Callie
Grayson hadn’t let me out of his sight all afternoon, after Mary had left. Every time I moved, his gaze followed. Even when Mia was in the room, he found excuses—brushing against me when reaching for a glass, his palm grazing my back as if he couldn’t help claiming pieces of me in plain sight.
By evening, my nerves were frayed. The kitchen smelled faintly of lemon soap. I stood at the sink rinsing plates while Mia retreated upstairs, humming to herself. The moment her door clicked shut, I felt him behind me. My hands stilled in the water.
“You are tense,” he murmured, close to my ear.
“You think?” I tried to sound sharp, but the tremor betrayed me.
His hand slid along my hip, his thumb tracing the curve deliberately. “She got under your skin.”
“She saw the bruises, Grayson. Sh
