AS THEY WALKED BACK to the car, Grayson caught her hand.
"I love you too," she whispered back.
The drive back to the villa should have been peaceful—Mailah still floating on the warmth of the afternoon, Grayson's hand steady in hers, the Tuscan countryside bathed in twilight.
Should have been.
But as they approached the gates, Mailah felt something shift. A coldness in the air that had nothing to do with temperature. The wards flickered—visible for just a moment, struggling against something.
"Grayson," she said, her voice tight.
"I feel it." His jaw was set, power already crackling around him. In the back seat, Lucien and Oliver had gone completely still, alert.
They pulled through the gates to find a figure standing in the villa's courtyard.
Tall. Impeccably dressed in a dark suit. Silver hair swept back from a face that was beautiful in the way poisonous things were beautiful—sharp, cold, perfectly crafted to lure you in before destroying you.
Lord Varrow.
