Chapter 215: Chapter 215: The Return 2

THE JET TOUCHED DOWN on the private tarmac with a whisper-soft jolt, the engines whining as they powered down. Outside, the city lights of the metropolis flickered like fallen stars against the damp pavement, a stark contrast to the ethereal, snow-capped silence of Zurich or the sun-drenched rolling hills of Tuscany.

Grayson unbuckled his seatbelt, his movements efficient and sharp. He didn’t look at Mailah as he stood, though he paused for a fraction of a second when his hand brushed the velvet box still tucked in his coat pocket.

“The car is waiting,” Grayson stated, his voice devoid of the warmth he’d accidentally spilled in the observatory.

“And so is my bed,” Carson groaned, stretching his arms until his joints popped.

Lucson stood, smoothing the front of his impeccable vest. “We have to coordinate with the household guard at Ashford Manor.”

Carson rolled his eyes, catching Mailah’s gaze with a sympathetic wink. “Perks of being a younger brother, Duchess. You get all the sass and none of the authority. We’ll be heading to the Manor—the ’family’ nest.”

“Carson,” Lucson warned, though there was no real heat in it. He turned to Mailah, his expression softening into something uncharacteristically gentle. “Take care, Mailah.”

Mailah nodded, her heart feeling like a lead weight. “I’ll try. And… thank you. Both of you. For everything.”

“Don’t thank us yet,” Carson chirped, grabbing his designer duffel bag. “We still have to convince Grayson not to execute us for the ’date’ stunt. See you.”

The brothers descended the stairs first, vanishing into a waiting black sedan that sped off to somewhere, toward the Ashford Manor.

Mailah was left on the tarmac with Grayson. The wind whipped her hair across her face, the midnight-blue silk of her dress clinging to her legs.

Grayson turned to her. He didn’t offer his hand, but he stood close enough that she could feel the radiating heat of his aura—a silent, protective wall. “Let’s go.”

The drive to the estate was a blur of neon lights and dark alleys. As the iron gates of Grayson’s private residence swung open, Mailah felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. This was the place where she had first stepped into the lion’s den, pretending to be her twin sister—the woman who was legally Grayson’s wife.

Returning here felt like stepping back into a skin that didn’t quite fit anymore. In Tuscany, she had been Mailah. Here, the very walls seemed to whisper the name of her sister, reminding her of the precarious tightrope she walked.

The estate loomed out of the darkness. It was a fortress of secrets.

As they stepped into the grand foyer, the scent of beeswax and old wood hit her.

“Welcome home, Mr. Ashford. Mrs. Ashford.”

Mrs. Baker stood at the foot of the sweeping marble staircase.

“Mrs. Baker,” Grayson acknowledged, handing her his overcoat. “I trust the staff kept the perimeter secure in our absence?”

“Of course, sir. Though the house felt quite… restless without you.” Mrs. Baker turned to Mailah, inclining her head just a fraction. “Your room has been aired out, Mrs. Ahford.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Baker,” Mailah said, her voice sounding small in the vast hall.

Everything was the same, yet everything was wrong. She thought of Erin’s bright laughter at the villa, the way Lucien would stand like a silent sentinel in the garden, and the comforting weight of Shadow the cat on her lap. The villa had felt like a beginning. This felt like a return to a complicated past.

“I will be in the study,” Grayson announced, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above the fireplace. “I have no need for tea or dinner. Do not disturb me.”

He turned on his heel and disappeared down the long, shadowed corridor that led to his inner sanctum.

Mailah watched him go, a pang of longing sharp enough to steal her breath. Mrs. Baker cleared her throat softly.

“He is quite preoccupied, it seems,” the butler remarked, her tone dry. “The transition from the ’freedom’ of the countryside back to the ’responsibilities’ of the city is often a jarring one.”

Mailah managed a weak smile. “He’s just… he’s trying to find himself, Mrs. Baker.”

“And he’s doing a very poor job of it if he’s leaving you standing in the hallway,” Mrs. Baker noted, picking up Mailah’s small travel case. “Come, dear. You look as though you’ve walked through a hurricane and come out the other side wearing very expensive silk. Let’s get you settled.”

Mailah’s bedroom was a sanctuary of cream and gold, but tonight it felt like a museum. She sat on the edge of the sprawling bed, staring at the vanity mirror. She looked at her reflection—the same face as her sister’s, yet the eyes were different. Her eyes were full of a human’s grief and a human’s love.

The realization that there would be no wedding hit her with the force of a physical blow. The plans, the dress, the “claim” Grayson had intended to make to the world—it all felt like smoke now.

In the city, Grayson was more like a Prince. And Princes didn’t marry humans out of love; they made alliances, or they took “pets.”

Is that all I am now? she wondered, her fingers tracing the place on her neck where his mark still pulsed with a faint, rhythmic heat.

A soft scratching sound at the window startled her. She hurried over and pulled back the heavy velvet curtains. For a heartbeat, her heart soared, thinking it was Shadow. But the gardens below were empty, save for the swaying shadows of the willow trees.

She missed the cat. She missed the way Shadow had become her Familiar, a silent bridge between her and the magical world. She missed Oliver’s nervous energy and Lucien’s quiet, fallen grace.

The estate felt like a tomb.

Driven by a restless energy she couldn’t contain, Mailah slipped out of her room. She didn’t head for the kitchen or the library. Her feet, seemingly of their own accord, led her toward Grayson’s study.

She stopped outside the heavy oak doors. She could hear the faint, rhythmic scratching of a fountain pen against paper. He was working. He was being the Sovereign.

She was about to turn away when the door creaked open.

Grayson stood there, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his hair slightly disheveled. He looked less like a Prince and more like a man who was drowning in his own thoughts.

“I told Mrs. Baker I was not to be disturbed,” he said, but his voice lacked the bite of his earlier command.

“I’m not Mrs. Baker,” Mailah replied softly.

He leaned against the doorframe, his dark gray eyes tracking the movement of her throat. The tension between them was a physical thing, a cord stretched to the point of snapping.

“No,” he whispered. “You are most certainly not.”

She looked behind him.

The room was a chaos of paper. Grayson’s jaw was tight.

“Lucson told me I was a ’CEO,’” he muttered, not looking up. “A leader of industry. From what I can gather, I spent a significant portion of my immortality worrying about quarterly dividends and ’synergy.’ It is an incredibly tedious way to exist.”

“You liked it,” Mailah said, stepping into the room. “You said it was like a game of chess where the board covered the entire world.”

Grayson finally met her eyes. The coldness in his gaze was sharp. “Lucson says a lot of things. He tells me I cook. He tells me I have employees. He tells me I was planning a wedding.” He let out a dry, mirthless laugh. “I look at these files, and I see a man who was trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t a predator. Why would I keep a company that produces… what is this? Logistics software? It’s pathetic.”

“It’s not pathetic,” Mailah countered, walking to the desk. “It was your anchor. It kept you grounded to the world.”

Grayson turned his back abruptly. He paced the room with the restless energy of a caged tiger. He was the pre-exile Grayson now—the one who hadn’t spent decades learning to value human life. To him, the world was a collection of prey and power.

“I don’t remember being ’grounded,’” he snapped. “I remember the itch. I remember the hunger.”

He stopped in front of a small side table where a set of professional chef’s knives sat in a leather roll. His hand moved toward them, his fingers hovering over the bone-handled blade. Without looking, his hand gripped the handle with a terrifying, perfect grace. He flipped the knife in the air, catching it by the hilt with a speed no human could track.

“My mind doesn’t remember the kitchen,” he whispered, staring at the blade. “I have no memory of ’sauteing’ or ’butter ratios.’ But my hand… my hand knows exactly how to hold this. It knows the weight. It knows the balance.”

He looked at her, his eyes dark and predatory. “It is merely a glitch in the system. Nothing more.”

“Then why are you holding it like you’re about to prepare a feast instead of a murder?” she challenged, stepping closer.

The air in the room charged with electricity. Grayson dropped the knife; it embedded itself perfectly in the wood of the table with a thrumming vibration. He was in her space in a heartbeat, his hand gripping her waist, pulling her flush against the cold silk of his shirt.

“You are so certain of the man you knew,” he growled, his breath hot against her ear. “But look at me, little human. I haven’t fed in the way a demon should in a very long time. My opinion of your kind is not ’rosy.’ You are fragile. You are loud. You are a distraction from the purity of my essence.”

“Then why are you shaking?” she whispered, her hands finding the lapels of his shirt.

He was shaking—a fine, violent tremor of suppressed desire. His body was at war with his mind. His mind saw a human nuisance, but his blood recognized its soulmate.

“I should discard the company,” he muttered, his face dipping toward the crook of her neck. “I should discard the wedding. I should discard you.”

“But you won’t,” she breathed, her heart hammering against his chest. “Because even if you don’t remember the man who loved me, your heart is still beating for me. Can’t you feel it?”

Grayson groaned, a low, guttural sound of pure agony. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent as if it were the only thing keeping him from splintering into a thousand pieces.

He didn’t kiss her—that would be a surrender he wasn’t ready for—but he held her with a possessive, crushing strength that made her feel entirely, dangerously his.

“Go to bed,” he rasped. “Before I forget that I’m supposed to be a Prince and remember that I’m a beast.”

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