"HOW INEFFICIENT," Grayson rumbled, glaring at the kitchen appliance as if it were a traitor to the crown.
He was dressed in another impeccable suit—this one a deep navy that made his silver-gray eyes look like stormy seas. "Why must the bread be scorched twice to be considered edible?"
"No hellfire in the kitchen, Grayson," Mailah interrupted, sliding a plate of perfectly browned toast toward him. She was wearing a soft cream-colored sweater and tailored pants, looking every bit the professional assistant. "And keep your voice down. The 'consultants' at the end of the driveway probably have microphones sensitive enough to hear your heart beat."
Grayson sighed, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand years of boredom.
He picked up a piece of toast with the same precision he might use to handle a soul-contract. "Being human is a series of very small, very loud inconveniences."
