Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband-Chapter 247: The Demand

MAILAH WOKE TO WARMTH.

Not the gentle, safe warmth of morning light through curtains—but the kind that came from another body, solid and unmistakably alive at her back.

For a moment, she stayed still, suspended between sleep and waking, listening to the slow rhythm of Grayson’s breathing. The steady rise and fall of his chest was grounding in a way nothing else had been lately.

Her body cataloged itself.

There were familiar aches—soft bruises along her hips, the faint soreness in her thighs, the pleasant exhaustion that came from being held too tightly and for too long. But when she tested her fingers, flexed her toes, rolled her shoulder by a cautious inch, the pain didn’t flare the way it had the first time.

It was... tolerable.

She frowned slightly into the pillow.

Either Grayson had been more careful than he pretended to be—or Dr. Morrison’s elixir had done more than patch her up for one night.

The thought made her chest ease. She was alive. She could move. She could feel the cool air on her skin and the heat of the demon prince beside her.

That felt like a miracle she didn’t want to question too loudly.

She shifted onto her side. The bed was vast, a sea of rumpled silk and down, and there, a few inches away, was Grayson.

He was sleeping on his side, his back to her. She watched the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his ribs. It was a rare sight: a demon with his guard completely down.

Mailah reached out, her hand hovering just above his skin. She hesitated, her pulse jumping. She didn’t want to break the spell of his rest. But the memory of his heat was a magnet.

In sleep, the sharpness of him softened. The tension that lived in his waking posture loosened, leaving him almost... human in the quiet vulnerability of rest.

Before she could decide, Grayson shifted. He rolled onto his back with a soft grunt, his dark hair a mess against the white pillows. He looked younger when he slept, the sharp, predatory lines of his face softened by unconsciousness.

Mailah studied him like she was memorizing a map she might lose again.

His lashes cast shadows against his cheekbones. His mouth—so often set in command—was slackened into something gentler.

She considered moving closer. The urge to curl into him, to anchor herself with the simple press of skin against skin, tugged at her chest.

But the memory of his intensity the night before—his control, the way it had looked like effort rather than ease—made her hesitate. She didn’t want to wake the storm she suspected lived just under his calm.

His arm flung out to the side, palm open. The space he made felt like an invitation he hadn’t consciously given.

She couldn’t help herself. She slid closer, the silk sheets whispering against her naked skin, and draped her arm across his chest. She tucked her head into the crook of his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him—cedar, rain, and something unique.

Grayson stiffened instantly.

Mailah held her breath, expecting him to pull away or sit up with a cold, royal dismissal. Instead, his body seemed to recognize her. The tension bled out of him, and his arm moved instinctively, tucking her closer until she was molded against his side.

The small, unconscious accommodation made something in her chest soften. It felt... kind. Human in its thoughtlessness.

He didn’t wake. His breathing remained deep and steady.

Mailah closed her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips. She felt safe. It was a ridiculous feeling, considering she was currently snuggled up to a man who could likely level a city block with a snap of his fingers, but it was there nonetheless.

She was drifting back toward sleep when she felt a change in the air.

A warm, heavy hand settled on the curve of her hip. It didn’t stay there. It began to move, a slow, possessive crawl that made her skin tingle.

His palm cupped her breast, his thumb grazing the nipple through the haze of her half-sleep, before sliding down, past the dip of her waist and lower still.

Mailah let out a soft moan, her eyes fluttering open. "Grayson?"

He didn’t answer with words. With a sudden, fluid strength that caught her off guard, he gripped her waist and hoisted her up. Before she could blink, she was sitting astride him, her knees pinned to the mattress on either side of his hips.

She gasped as she felt the unmistakable, rigid heat of him pressing against her.

Grayson’s eyes were open now. They weren’t the bright, violent silver of the night before, but a dark, smoky grey that seemed to swallow the moonlight. He looked mysterious, unreadable, and utterly consumed.

"You move too much in your sleep," he rasped, his voice thick with gravel.

"I wasn’t sleeping," she whispered, her hands finding his chest.

"Good."

He reached up, his fingers tangling in her hair to pull her head down.

She gasped as he shifted beneath her, lifting his hips to press deeper. The movement sent sparks through her body, the friction delicious and unbearable all at once.

His hands gripped her thighs, fingertips pressing into the soft flesh as if he needed to anchor himself to her.

The sheets clung to her skin, the cool silk sliding against her back as he rolled them over in one fluid motion. Now above her, Grayson paused—just for a heartbeat—his gaze flickering over her face like he was memorizing the way her lashes trembled, the way her lips parted on a ragged exhale. Then he thrust into her with a groan that sounded like surrender.

Mailah arched beneath him, her fingers scrabbling at the plane of his back. Every nerve felt alive, hyperaware—the scrape of his teeth against her collarbone, the way his hips moved with a rhythm that wasn’t entirely human, too precise, too relentless.

Grayson growled something low and incoherent against her throat, his breath hot as he adjusted his angle, driving deeper.

The sound that tore from Mailah’s lips was half-sob, half-laugh—she hadn’t known her body could bend like this, could take so much and still beg for more. The headboard knocked against the wall in a steady, off-beat rhythm, out of sync with their ragged breathing.

This time, there was no garden, no roses, no brothers watching from the balconies. There was only the heat of the bed and the desperate, quiet rhythm of their bodies as they lost themselves in each other again.

When Mailah woke for the second time, she was alone.

The spot beside her was cold, the sheets smoothed over as if Grayson had never been there at all.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and winced as a fresh set of aches made themselves known.

The "tolerable" pain from earlier had been upgraded to a "definitely going to need a long bath" situation.

"Grayson?" she called out, but only the silence of the room answered.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, testing her footing. She felt like a newborn foal, but she could move. She scrambled to find her clothes.

She pulled on a loose shirt and a robe, fingers fumbling slightly with the tie as another clatter echoed from outside. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t subtle.

She tied the sash tight and padded toward the door to the terrace, her curiosity outweighing her exhaustion.

Mailah peered out.

The foyer looked like a war zone. Large wooden crates were stacked haphazardly, and several armored guards—men she didn’t recognize—were standing around.

In the center of it all stood Grayson.

His chest was bare, still wearing his pants from last night, and his hair a mess, but looking every bit the Prince. He looked like he just woke up.

She felt her face redden when she remembered that someone must have woken him up in her bed.

He held a long, silver scroll in one hand and was currently staring down a man in a crimson cloak.

"Mailah," Grayson said, not looking up, but his voice carried clearly through the noise. "Go back to bed."

"Not a chance," she said, descending the stairs. "What is going on? Who are these people?"

A man in a crimson cloak bowed low, though there was a smirk on his face that suggested he wasn’t particularly subservient. "Ah, the human. The rumors didn’t do you justice."

Grayson stepped between Mailah and the stranger, his energy sharpening into a cold, invisible wall. "Speak to her again, and I’ll send your head back to the citadel in one of these crates."

The man chuckled, unfazed. "The High Council sends their regards, Prince. And their demands. Since you’ve seen fit to... reclaim your assets, they wish to discuss the taxes on your human territories."

Mailah blinked. "Human territories? Grayson, what is he talking about?"

Grayson’s jaw flexed. He looked at Mailah, and for a split second, the mystery in his eyes deepened.

"It seems," Grayson said, his voice dropping to a dangerous silk, "that I no longer own the ground I walk on."