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

Chapter 323: The Dance

GRAYSON KISSED HER WITH a bone-deep hunger of their first night in the cottage, and with a steady, rhythmic pull.

As Mailah’s lips parted under his, she felt the familiar, tingling sensation of her own vitality sliding toward him—a warmth that started in her chest and flowed into the cold, damp planes of his face.

Grayson’s skin, which had been turning the color of slate, began to radiate heat again.

His grip on her wet hair tightened, his fingers flexing as the silver light behind his eyelids flared from a dying ember to a steady flame.

He groaned low in his throat, a sound of profound relief, and for a moment, the demon prince was gone, replaced by a man who simply needed to be anchored to the earth.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were no longer dull. They were sharp, piercing silver, tracking the way her breath hitched in the steamy air of the bathroom.

"Adequate," he rasped, though his gaze said something much more dangerous.

"You’re a jerk," she whispered, her heart still thrumming against her ribs. "You nearly froze me to death for a ’prank,’ and then you drained me like a battery."

Grayson stood, the water from his soaked clothes pooling on the floor.

He didn’t offer an apology; instead, he reached down, hooked his arms under her knees, and lifted her out of the tub as if she were made of air.

He wrapped her in a towel so thick it felt like armor, then carried her toward the bedroom.

"The ’battery’ appears to have a high capacity," he noted, his voice regaining its usual arrogant edge. "And the prank was successful. You laughed."

"I screamed first!"

"The laughter followed. My data on human joy remains consistent."

He set her down on the edge of the bed and stood over her, a dripping, shirtless titan who looked entirely too pleased with himself.

He began to peel off his wet jeans, his muscles rippling with a fluid grace that made Mailah’s mouth go dry.

He didn’t look like a man who had just been on the brink of exhaustion. He looked like a predator who had just finished a very satisfying hunt.

"Dry yourself," he commanded, tossing a fresh shirt at her. "Arthur has been making a noise in the kitchen that sounds like he is attempting to kill a chicken. I shall investigate."

An hour later, the cottage smelled of cedar smoke and something Arthur called "Sea-Salt Stew."

Mailah sat by the hearth, wrapped in one of Grayson’s oversized sweaters, her hair still damp but her spirit finally warm.

Grayson was sitting at the small wooden table, staring at a plate of bread as if it were a tactical map. He had changed into a clean henley, the sleeves pushed up to show the scars on his forearms—scars he still couldn’t explain, but which Mailah knew were the marks of a thousand battles fought for a throne he no longer cared for.

Arthur was humming to himself, his sightless eyes fixed on some distant point as he stirred the pot. "You two smell like salt and bad decisions," the old man remarked cheerfully. "Did you try to fight the tide, or did the tide win?"

"Grayson thought it would be ’efficient’ to submerge us," Mailah said, casting a mock-glare at the man across the room.

Grayson didn’t look up from his bread. "It was an experiment."

"It was a dunking," Arthur chuckled. "Lord Ashford, you used to be much more dignified. I remember you once spent three hours arguing with a seagull because it wouldn’t move off your balcony. You didn’t splash it. You simply stared at it until it decided to relocate to Ireland."

Grayson paused, his hand hovering over the bread. A shadow of a thought crossed his face—a flicker of the man he used to be. "The bird was most probably insolent," he muttered.

Mailah watched him. He was starting to acknowledge the pieces of his past, not as burdens, but as curiosities.

He was beginning to see why the "other" Grayson had loved her, even if he couldn’t quite put the feeling into words. It was in the way his eyes followed her every move, the way he positioned himself between her and the door whenever the wind rattled the latch.

It wasn’t just protection; it was a desperate, quiet fear of the void she would leave behind if she vanished.

"The music is starting," Arthur said suddenly, tilting his head.

Mailah listened. From the village down the cliff, the faint, tinny sound of a fiddle and a concertina drifted on the wind. It was Tuesday—the night of the local pub social.

"Dancing," Mailah said, her eyes lighting up. She looked at Grayson. "You promised."

Grayson’s jaw tightened. "I said I would consider it."

"The second pause meant yes, Grayson. You can’t back out now. You’re a ’work in progress,’ remember?"

He looked at her, his silver eyes reflecting the firelight. He looked at the way her sweater slipped off one shoulder, the way her bare toes curled on the rug. He looked like a man being asked to walk into a fire, and yet, he stood up.

"Arthur," Grayson said, his voice stiff. "Produce the ’rhythmic noise’ device."

Arthur grinned and reached into a cupboard, pulling out a battered old gramophone.

He wound the crank with practiced ease and set the needle down. A slow, sweeping waltz began to crackle through the room, the sound of strings weaving through the smell of stew.

Grayson walked toward the center of the room. He looked absurdly large for the space, his head nearly brushing the low beams. He held out his hand, palm up, his fingers steady.

"Instruction is required," he said. "Do not expect elegance. Expect... compliance."

Mailah stood and walked into his space. Being this close to him when he wasn’t trying to ’unmake’ something was a different kind of danger. He smelled of salt, and the soap she had picked out for him.

"Put your right hand on my waist," she instructed.

He hesitated, then placed his hand there. His palm was enormous, his fingers splaying across the small of her back with a possessive weight that made her breath hitch.

It wasn’t a gentle touch; it was the grip of a man who owned what he touched.

"Now, take my other hand."

He did, his fingers lacing through hers. His hand was rough and hot.

"We’re going to step," she said. "Left foot back, right foot side, together. One, two, three. One, two, three."

Grayson looked down at their feet with the same murderous intensity he had used on the grandfather clock. He moved like a machine—precise, heavy, and entirely too fast.

"You’re not a soldier on a march, Grayson," she laughed, her feet nearly getting crushed. "Relax. Follow the music, not the math."

"The music is inconsistent," he grumbled, his brow furrowed. "The tempo fluctuates."

"That’s because it’s human. It has a heart. Just... look at me."

He stopped. He looked up, his silver eyes locking onto hers. The room seemed to shrink. The crackle of the gramophone and the whistling of the wind faded into a dull hum.

"I am looking at you," he whispered.

"Good. Now don’t look down. Just move with me."

They started again.

This time, he didn’t watch his feet. He watched her.

He watched the way her lips parted, the way her eyes softened. He began to move with a fluid, predatory grace that wasn’t quite a waltz, but it was something better.

It was a prowl.

He guided her through the small space, his body a solid wall of heat that she leaned into instinctively.

"You’re doing it," she whispered. "You’re dancing."

"It is an inefficient use of floor space," he muttered, but he didn’t stop. He pulled her closer, his hand on her waist sliding upward until he could feel the beat of her heart through the wool of the sweater.

The music slowed, the fiddle drawing out a long, mournful note. Grayson didn’t follow the step anymore. He just swayed with her, his movements becoming smaller, more intimate. He tucked her head under his chin, his nose brushing her damp hair.

"Mailah," he said, his voice a low vibration in his chest.

"Yeah?"

"In the village... the men who were doing this. They were smiling."

"They were happy, Grayson."

"I do not feel ’happy,’" he said, his voice rough. "I feel... heavy. As if my life force is being weighed down by the gravity of this room. I feel as if, should I let go of you, I would simply drift back into the dark."

Mailah pulled back just enough to see his face. He wasn’t emotional—he was Grayson.

His expression was still stern, his jaw still set. But there was a look in his eyes she recognized. It was the look of a man who had finally realized he was no longer alone in the dark.

"That’s not gravity, Grayson," she said softly. "That’s love."

He didn’t flinch at the word this time. He didn’t mock it.

He just stared at her, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizing path along her jawline.

Was he going to deny it? Or finally acknowledge it?