novelones Chapter 326: The Walk
Chapter 326: The Walk
THE WALK BACK UP THE CLIFF WAS SLOW.
He didn’t complain. He didn’t snap. He just walked, his eyes fixed on the path ahead.
In the dark, without his supernatural vision, Grayson was at a severe disadvantage.
His demonic sight was failing along with his energy, leaving him with the clumsy, uncoordinated vision of an ordinary man.
Halfway up the trail, his boot caught the edge of a protruding root. A man of his size falling was no small matter.
The ground seemed to shake as he stumbled forward, his arms flailing slightly before he managed to catch himself against a large boulder.
Mailah gasped, reaching out to catch his arm. "Are you okay?"
Grayson remained frozen against the rock for a moment. He slowly pushed himself upright, adjusting his heavy coat with a jerky, angry motion.
"The flora in this region is aggressive," he stated, his face pale in the moonlight. "It deliberately altered its position to impede my advance."
"It’s a root, Grayson. It’s been there for twenty years."
"It is an enemy," he muttered.
He started walking again, but this time, he didn’t protest when Mailah slipped her arm around his waist.
He clamped his massive hand down over her shoulder, gripping her so tightly her bones clicked. He wasn’t just walking anymore; he was anchored to her.
Grayson leaned on her more than he ever had, his arm draped over her shoulders, his weight heavy.
Every step took immense effort. She could feel the cold radiating through his clothes, a deep, icy draft that always came when his internal fire died down.
"You’re freezing," she said, her own pace slowing to match his heavy, dragging steps. "Why didn’t you tell me you were this low before we started climbing?"
"A warrior does not report minor structural deficits," he said. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles jumped under his stubble. "I am perfectly capable of navigating a minor incline."
"You just fought a tree and lost."
"I did not lose. I desisted."
Mailah shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the worry tightening her chest.
He was ridiculous. Even when he could barely keep his eyes open, he spoke as if he were still sitting on a throne.
By the time they reached the crest of the hill, the small cottage came into view.
Arthur had left a single oil lantern burning on the porch, its yellow light slicing through the thick coastal fog.
The sight of it seemed to give Grayson a final burst of energy.
He squared his shoulders, took his weight off Mailah, and walked across the grass with a rigid, unnatural stride.
He was determined to look like a conqueror entering his castle, even if his knees were shaking under his trousers.
He pushed the door open, stepped inside, and immediately dropped onto the wooden bench by the hearth.
The sudden movement caused the wood to groan under his bulk.
He leaned his head back against the stone wall, his eyes closing.
In the dim light, the slate-gray color was creeping up his neck, stealing the healthy flush he had gained from the cider.
Mailah shut the door, sliding the heavy iron bolt into place.
The house was quiet, save for the low hum of the wind outside and the ticking of the clock.
She walked over to the table, poured a cup of water from the clay pitcher, and brought it to him.
"Drink this," she said.
Grayson opened one eye. The silver iris was dull, almost gray. He looked at the cup, then up at her face.
"Water does not contain the necessary caloric value to ignite the spark," he said, his voice dropping into a rough whisper.
"I know, but your throat sounds like sand. Just drink it."
He hesitated, then reached out.
His fingers missed the handle of the mug by an inch on his first attempt.
His brow furrowed in deep frustration, a low growl escaping his throat as he finally wrapped his hand around the clay and lifted it to his lips.
He drank the entire thing in three large gulps, water trickling down his chin and wetting his shirt.
When he set the mug down, his hand was trembling.
He hated it.
Mailah could see the fury in his eyes—fury at his own weakness, at the fragile vessel he was currently forced to inhabit.
She knelt on the floor between his knees, reaching out to untie his heavy leather boots.
Grayson went rigid. He tried to pull his foot back, but she gripped his ankle firmly.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"Taking off your boots. You can’t sleep with them on."
"I do not require assistance from a female. I am a prince of—"
"You’re a guy who can’t hit his own foot right now," she interrupted, not looking up as she wrestled with the muddy laces. "Be quiet and let me do it."
He didn’t pull away again.
Instead, he sat perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the top of her head.
Mailah worked quickly, her small hands tugging at the stiff leather.
It was a strange, domestic moment. The silence between them grew heavy, filled with the physical reality of his massive size and her smallness.
When the boots were off, she stood up, intending to fetch a blanket from the chest by the window.
But before she could take a step, Grayson’s hand shot out.
He caught her by the fabric of her sweater, his fingers bunching into the wool. With a single, sudden jerk, he pulled her forward.
Mailah stumbled, her knees hitting the bench on either side of his thighs.
He didn’t let go. He kept his grip on her waist, pulling her flush against his chest.
"Grayson," she gasped, her hands coming up to rest on his broad shoulders.
"Stay," he commanded.
He didn’t look at her lips. He didn’t try to take her energy yet.
Instead, he leaned forward and buried his face in the crook of her neck, right where her pulse was jumping.
His skin was ice-cold, shocking her warm flesh.
She shivered, but she didn’t pull back. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck.
He breathed in deeply, his chest expanding against hers.
"Your heart is remarkably loud," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. "It is inefficient. It wastes energy on unnecessary vibrations."
"That’s just how it works when you’re close," she whispered.
He was quiet for a long time.
He didn’t move, didn’t speak.
He just held her there, using her body as a shield against the cold that was threatening to put him to sleep.
It wasn’t the action of a demon king demanding tribute; it was the action of a man who was terrified of the dark, looking for the only light he had left.
"When Theron came," Grayson said, his voice muffled by her hair. "When he held the blade to your throat... my mind did not recognize the danger. I had no data on who you were."
Mailah held her breath, her fingers tightening in his hair.
"But my hand moved before my mind did," he continued, his grip on her waist tightening until it was almost painful. "And when the blade touched your skin, I felt a sensation here." He shifted one hand, pressing his palm flat against his own chest, right over his human heart. "It was a sudden, violent compression. I believed I was dying."
"That was fear, Grayson," she said softly. "You were scared for me."
"I do not experience fear," he denied instantly, his old arrogance flaring for a brief second. Then, it faded. "But... I found the prospect of this room without your noise to be... unacceptable. If you are unmade, there is no purpose to this location. There is no purpose to the bread, or the cider, or the stupid flowers on the porch."
It was the closest he would ever get to saying he loved her. He was defining her as his entire world, his only point of reference in a blank universe.
He lifted his head from her shoulder. His face was inches from hers now. The dull pewter of his eyes was beginning to spark with tiny, dangerous pricks of silver light, drawn out by her sheer proximity.
He was so tired he could barely keep his head up, but his grip on her waist was iron-clad.
"Feed me," he whispered.
It wasn’t a command. It was a plea.
Mailah leaned down, her hands cupping his face.
She felt the chill returning to his skin, the slate-gray tint creeping back into his cheeks.
She didn’t hesitate. She pressed her lips to his, not in a kiss of passion, but in a kiss of life.
His mouth locked over hers with a desperate, heavy hunger. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t cruel either. It was the kiss of a starving man.
Mailah felt the familiar sensation immediately—the warm, golden pull in her chest as her vitality slid away, flowing down her arms and into his cold body.
The transition was intense, a sudden wave of dizziness washing over her. She clung to his shoulders, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as her head swam.
Grayson groaned, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrated against her lips. His skin began to warm up almost instantly.
The gray tint on his face dissolved, replaced by a healthy, dark flush. His muscles rippled under her hands, regaining their iron-like hardness as the demonic energy flooded back into his veins.
He didn’t stop when the spark was lit.
He kept kissing her, his tongue tracing the shape of her mouth, claiming every inch of her with an old, familiar mastery.
He lifted her easily, shifting her until she was sitting entirely on his lap, her legs draped over his thighs. His large hands moved up her back, sliding under the hem of her oversized sweater to press flat against the bare skin of her waist.
His palms were hot now, scorching her.
The kiss changed from a desperate need for survival into something thick with passion.
Grayson was a warrior, and he held her like he was defending a fortress—unyielding, heavy, and completely dominant.
He didn’t use pretty words because he didn’t have them, but every press of his lips, every hard grip of his fingers on her hips, told her exactly what she needed to know.
When he finally broke the kiss, Mailah’s head dropped onto his shoulder, her breath coming in ragged, short gasps. She felt weak, her limbs heavy and warm.
Grayson was breathing hard too, but his eyes were bright silver now, glowing in the darkness of the room like two small stars.
He looked down at her, his face a mask of fierce, protective anger.
"You are too small," he growled, his thumb tracing a rough line along her jaw. "You give too much. Your reserve is depleted."
"I’m fine," she wheezed. "Just... give me a minute."
"You are not fine. Your skin is cool. Your pulse is erratic."
Without another word, he stood up.
He didn’t use magic; he used the raw, physical strength of his arms, lifting her against his chest as if she weighed nothing at all.
He walked across the main room, his heavy steps silent on the rugs, and kicked open the door to the bedroom.