Chapter 225: Chapter 225: The West Wing

THE SILVER in Grayson’s eyes didn’t just glow; it pulsed. It was the rhythm of a heart that shouldn’t be beating this fast, a celestial storm trapped in the gaze of a man who had spent centuries pretending to be a saint.

Mailah’s hands, pressed against the hard, burning expanse of his chest, felt every thud of his pulse. He was radiating a heat that was nearly feline—muscular, predatory, and intoxicating. The scent of the wine was heavy on his breath that made her head swim.

“You’re not yourself,” Mailah whispered, her voice trembling. She tried to find the anger she’d felt in the ballroom, the righteous fury at being used as a pawn. But here, in the dim red glow of the dying fire, with his weight pinning her into the soft silk of the mattress, that anger was being crowded out by something much more dangerous: desire.

Grayson’s lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. He leaned down, his nose dragging along the line of her jaw, his stubble grazing her skin. “This is me. The version you loved was a shadow. A ghost. This? This is the man who can keep you alive.”

He shifted, his knee sliding between hers. Mailah gasped, her back arching slightly as the friction of his suit trousers against her bare legs sent a jolt of electricity through her.

She felt the ring on her finger—the cold, heavy iron. She could end this. She could twist it, point it, and send him flying across the room.

But her fingers wouldn’t move. They stayed curled into the fabric of his unbuttoned shirt.

“You’re drunk,” she managed to say again, her breath hitching as his hand moved from her hip, sliding slowly upward. His fingers were smooth and hot, tracing the rib just beneath her lace underwear with an agonizing slowness. “Ravenson said you’ve lost your inhibitions.”

Grayson stopped his hand just below the swell of her breast. He looked up, those silver eyes locking onto hers. “Inhibitions are just lies we tell ourselves to stay polite. Right now, I don’t feel like being polite. I’ve spent days watching you, wondering what the old me saw in you, then wanting to claim you, but holding back because I thought you were too fragile.”

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a rasp that vibrated in her very bones. “Do you know how hard it was to watch those bottom-feeders look at you tonight? To smell their hunger for you? I didn’t take Vane’s seat because I wanted a throne. I took it so I could tear the throat out of anyone who even imagined touching what is mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice should have terrified her. Part of it did. But another part—a deep, primal part of her that had been awakened the moment she stepped into the supernatural world—shivered with a dark thrill.

“I am not a thing to be owned, Grayson,” she said, her voice stronger now, though her heart was still a frantic bird in a cage.

“No, you’re not,” he agreed, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth. “But right now… the darkness is very, very hungry.”

He didn’t wait for her to argue. He crashed his lips against hers.

He tasted of the cold sea and the hot fire in the hearth. Mailah let out a muffled moan, her fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer even as she told herself she should be pushing him away. The “drunk” Grayson was reckless. He kissed her with a desperation that felt like he was trying to drink her soul, and to her horror, Mailah found herself wanting to give it to him.

Just as he leaned in to bridge the final inch between their lips, a sharp, rhythmic rapping sounded against the heavy oak of the bedroom door.

Grayson stiffened, his head snapping toward the door. The silver in his eyes began to dim into a dark gray.

“Grayson,” Carson called out. But the usual chime of mischief was gone, replaced by a grounded, sobering gravity. “Grayson, back off. Open the door.”

Grayson didn’t move. He didn’t even look toward the sound. His jaw tightened, the muscles ticking beneath his skin as he stared down at Mailah like a man staring at a glass of water in the middle of a desert.

“Go away, Carson,” Grayson growled, his voice a low, vibrating warning that seemed to shake the very bedframe.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Carson’s voice came back, closer to the wood now. “You’re loaded on essence, Gray. You’ve got centuries of abstinence and a Lord’s Tithe swirling in your gut. You’re not in control. If you touch her now—if you really touch her—you won’t be able to stop. You’ll drain her dry before you even realize she’s stopped breathing.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Mailah’s heart gave a painful, panicked hop. She looked up at Grayson, searching for a denial, but found only a haunting, rigid stillness.

“I have control,” Grayson hissed, though his fingers dug into the mattress on either side of Mailah’s head, his knuckles turning white.

“No, you don’t,” Carson countered firmly. “You’re a demon prince who just ate his rival’s soul. Your appetite is screaming. If you want to feed, go back to the ballroom. There are plenty of willing vessels who would die for a taste of an Ashford. But leave the girl alone. Don’t break the only thing you actually give a damn about because you’re too drunk to see the cost.”

Mailah watched Grayson’s face. She saw the internal war play out in the flicker of silver in his pupils. His jaw hardened into a block of granite, his pride clearly stung by the truth in his brother’s words.

He looked down at her—really looked at her—and for a second, she saw a flash of hunger so raw and bottomless it made her blood run cold.

Then, the heat vanished.

Grayson pushed himself off her with an abrupt, jarring force. The sudden absence of his warmth felt like being plunged into ice water. He stood by the bed, his back to her, and began buttoning his silk shirt with jerky, mechanical movements.

The predatory prince was gone. In his place stood a cold, insufferable stranger.

“Carson is right,” Grayson said, his voice now flat and devoid of the passion that had just been burning through the room. He didn’t look at her. “You are fragile. I forget how easily your kind breaks.”

Mailah sat up, clutching the blankets to her chest, her skin still humming from his touch. She expected to feel relief—Carson had likely just saved her life—but instead, a sharp, confusing sting of disappointment pricked at her heart.

She felt like a nuisance, a burden he had to manage rather than the “queen” he had called her minutes ago.

“I told you I wanted to sleep alone,” she said, trying to regain her dignity even as her voice wobbled.

Grayson finally turned, his expression a mask of bored aristocratic detachment. The silver in his eyes had dimmed to a cold, metallic gray. “And you shall have your wish. I have no interest in a meal that requires this much… restraint.”

He grabbed his suit jacket from the chair, slinging it over his shoulder. He looked at her one last time, not with love or even lust, but with the distant calculation of a lord looking at a prized but troublesome horse.

“Stay in the room. The guards are outside.”

Without another word, he strode to the door, yanked it open, and vanished into the hallway. She heard the low murmur of Carson’s voice outside—a question, perhaps—followed by the heavy, echoing thud of Grayson’s boots moving away.

The door clicked shut. Silence returned, heavier than before.

Mailah sat in the dark, the embers of the fire casting long, lonely shadows. She looked at the crumpled midnight gown on the floor. She looked at the empty space beside her. She felt like a fool. She had almost let a monster consume her because he had a pretty face and a silver tongue.

I hate him, she told herself, pulling the blankets tighter. I hate this world. I hate that I’m here.

But as she lay back down, her body still craving the heat he had taken with him, she knew she was lying. She was exhausted—physically, emotionally, and spiritually drained by the sheer weight of the supernatural atmosphere.

Sleep claimed her like a heavy velvet curtain. It was a fitful, dreamless void, the kind of sleep that feels like drowning.

Hours later, the room had grown cold. The fire was nothing but grey ash.

Mailah stirred. It wasn’t a sound that woke her, but a feeling. The “restless” energy Grayson had mentioned seemed to be vibrating through the floorboards.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. The room was pitch black, save for a faint, ghostly blue glow coming from the corner. She frowned, reaching for the bedside lamp, but her hand stopped in mid-air.

The iron ring on her finger was vibrating. It wasn’t just a hum; it was a rhythmic pulse, like a heartbeat. And it was glowing a deep, warning crimson.

She looked toward the double doors. They were slightly ajar.

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