Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband

THE ESTATE LOOMED AHEAD LIKE A FORTRESS—or a very expensive prison, depending on how Mailah chose to look at it.

The security team had already arrived. She could see them moving along the perimeter like ants, installing additional wards and surveillance equipment.

Lucson was on his phone barking orders.

Mason had disappeared to "analyze the nightmare residue" from the crime scene.

Ravenson was documenting everything.

Carson was suggesting increasingly ridiculous security measures that everyone was ignoring.

And Grayson was... impossible to read.

One moment he was holding her hand, looking at her like she was the only thing keeping him anchored. The next, he was cold and tactical, discussing her safety in the same tone he’d use for work meetings.

Mailah’s head was spinning, and not in a good way.

"I need..." she started, then stopped. "I’m going to the bedroom. Your bedroom. Where you said I should stay because of the wards."

Grayson’s attention snapped to her immediately. "Are you alright?"

"I’m fine. Just tired. Traumatized. The usual." She tried for a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. "I’ll be fine. You handle the security stuff."

His jaw tightened, and she could see him warring with himself—comfort her or be strategic? Finally, strategy won. "I’ll check on you in an hour. Don’t leave the room without telling someone."

"Got it. Prisoner protocols understood."

"Mailah—"

"I’m kidding. Mostly." She pulled her hand from his and headed inside before he could see how much the constant switching between warm and cold was affecting her.

The bedroom was exactly as she remembered—massive, pristine, and somehow still feeling like Grayson despite its calculated perfection.

Dark wood, leather, floor-to-ceiling windows. A bed that could sleep four people comfortably but usually only held one emotionally constipated demon.

Mailah sat on the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands.

This was fine. Everything was fine.

There was just an ancient archdemon who wanted to torture and kill Grayson, and Grayson had decided to handle it by becoming an ice-cold strategist who might use her as bait, and she’d agreed to this because the alternative was a safe house, and—

She needed a drink.

The minibar was tucked discreetly in the corner, built into what looked like an antique cabinet.

Mailah opened it and found herself staring at a collection of bottles.

Crystal decanters with labels in languages she didn’t recognize. Dark bottles with wax seals.

She grabbed the most normal-looking bottle—amber liquid in clear glass, label in English. "Highland Reserve, 1847."

"Close enough to whiskey," she muttered, pouring herself a generous glass.

The first sip burned but in a good way.

Smooth. Expensive.

Exactly what she needed to take the edge off the day from hell.

The second sip went down easier.

By the third, she was starting to feel pleasantly warm.

By the fourth, the room was tilting slightly, and everything seemed funnier than it should be.

"Huh," she said to the empty room. "Strong stuff."

She poured another glass because clearly, decision-making skills were the first casualty. The bottle didn’t say "demon alcohol," but in retrospect, finding it in a demon’s private collection should have been a clue.

The warmth spread through her whole body, buzzing pleasantly under her skin. Her thoughts felt loose and floaty, like they’d been untethered from the usual filters.

"This is nice," she announced to no one. "I should drink ancient whiskey more often."

The door opened, and Grayson walked in looking concerned. "I heard you talking to yourself—"

He stopped dead, his eyes widening as he took in the scene: Mailah sprawled on his bed, empty glass in hand, the bottle of Highland Reserve sitting on the nightstand.

"Mailah, is that the—"

"Grayson!" She sat up too quickly and swayed. "You’re here! You’re so tall. Has anyone ever told you you’re very tall? It’s excessive. But also attractive. Excessively attractive." She squinted at him. "Are you doing that on purpose?"

His expression shifted through several emotions too quickly to catalog. "How much did you drink?"

"This much." She held up fingers in a shape that didn’t correspond to any known measurement. "Maybe more? The glass kept getting empty, so I kept fixing it. I’m helpful like that."

Grayson crossed the room in three strides and picked up the bottle, examining the label with increasing alarm. "Mailah, this is Infernum Reserve. It’s distilled in the demon realm. One shot is equivalent to—" He did some mental math that made his expression darken. "You drank approximately four shots."

"Is that bad?" She flopped backward on the bed. "It feels good. Everything feels good. Except the ceiling. The ceiling is spinning, and that’s rude."

"It’s very bad." He sat down beside her, his hand finding her forehead like he was checking for fever. "How do you feel? Besides the spinning."

"Warm. Floaty. Honest." She grabbed his wrist, holding his hand against her face. "You’re cold and hot at the same time. You’re always hot and cold. Is that a demon thing or a you thing?"

"Mailah—"

"Because I like it. The hot and cold thing. It’s nice." She turned her head and kissed his palm, unfiltered and shameless. "You’re nice. Even when you’re being strategically cold. Especially then, actually, because I can tell you hate it."

Grayson’s breath caught. "You’re intoxicated. You don’t know what you’re saying."

"I’m extremely intoxicated, and I know exactly what I’m saying." She sat up again, swaying into his space. "I’m saying you’re pretty. Gorgeous, actually. Unfairly gorgeous. Did you know you have a tiny scar on your left eyebrow? I’ve been staring at it for weeks trying to figure out how a demon gets a scar, but I was too polite to ask."

"Ancient blade wound," he said automatically, then seemed to realize he was being distracted. "Mailah, you need to drink water. A lot of water. Demon alcohol affects humans differently—"

"Everything about you affects me differently." She poked his chest. "You know what’s exhausting? Your personality changes. One minute you’re all ’I care about you,’ and the next you’re all ’I’m going to be cold and rational,’ and I can’t keep up. It’s like emotional whiplash, and I want to get off this ride, but I also really don’t want to get off this ride because you’re on it."

Grayson had gone very still. "I’m giving you emotional whiplash."

"So much whiplash. I might need a neck brace. Do they make those for feelings?" She leaned forward until their foreheads were almost touching. "But it’s okay because I understand. You’re scared. You’re scared of Theron, and you’re scared of being the demon who feels humanly things because feelings are dangerous and messy and make you vulnerable."

"Mailah, stop—"

"I’m scared too," she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. "I’m terrified. But I’m also really attracted to you, which is inconvenient timing, but apparently my body didn’t get the memo about the ancient archdemon situation." Her hand found his face, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "You have very good bone structure. Has anyone told you that? Very angular. Very demon-prince."

Grayson caught her hand, holding it still. "You need to sleep this off."

"I need to kiss you," she corrected. "I’ve been thinking about kissing you since the airfield. Since before that too, actually. Since—honestly, it’s becoming a problem how much time I spend thinking about kissing you."

"You’re drunk on demon alcohol. You’ll regret this in the morning."

"I’ll regret not doing this in the morning." She leaned in closer, her lips brushing his jaw. "You always smell good. Like winter and something expensive I can’t identify. Is that cologne or do demons just naturally smell like luxury?"

Grayson’s hands came up to her shoulders, but he didn’t push her away. "Mailah, please. You’re making this very difficult."

"Good. You’ve been making everything difficult every day with your hot-and-cold routine." She pulled back just enough to look at him, her inhibitions completely demolished by supernatural alcohol. "I want you. And I know you want me too because you’re not actually that good at hiding it when you think I’m not looking."

His jaw clenched. "Of course I want you. But not like this. Not when you’re intoxicated and not thinking clearly."

"I’m thinking very clearly. Everything’s just... simplified." Her fingers found the buttons on his shirt, fumbling with them. "Normally there’s all this noise in my head about appropriate timing and whether it’s too soon and what your brothers would think and whether I’m betraying Lailah’s memory, but right now all that’s quiet and the only thing I can hear is ’Grayson is gorgeous and I want to kiss him.’"

He caught her hands again, stopping her progress on the buttons. "Those concerns are valid. They don’t disappear just because you’re drunk."

"But they’re less loud." She looked up at him with unfocused eyes. "Don’t you want them to be less loud? Don’t you ever want to just... not think so hard about everything?"

Something in his expression cracked. "I can’t afford not to think. Not now. Not with Theron—"

"Theron isn’t here right now. Right now it’s just us, and I’m very drunk, and you’re very pretty, and I want—" She leaned forward again, but he caught her, steadying her against his chest.

"I know what you want," he said quietly. "But I want you to want this when you can remember it. When you won’t wake up confused."

Mailah’s face was pressed against his shirt, and she could feel his heartbeat—slower than a human’s, but steady.

Solid. Real.

"You’re being ethical," she mumbled. "That’s annoying. And attractive. You’re annoyingly attractive when you’re being honorable."

She felt his chest move with what might have been a laugh. "I’ll add that to my list of confusing compliments."

"It’s a very long list. You’re very complicated. Do you know that? You’re like..." She waved her hand vaguely. "Like a puzzle made of ice and fire and expensive suits and secret softness that you don’t want anyone to see but I see it and it makes me—"

She stopped, her eyes starting to close.

"Makes you what?" Grayson asked, his voice gentler than she’d ever heard it.

"Makes me want to stay," she whispered. "Even when it’s scary. Even when you’re being cold and rational and treating me like a chess piece. Because I know it’s temporary, and underneath it you’re still the person who gave me a hug at a crime scene because you promised you would."

His arms tightened around her. "Mailah—"

But she was already going limp against him, the demon alcohol finally pulling her under into unconsciousness.

Grayson sat there for a long moment, holding her, his expression cycling through emotions he’d spent centuries suppressing.

Finally, carefully, he shifted her onto the bed, removing her shoes and pulling a blanket over her.

He got a glass of water and made a quick call to Dr. Morrison.

Then he sat in the chair by the window, watching her sleep, his tactical mind warring with the part of him that had just heard her drunk-honest confession.

"You make everything complicated," he told her sleeping form. "

He stayed there all night, standing guard, thinking about bone structure and emotional whiplash and a woman who drank demon alcohol.