"ABOUT LAST NIGHT," Grayson began, but as he spoke, Mailah noticed the slight slur in his words, the way he gripped his whiskey glass a little too tightly for balance.
He wasn't just holding a drink—he was already drunk.
"Grayson," she interrupted, stepping closer and catching the distinct scent of expensive scotch radiating from him like cologne. "How much have you had to drink?"
"I'm fine," he said, but the words came out too carefully enunciated, the way drunk people spoke when they were trying to prove their sobriety.
His tie was askew, his usually perfectly styled hair slightly mussed, and there was a boyish quality to his disheveled appearance that made her stomach flutter unexpectedly. "We need to talk about—"
"You're drunk." It wasn't a question.
He paused mid-sentence, blinking at her with those impossibly blue eyes that seemed even more vibrant when he was intoxicated.
Then, to her complete surprise, he started laughing—not the cold, controlled sound she'd grown accustomed to, but something warm and genuine and utterly disarming.
"You know what?" He gestured broadly with his glass, nearly spilling its contents. "You're absolutely right. I am magnificently, spectacularly drunk." He took a theatrical bow that made him sway dangerously. "And you, my dear wife, are devastatingly beautiful."
Mailah felt heat creep up her neck. This was definitely not the cold, distant Grayson she'd been living with. This version was... charming. Dangerous in an entirely different way.
"Grayson, maybe you should sit down—"
"Sit down?" He moved toward her with surprising grace for someone who was clearly intoxicated, his movements fluid and predatory. "But then I couldn't do this."
Without warning, he reached out and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her skin. The touch was gentle, reverent, and completely at odds with the man who'd been avoiding her at almost every chance he had.
"Your hair smells like jasmine," he murmured, leaning closer. "It always smells like jasmine. Do you know how maddening that is? Walking through the house and catching that scent in random places, knowing you've been there but finding only empty rooms?"
Mailah's breath caught. There was something almost vulnerable in his confession, something that made her heart race. "Grayson..."
"And your eyes." He was studying her face with an intensity that made skin flush with heat.. "They're different tonight. Brighter." His thumb traced along her cheekbone, and she had to fight not to lean into the touch.
Something about the sincerity in his voice gripped her chest. How long had Lailah been emotionally absent from this marriage? How long had he been starving for this kind of connection?
"You're very drunk," she said softly, but she didn't pull away from his touch.
"Drunk enough to tell you the truth." His other hand came up to frame her face, and she could see the golden flecks in his blue eyes, could count the dark lashes that framed them. "Drunk enough to admit that I've been going crazy these past few weeks."
"Crazy?"
"Completely insane." He laughed, but it was breathless now, charged with something that made the air thrum between them. "Do you know what it's like to live with someone who's beautiful and brilliant and utterly untouchable?"
His confession sent shivers down her spine. This wasn't the cold, controlled businessman she'd been sharing a house with. This was someone stripped of pretense and completely captivating.
"The headache," she said, trying to focus on something other than the way his thumb was still stroking her cheek.
"Forget the headache." He waved his free hand dismissively, nearly losing his balance in the process. "The headache is nothing compared to this." He gestured between them. "This constant ache of wanting someone who doesn't or won't want me back."
"Who says I don't want you back?"
The words were out before she could stop them, and she watched his eyes darken with something that made her pulse quicken.
"Don't say things like that unless you mean them," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Maybe I do mean them."
For a moment, they just stared at each other, the tension between them thick enough to cut. Then Grayson laughed, but it was shaky now, uncertain.
"God, I'm so drunk I'm actually starting to believe you." He leaned his forehead against hers, and she could feel his breath against her lips. "This is dangerous. I'm dangerous when I'm like this."
"You don't seem dangerous," she whispered. "You seem... human."
"Human." He repeated the word like it was foreign to him, like he was testing how it felt on his tongue. "Is that what you think I am?"
Something in his tone made her look at him more closely. There was something odd in his expression, something that didn't quite fit with simple intoxication.
"What else would you be?" she asked, half-joking.
But he didn't laugh. Instead, he pulled back slightly, studying her face with those intense blue eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if you'd still want me if you knew what I really was."
"What you really are?"
"Not what. Who." He caught himself, shaking his head as if clearing it. "What I mean is... never mind. The whiskey is making me philosophical."
But Mailah had caught the slip, and it sent a subtle shiver across her skin. "Grayson, what did you mean—"
"I meant," he interrupted, his hands sliding down to her waist and pulling her closer, "that I'm a man who's been pushed to his limits. And right now, with you looking at me like that, wearing that dress that's driving me insane..." He paused, his breathing becoming labored. "I'm barely holding onto my self-control."
The admission sent heat pooling low in her stomach. This version of Grayson was intoxicating in more ways than one—all raw honesty and desperate need, so different from the cold stranger she'd been living with.
"Maybe," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "I don't want you to hold onto your self-control."
He groaned, a sound that was part frustration, part desire. "You're going to be the death of me, woman."
"I thought that headache was going to be the death of you," she teased.
"That headache is just a symptom," he said, his voice taking on that odd quality again. "The real problem is much more... complicated."
Before she could ask what he meant, he was kissing her—not the desperate, hungry kisses from the night before, but something slower, more thorough.
His lips moved against hers with a reverence that made her knees weak, and she could taste the whiskey on his tongue, could feel the way his hands trembled slightly where they held her.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against hers again.
"I should probably warn you," he said, his voice rough with desire, "that I'm not exactly... normal."
"Normal is overrated," she managed, her heart pounding against her chest.
"Is it?" He smiled then, and it was nothing like his usual controlled expressions. This smile was wild, almost predatory, and it made something primitive and feminine in her respond with a shiver of anticipation. "Because what I want to do to you right now is definitely not normal."
"Grayson..."
"I want to worship every inch of your skin," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, making her toes curl. "I want to forget every reason I've been pulling away from you. I want to remind you what it feels like to be thoroughly, completely claimed."
The word 'claimed' sent a shock of heat through her that was so intense it was almost frightening. There was something possessive in the way he said it, something that spoke to a deeper instinct she didn't entirely understand.
"That's a very... intense way to put it," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
"I'm an intense man." His hands tightened on her waist, and she could feel the controlled strength in his grip. "Especially when it comes to what's mine."
The possessiveness in his tone should have been off-putting, but instead it made her feel desired in a way she'd never experienced before.
This was what her sister had been married to?
This passionate, intense man who looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered?
"How long have you been having these headaches?" she asked, trying to ground herself in something concrete.
"Ages," he said, drawing lazy patterns along her hip with his thumb, and each stroke scattered her thoughts. "It might be stress-related, but..." He paused, his expression becoming almost haunted. "I know it's more than that."
"More than that how?"
"The headaches aren't just pain, Lailah. They're... changes. Like my body is trying to tell me something. Like it's preparing for something." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm evolving."
"Evolving?" She laughed, but it sounded nervous even to her own ears. "That's quite a theory."
"Is it?" His eyes seemed to glow in the dim light of the study, and for a moment, she could have sworn she saw something inhuman flicker across his features.
Mailah's breath caught. "I'd say you're very drunk."
"Would you?" He leaned closer. "Or would you start to wonder if your husband is exactly what he seems to be?"
The question hung in the air between them, charged with possibility and danger.
Mailah stared into those impossibly blue eyes and felt something fundamental shift inside her chest. There was something about Grayson Ashford that didn't add up, something that went beyond simple mystery.
"What are you saying?" she whispered.
He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, a sharp pain seemed to lance through his skull. He stumbled backward, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple, his face contorting in agony.
"Grayson!" She reached for him, but he held up a hand to stop her.
"No," he gasped, his voice strained. "Don't... don't touch me when I'm like this."
"Like what?"
He looked up at her then, and she saw something wild and desperate in his eyes, something that made her primitive instincts scream both danger and desire.