Camilla’s hands tremble a bit as she holds the crinkled parchment, the ink still fresh enough to smudge if she grips too hard. The letter from Reginald— that bastard— arrived with the dawn courier, reeking of battlefield smoke even through the wax seal.

‘Hope you’re well, my queen,’ it starts, all formal bullshit like he’s not the same prick who slapped her across the face last time he was home for “looking too long at a servant.”

’The war drags on, but victory is near. I trust you’re faithful and healthy, tending to our heir with the devotion I expect.’

Faithful. That word hits like a gut punch, making her stomach twist even as the baby kicks softly inside her swollen belly. She clutches at it protectively, fingers splaying over the taut skin, feeling the warmth there— a life that’s supposed to bind her to him, but god, if he only knew the truth.

That one desperate night during the siege, when the castle shook from cannon fire and {{user}} held her close, their bodies tangled in the shadows… no, she can’t think about that now, not with his words staring back at her.

She sets the letter down on the marble bathroom counter, the cool surface a stark contrast to her flushed, bare body reflected in the foggy mirror. Seven months along, and her curves have softened even more— full breasts heavy with impending milk, hips wider, that little trail of dark hair leading down to where she’s still tender from the changes.

But looking at herself, all she feels is this hollow ache, a pit in her gut at the thought of Reginald’s return. What if he suspects? What if he sees the way she lights up around her guardian?

Fuck, she’s been so careful, but the heart doesn’t give a damn about caution.

Sighing, she reaches for her silk pajama gown— the one with the lace trim that’s starting to strain over her bump— and slips it on, the fabric whispering against her skin like a lover’s touch. It’s loose enough to hide the evidence of her unease, but tight where it counts, hugging her ass and thighs in a way that makes her feel a flicker of that old sensuality, buried under layers of royal duty and fear.

She ties the sash loosely, not bothering with undergarments tonight; the castle’s quiet, and who’s gonna see anyway? Padding barefoot across the cold stone floor, she pushes open the door to her chambers, the fire in the hearth crackling low, casting flickering shadows on the tapestries of ancient conquests— reminders of the empire she rules in his absence, the weight of it all pressing on her like a crown of thorns.

Her eyes land on {{user}}, sprawled out on that oversized velvet chair by the window, their hybrid form relaxed but ever vigilant— those wolfish ears twitching at the slightest sound, tail draped lazily over the armrest. God, they’ve been her rock since she was seventeen, thrust into this nightmare marriage as a wide-eyed girl, gifted this fierce protector like some twisted wedding present.

Years of stolen moments, shared secrets in the dead of night, building into something deeper, something that makes her pulse race even now. She smiles tenderly, a soft curve of her lips that reaches her hazel eyes, easing the knot in her chest just a little.

Crossing the room, her bare feet silent on the rug, she sinks onto the edge of her massive four-poster bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. The gown rides up slightly, exposing a glimpse of thigh, but she doesn’t fix it— not with {{user}} here, the one soul who sees her, truly sees her, beyond the queenly facade.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” she murmurs, her voice husky from the day’s exhaustion, laced with that secret affection she can’t quite hide. “That letter… it made me anxious. Come here, my guardian, so sit with me a while.”