THE SUN ROOM was quiet, the kind of quiet that hummed around the edges of Grayson's thoughts like a barely contained storm.
Pale moonlight filtered through the tall glass panes, casting silver streaks across the carpet and the Persian rug where a stain of spilled wine had dried earlier in the evening—a faint reminder of the chaos Mailah seemed to carry into every carefully ordered part of his world.
And yet he invited her in.
Worse, he wanted her there.
Mailah sat curled on one end of the velvet sofa, bare feet tucked beneath her, silk pajamas whispering against her skin every time she shifted.
She held her glass with both hands, not because she needed the wine—he'd already seen her outdrink half the staff at the dinner tonight—but because the glass gave her something to do. Something to keep her grounded in this room, with him.
"SO," she said, her tone light, teasing, as her fingers brushed against his when he handed her the drink.
