The war table was a mess of sealed scrolls, blood-stamped orders, and tactical reports written in four languages. I had been at it since before sunrise—categorizing, translating, filing, and re-filing every last command Vilo issued throughout the week. Her army's paper trail was heavier than the weapons they carried.
"Three more," I whispered, fingers cramping as I scratched a date onto a final inventory.
Behind me, the fire cracked gently in the hearth. The sky outside the citadel's high tower windows had long since turned black, and my eyelids were struggling to stay open.
A faint rustle from behind told me she was nearby, likely still reviewing her spell-engraved maps or carving new strategic models from ironwood. She hadn't spoken in hours. Vilo got like that when she was deep in thought—silent, focused, terrifying in her discipline.
I stood, stretched, then turned around to find a place to sit for just a second. I spotted her long tail, draped lazily along the cushions beside the hearth. Warm. Scaled. Close.
Just for a moment, I told myself.
Just long enough to breathe.
I curled up against it, letting my head sink into the velvet cushion and my back rest along the curve of her tail. It was strangely comfortable—firm but warm, radiating the heat of her body through the smooth scales. The scent of her, faint but distinct—smoke, lavender oil, steel—wrapped around me like a weighted blanket.
And before I knew it… I was asleep.
When I blinked back awake, the fire was dimmer.
The tower chamber was quiet.
The only sound was the steady scratching of a quill against parchment.
I blinked again and found myself still lying against her tail.
Only now, it was coiled around me.
Not just a loose drape—her tail had formed a nest around my body, looping under my legs, across my stomach, and around my shoulders. I was snug. Cradled.
Trapped.
I shifted slightly, and her voice cut through the air without looking up.
"You snore," she said.
I froze.
She sat across the room at her desk, a fresh scroll in front of her, her eyes fixed on it while her hand moved with practiced precision.
"Like a dying frog," she added.
I flushed. "S-Sorry."
She didn't move. Didn't turn. Just kept writing.
But her tail didn't loosen.
"Comfortable?" she asked, voice unreadable.
I glanced around the coiled embrace holding me captive and nodded. "Yeah. It's warm."
"Then sleep more," she said simply. "I've got work."
I didn't argue.
The fire crackled.
The wind moaned softly against the tower windows.
And I relaxed back into her tail's gentle pressure, head nestled against one smooth curve, fingers brushing the warm ridge where scales met skin. I closed my eyes again.
I barely registered the gentle movement of her tail curling just a little tighter, or the rustle of her stepping away from the desk. Then something touched my chest—claws, soft and cold, resting lightly over my heart.
I opened my eyes.
She stood over me now, wings folded behind her, hair loose from its usual braid and cascading like silver down her shoulders.
She looked down at me with that same unreadable gaze.
"Mine," she whispered.
Then she turned and walked back to her desk.
I closed my eyes again, smiling.
I continued to do my daily duties when I woke up.
One day, someone said something about me.
It was meant to be a throwaway comment. Just a passing line over lunch as Vilo dissected military movements and trade envoy behavior, and I, as always, tried to make the mood a little lighter.
"I think one of the maids called me cute today," I said, half-smirking, picking at the edge of my bread.
The effect was immediate.
Vilo froze mid-sentence, her goblet of wine pausing just short of her lips. Her wings, usually relaxed behind her, tensed slightly. Her eyes didn't blink. The air itself shifted.
Then the temperature dropped.
Literally.
The ever-burning braziers dimmed a fraction. A chill crawled across the floor.
She lowered her goblet with exquisite control.
"…Name," she said, voice sharp enough to cut steel.
I blinked. "What?"
"The maid. What's her name?"
I waved a hand, chuckling awkwardly. "It's not a big deal. She was just being polite. I tripped in the corridor, and she helped me up. Called me 'cute' in passing. That's all."
Vilo didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
She just stared at me, eyes flat, calculating.
"Name," she repeated.
I shifted uncomfortably. "Vilo, come on—"
But she was already rising.
Dinner ended without another word. She didn't eat the rest of her food. Didn't touch her wine again. Just stood, wings snapping open with a crisp rustle, and walked out of the dining hall.
I thought that would be the end of it.
I was wrong.
That night, I climbed into our shared bed, tired from a day of translating old draconic treaties and sorting war maps. Vilo hadn't spoken since dinner, and I figured she'd just needed space. She was always quiet when angry.
So I settled into the covers.
Closed my eyes.
Let out a long sigh.
And that's when I felt her.
Not climbing into bed.
But hovering above me.
I opened my eyes to find Vilo kneeling on the bed, straddling my waist, her silver hair unbound and cascading like moonlight over her bare shoulders. Her wings were open. Her tail coiled behind her like a striking serpent. She wasn't wearing her usual nightgown.
She wasn't wearing anything.
I blinked rapidly. "V-Vilo—?"
She silenced me with a finger on my lips.
"If anyone is going to call you that," she growled lowly, "it will be me."
"C-Cute?" I squeaked.
She didn't answer. Just leaned in and kissed me.
It wasn't a gentle kiss.
It was a claim.
Her lips moved over mine with purpose, not rushing, but deliberate. Her hand slid under the blanket, gripping my wrist and pinning it above my head. Her tail looped around my ankle, holding it in place. I was trapped before I even realized what was happening.
"Vilo—"
"Shhh," she breathed against my neck. "You're mine."
"I know that."
"You don't act like it."
"It was just a compliment!"
She narrowed her eyes, then bit gently at my collarbone, just enough to make me shiver.
"No more compliments," she whispered. "From anyone. But me."
"Okay—okay, yes, fine—"
"Quiet."
She kissed me again, this time slower, deeper. Her hands explored me with the same control she used when wielding her magic—possessive and precise. Her body pressed flush against mine, and all I could do was hold on.
Or try to.
She didn't let me talk again that night.
Every time I tried to speak—whether to protest, explain, or beg—she silenced me with lips, teeth, tongue, or tail. I lost track of how long she hovered over me, wrapped around me, claiming and reclaiming every inch of me like I was a fortress that needed constant retaking.
And the worst part?
I loved every second of it.
When morning came, I woke with aching limbs and the scent of her all over me. She wasn't in bed anymore. Only her warmth lingered on the sheets and a faint outline of where her tail had curled around me in sleep.
I dressed slowly.
Carefully.
Then made my way to the kitchens for breakfast.
That's when I heard the whispering.
"…to the stables?"
"Effective immediately. No explanation given."
"Did she… do something?"
"Touched the queen's husband, I heard."
"No—just said he was—"
The conversation broke off when they saw me.
The maid in question? Nowhere to be found.
Later that day, I saw her through a window—mucking out the wyvern stalls, covered in hay and soot, face downcast.
I blinked.
"Vilo," I muttered under my breath, "you didn't."
She didn't respond.
But I swear when I passed her study later that day, she looked up from her scrolls just long enough to say:
"Mine."
And I said nothing.
Because she was right.