I wasn't supposed to be in the room.
The royal study was sacred ground—off-limits to anyone without a crest or a death wish. Normally, I'd never dare step inside while Vilo was working, let alone interrupt. But she'd summoned me with a single word through the guard post: "Now." And when Vilo says "now," it means now.
I found her seated at her obsidian desk, silver hair cascading down her back like molten moonlight, crown set beside a stack of war decrees. Her cloak hung loosely off one shoulder, revealing the high cut of her sleeveless gown, all black velvet and golden trim, slit high enough to reveal nearly her entire thigh. Her wings were folded tight, her tail flicking lazily behind her like a thoughtless blade.
The entire desk was buried in parchment—maps, reports, complaints from nobles, offers from allied kings, and threats from lesser lords. I'd never seen it so bad.
She didn't greet me.
Didn't look up.
Just snapped her fingers.
And pointed to her lap.
I blinked. "Vilo…?"
She said nothing.
So I obeyed.
The moment I sat, her arm looped around my waist, and her tail slithered around my leg like a live wire. It coiled up, slow and smooth, pressing firmly—first against my calf, then my thigh, then curling high around my hips until I felt the pressure just under my belt. I shifted instinctively.
"Sit still," she said quietly, her breath close to my ear. "You squirm too much."
"I—You didn't tell me what I'm here for—"
"You'll see."
She pulled me closer against her chest. Her breasts pressed into my back—warm, full, deceptively soft despite the shimmer of scale beneath her skin. The plush weight of them molded around my shoulder blades, rising and falling slightly with every breath she took. Even through her armor-light bodice, I could feel their heat, their firmness, and the faintest texture of her scale-lined curves.
Her hand slid under my shirt, her claws trailing along my stomach. Not cutting. Just claiming.
"Vilo, what—"
"Quiet." She reached for a document and dipped her quill in ink. "I'm working."
"But—"
Her tail pressed harder between my thighs.
I stopped talking.
For several minutes, she said nothing. Just read. Her fingers flicked from page to page, occasionally pausing to sign, seal, or reject some lord's plea. She never looked down at me. Never smirked. Never gave any indication that this was meant to be intimate or suggestive. She was completely focused on her work—except her tail hadn't stopped moving.
It stroked.
Slowly.
From beneath.
Rubbing between my legs like a silken rope laced with heat.
I gripped her arm. "Vilo, I can't focus—"
"That's fine. I'm the only one who needs to."
"You're teasing me."
"No." She shifted slightly, her thighs tightening beneath me—thick, powerful, warm. "I'm multitasking."
I tried to breathe evenly, but she wasn't making it easy. Every inch of her—every curve of her hips and chest, the warm cradle of her thighs, the slow, merciless rhythm of her tail—was designed to overwhelm. I could feel her breath against my neck, calm and slow, while mine was anything but.
"Why… why are you doing this?"
"You looked tired," she murmured, lips brushing my earlobe. "And I needed something to warm my lap."
"I'm not a heating stone—"
"You're my husband," she said flatly. "You're whatever I want you to be."
I bit my lip.
Her chest pressed firmer against my back as she leaned forward, her breasts squeezing up around my shoulders, heavy and full and shameless in how they flattened against me. I could feel every shift of her breath, every slow rise and fall, and it drove me mad.
I turned my head, just slightly, and caught a glimpse of her neckline—low and lined with gold, the tops of her breasts spilling slightly over the fabric, glistening faintly from the heat of the room. A faint shimmer of sweat. A sliver of silver scale. I swallowed hard.
"Are you even reading those anymore?" I asked, voice tight.
"Yes."
"You're very calm."
"I'm always calm."
Her tail shifted again—curling tighter, then stroking once more with perfect pressure.
"You're not," she whispered.
"I am."
"You're hard."
I flushed deep. "You're not supposed to just say that—"
She set down the quill.
Her hand came to my chin and turned my head until I was facing her.
Vilo stared at me without emotion, her golden eyes cold and endless. She studied my face like she was reading a second report—one she found slightly more interesting than the stack on her desk.
"You've lasted longer than I expected," she said quietly.
I tried to smile. "Th-thanks?"
She didn't smile back.
She pushed the chair away from the desk and spread her legs just slightly beneath me. The movement was slow. Intentional. Her tail uncoiled from my lap, sliding away like a ribbon of heat. Her hands moved to my hips.
"You've been obedient," she said. "You didn't beg. You didn't whine. You kept your hands where I left them."
"I—I try to be good."
She gave a soft hum.
Then tilted my chin up again with two fingers.
"You deserve a reward."
"Vilo, I—I don't think I can handle—"
"You don't need to think."
She pulled me tighter.
Her thighs surrounded me again—thick, warm, firm as steel wrapped in silk. Her chest pressed against mine, full and pillowy, stealing the breath from my lungs. She held me close, burying my face into the valley between her breasts like it was a command.
"Breathe," she said.
I did.
She smelled like sweat, ink, parchment, and fire.
I exhaled slowly.
Her hands trailed up my back. Her tail looped lazily around my waist again, this time holding me in place without movement. Not teasing. Just there. Warm. Possessive.
She leaned down and kissed my forehead.
Then whispered, "Mine."
I nodded slowly. "Yours."
Her lips brushed my temple. "Good."
She sat back, holding me on her lap as if nothing had changed. The papers still waited. The war council still expected her signature. But for now, none of it mattered.
"Now," she said, reaching for her quill again. "Stay."
I stayed.
Pressed against her thighs.
Face buried in her chest.
Tail coiled tight.
And completely hers.