Drakon was in the middle of unzipping his heavy leather cut, pulling it off his broad shoulders and tossing it carelessly over the back of a chair. Left in just a dark, fitted shirt that hugged his chest, the tight, lethal tension from the courtyard still clung to him. But the second his dark eyes landed on me—sitting comfortably on the couch, washed clean with damp hair falling over my shoulders—his rigid posture softened just a fraction.
He crossed the room with long, effortless strides, coming to a stop right beside the couch.
"So, what's the plan?" I asked, looking up at him.
Drakon reached out, his broad hand gently catching a stray lock of my hair and tucking it behind my ear. His palm rested against the side of my neck, his thumb caressing the soft skin of my jawline with a qu
