GRAYSON DIDN'T SPEAK.
Hands shoved into the pockets of his dark slacks, shoulders tense beneath the morning sun, he stared at the line of cypress trees like he was trying to will the world into making sense.
Mailah waited. She didn't trust her voice yet. Didn't trust herself not to reach out and touch him. Not when last night—the confessions, the heat of his mouth on hers—still lived under her skin like a second heartbeat.
Finally, he exhaled.
"I reinforced the wards," he said quietly.
"That's good."
"It should be," he said.
The wind stirred the lavender bushes, releasing a soft, clean scent—so profoundly at odds with the tension knotting the air between them.
Mailah crossed her arms, partly from the chill, mostly from nerves. "You didn't ask me out here to talk about wards."
"No," Grayson admitted. "I didn't."
His voice dropped—low, rough, the kind that slid across her skin like a touch.
