BY SUNSET, they had settled — or at least, scattered into some form of temporary domestic chaos.
Lucien had immediately commandeered the wine cellar. Oliver was testing how many stairs Shadow could climb before hissing at him to stop following. Elin had disappeared into the gardens, murmuring to the air like she was negotiating with the roses.
Mailah found herself on the terrace, overlooking rolling vineyards. The sky was bruised gold and lilac, and she could almost pretend they weren't like fugitives.
Almost.
Grayson joined her quietly, two glasses of deep red wine in hand. "You didn't unpack."
"I don't unpack until I believe we're staying longer than a day."
He handed her a glass. "Fair."
The wine was rich, heavy with warmth and memory. It filled her mouth, her chest, her pulse. "This is… incredible," she murmured.
"From the cellar. Vintage 1867."
Her head snapped toward him. "You can't just steal century-old wine!"
