The next morning, Leon slowly opened his eyes.

Before he could even attempt to sit up, a familiar ache spread through his limbs—no, through every fiber of his being.

Especially his lower back.

Or, to be precise: his kidneys.

Ohhh boy. Now that’s what I call ‘next-level soreness.’

It felt as though if someone were to extract his kidneys and grill them over an open flame, they’d come out marinated in pure vinegar.

The essence he'd accumulated over six months had been completely drained in just one night—perhaps even overdrafted a bit. The fact that he could wake up in one piece was nothing short of a miracle.

After lying still for a while to adjust to the soreness, Leon gritted his teeth, propped himself up, and leaned against the headboard.

The room had already been tidied, and the bedsheets had been replaced with a fresh set.

Leon frowned slightly.

The sheets were changed, yet he had still woken up in bed. This meant that Roswitha must have thrown him off the bed while he was asleep, switched out the sheets, and then tossed him back up.

So... was this soreness not entirely from last night's "activity"?

Damn that female dragon! How dare she toy with me like this! Is this how you treat the one who saved your life?

His mental grumbling was cut short by the sound of movement near the vanity.

Glancing over, he saw Roswitha seated at the dressing table, her posture upright, her silver hair cascading gracefully.

A ray of morning sunlight shone across her profile, casting her shadow onto the wooden floor.

Dust motes danced in the light around her, swirling like mischievous sprites as she applied her makeup with deliberate, practiced strokes.

Leon, being a stereotypically impatient man, never enjoyed accompanying his godmother on shopping trips or standing by as she perused an endless array of cosmetics.

He had always found such activities to be an enormous waste of time.

But curiously, he never felt annoyed watching Roswitha do her makeup.

When she sat there applying cosmetics, she seemed to exude a special kind of charm—so composed, so elegant.

Every movement of hers appeared casual, yet it brimmed with allure, mesmerizing anyone who watched for too long.

It was as if the world itself would have to pause and wait for the Silvery Dragon Queen to finish her morning ritual, even if the heavens were collapsing.

Perhaps it was also because her demeanor during makeup application was tranquil and serene—a rare sight for someone like her.

Most of the time, she was endlessly busy, leaving herself physically and emotionally drained.

Once Roswitha had finished her makeup and gave her hair a final touch, her morning preparations were complete.

She rose slowly, turned, and looked in the direction of the grand bed. "Oh, you're awake."

Leon sniffed and diverted his gaze away from her, choosing not to respond.

Roswitha raised an eyebrow. Was this a mental breakdown after the little "fun" she had with him last night?

What’s there to be upset about?

Your past, your present, and your future—all of it is destined to be controlled by me anyway.

You might as well get used to it.

She casually strolled to the far side of the bed, stepping into Leon's line of sight.

This time, Leon didn't bother looking away.

He knew that if he deliberately avoided her again, she might just climb into bed altogether.

Better to accept the situation as it was.

Leon scrutinized Roswitha.

Her long silver hair was tied into a braid, draped casually over her chest.

She wore a dark, spaghetti-strap dress, the slightly tight-fitting design highlighting her curvaceous figure.

The thin straps rested on her shoulders, and her full figure caused two snowy mounds to spill over the neckline.

The silver Dragon Mark emblazoned across her chest extended into the faint, delicate cleavage, evoking thoughts that were difficult to suppress.

The queen crossed her arms, a playful smile on her lips, silently basking in Leon's gaze.

She rarely wore dresses like this, and now that she suddenly had one on, it accentuated her mature femininity to the fullest.

Wait a minute.

Leon frowned.

Not "mature femininity."

How could an immortal species like a dragon even have the concept of "mature" or "not mature"?

No, Roswitha's current vibe…… This was more like that of a wife!

Her sophisticated and poised makeup, her calm demeanor, and that small braided hairstyle—the quintessential "essence of a housewife."

Was she shifting gears after having her second baby?

Going for a housewife aesthetic now?

Before Leon could make further sense of it, Roswitha leaned forward slightly, placing both hands on the soft mattress as she slowly crawled toward him.

Like a cautious cat, she crept ever so carefully toward him.

Leon shrank back a bit, stammering,"W-What are you doing? It’s morning—our daughters will be up soon."

"What are you so nervous about? I'm not going to do anything to you," Roswitha said with a smile. "After all, everything worth doing was already done last night."

Leon rolled his eyes at her but relaxed slightly. Then he asked,"Why are you dressed like this today?"

Roswitha adjusted her posture, sitting sideways on the bed. Tilting her head, she looked at him with a bright smile but didn’t answer. Instead, she asked in return,"Do I look good?"

Leon hesitated for two seconds. "Not bad."

Roswitha's smile instantly vanished. "I'll give you one chance to rephrase yourself. Try again."

Leon held firm. "Even if you give me ten chances, this outfit is still avera—"

Roswitha interrupted directly,"Tonight, I'll make sure our daughters stay with Noa and the others again."

Leon shifted his tone in a heartbeat,"This outfit is stunning! Gorgeous! Absolutely brilliant!"

A real man is one who knows when to bend and when to stand tall, adapting as the situation demands!

"Hmph. At least you know your place," Roswitha said. "Actually, I was thinking—now that we’ve had our second child, it's about time I presented myself more maturely. That way, others will see us and feel we’re more like a real family. Don’t you think?"

Leon blinked and nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense. Should I stop working out, start growing a beer belly, and go around all day in a white tank top, smoking cheap cigarettes and squatting in the bathroom for thirty minutes at a time?"

"Wow. The level of detail in your description of a generic middle-aged man is suspicious. Have you experienced this life yourself?"

"I'm twenty-three. Do I look like a man who's been through a midlife crisis?"

"Hah…… I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you were joking. But as my captive, you have an obligation to maintain your physique and overall health."

"Since when does a captive have that kind of obligation?"

"Other captives have all been executed, you know. Why do you think you’re still alive under my care?"

"Because you can’t bear to kill me."

"No. It’s because I want you to remain my captive for the rest of your life. Don’t even think about escaping."

"How did we go from discussing fashion to lifelong imprisonment?"

After a few more volleys of verbal sparring, the two fell into a mutual and tacit silence. They simply gazed at each other.

Ebony and silver eyes locked for a long moment before, almost simultaneously, they both chuckled.

Their "family" may have been a sham, a fabrication. But the unique harmony and understanding between husband and wife felt undeniably genuine.

Still, they chose to believe that this dynamic was merely the result of two lifelong nemeses knowing each other all too well.

But whether they are sworn enemies or fated to be intertwined, who can really say for sure?