THE EVENING WAS SPENT IN THE TRAINING ROOM.

Mailah had insisted on movement, and Grayson had conceded, provided he was the one supervising. He had set her on a mat, watching as she performed the slow, deliberate stretches Morrison had prescribed.

He didn’t help her. He sat on a weight bench across the room, his shirt off.

He was cleaning a set of silver throwing knives, the rasp of the whetstone the only sound in the room.

He watched her with an intensity that was almost physical. Every time she reached for her toes, every time she twisted her torso, his eyes followed the line of her body with a hunger that made the air in the room feel thin.

"Your balance is off," he said, not looking up from his knife. "Your center of gravity has shifted."

"I’m fine, Grayson."

"You’re not fine. You’re compensating for the shoulder." He stood up, the knife glinting in the low light, and walked over to her. He dropped to his knees on the mat behind her.

"Sit up," he commanded.

She sat up. He moved behind her, his chest pressing against her back, his large hands settling on her waist.

"Breathe," he whispered.

He didn’t just hold her. He moved her.

He used his hands to guide her through the stretches, his touch firm and clinical, yet the heat of his palms was a constant, erotic pressure against her skin.

He was teaching her how to move her own body again, his fingers digging into her hips to align her spine, his chest a solid, unyielding brace for her to lean against.

"Better," he murmured as she reached forward.

His hands slid up to her ribs, his thumbs resting just below her breasts. He wasn’t touching her sexually, yet the intimacy was staggering.

He leaned forward, his mouth hovering near her shoulder. "The sapphire is glowing again."

"You’re doing it on purpose," she accused, her voice breathy.

"Am I?" He turned his head and kissed the curve of her neck, a slow, lingering press of his lips that sent a jolt of electricity through her. "I am simply ensuring your recovery is thorough. A mate’s duty."

"You’re a bastard."

"I am," he agreed, his hands sliding down to her thighs, pressing them flat against the mat. "But I am your bastard. Remember that."

He stood up abruptly, the moment of intimacy shattered by his own sudden need for distance. He walked back to the weight bench and picked up his shirt, pulling it on with a brisk, angry motion.

"That’s enough for today," he said, his back to her. "Mrs. Baker is bringing up dinner to the private dining hall. You will eat all of it. And then you will go to bed."

"Are you coming with me?" she asked.

Grayson stopped at the door. He didn’t turn around. His hand gripped the frame so hard the wood groaned.

"I told you last night, Mailah," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl, "I won’t be looking for sleep. And you aren’t ready for what I would do to you."

He walked out, the door slamming shut behind him.

Mailah stayed on the mat for a long time, the sapphire on her neck pulsing with a steady, blue light. She looked at the door, a small smile playing on her lips.

He was terrified of her. One of the most powerful demon princes in the exile was terrified of a human woman because he couldn’t control the way he felt when he was near her.

And as she stood up, Mailah realized that she didn’t need him to remember the past.

She was perfectly happy with the man he was becoming in the present.

The scent of the training room—rubber and Grayson’s distinct heat—stayed with Mailah even after she reached Grayson’s bedroom.

Her body felt the heavy, pleasant hum of muscles that had been pushed just far enough. She stood in the center of her room, looking at the bed, then at the wardrobe.

She didn’t want to hide in a nightgown. Not tonight.

She chose a dress of deep blue silk. It was simple, with thin straps and a hem that brushed her ankles, but the color made her skin look like cream and her eyes like flint.

She didn’t bother with jewelry, save for the sapphire at her throat. The stone was quiet now, a dark, sleeping blue that mirrored the settling twilight outside.

When she walked toward the small, private dining room on the third floor, she found the door already open.

This wasn’t the grand banquet hall where Grayson might have hosted his grim business partners. This was a room of dark wood, low ceilings, and a fireplace that took up half the far wall. The fire was roaring, throwing long, dancing shadows across the table.

Grayson was already there.

He had changed. He wore a black sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms. He looked like a man who had spent his life fighting and had finally stopped to catch his breath.

He was standing by the sideboard, pouring wine into two heavy crystal glasses. He didn’t look up when she entered, but his shoulders shifted—a subtle, predatory acknowledgement of her presence.

"You’re late," he said. His voice was a low rasp that traveled across the room like a physical touch.

"I didn’t realize we had a schedule," Mailah replied. She moved to the table, her silk dress whispering against her legs.

Grayson turned. He held the glasses in his hands, his gaze raking over her with the same unhurried intensity he had used in the training room.

His eyes didn’t linger on the dress; they went straight to her face, then down to the bandages on her hands.

"Seat," he said, nodding toward the chair at the head of the table.

"I can choose my own chair, Grayson."

"Sit at the head, Mailah. I want to see you."

The bluntness of it caught in her throat.

She sat.

He walked over and placed a glass of dark red wine in front of her. He didn’t move away immediately.

He stood behind her, his presence a heavy, warm weight that seemed to block out the rest of the room.

Lucson appeared then, moving with the silent efficiency of a shadow. He looked at Mailah, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips, then glanced at Grayson.

"The Council sent a courier," Lucson said.

Grayson’s expression didn’t change, but the air in the room suddenly felt thinner. "Tell them to wait."

"They say it’s about the ’breach’. They want an audit."

"I don’t care what they want," Grayson said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, guttural register. "I am eating dinner with my mate. If the courier is still in the foyer in ten minutes, throw him into the cellar with Theron. Let them compare notes."

Lucson jokingly bowed, his smirk widening. "As you wish, brother."

He vanished as quickly as he had arrived.

The room fell back into a heavy silence, broken only by the crackle of the logs in the fireplace.

Grayson reached for a silver platter and uncovered it. Thick cuts of steak, seared dark and bleeding red, sat alongside roasted root vegetables.

He didn’t pass the platter to her. He pulled it toward himself.

Mailah watched him, her brow furrowing. "I’m perfectly capable of serving myself."

Grayson didn’t answer. He picked up a steak knife and began to cut the meat into small, precise pieces. He moved with a focused, quiet intensity, his large hands handling the delicate task with surprising grace.

"Grayson—"

"Your hands are bandaged," he said, not looking up. "You will struggle with the knife. I am not interested in watching you fumble."

He finished cutting the meat and slid the plate in front of her. Then he did the same for the vegetables. He did it all without a hint of softness, his movements brisk and commanding, as if he were preparing a soldier for a meal before a battle.

It was arrogant. It was high-handed.

And yet, as Mailah looked at the perfectly cut pieces of food, she felt a swell of something warm in her chest that had nothing to do with the wine.

This was how he did it. He didn’t offer sweet words or gentle inquiries. He saw a need and he filled it with the sheer force of his will.

"Eat," he commanded.

She picked up her fork. The meat was tender, seasoned with salt and something dark and earthy.

She ate in silence for a while, watching him across the table. He ate with a primitive, efficient hunger.

"The Council," she said after a few minutes. "They’re coming for you, aren’t they? Because of Theron."

Grayson set his fork down. He leaned back in his chair, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face. "They heard that an Ashford prince was nearly killed by a stray cur like Theron. They want to know if the Second Circle is open for a takeover."

"And is it?"

Grayson’s eyes flashed with a sudden, silver light. "The Second Circle belongs to us. It has always belonged to the Ashfords."

He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "But they aren’t just coming for me and my brothers. They are coming for you."

Mailah’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. "Me?"

"You are the variable they don’t understand," Grayson said. He reached across the table, his hand hovering near hers but not quite touching.

He pulled something out of the pocket of his trousers. It was a heavy silver ring, the crest of the Ashford house etched deep into the metal.

"Give me your hand," he said.

Mailah hesitated, then placed her right hand on the table. Grayson took it in his.

His palm was a furnace, his fingers wrapping around her knuckles with a grip that was both firm and surprisingly gentle.

He slid the ring onto her thumb. It was far too large, but as it touched her skin, the metal seemed to hum. The ring shrank, the silver tightening until it fit her thumb perfectly.

"What is this?" she whispered.

"It is my seal," Grayson said. He didn’t let go of her hand. He turned it over, his thumb tracing the blue veins in her wrist. "Any demon who sees that ring will know that you are under our direct protection. To touch you is to declare war on me. Not the Ashford brothers. Me."

He looked at her then, and for a fleeting second, the coldness in his eyes cracked.

"I don’t remember anything about us, Mailah," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But I know that when I saw you on that floor, covered in glass and Theron’s filth... I felt a part of my soul try to leave my body to find you."

He squeezed her hand, his knuckles turning white. "I cannot admit to being ’in love.’ It is a human word for a human emotion I don’t possess. but you are the only thing in this world that makes sense to me."

Mailah reached out with her other hand, covering his. "That’s enough, Grayson. I don’t need the words. I see you."

He stared at her for a long moment, his chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm. Then, he stood up.

He didn’t walk around the table. He reached out and snagged her chair, pulling it—and her—toward him with one smooth, effortless tug.

He reached down and hoisted her out of the chair, his hands locking under her thighs as he lifted her onto the edge of the dining table.

The silver platters clattered, the wine glasses vibrated, but Grayson didn’t care. He stepped between her knees, his body a wall of heat that pressed her back against the dark wood.

"The dinner is over," he growled.