Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband-Chapter 194: The Feed

CARSON CLOSED the smaller gate behind them, leaving no trace of their entry. "So. Basel. Industrial district. Obvious trap. Who’s excited?"

"I’m not going alone," Mailah said before Lucson could reiterate his earlier position. "I know that’s what the message said, but I’m not stupid enough to walk into a trap by myself."

"Good," Lucson said. "Because I wasn’t going to let you regardless of what you decided."

"However," Carson added, "we should consider that Seryn will be watching. If you show up with both of us, she might not reveal themselves. Or worse, she might hurt Grayson in retaliation."

Mailah’s resolve wavered. "So what do you suggest?"

"I suggest," Carson said slowly, clearly forming the plan as he spoke, "that you appear to come alone. While Lucson and I follow at a distance. Close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to not trigger any magical wards or surveillance."

"That’s still incredibly risky," Lucson said.

"All our options are risky," Carson countered. "This one just distributes the risk more strategically."

They reached the car, and Mailah slid into the backseat, her mind churning.

Someone had been watching Grayson for months. Had planned this abduction. Had killed eight people to... what? Feed him? Strengthen him? Or use all that stolen life force for something else entirely?

Lucson didn’t turn the engine over right away.

The car sat there in the dim wash of streetlight, the night pressing close, as if waiting for permission to continue.

"We need to feed," he said at last, voice level, unyielding. "Both of us."

Mailah stiffened slightly in the backseat.

Carson glanced over his shoulder, a glint of interest sparking. "Told you that trail was going to get interesting."

Lucson ignored him. "Whatever is waiting for us next wasn’t careless. It was patient. That means preparation. And we don’t walk into that underpowered."

Mailah’s fingers curled around the strap of her bag. She had known this moment would come—had felt it building ever since she’d overheard their conversation on the road—but knowing didn’t make it easier.

"You mean one of those... events," she said carefully.

Carson’s grin widened. "Party, darling. Try to keep the dread proportional."

Lucson turned slightly in his seat so he could look at her fully. His expression wasn’t cold, but it was precise. Honest.

"I’m asking you directly," he said. "Do you want to come with us, or would you rather stay in the car?"

The question surprised her. Not because of the choice—but because he gave her one at all.

Mailah hesitated.

Images flashed through her mind: crowded rooms, emotions running hot, demons feeding in ways she didn’t fully understand. The idea of witnessing it again—of being inside that world instead of brushing up against its edges—made her pulse jump.

But so did the idea of waiting. Alone. Ignorant.

She exhaled slowly. "I don’t want to be left behind."

Carson’s brows lifted, impressed. "Bold."

Lucson studied her for another moment, then nodded. "Then you stay close. You don’t wander. And if I tell you to leave, you do it without argument."

"I can do that," she said, even if she wasn’t entirely sure it was true.

Carson clapped his hands once, delighted. "Excellent. Basel it is."

The drive into Basel proper was quieter than the stretch before it.

Not because the city slept—far from it—but because Lucson stopped speaking entirely, attention narrowing to the flow of streets and signals, the unseen patterns beneath them.

Carson, uncharacteristically subdued, leaned back in his seat and watched the world slide past with the idle interest of someone cataloging opportunities rather than scenery.

Mailah sat between anticipation and dread, both humming under her skin.

The party announced itself long before they reached it—but they didn’t stop.

Lucson drove past the industrial block without slowing, the bass-heavy thrum of music bleeding through the closed windows as neon washed briefly across the windshield and vanished behind them.

Mailah frowned. "I thought—"

"We did," Carson said lightly. "Just not yet."

Ten minutes later, the car eased into a narrower street lined with boutiques that looked too curated.

Soft lights glowed behind tall windows. Everything felt deliberate here. Polished. Expensive in the quiet way.

Lucson parked in front of a narrow storefront with no visible sign, only a gold emblem etched into the glass—abstract enough to mean nothing and everything at once.

"We need to feed," Lucson said, shutting off the engine. "And you need to blend."

Mailah blinked. "Blend... how?"

Carson grinned as he climbed out. "Oh, human. You’re about to get upgraded."

Inside, the shop unfolded like a secret—racks of clothing arranged by mood rather than size, fabrics that shimmered subtly under the light, mirrors that didn’t quite reflect the room the way they should.

A woman looked up from behind the counter, her gaze flicking briefly to Lucson and Carson before settling on Mailah with professional interest.

"Her," Carson said. "She needs to pass."

The woman smiled. "Then she needs tailoring."

An hour later, Mailah barely recognized herself.

The dress was dark, fluid, cut to move with her rather than confine her. It wasn’t revealing, but it suggested—confidence, intent, control. Shoes that added height without sacrificing balance. Jewelry minimal, intentional.

Lucson watched her in silence while Carson leaned against the wall, openly pleased.

"See?" Carson said. "Still human. Just... weaponized."

They didn’t linger. The salon was next—hidden above a café.

The stylist didn’t ask questions. She worked efficiently, twisting Mailah’s hair into something elegant but effortless, brushing makeup onto her skin that made her look awake, aware, dangerous in a quiet way.

When they stepped back outside, the city had shifted. Or maybe Mailah had.

The drive back to the industrial district felt different now. The bass grew louder. The night sharper.

Carson hopped out first when they finally parked, rolling his shoulders. "Smells like poor decisions and unresolved feelings."

Lucson exited more slowly, scanning the street, the shadows, the windows above. When his gaze flicked to Mailah, it lingered—assessing, approving, guarded.

"Remember," he said quietly. "If anything feels wrong—"

"I leave," she finished. "No arguing."

Carson grinned. "See? Already trained."

She shot him a look but couldn’t stop the corner of her mouth from lifting. Gallows humor had always been her specialty.

They moved toward the entrance together, but just before the doors, Lucson halted. He reached out—not touching her, not quite—but close enough that she felt the heat of him, steady and grounding.

"This isn’t a test," he said. "You don’t have to prove anything."

Mailah met his eyes. "I know. I’m not doing this to be brave."

"Good," Carson said lightly. "Bravery is overrated. Survival is trendier."

Lucson didn’t smile, but something in him eased. He stepped back, giving her space.

Mailah squared her shoulders and walked forward alone.

The doors swallowed her into sound and light. Heat wrapped around her immediately—bodies pressed close, laughter spilling over itself, emotions thick and unfiltered.

It was intoxicating in a way she’d only felt once before, standing beside Grayson when his power hummed just beneath the surface.

She didn’t look back.

She let the room see her.

A woman alone. Calm. Unhurried. Exactly interesting enough.

She ordered a drink she barely tasted and leaned against a high table, letting her gaze wander, letting herself be noticed.

She felt Lucson and Carson without seeing them—presence like gravity at the edges of her awareness.

Minutes passed.

Then—

A prickle traced up her spine.

Not fear.

Recognition.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t react. Just breathed through it, letting the sensation sharpen.

Across the room, a man lifted his glass in her direction. His smile was polite. Empty. The kind that didn’t need warmth to be effective.

Mailah’s pulse kicked.

She took a slow sip of her drink, offering him nothing but composure.

The air inside the club was a viscous soup of desperation and adrenaline.

Mailah watched from the periphery, her senses heightened by the sheer weight of the atmosphere.

The bass didn’t just thrum in the air; it vibrated through the floorboards like a heartbeat under stress.

From her vantage point at the high table, Mailah watched the shift happen—the moment the party transformed from a gathering into a buffet.

Carson moved like a spark in a powder keg. He didn’t just dance; he agitated. He drifted through the center of the floor, a devil in the dark.

He’d bump a shoulder here, lean in with a grin that looked like a promise but felt like a threat there.

Everywhere he touched, the rhythm of the room stuttered. A spilled drink led to a sudden, snarling argument; a misplaced hand led to a shove.

Mailah watched, her stomach churning, as the playful energy turned jagged.

Carson stood in the eye of the rising discord, his chest expanding as he drank the sharp, serrated spikes of their tempers. He looked more alive than she’d ever seen him, his laughter cutting through the music like a blade.

While Carson sowed chaos, Lucson harvested devotion. He stood near a pillar of light, doing nothing but existing, yet the air around him thickened with a magnetic, impossible allure.

Heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence as the crowd found themselves unable to look away.

It wasn’t love; it was a hungry, hollow admiration—an obsession that stripped them of their own focus.

He stood there like a god of glass, cold and untouchable, absorbing the very essence of their awe until their faces went slack and vacant.

Her grip tightened on her glass until her knuckles turned white. It wasn’t a "party" anymore; it was a slaughterhouse of the psyche.

They were stripping these people of their equilibrium, turning a room of living souls into a battery for their own dark needs. It felt invasive—vile.

Lucson caught her eye across the sea of dazed faces, his expression unreadable, his eyes glowing with the stolen light of a hundred strangers.

He looked divine. He looked powerful. And for the first time, he looked utterly monstrous.

The man across the room began to move toward her, carving a path through the dazed, hollowed-out crowd with a grace that felt entirely too deliberate.

Mailah wanted to look back at Lucson—to find the grounding weight of his gaze—but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the newcomer.

Every step he took seemed to sharpen the world, pulling her focus away from the horrific beauty of the demons’ harvest and into a much more immediate, human danger.

He stopped just a few feet away, the scent of expensive sandalwood and something metallic clinging to him.

Up close, his eyes weren’t just empty; they were silvered, like mirrors that had seen too much.

"You look like you’re mourning the room," he said, his voice a smooth baritone that cut through the bass. He didn’t offer a name. He didn’t ask for hers.

He simply leaned against the table, invading her personal space with the ease of someone who owned the air he breathed.

"I’m just observing," Mailah replied, her voice steady despite the frantic thrumming in her chest.

"Observing what? The way the lights catch the smoke, or the way those two—" he gestured vaguely toward where Lucson and Carson were still weaving their dark spells, "—are taking everything from everyone?"

Mailah’s heart stopped. She took a slow, measured sip of her drink to hide the tremor in her hands. "I don’t know what you mean."

The man laughed, a short, dry sound. He reached out, his fingers brushing the rim of her glass. His touch was cold—not the icy, powerful cold of Lucson, but a brittle, sap-drained cold. "Don’t play the ingenue, darling. You’re far too well-dressed for it. You’re with them, aren’t you? The collectors."

Before she could answer, he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over her ear. "Be careful, Mailah. When they’re done with the crowd, they’ll still be hungry. And a soul like yours... it’s a vintage they haven’t tasted yet."