THE SUN WAS TOO BRIGHT. It sliced through the gap in the heavy curtains like a silver blade, catching the dust motes dancing over the rumpled, salt-scented sheets.
Mailah shifted, and a soft groan escaped her.
Her body felt heavy, unanchored, and distinctly claimed. There was a dull, pulsing ache in her hips and a lingering heat between her thighs—a physical ledger of the hours Grayson had spent mapping her skin with a hunger that had finally moved past the predatory and into something far more dangerous: devotion.
He had learned. God, had he learned.
In the past after the memory loss, he had been all sharp edges and efficient friction, a man—or a monster—taking what he needed to survive.
But last night, something had shifted.
He had learned to slow down. He had used those massive, terrifying hands to cradle her as if she were the most fragile relic in his treasury.
