His lips were rose-soft, in stark comparison to his merciless tongue.
Always his words cut deeply: mocking, scornful, ruthless. From the first, the prince had been intimidated by the High King's legend and enraptured by his beauty. He was a rare rose, this barbarian – but his thorns were deadly. Anger dripped from his lips like venom, the cure unknown.
Yet, masochistically, he could not turn away, could not help but encourage the king's lethal passion, fascinated by that deceptively pretty mouth – until, at last, his will shattered.
Peter's kiss was poison, but Caspian was too far gone to care.
I want to kiss you but your lips
Are venomous poison
You're poison running through my veins