I found it buried beneath a pile of old satchels in one of the storage towers—a worn, half-crushed paperback book from my world. The cover was faded, the pages dog-eared, and the corners smelled faintly of charcoal and dried moss. I hadn't seen it since I arrived in Vilo's domain. Somehow, it had survived teleportation, dragons, and volcanic humidity.
When I brought it into our chambers, Vilo was seated at her war table, draped in a loose nightcloak, reviewing maps by firelight. Her wings folded tight, her braid freshly undone, and her eyes sharp with silent calculation.
"Found something," I said, holding it up.
She didn't look. "A weapon?"
"No. A story."
At that, her gaze flicked over.
"A scroll?"
"A book. From my world."
She blinked, eyes narrowing slightly as if I'd just brought in a talking mushroom.
"Explain."
"It's fiction," I said, walking closer. "A tale. For fun."
She looked back at the map. "Fun is inefficient."
I smiled. "You said the same thing about kissing."
Her eye twitched.
After a pause, she sat straighter and gestured lazily toward the edge of the plush couch beside her.
"Then read, consort. I will humor this… inefficiency."
That was as close to enthusiasm as I'd ever get.
I sat. Opened the cover.
Cleared my throat.
"It was a warm spring morning when the boy heard the howl…"
And so began the tale.
A simple fantasy story. A young boy discovers he's the chosen one. Dragons. Magic stones. Predictable twists. I didn't expect her to like it. Honestly, I expected her to fall asleep mid-chapter or burn the book in protest.
She didn't.
She listened.
Silently.
Barely moving.
At first.
By the time we reached the second chapter, she leaned closer, arms crossed, brows furrowed.
When I glanced at her, she scowled.
"Continue."
In chapter three, the boy hesitated before fighting a bandit.
She scoffed.
"This protagonist is weak."
"He's twelve."
"He should train harder."
"He has no teacher."
"He should find one."
I suppressed a smile and read on.
When the boy stumbled during his first magic lesson, she clicked her tongue.
"Sloppy casting."
"He's learning."
"He's inefficient."
"You're projecting."
She glared.
I coughed. "Ahem. Continuing."
By chapter four, I could feel her breath over my shoulder. She'd shifted behind me, legs on either side, her chest pressing gently into my back, her arms draped along the couch as if I were the book instead of the narrator.
"You're close," I murmured.
"Your voice was fading."
"I'm reading in the same tone."
"You slouched."
"…Did not."
"Sit upright."
I obeyed.
She adjusted again—this time pulling me fully into her lap. Her arms wrapped around my stomach. Her chin hovered near my shoulder.
"Continue."
So I did.
Through chapter five.
Then six.
I felt her breathing change when the protagonist confessed his fears to the mentor. I saw her tail twitch when the mentor hugged him back. Her grip tightened slightly when the boy fell in battle and was saved by his friends.
At the end of chapter seven, I closed the book and tilted my head back.
"Well?"
She said nothing.
Just stared at the fire, her jaw tight.
"You liked it," I teased.
"No."
"Liar."
"It was tolerable."
"You scoffed twelve times."
"Because it was flawed."
"You leaned in."
"For warmth."
"You held me."
"For posture correction."
"You squeezed my waist when the boy cried."
She didn't reply.
Instead, she adjusted her hold, pulling me tighter into her lap. Her tail coiled once around my ankle and thigh, then stopped.
She was quiet for another long breath.
Then:
"…Read another."
I blinked. "You like them?"
"No."
I turned. Raised an eyebrow.
Her gaze was firm. Steady.
"But your voice," she said. "Is mine."
I stared at her.
She stared back.
Then added, deadpan: "Do not make me repeat myself."
I grinned, flipping to the next chapter.
"As you command, my queen."
She rested her head on my shoulder.
And, as I began reading again, her tail looped around my leg once more.
...
The royal bath chamber exhaled warmth and silence, its obsidian walls slick with heat and glowing faintly from the runes etched into the stone. Steam curled lazily from the surface of the massive pool fed by underground springs, thick with the scent of jasmine oil and volcanic salts. I followed Vilo in barefoot, blinking through the haze, still groggy from sleep and uncertain why she'd summoned me.
Then she dropped her robe.
It slid off her shoulders in a whisper, pooling at her feet. She stepped out of it without a glance, descending into the steaming water like it belonged to her—like everything in this palace did.
Her tail curled in the air behind her before dipping under the water's surface. Her wings folded tight against her back, and her silver hair trailed along her spine, catching glints of the ambient light like threads of starlight.
I was still standing there, stunned, when she turned to look over her shoulder at me.
"Well?" she said.
My mouth moved before my brain caught up. "Well what?"
"You're my husband," she said calmly. "You're going to wash me."
I blinked. "I am?"
She gestured with a single finger to the edge of the pool, where a tray sat with scented oils, soap stones, and folded cloths. "You will attend to me personally."
"I didn't think— I mean, I thought maybe the attendants—"
"They were dismissed. This is a matter for my husband. No one else touches me."
Heat flushed up my face. "Right. Of course. Obviously."
"Undress."
I hesitated, then stripped quickly and climbed into the water, the heat wrapping around me like a thick blanket. The pool was deep enough to stand in, shallow enough to kneel. She stood there, expectant, her arms at her sides and her expression blank.
I took a cloth, lathered it with oil and soap, and approached her carefully.
"Begin with my shoulders," she instructed.
I nodded, stepping closer, raising my hands. I pressed the warm cloth to her pale skin, rubbing slowly along her collarbones, then up over her shoulders. Her scales there were smooth, cool, and ridged in just the right places to guide my hands. I worked in slow, patient strokes, careful not to apply too much pressure.
She exhaled once.
"Use your hands," she said. "The cloth is wasting time."
I dropped the cloth.
My bare hands slid across her skin, now slick with oil. Her body was an even mix of soft curves and hard muscle—sculpted, perfect, intimidating. I moved from her shoulders to her upper arms, massaging gently.
"You're too gentle."
"I'm trying not to… offend you."
"You're my husband," she said, turning her head slightly. "Touch me like I'm yours."
I swallowed and pressed firmer, kneading down the length of her arms, then back to her shoulders and down again toward her chest. I hesitated when I reached her breasts.
She didn't.
"Continue."
I obeyed. My fingers slid over her chest, lathering the soap slowly, massaging the soft skin framed in silver scales. Her breath remained steady, but I saw the way her eyes hooded slightly as I worked.
"Thoroughly," she murmured.
I rubbed gently under her breasts, circling back up again, then down to her ribs, my fingers trembling slightly now. She raised one leg from the water, planted her foot on a submerged ledge, and leaned slightly into me.
"You skipped my hips."
"I was getting there."
"Too slowly."
I adjusted my grip and worked my way down, kneeling now in the water, both hands on her hips. Her muscles flexed under my palms. I traced the curve of her thighs, soaped and warm, and began massaging long strokes down to her knees.
She spread her legs slightly.
"You're blushing," she said.
"I'm trying not to."
"You're failing."
Her tail rose from the water behind me and wrapped lazily around my back, pulling me closer. She rested a clawed hand on my shoulder, applying light pressure.
"Up."
I stood again. She reached out and pulled me in until our chests touched, her skin hot against mine.
"You hesitated near my thighs," she said quietly. "Fix that."
I nodded, barely able to speak.
She turned around, presenting her back to me now. Her wings lifted slightly, giving me access to the planes of her shoulder blades, the curve of her spine, and the smooth lines of her back.
I started again, lathering her with oil and soap, letting my hands explore the familiar terrain of my wife's body. She said nothing as I worked—no corrections now, no commands—just slow, steady breathing.
When I reached her backside, I paused.
"Don't stop," she said.
I resumed, rubbing gently in wide, circular motions. Her tail flicked once in approval. I leaned in, kissing her between the shoulder blades as I worked.
She tilted her head slightly.
"…Better."
Then, without warning, she reached back and caught my wrist.
"You're to bathe me every morning from now on," she said.
"That's fine with me."
"You're mine. You touch me first. Before the staff. Before my generals. Before the day begins."
"Yes, Vilo."
She let go.
I rinsed her off slowly, watching the soap run down her skin in rivulets, vanishing beneath the surface. She moved only to guide me—lifting a wing here, turning her head there—until I was done.
I thought we were finished.
Then she stepped forward again and turned back to face me.
Her eyes held mine.
"Dry me," she said.
I scrambled for a towel.
She stood with arms outstretched, allowing me to blot her wings first, then her arms, her hair, her chest. I moved slowly, reverently, and when I reached her thighs, she took the towel and pulled me down with her.
I gasped.
"I wasn't finished," she said.
She pressed me into her chest, wrapping the towel around both of us, trapping me in warmth and softness.
"You're mine, husband," she whispered. "That includes your hands. Your time. Your mornings."
"Yes, my queen."
She kissed the top of my head.
"Now get dressed. You'll be late for breakfast."
I blinked. "You're not coming?"
She smirked.
"I'll be there… once I've cooled off."
And I left the bath with legs shaking and the scent of her skin burned into my palms.