Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband-Chapter 197: The Guard

THE MEMORY vanished as the sound of the shower next door stopped.

Mailah snapped back to the present, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She looked through the glass and saw the silhouette of Lucson stepping out of his shower. He reached for a towel, his movements slow and methodical.

She realized, with a start, that he knew she was there. He had known the moment he walked into the bathroom. He was a demon; he could probably hear her heartbeat from a mile away.

She turned off her water, the silence of the room suddenly deafening. She stood there, wrapped in nothing but steam and the ghost of Grayson’s voice, waiting for Lucson to leave.

But he didn’t.

She heard the sound of footsteps on the marble. Then, a soft tap on the frosted glass of her shower door.

"Mailah," Lucson’s voice came through the mist, low and vibrating. "A word of advice before you sleep."

She swallowed hard, clutching her towel. "Yes?"

"You are a beacon," he said, his voice sounding closer than before, as if he were leaning his forehead against the other side of the glass. "And now that you are resting, your guard will drop. Do not be surprised if your dreams feel... crowded. Rogue incubi don’t just hunt in clubs; they slide into the subconscious of those who are unbonded."

Mailah shivered. "What am I supposed to do?"

"If the dreams turn dark, if you feel an intrusion you cannot push back, call out for me," he said, his tone shifting into something surprisingly gentle. "I can anchor your mind. I can act as a shield, but it requires you to trust me enough to let me in. Think of it as a psychic ward. I won’t look at your secrets, Mailah. I will simply be the wall between you and the things that want to taste you."

He paused, the silence stretching between them.

Then he pulled away, and she heard the door to his bedroom click shut. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎

Mailah slumped against the tiled wall. The contrast between the two men was staggering. Grayson was the warmth, the man who waited for her to choose. Lucson was the fire, the intrusive protection, the man who forced her to see the world’s dangers.

She walked back into her bedroom and climbed into the massive bed.

She fell into sleep, and the shadows of the room began to stretch and whisper.

The transition from the waking world to the subconscious was not a fall, but a slow, heavy sinking.

The silk sheets of the Grand Hotel de la Rose felt like cool water against Mailah’s skin, a luxury so profound it almost felt like a sedative. As her breathing leveled out, the ornate ceiling of the Imperial Suite blurred, the flickering firelight from the hearth becoming the last thing she saw before the darkness took her.

Initially, the dream was kind.

She found herself in the one room of Grayson’s estate that felt truly hers: the sunroom.

Sunlight, thick and honeyed, poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the half-finished canvases propped against the walls and the stacks of books she’d abandoned on the velvet chaise lounge.

This was where she had spent her best afternoons. It was also the room where almost like a lifetime ago, Grayson had finally dropped his guard. They had been preparing for a photoshoot when he leaned down to claim her lips.

"You’re late," a voice rumbled, pulling her back to the present of her dream.

Mailah turned, her heart skipping a beat. Grayson was sitting in one of of the lounge chairs, the one draped in a sheepskin throw.

He was in a simple white linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the strong, corded muscles of his forearms. He looked up, and his eyes—completely silver-gray—were soft, a swirling mist that spoke of his remaining humanity.

"I got lost," Mailah whispered, moving toward him. In the dream, she reached him in a single step, the distance between them vanishing.

Grayson stood, his presence filling the sunroom until the books and paintings faded into a blur. He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek.

His touch wasn’t the searing, territorial heat of Lucson or the erratic electricity of Carson; it was a steady, low-frequency hum that whispered home.

"You’re never lost when I’m here," he murmured, leaning down until his forehead rested against hers. "My beautiful, stubborn human."

He began to pull her into a dance, a slow, swaying movement amidst the potted palms. It was a swoon-worthy sanctuary where the predatory laws of the supernatural didn’t exist. For a moment, she forgot he was supposed to be missing. She forgot he might be a monster now.

But then, the temperature dropped.

The smell of jasmine vanished, replaced by a sharp, metallic tang. Grayson’s grip on her hands faltered. He didn’t let go, but he seemed to be fading, his form becoming translucent, his silver eyes dulling to a flat, dead lead.

"Grayson?" she asked, her voice hitching.

"They’re here," he whispered, his expression shifting into a jagged, helpless grief. "I haven’t bonded you, Mailah. I wanted you to stay free until the ritual... but I’ve left you as a beacon in a sea of sharks. I’m not... I’m not able to hide you anymore."

The sunroom windows shattered, but instead of glass falling, the world outside turned into a tide of oily shadows. The sunlight curdled into a sickly, bruised violet. The silence of the dream was shredded by a chorus of whispers—hundreds of them, overlapping and hungry.

"The beacon... she’s unbonded..." "Grayson’s prize is left unattended..." "I can smell her heart from across the veil..."

Suddenly, the sanctuary was gone. Mailah stood in a vast, empty hall of mirrors. Figures began to emerge from the glass. They were men of impossible beauty, their features too perfect to be natural. But their eyes told the truth of their rot.

One had eyes of a violent, bruised purple. Another had eyes of burning, carnal crimson. Dozens of them circled her, their gazes fixed on her with the clinical hunger of gourmets looking at a rare delicacy.

"Grayson!" Mailah screamed, spinning around. But he was gone. She was alone in the dark, her soul glowing with a radiant, irresistible heat that acted like a flare in the night.

A man with hair like spun silk and plum-colored eyes—stepped forward. "He’s gone, little bird. The one who tried to play human is currently being broken. He’s in no position to save his favorite meal."

He reached out, his hand ghosting over her shoulder. Mailah tried to move, but her limbs felt like they were encased in stone. This was the helplessness Lucson had warned her about. Without the bond, she was an open pantry.

"Let’s see what he’s been hiding," the incubus purred, his voice sliding into her mind like poison.

As his fingers touched her skin, a jolt of pure, invasive cold shot through her. She felt him beginning to peel back the layers of her mind. The other incubi began to close in, their eyes glowing with a sickening, predatory light.

"Lucson!" she cried out in her mind, the name a desperate, frantic reflex. "Lucson, help!"

The hall of mirrors didn’t just shatter; it was obliterated.

A wave of blinding light erupted from the center of her chest. The incubi shrieked, their perfect faces contorting as the divine, solar heat of the intrusion scorched them.

The plum-eyed man was thrown back, his essence evaporating before he even hit the ground.

The darkness didn’t return. Instead, the dreamscape recalibrated into a terrifying stillness.

Lucson stood between Mailah and the retreating shadows, his presence a territorial roar.

He turned to her. He didn’t shrink. He stayed as he was. He reached out a massive, glowing hand. The invasive cold vanished, replaced by a warmth so deep it felt like her blood was turning to liquid light.

"Sleep, Mailah," his voice resonated in her very marrow.

Mailah woke to the sound of a silver spoon clinking against fine porcelain.

She sat up, the transition from the dream to the muted morning light of the Imperial Suite making her head spin. She was tangled in the lace of the four-poster bed, her skin still humming with a residual warmth.

She rubbed her eyes, the nightmare feeling like a fading bruise. She looked at the door to the shared bathroom. It was closed, but she could still feel the phantom "wall" Lucson had placed around her mind—a quiet, sturdy hum that made her feel oddly safe.

In the living room, a massive rolling table had been set up near the fireplace. It was covered in silver cloches, crystal carafes of juice, and a mountain of pastries.

Carson was slumped on the velvet sofa, his feet up on the coffee table. He was wearing a matching silk robe, styled open to his navel. He was currently throwing grapes into the air and trying to catch them in his mouth.

"Morning, Sunshine," he chirped, missing a grape and letting it bounce off his nose. "You look like you actually slept. I, on the other hand, spent the night wondering if the minibar was a challenge or a suggestion."

Mailah couldn’t help a small laugh. "You look ridiculous."

"I look expensive," he corrected, gesturing to the spread. "Eat. Lucson went full ’Lord of the Manor’ this morning. I think he threatened the chef’s entire bloodline to ensure the eggs were poached to exactly sixty-three degrees."

Lucson emerged from the balcony, the morning sun catching the sharp lines of his face. He was already fully dressed in a black shirt and dark jeans.

He looked at Mailah, and for a heartbeat, she saw the dream flicker in his eyes before they settled back into their disciplined, metallic silver.

"You slept," he noted, his voice a low rumble.

"I did," she said, walking toward the table. "Thank you."

Lucson didn’t acknowledge the dream directly, but a slight softening of his jaw told her he understood. "The intruders won’t return. They know the territory is claimed."

"Claimed," Mailah repeated, the word feeling heavy. She sat down, picking up a croissant. "So, what now? We’ve recharged. Do we finally go find Grayson?"