She was smiling. A small, thin smile. The smile of a woman who has been offered something interesting and who has decided to accept the offer, not because she needs it but because she is curious.

"You have this much confidence in this man?" she said. She looked at Raven. At his face. At his black eyes.

At the way he stood—unbothered, unhurried, a man who had just been told his head was on the line and who had not flinched.

"I do, Your Majesty," Old Tomas said.

The Queen’s smile deepened. A fraction. The porcelain cracked a fraction more.

"Very well," she said. She stood.

She was tall. Taller than Old Tomas. Almost as tall as Raven. Her dress fell to the floor. The blue fabric swayed as she moved. Raven’s eyes tracked her—the way she walked, the way her hips shifted beneath the dress, the way the fabric clung to her curves. Her breasts moved with each step—not exposed, not free, but visible in the way the dress pulled and shifted and strained. Her ass was round. Full. The dress outlined it—the curve of each cheek, the crease where they met, the way the fabric bunched at the small of her back.

She walked to the bed.

It was a king-size bed. Enormous. The frame was carved dark wood. The sheets were white silk. The pillows were mountainous. She climbed onto it. She lay down. On her front. Her face turned to the side. Her silver hair was arranged on the pillow. Her arms were at her sides.

Her body was visible from this angle.

Her back was long. The dress covered it, but the fabric was thin enough to reveal the line of her spine, the blades of her shoulders, the curve of her waist. Her ass was prominent—raised by the pillows beneath her hips, the cheeks round and full, the fabric of the dress stretched taut across them. Her legs were long. Her feet were bare—the soles pale, the toes slim, the nails painted.

Her breasts were pressed against the mattress. They were enormous. The dress contained them, but they overflowed—pushed outward by her body weight, spreading on either side of her chest, the swell of flesh visible past the edges of her torso. The fabric strained at the buttons. The buttons strained at the holes. The dress was fighting a losing battle against the body it contained.

"Find the oil," the Queen said. Her voice was muffled by the pillow. "Massage me like this. Through the cloth. If I like your hands, then I will remove my clothes for the oil massage."

Old Tomas nodded. He looked at Raven.

"Go," he said.

Raven walked to the bed.

He climbed onto it. The silk sheets shifted beneath his knees. He moved to the Queen’s side. He knelt beside her. His hands were at his sides.

"What are you doing?" the Queen said. Her voice was sharp. Royal. The voice of a woman who expects instructions to be followed. "You do not sit there. You kneel beside the hip. You begin at the shoulder. You work down. This is basic, Tomas—is your son-in-law trained at all?"

Old Tomas opened his mouth to speak.

Raven moved.

He swung his leg over the Queen. He straddled her hips. His weight settled on her lower back—not heavy, not crushing, but present. His thighs were on either side of her waist. His hands found her shoulders.

"What—?" the Queen started. "You do not— I did not give you permission to—"

Raven’s thumbs pressed into her trapezius.

The Queen’s mouth closed.

Her eyes widened. Her breath caught. The sound that escaped her was not a word—it was a gasp. A soft, involuntary, surprised gasp. The gasp of a woman whose body has been touched by hands that know something that no other hands have ever known.

His thumbs worked the muscle. Deep. Precise. He found the knot—the one that had been building for months, for years, the knot that Old Tomas’s aging fingers could never quite reach, could never quite release. He pressed into it. He held. The muscle resisted. He pressed harder. The muscle yielded.

"Ah—!" the Queen breathed. Her fingers gripped the sheets. Her back arched—slightly, involuntarily, the body lifting toward the hands. "That is— how did you—?"

Raven did not answer.

His hands moved.

Down her spine. His thumbs traced the erector muscles on either side. They pressed. They rolled. They worked the tissue with a precision that was not human—not because it was supernatural, but because it was too perfect. Too practiced. The hands of a man who had learned from a master in an hour what took the master forty years.

He reached her lower back. The lumbar region. He pressed with the heel of his palm. The pressure was deep. Firm. The Queen’s hips lifted off the bed—pressing up against his hands, pressing up against his weight, the body responding to the touch with an instinct older than royalty.

"Mmm..." the Queen moaned. The sound escaped before she could stop it. Her eyes widened. Her lips pressed together. The flush on her cheeks deepened—from the fire, from the touch, from the sound that had escaped her throat without permission. "That is... acceptable."

Raven’s hands moved lower.

To her hips. The dress was bunched here—the fabric thick, layered. He pressed his palms against the curve of her hips. He worked the gluteus medius—the muscle beneath the flesh, the muscle that Old Tomas had taught him to find twenty minutes ago. He pressed. He rolled.

The dress shifted.

As his hands worked her hips, the fabric moved. The hem of the dress rode up. Not much—an inch, two inches. But enough. The back of her thighs were visible. Pale. Smooth. The skin of a woman who has never trained, never fought, never run. Soft. The skin of a queen.

His hands moved to her ass.

He did not ask. He did not hesitate. He placed his palms on the cheeks—round, full, enormous—and he pressed. He squeezed. He worked the muscle beneath the flesh. The gluteus maximus. The largest muscle in the body. On the Queen, it was generous. The flesh was thick. The muscle was buried. His hands sank into the softness. He kneaded. He rolled. He pressed.

The dress rode up further.

As he worked her ass, the fabric climbed. It exposed the back of her thighs completely. It exposed the crease where her thighs met her cheeks. It exposed—

The Queen was not wearing undergarments beneath the dress.

Not panties. Not a shift. Nothing. The dress was all she wore. And as the dress rode up, Raven could see everything. The crease of her ass.

The shadow between her cheeks. The dark line of her crack.

And lower—lower still, where the cheeks parted—the puffy swell of her labia. Visible. Pink. Slightly parted. The lips were thick. Full. Engorged—not from arousal, not yet, but from the pressure of her body against the mattress, from the way her hips were positioned, from the way the pillows raised her ass and spread her thighs.

Raven’s hands worked the lower curve of her ass. His thumbs traced the crease where cheek met thigh. The dress rode up further. The fabric bunched at the small of her back. Her entire lower body was exposed—her ass, her crack, the puffy lips of her pussy, the dark shadow of her anal.

"Mmm... hahh..." the Queen moaned. The sound was louder now. Less contained. The Queen’s mask was slipping. The porcelain was cracking. Her fingers gripped the sheets. Her hips were moving—subtly, rhythmically, pressing up against his hands, pressing into the mattress, the body responding to the touch with a hunger that the mind had not authorized.

Her pussy was wet.