Is Vilo Become More... Wifely?

The last thing I expected while pruning cursed moon-thistle from the palace garden was to be tackled by a small, snarling dragon.

The weight slammed into my chest, sending me flat on my back in a puff of soil and leaves. Claws dug into my arms—tiny but sharp—and a long tail lashed the air with panic. I stared up into a pair of golden eyes, wild and slitted, framed by messy silver-white hair and a pair of half-grown horns.

It snarled.

I froze.

"…Uh. Hello?"

It blinked.

Then sank its fangs into my shoulder.

"Ow."

A blur of motion descended from the balcony above.

Vilo landed hard enough to crack stone, wings flared, claws glowing red-hot. The garden hissed around her, reacting to her sudden fury.

She took one look at the scene—me pinned by a child-sized dragonling, now chewing on my shirt—and snarled louder than the kid had.

"What is that?"

"New friend," I wheezed, as the dragonling hissed at her.

Vilo advanced, already summoning fire to her fingertips. "It entered the palace without permission. It's a threat."

"It's a baby, Vilo."

"It's armed."

"It's hungry."

The dragonling growled, glaring at her with distrust. Its tail flicked protectively over my chest, like I was its pet now.

Vilo narrowed her eyes.

"It bit you."

"Yeah, but just a little. He's more bark than bite."

The child nuzzled my chin suddenly, letting out a low, shuddery breath. I felt his claws loosen against my skin. His entire body trembled like a kicked puppy.

Vilo frowned.

"…It's not normal," she muttered. "Dragonlings don't imprint on strangers. Especially not humans."

I reached up and gently scratched behind the little guy's horn. He made a pleased clicking sound.

"Maybe he knows I'm house-trained."

Vilo did not smile.

But she didn't attack, either.

I looked at her carefully. "Let me take care of him. Just until we find out where he came from."

Her jaw clenched.

But after a long pause… she nodded.

"One week," she said. "Then he's gone."

"Thank you."

"I still don't trust him."

"Neither do I. That's why I'm giving him a bath."

The dragonling immediately tried to flee.

—

Day One: Feeding

He didn't have a name.

Didn't speak.

Didn't wear anything but ragged scraps and old bandages. His wings were underdeveloped, his tail covered in soot. He growled at silverware and tried to eat the table once.

So I sat beside him, hand-feeding him scraps of soft meat, tiny bits of spiced bread, and sips of warm broth. He snapped at the cup at first, but when I didn't flinch, he paused.

Then licked my hand.

From the corner of the room, Vilo watched in utter disbelief.

"I've had generals less obedient than this," she muttered.

"You've also set generals on fire."

"They deserved it."

The dragonling curled up in my lap after dinner and started purring in his sleep.

Vilo turned away before I could see her face.

—

Day Two: Bath Time

This… did not go smoothly.

He hated water.

The first few minutes were pure chaos—snarling, splashing, clawing. But I hummed softly, used warm towels and lavender soap, and made sure the water never touched his eyes. Bit by bit, he relaxed. Let me clean his wings. Let me wash his hair.

By the end, he was splashing playfully with his tail and nuzzling my cheek like a baby wyvern.

Vilo stood at the edge of the bath, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"…You're unnaturally good at this."

"I used to volunteer at a daycare."

"Were the children… scaly?"

"Only emotionally."

She stared a moment longer, then walked away in silence.

—

Day Three: Sleeping Arrangements

He refused to sleep alone.

So I let him curl up beside me in the large nest of pillows Vilo usually hoarded. He wrapped himself in my collar like it was a blanket. I stayed awake for hours, just brushing his hair and watching his chest rise and fall.

Sometime past midnight, I heard the door creak open.

Vilo padded in, barefoot, in a loose nightgown.

She stood beside the bed, looking down at the two of us.

"I could move him," I whispered.

She shook her head. "Don't."

Then, softer:

"…You'd make a decent father."

I looked up at her.

She didn't look back.

Just turned and left.

But I saw her tail flick once.

—

That night, when she returned—after the dragonling had finally fallen asleep in his new cot—Vilo slid into bed beside me with her usual silent grace.

But she didn't curl up like usual.

She didn't drape her wing across my back.

Instead, she lay flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, silent.

I didn't press her.

I waited.

Then, finally, in the dark:

"If I ever bore one…"

Her voice was so quiet it barely reached me.

"…would you stay?"

I didn't hesitate.

"I already have."

She exhaled slowly.

Not a sigh.

Just relief.

She turned toward me then, eyes gleaming faintly in the dark, and pulled me close with one arm around my chest, her cheek resting against my shoulder.

No words after that.

Just warmth.

Just breath.

Just her heart, beating close to mine.

The days pasts since the baby dragon left. I walked around the corner to see a man with Vilo.

He was tall.

Taller than me. Wider, too. The kind of broad-shouldered, bronze-skinned, chiseled warrior who looked like he was carved from the walls of the palace itself. Gleaming gold armor hugged every perfect muscle, and his red cape dragged like a dragon's tongue across the floor.

Commander Ser Talvik.

One of Vilo's elite.

He walked like he owned the throne room.

And worst of all… he smiled at her.

Not the respectful, "I-fear-your-divine-wrath" kind of smile. No. This was the cocky, confident grin of a man who thought he was a gift to queens. A smile he had no right wearing in her presence.

Vilo sat on her throne, cool and still as ever, her fingers drumming lightly against the armrest. She didn't respond to his flirtations. Not with a look. Not with a twitch. Just that same, detached calm.

But I'd known her long enough to recognize it.

She should've gutted him already.

The last time someone tried to comment on her legs, they ended up inside one.

So why now? Why was she tolerating this walking jawline with delusions of grandeur?

I knew.

She wanted to see what I would do.

She wanted to know if I would fight for her.

Even when the odds were hopeless.

Even when I had no magic.

Even when the other guy could snap me in half with one arm.

So I stood.

From my quiet place at her side, collar gleaming in the light, I stepped forward.

Talvik turned to me, unimpressed.

"And who's this little pet?" he said, voice like gravel dipped in wine.

I didn't answer.

I just walked until I was in front of him—looking up, because of course I had to look up—and planted myself like I actually belonged in the same room.

"She's not interested," I said.

His smile widened. "That so?"

"She has a consort. She doesn't need another."

"She has a toy. A weak one."

My hands curled into fists.

"She chose me."

"You think that means anything?" He stepped closer, shadow falling over me. "I've bled for her. Led legions for her. She needs a dragon, not some soft little thing to polish her boots."

"She doesn't need you," I said. "And she doesn't want you."

"Careful," he warned, voice darkening. "You've got nothing to back that mouth up."

"I've got something better," I said quietly. "I've got her."

He didn't laugh.

Instead, he punched me.

Or tried to.

A blur of motion.

A scream of magic.

Then silence.

His fist stopped inches from my face—fingers outstretched, frozen mid-swing. His eyes widened, lips twitching without sound.

His skin turned pale.

Then white.

Then blue.

Frost spread like a bloom across his veins, running up his throat, down his arms, spidering across the gold of his armor like lace made of death.

Then came the crack.

A wet one.

Then another.

Talvik fell.

Hard.

Face-first onto the marble floor, eyes open, mouth frozen mid-snarl. Ice crystals jutted from his back like blooming thorns. His blood—what little hadn't frozen—spilled in slow, red ribbons between the cracks in the stone.

I turned.

Vilo was standing.

One hand still raised. Her breath slow. Calm. Controlled.

Too controlled.

She walked toward me in silence, her heels clicking over the blood-slick stone. When she reached me, she said nothing.

Just looked at me.

I met her eyes.

"Was that what you wanted?" I asked softly. "To see if I'd stand up?"

She didn't nod.

Didn't blink.

But I knew the answer.

She reached out, claws brushing my cheek, and leaned in until her lips were just above mine.

"You're mine," she whispered. "And I will never let anyone forget it."

I shivered.

Not from fear.

From awe.

From love.

From the knowledge that this terrifying, divine, beautiful woman had just murdered a godlike warrior because he tried to hurt me.

And because I stood up, even when I couldn't win.

Later that night, when we lay together in bed—her arms wrapped tightly around me, tail curled over my legs—I felt her heartbeat thudding against my back.

"You weren't supposed to fight him," she murmured into my neck. "You're fragile. Soft."

"I know."

"You still did."

"I know."

She didn't say anything after that.

But she didn't let go.

And neither did I.