The morning light arrived with a sudden, startling brightness that forced Mailah to blink against the glare. She reached across the linens, expecting the solid, grounding heat of Grayson's frame, but her hand met only cold, empty space.
She sat up, the sheets pooling at her waist. The cottage was unnaturally quiet, save for the rhythmic, distant crash of the waves against the cliff. "Grayson?" she murmured, her voice sounding small in the stillness.
There was no answer. She threw off the covers, her bare feet meeting the cool stone floor. Perhaps he was outside, wrestling with the garden beds or finalizing his tactical assessment of the bean stalks. A smile tugged at her lips. He had promised her a garden, and Grayson, once he set his mind to a task, rarely rested.
