Kael's plan had been simple: a fleeting kiss upon Valkar's lips—nothing more, nothing less. He had promised it would be brief, a touch of lips before he could escape, withdraw to the safety of distance, and deny that the taste of his dragon had ignited something savage within his chest.
But plans were things of fragile glass. Reality tended to shatter them into glittering shards.
For having once savored the forbidden fruit, could one ever voluntarily relinquish it? Did you truly think that a dragon—a dragon who had known hunger, loss, and the aching hollowness of loneliness—would relinquish the sweetness so easily once his tongue had tasted it? The response lay already in the fever of Valkar's eyes.
The dragon wouldn't let Kael back down. He took him instead with a grip that was both terrible and possessive, a hand in the nape of Kael's head, keeping him still. Valkar drew him close, giving him a brutal, merciless kiss that consumed air, protest, and reason.
