THE SILVER in Grayson's eyes didn't just glow; it pulsed. It was the rhythm of a heart that shouldn't be beating this fast, a celestial storm trapped in the gaze of a man who had spent centuries pretending to be a saint.
Mailah's hands, pressed against the hard, burning expanse of his chest, felt every thud of his pulse. He was radiating a heat that was nearly feline—muscular, predatory, and intoxicating. The scent of the wine was heavy on his breath that made her head swim.
"You're not yourself," Mailah whispered, her voice trembling. She tried to find the anger she'd felt in the ballroom, the righteous fury at being used as a pawn. But here, in the dim red glow of the dying fire, with his weight pinning her into the soft silk of the mattress, that anger was being crowded out by something much more dangerous: desire.
