BACK IN MAILAH'S ROOM, Grayson had discarded his shirt entirely, rummaging through a heavy iron chest that looked like it had been dragged through several centuries of mud.
Mailah tried to focus on the task at hand, but it was difficult when Grayson's bare back—rippling with muscles that seemed to catch every flickering candle flame—was inches from her nose.
"You're staring," Grayson remarked, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly hum that made her toes curl.
"I'm observing," Mailah corrected, her face heating up.
Grayson turned, a dark, shimmering bundle of fabric in his hands. He didn't look like a man about to lose his properties; he looked like a predator who had just found a new game to play. "Wear this."
He shook out the fabric. It was a suit of matte-black material that looked like liquid shadow. When Mailah touched it, the fabric felt cool, almost like water, and it seemed to pull at the light in the room.
