GRAYSON HELD HER STEADY when her knees felt weak, his large hand splayed across the small of her back.

"Lucson and Mason are not here," he said, his voice dropping into that low, reassurring register.

Mailah looked up. "They aren’t?"

"They went to the main Ashford estate last night for a meeting with the Fourth Circle representative," Grayson explained. "They won’t be back until late this evening. The only people in this wing are the housekeepers and my personal guard. And my guard knows better than to look at you."

He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers were calloused and blunt, but the gesture was surprisingly tender.

"Put the dress on," he commanded. "I will walk you to your quarters myself. If anyone looks at you with anything less than absolute respect, I will deal with it."

Mailah sighed, knowing there was no winning an argument with him when he was in "commander mode."

She stepped into the blue silk, the cool fabric a stark contrast to the heat of the rug. She pulled the straps up, trying to smooth out the wrinkles, but it was a lost cause.

She looked exactly like a woman who had spent the night on a dining room floor.

Grayson watched her, his arms crossed over his chest.

When she was finished, he didn’t lead her to the door. He walked to the sideboard and picked up his heavy black wool coat.

He stepped behind her and draped the coat over her shoulders. It was huge on her, the hem reaching her knees and the scent of him—cedar, iron, and expensive tobacco—wrapping around her like a shield.

"Better?" he asked.

Mailah pulled the lapels of the coat together, hiding the sapphire gown and the wine stains. "A little."

"Good. Now, walk with your head up," he said, his hand finding the small of her back again. "You are with an Ashford. Act like it."

The walk back to the residential wing was the longest five minutes of Mailah’s life.

The estate was coming to life. They passed a footman polishing the silver sconces in the hallway and two maids carrying fresh linens.

Every time someone appeared, Mailah felt the urge to duck behind Grayson’s broad shoulders, but his hand was a firm, unyielding reminder to stay upright.

Grayson didn’t look at any of them. He walked with a terrifying, purposeful stride, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

He didn’t try to hide her; he carried himself as if he were escorting a queen back to her throne.

As they passed a group of gardeners near the sunroom, Grayson stopped. He didn’t look at the men, but he spoke clearly enough for everyone to hear.

"The dining room requires a full cleaning," he said, his voice booming in the quiet hall. "And ensure Ms. Halloway knows that the Mistress is not to be disturbed until she rings. Is that clear?"

The gardeners bowed so low their foreheads nearly touched the dirt in their pots. "Yes, Master Ashford."

Grayson continued walking, his pace never faltering.

When they finally reached the heavy oak doors of her quarters, Mailah let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She turned to him, the oversized coat still clutched around her.

"You really enjoy being the big, bad demon prince, don’t you?" she teased, though her voice was still a little shaky.

Grayson didn’t smile, but there was a glint in his eyes—a flash of arrogance that she was starting to find more swoon-worthy than annoying.

"I enjoy people knowing their place," he said.

He reached out and opened the door for her. He didn’t follow her inside.

He stood in the threshold, the morning light finally catching the sharp lines of his face. He looked tired, but he looked... settled.

"Sleep more if you may," he said. "I will have someone bring the files for the Theron investigation here later. If we are to find the sender, I need your eyes on the greenhouse layouts. You remember things I don’t."

It was another piece of evidence. He wasn’t just keeping her around for the night; he was integrating her into his world, into his work. He was acknowledging that she was a partner.

"I’ll be ready," she said.

Grayson nodded. He started to turn away, then stopped. He reached out and caught her chin one last time, his thumb dragging across her cheek.

"The dress is a good color on you," he murmured. "But I prefer the coat. It has my scent on it."

He didn’t wait for her to respond.

He turned on his heel and disappeared down the hallway toward the library, his silhouette vanishing into the shadows of the estate.

Mailah stood in the doorway, watching the empty hall for a long moment. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

She looked down at the silver ring on her thumb, then pulled the black wool coat tighter around her.

She had had her walk of shame. She had faced the housekeepers and the morning light. And as she stepped into her room and closed the door, she realized she didn’t feel ashamed at all.

She felt like she had finally come home.

And she knew, with a certainty that made her heart ache, that Grayson Ashford was starting to feel the same way—even if he couldn’t remember why.

The heavy oak door clicked shut, muffling the distant sounds of the estate.

Mailah leaned her back against the wood, her eyes closing as she took a shaky breath. She was still enveloped in Grayson’s coat. It was far too large, the hem brushing her shins, but the weight of it felt like a physical embrace.

She didn’t go to the bed. Instead, she walked to the full-length mirror near the wardrobe.

She looked like a disaster, and yet, she had never felt more grounded. Her hair was a wild nest of tangles.

The sapphire gown was wrinkled, the silk clinging to her skin in ways that told the story of the night’s heat. But it was the ring on her thumb that caught the light—the Ashford crest, heavy and silver, a silent warning to anyone.

She reached into the pocket of the coat and her fingers brushed the iron key Grayson had given her. It was cold, biting into her palm.

The record of his other self.

The thought sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the morning chill.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know what the "old" Grayson had thought of her. This new version, this cold-hearted prince who was currently fighting a war with his own instincts, was enough to fill her soul.

She forced herself to move. She filled the clawfoot tub with steaming water.

Mailah sank into the water, scrubbing the scent of woodsmoke from her skin, but she couldn’t scrub away the feeling of his hands.

Two hours later, Mailah stood before the library doors.

She had ignored his command to sleep. The adrenaline was still humming in her veins, and the mystery of the greenhouse attack felt like a weight she couldn’t set down.

Choosing her outfit was a deliberate act of war.

Instead of the silk from the night before, Mailah opted for a sleek, charcoal-grey tailored dress. It was made of structured wool that hugged her curves without sacrificing professionalism, featuring minimalist silver threading along the cuffs that caught the light whenever she moved.

It wasn’t just a dress; it was a modern suit of armor, sharp enough to cut through the heavy atmosphere of the estate.

She pushed the doors open.

The library smelled of old paper and beeswax. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held thousands of volumes, their spines glinting in the soft light of the enchanted lamps.

Grayson was there, as she knew he would be.

He didn’t look up from the massive mahogany desk, but the set of his shoulders changed the moment she stepped onto the rug.

He was wearing a fresh black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his powerful forearms. A mountain of folders and rolled blueprints lay before him.

"I told you to sleep," he said. His voice was a low rumble that carried across the room.

"I’m not tired, Grayson."

He finally looked up. His eyes tracked the sharp lines of her dress, lingering on the silver embroidery at her wrists before settling on her face.

His expression remained a mask of cool indifference, but his pupils flared—a split-second betrayal of the hunger he was trying to cage.

"You’re wearing the colors," he noted.

"You told me to act like an Ashford," she said, stepping closer until she could smell the cedar and cold iron clinging to him. "I figured I should look the part."

Grayson stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. He walked around the desk, his movements slow and deliberate.

He stopped a foot away from her, his presence suddenly overwhelming the vast room. He reached out, his fingers catching the silver chain of the sapphire at her throat.

He didn’t pull her closer, but he held the stone, watching it pulse with light.

"The courier from the Third Circle just arrived," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "They are asking about the ’human variable.’ They think I’ve kept you here out of some lingering sentimentality from before the crash."

"And what did you tell them?"

"I told them I keep you here because you are mine," he said, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of her neck. "And because you know things they don’t. You saw the shadows in the greenhouse before the breach. You saw how Theron moved."

He let go of the necklace and stepped back, turning toward the desk. "Come. Look at this."

Mailah moved to his side. He had spread out a detailed blueprint of the estate’s glass gardens. His hand, large and scarred, traced the perimeter.

"The sensors didn’t fail," Grayson said, his brow furrowing in a way that made him look like a hunter tracking prey. "They were bypassed. Someone used a pulse-frequency that only an Ashford would know. My brothers were at the border."

"Then who?"

"That’s what we are going to find out." He looked at her, his jaw tight. "I want you to walk me through it. Not the official report. I want to know what you felt. The air, the smell, the way the light changed. Don’t leave anything out."

Mailah closed her eyes, the memory of that night rushing back. The smell of damp earth. The sound of glass shattering like a thousand tiny bells.

"It wasn’t just cold," she said softly. "It felt... thin. Like the air was being sucked out of the room. And there was a sound, right before the glass broke. A high-pitched whistle. I thought it was the wind, but it was too steady."

Grayson leaned over the desk, his chest inches from her arm. He was listening with an intensity that was almost physical.

"A whistle," he repeated. "The frequency of the lock-spell."

He reached for a pen, marking a spot on the blueprints near the north ventilation shaft. His proximity was a distraction—the heat of him, the way his muscles shifted as he wrote.

"Grayson," she said, her voice a little breathless.

"Hm?"

"Why did you give me the key?"

He stopped writing. The pen stayed poised over the paper.

"Information is power, Mailah," he said, his voice sounding forced and tight. "If something happens to me, I don’t want you flying blind. The man I was... he was a meticulous bastard. He would have known who the traitors were before they even decided to betray him."

"But you haven’t opened it."

"No."

"Why?"

Grayson finally turned his head. He looked at her with a raw, agonizing honesty that stripped away the Prince and left only the man.

He dropped the pen and reached for her, his hands sliding up her arms to grip her shoulders.