Chapter 30 – 30: The Moon’s Mystery

Vivienne’s laugh was like silver bells tinged with ice. “Oh, my dear girl. I think you understand perfectly. The question is—what are we going to do about it?”

Mailah’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. Her mind scrambled for some plausible explanation, some way to deflect Vivienne’s razor-sharp observation. The older woman’s piercing blue eyes seemed to see straight through every carefully constructed lie she’d prepared.

“I really don’t know what you—” she began, but her words were cut short by a sudden gust of wind that swept through the sunroom’s open windows.

The breeze carried the scent of jasmine. Mailah watched as Vivienne’s expression shifted from predatory amusement to something far more serious. The older woman’s nostrils flared slightly, and her eyes widened with what looked like genuine concern.

“Oh my,” Vivienne breathed, her voice losing its earlier sharp edge. She leaned forward in her chair, studying Mailah with an intensity that made her skin crawl. “This is much sooner than expected.”

“What’s…?” Mailah’s voice came out as barely a whisper.

Vivienne stood abruptly, her movements fluid despite her age. She began pacing the length of the sunroom, her heels clicking against the terracotta tiles in a staccato rhythm that matched Mailah’s racing heartbeat.

“Tell me,” Vivienne said, stopping mid-stride to fix Mailah with a penetrating stare. “Have you been having strange dreams lately?”

The question hit Mailah like a physical blow. Her face drained of color, and she felt the blood rush from her head so quickly that she gripped the arms of her chair to steady herself. How could Vivienne possibly know about her dreams?

“I… I don’t…” she stammered, her cheeks burning with mortification when she recalled the way Grayson had touched her, kissed her, whispered her real name against her skin in her dream?

“That’s answer enough,” Vivienne said grimly. “The dreams—are they vivid? Do they feel real? More real than they should?”

Mailah’s silence stretched between them like a taut wire. She couldn’t bring herself to answer, not when the memories of those dreams made her pulse quicken and her skin flush with remembered pleasure.

The way Grayson had looked at her in those nocturnal encounters—with hunger, with need, with something that felt suspiciously like love—was too intimate, too private to share with his mother.

But Vivienne’s expression grew increasingly urgent. “Child, I need you to answer me. This is not a matter of embarrassment—this is a matter of safety.”

“Safety?” Mailah finally found her voice, though it came out as a croak.

Vivienne’s face was grave as she moved toward the sunroom’s exit. “Never mind. I have to go. There are… preparations to make. Whatever you do, try not to sleep today. Not until I return.”

“Wait!” Mailah shot to her feet, her chair scraping against the tiles. “What are you talking about? What preparations?”

But Vivienne was already sweeping through the doorway, her silver hair catching the afternoon light like spun metal. “Do not sleep, dear. No matter how tired you become, no matter how much you want to rest—stay awake.”

And with that cryptic warning, she was gone, leaving Mailah alone in the sunroom with nothing but the sound of wind through the exotic plants and the rapid beating of her own heart.

What the hell just happened?

Mailah sank back into her chair, her mind reeling. Vivienne had somehow known about her dreams—not just that she was having them, but that they were unusual. And that warning about not sleeping… it made her skin crawl with unease.

She tried to dismiss the nagging thought that had been growing in the back of her mind since she’d first woken up with that impossible bruise. Dreams don’t leave marks, she told herself for the hundredth time. Dreams don’t—

But what if they did? What if somehow, impossibly, her dreams were more than just the product of her subconscious mind?

The afternoon crawled by with agonizing slowness. Mailah found herself pacing the halls of the estate, too restless to sit still, too anxious to concentrate on anything. She kept glancing at the clocks scattered throughout the house—all showing slightly different times, she noted with growing irritation—waiting for Vivienne to return.

By evening, there was still no sign of Grayson’s mother. Mrs. Baker served dinner with her usual efficiency, but Mailah could barely taste the food. Her eyes felt heavy, her body yearning for the comfort of her bed, but Vivienne’s warning echoed in her mind.

Do not sleep.

But as the hours ticked by and exhaustion began to weigh on her limbs like lead, Mailah found herself growing rebellious. Who was Vivienne Ashford to tell her when she could or couldn’t sleep? And more importantly, why was she so afraid of a few vivid dreams?

I’m being ridiculous, she decided as she made her way to her bedroom. They’re just dreams. I’m in control of my own subconscious.

But even as she told herself this, she found herself opening the bedside drawer and pulling out a small paring knife she got frm the kitchen earlier. If her dreams were somehow real—which was impossible, but if—then maybe she could prove it once and for all.

She slipped the knife under her pillow, its cool metal a reassuring weight against her palm. If I can control my dreams, she reasoned, then I can summon Grayson when I want to. And if I can’t… well, then I’ll know something else is going on.

With that plan firmly in mind, she changed into her nightgown and slipped between the silken sheets. Sleep came surprisingly easily, as if her body had been waiting for permission to rest.

At first, she found herself alone in a dreamscape that felt strangely empty—a vast, moonlit garden with no sound except the whisper of wind through unseen trees. She waited, testing her theory, and then focused her thoughts on Grayson.

Come to me, she willed silently. I want to see you.

And just like that, he appeared.

He materialized from the shadows like smoke given form, his dark hair catching the dream-moonlight, his blue eyes warm with the affection she’d never seen in his waking self. He was dressed casually—jeans and a white button-down shirt that clung to his broad shoulders—and he moved toward her with the fluid grace of a predator.

“You called for me,” he said, his voice carrying that velvet tone that made her knees weak.

“I did,” she replied, feeling a surge of triumph. I’m in control. This is just my subconscious creating what I want to see.

He reached for her, and she went willingly into his arms, reveling in the solid warmth of his body against hers. When he kissed her, it was with the same desperate hunger she remembered from their previous dream encounters—deep, thorough, claiming.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured against her lips, his hands tangling in her hair. “Even when I’m away, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Then don’t think,” she whispered back, pulling him closer. “Just feel.”

They sank onto what appeared to be a bed of soft grass covered with silk sheets—dream logic at its finest—and lost themselves in each other. His hands mapped every curve of her body with reverent care, and she responded with a passion that surprised her. In the dream, she was bold, uninhibited, free to express desires she’d never dared acknowledge in waking life.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Grayson gathered her against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her palm, steady and strong, and for a moment she almost forgot this was all an elaborate fantasy.

“Stay with me,” she whispered, tracing patterns on his chest with her fingertip.

“Always,” he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

They lay entwined in comfortable silence, and Mailah found herself drifting in that pleasant space between sleeping and waking. Everything was perfect. Peaceful. Exactly as she’d willed it to be.

Which was why the sharp prick against her finger came as such a shock.

She woke with a gasp, her heart hammering against her ribs. The bedroom was dark, lit only by the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains. Her hand immediately flew to the space beneath her pillow, frantically searching for the knife she’d placed there before sleep. Her fingers found only the smooth silk of the pillowcase—the blade was gone.

Panic rising in her throat, she turned to scan the room, and that’s when she realized she wasn’t alone.

Grayson sat on the edge of her bed, his face cast in shadow, his expression unreadable. He was dressed in the same clothes from her dream—jeans and a white shirt—and in his hand, he held the paring knife she’d been desperately searching for beneath her pillow.

“Looking for this?” he asked, his voice carrying none of the warmth she’d heard in the dream. This was the real Grayson—cold, controlled. But even as terror coursed through her veins, Mailah couldn’t deny the way her heart leaped at the sight of him.

She scrambled backward against the headboard, pulling the covers up to her chest. Her finger throbbed where the knife had cut her, and when she looked down, she saw the same thin line of blood welling from her skin.

“Who are you?” she whispered, her voice shaking with equal parts fear and disbelief.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep