"THE SPELL has done nothing to cure you." The voice was like the sound of grinding stones wrapped in velvet. "Old or new, both appear equally smitten with the same woman. It's almost a pity."
Grayson snapped back, his hand dropping from Mailah's neck as he turned toward the balcony. Standing there, silhouetted against the morning smog, was Ravenson.
He was the fourth brother, and unlike the others, his presence didn't feel like a sharp blade or a frantic hum. He felt like a heavy, suffocating blanket of cold rain.
Ravenson was the one who fed on conflict and despair, and right now, his eyes were fixed on Mailah with a curiosity that made her skin crawl.
"Ravenson," Grayson said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, protective register. "I don't recall inviting you to stare at my guests from the terrace."
