THE EVENING WAS SPENT IN THE TRAINING ROOM.
Mailah had insisted on movement, and Grayson had conceded, provided he was the one supervising. He had set her on a mat, watching as she performed the slow, deliberate stretches Morrison had prescribed.
He didn't help her. He sat on a weight bench across the room, his shirt off.
He was cleaning a set of silver throwing knives, the rasp of the whetstone the only sound in the room.
He watched her with an intensity that was almost physical. Every time she reached for her toes, every time she twisted her torso, his eyes followed the line of her body with a hunger that made the air in the room feel thin.
"Your balance is off," he said, not looking up from his knife. "Your center of gravity has shifted."
"I'm fine, Grayson."
"You're not fine. You're compensating for the shoulder." He stood up, the knife glinting in the low light, and walked over to her. He dropped to his knees on the mat behind her.
"Sit up," he commanded.
