The dawn broke over the Welsh coast with a slow, hazy smear of violet and bruised gold. Grayson woke before the sun, his arm still heavy across Mailah, his body angled toward her by instinct. For a heartbeat, the old vigilance spiked—he checked the window, the door, the perimeter of the room—before the reality of the cottage settled over him like a warm blanket.
He wasn't in a barracks. He wasn't behind a desk at the estate. He was here, where the air smelled of salt and dying embers, and where the only sound was the breathing of the woman who held his life in her hands.
Mailah stirred, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheek. She didn't bolt upright or reach for a weapon; she simply stretched and sighed, settling back into him.
"You're awake," she murmured, eyes still closed.
"I am," he said, his voice deeper than usual. "I was observing the light."
She opened one eye. "Observing?"
