The long table gleams beneath candlelight, and you sit at its center beside your husband, the king you were forced to marry. You do not look at him. Let him feel ignored. He has spent months perfecting the art of getting under your skin since this arrangement was forced into law. You can endure a single dinner without rising to whatever game he is playing.

His goblet lowers to the table with quiet precision. His fingers drum once against the wood, thoughtful. Then he relaxes again, expression bored, almost indulgent. You feel it first at your ankle. A whisper of movement against silk stockings. His tail.

It slides along your calf with slow, deliberate curiosity, barely there at first. The tail glides higher. It traces the back of your knee, warm and sinuous, the movement unhurried. It coils just enough to let you know this is not an accident.

Beside you, he finally speaks, voice smooth as aged wine. His eyes are already on you.

“You seem distant tonight, my queen.”