THE SUN ROOM was quiet, the kind of quiet that humd around the edges of Grayson’s thoughts like a barely contained storm.
Pale moonlight filtered through the tall glass panes, casting silver streaks across the carpet and the Persian rug where a stain of spilled wine had dried earlier in the evening—a faint reminder of the chaos Mailah seed to carry into every carefully ordered part of his world.
And yet he invited her in.
Worse, he wanted her there.
Mailah sat curled on one end of the velvet sofa, bare feet tucked beneath her, silk pajamas whispering against her skin every ti she shifted.
She held her glass with both hands, not because she needed the wine—he’d already seen her outdrink half the staff at the dinner tonight—but because the glass gave her sothing to do. Sothing to keep her grounded in this room, with him.
"SO," she said, her tone light, teasing, as her fingers brushed against his when he handed her the drink.
The brief contact sent a flicker of heat crawling up his arm. "What brought on this sudden urge to cross into places you once kept off-limits?"
Grayson leaned against the other side of the sofa, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her but far enough that he wouldn’t do sothing foolish—sothing like tug her against him and bury his face in the curve of her neck.
He took a slow sip, letting the red wine roll across his tongue before answering.
Buying ti.
Calculating the risk.
He’d faced down warring clans, centuries of politics, even the whispers of angels who wanted his head on a pike, but this—this conversation with a woman in silk pajamas—felt like the most dangerous negotiation of his existence.
"Tonight," he said finally, lowering his glass.
His voice felt steadier than his chest did. "Watching you navigate that dinner. Seeing you help connect with people I’ve spent years treating as... resources, not individuals." He paused, words heavier than he intended. "You made realize I’ve been approaching our entire situation with the wrong strategy."
Mailah tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. "What do you an?"
The silk whispered as she drew her legs closer, the fabric molding to her body like liquid, and he tore his gaze away before it betrayed him.
Focus.
Words first. Actions... later.
Maybe. If ever.
"I an this," he said, gesturing vaguely between them. "The separate sleeping arrangents. The careful distance. The constant guardrails. We’re living like strangers playing house instead of..." He trailed off, searching for sothing that didn’t sound absurd even to his own ears.
Mailah leaned in a little, her voice gentler now. "Instead of what?"
Grayson inhaled slowly, and in that breath, he made a choice.
No more half-asures.
No more waiting for the perfect mont.
He was a demon who had ruled empires; cowardice didn’t suit him.
"Instead of two people building sothing together," he said, the words tumbling out with unexpected conviction.
His hand tightened on the stem of his glass. "Which is why I think we should get married."
The silence that followed was shattering.
Her wine glass slipped from her hands and landed on the thick carpet with a muted thud, Bordeaux bleeding into the Persian rug like a crimson accusation.
Mailah didn’t even notice.
She stared at him, eyes wide, mouth parted, as if soone had just inford her that the moon was made of cheese.
"I’m sorry," she said slowly. Her voice was faint, incredulous. "Did you just...?"
"Propose?" Grayson supplied.
He set his glass aside with deliberate calm, then turned toward her fully, his expression serious, almost businesslike. "Yes. It’s the most logical solution to our predicant."
Her jaw dropped. Literally dropped.
"Logical?" she squeaked, voice climbing higher than he’d ever heard it.
"Think about it," he said, warming to his argunt like a lawyer presenting a flawless case. "We’re already cohabiting. Pretending as a married couple to the outside world. Marriage would simply formalize an arrangent already in motion. It would also provide clarity for both of us."
Mailah blinked.
Then blinked again.
She looked down at herself—bare feet, silk pajamas, hair still damp from her shower—then back at him, who was speaking with the grim satisfaction of a man who had just completed a successful rger.
"You’re... proposing to ," she said faintly, "while I’m in pajamas. In a sun room. Without a ring. Like it’s a quarterly business review."
"Not quarterly," Grayson corrected automatically. "Annual. This would be long-term. A strategic partnership with shared dostic and romantic benefits."
Her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.
"Oh my God," she muttered. "You’re proposing marriage like a tax plan."
"Not just taxes," he said, brow furrowing in concentration. "dical authority. Inheritance rights. Legal protections. The ability to present consistency in your identity without suspicion. For example—"
"Wait, wait, wait." She held up her hands like a referee calling ti-out. "Back up. You’re serious."
"Of course I’m serious," he said, confusion flickering across his features. "Why wouldn’t I be?"
Mailah pressed her palms to her face, groaning into them.
When she finally looked up, her eyes were glassy with disbelief. "Do you even hear yourself? You’re proposing marriage like it’s an efficiency upgrade."
Grayson tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. "Efficiency is a desirable trait in unions."
She made a strangled noise that was half laugh, half sob. "Do you even know what marriage ans to people like ?"
His brows knit.
He hated this feeling—being unprepared, out of his depth. "I... assud it ant commitnt. Security. Stability. Isn’t that what you want?"
Mailah stood abruptly, silk fabric whispering around her legs as she paced.
Her whole body vibrated with agitation, but underneath it, Grayson sensed sothing else: vulnerability.
Hope.
She turned back, eyes blazing. "I thought what we had was... was a connection. Feelings. You look at like I matter. And now you’re proposing marriage like I’m negotiating a lease renewal."
Her words stung.
Not because they weren’t true, but because he had no idea how else to do this.
His chest tightened with sothing dangerously close to panic.
"I don’t..." He exhaled, struggling. "I don’t know the right way. I’ve never cared enough to try before. The won I was with—they wanted my na, my money, my power. I assud..." His voice trailed.
"You assud that’s what I wanted too." Her words were soft, but sharp enough to cut.
He stared at her, struck dumb.
Mailah laughed bitterly, pressing a hand to her chest. "God, if all I wanted was your money or power, I’d have said yes already. But I thought..." Her voice cracked. She looked away. "I thought we were different."
Sothing inside him twisted.
He stood then, closing the distance until he stood just a foot from her. The air between them thrumd with tension, thick enough to choke on.
"I don’t know what human won really want, except for what I know," he admitted, voice low, rough. "But I know what I want. You. In my life. At my side. Not pretending. Not as so ghost of your sister. You. Mailah."
Her breath caught, eyes darting up to et his.
He held her gaze, unflinching, even though it felt like laying himself bare before a tribunal.
"I thought marriage was the proper way," he went on, softer now. "The way humans honor each other. Was I wrong?"
Mailah’s heart pounded so hard she thought it might break through her ribs.
Every instinct scread that he was serious, painfully, absurdly serious. And sohow, the sheer cluelessness of his delivery made it worse.
"You absolute idiot," she whispered.
His brows shot up. "Excuse ?"
Before he could say more, she stepped forward and pressed her hand against his chest, right over his heart.
He went still, utterly still, as though her touch was the only thing tethering him to this plane.
"You don’t propose to soone like it’s a board eting," she said, voice trembling between laughter and tears. "You don’t list tax benefits and dical rights and call it romance."
"I wasn’t aiming for romance," he admitted honestly. "I was aiming for... permanence."
Her throat tightened.
Damn him.
Damn him and his demon honesty.
"You’re impossible," she whispered.
And then—because the universe had a sense of humor—her stomach chose that mont to growl, loud and unapologetic.
The tension snapped.
Grayson blinked, then barked a laugh so unexpected it startled them both. "You’re rejecting my proposal... because you’re hungry?"
Mailah smacked his chest lightly. "I’m rejecting your proposal because you proposed like a demon-shaped spreadsheet!"
He caught her wrist before she could pull back, his grip gentle but firm. "Then tell ," he said. His eyes burned into hers, unyielding. "Show how to do it right."
Her knees nearly gave out.
Because for all his flaws, for all his demonic logic and absurd efficiency, he was standing there asking—not commanding, not dictating—asking.
And for a man like Grayson, that was the bravest thing he could do.
Her lips parted, but all she could think was one question: YES OR NO?
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