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

Chapter 328: The Starving Demon 1

GRAYSON STARED at the small wooden tub as if it were a trap. "Wash it? In that?"

"Yes. In that," Mailah said, pouring hot water from the kettle. Steam rose between them, dampening the stray hairs at her temples. She slid a rough block of gray lye soap across the table. "Take off the shirt."

He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the hem of his dark tunic and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion.

The sudden bareness of his chest filled the tight kitchen space. He was a mountain of hard muscle and old, faint scars that didn’t belong to this world. The heat radiating from his skin hit the chilly morning air, instantly warming the space between them.

He dropped the egg-stained shirt into the water with a splash that hit his boots.

"Gently," Mailah warned, taking a step back. "You’re going to flood the kitchen."

Grayson didn’t listen. He plunged his large hands into the tub, grabbed the fabric, and squeezed.

The wood groaned under the pressure of his grip. Water sloshed over the sides, pooling around his feet.

"It is not responding," he muttered, his jaw tight as he glared at the white foam forming on his knuckles.

"You have to rub the fabric together, Grayson. Not crush it." Mailah stepped closer, reaching into the warm water. She took his hands, guiding his thumbs to the stain on the sleeve. "Like this. Use the soap."

He went still the moment her fingers brushed his.

His silver eyes fixed on her face, ignoring the tub entirely. The gray soap slipped from his palm, sinking to the bottom of the water with a soft plop.

He didn’t look down to find it. Instead, his wet, hot hand slid up her forearm, leaving a trail of warm suds against her skin.

"This is pointless," he said. His voice was lower now, a rough growl that vibrated in his bare chest.

"It’s how we keep things clean," she whispered, her heart giving a small, familiar thump against her ribs.

"I do not care about the shirt." He yanked his other hand out of the water and gripped her waist, lifting her easily until her boots cleared the wet floor. He pressed her back against the edge of the heavy oak table, his solid weight locking her in place. "I care about this."

He leaned down, his mouth brushing the sensitive skin just below her ear. His stubble was rough, a sharp contrast to the warm, wet slide of his hands on her hips.

Mailah gasped, her fingers burying themselves into the thick hair at the back of his neck. He smelled of rain and hot skin, a heavy mix that made her dizzy.

"Grayson, the floor is wet," she managed to say, though she didn’t push him away.

"Then do not look at it," he muttered against her throat. His lips moved up to her jaw, biting gently at the soft skin there before finding her mouth.

The kiss was hard and certain.

He didn’t ask, and he didn’t apologize. He simply took her breath, his tongue tracing the shape of her lips with a fierce hunger that had nothing to do with his missing magic.

He held her as if she were the only solid thing in a world that was slipping away from him. His large hands moved under her sweater, his palms hot against the bare skin of her back, anchoring her to him.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, fierce silver.

He stared at her, his breathing heavy, his hand resting flat against her spine to keep her close.

"The shirt can dry on the floor," he said flatly.

Mailah laughed softly, her forehead resting against his bare shoulder. "No, it can’t. Go sit by the fire before you catch a chill. I’ll finish it."

He scowled, clearly hating the command, but he stepped back.

He picked up the heavy wool coat from the floor, wrapped it around his bare shoulders like a cape, and marched over to the hearth.

He sat on the low stool, his long legs bent, staring into the dying embers with a dark look that would have terrified anyone else.

By afternoon, the rain Arthur had promised arrived with a heavy vengeance. It hammered against the slate roof, turning the dirt path outside into thick, black mud.

The wind howled through the cliffs, shaking the small wooden shutters of the cottage.

Inside, the single room grew dark and cold.

Grayson stood by the window, his arms crossed over his bare chest under the open coat.

He watched the rain strike the glass, his expression unreadable. Every time the thunder rolled across the valley, his shoulders squared, his body bracing for an attack that never came.

"It’s just water, Grayson," Mailah said from the hearth. She was trying to spark a new fire, but the wood Arthur had brought was damp from the fog. She struck the flint again, but only a few weak sparks fell into the kindling before dying out.

Grayson turned from the window. He walked over to her, his heavy steps making the floorboards creak. He knelt beside her, his massive shadow blocking out the rest of the dark room.

"Move," he said.

"The wood is wet," she explained, handing him the iron striker. "It needs a lot of heat to start."

He didn’t take the flint. Instead, he reached out and shoved his hand directly into the pile of damp kindling.

Mailah watched in silence as his jaw clenched. A low, deep hum vibrated through the floorboards. For a second, a faint, ghostly trace of silver light flickered beneath his skin, passing from his palm into the wood.

The damp kindling hissed. A thin wisp of smoke rose, followed by a bright, sudden snap of flame. The wood caught instantly, the heat roaring up the stone chimney.

Grayson pulled his hand back, his face slightly pale. The small use of his power had clearly cost him, but his expression remained stubborn and proud.

"There," he said, standing up. "The fire is made."

Mailah stood up to face him, her heart sinking as she looked at the tight lines of exhaustion around his eyes. She reached out, her small fingers touching his cheek, checking the coldness of his skin.

He was warm from the fire, but underneath, she could feel the deep, icy draft of his empty core.

He wasn’t feeding properly. She knew it, and it terrified her.

When he took energy from her, he took so little. Just a tiny drop, a microscopic spark, barely enough to keep his eyes silver. It wasn’t enough. Because he refused to take more, even the most minimal use of his power—like lighting a few damp sticks—drained him completely.

He had to ration his magic like a starving soldier, using it only when he decided it was absolutely necessary.

Mailah was well aware of how he fed after the memory loss.

His brothers held massive, dark feasts—elaborate parties designed for nothing but consumption.

They would gorge themselves on vital energy, filling their veins until their power burned like suns.

Even with her, before his mind was wiped, the only time his power had truly returned to its terrifying peak was when he had taken almost everything she had. He had nearly emptied her, leaving her cold and floating on the edge of death.

He must be worried about being found. So here, in this small cottage, Grayson chose starvation over risking that.

"You shouldn’t have used your light for that," Mailah said, standing up to face him. She reached out, her small fingers touching his cheek, checking the color of his skin. "You’re going to make yourself sick again."

"A fire was required," he said simply. He caught her hand, holding it against his cheek for a long moment. His skin was warm from the flame, but his pulse was fast under her thumb. "You were shivering."

The simple honesty of it made her throat tight. He didn’t understand human comfort, but he understood when she was cold, and he would burn his own remaining strength to fix it.

"Come here," she whispered, pulling him toward the small wooden bench by the hearth.

He sat down, and she slid between his knees, leaning her back against his chest. He wrapped his large arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his heat. He tucked the heavy wool coat around both of them, sealing out the draft from the room.

They sat in the quiet for a long time, watching the orange flames eat through the logs. The storm outside seemed far away now, muffled by the thick stone walls and the steady, heavy beat of Grayson’s heart against her shoulder.

"Grayson," she said quietly. He didn’t respond. "You’re empty. You barely take anything from me when you feed."

When she looked to the side at him, his silver eyes narrowed, a flash of his stubborn pride returning. "I take what is required to function. I do not need more."

"You do need more," she insisted, touching the side of his face. "You’re weak. You won’t even visit my dreams anymore."

That was the truest sign of his depletion, and it broke her heart.

In the past, he would slip into her sleep effortlessly, a dark, heavy presence that ruled her mind while she rested. It was his way of keeping watch, of feeding on her subconscious warmth.

Now, his nights were completely silent. He spent them dreamless or wide awake, staring at the ceiling in rigid exhaustion, too drained to even cross the threshold into her mind.

Grayson went perfectly still. His gaze dropped to her mouth, his jaw tightening until the muscle jumped. "Your dreams are your own. I have no business there in the first place."

"That’s a lie," she said softly, her other hand coming up to rest against his bare, broad chest. His heart was thumping hard against her palm, a rapid, heavy rhythm. "You don’t have the strength to get in. Because you’re starving yourself to keep me safe. Just like before."

"Be quiet."

Mailah flinched, sudden uncertainty creeping in.

Was she pushing too hard?