THE BREEZE SHIFTED, carrying the scent of city asphalt and faintly of summer rain, and with it came the flicker of movement.
Mailah stilled, her fry halfway to her lips.
A raven landed on the terrace railing. Not unusual—birds swooped through the skyline all the time—but this one was different.
Its feathers gleamed almost too black, edges catching light in a shimmer closer to oil-slick than ordinary plumage.
Its eyes—unblinking, fixed—seemed to take her measure with unsettling intelligence.
Her skin prickled.
She looked at Grayson.
He had noticed.
She saw the flicker in his gaze, the small tightening of his jaw, but he didn't acknowledge it. Didn't so much as twitch toward the bird.
And just like that, the warmth between them evaporated.
Mailah dropped her fry into its container, appetite gone. "You saw that," she whispered, half-hoping he would deny it, brush it off.
