Chapter 271: Chapter 271: The Weekend with the Demon 2

“I WON’T STAND IN AN OPEN FIELD OF SAND JUST TO ’RELAX.’”

Grayson stood on the edge of the terrace, his arms crossed over a linen shirt that was already suffering from the humidity. He looked less like a man on vacation and more like a general contemplating a scorched-earth policy.

“It’s called a picnic, Grayson! And the ’aerial bombardment’ you’re worried about is a seagull looking for a cracker!” Mailah stood at the base of the stairs leading down to the private beach, a wicker basket hanging from her arm. “Put the binoculars down. No one is coming to assassinate us via jet ski.”

Grayson didn’t move.

His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, where the gray Atlantic met an equally gray sky. “The coast is an open wound, Mailah. There are no walls here. No reinforced glass. Just miles of uncontrolled space for things to crawl out of the deep. You want to sit on a blanket and eat fruit while we are surrounded by variables?”

“It’s relaxing!” Mailah shouted back, starting to march down the dunes. “I am going to sit on that sand, I am going to drink this wine, and I am going to pretend for five minutes that my boyfriend isn’t an exiled Prince of the Underworld with a god complex!”

Grayson’s jaw tightened.

He followed her, though his stride was stiff. Every step into the soft, white sand seemed to offend his very soul.

To Grayson, the beach wasn’t a getaway; it was a logistics nightmare. But as he watched the wind catch Mailah’s sundress, pulling the fabric against the curve of her hips, his eyes darkened.

He didn’t understand why his blood felt like liquid lead every time she defied him.

Once Mailah had successfully negotiated the placement of the blanket (three meters back from the high-tide line to satisfy Grayson’s “safety margin”), she sat down and began unpacking.

Grayson remained standing, glaring at the waves as if they owed him money.

“The water is retreating,” he observed, pointing at the tide with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for corporate espionage.

“It’s just the tide going out, Grayson,” Mailah laughed, peeling a grape. “Sit down. Experience gravity. Eat a grape.”

Grayson sat, but he didn’t lean back. He sat like a gargoyle on a ledge, his gaze scanning the dunes.

“The sand is an invasive species,” he muttered, dusting a grain off his trousers with a look of pure disgust. “It is currently attempting to enter my footwear.”

“Then take your shoes off! Feel the earth! It’s what humans do to ’ground’ themselves.”

He looked at her as if she’d suggested he remove his own skin and dance in the moonlight. “And expose my feet to the jagged remains of dead crustaceans? I think not. My feet are not meant for ’grounding,’ Mailah. They are meant for standing upon the necks of those who—”

“Eat the grape, Grayson,” she interrupted, shoving the fruit toward his mouth.

He froze. His gaze dropped to her fingers, then up to her eyes.

Slowly, with a deliberate, agonizing lack of haste, he leaned forward and took the grape from her hand. His lips brushed her fingertips—a touch so hot it felt like a brand.

He chewed slowly, his expression unreadable. “It is… acceptable. Though I find the lack of structure in this meal disturbing.”

“It’s a snack, not a merger,” she teased.

However, the peace was short-lived.

A particularly bold seagull landed three feet from the basket, its head tilted, eyeing a wedge of Mailah’s artisanal brie.

Grayson’s entire body went rigid. His eyes began to glow. “The winged scavenger is assessing our resources. It is signaling to its fleet.”

“It’s just a bird, Grayson. Give it a crust and it’ll leave.”

“I do not negotiate with terrorists,” Grayson said solemnly.

He stood up.

“Grayson, don’t you dare ’erase’ that bird! It’s a protected species!”

“It is a threat,” he countered.

He didn’t erase it. Instead, he snapped his fingers. A localized gust of wind—sharp, freezing, and smelling faintly of ozone—hit the seagull like a physical blow.

The bird was sent tumbling backward into a sand dune, squawking in absolute indignation before it scrambled up and flew off down the coast.

Grayson sat back down, smoothing his shirt. “The threat has been neutralized.”

“That was completely unnecessary,” Mailah said, rubbing her temples. “You are the most dramatic person I have ever met. How did you ever rule a kingdom?”

“I am a Prince,” he reminded her, popping another grape into his mouth with an air of victory. “In my world, we do not share. We establish dominance.”

As the afternoon wore on, the sun began to dip, turning the gray Atlantic into a sheet of beaten gold. The humor of the bird-strike faded into a heavy, salt-scented silence.

They walked along the water’s edge—Grayson eventually conceding to take off his shoes after Mailah threatened to throw them into the surf.

He walked with a strange, fluid grace, his feet barely leaving prints in the wet sand.

“In your world,” Mailah began, keeping her voice soft. “Before the exile… before you forgot… was there anyone like me? Did you have someone to walk with?”

Grayson stopped. He looked out at the horizon, his silhouette sharp against the orange sky.

“My realm has no beaches,” he said, his voice dropping low. “It has rivers of liquid glass and mountains that breathe ash. We did not ’walk’ for pleasure. We moved for purpose. A mate in my world was a strategic alliance. A merging of flames to ensure the stability of the throne.”

“That sounds… lonely,” Mailah whispered.

“It was efficient,” Grayson corrected, though his hand reached out and found hers. His grip was bone-crushingly tight for a second before he remembered to soften it. “But I find that I do not remember the face of the woman I was supposed to merge with. Before the Princess. I only remember the feeling of the fire. And it was never this… quiet.”

He looked at her, his eyes searching her face as if she were a riddle he couldn’t solve. “You are fragile, Mailah. Your skin breaks. Your heart stutters. You have no sigils to protect you from the dark. And yet, you stand here and tell me I am an ’idiot’ for protecting you. Why?”

“Because being protected isn’t the same as being loved, Grayson,” she said, stepping closer until she could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

Grayson reached down, picking up a piece of frosted blue sea glass from the surf. He held it up to the light.

“You find value in things that are broken,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically rough. “This was a bottle once. Now it is a fragment, tossed by the sea until its edges are gone.”

“It’s beautiful because of what it survived,” she said.

Grayson handed the glass to her, his fingers lingering against her palm. “I am like this glass, Mailah. I am a fragment of a Prince, tossed into a world of ’grapes’ and ’picnics’ until I don’t know where my edges are. You speak of ’getting to know’ me. But what if the man I was is someone you cannot live with?”

He leaned down, his face inches from hers. “What if the ’Pre-Exile’ Grayson didn’t want a partner? What if he only wanted a subject?”

“Then I’d be the worst subject you ever had,” Mailah whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Because I don’t bow, Grayson. I only stay because I choose to.”

Grayson’s eyes flared. “That,” he growled, “is why you are suitable. A weak mate would have died the first day I looked at her. But you… you bite back.”

If their argument was fire, their passion was an inferno.

Back in the house, the pretense of “vacation” evaporated.

Grayson didn’t lead her to the bedroom; he claimed her the moment the door clicked shut.

He was a creature of intensity, his movements devoid of human hesitation.

He pinned her against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window.

“You want to know me?” he rasped against her ear, his hands tangling in her hair. “This is who I am. I am hunger. I am a storm.”

He wasn’t “sweet”. He didn’t whisper poems.

Instead, he worshipped her with a fierce, clinical focus, his touch mapping her body as if he were memorizing a territory he intended to hold forever.

Every kiss was a demand; every touch was a sigil burned into her skin.

“Is this… suitable?” he asked, his voice a primal rumble as he pulled back to look her in the eye, his gaze devouring her expression of pleasure.

“Yes,” Mailah gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

In the heat of it, she felt the “Prince” and the “CEO” merge into something singular and terrifyingly beautiful.

He didn’t just want her body; he wanted her soul to acknowledge his dominance, and in return, he offered her a protection that went deeper than steel and glass. He offered her himself—unrefined, harsh, and utterly devoted.

Grayson’s teeth grazed her collarbone as he lifted her effortlessly, pressing her harder against the glass until she felt the cool surface vibrate with their shared heat.

His hands weren’t gentle—they were relentless, possessive, sliding under the hem of her dress with a precision that left her shuddering. The friction of fabric against her skin was unbearable; she wanted to feel nothing but him.

When he finally tore the dress open, the sound of ripping seams was swallowed by Mailah’s gasp.

His palms spanned her ribs like a man measuring his claim, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts in a way that made her arch violently. She could feel his pulse where his thigh pressed between hers—wild, erratic, betraying the control he wielded with every other movement.

Grayson’s mouth closed over her nipple with deliberate savagery, his tongue flattening against the peak before he sucked hard enough to pull a ragged cry from her throat.

The heat of it radiated outward in waves, pooling low in her belly until her hips rocked instinctively against him, seeking friction where she needed it most.

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