Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband-Chapter 183: The Breaking

SLEEP HAD BECOME A BATTLEFIELD.

Every time Grayson’s consciousness slipped away—whether from exhaustion, from the sedatives still lingering in his system, or from the relentless draining of his life force—Seryn was waiting.

Not in the violet-lit room where his physical body remained trapped.

In his dreams.

He’d found himself standing in the villa garden—the one where he and Mailah had spent some evenings talking. The Tuscan sunset painted everything in gold, the air smelled of jasmine, and Mailah was there.

Walking toward him in her wedding dress again.

Smiling.

Real.

"Grayson," she’d said, her voice exactly right—the slight rasp she got when tired, the warmth that carried even in single syllables. "I’ve been looking for you everywhere."

Relief had flooded through him so intensely it hurt. "Mailah. Thank god. I thought—"

"Thought what?" She’d reached him, placing her hands on his chest with that casual intimacy they’d developed. "That I’d let you disappear? That I wouldn’t find you?"

"Seryn took me. She’s—"

"Shh." Mailah’s finger pressed against his lips. "You’re safe now. You’re with me. Nothing else matters."

And Grayson—exhausted, depleted, desperate for comfort—had almost believed her.

Almost let himself sink into the dream, into the false comfort it offered.

But then she’d kissed him, and something was wrong.

The taste. The texture. The way her body felt against his.

All wrong.

Mailah’s kisses tasted like sunshine and stubbornness and home. This tasted like roses and ashes and old manipulation.

Grayson had jerked back, reality crashing through the fantasy. "You’re not her."

The dream-Mailah’s smile had widened, shifted, features rearranging themselves into a different set of eyes and black hair and the demon princess who’d destroyed him three centuries ago.

"Well," Seryn had said pleasantly. "That was disappointing. I thought you’d last longer before figuring it out."

The dream had shattered, ejecting him back into waking consciousness with whiplash force.

That had been... hours ago? Days? Time meant nothing in this room.

But Seryn kept trying.

Every time he slept, she was there. Sometimes as Mailah. Sometimes as other people he cared about—his brothers, friends he’d made during his exile, even strangers who’d shown him kindness over the centuries.

All of them trying to comfort him. To draw him deeper into the dreams. To feed on whatever emotions she could extract through the fabricated scenarios.

But Grayson had three centuries of practice resisting his own nature. He knew manipulation when he felt it, even in dreams. Especially in dreams.

"You’re getting tedious," he’d told Mason in a dream during one attempt, watching his brother’s simulacrum falter mid-sentence. "Seryn, if you’re going to invade my sleep, at least be creative about it."

The dream had dissolved immediately, Seryn’s frustrated rage rippling through the collapsing imagery like heat waves.

When nightmares started instead, Grayson had almost laughed.

Of course. If pleasant dreams wouldn’t work, she’d try horror. Make him relive the genocide, the destruction, the faces of people who’d died because five demons couldn’t see past their own obsession.

And she could have fed on that—on his guilt, his horror, his self-loathing.

Except Grayson had spent three centuries living with those nightmares already. Had processed them, examined them, accepted them as the price of his mistakes.

They had no power over him anymore except to remind him why he’d chosen abstinence, why he’d tried so desperately to be better.

"Is that all you have?" he’d asked the nightmare-version of a city burning while children screamed. "Because I assure you, my own nightmares are far more creative than this."

The nightmare had paused—an impossible thing for dreams to do—and he’d felt Seryn’s presence behind it, furious and baffled in equal measure.

Then the dream had shifted again.

This time showing him Mailah. Not the real Mailah, but an imagined version of her—standing at his grave, her face devastated, their unborn children (impossible children, human-demon hybrids that couldn’t exist) watching their mother mourn a father they’d never known.

"Look what you’ve done," dream-Mailah had said, tears streaming down her face. "Look what your choices have cost us."

And that one had hurt.

Not because Grayson believed the scenario—he knew it was fabricated, knew Mailah and he couldn’t have children in any conventional sense, knew Seryn was just throwing emotional attacks like darts to see what stuck.

But because the core of it resonated.

His choices did affect Mailah. Every dangerous thing he was, every complication his nature brought, every threat from his past—all of it touched her now that she’d chosen to be with him.

He felt the dream-feeding intensify, Seryn latching onto his guilt like a parasite finding blood.

Grayson forced himself to focus. To remember the real Mailah—not this fabricated victim, but the woman who’d stood in the dream realm in the past. Who’d helped him through his first full feeding despite nearly dying in the process. Who’d fought for their bond when even the Council had questioned its validity.

"Nice try," he’d said to the dissolving dream. "But you don’t know her. You don’t know what she’s capable of. And you don’t know what we are together."

The dream had shattered with enough force that Grayson had woken gasping, his chest aching from the abrupt disconnection.

Seryn had been standing over him, her eyes bright with frustration.

"You’re remarkably resilient," she’d said, almost admiringly. "I’ve broken demons twice your age with less effort. But you keep resisting. Keep fighting. It’s admirable and infuriating in equal measure."

"Then let me go," Grayson had managed through cracked lips. His throat felt like sandpaper from disuse and dehydration. "If I’m so much trouble, just release me."

"Oh, I can’t do that." Seryn had settled into her chair, that familiar predatory grace making every movement deliberate. "You’re far too valuable. And besides—" Her smile had turned sharp. "I’m enjoying the challenge."

That’s when she’d started the direct feeding again.

Not through dreams. Not through manufactured scenarios. Just raw consumption of his life force, pulling it from him in steady, measured amounts that left him increasingly hollow.

It felt like dying by degrees.

Not the quick death of violence or disease, but a slow erosion of everything that made him him.

His strength. His will.

His connection to the human emotions he’d worked so hard to cultivate, especially during his time with Mailah.

And Seryn watched it happen with clinical interest, like a scientist observing an experiment.

"Do you know what you are, Grayson?" she asked during one of these sessions, her hand resting on his chest as she drained him. "Underneath all the pretense of humanity? All the careful control and noble intentions?"

"A demon," he’d forced out. "An incubus. I’ve never pretended otherwise."

"No, you’ve spent three centuries pretending everything otherwise." Her fingers traced patterns on his suit—still the wedding suit, now wrinkled and disheveled beyond recognition. "You’ve pretended that abstinence made you better. That denying your nature somehow redeemed you. That playing human could erase what you did three hundred years ago."

"I never thought it would erase anything—"

"Shh. I’m not finished." The draining intensified, making his vision blur. "You’re split, Grayson. Divided. Half demon, half human—except that’s not how it works. You can’t be both. Eventually, one side wins."

"I’ve been both for three centuries—"

"You’ve been dying for three centuries. Slowly starving your demon nature while propping up a human facade that was never meant to last." Seryn leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "And now I’m going to show you what happens when the balance tips."

Grayson felt the draining shift—no longer pulling his general life force, but something more specific. More targeted.

His humanity.

The parts of him that felt compassion instead of hunger. That chose love over manipulation. That valued Mailah’s wellbeing over his own survival.

All of it being systematically consumed.

"What are you doing?" he asked, but he already knew. Could feel it happening with horrifying clarity.

"I’m draining your human life force," Seryn said calmly. "Removing the parts of you that have been holding your demon nature hostage. Once it’s gone—once you’re purely demon again, the way you were meant to be—you’ll finally stop fighting me."

"That’s not—it doesn’t work like that—"

"Doesn’t it?" Her smile widened. "You’ve felt it already, haven’t you? The way your demon nature has been pushing harder since you fed from Mailah. How it’s been demanding more, taking up more space in your consciousness. How it’s been getting harder to think like a human instead of a predator."

She was right.

Grayson had been fighting it since his first full feeding—the way his incubus nature had woken up after three centuries of dormancy and decided it was tired of being suppressed.

The way it whispered suggestions about feeding more often, feeding deeper, taking what he wanted without all the careful human considerations.

But he’d been managing it. Controlling it. Mailah had been helping him stay balanced, stay grounded in his humanity even as his demon nature grew stronger.

Except Mailah wasn’t here.

And Seryn was actively eroding the parts of him that would resist.

"You’re insane," he said, putting all his remaining strength into the words. "Even if you drain my humanity, my demon nature won’t just obey you. It’ll still be me. Just worse."

"Worse is what I’m counting on." Seryn’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. "Because a Grayson without human guilt, without conscience, without that tedious nobility you’ve cultivated—that’s a Grayson who remembers what we had. What we could have again."

"We never had anything—"

"We had everything. You just convinced yourself it was manipulation instead of genuine connection because accepting the truth was too painful." Her hand pressed harder against his chest, the draining becoming almost unbearable. "But once your humanity is gone, you’ll see clearly. You’ll remember how it felt to be purely demon. To take what you wanted without apology. To exist without all these limiting human emotions."

Grayson tried to resist, to block her, to do anything to slow the draining.

But he was so weak. So depleted. Three centuries of controlled feeding meant he had no reserves to draw on, no deep well of power to access in emergencies.

He was running on empty.

And Seryn knew it.

"I can see it happening already," she said, almost wonderingly.

"This isn’t me," he managed, but even to his own ears the protest sounded weak.

"It’s the you you’ve been hiding for three hundred years." Seryn’s smile turned triumphant. "And once I’ve finished draining your human life force, once your demon nature takes over completely—you’ll thank me for freeing you from that prison you built."

The draining continued, relentless and methodical.

Grayson felt pieces of himself falling away—the guilt he’d carried about the genocide, the love he felt for Mailah, the determination to be better than his nature demanded.

All of it being systematically consumed by the demon princess who’d destroyed him once before and was apparently intent on doing it again.

"Stop," he said, but the word came out barely a whisper.

"Shh." Seryn’s finger pressed against his lips, silencing him. "Don’t fight it. Let go."

Grayson’s vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges.