Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband

Chapter 329: The Starving Demon 2

"BE QUIET."

Grayson’s command was low, a jagged edge of warning, but his hands betrayed him.

He hated his own vulnerability, hated that she could read the deficits in his body so clearly. He reached out, his large hands gripping her waist, and lifted her cleanly off the floor.

He set her down on the low wooden bench by the hearth, stepping between her knees to lock her against the stone wall.

"I am the protector here," he muttered, his face descending until his nose brushed against hers. His breath was hot, thick with the sudden, volatile passion that always flared when she pushed him too hard. "You do not worry about my strength. You do not worry about my hunger. I handle it."

"You’re doing a terrible job," she whispered, her hands finding their way under his heavy coat, wrapping around the warm, hard muscle of his back.

Grayson let out a low growl, a rough, impatient sound. He didn’t use pretty words because he didn’t have them, but the way his mouth locked onto hers told her everything she needed to know.

It was a hard, possessive stroke, free of hesitation. He held her as if he were defending a fortress, his large hands sliding up her back to press her flush against his bare chest.

He was scorching hot now, his body reacting to her sheer proximity, demanding the life he was trying so hard to deny himself.

Mailah didn’t fight him. She opened her mouth against his, leaning into the kiss, trying to force her own vitality into his cold core. She wanted him to take more. She wanted him to fill himself until his eyes burned like stars again.

But even in the middle of a kiss that made her head spin, Grayson’s brutal self-control held.

He tasted her deeply, his tongue tracing the shape of her mouth with a heavy, desperate hunger, but the golden pull in her chest remained light.

He refused to open the floodgates. He took his small, calculated ration, and then, with a sharp groan, he tore his mouth away.

He rested his forehead against hers, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. His silver eyes were bright, but she could see the heavy toll the restraint took on him.

"Enough," he rasped, his fingers digging into the wood of the bench on either side of her hips.

"Grayson—"

"I said enough, Mailah." He lifted his head, looking down at her with a fierce, protective anger. "I will not drain you. I will not put you in that dark place again. Never."

The raw certainty in his voice silenced her.

He was a monster trying to live like a man, and his first, most sacred rule was that she must remain whole. He would rather walk through this world half-dead than risk breaking her.

By evening, the kitchen smelled of toasted rye. Mailah had finished the flat cakes on the iron skillet, her hands still slightly dusted with flour.

Grayson sat on the bench by the fire, his heavy coat thrown back over his shoulders, his dark tunic back on and neatly buttoned.

He had spent the last hour watching her move around the small space, his eyes never leaving her for a single second.

He ate the food she gave him with his usual quiet efficiency. He didn’t complain about the heavy, dense bread, though she knew it tasted like dust compared to the immortal feasts of his past.

When the plates were put away, Mailah walked over to the small wooden chest by the bed. She pulled out a heavy patchwork quilt, one Arthur had brought weeks ago, and carried it back to the hearth.

Grayson watched her, his brow furrowed. "The bed is in the other room."

"The bed creaks," she said, looking up at him with a small, challenging smile. "And it’s too far from the fire. Sit on the rug with me."

He stared at the floorboards as if she had asked him to lie in a ditch.

She dropped the quilt onto the thick wool rug before the hearth, sitting down and pulling her knees to her chest. She looked up at him, waiting.

Grayson let out a long, heavy sigh through his nose. He stood up, his massive frame nearly blocking the light of the fire, and climbed down onto the floor beside her.

He looked entirely out of place, his long legs bent uncomfortably, his broad shoulders squared.

"This is not a good use of floor space," he grumbled.

"Shh," Mailah said. She slid closer to him, dragging the heavy quilt over both of their shoulders. She leaned her back against his side, tucking her head into the crook of his collarbone.

Grayson didn’t hesitate. The moment she touched him, his large arm came around her waist, pulling her flush against his ribs.

He tucked the edges of the quilt tightly around her feet, sealing out the slight draft that whistled under the front door.

"Better?" he muttered near her ear.

"Yes," she whispered. She reached out, her fingers tracing the dark fabric of his sleeve. "You’re still cold."

"I am okay."

"You’re a terrible liar." She turned her face into his shirt, smelling the clean scent and woodsmoke on his skin. "Just let yourself rest tonight, Grayson. Don’t watch the door. Don’t patrol the windows. Just sleep."

He didn’t answer. His fingers widened over her ribs, his palm a heavy, warm weight that felt like an iron band keeping her safe from the rest of the world.

He wouldn’t promise to sleep—they both knew he wouldn’t—but the tension in his broad shoulders lowered just a fraction.

Outside, the wind picked up, a wild, coastal gale that rattled the heavy wooden shutters of the cottage.

A stray branch from the gorse bushes scraped against the glass of the window with a sharp, scratching sound.

Instantly, Grayson’s body went rigid.

Mailah felt the sudden, violent compression in his chest, the way his breathing stopped as his entire focus shifted to the dark glass.

"It’s just the bush, Grayson," she said softly, reaching up to touch his jaw, turning his face away from the window. "The wind is blowing it. No one is out there."

He remained tense for three more heartbeats, his eyes piercing the darkness of the room.

Slowly, very slowly, he relaxed, his chest expanding against her back once more.

"The foliage in this valley requires a thorough pruning," he grumbled, his voice dropping into a low, sleepy rumble.

Mailah let out a soft laugh, her eyes closing as the warmth of the fire and the steady rhythm of his breathing began to pull her under. "We can fix it tomorrow. Arthur has a saw."

"I do not need a saw," Grayson muttered. He tightened his grip on her waist, pulling her even closer until there wasn’t a single inch of space between them. "I can use my hands."

"No magic."

"My hands will suffice."

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t need to.

In his own silent, stubborn way, he had set the perimeter, festooned the house, and claimed his prize. He would starve his power, he would suffer the clumsy limits of a human body, and he would keep his nights silent and free of dreams—all to ensure that the woman in his arms remained warm, safe, and entirely his.

As Mailah finally drifted off to sleep, surrounded by the heavy heat of the demon who was trying so hard to be a man, she knew the village could keep its festivals and its armies. The only shield that mattered was the one currently holding her tight against the coming winter cold.

The fire burned low, shifting from a roar to a pulsing amber glow that threw long, dancing shadows against the stone walls.

Mailah didn’t wake fully, but she shifted, her cheek sliding against the coarse fabric of his tunic until she found the solid, steady thrum of his pulse.

Grayson remained motionless. He didn’t sleep; he simply endured the quiet.

His gaze, usually sharp enough to carve stone, remained fixed on the fire, his mind constantly thinking about the shadows and the direction of the wind.

He felt Mailah stir again. Her hand had drifted upward, her fingers resting lightly over his heart.

He went stiller than a statue. It was a strange, disorienting sensation—having his pulse measured by someone so small, so fragile, yet so devastatingly capable of making him feel like he was the one in need of protection.

He looked down at her. In the dim light, her hair was a tangled silk mess against his shoulder, her breathing deep and even.

He didn’t move. He didn’t want to break the rhythm.

Clack.

A heavy, rhythmic tapping sounded from the front door.

Grayson’s muscles coiled, his back arching off the rug as he prepared to launch himself into the dark. His hand instinctively reached for a weapon that wasn’t there.

"Lord Ashford!"

Arthur’s voice, raspy and impatient, cut through the wind.