The storm outside slowly began to lose its fury, the howling wind softening into a steady, rhythmic cadence against the cabin's heavy cedar logs. Inside the living room, the fire had settled into a deep, pulsing bed of red embers that cast long, golden shadows across the floorboards.
Grayson did not move for a long time. He kept Mailah anchored in his arms, his chin resting against the crown of her head, his broad chest rising and falling in deep, deliberate breaths. His natural heat—that intense, hum of incubus warmth—wrapped around her like a heavy velvet quilt.
"Grayson," Mailah murmured softly against his throat, her fingers casually twirling a strand of his dark hair. "You're squeezing."
"I am securing," Grayson corrected smoothly, though he loosened his grip by a fraction of an inch. "There is a distinct structural difference."
"You're going to bruise my ribs."
