SERA AND DR. MORRISON LEFT with final instructions about stimulants and monitoring protocols. The door closed with a soft click.

Grayson and Mailah were alone.

She was still standing by the bed, swaying slightly. Her face had gone pale during the examination, and there were shadows under her eyes that hadn’t been there two days ago.

He took a step toward her.

Her hand came up immediately—not reaching for him, but stopping him.

A clear warning. Her eyes locked onto his, sharp despite her obvious exhaustion.

Don’t.

The message was unmistakable.

Don’t come closer. Don’t check on her. Don’t do anything that might compromise what they were both trying to maintain.

Grayson stopped mid-step.

For a long moment, they just stared at each other across the room. The air felt thick with everything they couldn’t say.

Everything the cameras might catch. Everything Theron might be passively observing through that goddamn dream connection.

Mailah’s hand dropped back to her side. She moved to the nightstand, picked up the untouched lunch tray, and deliberately took a bite of cold sandwich. Forcing herself to eat even though she looked like she might be sick.

Maintaining. Surviving.

Doing exactly what the plan required.

Grayson’s jaw tightened.

He should leave.

Should treat this like any other tactical briefing and exit now that the medical assessment was complete.

Instead, he moved to the window. Checked the grounds. Adjusted the curtains even though they were already perfectly positioned.

Stalling.

"Dr. Morrison will check on you every four hours," he said, his voice flat. Professional. "Report any deterioration immediately."

Mailah didn’t respond. Just took another bite of sandwich, her movements mechanical.

"The stimulants he’s providing will help, but they have side effects. Anxiety. Paranoia. Possible tremors." He kept his back to her, still staring out at the grounds. "If you experience hallucinations—"

"I know the protocol." Her voice was steady. Cold. Matching his tone exactly. "I’ve memorized every contingency in your plan. Including the ones where I fail."

That made him turn.

She was looking at him now, sandwich forgotten in her hand. Her expression was carefully controlled, but there was something fierce in her eyes.

Something that said she knew exactly what he was doing—the distance, the coldness, the careful pretense—and she was doing it too.

Playing her part.

Even though it was destroying them both.

"Good," he said. "Then we understand each other."

"Perfectly."

The word had edges.

Grayson moved toward the door. He had his hand on the handle when she spoke again.

"Grayson."

He stopped. Didn’t turn around.

"I won’t let Theron learn about the plan. I won’t fail you," she said quietly.

You.

Not the mission or the objective or the strategic goal.

You.

His hand tightened on the door handle until his knuckles went white.

"See that you don’t," he said.

Then he left.

In the hallway, Carson was waiting with an armful of board games, books, and what looked like an entire box of caffeinated beverages.

"Entertainment detail reporting for duty," Carson said, his usual levity strained. "Though I have to say, asking a human to stay awake for three days seems—"

"She agreed to the terms."

"Did she? Or did you just present it as the only option?" Carson’s expression was uncharacteristically serious. "Gray, if she collapses—"

"She won’t."

"You can’t know that."

"I can." Grayson started walking. "She’s stronger than either of us is giving her credit for."

"Or more stubborn."

"Same thing."

Carson followed him back to the security center, where Lucson was coordinating the staged security compromise. Multiple screens showed various points of the estate, guard rotations, ward configurations.

"Status?" Grayson asked.

"Everything’s ready. We’ll make it look like last night’s perimeter breach did more damage than we initially assessed. A few ’malfunctioning’ wards. Some gaps in coverage near the greenhouse." Lucson pulled up the relevant schematics. "Theron will see what he expects to see—an estate compromised and scrambling to patch holes."

"Timeline?"

"We stage the compromise tonight. Move Mailah to the greenhouse tomorrow evening. Give Theron thirty-six hours to make his move before Sera’s severance ritual is ready."

Thirty-six hours. A day and a half for Mailah to maintain mental barriers while sleep-deprived, drugged with stimulants, and functioning as bait.

The variables were stacking up. Too many things that could go wrong.

"Any word from our surveillance on the locations Kael provided?" Grayson asked.

"Nothing. The safe house was abandoned. Meeting locations clean. Either Theron’s moved, or Kael gave us false information." Mason appeared in the doorway. "Though we did find something interesting in the apartment’s financial records. Regular payments to an offshore account. Significant amounts."

"How significant?"

"Enough to suggest Theron has substantial resources. More than a typical exiled demon would have access to." Mason pulled up the financial trail on one of the screens. "Someone’s funding him. Someone with deep pockets and no interest in being traced."

Grayson studied the numbers.

"So we’re not just dealing with Theron. We’re dealing with whoever’s backing him." Lucson’s expression was grim. "That changes the threat assessment."

"It changes nothing." Grayson’s voice was cold. "The plan proceeds as written. We eliminate Theron. Then we trace the money and eliminate whoever thought funding him was a good investment."

His phone buzzed. Dr. Morrison: First check complete. Vitals stable. She’s alert and responsive. Stimulants administered.

Grayson pocketed the phone without responding.

Four hours. Then another check. Then another.

For the next seventy-two hours, Mailah would be monitored, medicated, and kept conscious through sheer force of will and chemical assistance.

While he coordinated the plan that would use her as bait.

While Theron potentially watched through a dream connection they couldn’t sever.

While everything hung on her ability to maintain mental barriers under conditions that would break most humans.

Carson studied Grayson’s face with unusual seriousness. "You know she’s going to pull through this, right? The sleep deprivation, the plan, all of it. She’s tougher than you think."

"I know exactly how tough she is."

"Do you? Because from here, it looks like you’re preparing for her to fail. Like you’re already writing the contingency for when she collapses or the barriers break or something goes catastrophically wrong."

"That’s called strategic planning."

"That’s called being afraid." Carson’s voice dropped lower. "And the fact that you’re afraid means you care a hell of a lot more than you’re admitting."

Grayson didn’t respond. Just turned back to the screens and started reviewing guard positions for the hundredth time.

Hour twelve.

Mailah was pacing the room. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Carson had set up a chess board, but she’d stopped playing after the first game. Too stationary. Movement helped keep her awake.

Grayson watched from the security feed, his expression neutral even though no one else was in the room to see it.

She looked tired but functional. The stimulants were working.

Hour twenty-four.

Dr. Morrison’s update: Showing signs of fatigue but mentally sharp. Barriers holding. Mild tremors in hands—normal side effect of stimulants. Recommend continued monitoring.

Grayson hadn’t seen her in person since leaving the room the day before. Coordinated everything through Mason and Dr. Morrison.

His phone showed sixteen missed calls from her.

He hadn’t returned any of them.

Hour thirty-six.

The security compromise was staged. Wards "malfunctioned." Coverage gaps appeared exactly where they needed to. Guard rotations became "confused."

To anyone watching—Theron included—the estate looked vulnerable.

Mailah was moved to the greenhouse under heavy guard that looked insufficient from the outside.

Lucson had positioned his best teams in concealed locations around the structure.

Sight lines covered. Extraction routes planned.

The trap was set.

Now they waited.

Hour forty-eight.

Grayson stood in the greenhouse with Mailah for the first time in two days.

She looked terrible. Eyes red-rimmed. Skin too pale. Hands shaking from the stimulants. But she was standing. Conscious. Alert.

The mental barriers were still holding.

"Status?" he asked, his voice flat.

"Functional." Her voice was hoarse. She’d been talking to Carson and Mason to stay awake, wearing out her throat. "Barriers intact. No dreams. No sleep."

"Good."

He moved around the space, checking sight lines that had already been checked a dozen times. Anything to avoid looking at her too long. Anything to maintain the distance.

"Grayson."

He stopped but didn’t look at her. It was too much for him to see her suffering. He didn’t trust himself to keep it together.

"When this is over—" she started.

"Focus on surviving it first."

"I am surviving it." There was an edge to her voice now. Exhaustion making her less careful. "I’m doing exactly what you asked. What the plan requires. What—"

She stopped abruptly. Swayed.

Grayson was moving before he could think, catching her before she fell.

His hands on her arms, steadying her, pulling her upright.

"Mailah."

"Yes?"

He should not say anything that might compromise their carefully constructed pretense.

"Don’t die," he said quietly. "That’s an order."

Then he was gone, leaving her alone in the greenhouse with guards she couldn’t see and a plan that would either save them all or get her killed.