Maddox Drakencrest had kissed a woman four times before she'd learned his real name. He was aware of the optics.
Make that five.
For medical reasons, that woman was lying on top of him in the exact spot he put her eight hours ago.
The Gods themselves couldn't have made him move.
Ryker, however, could. And he did at dawn.
Ryker: Maddox. Raid on the eastern ridge. Three hours out by air. They hit the supply caravan coming in from Ironhold.
He spoke with the subtlety of a man who knew exactly what he was interrupting.
Maddox: Casualties?
Ryker: Two of ours. Six of theirs. We need you in the war room in ten.
He let out a slow breath. The one morning in a decade he actually wanted to stay in bed.
Maddox: On my way.
He pressed another kiss to the top of Guinevere's head. Automatically. His mouth moved on its own like kissing her hair was a habit he had built over years.
