Grayson carried Mailah into the grand drawing room as if she were a fragile treasure made of fine glass.
He didn't simply set her down on the velvet sofa. He lowered her with extreme care, fluffing three silk pillows behind her back, arranging the hem of her soft dress, and lifting her feet to rest on a plush footstool.
Mailah laughed softly, her cheeks glowing. "Grayson, I only walked down the hallway. I didn't run a marathon."
"You were touching broken glass on the floor," Grayson said, his deep voice sounding grave and dark. He sat right beside her, so close that his broad shoulder pressed against hers. "A single scratch on your skin is an insult to my entire existence. If your finger bled, I would have been forced to burn that Persian rug to ash."
"It was just a cookie plate," Mailah teased, reaching out to smooth down the collar of his black silk shirt. "And Chloe was the one who dropped it."
