MAILAH FROWNED. "What is he?"
Grayson's gaze met hers, shadowed and steady. "A reminder," he said softly. "That even the purest light can fall."
Mailah stared at him, confused. "You mean—"
"Yes." His voice dropped to a whisper, the words curling like smoke.
"He's a fallen angel."
The words hung in the air like incense—slow, heavy, and impossible to ignore.
Mailah stared at Grayson, her pulse fluttering somewhere between fascination and unease.
A fallen angel.
The phrase alone tasted like contradiction—something once divine, now exiled. Like light that had learned to crave the dark.
"That explains a lot," she said finally, her voice softer than she intended. "The way he looks at people—like he's measuring their sins."
Grayson set his glass down with deliberate calm. "He's seen enough of them to know which ones last."
Her eyes followed the amber swirl in his glass, catching the flicker of firelight reflected in his irises. "And you trust someone like that?"
