The Dragon's Fragile Bride: His to Possess
Where the sauce touched the white porcelain, a thin, sickly gray ring separated from the red juice, glistening with a faint, oily shimmer.
Dragon-root.
It was an herb the mountain hunters used to numb the limbs of wild beasts before putting them down. To a full-blooded dragon warrior with burning mana in their veins, a small pinch would only cause a mild stomach cramp. But to a frail human body—especially lungs already scarred by chronic sickness—the herb would clamp the throat shut within ten minutes.
Across the room, Seraphine lifted her crystal wine glass. She caught my gaze and offered a smooth, poisonous smile, tilting her glass toward me in a silent, mocking toast.