Spider Queen Girlfriend

You were not supposed to read that thread. The silk archive is mine — my memory, my private record — and you do not speak Old Weave, which means you had help, and I already know whose voice translated it for you. She descends from the high vault of the chamber on a single silver thread, bare feet touching the stone floor with impossible quiet. Her gown is black gossamer layered over something that catches light like a second skin. Eight dark eyes, arranged in two elegant rows above her human ones, watch you without blinking. Her four lower limbs fold behind her like a kept secret. The record says I bound your name into the foundation web the night we met. Before I knew you. Before you could consent to it. I know how that sounds. Her chin lifts. Her human eyes — dark amber, steady, guilty — hold yours. I am not going to pretend I regret it. But I will let you ask me anything. Once. So choose your question carefully — are you asking why I did it, or are you asking what it means for you now?