Chapter 211: Chapter 211: The Prince and The Beast

“BECAUSE I LOVE YOU.”

Grayson looked at Mailah for a long, silent moment.

His thumb, which had been tracing Mailah’s jawline with such heartbreaking tenderness, suddenly stilled. His silver-ringed pupils flared, the gray of his irises darkening until they were the color of a storm-tossed sea. For a heartbeat, the silence was absolute—long enough for Mailah to hear the frantic, rhythmic drumming of her own heart and the low, resonant hum of the enchantments woven into the hotel’s walls.

“You are a very foolish girl,” he whispered.

Then, the distance between them vanished.

Grayson didn’t just kiss her; he claimed her. It was a desperate, bruising meeting of lips that tasted of salt, iron, and a hunger so ancient it made the floor beneath them feel unsteady. His hands, previously hesitant, surged into her hair with a possessive violence, his fingers tangling in her curls as he tilted her head back to deepen the assault.

Mailah gasped into his mouth, her hands flying up to clutch at the cold silk of his shirt. She could feel the raw, kinetic energy vibrating off him—the “Beast” recognizing its mate even as the “Prince” remained blind.

He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated deep in his chest, and backed her against the edge of the mahogany desk. The sapphire ring, still clutched in his hand, pressed into the small of her back, a cold, hard reminder of the man he used to be.

For a few glorious, terrifying seconds, the ice melted. Grayson’s kiss was a storm she wanted to be lost in, a chaotic blend of the man who had whispered promises in a bunker and the predator who had marked her neck. His tongue was a command, his touch a fire that scorched through her clothes.

But as quickly as the fire had ignited, the frost returned.

Grayson tore himself away, his chest heaving. He stumbled back, his boots scuffing the expensive rug. His face, which had been flushed with passion, rapidly drained of color, turning into a mask of pale, aristocratic horror. He looked at his own hands as if they were covered in filth.

“No,” he rasped, his voice sounding like glass breaking.

“Grayson?” Mailah reached out, her lips swollen and her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. “What is it? You remembered, didn’t you? You felt it.”

Grayson’s eyes snapped to hers. The silver-blue light was gone, replaced by a dark gray so cold it felt like a physical blow. The “Beast” had retreated, and the “Prince” had taken back the reins with a vengeance. He straightened his silk shirt, his movements jerky and filled with self-loathing.

“I felt an itch,” he spat, his voice turning into a silken, cruel weapon. “A biological reflex. My body reacts to your scent because I’ve been conditioned like a common hound to seek your warmth. Do not mistake a demon’s base instincts for the ’love’ you so desperately crave.”

“That’s not true,” Mailah whispered, stepping toward him. “You kissed me like you were starving for me.”

Grayson let out a short, harsh laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. He tossed the velvet-lined box onto the desk with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “I was starving for a distraction. You are a human, Mailah. A temporary, fragile thing that smells of mortality and jasmine. I look at you and I see a liability. I see the reason my power is fractured and my mind is a sieve.”

He stepped into her space again, but this time, there was no heat. There was only the suffocating pressure of his aura, making the air in the room feel heavy and thin. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his expression one of clinical, terrifying detachment.

“The Grayson you knew—the one who played housewith you, the one who thought a sapphire ring could bind a Prince of the Third Circle with a human—is dead,” he hissed. “Ysoria didn’t just take his memories; she did me the favor of cauterizing the rot. He was a weakling. A sentimental fool who traded his heritage for a human girl’s smile.”

“Grayson, stop,” Mailah choked out, tears stinging her eyes.

“He is never coming back,” Grayson continued, his voice dropping into a dark, intimate purr designed to hurt. “When I look at you now, I don’t see a bride. I see a nuisance I haven’t quite decided how to dispose of. Perhaps I’ll keep you as a pet. Or perhaps I’ll return you to your world once the Council is satisfied. But do not—ever—speak of ’love’ to me again. It is an insult to my blood.”

He turned on his heel, picking up his jacket from the floor. He didn’t look at her as he walked toward the door. “Lock the door when you leave. I have work to do that doesn’t involve your pathetic delusions.”

Mailah stood in the center of the study, the silence of the room ringing in her ears. She felt as though she had been flayed alive. The cruelty in his voice had been so complete, so authentic, that for a moment, she actually believed him.

But then, she looked at the desk.

Grayson had left the sapphire ring. But he had left it open. And in the polished mahogany surface, she could see the faint, glowing imprint of his hand where he had gripped the desk to keep himself from reaching for her again.

He was lying. He had to be.

The mood in the suite’s main living area was a sharp contrast to the cold war in the study. Carson was currently sitting on the kitchen island, juggling three oranges with a bored expression, while Lucson was frantically pacing, his silver eyes fixed on a glowing tablet.

“Oh, look who’s back!” Carson chirped as Mailah emerged from the hallway. He dropped the oranges—two hit the floor, and one landed in the sink. “You look… well, you look like you’ve been kissed by a thunderstorm. Rough night?”

Mailah ignored him, walking straight to the window and leaning her forehead against the cool glass. “He thinks he can insult me into disappearing, Carson. He called the version of himself that loved me ’rot.’”

“Classic Grayson,” Carson sighed, finally abandoning the fruit. “He’s an emotional tortoise. The second things get real, he pulls his head into a shell made of ancestral pride and sociopathy. Don’t take it personally, Duchess. He once told me my birth was the most inconvenient thing to happen to the Ashford lineage since the Great Plague.”

“He’s fighting the blood,” Lucson said, stopping his pacing. He looked at Mailah with genuine pity. “The more he feels for you, the more the ’Prince’ persona will lash out to protect its autonomy. To him, loving a human isn’t just a choice; it’s a loss of rank.”

Lucson walked over to a heavy oak sideboard and pulled out an ancient-looking leather satchel. He exchanged a look with Carson—a look that was heavy with a shared, secret understanding.

“There is a way, Mailah,” Lucson said, his voice dropping to a cautious whisper. “To make him gain enough warmth to remember. Not just the facts of your relationship, but the feelings. We can trigger a resonance in his soul. It would force the human-adjacent parts of his psyche to the surface, if only for a few days.”

Mailah turned away from the window, her eyes narrowing. “A way? You mean a spell? A ritual?”

“Something like that,” Carson added, his usual smirk replaced by a look of grim pragmatism. “It requires a bit of blood, a bit of betrayal, and a lot of patience. But it would bring back ’your Grayson’—at least for a while.”

Mailah stepped forward, her heart hammering. “Why?”

The brothers blinked. “Why what?” Carson asked.

“Why are you helping me?” Mailah’s voice was sharp, cutting through the thick atmosphere of the room. “You’re demons. High-ranking Ashfords. And you don’t like me. Isn’t it more beneficial for you that Grayson remains his original self? The ruthless, cold Prince who doesn’t care about human ’weakness’? The Grayson who stops feeding on humans is a liability to your kind. The Grayson who is currently in that study… he’s the version that secures your family’s power. So why give me back the man who makes him ’weak’?”

The room went uncharacteristically silent.

Carson stopped fidgeting with his pistols. Lucson looked down at the satchel, his jaw tightening. For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the city outside and the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.

Lucson was the first to speak. He looked up, his silver eyes reflecting a weariness that went beyond his years.

“We might be selfish,” Lucson began, his voice low and raspy. “And believe me, we have our own agendas. Power is the currency of our world. On paper, having a ruthless tyrant as a member of the family is safer for the Ashford name.”

He paused, glancing toward the study door.

“But we are brothers,” Lucson continued, the words sounding heavy in his mouth. “In the Third Circle, ’family’ usually means a collection of people waiting for you to blink so they can slide a knife between your ribs. But the five of us… we try our best to be good, at least to each other. It’s a low bar, but it’s ours.”

Carson leaned back against the counter, his expression turning somber. “And let’s be real, Mailah. Grayson in his pre-exile self? He is the least likable, most arrogant, and most ruthlessly efficient prick I’ve ever had the misfortune of sharing a bloodline with. He doesn’t just manage the family; he suffocates it. He’s a nightmare to co-exist with. He hasn’t laughed in three hundred years, unless you count the time he saw a rival’s estate burn down.”

“He’s harder to manage,” Lucson added. “He doesn’t listen to reason. He only understands dominance. The Grayson who loved you… he was someone we could actually talk to. He was a man who understood mercy.”

“So,” Carson said, trying to regain a bit of his levity though his eyes remained serious. “It’s a mix of brotherly love and pure, unadulterated self-preservation. We want our brother back because the current one is a total buzzkill.”

Mailah looked from one brother to the other. She saw the truth in their eyes—a messy, complicated truth that was entirely demonic and strangely human all at once. They weren’t heroes, but they weren’t the villains of this specific story.

“What do I have to do?” Mailah asked.

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