Chapter 11: The baby dragon is…so delicious!

In the ice-cold Demon King’s bedchamber, the flames in the fireplace cast wavering shadows across the smooth obsidian floor.

Restel’s low voice carried a trace of teasing amusement as he effortlessly caught Rose’s furious resistance:

“No problem. After we’re married, it won’t be taking advantage anymore.”

He leaned lazily against the bedpost, scarlet eyes fixed with interest on the tightly bundled blanket ball on the bed. He paused deliberately, his tone laced with indisputable dominance and a hint of smug satisfaction:

“That will be—perfectly legitimate affection.”

Beneath the blanket, Rose trembled with rage. She glared furiously ahead, small teeth clenched. Even through the thick fabric, she could sense that infuriating, smug smile spreading across Restel’s face.

Rose resolved firmly: even if it meant starving herself to death, she would not yield.

Restel keenly detected the almost tangible aura of “non-violent non-cooperation” radiating from the small lump under the blanket.

He gave a soft snort, as though sighing helplessly, then switched tactics. Adopting the tone of someone patiently explaining common sense, he said:

“My dear Rose, you must understand—those wings and tail on your body are symbols of our dragon race’s power and pride. Noble blood flows through your veins. How can you hide them away? They should be displayed openly, so that all the subjects who look up to the Demon King can see them clearly.”

Restel’s words dripped with the arrogance of absolute certainty.

Inside the blanket, Rose’s anger flared even hotter! Pride? Symbols? Right now she only felt they were cumbersome and heavy!

From what Restel was saying, he clearly had no intention of solving her practical problem. A powerful surge of unwillingness and defiance rose within her.

Since she couldn’t escape for the time being, she might as well make him a little uncomfortable.

Rose spoke from within the blanket in a muffled voice, deliberately provocative with a hint of barely concealed calculation:

“Oh? Is that so? Symbols of pride?”

She mimicked his tone, then swiftly changed direction:

“So you’re perfectly fine with letting others see your future wife—like this, so weak, with such pretty, tender wings and tail? What if some careless fool accidentally touches them, bumps into them, or even…”

She deliberately left the sentence unfinished, leaving a chilling space for imagination.

“…”

The leisurely smile on Restel’s face froze instantly. His scarlet pupils contracted sharply.

Rose’s words had struck precisely at his deepest, most hidden possessive and protective instincts—though he might not want to admit the latter.

Pure, tender, adorable little wings? Seen by outsiders? Touched? Bumped?!

The image exploded in his mind, bringing a powerful wave of discomfort!

His fondness for Rose in her juvenile dragon form stemmed largely from his desire to possess and control something that belonged entirely to him, along with the thrill of her newborn vulnerability and beauty.

Such beauty and fragility could only be enjoyed by him, controlled by him. How could it be exposed to the gaze—or worse, the touch—of outsiders?!

A shadow passed over his handsome, wickedly charming face. His brows furrowed tightly as an intense internal conflict raged.

On one side: the traditional pride of the dragon race.

On the other: an overwhelming, almost territorial need to monopolize his treasure.

In the end, that fierce possessive instinct easily crushed any notion of “pride in symbolism.”

“Ahem…”

Restel cleared his throat, masking his earlier lapse. His voice returned to its usual lazy drawl, now tinged with reluctant compromise:

“…You do have a bit of a point, twisted as it is. Fine. Considering you’re still a juvenile dragon,”

He crooked a finger toward the blanket.

“Move a little closer. I’ll help you conceal them temporarily.”

“Hmph. That’s more like it…”

Rose muttered quietly to herself inside the blanket. She wasn’t surprised by the outcome, but the small victory still eased some of her frustration.

She shifted inch by inch beneath the blanket until she was slightly nearer the edge.

Then Restel’s voice came again—this time carrying a faint note of unusual seriousness:

“Pay attention. Controlling this form requires direct contact to guide the mana precisely. Nothing can be in the way.”

He explained earnestly, as though imparting some profound magical principle:

“So you need to come a bit closer, then lift the blanket behind you just enough to expose your wings and tail.”

“Ah?!”

Rose let out another startled cry. Her small body instantly went rigid inside the blanket.

Direct contact?! Lift the blanket?! The sense of violation and unwanted touch surged over her again like an icy wave.

But when she thought of staying wrapped forever in this blanket that reeked of Restel’s hated scent—or struggling endlessly to put on clothes—she had no other choice right now.

Endure for a moment, take one step back—for the sake of eventual freedom!

“…Fine.”

Rose answered in a tiny voice, heavy with humiliation as she compromised.

Like a wary snail, she very slowly inched her body closer to the edge of the bed, back facing Restel’s direction.

Then, with trembling little hands, she gripped the edge of the blanket at her chest tightly. Her other hand carefully, bit by bit, lifted the fabric behind her—just enough to create a small opening for her wings.

The pair of newborn silver wings—covered in delicate scales, beautiful as fine artwork—and the base of her restless silver tail, which swayed faintly and shimmered softly in the light, were exposed to the slightly chilly air.

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, bit her lower lip, and urged in a tense, hurried voice:

“…Hurry… hurry up!”

Yet the swift, decisive spellcasting she expected did not come immediately.

What met Restel’s eyes made even his breathing pause for a moment.

Not from shock—but from being utterly captivated by the beauty.

Those defenseless silver wings spread before him like moonlit night-blooming cereus, each tiny feather gleaming with pure radiance. Though slender, their framework held infinite potential for growth.

Especially the base of that restless tail—covered in exquisitely fine silver scales, glowing with a pearl-like halo in the firelight, rising and falling subtly with Rose’s nervous breathing.

This vivid, fragile, yet utterly pure beauty struck straight at the draconic instinct within him—the obsessive love for treasure and the fierce urge to possess.

He gazed mesmerized at the way the tail tip unconsciously brushed lightly across the bedsheet near his leg—that lively yet slightly anxious little motion filled with indescribable cuteness.

He even couldn’t help imagining: what if that tail slapped against his palm, wrapped around his wrist…

Juvenile dragons were truly… too delicious!

A primal urge roared in his heart.

No! Control yourself!

Restel forcefully suppressed the surging emotions, maintaining outward calm. He absolutely could not frighten her.

Slowly, he extended his hand—not to cast a spell, but with an almost reverent curiosity. His long, powerful fingers gently touched the cool, scale-covered edge of her wing.