The forest outside Drakenfell's eastern wall was thick enough that the canopy devoured the afternoon light and turned the air into something green and private and old.
Dex had her pressed against a tree, mouth on hers, one hand cupping the back of her head and the other braced against the bark beside her shoulder. The kiss was slow and thorough and designed to unravel her, which it was doing, because Dex kissed the way he fought: with focus, precision, and the absolute certainty that he had already won.
Serena was still upset with him. The ambush in their chambers, Fin and him presenting a united front she hadn't been invited to, the charges, the friendship decree. It was all still sitting in her chest, unresolved and simmering. Her body, however, had received a different memo entirely, and the memo said: kiss him back.
She did. Because she was a woman of contradictions and Dexmon Drakenfell was her favorite one.
Aegon: She's mad and kissing us. This is the best day of my life.
