In the carriage, the King barely properly latched the door before he turned to Lyria and kissed her. He knew it was a bad idea, but he couldn’t stop himself. His whole body hummed with pleasure, a deep roaring in his chest, just where his wolf lived, as he wound a hand through her hair.
In his rush, he pulled a ribbon from her hair, a silken, black ribbon that Aertis had wound through the delicate strands.
“So sorry,” he muttered, reaching down toward the floor of the carriage to pick it up.
“Leave it, leave it,” Lyria said, and she grabbed his chin and pulled his face back to her own.
Lyria felt the same roar, and the same sense of excitement. She knew, knew, that she should not be doing what she was doing. She knew that she was only making things harder on herself, especially if the
