GRAYSON KISSED HER WITH a bone-deep hunger of their first night in the cottage, and with a steady, rhythmic pull.
As Mailah's lips parted under his, she felt the familiar, tingling sensation of her own vitality sliding toward him—a warmth that started in her chest and flowed into the cold, damp planes of his face.
Grayson's skin, which had been turning the color of slate, began to radiate heat again.
His grip on her wet hair tightened, his fingers flexing as the silver light behind his eyelids flared from a dying ember to a steady flame.
He groaned low in his throat, a sound of profound relief, and for a moment, the demon prince was gone, replaced by a man who simply needed to be anchored to the earth.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were no longer dull. They were sharp, piercing silver, tracking the way her breath hitched in the steamy air of the bathroom.
"Adequate," he rasped, though his gaze said something much more dangerous.
