Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband

Chapter 330: The Starving Demon 3

"LORD ASHFORD!"

Arthur’s voice, raspy and impatient, cut through the wind.

Grayson let out a sharp, ragged breath, his shoulders dropping only an inch. He didn’t wake Mailah.

He carefully shifted his weight, easing her head off his chest and onto the soft heap of the quilt. She didn’t stir, her long lashes resting against her cheeks, utterly trusting.

He rose silently, the cold air hitting his skin like a shock, and crossed the room in three long strides. He drew the iron bolt and threw the door open.

The wind shrieked, driving a spray of freezing rain into the cottage. Arthur stood on the threshold, dripping wet, clutching a lantern that flickered wildly in the gale.

"I heard the storm getting nasty," the old man shouted over the wind. "Thought you might want this extra sealant for the window frame. The gaps are letting the cold in, and I know how you lot get when you’re chilled."

Grayson stared at the small pot of black, sticky paste in Arthur’s hand, then at the old man’s blind, weathered face. "It is three hours past midnight, Arthur."

"I don’t keep a clock, and the wind doesn’t care about the hour," Arthur countered with a grin. "Take it. Patch the gaps. Keeps the lady warm, don’t it?"

Grayson took the pot. He didn’t thank him. He simply nodded, his face a mask of stoic calm. "The perimeter is secure. You may return to your shack."

"Aye, aye, your highness," Arthur chuckled, turning back into the rain.

Grayson slammed the door, bolted it, and leaned his forehead against the wood. The cold from the rain seeped into his bones, reminding him of how easily he was fraying at the edges. He looked back at the hearth.

Mailah was still there, a small, warm shape tucked into the quilt.

He walked back to the rug, but he didn’t sit. He looked at the window frame Arthur had mentioned—a thin sliver of gray light cut through the gap where the wood had warped.

He knelt, and without thinking, he pressed his palm against the crack. He didn’t use the paste. He let a tiny, controlled spark of his inner fire bloom in his hand.

It wasn’t the searing, destructive light he used in battle; it was a slow, agonizingly precise heat.

He pressed his hand to the wood, the silver glow dimming as he forced the warped frame to soften and expand, sealing the gap with the sheer stubbornness of his will.

It took seconds, but when he pulled his hand away, he felt as if he had run for miles. His vision blurred for a heartbeat, and he had to catch the edge of the hearth to keep from stumbling.

He sat back down on the rug, his breath ragged. He was dangerously close to empty. The hunger was a dull ache in his gut, a constant, nagging reminder that he was fading.

He looked at Mailah. She turned in her sleep, her hand reaching out blindly, searching for him.

He crawled back under the quilt and pulled her into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. He felt her sigh, a tiny, contented sound that echoed in the quiet room.

He knew the cost. He knew that by tomorrow, the smallest task—a lifted bucket, a heavy door—would require every ounce of his remaining focus. He was shrinking himself, letting the fire go out bit by bit.

But as he felt her warmth seep into his skin, he realized something he hadn’t considered before.

He didn’t need to be a bonfire. He just needed to be enough.

He smoothed a stray lock of hair from her forehead, his touch uncharacteristically gentle, almost reverent. He would learn to bake. He would learn to patch roofs. He would live in this small, drafty box until the walls crumbled, if that was what it took to keep the world from touching her.

He closed his eyes, and for the first time since he had been stranded in this valley, he didn’t stare at the darkness. He let the silence wash over him, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart, and finally, he stopped waiting for the end.

He simply waited for the morning.

The morning light that filtered through the newly sealed window was pale and thin, casting long, bruised shadows across the floorboards.

Grayson was already awake. He hadn’t moved since the pre-dawn hours, his body acting as a living wall against the lingering chill of the valley.

He watched the dust motes dance in the air, his mind cataloging the sounds of the morning: the distant bleat of sheep, the rhythmic drip of water from the eaves, and the soft, shallow intake of Mailah’s breath against his ribs.

She stirred, a small, sleepy sound escaping her throat. She stretched, her hand tangling in his tunic, and blinked up at him. Her eyes were hazy with sleep, soft and unfocused, until they landed on his face. She frowned, her fingers pressing into his chest as if checking his heartbeat.

"You’re awake," she whispered.

"I have been awake," he replied. His voice was a low rasp, dry from the long night.

"You didn’t sleep at all again, did you?" She sat up, the quilt pooling around her waist.

She looked at him with an intensity that made him want to look away. He could see the worry etched into her expression, the way her eyes scanned his face for signs of the exhaustion he was trying so carefully to hide.

Grayson shifted, his joints stiff, and sat up. He didn’t answer her directly. Instead, he reached out, his hand cupping the back of her neck, and pulled her closer until their foreheads rested together.

"I rested," he said firmly.

"You’re fading, Grayson. I can feel it."

He didn’t pull back.

The hunger was there, a sharp, hollow sensation that clawed at him, but it was overshadowed by the sight of her—the way her skin looked in the morning light, the faint scent of sleep and rain that clung to her.

He realized, with a clarity that surprised him, that he wasn’t afraid of the hunger anymore. He was only afraid of the silence that would come if he ever truly lost his footing.

"Then help me," he muttered.

Mailah blinked, her breath catching. "Help you?"

"You said I am to live here," he said, his silver eyes locking onto hers, fierce and unyielding. "You said I am to be a man. Then tell me what a man does when he is hollowed out by his own restraint."

He took her hand and pressed it firmly against his chest, right over his heart. It wasn’t the psychic tethering of the past; it was simpler, more dangerous.

"I do not want to take from you. Anymore," he confessed, his voice barely audible. "But I cannot keep the fire burning on nothing. Tell me how to exist in this place without becoming a monster."

Mailah didn’t hesitate. She felt the heavy, thudding rhythm of his heart beneath her palm, the erratic pace of a man who was fighting his own nature. She leaned in, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone, her eyes filled with a terrifying, beautiful resolve.

"You stop fighting," she whispered. "You trust me."

She leaned forward and kissed him, not with the frantic, possessive heat of the previous night, but with a slow, deliberate tenderness that caught him off guard. She didn’t offer him her vitality as a weapon or a shield.

She simply shared her warmth, a steady, rhythmic pulse of life that flowed from her into him like a tide.

Grayson’s eyes widened, his hands tightening on her waist as he felt the shift. It was intoxicating.

It wasn’t the violent, tearing feed of the void; it was soft, persistent, and entirely voluntary.

He could feel her core, vibrant and glowing, pressing against his own flickering darkness, and for the first time, he didn’t try to lock it out.

He breathed in, his head falling back against the wall, a low groan vibrating in his throat. He felt the cold in his marrow retreat, replaced by the steady, hum of her existence. He was filling, but he wasn’t breaking her. He was simply... surviving.

When she pulled back, she was flushed, her chest rising and falling in time with his.

Grayson looked down at his hands.

They were steady. The silver glow was faint, barely a shimmer beneath his skin, but the hollow ache in his gut had receded into a manageable hum.

He looked at Mailah, and for the first time, the fierce, protective edge of his gaze softened into something almost unrecognizable.

"You are a strange creature," he murmured, his thumb brushing her lower lip.

"I’m a human," she replied with a small, shaky smile. "We’re prone to helping."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers again.

Grayson tightened his arms around her, pulling her back into the warmth of the quilt.

He just held her.