The stillness of the penthouse was shattered at three in the morning, not by the threat of an intruder or the ringing of a burner phone, but by a sharp, gasped intake of air that made Grayson bolt upright before his eyes were even open. He lived his life in a state of perpetual readiness, but the sound of Betty’s breath hitching in the dark sent a different kind of adrenaline through his veins, one that didn't demand a weapon, but a steady hand.
"Grayson," she whispered, her fingers digging into the silk of his forearm. The silver moonlight catching the sweat on her brow told him everything he needed to know.
He was moving before she could finish the sentence. There was no panic, only a terrifyingly efficient focus. He helped her into comfortable clothes, his large hands unusually carefu
