THE VILLAGE MARKET sprawled through the narrow cobblestone streets like a living organism—vibrant, chaotic, utterly overwhelming. Stalls overflowed with sun-ripened tomatoes, wheels of aged cheese, bottles of olive oil catching the light like liquid gold.
The air thrummed with voices haggling in rapid Italian, laughter spilling from café tables, the distant notes of a street musician's accordion.
Mailah felt Grayson tense beside her the moment they stepped into the crowd. It wasn't like the last market they'd gone to, the one that catered to the supernatural.
"Breathe," she murmured, slipping her hand into his. His fingers closed around hers immediately—too tight, like she was the only anchor keeping him from bolting.
"There are too many people," he said quietly, his voice strained.
"I know. But you're doing great."
"I haven't done anything yet."
"Exactly. You haven't frightened anyone or accidentally set something on fire. That's progress."
