Kael's plan had been simple: a fleeting kiss upon Valkar's lips—nothing more, nothing less. He had promised himself it would be brief, a brush of contact before he could slip back, retreat to the safety of distance, and pretend that the taste of his dragon had not ignited something wild in his chest.
But plans were delicate things, fragile as glass. Reality had a habit of shattering them into glittering shards.
For once someone had tasted the forbidden fruit, could they ever truly surrender it willingly? Did you honestly think that a dragon—one who had known hunger, loss, and the gnawing ache of solitude—would relinquish the sweetness so easily once it touched his tongue? The answer was already written in the fever of Valkar's gaze.
