring this is the one. Its searing intensity overwhelmed her reason, clouding her mind with lust. The seal’s power erupted like a dam breaking, and as a mere human, Llewellyn could do nothing to resist the god’s curse.

One thought consumed her.

I need to embrace him.
I must have him.
It doesn’t matter who he is—just him, now.

Llewellyn moved toward the man as if enchanted.

“What’s the matter, Princess?” he asked, concern evident in his voice.

Llewellyn smiled, extending her arms to pull him into an embrace. She inhaled the musk of his scent, a soft, dreamy smile spreading across her lips.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

“You… missed me?” The man stiffened, disbelief evident in his tone. Though his words carried a trace of elation, Llewellyn didn’t notice. Her mind was entirely consumed by one need—physical union with him.

Every word she spoke was a tool to seduce him, her thoughts incapable of any higher reasoning.

Without realizing it, her hand moved to caress his firm chest, the touch brazenly intimate.

“This is…”

“Do you dislike it?” Llewellyn asked, her voice trembling with feigned vulnerability. Her moist, shimmering eyes stared up at him as her soft body pressed against his hard frame. The sweet, seductive fragrance emanating from her made his resolve falter.

“I… Princess, I—”

“I want this,” she murmured, smiling as she captured his lips in a kiss.

As her body clung to his, she felt something hard press against her thigh. Without thinking, her hand reached for it. His body betrayed his arousal, growing harder under her touch.

“Don’t regret this,” the man finally said, his last words before they surrendered to their shared desire.