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

Chapter 322: The Demon’s Prank

"DANCING," Mailah said. "You want to learn dancing."

"I said rhythmic swaying."

"That’s dancing, Grayson."

He looked at her with the expression of a man who had made an inquiry and was now regretting the specificity of his phrasing. "The village had music this evening. People were moving to it in a coordinated fashion. It appeared to serve a social function."

"It’s called dancing. Normal humans do it."

"I am not human."

"No," she agreed, "but you’re trying to be one for a week, so tomorrow we’re dancing."

He looked at the fire. "I’ll consider it."

"You’ll do it."

A pause. "I’ll consider doing it."

She closed her eyes and smiled and said nothing further, because she had learned that with Grayson, the second pause meant yes.

The morning arrived clear for once — actual sunlight, the kind that came in off the water and hit the cottage windows at an angle that made everything inside glow amber.

Mailah woke to it and lay still for a moment, registering the particular quality of the light and the sound of the sea and the weight of his arm across her.

He was awake.

"The sun is out," she said.

"I noticed," he said, from somewhere above her head.

"We’re going to the beach."

A pause. "You said that yesterday."

"I meant it yesterday. I mean it more today."

Another pause. "The tide schedule—"

"Grayson."

He exhaled. "Fine."

The beach was a twenty-minute walk down a path that switchbacked along the cliff face in a way that Grayson assessed for structural integrity at every turn. He did this quietly, without reporting, which she recognized as significant personal development.

The beach itself was small and not particularly glamorous — dark sand, rounded stones, the kind of coastline that prioritized drama over comfort.

The wind was present but not cruel. The sea was doing its usual work on the rocks at the far end with the focused enthusiasm of something that had been doing this since before recorded history.

Grayson stood at the waterline and looked at it.

He was wearing the jeans again, and the henley, and the coat.

She took her shoes off.

He looked at her feet. Then at the sand. Then at her.

"You’re going to stand in the water," he said.

"I’m going to stand in the water," she confirmed.

"The temperature is—"

"Cold. I know."

"Significantly cold."

"That’s the point." She walked toward the waterline.

He watched her from the dry sand with the expression of a man observing an activity he found inexplicable.

The water came over her feet and she made a sound that was half gasp and half laugh, and she turned to look at him.

"Your turn," she said.

"No."

"Grayson."

"I am not standing in the North Atlantic in October for the purposes of recreation."

She reached down and splashed water at him.

The expression on his face was extraordinary.

Not anger but the look of a man who had been surprised by something small and was recalibrating his assessment of the situation. His coat had a stripe of seawater across it.

He looked at it. He looked at her.

"You," he said.

"Did I get the coat?" she asked, with complete innocence.

"You got the coat."

"It will dry."

He took three steps forward, which brought him to the waterline, and crouched down in one fluid movement.

He trailed his hand in the water and the expression on his face shifted from recalibration to something more genuine.

Surprised, almost.

"What," she said.

"It’s cold," he said.

"I told you."

"I know what cold is," he said. "I’ve been in arctic conditions. This is—" He looked at his hand. "Different."

She watched him. He was crouching at the waterline of a Welsh beach with seawater on his hand, and the look on his face was the look she had seen in the kitchen when his hands had remembered things.

He stood up and took off his shoes.

She stared.

He set them on a dry rock, rolled his jeans to the knee, and walked into the water.

He stopped at ankle depth.

His expression was very controlled.

"Well?" she said.

"It’s extremely cold," he said.

"Is it also adequate?"

A pause. "It’s adequate," he said, which she was beginning to understand was his highest available rating.

She moved to stand beside him, both of them in the water, the sea coming in around their feet with its unhurried rhythm, and for a while neither of them said anything.

The wind moved off the water. The lighthouse stood on its promontory in the distance, day-dormant, waiting.

His hand found hers.

Grayson’s fingers were interlaced with hers, his grip firm and warm despite the freezing foam swirling around their ankles.

He looked out at the horizon, his profile sharp against the pale sky, the picture of demonic stoicism.

Then, the air changed.

Before Mailah could even blink, Grayson didn’t just pull her hand—he pivoted, caught her around the waist, and threw himself backward into the next incoming wave.

The scream left Mailah’s throat just as the North Atlantic swallowed them both.

The water wasn’t just cold; it was a physical shock that felt like being slammed into a wall of liquid ice.

It filled her ears, stung her eyes, and soaked through her sweater in a heartbeat.

She scrambled, splashing blindly, her boots dragging her down until a pair of massive, steady hands locked onto her ribs and hauled her upward.

She came up gasping, her hair plastered to her face in salt-heavy ropes.

Grayson was standing chest-deep in the surf, his henley clinging to every hard line of his torso, his dark hair slicked back.

He was grinning.

It wasn’t the smirk of a prince or the bared teeth of a killer. It was a look of genuine, boyish mischief that transformed his face, making him look startlingly young and entirely human.

"Grayson!" she shrieked, her voice cracking as the wind hit her wet skin. "You—you absolute—it’s freezing!"

"You said I should experience the water," he said, his voice bright with a rare, vibrating energy. He didn’t let go of her.

Instead, he pulled her closer, the water between them acting as a buffer against the wind.

Mailah hit his chest with her palms, but she was laughing through her shivering teeth. "You--!" She was lost for words.

"You’re still breathing," he noted, his silver eyes dancing with a light she hadn’t seen since he’d lost his memories. "In fact, your heart rate is significantly elevated. I believe the humans call this an ’adrenaline rush.’"

"I call it hypothermia!"

She looked at him, really looked at him, and the anger died in her throat.

This was the first time he had ever played with her. It was so normal it made her chest ache more than the cold.

"You did that on purpose," she whispered, a smile breaking across her face. "You actually pulled a prank."

Grayson’s expression softened, though he tried to hide it behind a mask of indifference. "It seemed like a logical progression of the ’fun’ you are always insisting upon."

Another wave rolled in, higher this time, hitting them both in the back.

Mailah stumbled, her legs feeling like lead in the water, and Grayson caught her, lifting her effortlessly until her feet dangled above the surf. He held her against him, his heat the only thing keeping her from turning into an icicle.

"We have to go back," he said, his voice dropping into that low, commanding register. "Your lips are turning a shade of blue."

"Oh, so now you’re worried about me?" she teased, her arms winding around his neck.

He didn’t answer. He simply turned and marched out of the surf, carrying her as if she weighed nothing.

Every step he took was steady, his boots squelching in the sand.

When he reached the dry rocks where they’d left their shoes, he didn’t put her down.

He looked at her, his face inches from hers, salt crystals already forming on his eyelashes.

"You’re shaking," he murmured.

"D-did you expect me to be warm?"

He frowned, a flicker of concern crossing his brow. "I assumed your internal temperature would regulate faster. My own is... stable."

"That’s because you’re a furnace with a pulse, Grayson." She tucked her head into the crook of his neck, seeking his warmth. "And you’re probably burning through your life force just to stay that way."

He went still. He didn’t move for a long beat, his grip on her tightening. "It is a small price to pay for the look you gave me when we surfaced."

"What look?"

"Surprise," he said quietly. "And something else. Something that didn’t look like fear."

Mailah pulled back to look at him. His eyes were searching hers, desperate for a connection his mind couldn’t explain.

"I’m never afraid of you, Grayson," she said. "I’m only afraid of losing you."

He didn’t say a word. He just turned and started the long trek back up the cliff path, carrying her the entire way.

By the time they reached the cottage, Mailah was shivering violently.

Grayson kicked the door open and bypassed the kitchen entirely, heading straight for the bathroom. He set her down on the edge of the tub and immediately started the water.

The room filled with steam. Grayson moved with a quiet, efficient intensity. He knelt in front of her, his large hands reaching for the hem of her soaked sweater.

"I can do it," she whispered, her hands trembling as she tried to grip the fabric.

"You cannot," he countered, his voice firm. "You are incapacitated by the ’fun’ I provided. Allow me to rectify the situation."

He pulled the sweater over her head with a gentleness that felt out of place on a man so large.

He didn’t look at her with the predatory hunger of the night before; he looked at her with a quiet, focused reverence. He worked her boots off, then her socks, his thumbs rubbing the life back into her frozen toes.

When the tub was full, he helped her in. The heat was a shock, a thousand stinging needles that made her gasp, but slowly, the chill began to recede.

Grayson sat on the floor beside the tub, his wet clothes clinging to him, leaning his head back against the wall. He looked exhausted. The silver light beneath his skin was dim, a dull flicker that told her he had pushed his limits.

"Grayson," she said, reaching out a wet hand to touch his shoulder. "You’re running low."

"I am... adequate," he lied, his eyes closed.

"You’re a liar. You used your life force to keep us both warm on the walk back, didn’t you?"

He didn’t open his eyes, but a muscle jumped in his jaw. "The wind was persistent. I merely dampened its effects."

"Come here."

He opened one eye, looking at her with a wary curiosity. "In the water?"

"No, just... closer."

He shifted, leaning his chest against the edge of the porcelain.

Mailah reached out and cupped his face, her thumb stroking the dark stubble on his chin. She could feel the depletion in him—the way his skin felt a little less like a furnace and more like a dying coal.

"You’re my only food source, remember?" he whispered, his voice a rough shadow of itself.

"I remember."

She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his.

"You don’t have to be a king today, Grayson. You don’t even have to be a protector. Just feed."

He let out a long, ragged breath, his eyes fluttering shut.

He didn’t move for a long time, just breathed in the scent of her and the steam.

Then, he reached up, his hand tangling in her wet hair, and pulled her into a kiss.