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

Chapter 321: The Lessons 2

THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY arrived with a damp mist that clung to the cliffs, but inside the cottage, the air was thick with a different kind of tension.

Grayson stood in the center of the kitchen, looking at a pair of dark denim jeans as if they were a riddle designed to humiliate him. He was still shirtless—a state of being that Mailah had realized was his default setting whenever he wasn’t being forced into "the wool prison," as he called Arthur’s sweaters.

"These trousers is fundamentally flawed," Grayson declared, his voice a low, melodic rumble. He jabbed a finger at the zipper. "Why must a man struggle with a series of interlocking metal teeth just to cover his lower extremities? A simple wrap would suffice. Or better yet, nothing at all."

Mailah, who was currently trying to tame her hair in the reflection of a polished copper pot, snorted. "A wrap? You’d look like you were wearing a toga, Grayson. And ’nothing at all’ is going to get us arrested. We’re going into the village today. You need to look like a person, not a displaced deity."

Grayson’s silver eyes narrowed as he looked at her. He moved toward her with that silent, predatory glide that no amount of human training could erase.

He stopped just behind her, his heat radiating through her sweater. In the reflection of the pot, she saw him loom—a wall of bronze skin and hard, scarred muscle.

He reached around her, his large hands resting flat on the counter on either side of her hips, effectively caging her. He leaned down, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear.

"If I am to endure the ’village’ and its inhabitants, I require a deposit," he murmured.

His voice was like velvet over gravel. Mailah’s breath hitched. She could feel the steady thrum of his heart against her back—the heart that didn’t remember her but beat for her anyway.

"A deposit?" she managed, her hands gripping the edge of the counter.

"A reminder of why I am choosing to walk among the mundane," he rasped.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned her around in the circle of his arms. His hands slid up her back, his fingers digging into the wool of her sweater, pulling her flush against his bare chest.

The contrast was startling—the rough wool and his burning, smooth skin. He kissed her with a slow, territorial arrogance, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opened for him.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, the silver pupils nearly swallowed by black. He looked satisfied.

"Now," he said, stepping back and picking up the jeans. "Explain the teeth again."

The village of Llanbadrig was a cluster of grey stone buildings huddled against the wind. To Mailah, it was charming. To Grayson, it was a "collection of inefficient hovels."

As they walked down the narrow main street, Grayson was a force of nature forced into a bottle. He wore the jeans and a dark, charcoal-grey henley that hugged his chest so tightly it was practically a second skin.

He had his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders squared, and his gaze scanning the horizon as if expecting an ambush at every bakery window.

"Stop looking at the greengrocer like you’re going to execute him," Mailah whispered, looping her arm through his.

"He is squinting at us," Grayson replied, his voice barely audible. "It is suspicious."

"He’s eighty years old and he forgot his glasses, Grayson. Just smile."

"I do not ’smile’ for lettuce, Mailah."

They entered the local pub, The Anchor, which served as the village’s unofficial living room. The interior was dim, smelling of spilled ale, old wood, and wet dogs. A handful of locals sat at the bar, their conversation dying down as Grayson stepped inside.

He was too tall, too symmetrical, and far too intense for a Tuesday afternoon in Wales. He looked like a wolf that had wandered into a sheepfold and was trying very hard not to notice how delicious everyone looked.

"Table in the corner," Mailah directed, steering him away from the staring locals.

They sat, and Grayson immediately took the seat facing the door. His eyes never stopped moving. He was tracking the barman, the two men playing darts, and the golden retriever sleeping by the fire.

"This is ’relaxing,’ isn’t it?" Grayson asked, his tone dry enough to parched bone.

"It’s social integration," Mailah corrected. She reached across the table and took his hand. His skin was hot, his pulse steady and strong. "You’re doing great. No magic?"

"The air is stagnant. I could clear it with a thought," he muttered, but he squeezed her hand. "But I have refrained. My life force remains... topped up."

A young man, likely in his early twenties and sporting a swagger that outstripped his common sense, approached their table. He was carrying a tray of drinks and had his eyes fixed firmly on Mailah.

"Afternoon," the lad said, flashing a grin that was meant to be charming. He set a glass of water in front of Mailah and lingered, leaning one hand on the table. "Don’t see many new faces around here. You staying at the old cottage on the cliff?"

Mailah smiled politely. "Just for a bit."

"It’s a lonely spot," the boy said, his voice dropping an octave as he ignored Grayson entirely. "If you ever get bored of the wind and the silence, the pub’s always jumping on Fridays. I could show you around the coast. There’s a few hidden spots the tourists don’t know about."

The air in the corner of the pub suddenly went cold.

Mailah felt it before she saw it—that shift in the atmosphere that usually preceded a kinetic blast. She squeezed Grayson’s hand hard, her nails digging into his palm.

"Grayson," she warned under her breath.

Grayson didn’t use magic. He didn’t even move. He just looked at the young man.

He simply let his gaze settle on the boy’s throat with the clinical detachment of a butcher looking at a carcass.

The boy’s grin faltered. His hand slipped off the table. He took a half-step back, his face paling as he finally registered the man sitting across from Mailah. Grayson didn’t look human in that moment; he looked like a statue carved from a nightmare.

"She is not bored," Grayson said. The words were quiet, but they carried a weight that seemed to rattle the glasses on the table. "And she is not in need of a guide."

The boy swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Right. Sorry. Just... being friendly."

He vanished back toward the bar so fast he nearly tripped over the dog.

Mailah let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She looked at Grayson, who was now calmly studying the condensation on his own glass of cider.

"That was... intense," she whispered.

"He was infringing on my territory," Grayson said simply. He looked at her, his expression returning to that cold, arrogant mask. "Is that the correct human terminology? ’Territory’?"

"We usually say ’boyfriend’ or ’husband,’ but ’territory’ definitely got the point across."

Grayson leaned forward, his eyes locking onto hers. "I do not know what those words mean to your kind. But I know that when he spoke to you, I felt the urge to unmake the floor beneath his feet. I find that... interesting."

"It’s called jealousy, Grayson. It’s a very human emotion."

"It is a tedious emotion," he countered, though he didn’t look particularly bothered. He reached out and traced the back of her hand with his thumb. "It requires a great deal of restraint not to act on it."

He didn’t admit he loved her. He wouldn’t. To him, these feelings were still glitches in his programming, biological errors that he was forced to navigate. But the way he watched her—as if she were the only fixed point in a spinning world—told a different story.

The walk back to the cottage was a slow climb against the rising wind. The sun was dipping toward the sea, painting the sky in bruised purples and burnt oranges.

Grayson carried the heavy bags of supplies in one hand, his other arm wrapped firmly around Mailah’s shoulders, pulling her into his side to shield her from the spray.

He didn’t complain about the weight or the climb. He seemed to relish the physical exertion, his muscles working in a rhythmic, powerful harmony.

"You’re quiet," Mailah said, huddling closer to his heat.

"The village was... loud," Grayson said. "Too much meaningless chatter. I prefer the silence of the cliff."

"And the silence of the cottage?"

He stopped walking. They were on a high point of the path, the cottage visible in the distance, a small spark of yellow light in the gloaming.

He looked at her then, and for a fleeting second, the cold-hearted prince was gone. In his place was a man who looked haunted by a ghost he couldn’t see—the ghost of the man who had loved her before the world broke.

They reached the cottage just as the first stars appeared. Arthur was nowhere to be seen, though a fresh loaf of bread sat on the counter, still warm under a cloth.

Grayson set the bags down and immediately began to stoke the fire. He moved with a focused intensity, his movements efficient.

Mailah watched him from the doorway, her heart full.

"Grayson?"

He turned, a log in his hand. "Yes?"

"You’re getting really good at this."

"At what? Manipulating carbon-based fuel?"

"At being here. With me."

He looked at the fire, then back at her. He tossed the log into the hearth and stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans. He walked toward her and didn’t stop until he was inches away.

He reached out and took her chin in his hand, tilting her head back.

"I am a monster with a failing mind." He leaned down, his lips ghosting over hers. "But as long as you are my ’food source,’ I find I have no desire to be anything else."

He picked her up then, an effortless lift that made her gasp. He didn’t take her to the bedroom. He carried her to the large, worn armchair by the fire and sat down with her in his lap.

He simply held her, his arms a heavy, protective weight around her, his chin resting on her shoulder as they watched the flames.

"Is this also ’relaxing’?" he asked.

"Yeah," Mailah whispered, closing her eyes. "This is exactly what it is."

He didn’t reply, but his grip tightened. He wasn’t a man given to grand declarations, and his love was a jagged, difficult thing. But as the clock he had built chimed the hour in the sunroom—steady and true—Grayson Ashford realized that for the first time in his life, he wasn’t running toward a throne or away from a memory.

He was exactly where he wanted to be.

"Mailah," he murmured, just as she was drifting off.

"Yeah?"

"Tomorrow," Grayson murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to settle in the marrow of her bones, "you will teach me about the rhythmic swaying."

Mailah shifted in his lap, her cheek resting against the hard, warm plane of his chest. "The what?"

Grayson was silent for a moment, his fingers tightening slightly on her waist.