Page 42 of Foundling

Elegantly folding her legs under her, Leita sat across from him on her own blanket, her mien gone serious. Attalus tried to mirror her, working to keep his features neutral. It took effort, though, as the idea of learning more about his Leita—and possibly getting kisses—was thrilling. He couldn’t stop the tip of his tail from curling and uncurling on the floor of the cave, as though it wanted to wrap around her.

To be fair, it did. If he could, he’d loop it round her waist and never let go.

For now, he did his best to pay attention and give Leita the gravitas she seemed to require.

“You first,” she said. “Why are you here?”

“I told you that already, I was wounded and fell.” Leaning forward onto his hands to bridge the distance, he smiled in her face. “Kiss, please.”

She tipped him backwards with a finger to his forehead. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Sighing, Attalus conceded the point. “Very well. I am Attalus Princeps, diadochos of the mad king, half-brother to Araxos Anax, and son of a murdered mother.” He noticed how her nostrils flared at that last fact.

“And how did all of that get you here with a bite taken out of you?” When he arched his brows expectantly, she shook her head. “You’re still answering my first question. No kiss.”

“Hmph.” Well, his mother had always said he was reward-oriented. Whereas Theron would do something just because it was right, Attalus had always been partial to a treat or reward.

So, he told Leita the sorry story of being called away from Bargarad to a mysterious meeting in Highhome. He skipped through the days in the Maw; nothing of note had happened, and so he was soon taking her through Erastus’s accusation and flimsy evidence.

“To be clear, you didn’t attempt to poison the anax, correct?” He didn’t appreciate her tone, as though she couldn’t quite decide if he’d be that stupid.

“Of course not,” he grumbled. “I supported Araxos in overthrowing our father. I’ve been loyal to his reign. What use have I for the dais?”

Leita shrugged. “It’s common to scheme for power, especially when that power can offer safety.”

He snorted at that. “Perhaps here in the faelands. Standing atop the dais for a dragon means a target across your belly. Araxos has spent years putting down rivals. But recently, we were finally at peace. I just wanted to be left alone.” So much so, he’d all but abandoned the court and its intrigues. He’d thought to be out of sight and out of mind. Instead, he’d left himself vulnerable to scheming.

Disliking the forlorn feeling that overcame him at the thought, Attalus again leaned forward.

“You haven’t—”

“I’ve answered multiple questions, doe. Humor me.”

She sighed, the breath puffing against his expectant lips. He got the impression of a cat with its hackles raised, trying to be bigger and scarier than it was. When her dark blue gaze flicked down to his mouth, he dared to close that last breath between them.

He wasn’t actually sure if fae kissed much—dragons rarely did, what with all the sharp teeth. It was more a human custom he’d taken to in the establishments of Bargarad. But she knew what he’d meant when he said it, and to his delight, her lips began to move under his.

She’s been kissed before.

The shock of jealous rage that lanced through him caught Attalus off-guard. He wasn’t the jealous type—he was happy to share and be shared when it came to matters of pleasure. Yet, the idea that someone had come before him, had managed to worm their way close enough to steal kisses from Leita, had a growl clamoring in his throat.

The sound startled her away, and Attalus wanted to smack the back of his own head.

Maybe he was stupid.

Salvaging what he could, when Leita looked at his lips again, he licked them lasciviously. He expected her to roll her eyes or scoff—not gasp and pinch his chin with her thumb and finger to hold him in place.

“Your tongue is forked?”

Attalus grinned before sticking out his tongue. He waggled it at her before lapping at her fingers with the pointed ends. She gasped again, letting him go, but her hand hung in the air between them.

He snatched it and the opportunity.

“Indeed it is,” he crooned, lavishing her palm with a light lick. “That was another question.”

She opened her mouth to protest, and he swooped in for the strike. Her sharp inhale rang in his ears as his forked tongue rasped against hers. She was softer than him, so damn soft and silky.

Attalus forgot to breathe. The world and all its problems fell away from them, leaving only that golden bond between them. It was fragile, of course, so new and vulnerable. Yet, without doubt, he felt himself tied to her, the knots growing evermore numerous.