THE MORNING AFTER, the weight of last night’s unfinished conversation still clung to Mailah like fog.
She replayed every mont on a loop—the way the words had tumbled out of her mouth before she could catch them, the way Grayson’s gaze had sharpened, unreadable, when she’d suggested they attend the Ashford Anniversary together.
And then the way he hadn’t answered.
Instead, he’d told her it was late, brushed his thumb once across her wrist as if that small gesture could erase the gravity of her question, and said, "We should go to bed."
No argunt, no sharp refusal—just that.
She hadn’t dared push, not with the wall he’d quietly raised in his voice.
He’d extinguished the fire in the room with the ease of soone who had been quelling unwanted sparks for centuries.
And now, sitting at her desk she had claid in one corner of the office, Mailah wanted to bite her tongue until it bled.
Why had she said it? Why had she thought she could lure him into the one place he seed determined never to go?
She tapped her pen against a notepad, pretending to look busy while her thoughts drifted.
Around her, the office humd with the low-key symphony of phones, keyboards, and the occasional laugh from the design team down the hall.
Grayson’s company had the polished air of any high-powered firm, but the people inside were startlingly human.
She wondered sotis if they had the faintest clue who signed their paychecks.
Her gaze slid yet again to the far corner, to the closed double doors of Grayson’s office.
Closed all morning.
His assistants had whispered that he was in a virtual conference with "long-distance investors."
Mailah knew better. A "virtual conference" could an anything when Grayson was involved—likely a eting with beings who didn’t exactly fit into any Zoom invite.
Her chest tightened.
She hadn’t seen him after last night, and the quiet gnawed at her.
Was he avoiding her? Was he angry she’d suggested the anniversary?
The logical part of her brain scolded her: Of course he was upset. You poked at a wound centuries deep.
But the other part—the one that had stood barefoot in the moonlit sun room last night, staring at him like he was the most dangerous, beautiful thing in existence—kept whispering: You were right. He can’t hide forever. His family will pull him back in eventually, whether he wants it or not.
The more she thought about it, the more certain she beca.
His brothers, Vivienne, the politics of their world—none of it would leave him untouched. Especially not after his first full feeding. His demon nature was awake now, prowling beneath his skin.
It was only a matter of ti before the rest of his past clawed its way back, demanding to be reckoned with.
Mailah sighed and leaned back, stretching until her shoulders popped.
Her stomach growled faintly, reminding her she’d skipped breakfast in the nerves of replaying last night.
"Fine," she muttered under her breath. "Food first. Existential crises later."
She tapped an order into her phone—enough for two, though she told herself it was just in case Grayson erged.
Almost an hour later, she was halfway through pretending to be busy when the sound ca.
Click.
The door to Grayson’s office finally opened.
Mailah’s heart jumped into her throat.
He stepped out, tall and composed as ever, his dark suit immaculate, his expression unreadable. He scanned the room with a predator’s ease, and his gaze caught hers almost imdiately.
The world seed to shrink to that line of sight.
For one suspended mont, she forgot to breathe.
Then he looked away. No words.
No acknowledgnt beyond that single, piercing glance.
He strode past desks and cubicles, each employee automatically shifting out of his way without needing to be told.
Mailah’s pulse hamred.
Without thinking, she grabbed the takeout bag and followed him.
He didn’t look back, but she didn’t lose him.
She trailed him down the hallway, through the glass double doors, and out onto the terrace that wrapped around the building.
The city stretched below them, glittering with midday sunlight bouncing off skyscraper glass. The terrace was dotted with a few sleek tables, ant more for show than use.
Grayson stopped at one, pulled out a chair, and turned toward her.
His eyes t hers, steady and cool, and then—shockingly—he inclined his head.
"Sit."
Mailah froze mid-step. "What?"
"Sit." His tone was not a request.
He gestured to the chair with an easy authority that sent a shiver racing through her.
She blinked, then slowly crossed the terrace and placed the food on the table before sitting.
Grayson lowered himself across from her, loosening his tie with a practiced tug. "What did you bring?"
She fumbled with the bags, suddenly nervous. "Uh... pad thai. Dumplings. And... fries. Because I panicked and thought you might like fries."
His lips quirked, a ghost of amusent breaking through his cool exterior. "Fries."
"They’re universal," she defended. "Even demons can’t hate fries."
"Mm," he said noncommittally, but when she slid the container toward him, he reached for it first.
Mailah watched in disbelief as Grayson Ashford—ancient, terrifying, impossibly elegant Grayson—picked up a fry and bit into it like a starving college student.
He groaned. Groaned. Low, unguarded, deeply human.
Mailah’s jaw nearly hit the table.
Grayson arched a brow at her expression, chewing. "Don’t look so scandalized. I’m starving."
"Do demons really starve like humans?" she asked cautiously.
He swallowed, then reached for another fry. "When we were exiled to earth, we had to adapt. Human food grounds us, keeps the body functional. But it doesn’t feed the deeper hunger."
"Deeper hunger," she echoed, her curiosity piqued.
His eyes flicked up to hers, darker now. "The kind you’ve already seen, Mailah. Feeding on a mortal soul, siphoning life force to sustain our true nature. My brothers indulge often. They eat human food for show, to blend in. But they don’t need it."
"And you?"
"I distracted myself with it." His smile was sharp, rueful. "For centuries, I pretended it was enough. Forced myself to enjoy it, to appreciate the ritual of als. It gave sothing to cling to while I starved myself of what I really craved."
Her pulse quickened. She knew what he ant, and the mory of his first true feeding rose unbidden in her mind—the intimacy of it, the danger.
She forced her voice steady. "And now?"
He leaned back, his gaze never leaving hers. "Now that I’ve tasted what I’ve denied myself for centuries? Human food is just... garnish."
Heat curled low in her belly at his tone. She busied herself unpacking the dumplings to hide the flush in her cheeks.
Grayson picked one up with his fingers—ignoring the chopsticks entirely—and took a decisive bite. "But I’ll admit," he said after swallowing, "your choice was inspired. These are good."
Mailah rolled her eyes, relieved to slip into familiar banter. "So noted. Next ti, I’ll just order thirty boxes of dumplings and fries."
He smirked. "Careful. You might spoil ."
The teasing lilt in his voice made her heart flutter and ache all at once.
The air between them shifted, warm and heavy with an unspoken pull.
For a mont, it felt like the anniversary, the family, the danger—none of it existed.
Just him, her, sunlight, and shared food on a quiet terrace.
Mailah let herself smile, soft and genuine.
She didn’t bring up the anniversary again.
Not here, not now.
She didn’t want to risk puncturing this fragile peace with reminders of the world pressing at their door.
Instead, she asked, "So. Fries or dumplings—what wins?"
Grayson’s lips curved, and the look he gave her made her heart stutter. "Neither," he said softly. "You win."
Her breath caught.
She laughed, because otherwise she might do sothing reckless, like lean across the table and kiss him senseless. "Smooth, Mr. Ashford."
His gaze lingered on her lips, heat simring there, and she realized with a start that if she dared, if she moved just an inch closer, he wouldn’t stop her.
The tension between them hung electric, sparking, impossibly alive.
And still, deep beneath it all, a question gnawed at her: could she trust him completely? Could she trust any of this?
The thought flickered and faded, drowned out by the warmth of his smile and the low, dangerous intimacy of the way he responded.
For now, it was enough.
The terrace breeze tugged at her hair, and for a heartbeat, Mailah forgot the rest of the world existed.
The city, the family politics, the anniversary—none of it mattered here.
Grayson broke another fry in half and set it on her plate with deliberate care. "Eat," he said, softer now, almost like a habit he couldn’t shake.
Mailah obeyed, more out of surprise than hunger, and felt a laugh bubble in her chest. "Bossy."
"Efficient," he corrected, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a smirk.
The easy banter didn’t erase the heaviness still waiting between them, but it wrapped around it, disguising the sharp edges just long enough for her to breathe.
User Comments
0 comments from readers