Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband-Chapter 105: The Demons’ Mates

THE BALLROOM was alive again, humming like a hive after Morrigan’s departure, though Mailah swore she still felt the echo of that glass-shattering laugh in her bones.

Grayson hadn’t moved his arm from around her waist.

He kept her close, hand firm against her hip, as though daring anyone else to try what Morrigan had just attempted.

Every brush of his palm against her gown sent ripples of heat through her that she tried—unsuccessfully—to ignore.

"Don’t," he said under his breath.

"Don’t what?" she asked, tilting her face toward him, trying for casual when her insides were a chaotic drumline.

"Don’t pretend you’re not shaking." His voice was quiet, velvet threaded with steel.

Mailah arched a brow. "And if I am? Planning to scold me for being human in a ballroom full of things-that-aren’t?"

The faintest ghost of a smile touched his mouth, a flash of teeth that could have been dangerous or devastating, depending on how one looked at him. "No. Planning to remind you that you don’t have to stand against them alone."

Her chest tightened. Dangerous or devastating? Definitely devastating.

She wanted to say something equally sharp, maybe flirtatious—something to defuse the heat crawling up her neck—but then she noticed the subtle shift in the crowd.

Not everyone here gleamed with immortal beauty.

Some were... ordinary. Too ordinary.

Mailah blinked, then blinked again, making sure she wasn’t imagining it. Between the gowns of liquid silk and the sharp-cut suits, she spotted a cluster of humans.

Actual humans.

Her breath caught. "Grayson—"

"I see them," he murmured without even glancing, which made her wonder if he had already clocked every heartbeat in the room the moment they’d stepped in.

"You said there’d be human guests," she whispered, trying not to look like she was gawking. "But I didn’t—until now—how did I miss them?"

"Because most of them are shielded. Cloaked by the glamour of their partners." His tone was matter-of-fact, but his hand pressed more firmly at her hip, as if to remind her where she belonged.

Mailah’s gaze roved over the couples. Some of the humans glowed with happiness, clutching the arms of their otherworldly mates with the ease of devotion. But others...

Her stomach flipped.

A man with sunken cheeks and skin stretched taut over sharp bones shuffled beside a radiant woman with eyes like gold fire. He wasn’t walking so much as being pulled forward, his steps lagging half a beat behind hers.

Another woman, pale as wax, stood at her mate’s side with glassy eyes, smiling whenever he moved her mouth into one. Her gown hung on her like drapery thrown over an abandoned chair.

Mailah’s throat tightened. These weren’t couples. These were puppets.

And there were more. Too many. A quiet handful scattered across the ballroom like stains no one wanted to see.

Is that what happens? Her mind recoiled from the thought. Is that what being mated to a demon means? Drained until there’s nothing left but an empty husk?

Her pulse throbbed painfully in her ears. She tried to focus on breathing evenly, but the air itself seemed heavier.

"Mailah." Grayson’s voice broke through, warning threaded in it.

She jerked her gaze back to him, trying to force a smile. "I’m fine."

"You’re not," he said flatly, eyes burning into her like he could read every frantic thought.

Before she could respond, another presence slid into their orbit.

"Grayson," Vivienne greeted smoothly, her voice wrapped in silver.

Mailah’s body went rigid as the woman approached—every fold of her shimmering gown a reminder of how flawlessly composed, polished, and beyond reach she was.

"Vivienne." Grayson’s voice had cooled by several degrees, though his arm didn’t move from Mailah’s waist. "Now?"

"Now," Vivienne echoed, her gaze cutting briefly to Mailah, then back to him. "It won’t take long."

Something sharp flickered in Mailah’s chest. The ballroom, the music, the impossible food—all of it dimmed behind that one tiny glance of dismissal.

"Go," Mailah said quickly, pasting on a smile that felt like it had been sewn to her skin. "Talk. I’ll just... enjoy the glowing fruit."

Grayson hesitated. His hand lingered against her, thumb brushing over the fabric at her side as though reluctant to let go.

Then, finally, he followed Vivienne a few steps away, their voices dropping into low, private tones.

Mailah turned her attention back to the humans.

It wasn’t curiosity anymore—it was fury.

She scanned the crowd, searching for explanations, for cracks in the careful illusion the Ashfords maintained.

The music swelled, a waltz spilling across polished marble, but beneath it she heard the clumsy shuffle of human feet being dragged, not danced.

And then—

Mailah froze.

Her blood boiled in an instant.

Across the ballroom, near a gilt column, a young woman in a gown that had once been beautiful but now hung loose on her thinning frame stood beside her mate.

An old man—his face carved with too many lines, his eyes gleaming like oil in lamplight.

At first glance, his hand merely rested over hers, a gentleman’s gesture. Only—

It wasn’t.

He wasn’t holding her hand.

He was binding it.

A delicate chain, glittering in the chandelier light, wrapped around her slender wrist, fastening her to the demon’s withered grasp. He bent toward her, whispering into her ear with a voice too soft for anyone else to hear.

Her lips curled into a smile, but it was wrong. Mechanical. Tugged upward as though pulled by invisible strings.

Mailah’s heart slammed against her ribs.

She didn’t think. She moved.

"Mailah—" Grayson’s voice cut across the space, sharp with alarm.

But she was already moving, each stride quicker than the last, heels striking the marble with a rhythm that felt like war drums.

"Mailah!"

Her fists clenched. Her breath shook. The sight of that delicate chain wrapped around the young woman’s wrist seared into her mind, branding her with rage she couldn’t shake.

The woman lifted her gaze as Mailah neared—eyes dull, glassy, a puppet on strings. Beside her, the demon shifted his weight on an ornate cane. His skin was creased like old parchment, his grin caved in and cavernous, but the power clinging to him was unmistakable. Ancient. Rotting. Dangerous.

Mailah didn’t falter.

Because for the first time since stepping foot into the Ashfords’ glittering trap, she wasn’t scared.

She was furious.

And Grayson’s warning voice, echoing behind her, only fanned the flames.

The old demon’s head lifted as she closed the distance.

His skin sagged, parchment stretched over bone, but his eyes—those tar-slick pits—caught the light like they drank it. The faintest curve touched his lips, more sneer than smile, as though he’d been expecting her.

The woman at his side—frail, bird-boned, her dress slipping from one shoulder—glanced at Mailah. Just for an instant.

And in that instant, Mailah saw it. The tiniest shake of her head. A warning, almost invisible, as though she was screaming without sound.

Mailah faltered.

Her fury collided with the woman’s silent plea, halting her in place like she’d run into an unseen wall.

Her breath snagged in her chest. Every instinct screamed to rip the chain apart, to spit in the demon’s face, but the human’s eyes begged: Don’t. Not like this.

The demon straightened, his voice creaking like a door long forgotten. "A bold one. It’s been years since someone’s had the audacity to stare me down."

Mailah opened her mouth—she wasn’t even sure what would come out—but before the first syllable could escape, a hand seized her arm.

Firm. Hot. Unyielding.

Grayson.

But instead of snapping at her, his voice unfurled smooth and deliberate, pitched for the room as much as for her.

"Lord Varrow," he drawled, inclining his head just enough to mimic respect. "I didn’t realize you’d dragged yourself out of your crypt tonight."

The old demon’s chuckle was a creak of rusted hinges. "Ah, Grayson Ashford. Always so charming." His cane tapped once against the marble, silver glinting like an eye. "And you’ve brought me such a delight."

Mailah stiffened, fury spiking at being spoken of like she was a dish on the table. But before she could spit fire, Grayson’s hand tightened at her arm, his thumb a subtle warning.

"Careful," he murmured low enough for her only, while aloud he replied, voice almost lazy, "You’ll forgive me if I keep her to myself. She’s... spirited. Wouldn’t want her spoiling your evening."

The demon’s grin widened, showing too many gums. "Spirited things burn quickest. Perhaps one day you’ll tire of tending the flame."

Mailah’s nails dug into her palms. "I’m not—"

Grayson cut across her, his tone quicksilver smooth, feigning amusement. "Oh, she bites. You’d enjoy it, no doubt. But I’ve grown attached." He angled himself a fraction forward, body shielding hers, gaze fixed on the demon as though they were old acquaintances exchanging pleasantries instead of barbs.

The woman at the demon’s side smiled her puppet smile. But her eyes—those glassy, broken things—flicked toward Mailah and trembled. A second plea. Desperate. Don’t.

Mailah’s throat burned. Every instinct screamed to break the chain, to claw it apart, to drag the girl free—

"Easy," Grayson whispered, velvet-edged steel. And then, louder, for the crowd, "You know how it is, Lord Varrow. Some toys you break. Others... you keep polished."

That earned a ripple of laughter from nearby guests. The pressure of attention shifted, no longer solely on Mailah’s outburst but spread across the charade.

The demon’s tar-slick gaze narrowed. "Keep her close, then, Ashford. Or one day I’ll see how bright she burns."

Grayson’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "One day, perhaps. But not tonight."

He tugged Mailah gently, almost imperceptibly, guiding her away from the column, away from the chain glinting under chandelier light.

The music swelled again, swallowing the tension like a hungry beast.

Couples resumed their waltzes. Conversations rose. The illusion of civility stitched itself back together.

But Mailah knew. She had seen.

As Grayson steered her through the crowd, his hand never leaving her arm, she glanced back.

The young woman was still smiling, still shackled, still hollow.

But just before the crowd swallowed her, Mailah caught a glimmer.

A tear.

Silent. Shining. Sliding down the mask of her face.

Mailah’s chest constricted until it hurt. She wanted to scream, to tear the ballroom apart, to drag every chain into the light.

Instead, Grayson’s voice curved low against her ear, still casual to anyone watching but sharp enough to cut her.

"Don’t break here," he murmured. "If you do, you break her too."

She swallowed, her throat raw, her fury trembling beneath her skin.

And beneath the ache, a vow took root, heavy as iron.

Not yet... doesn’t mean never.