THE COTTAGE SETTLED AROUND GRAYSON AND MAILAH, the morning air thin and sharp with the scent of damp stone and woodsmoke.
For a long while, the only sound was the crackle of the hearth and the steady, synchronized cadence of their breathing.
Grayson's grip remained firm—a tether, as if he feared that if he let go, she might vanish back into the mist that perpetually clung to the valley floor.
"You are cold," he stated, his voice lacking its usual, razor-sharp edge. He didn't wait for a response; he shifted, pulling the heavy wool coat from the floor where it had been discarded the night before and draping it over her shoulders.
He tucked the thick, rough fabric in around her, his movements methodical and possessive.
Mailah leaned into him, her hand resting against the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart. The terrifying, brittle coldness she had felt beneath his skin the night before had been replaced by a banked heat—a controlled, human warmth. It was a victory, however small.
