She entered without knocking.
The door slammed open on a gust of cold mountain wind, her silhouette framed in the firelit corridor like a walking tempest. Her armor was scorched and cracked, splashed with blood that wasn't all hers. Her braid was half-loose, strands of silver hair clinging to her neck. Her cape dragged behind her like a shredded banner, and the look in her eyes—
It wasn't fury.
It was hunger.
Before I could speak, she seized me by the collar and dragged me backward into the chamber, kicking the door shut behind her with a clang that rattled the hinges. Her claws gripped my chest through the fabric of my tunic, hard enough to wrinkle it, but not tear. She didn't speak. Didn't growl. Just looked at me, breathing heavily, eyes wide and shining with something raw and dangerous.
She kissed me.
No preamble, no restraint. Her lips crushed mine with bruising force, her breath hot and ragged against my cheek. I staggered backward under the pressure until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed, and we collapsed onto it with a muffled thud.
Still, she said nothing.
She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes—her pupils blown wide, her body trembling faintly. Then she whispered:
"Victories require reward."
I opened my mouth to ask what that meant, but I didn't get the chance. She grabbed the hem of her breastplate and tore it upward, casting it aside in a heavy thump. Beneath it, her body was slick with sweat, her toned abdomen rising and falling with every breath. Her scales shimmered faintly in the low firelight, and her generous chest—bruised but unyielding—heaved with the effort of the fight she had just endured.
Her breasts, smooth and gleaming beneath her open combat wrap, pressed against my hands as she climbed onto my lap. Despite the faint trails of dirt and blood on her skin, she smelled like heat and iron and smoke—like war made flesh. Her thighs straddled me with commanding weight, muscles coiled under silver scale and soft skin as she leaned down again.
Her tail curled possessively around one of my ankles.
"You're going to lie here," she murmured, brushing my cheek with her claw, "and take me until I'm satisfied."
I swallowed hard. "Vilo, y-you're hurt—"
"I'm victorious." Her voice was low, gravel edged. "And I want my husband."
She pressed her body fully against mine, her firm, full chest flattening my shirt as her claws dragged down my sides—not slicing, but close. Her hips ground slowly into me, dragging a muffled gasp from my throat. The heat of her thighs, slick with effort, cradled my waist with no room to move. Her thick, bruised thighs flexed around me like she intended to crush something—whether my self-control or the bedframe, I couldn't tell.
"I need this," she growled into my ear. "I need you."
Her lips traced down my jawline, then to my throat. Her teeth grazed skin, sharp and teasing, and I shivered as her breath burned across my collarbone. She dragged my hands up to her hips, guiding my fingers to the edges of her scaled rear.
"Hold me," she ordered.
I obeyed, palms sinking into the curve of her ass. Her body was firm and smooth, scaled and soft in just the right places, and she groaned when I squeezed. Her claws tangled in my hair as she pressed her weight harder into my lap, lips now at my throat, dragging up to bite at my jaw. Every movement made the bed creak louder beneath us.
"Don't talk," she breathed. "Just be mine."
She rocked against me, slow and deliberate, her body gliding with unnerving control. The rhythm wasn't fast. It wasn't even urgent. It was slow. Intentional. Designed to punish every gasp I failed to suppress. Her tail looped around my waist now, pressing us together tighter than clothing ever could. My voice caught when her hips circled again, forcing me to grab her tighter just to stay grounded.
"Gasp again," she whispered, lips barely moving, "and I'll break the frame."
She meant it.
Every shift of her hips sent another shudder through the mattress, another sharp creak from the beams. Her thighs trembled slightly now, not from strain—but from the effort to stay slow. To stay in control. Her breaths came sharper, rougher, drawn between clenched teeth as she leaned back just enough to look at me.
And her expression—cold, flushed, wild—was terrifyingly beautiful.
"You're trembling," she said, voice almost mocking. "Already?"
I nodded, breathless.
"Pathetic."
Her claws pressed to my lips. "Quiet."
Then she rocked harder.
The bed groaned under us—once, twice—then let out a sharp wooden crack. I flinched, but she didn't even blink. Her body rolled again, thighs pinning mine down with unyielding force, her tail locking me in place. The frame groaned louder.
"You'll make me fall apart first," she hissed.
I tried to respond, but she pressed her mouth to mine again, biting my lower lip with a growl that sent a fresh wave of heat through my chest. Her hips met mine in a slow, relentless rhythm, her breasts brushing against my shirt with every push. Her thighs kept squeezing. Her ass clenched under my hands.
Everything about her body screamed dominance.
And she was winning.
Finally, when the bed gave one final, splintering lurch beneath us and the post behind my head cracked from the pressure, she stopped.
Just stopped.
Breathing hard. Shaking slightly. Her body still pressing mine flat to the ruined sheets.
Then she leaned in again, her hair falling around my face like a silver curtain.
"You'll sleep here tonight," she whispered. "On the ruined bed. So you remember what I do to claim what's mine."
I couldn't answer.
Didn't need to.
She kissed my temple, slowly, then dragged the blanket—half-crumpled—over our tangled bodies. Her wings stretched behind her with a soft snap. Her tail wrapped around my leg once more.
And just before drifting off, she whispered one more thing, breath warm against my ear:
"…You'll fix the bed tomorrow. Then I'll break it again."