Warlock Ch 422. Dragon Sigils
Across the bed, Lysandra smirked lazily, stretching her arms above her head like a lounging cat.
"Just a reminder, Warlock. Dragons…" she said, voice syrupy and casual, "have a ridiculous stamina for everything…"
Damian froze halfway through buckling his belt, squinting at her suspiciously.
"Hopefully I don't die because of it."
Lysandra laughed, a low, musical sound that vibrated pleasantly in the air between them.
"No," she said, rising smoothly from the bed without a shred of shame. "You won't."
And before he could lob back another sarcastic comment, she leaned forward and kissed him again—quick, decisive, a claiming peck on the lips.
Then she pulled back, cool and composed as ever, grabbing a cloth from a nearby dresser.
Damian, still sitting on the edge of the bed, caught the faint glimmer of crimson against her inner thigh—the unmistakable sight of virgin blood.
His gut twisted strangely.
Not guilt.
Not pride.
