The tower office reeked of ink and stress.
Stacks of parchment climbed like uneven cliffs across Vilo's desk, bound with red and black ribbon, each scroll a reminder of nobles to appease or soldiers to deploy. The scent of warmed wax, scorched seal stamps, and dragonfire ink lingered in the air like tension itself. Outside, the sun had vanished behind storm clouds, but inside the room, the hearth burned bright—fueled by her frustration more than flame.
She didn't say a word when I walked in.
She didn't have to.
I knew that look. Wings folded back too tightly. Jaw set. One claw tapping against the inkwell, faster than she could ever write. Her thigh bouncing ever so slightly beneath the desk. If anyone else saw her like this, they'd call her composed. Still regal. Still terrifying.
But I knew better.
"Do you want me to leave you alone?" I asked gently.
She said nothing for a full heartbeat.
Then she pointed to her lap.
I blinked. "Wait, really?"
"Now."
I hesitated—only for a second—then walked forward, carefully stepping between the high-backed chair and her broad desk. Vilo sat tall, posture perfect even in exhaustion, her long silver hair braided tightly, her gaze locked on the scroll before her.
She didn't look up.
I sat across her thighs.
Her body was warm, firm beneath me. Her chest rose and fell slowly, steady as ever, but there was a faint tension in the way her fingers flexed against the parchment. I shifted, trying to get comfortable.
Then I felt it.
Her tail, cold at first, coiling around my leg.
It slid up—slowly—over my thigh, then looped across my waist with coiled precision. I stiffened, but said nothing. She still hadn't looked up from the parchment. Her claws scrawled another decree, signed it with a flourish, and moved on.
The tail slid between my legs.
"Vilo—" I started.
"Shhh." Her voice was low, calm. "Focus."
I opened my mouth again, but the words caught in my throat as her tail pulsed lightly against me, a slow, rhythmic flexing of muscle that sent heat crawling through my spine. I tried to breathe evenly, gripping the arms of her chair for balance.
She kept writing.
As though nothing at all was happening.
Another scroll opened. Another decree began.
Her tail flexed tighter.
I squirmed, barely able to keep still, and she tilted her head slightly—not to look at me, but as if listening for weakness. Her hand moved seamlessly from scroll to scroll, each motion refined, elegant, and wholly unaffected by what she was doing under the desk.
"You're distracting me," she murmured.
"I'm not doing anything," I whispered.
"You're breathing too loudly."
"I—"
Her tail gave another squeeze, and I bit my lip.
"Better."
She dipped her quill again, tapping it against the inkwell with precise rhythm. With her free hand, she lifted a scroll from the pile and placed it over the one she'd finished. Her claw scrawled a name—mine, I realized, on the top line. Her tail didn't stop moving.
"You wrote my name," I said, breath catching.
"I'm assigning you to personal service," she said. "Effective immediately."
"I thought I already was."
"Not officially."
Her tail curled tighter between my legs, and I let out a small, involuntary sound. She paused her writing.
"Did you just whimper?" she asked, still not looking.
"I—maybe—no."
She resumed writing.
Another scroll. Another decree.
Each one felt longer than the last.
Her tail brushed against the inside of my thigh now, teasing, gliding, pressing just enough to make me shift again. She didn't react to the movement. Her hips remained still. Her chest—gods, that chest—rose and fell with slow control, and every time I tried to glance down at the subtle curve of her cleavage just beneath her collar, her tail flexed harder.
I didn't stand a chance.
My breath was shaky now.
Her tail teased slowly, deliberately, a kind of cruel affection that said I know exactly what I'm doing without ever needing to break the silence. My fingers dug into the arms of her chair. I tried to hold on. Tried not to gasp. Tried not to say her name—
But I failed.
"…Vilo—"
She stopped writing.
Her head turned.
Finally, her eyes met mine—piercing, golden, and unreadable.
"You lasted longer than I thought," she said.
Her quill dropped into the inkwell.
Without a word, she pushed her chair back from the desk. The sound was soft—wheels over stone—and her body shifted beneath me as she leaned back into the cushions, her tail loosening just enough to let me breathe again.
Then she spread her legs.
"I'm your reward."
The words were cold. Absolute. A royal command.
I sat frozen.
She didn't repeat herself.
Just watched me. Silent. Expectant.
Her robe parted further as she leaned back, revealing the full length of her smooth, thick thighs, still warm from where I'd been sitting. The soft firelight danced across her chest, highlighting the curves barely restrained by her formal underdress. Her tail brushed gently against my back now, guiding me forward with almost mocking tenderness.
And still, she didn't smile.
She never smiled.
But her eyes—those fierce, golden eyes—gleamed with amusement, possession, and something darker.
"Move," she said.
And I did.