THE AIR WAS thick with warmth and the scent of rain.
Mailah stood barefoot in what looked like the villa's garden—except the vines glowed faintly silver under a moon too close, too heavy. Every leaf shimmered like it was painted with starlight. The world was familiar, but off-balance, like a memory wearing a stranger's face.
"Mailah."
His voice was behind her—soft, unguarded.
She turned. Grayson stood among the roses, shirt undone, the faint light tracing the runes on his chest. They pulsed slowly, in rhythm with her heartbeat. He looked different here—less guarded, less burdened by control. His eyes weren't just red or silver; they were molten, alive.
"Are we dreaming?" she asked, though her voice came out quieter than she meant.
"Maybe," he said, stepping closer. "Maybe this is what happens when I try not to think of you."
Her breath caught. He was close enough now that she could see the faint shimmer of power moving beneath his skin—like lightning beneath glass.
