THE VOICES GREW grew louder as Mailah followed the long corridor, her bare feet silent against the polished marble floors.
The further she ventured from the sanctuary of Grayson's den, the more the air itself seemed to thicken with tension—a palpable weight that pressed against her skin like humidity before a thunderstorm.
The estate's morning light filtered through tall windows, casting long shadows that seemed to writhe and shift as she passed.
Every portrait along the walls appeared to watch her with knowing eyes, their painted gazes following her movement with an awareness that made her skin crawl.
By the time she reached the ornate double doors at the corridor's end, the atmosphere had become so charged she could taste it—metallic and bitter.
The voices beyond the doors carried undertones that spoke of barely restrained violence.
Mailah pressed her palm against the carved wood, feeling the vibrations of raised voices through her fingertips.
