GRAYSON'S HAND FOUND HERS on the table, threading their fingers together with familiar ease.
For a long moment, they simply sat there—hands intertwined, the morning sunlight pooling gold over the table, turning Grayson's eyes to liquid steel.
The conversation about Varrow, about retaliation, about the supernatural world teetering at the edge of chaos, hovered between them unspoken. Because right now, what pulsed louder than fear or politics was the quiet, aching question: What are we now?
Suddenly the dining room felt too public, too exposed for the conversation they were having. The weight of last night—the confessions, the kisses, the way they'd sat together in the darkness—pressed between them like something tangible.
"Come with me," Grayson said, standing and pulling her gently to her feet.
