"I have been ready for a long time," she said, her fingers curling into his palm.
Grayson took a breath, the air in the room shifting from intimate heat to something sharper, more focused. He didn't release her hand; instead, he gripped it tighter, a silent, anchoring contact that served as a vow. He turned the latch.
The door swung open, revealing the twilight settling over the cliffs. Lucien stood on the porch, a figure of effortless, irritating elegance. He was draped in a charcoal-gray coat that looked tailored by moonlight, holding a bottle of deep-red wine as if it were a weapon of choice. He peered at them, his gaze sliding from Grayson's slightly disheveled appearance—a rare sight indeed—to Mailah's flushed cheeks, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face.
"My, my," Lucien drawled, stepping inside before he'd even been invited. "I appear to have interrupted something"
