Sylas
Sylas had kissed him back even though he hadn't meant to. But when Ryn had leaned in with his soft lips, he couldn't control himself and he kissed him back.
He tried to move, but he couldn't—because it was the bond. It was Ryn.
The kiss was brief, barely more than a press. It was warm, hesitant and tasted faintly of the medicinal wine, but it melted something in Sylas's spine and made his control tremble like a snapped string.
And for a second, just one stupid second, Sylas kissed him back, and then shame hit him hard.
"Damn it," Sylas hissed, wrenching himself away and shoving Ryn back not hard, but firm enough to create distance between them. "What the hell are you doing?"
Ryn blinked at him, his eyes dazed. "I…" he hiccupped.
"You're drunk," Sylas snapped, breathing heavily. "I'm sure you don't know what you're saying."
