She opened her mouth to protest, to demand the truth about the blood on his hands and the sirens she thought she heard in the distance, but he moved with a quiet, overwhelming gravity. He didn’t use force, he simply placed his hands on her waist, his touch firm and grounding, and guided her back toward the bedroom.
"Grayson, talk to me," she pleaded, her voice cracking. "The way Marcus is looking at the door... the way Paul just left... you’re scaring me."
"I’ve got it, Betty. I promise," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against her forehead as he tucked her under his arm. He led her into the guest suite, the soft lamp light casting long, amber glow across the unmade bed. He didn't let go until she sat on the edge of the mattress, her fingers bunching the silk of her rob
