GRAYSON had not requested her presence; he had simply sent someone to retrieve her from the breakfast nook and escort her to the library.
He was seated at a massive, claw-footed desk. He didn't look up when she entered. He didn't offer a greeting as if he had forgotten what happened last night.
He merely pointed to a velvet armchair that had been moved from the far corner of the room to a position exactly three feet from his own chair.
"Sit," he said.
The command was flat, devoid of the heat from the previous night, yet the way he tracked her movement with his peripheral vision suggested he was acutely aware of every inch of her progress across the rug.
Mailah sat.
She didn't ask why she was there. She watched him work. He was dressed in a dark waistcoat and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled back, his forearms resting on the mahogany surface.
He was reviewing the tactical layout of the estate's lower levels—where Theron was currently being held.
