"GRAYSON, STOP!" Mailah cried out.
Grayson’s hand was clamped onto the man’s shoulder, his knuckles white. His other hand was pulled back, fingers curled into a fist that shimred with a dark, oily light.
The man on the floor didn’t look like a threat.
He was old, his hair a thin halo of white. He wore a thick, moth-eaten sweater and trousers that had seen better decades. Most notably, his eyes were clouded with the milky film of cataracts. He was entirely blind.
"Lord Ashford," the old man wheezed. He didn’t sound scared. He sounded annoyed. "If you intend to crush my windpipe, please do it quickly. I have tea steeping, and it shouldn’t sit for more than five minutes."
Grayson’s eyes, still black and bottomless, narrowed. He didn’t let go. "Who sent you? How did you bypass the wards?"
"Wards?" The old man let out a dry, rattling chuckle. "I walked through the front door with my key, just as I have for twenty years. And you know perfectly well that your ’wards’ have always let through because you’re the one who told them I’m too boring to be a threat."
Grayson froze.
The dark light around his fist flickered and died.
He didn’t rember this man. He didn’t rember the key or the twenty years of service.
"My na is Arthur," the man said. "And he usually pays in gold coins that are a nightmare to exchange at the local post office," he continued, talking about Grayson as if he weren’t standing right there.
Mailah rushed forward, gently prying Grayson’s fingers off the man’s shoulder.
Grayson didn’t resist, but he remained tense, his body a coiled spring of lethal intent.
"I’m sorry," Mailah said, helping the old man up. "We... we weren’t expecting company."
"Company?" Arthur dusted off his sweater, his sightless eyes wandering toward the window. "I’m the caretaker. I co in on Thursdays to air out the place and make sure the damp hasn’t claid the rugs. You’re back sooner than usual, Grayson. And you’ve brought a guest. She slls like lavender and trouble."
Grayson stood tall, his arms crossed over his bare chest. Even without his shirt, he looked like a king standing in a ruin. "I don’t know you."
Arthur paused, his head tilting to the side. He went quiet for a long mont, the only sound being the whistle of the wind through the eaves. "Ah," he said softly. "The rumors were true then. The prince has forgotten his kingdom."
Grayson stepped closer, his shadow falling over the old man. "What rumors?"
"The ones the birds tell," Arthur said vaguely. He reached out with a trembling hand, finding the edge of the kitchen table. "You told once, years ago, that if you ever ca back and didn’t know my na, I was to tell you the ’Blackwood Secret.’"
Grayson’s jaw tightened. "Tell ."
"You hate the taste of mint," Arthur said with a small smile. "You think it’s a ’weak’ herb. And you once spent three days trying to convince a tree to grow backwards just because it was blocking your view of the sea."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Mailah looked at Grayson. He didn’t move, but the cold, murderous aura around him softened.
Only soone he trusted—or soone who had watched him in his most private, ridiculous monts—would know sothing so specific and petty.
"Go make your tea, old man," Grayson muttered. It wasn’t an apology, but for him, it was a surrender.
An hour later, the kitchen slled of actual tea and burnt toast.
Arthur sat at the small table, sipping from a chipped mug. Grayson was standing by the window, staring out at the cliffs as if he could command the fog to vanish by sheer will.
"He needs to learn how to be a person again," Mailah whispered to Arthur as she buttered a piece of toast.
"He never was much of a ’person’ to begin with," Arthur replied cheerfully. "He was a storm in a suit. But he was a fair employer. He never let the roof leak."
Mailah turned to Grayson. "Grayson, if we’re going to stay here and stay hidden, you can’t go around trying to ’unmake’ everyone who walks through the door. You need to act like a human. A normal, boring human."
Grayson turned, his silver eyes—now back to their usual piercing hue—landing on her. "I am many things, Mailah. Boring is not one of them."
"Well, you’re going to try," she countered. "No magic. No kinetic pulses. No lighting fires with your mind. Arthur says the woodpile is low. You’re going to chop wood. With an axe. Like a man."
Grayson looked at her as if she had suggested he crawl through the mud for fun. "An axe? That is a primitive tool. It relies on blunt force and poor leverage. I could splinter the entire pile with a single thought."
"And you’d also light up the Council’s radar like a Christmas tree," Mailah reminded him. She stepped close, her hand resting on the bare skin of his arm. "And rember the rule. If you drain your mana, I’m the only gas station in town. And I’m closed for maintenance until you finish your chores."
Grayson’s gaze dropped to her mouth. The mory of the utility room—the heat, the taste of her, the way she had co apart in his hands—flashed through his mind. He felt a sharp, familiar tug in his gut. It wasn’t just hunger for power. It was a hunger for her.
He had lost his mories of their past, but his body was a traitor. Every ti she touched him, his heart hamred a rhythm that felt like a na he couldn’t quite speak.
He rembered the fear he had felt when Theron had held that needle. He didn’t like feeling vulnerable, but he liked the idea of her being gone even less.
"Fine," he rasped. "Give the primitive tool."
The backyard of the cottage was a patch of wild grass and grey stone. Grayson stood before the woodpile, holding the axe as if it were a dirty rag. He was still shirtless, the cool Welsh air doing nothing to dampen the heat coming off his skin.
Mailah sat on the porch, watching him. She wasn’t just supervising; she was enjoying the view. The way the muscles in his back rippled as he lifted the axe was enough to make her forget her tea.
"You’re supposed to swing it, Grayson," she called out. "Not glare at it."
Grayson ignored her. He took a breath, his focus shifting. He didn’t use magic, but his demonic heritage gave him a natural strength that made the heavy axe look like a toy. He brought it down.
The sound of wood splitting was like a gunshot. The log didn’t just split; it disintegrated.
"Too much force," Mailah said, hiding a smile. "Try to be... gentle. Humans have to conserve their energy."
Grayson wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He looked annoyed, but there was a spark of sothing new in his eyes—a challenge.
He set up another log. This ti, he swung with more control. The wood split cleanly, the two halves falling perfectly to the side.
He did it again. And again.
As he worked, the rhythm seed to soothe him.
The "storm in a suit" was finding a different kind of outlet. He wasn’t thinking about the Council or his lost throne. He was thinking about the grain of the wood and the weight of the steel.
After a dozen logs, he stopped. He was breathing hard, his skin glistening. He turned to look at Mailah.
"Is this sufficient?" he asked.
She walked down the steps, a towel in her hand. She reached up and wiped the moisture from his chest, her touch deliberate and slow. She could feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heart.
"It’s a start," she whispered.
Grayson’s hand shot out, catching her wrist. He didn’t pull her closer, but the way he held her was a claim. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable.
He didn’t argue. Instead, he dropped the axe and pulled her into his arms. It wasn’t a gentle embrace. It was the grip of a man who was holding onto the only thing keeping him anchored to the world.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her—soap, tea, and life.
"I’m hungry," he muttered against her skin.
"You just ate toast."
"Not that kind of hunger."
He pulled back, his eyes dark with a sudden, intense heat. He looked toward the cottage, then back to her.
"Arthur is in the kitchen," Mailah reminded him, her voice trembling slightly. "And he’s blind, not deaf."
Grayson smirked—a flash of the old, arrogant prince. "Then we shall have to be very, very quiet."
He picked her up, her legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. He didn’t use a portal. He didn’t use a kinetic burst. He simply carried her toward the back door, his footsteps heavy and human on the grass.
Inside, Arthur was humming a tune to himself, oblivious or perhaps just tactful.
Grayson carried Mailah past the kitchen and into the bedroom, kicking the door shut with his heel.
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