The Villainess Wants To Retire-Chapter 115: Improper Thoughts

Or rather, barely there.

What remained was soaked through and clinging to skin that looked like it had been carved from marble and ice and divine intent.

The fabric—scant and ethereal—clung to him like a whisper of divinity, flowing in graceful fragments that revealed more than they concealed, as though even cloth dared not obscure perfection.

His hair was longer.

I’d noticed it before but hadn’t fully processed it. Silver-white strands that had grown past his shoulders, now wet and plastered to his neck and chest and back in a way that made him look simultaneously more human and less.

More human because the exhaustion was written into every line of his body, because he looked like he’d given everything and was running on fumes and stubborn refusal to quit.

Less human because...

He looked like a god himself.

Skin smooth and pale as fresh snow, but not the sickly pale of someone who’d never seen sun.

This was intentional. Divine. Like winter had been given form and decided to shape itself into something that could break hearts and armies with equal efficiency.

Muscle definition that suggested strength beyond mortal limits, carved into shoulders and arms and chest and abdomen with the kind of precision that made artists weep and sculptors give up their craft out of inadequacy.

Sharp features that belonged in legends, high cheekbones that could cut glass, a jawline that suggested both beauty and brutality, lips that were somehow soft and hard at once.

And his eyes. Gods, those eyes. Piercing and luminous and glowing faintly with power that pulsed beneath his skin like it was barely contained, like it wanted out but he was holding it back through sheer force of will.

The glowing blue markings I’d seen before were more prominent now. They trailed across his chest like veins of light, down his arms, up his neck, mapping pathways that suggested ancient magic and bloodlines that predated kingdoms and mortality itself.

He wore silver and blue crystal accessories that glowed right on him. Armbands that wrapped around biceps, intricate jewelry that adorned his throat and wrists, an ornate belt that sat low on his hips and was probably the only thing keeping the blue fragments around his waist from abandoning its post entirely.

That cloth moved like mist. Like it wasn’t quite fabric but something between solid and vapor, something that revealed glimpses of toned thighs and legs wrapped in dark elaborate patterns that looked less like clothing and more like armor grown directly from his skin.

And he was drenched.

Water glowed around his waist where he sat in the shallows. Droplets slid down his chest, down the defined ridges of his abdomen, following paths between muscles like they were mapping territory they found worth claiming.

He looked powerful. Divine. Like he could command armies or topple empires or rewrite reality itself if he decided it was worth the effort.

And he was looking at me like I was the only thing in this entire cave worth noticing.

Heat flooded through me.

Sudden and sharp and entirely inappropriate given we were sitting in sacred water that belonged to a goddess and I’d nearly died less than a day ago and my body was still recovering from having a dragon wake up inside me and try to burn its way out. 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

But the heat didn’t care about logic.

It spread through me fast, coiled around like something alive, made me hyper-aware of every place our bodies weren’t touching and suddenly, desperately wanting them to be.

I became aware of myself.

Of my own drenched clothes weighing me down like lead. Of fabric plastered to skin and curves and leaving absolutely nothing to imagination. Of the way the cold water had affected my body in ways I’d never experienced before.

My nipples were hard.

From cold. From desire. From the novel sensation of feeling cold for the first time in twenty-nine years and not quite knowing how to process it.

And my thoughts.... well... They went places they absolutely should not go when I was supposed to be recovering and he’d just saved my life and we were in a sacred space for fuck’s sake.

But I couldn’t stop them.

Couldn’t stop imagining what that skin would feel like under my hands. Whether those muscles were as hard as they looked or if there was softness beneath the divine exterior. What sounds he’d make if I touched him the way that water-tendril was touching me, curious and exploring and thorough.

Whether he’d still be cold if I kissed him.

Whether I’d still be warm if he kissed back.

I turned away.

Fast. Immediately. Before my thoughts could spiral further into territory that would get us both in trouble.

The movement cost me.

The world tilted violently, colors blurring together into nauseating swirls. My head felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton and then hit it with a hammer. My muscles screamed in protest, reminding me that moving was a privilege, not a right, and I’d already used up my quota for the day.

But I powered through.

Ignored the dizziness and the ache and the way my vision grayed at the edges. Started swimming away from him with strokes that were probably pathetic but were the best I could manage.

"Your Majesty." His voice followed me, confused and concerned. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing." I didn’t look back. Couldn’t look back. "We can’t stay in the water forever."

That was true. Practical. A perfectly reasonable statement that had nothing to do with the fact that looking at him made me want things I didn’t have names for and feeling this cold made me want to stay submerged until my fire forgot how to burn.

I kept swimming.

Or tried to.

Three strokes in, my body reminded me exactly why I shouldn’t be moving.

The ache wasn’t just in my muscles anymore. It was everywhere. In my bones, my joints, the spaces between my ribs, down to my fingertips and toes. Like every cell in my body had been used as kindling and was now sending bills for the damage.

Fatigue hit like a wall.