"Easy now," Soren whispered.
Riven lay beneath him, his ebony hair splayed messily against the dark sheets. His breathing was uneven, but his emerald eyes remained locked onto Soren with something unreadable.
Soren had meant to break him, to strip him of his arrogance, to remind him who held the power here. Yet, as he stared down at the wolf trapped beneath him, something inside him wavered.
He shouldn't hesitate.
And yet, he did.
His fingers, which had been gripping Riven's wrists too tightly before, loosened. His body, which had been brimming with frustration, softened ever so slightly. And before he could stop himself, he leaned in.
The kiss was soft, far too gentle for what he had planned. Their lips met with hesitant warmth rather than force. It was slow—undeniably tender.
Soren hated it.
Or at least, he told himself he did.
