Morning came slow.
The fever was gone, or at least faded. My body still ached, but I didn't feel like I was dying anymore.
I woke to the sound of parchment being shuffled and the faint scratch of a quill.
She was here.
In my room.
Well—her room, technically. She'd made it mine by decree, but I still hadn't shaken the feeling that it didn't belong to me. That I was just a guest in a world far above my worth.
She sat in a chair by the window, light pooling over her silver hair. A small, portable desk balanced across her lap. Quill in hand. Eyes focused.
She was working.
I blinked blearily. "You didn't have to move everything in here."
"You're sick," she said without looking up. "I'm monitoring you."
"You've got work—"
"Then I'll do it here."
Simple as that.
I watched her work in silence.
I didn't mean to stare.
But I did.
Gods, I really did.
Her face was so regal, every line soft but commanding. Her eyes—sharp and calculating one moment, thoughtful the next. Her shoulders smooth and strong, her waist elegant, her curves…
I tried not to stare at her breasts—but they were right there. Soft, full, pressing against the fabric of her robe with every breath. Her thighs crossed and uncrossed as she readjusted herself, thick and pale and just barely hidden beneath the folds of her gown. And when she leaned forward—
My heart skipped.
She had a plump, firm ass.
I looked away.
Fast.
Embarrassed.
I pulled the blanket over half my face and pretended I hadn't been caught. But the room was too quiet.
And then her voice came.
"Are you uncomfortable?"
"N-No, not at all!"
"You're fidgeting."
"I'm fine," I said quickly. "Really. Just getting used to resting."
She set her quill down and turned her head.
"Then take a nap."
I blinked. "Now?"
"You're still recovering. Rest."
"But I'm pretty sure I'm good—"
As if on cue, her advisor, Ervanna, stepped into the room holding a small charmstone.
"He's stable," she reported, glancing at me. "No fever. Vital signs normal. Fully recovered."
Vilo nodded. "Good. You may leave."
Once the door shut behind the advisor, silence returned.
Vilo leaned back in her chair, folding her arms beneath her chest.
"Do you find me attractive?"
I choked. "Wh-What?"
"You were staring," she said calmly. "Not even subtly."
I turned beet red. "I didn't mean to! I was just—uh—I mean, you're—"
"Well?"
I looked at her.
There was no teasing in her eyes. No mocking. Just… curiosity.
"Yes," I said. "You're… beautiful. Extremely. I mean, you're terrifying, but... you're everything I've ever found attractive."
She didn't answer.
Instead, she stood, walked to the bed, and climbed in beside me—robe still on, hair falling over her shoulders.
She turned her back to me.
"Good."
And then she went to sleep.
Just like that.
Like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I stared at the back of her head, heart pounding.
I didn't know what any of it meant.
But I knew one thing.
She wanted to be close.
And maybe, just maybe…
She wanted to be wanted, too.
Weeks passed.
My health returned. My duties resumed. And Vilo stayed the same: commanding, cold, beautiful beyond reason.
But something had changed.
Me.
More and more, I found myself watching her.
Not just in admiration. Not in passing. But staring.
When she stood at her throne, arms crossed beneath her chest. When she walked through the halls, hips swaying in that effortless, regal way. When she leaned forward to sign documents and her robe shifted just slightly too low…
Her body was mesmerizing.
Her curves, her grace, her quiet power—she was elegant and dangerous in equal measure. Everything about her made my heart race.
And deep down, I hoped she didn't notice.
Because I felt like a creep.
One evening, I was polishing the edge of her throne while she read war reports, trying very hard not to sneak a glance at her crossed legs—and failing—when I realized too late that she was staring back at me.
Dead on.
"You've been looking at me more lately," she said flatly.
I panicked, fumbled the cloth in my hand. "I-I wasn't—"
"Don't lie," she cut in, voice calm but direct. "You were."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. No excuse came.
"Why do you feel guilty?" she asked. "Do you think you're doing something wrong?"
"I—" My throat tightened. "I didn't mean to disrespect you…"
"Disrespect?" Her voice tilted slightly, just enough to sound almost amused. "I'm your wife, not a shrine statue. You're allowed to look."
I didn't know what to say.
"Keep looking," she said.
My eyes widened. "W-What?"
"I said keep looking."
I turned red from the ears down. "I-It's embarrassing…"
She leaned slightly in her seat, one leg crossed high over the other, robe drawing just enough to expose pale, flawless thigh. Her wings shifted behind her like velvet curtains.
"Do you find me attractive?"
My mouth was dry. But I couldn't lie.
"Yes."
"Then look at me."
She said it not like a command, but like a permission.
I forced myself to raise my gaze.
Her eyes met mine with calm intensity—challenging, unreadable, but not cruel. She watched as I stared, saw the way my eyes followed her legs, her curves, her chest rising softly with each breath.
And she didn't flinch.
She didn't tease.
She just let me see her.
And then she said, "Now keep working."
So I did.
I returned to my duties—sweeping, cleaning, organizing—while my eyes, again and again, found their way back to her.
And she never looked away.