The purple glow of the Dragon Mark intertwined with the warm orange light of the crystal chandelier on the ceiling.

Behind the semi-transparent canopy curtains, two bodies were intimately entwined.

The silver tail, as enchanting and agile as a seductive serpent, slithered, coiled, and tightened around its prey.

Isa was right: the feelings were indeed different in a hotel compared to being at home.

The quiet atmosphere, with no need to worry about others around them—even if the room became a chaotic battlefield, no one would come to interrupt them.

The unfamiliar surroundings, where everything felt foreign, heightened their biological instincts and alertness, making them much more attentive than usual. They could savor and observe each other's every initiative and response in vivid detail.

Roswitha lay prone on the bed, her chest cushioned by a pillow, feeling the tingling sensation of kisses tracing her waist.

Her silver eyes were dazed, resonating with the Dragon Mark, as amorous ripples seemed to shimmer in her dilated pupils.

“Leon... you bastard...”

Years of marriage had made them intimately familiar with every sensitive spot on each other's bodies.

And the hollow of Roswitha's waist was a spot she simultaneously loved and dreaded.

It was like a switch—just a light touch would turn Her Majesty into a powerless puddle, losing all sense of resistance.

Though her words branded Leon a bastard, her heart secretly wished he'd continue.

Ah, women—they're always contradictory like that.

Especially in bed.

Leon pressed his knees down on her tail, leaving only the stubborn tip of it futilely writhing in defiance.

He reached out, drawing his fingertips across the Dragon Mark at Roswitha's waist.

The light of the mark grew brighter, responding to the pressure of his touch.

“Tell me, Your Majesty, how much magic have you stored up during this time?”

“Id—idiot, of course it's full!”

“Full?”

“Why even ask—?”

Turning in homework and not even bothering with soulful flirtations—why suddenly mention the magic stored in the Dragon Mark now?

Still, Roswitha mustered what little consciousness she had left to answer, though her voice wavered,

“Didn’t we... didn’t we plan for this from the start?... So obviously, I’ve already stored everything to its limit.”

“No, Your Majesty, I feel... that it's not quite full yet.”

Leon leaned down, his body pressing against Roswitha's soft back as he whispered near her ear,

“You’re still missing a little.”

Roswitha's pupils shrank sharply as a hazy realization dawned upon her.

“What are you... wait—don’t you—ahh... bastard... you’re terrible...”

“Then, Your Majesty, let me help you—completely fill it up.”

Roswitha clutched the corner of the pillow tightly, her face flushed red as she gritted her teeth.

“All these over-the-top lines for no reason... Can’t you just—HEY, STOP!”

A cry that could only be described as the wail of a Dragon Queen swallowed all of her impending complaints.

Hmm, well, to her it was just as well.

For if the process of "turning in homework" didn’t involve a touch of roughness, it’d actually leave her feeling unsatisfied.

To put it simply—it wouldn’t be quite as fulfilling.

Leon held the back of her neck firmly, looking down on her from above.

“Melkevi, say you want a rougher method.”

“No way... I won’t say it—”

Desiring inside, being proud outside—honestly, who can rival you, my Queen?

“Say it now, or...” Leon taunted, “Tonight ends here.”

“Hmph... then just let it end. I don’t care anyway.”

“Roswitha, say it. I want to hear your true feelings. You clearly want me to be rougher, right? You naughty little dragon.”

If physical violence is one form of violence,

Then verbal taunting certainly qualifies as another.

In any other circumstance, General Leon would need a hundredfold courage to dare call Roswitha a "naughty little dragon."

And admittedly, the term carried shades of insult.

But in this case, during their marital “exercise,” these playful insults inexplicably became an integral part of their intimacy.

Things like “naughty little dragon,” “worthless captive,” “fallen queen”—all of it.

In short, anything could become a tool for spicing things up.

—Excerpt from "The Shameless Married Life of a Certain Silver Dragon Couple"

“How boring~ incredibly boring.”

Though cornered to the very edge of the bed, with retreat impossible, the silver dragon queen still refused to surrender.

“Is that all you’ve got? Leon, are you even capable?”

Currently engaged in his "turning in homework" efforts, General Leon froze mid-motion.

“What do you mean, ‘am I capable or not’? Haven’t your heart—and... that place—already counted for you?”

Roswitha slowly turned to face him, draping her slender arms around his neck.

Her gaze was soft yet playful, her lips curling into a teasing smile.

“Why don’t you think a little harder about what I said, dummy?”

“Capable or not... isn’t that just questioning me all over again?”

Taking advantage of the pause, Roswitha carefully sat up, her silver eyes gazing directly into his dark, fathomless ones.

Their eyes locked briefly as Roswitha slowly lowered her gaze, glancing downward before once more meeting Leon’s eyes.

That gaze—so meaningful, so suggestive.

“Do I really need to explain it to you? Hmm? My dear, sweet lion~”

Leon’s pupils shifted ever so slightly.

Capable or not...

Capable or not...

Ding!—

Ohhhh~~ So that’s what she meant!

“Hmph, well then, this is all on you. I was only using a third of my strength earlier, you know.”

Roswitha raised her eyebrows. “Wow, sweetheart, and here I thought you were literally dividing your strength into fractions now. A third, huh?”

“It’s not about fractions; it’s about proportion. And trust me, it was only a third.”

“......”

Momentarily stunned, she grasped Leon’s meaning.

It turned out that, she wasn’t the only one with a mind full of innuendos.

Well, there’s truth in the saying—two peas in a pod.

“Fine, fine, looks like we’re really going all the way this time.”

Roswitha’s thumb traced Leon’s cheek as she teased playfully, “Go ahead, then—show me what you’ve got, my fully-powered little lion—ah!”

Leon had that habit—you know, to suddenly stage a sneak attack while one was mid-sentence.

A brief exchange later, another heated bout ensued.

As the passion reached its crescendo, talk of thirds or whatever else no longer mattered.

As Roswitha thought earlier, the only thing that mattered—was satisfaction.

The bed quivered, the lights swayed.

Where shadows intertwined, sounds of amorous delight filled the air.

......

In the early hours of dawn, the couple lay entwined, basking in the warmth and comfort of each other’s embrace.

Roswitha’s tail draped limply over the edge of the bed, her body curled against Leon’s chest.

Her silver lashes veiled her eyes, her flushed complexion still carrying faint traces of lingering embarrassment. Exhaustion was plainly etched across her face.

Nothing needed to be said; their silent habit spoke for itself.

This quiet time they shared was their way of shedding any lingering shame.

Shame for what?

Even after five years of living together, they couldn’t fully dispel the thought that interspecies unions were a forbidden taboo—though, admittedly, that same sense of disallowed excitement occasionally added a seductive flair to their marriage.

At moments like this, they would hug silently, no snarkiness, no stubbornness. Just the rhythmic interplay of each other’s breathing and heartbeat.

After a long while, Leon brushed aside the bangs on Roswitha’s forehead and placed a light kiss on the center of it.

“You did well.”

She gave no verbal response, only lowered her face further into his chest, holding him even closer.