Mailah jolted awake with a gasp, her body drenched in cold sweat despite the morning warmth filtering through the curtains.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, and for several disorienting moments, she couldn't distinguish between the vivid memory of fangs and silver fire and the pale reality of the bedroom ceiling.
The library.
Grayson's transformation.
The way his beautiful face had twisted into something predatory and terrifying.
The sensation of being consumed by those inhuman eyes that had become windows into an endless, hungry darkness.
She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, half-expecting to find them swollen from passionate kisses, but they felt normal.
Untouched.
Her nightgown was intact, not the rumpled mess she remembered from their encounter among the bookshelves.
"It was just a dream," she whispered to the empty room, but even as the words left her mouth, doubt crept in like morning fog.
The dreams with Grayson had always felt real, had always left her with physical evidence of their encounters.
She scrambled to examine herself, running her hands over every inch of skin she could reach.
The bruise on her hip remained, still tender to the touch, along with the thin cut on her finger from the knife.
But there were no new marks, no evidence of claws or fangs or the possessive grip of inhuman hands.
Relief flooded through her, followed immediately by a more unsettling emotion she couldn't quite name.
Disappointment?
No, that was impossible. She couldn't be disappointed that the terrifying creature from her nightmare hadn't actually been real.
Could she?
Mailah swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet finding purchase on the warm, soft carpet.
The familiar sensation grounded her, pulled her further from the lingering tendrils of whatever she'd experienced in sleep.
She moved to the windows and drew back the heavy curtains, letting golden sunlight stream into the room like liquid honey.
The estate grounds stretched before her in all their manicured perfection, every hedge trimmed to geometric precision.
Everything looked exactly as it should on a normal morning in a normal world where demons didn't exist and attractive men didn't transform into creatures of nightmare.
What if the encounter in the library had been real? What if Grayson had decided to visit her dreams one last time, to show her exactly what she'd be dealing with if she chose to stay?
What if those terrifying final moments had been his way of making the decision easier for her?
The more she considered it, the more plausible it seemed.
He'd been struggling with whether to let her leave or ask her to stay.
What better way to tip the scales than to show her his most monstrous form, to let her see exactly what kind of creature lurked beneath the beautiful exterior?
"Clever," she murmured, though whether she was impressed or annoyed, she couldn't say.
She needed answers, needed to look into his eyes and find out whether the man who'd held her so tenderly was the same one who'd revealed fangs and predatory hunger.
The uncertainty was eating at her like acid, making it impossible to think clearly about the choice laid before her.
After a quick shower that did little to wash away her unease, Mailah dressed in one of Lailah's simpler outfits—a flowing cream-colored dress that made her feel like she was playing dress-up in someone else's life. Which, she supposed, she was.
The estate felt different in the morning light, less mysterious and more like the elegant prison it truly was.
The staff moved through the corridors with quiet efficiency, nodding respectfully as she passed but offering no conversation.
She'd grown accustomed to their distant politeness over the weeks, but today it felt more pronounced, as if they could sense the supernatural tension that had settled over the household like a heavy blanket.
She checked the library first, half-expecting to find evidence of their encounter—overturned furniture, perhaps, or scorch marks from whatever otherworldly energy had been crackling through the air.
But the room was pristine, every book in its place, every surface gleaming with fresh polish. Even the reading nook where she remembered being pressed against velvet cushions showed no sign of disturbance.
Either the staff was remarkably thorough, or nothing had happened there at all.
Growing increasingly frustrated with the mystery, she decided to seek out Grayson directly. It was still relatively early in the morning—perhaps he'd be in the dining room having breakfast.
During her weeks at the estate, she'd noticed he kept irregular hours, but on the few occasions their paths had crossed during daylight, it had often been over breakfast.
She made her way toward the dining room, her steps echoing softly in the corridors. But first, she decided to cut through the main foyer, thinking it would be the quickest route.
The foyer was one of the most impressive spaces in the estate, with soaring ceilings supported by marble columns and dominated by an enormous crystal chandelier that must have weighed several tons.
The chandelier was a work of art in itself, consisting of thousands of individual crystals arranged in cascading tiers that caught and refracted the morning light streaming through the tall windows.
She'd admired it many times during her stay, but had never really considered the practical implications of suspending such massive weight from the ceiling.
She was halfway across the polished marble floor, her heels clicking softly in the vast space, when she heard it—a sound so subtle she almost dismissed it as her imagination. A soft groaning, like old wood settling or metal under stress.
She paused, tilting her head to listen, but heard nothing more than the usual sounds of a large house: distant voices of servants, the whisper of air through ventilation systems, the soft tick of an antique clock.
Shaking her head at her own paranoia, she continued toward the staircase.
The second sound was louder, more distinct—definitely metal, and definitely under strain. This time she looked up, scanning the ornate ceiling for the source, and her blood turned to ice.
One of the massive chains supporting the chandelier was visibly stretched, its links separated just enough to catch the light.
As she watched in horrified fascination, she could see it elongating further, the metal crying out in protest against forces it was never designed to bear.
How long had it been failing? Had the stress been building for days, weeks, months?
The chandelier had been installed God-knows-when, and while it had likely been maintained, metal fatigue was an inevitable consequence of supporting such enormous weight for so long.
She took a step backward, then another, but she was still directly beneath the massive fixture when the first link snapped with a sound like a gunshot.
The chandelier lurched downward several inches, swaying ominously as its remaining supports struggled to compensate for the lost chain.
Crystals began to rain down like deadly tears, shattering against the marble floor in a cascade of glittering fragments.
Mailah's paralysis broke, and she lunged toward the nearest column, but her heel caught on a piece of fallen crystal and she stumbled, her ankle twisting painfully beneath her.
She hit the marble floor hard, the impact driving the breath from her lungs and sending stars exploding across her vision.
Above her, another chain snapped.
*****************************************************************
Three floors above, in the oak-paneled sanctuary of his study, Grayson was enduring what felt like the tenth consecutive hour of video conferences with international partners.
The merger he'd been orchestrating for months was finally reaching its critical phase, and every detail required his personal attention.
"The Shanghai facility will need to increase production capacity by thirty percent to meet Q4 projections," the voice from his laptop was saying, but Grayson found his attention wandering despite the millions of dollars at stake.
He'd barely slept after the confrontation the previous night, his mind churning with the memory of her face when she'd asked him to show her what he truly was.
The trust in her eyes, the complete absence of fear—it had nearly undone him completely. He wondered where he had mustered the strength to pull back before he could destroy everything pure and beautiful about her.
But the hunger was growing stronger. Three centuries of starvation had pushed him to the very edge of what his demonic nature could endure, and her presence in his home, surrounded by his scent, was like throwing gasoline on a barely controlled fire.
"Mr. Ashford?" The voice from the screen drew his attention back. "Did you have thoughts on the timeline?"
"I'm sorry," he said, forcing himself to focus on the spreadsheet displayed on his secondary monitor. "Could you repeat—"
The sensation hit him like a physical blow, so sudden and violent that he actually gasped. Terror, pure and absolute, flooded through him—but not his own terror. Hers.
Mailah was in danger.
The knowledge slammed into his consciousness with the force of a hurricane, bypassing rational thought entirely.
Somewhere in the estate, she was afraid, and the mark he'd branded into her in their dream encounters burned with urgency.
"Fuck," he swore, forgetting entirely about the dozen faces watching him through their screens.
He was already moving before conscious thought caught up, his chair spinning away from the desk as he lunged toward the door.
Behind him, voices called out in confusion and concern, but he couldn't spare a moment to explain or apologize.
The mark pulled like a compass needle, guiding him through corridors he navigated more by instinct than sight. His supernatural senses kicked into overdrive, analyzing every sound and scent for threats.
The crash of breaking crystal reached his ears just as he reached the gallery overlooking the main foyer, and his heart stopped.
Below, Mailah lay sprawled on the marble floor, struggling to rise despite an obviously injured ankle.
Above her, the massive chandelier swayed drunkenly from its remaining supports, crystals continuing to rain down around her like a deadly storm.
Even as he watched, he could see the final chain beginning to separate, its links stretching beyond their breaking point. The chandelier would fall within seconds, and she was directly in its path.
*****************************************************************
Mailah looked up through the cascade of falling crystals and saw death descending toward her in the form of several tons of antique metalwork and crystal. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as her mind calculated angles and distances.
She wouldn't make it. Even if her ankle wasn't twisted, even if she could somehow find the strength to move, the chandelier was too close and she was too far from safety.
This was how she would die—not drained by demons or consumed by Incubi, but crushed by a piece of home décor in a mansion that had never truly been meant for her.
She closed her eyes and waited for the impact.
Instead, she felt a rush of displaced air, as if something massive had moved at impossible speed. The expected crash never came—no thunderous impact of metal against marble, no final symphony of shattering crystal.
When she opened her eyes, Grayson stood above her with one arm extended, the chandelier hovering in midair.
With a swift motion of his hand, it flew across the room and crashed to the floor several meters away.
But his eyes—his eyes were the red of fresh blood, glowing with an inner fire that was both beautiful and terrifying.
This wasn't the silver-flecked blue she remembered from her dream, nor the midnight depths of his partial transformation. This was something else entirely, something that spoke of power drawn from the very depths of his supernatural nature.
"Are you hurt?" His voice was strained, but there was desperate concern in those inhuman eyes.
She tried to answer, tried to tell him about her ankle, but before she could form words, his expression changed.
The fierce concentration that had been holding him upright flickered and died, replaced by something that looked almost like surprise.
And then, Grayson collapsed.
She cried out, panic rising in her throat. "Grayson!"