Mailah wrapped Grayson's pajama shirt tightly around her as she waited in the west wing guest room, feeling a strange mix of nerves, warmth, and lingering adrenaline.
It was too big for her, the sleeves nearly swallowing her hands and the collar slipping off one shoulder, but it still carried his scent—cedar, sothing spicy, and sothing darker beneath it. Clean, masculine, and so very him. She pulled her knees to her chest on the edge of the bed, her mind spinning.
The east wing was sealed off.
The staff had moved swiftly, drying what they could, removing what couldn't be salvaged. Fortunately, the fire had barely breached the master suite—thank God for the alarm and the sprinklers. But the sll... Mrs. Baker had said the smoke was worst in her bedroom.
Grayson lent her clothes from his closet—his, not Lailah's. Everything in Lailah's wardrobe had to be washed or dry-cleaned. The scent of fire clung to the fabrics like a warning.
"You'll be able to move back once it's all cleared," Grayson had told her with calm assurance. "But for now, all east wing bedrooms are off limits. We'll stay here."
He hadn't asked. He'd simply stated it, as if it was natural that husband and wife would share a bed. And she hadn't argued.
Lailah wouldn't have argued.
This wasn't the first ti she'd shared a bed with him—but it felt different now.
And now she was waiting.
Grayson was talking to the police.
Mailah bit her lower lip and looked around the guest room. It was elegant but smaller than the master suite, more intimate. One large bed. Heavy curtains. A flickering fireplace casting dancing shadows across the walls. There was a glass of water by the nightstand, untouched.
The door creaked open.
Grayson stepped inside, his silhouette backlit by the hallway light. He closed the door quietly behind him and leaned against it for a mont.
His gaze swept over her. The oversize pajama shirt. Her bare legs. The wary look in her eyes.
She watched as sothing unreadable flickered behind his stoic expression before he pushed away from the door and moved toward the bed.
He was still dressed in the sa jeans and shirt from earlier, though he looked more disheveled now—his jaw shadowed with stubble, a slight crease in his brow betraying the wear of the evening.
"What did the police say?" Mailah asked.
"They're not sure." His voice was low. "No signs of faulty wiring. Nothing left burning. But there were... odd scorch patterns on the bedding."
"Scorch patterns?"
He sat on the edge of the bed. "Almost like sothing ignited from the center outward. From your bed, specifically."
Mailah went cold. "But I wasn't there. I haven't been in that bed since yesterday."
Grayson nodded, but his jaw was tight. "I know. That's what makes it... concerning."
She studied his profile—the sharp jaw, the furrowed brow, the way his hands kept clenching and unclenching as if he was holding sothing back. "You look upset."
"Maybe I am."
"Grayson." She shifted closer, and his eyes flicked to hers. "There's sothing you're not telling ."
For a mont, his mask slipped. She saw fury there, raw and barely contained, mixed with sothing that looked almost like... loathing? But then he turned away, standing abruptly.
"I'm upset about the fire," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "Soone could have been hurt. You could have been hurt."
"But?"
"But nothing." He was lying, and she knew it. "I need a shower."
He moved toward the dresser, pulling out fresh clothes with sharp, efficient movents. The tension in his shoulders was obvious, and Mailah found herself wanting to smooth it away with her hands.
"Don't overthink it, Lailah," he said without looking at her. "Sotis a fire is just a fire."
The way he said her sister's na made her chest tighten. She was getting too comfortable with him, too invested in whatever this was between them.
"Right," she said softly. "Just a fire."
He paused, glancing back at her. For a mont, his expression softened. "Are you all right? Really?"
The concern in his voice made her heart skip. "I'm fine. Just... shaken."
"You don't look fine. You look like you want to run."
She laughed, but it ca out breathless. "Where would I go? This is my ho too, rember?"
Sothing flickered in his eyes. "Is it?"
Before she could ask what he ant, he was moving again, pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion.
Oh.
Oh no.
Mailah's brain promptly short-circuited.
She'd seen him shirtless before—brief glimpses in the hallway, that one morning when he'd erged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist. Sohow he was out walking in the hallway. But this was different. This was intentional, intimate, and she was supposed to be his wife who had seen this countless tis before.
Instead, she was gaping like a teenager who'd never seen a man undressed.
His back was to her as he gathered his clothes, and she couldn't help but trace the lines of muscle that moved beneath his skin.
Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. The subtle definition of his spine. A small scar near his left shoulder blade that she found herself wanting to ask about.
He turned slightly, and she caught a glimpse of his chest—defined pectorals, a flat stomach with just the hint of abs, a trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath his waistband.
Sweet Jesus.
She jerked her gaze away, heat flooding her cheeks.
This was bad.
This was very, very bad.
She was supposed to be immune to this, supposed to be comfortable with her husband's body.
"You're staring," he said, and she could hear the amusent in his voice.
"I'm not staring," she said quickly, focusing intently on the fireplace. "I'm just... thinking."
"About what?"
About how your body should co with a warning label. About how I'm supposed to pretend I've seen this before. About how I want to trace every line of muscle with my tongue—
"About the fire," she lied.
He chuckled, a low sound that went straight to her core. "Liar."
She risked a glance at him and found him watching her with an expression she couldn't read. There was heat there, and sothing that looked like hunger.
"I'll be quick," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
And then he was gone, disappearing into the adjacent bathroom with a soft click of the door.
Mailah flopped back on the bed and covered her face with her hands.
This was torture. Pure, exquisite torture.
She was sharing a bed with a man who looked like he'd been carved from marble by a very generous artist, and she was supposed to act like it was no big deal. Like she didn't want to run her hands all over him and see if he tasted as good as he looked.
The sound of water running from the bathroom made her imagination run wild. She could picture him under the spray, water cascading down those perfect shoulders, his head thrown back as he—
Stop it, Mailah.
She sat up, pressing her palms against her hot cheeks. This was exactly what she couldn't afford to be thinking about. She was living a lie, pretending to be soone she wasn't. Getting involved with Grayson—really involved—would only complicate things.
But God, the way he looked at her sotis. Like he was seeing straight through her carefully constructed facade to the real woman underneath.
The bathroom door opened, and steam billowed out. Grayson erged wearing low-slung pajama pants and nothing else, his hair damp and disheveled.
Mailah's mouth went dry.
"Better?" he asked, running a towel through his hair.
"Much," she managed, though her voice ca out slightly strangled.
He tossed the towel aside and approached the bed. "I'll take the floor."
"Don't be ridiculous," she said quickly, scooting over. "It's a king-sized bed. There's plenty of room."
He paused, one eyebrow raised. "You sure about that, Mrs. Ashford?"
The way he said her na—her fake na—made her stomach flip. "What, are you afraid I'll attack you in your sleep?"
His lips curved in a slow, dangerous smile. "Maybe I'm afraid I'll attack you."
Heat pooled low in her belly. "I think I can handle myself."
"Can you?" He slipped into bed beside her, and the mattress dipped under his weight.
She felt her cheeks burn. Again. "Of...course."
"Are you sure?" He turned on his side, facing her, and she was suddenly very aware of how close he was. How warm. How absolutely devastating he looked with his hair mussed and his eyes dark with desire.
"I'm your wife," she said, trying to sound confident. "I'm allowed to look."
"Well, I don't rember seeing you stare at like that ever."
"I wasn't staring."
"No?" His voice was barely above a whisper.
She could feel the heat radiating from his body, could sll the clean scent of his soap mixed with his own. It was intoxicating.
"We should probably get so sleep," she said weakly.
"Probably." But he didn't move away. If anything, he seed to be getting closer.
"Grayson."
"Yes?"
She didn't know what to say. Before she could say anything, he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, leaving her staring at his profile in the flickering firelight.
"Goodnight, Lailah," he said softly.
"Goodnight," she whispered back, her heart hamring against her ribs.
She lay there in the dark, hyperaware of every breath he took, every small movent he made. The bed felt enormous and far too small at the sa ti.
This was going to be a very long night.
Mailah jerked awake with a gasp, her heart hamring against her ribs. The nightmare clung to her like smoke—flas licking at her skin, the acrid sll of burning fabric, the sound of her own screams echoing in her ears. She was drenched in sweat, the oversized pajama shirt clinging to her body.
"Hey." Grayson's voice was imdiately there, low and soothing in the darkness. "You're okay. You're safe."
She turned toward him, and even in the dim light from the dying fire, she could see the concern etched across his features. He was propped up on one elbow, his hair tousled from sleep, his chest bare and magnificent in the shadows.
"It was just a dream," she whispered, but her voice shook.
"About the fire?"
She nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in her throat.
Without hesitation, he reached for her, his warm palm cupping her cheek. "It's over. You're here with ."
The tenderness in his voice, the way he touched her like she was sothing precious—it undid her completely. All her careful walls, all her practiced restraint, crumbled in an instant.
She kissed him.
It wasn't planned, wasn't thought through. She simply leaned into him and pressed her lips to his, desperate to chase away the lingering terror of her dream with sothing real, sothing warm and alive.
For a heartbeat, he went completely still. His breath caught, and she felt him tense beneath her touch.
But then he was kissing her back with a hunger that took her breath away.
His hand slid into her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. His lips moved against hers with a desperation that matched her own, like he'd been holding himself back for too long and finally couldn't anymore.
She pressed closer, her fingers splaying across his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palm. He was so warm, so solid, so perfectly real after the nightmare that had felt too vivid to bear.
He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through her, and pulled her closer until there was no space left between them. His other hand found her waist, his fingers burning through the thin fabric of his borrowed shirt.
"Lailah," he whispered against her lips, and the na should have been a reminder of who she was supposed to be, but instead it only made her want him more.
The kiss turned desperate, almost violent in its intensity. She nipped at his bottom lip, and he responded by rolling her onto her back, his weight settling over her in a way that made her entire body co alive.
His mouth moved to her throat, and she arched beneath him, her hands tangling in his hair as he found that sensitive spot just below her ear that made her gasp his na.
"Grayson," she breathed, and he lifted his head to look at her.
Lust darkened his gaze, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.
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