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

Chapter 324: The Bonfire 1

GRAYSON DID NOT PULL AWAY.

He did not scoff. He simply stood there, a mountain of dark, brooding intensity, his silver eyes tracking the slight tremor in Mailah’s hand as it rested against his neck.

The silence stretched, filled only by the rhythmic tick-tock of the clock he had recently "repaired" with terrifying efficiency and the soft, crackling hiss of the gramophone’s needle reaching the end of its track.

"Love," he repeated. He tested the word as if it were a foreign blade, gauging its weight and the sharpness of its edge. "A human classification."

"It’s more than that, Grayson," Mailah whispered.

"Is it?" His hand shifted from her jaw, his fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her just a fraction closer until their breathing was a shared, jagged thing. "If this is love, it is a catastrophic structural failure of the logic I once lived by."

He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. His skin was blazing now, the energy she had given him humming through his veins. "But I find I do not care to repair the damage."

It wasn’t a sweeping declaration. It was Grayson—direct, analytical, and devastatingly honest.

In his own way, he was admitting that she was the only thing in this world that made sense to a mind currently fractured by amnesia and demonic instinct.

"Well," Arthur’s voice boomed from the kitchen, shattering the tension like a stone through glass. "Since the Lord of the Void has finished his analysis of your heart, perhaps we can discuss the more pressing matter of the Autumn Festival."

Grayson went rigid, his eyes snapping toward the kitchen door. The soft, vulnerable moment vanished, replaced instantly by the sharp-edged prince. "The what?"

Arthur hobbled into the room, wiping his hands on a grease-stained apron. "The village festival. Every year, the people of the valley decorate their homes to ward off the coming winter chill. And since this cottage currently looks like a barracks for a very depressed army, I suggest you two help me ’festoon’ the place."

Grayson’s brow slammed down into a heavy furrow. "Festoon?"

"Decorate, Grayson," Mailah said, trying to suppress a grin at the sheer horror on his face. "Flowers, dried herbs, maybe some lanterns on the porch."

"Unnecessary," Grayson snapped, though he didn’t let go of Mailah’s waist. "The porch is for observation and defense. Placing ’flowers’ upon it would obscure the sightlines."

"It’s for the village, Lord Ashford," Arthur countered, his blind eyes twinkling with mischief. "Unless you want the neighbors thinking we’re harboring a grumpy hermit and his hostage. They’ll come poking around with meat pies and questions. Lots of questions."

Grayson went silent. The thought of meat pies and social interaction clearly ranked higher on his list of threats than a full-scale demonic invasion.

He looked down at Mailah, his expression one of grim resignation.

"Very well," he muttered. "I shall assist in the... festooning. But if any of the foliage compromises the perimeter, I will incinerate it."

The next morning brought a crisp, biting wind that carried the scent of wet earth and dying leaves.

Mailah led Grayson out to the small garden behind the cottage, armed with a pair of rusted shears and a basket.

Grayson looked like he was preparing for a siege. He had swapped his henley for a heavy, dark coat that made him look twice as broad, and he paced the perimeter of the garden as if checking for traps.

"We need the marigolds and the dried lavender," Mailah said, pointing to a patch of vibrant orange. "And those vines over there. We’re going to weave them into wreaths for the door."

Grayson stared at the marigolds. "They serve no nutritional or medicinal purpose."

"They’re pretty, Grayson. Humans like things that are pretty."

He turned his gaze toward her, his silver eyes raking over her face with an intensity that made her pulse skip. "I am well aware of that particular human trait," he said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always made her knees weak.

He didn’t move to help. He simply stood there, arms crossed, watching her work.

"Help me with the vines," she challenged, tossing the shears toward him.

He caught them out of the air without looking, his reflexes a blurred reminder of what he really was.

He walked over to the stone wall, his boots crunching on the frost-covered grass. He looked at the thick, tangled ivy and then at the shears.

"This is inefficient," he declared.

He raised his hand, a faint silver glow beginning to thrum around his fingertips.

"Grayson! No!" Mailah darted forward, grabbing his wrist. "No magic. You’re learning to be human, remember? Humans use their hands. And every time you use that light, you’re just going to end up passed out on the rug again."

He looked down at her hand on his wrist. His pulse was heavy and slow beneath her touch. He let out a long, frustrated sigh that sounded like a growl.

"The hands of a human are remarkably slow," he complained, but he lowered his hand.

He began to clip the vines. He did it with the same savage precision he did everything else. Within minutes, he had a pile of vines that would have taken Mailah an hour to gather.

As they moved back to the porch to begin the "festooning," the humor of the situation began to set in.

Grayson, a man who could likely level a mountain with a thought, was currently struggling to weave a circle out of dead plants.

His large fingers fumbled with the delicate stems, his jaw set in a line of pure, concentrated fury.

"It will not stay," he hissed, holding up a mangled clump of ivy. "The structural integrity is non-existent."

"You have to tuck the ends in, Grayson. Here, let me show you."

She moved behind him, reaching around to guide his hands. She was instantly enveloped in his scent—cedar, cold air, and that unique scent of his. His back was like a wall of heated granite against her chest.

"Like this," she whispered, her fingers covering his.

Grayson went very still. He wasn’t looking at the wreath. He was looking at her reflection in the window of the porch. His hands, usually so steady in battle, were tense.

"You are a very distracting teacher," he murmured.

"And you’re a very stubborn student."

He turned in her arms, the move so sudden it caught her off guard. He backed her up against the porch railing, his hands coming down on either side of her, pinning her in place. The half-finished wreath fell to the floor, forgotten.

The wind whipped around them, tossing Mailah’s hair across her face.

Grayson reached out, his thumb tucking a stray strand behind her ear. His touch was light, almost tentative, a stark contrast to the overwhelming power of his presence.

"Tell me," he said, his eyes searching hers. "The man I was before... did he hold you like this?"

"Sometimes," she breathed.

"Did he find it as difficult as I do to simply... breathe when you are near?"

Mailah’s heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "I think he found it even harder."

Grayson’s expression darkened, a flicker of something that looked like jealousy crossing his features. "He was a fool to ever let you out of his sight. Even without my memory, I find the thought of your absence... unacceptable."

He didn’t wait for a response.

As if to prove his words, he leaned in, his mouth hovering just an inch from hers.

He didn’t kiss her—not yet. He just hovered there, breathing her in, his eyes fixed on her lips with a hunger that was far more visceral than his need for her energy.

"Grayson," she whispered, her hands finding the lapels of his coat. "You’re getting low again. I can feel it."

The silver light in his eyes was indeed flickering, a sign that the cold air and his internal frustration were eating through his reserves.

"A small price," he rasped.

He closed the distance then to finally kiss her.

Mailah pulled him closer, her fingers digging into the heavy wool of his coat. She felt the familiar drain, the soft pull of her life force as it flowed into him, but she didn’t care.

She gave it freely, her toes curling against the wooden slats of the porch as he lifted her slightly, pressing her against the railing.

He was so big, so solid, and for a moment, the world of demons and kings didn’t exist. There was only the porch, the smell of dried lavender, and the man who was learning that some things were worth more than a throne.

When he finally pulled back, he was breathing hard, the silver in his eyes burning with a renewed, steady flame.

He looked down at her, his face a mask of brooding possessiveness.

He reached down, picked up the mangled wreath, and with a single, brutal twist of his hands, forced it into a perfect circle. He hung it on the door with a thud that shook the frame.

"The perimeter is festooned," he announced.

By late afternoon, the cottage was transformed. Arthur had insisted on lighting small oil lanterns along the porch, and Mailah had draped the marigolds over the mantle.

The place looked warm, lived-in, and strangely festive.

Grayson was sitting by the fire, sharpening a small knife.

He had been unusually quiet since the porch, his eyes following Mailah as she moved about the room.

"Arthur says there will be a bonfire in the village tonight," Mailah said, sitting on the rug at Grayson’s feet. "We should go."

Grayson didn’t look up from his knife. "A bonfire? An uncontrolled incendiary event in a high-density residential area? That sounds like a security nightmare."

"It’s a party, Grayson. There will be music, and food, and—"

"People," he finished, his voice flat.

"Yes, people. You need to see them. You need to see what you’re protecting."

He stopped sharpening the knife and looked at her. "I am not protecting them, Mailah. I am staying here because you are here. My motivations are entirely selfish."

"Maybe," she said, leaning her head against his knee. "But you’re still here. And you’re still trying."

He was silent for a long time. Then, he reached down and placed his large hand on top of her head, his fingers stroking her hair in a gesture that was so unexpectedly tender it made her chest ache.

"I do not understand the appeal of a bonfire," he said quietly. "But if you wish to observe the flames, I will accompany you."

The village bonfire was a massive, roaring pillar of fire in the center of the common.

The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat. Dozens of villagers were gathered around, their faces orange in the firelight, laughing and passing around mugs of cider.

Grayson stood at the edge of the crowd, his arms crossed, his hood pulled low.

He looked like a shadow carved out of stone. Every time someone got too close, he would shift his weight, his silver eyes flashing a warning that sent them scurrying in the other direction.

"You’re scaring the children, Grayson," Mailah whispered, tugging on his sleeve.

"They should be scared," he muttered. "They are standing far too close to an open flame while consuming intoxicating liquids."

"It’s called fun. Try to look like you’re having some."

He looked at her, his expression deadpan. "This is my ’fun’ face."

Mailah sighed, but she couldn’t help but smile.

She grabbed his hand and led him toward the food stalls, where a woman was selling thick slices of bread topped with melted cheese.

He didn’t seem happy but he let her pull him.