THE BALLROOM was alive again, humming like a hive after Morrigan's departure, though Mailah swore she still felt the echo of that glass-shattering laugh in her bones.
Grayson hadn't moved his arm from around her waist.
He kept her close, hand firm against her hip, as though daring anyone else to try what Morrigan had just attempted.
Every brush of his palm against her gown sent ripples of heat through her that she tried—unsuccessfully—to ignore.
"Don't," he said under his breath.
"Don't what?" she asked, tilting her face toward him, trying for casual when her insides were a chaotic drumline.
"Don't pretend you're not shaking." His voice was quiet, velvet threaded with steel.
Mailah arched a brow. "And if I am? Planning to scold me for being human in a ballroom full of things-that-aren't?"
