CHAPTER 36: CHAPTER 36: THE CHOICE

"THE ONLY PERSON WHO CAN SAVE HIM IS YOU."

Dr. Morrison’s words hung in the air like a death sentence, each syllable reverberating through Mailah’s mind with the finality of a judge’s gavel.

She stared at Grayson’s motionless form, her hands trembling as the full weight of what was being asked of her settled into her bones like lead.

Save him. By letting him feed on her. By becoming his willing prey.

"I..." she began, then stopped, her voice catching in her throat. The room felt suddenly suffocating, the sandalwood incense too thick, too cloying. She could taste it on her tongue, sweet and smoky and somehow wrong.

"I need a moment," she whispered, rising unsteadily from the chair beside the bed.

Her injured ankle protested, sending sharp spikes of pain up her leg, but she welcomed the physical discomfort.

It was something real, something concrete to focus on instead of the impossible choice that loomed before her like a cliff’s edge.

Vivienne and Dr. Morrison exchanged a meaningful glance, one of those silent communications that spoke of long history and shared secrets. It was Vivienne who finally broke the silence.

"Of course," she said, her voice gentler than Mailah had ever heard it. "This isn’t a decision to be made lightly. But..." She glanced at Grayson’s pale face, and for the first time, Mailah saw genuine fear in the older woman’s eyes. "Time is not a luxury we have in abundance."

Mailah nodded mutely, backing toward the door on unsteady legs. She needed air, needed space, needed somewhere to think without the weight of their expectant gazes pressing down on her like stones.

Despite the throbbing pain in her injured ankle, she found herself walking through the corridors, her feet carrying her instinctively toward the sunroom.

It had become her refuge during the weeks she’d spent at the estate—a bright, airy space filled with natural light and the gentle sounds of the gardens beyond.

Morning light poured into the sunroom, casting a soft glow over the strategically placed plants. Through the glass walls, the estate’s meticulously groomed gardens stretched in every direction.

She sank into one of the comfortable wicker chairs, finally allowing herself to take the weight off her injured ankle, and tried to organize her chaotic thoughts.

Let him feed on her. It sounded so simple when Dr. Morrison said she was the only one who can save Grayson, so clinical and matter-of-fact. But the reality was far more complex, far more terrifying.

A thousand ways it could go wrong flashed through her mind like scenes from a horror movie.

A starving incubus who hadn’t fed in three centuries—how could he possibly control himself once he started? How would he know when to stop? What if his hunger, suppressed for so long, overwhelmed whatever conscience kept him tethered to his humanity?

She could end up drained dry, withered to husks while the demon that had seduced her grew fat on stolen essence.

And even if he did manage to stop in time, what then? Would this be the beginning of some twisted cycle where he fed on her little by little, day by day, until there was nothing left of her but an empty shell?

How long could a human body sustain that kind of drain before it simply gave up?

Questions bred like weeds in her mind, growing faster than she could pull them out, choking her thoughts with their grip.

But it was the deeper fear, the one that lurked beneath all the practical concerns, that made her stomach twist with familiar dread.

The fear of being used. Again.

The memory rose unbidden, as vivid and painful as if it had happened yesterday instead of years ago.

She was fourteen, standing in the sterile office of the social services building, clutching Lailah’s hand as they listened to Mrs. Henderson explain about the families who wanted to adopt them.

"It’s unusual for twins to be separated," the social worker had said, her voice carefully neutral. "But both families are very eager, and sometimes it’s better for children to have individual attention rather than competing for resources."

Individual attention. What a joke that had turned out to be.

The Richardsons had seemed perfect in those first few weeks—a middle-class family with a nice house in the suburbs, parents who worked respectable jobs and talked about providing her with opportunities she’d never had.

They’d shown her the bedroom they’d prepared, complete with a desk for homework and shelves for books, and spoke earnestly about their hopes for her future.

She should have known it was too good to be true.

The first red flag had been subtle—a conversation she’d overheard between Mr. and Mrs. Richardson late one night, something about trust funds and inheritance requirements and how adopting a child was "an investment in their retirement security."

She’d been too young to fully understand, but old enough to sense that something was wrong.

The emotional abuse had started slowly. Little criticisms disguised as helpful suggestions. Comparisons to other children who were more grateful, more accomplished, more worthy of the sacrifices the Richardsons were making.

The constant reminder that she owed them everything, that without their generosity she’d be nothing, have nothing, be nothing.

"We saved you from the system," Mrs. Richardson would say whenever Mailah showed any sign of independence or rebellion. "The least you can do is show some appreciation."

The appreciation they wanted came in many forms. Perfect grades to make them look good to their friends. Household chores that went far beyond normal expectations.

Playing the part of the grateful adopted daughter whenever people visited, proving to the world that they were loving, devoted parents.

It wasn’t until years later that she’d overheard the full truth during one of their late-night arguments.

Mrs. Richardson’s father had been a wealthy but traditional man whose will contained a peculiar stipulation: his daughter and son-in-law could only inherit his vast estate if they had a child and raised them until the age of 18.

"We’ve done our time," Mrs. Richardson had hissed at her husband. "Four years of pretending to care about that ungrateful brat, and now she’s eighteen. We can finally get what’s ours."

The pieces had fallen into place with sickening clarity.

They hadn’t adopted her out of love or even genuine desire for a child. She’d been nothing more than a requirement to fulfill—a human prop in their performance of parenthood, maintained just long enough to satisfy a dead man’s conditions.

On her eighteenth birthday, their cruelty had arrived fast and without mercy. Any illusion of affection totally vanished in an instant.

They’d made it clear through cutting remarks and deliberate neglect that she was no longer needed, no longer wanted, no longer worth the minimal effort they’d put into maintaining appearances.

"You can leave anytime," Mrs. Richardson had said with barely concealed relief during one particularly vicious argument. "In fact, we’d prefer it. You’ve served your purpose."

The day she’d packed her few belongings and walked out of their house had been both the most terrifying and the most liberating moment of her life.

Terrifying because she was alone in the world with no resources and no safety net. Liberating because she was finally, finally free from people who saw her as nothing more than a means to an end—a living, breathing checkbox on their path to wealth.

She’d survived on her own through sheer stubborn determination, working multiple jobs, sleeping on friends’ couches. She’d learned to trust no one completely, to always look for the angle, to protect herself because no one else would.

And now here she was, faced with another person who needed something from her. Another situation where her value lay not in who she was but in what she could provide.

The parallel was too perfect, too cruel. Grayson needed her life force to survive, just as the Richardsons had needed her for their inheritance.

Both situations dressed up as something else—love, care, protection—when really they were just different forms of consumption.

But even as the thought formed, she knew it wasn’t entirely fair.

The Richardsons had been calculating predators who’d chosen her specifically because she was vulnerable and alone.

Grayson hadn’t asked for any of this. He’d been fighting against his nature for centuries, starving himself rather than take what he needed from unwilling victims.

And he’d saved her life. Even knowing it would likely cost him his own, he’d used the last of his strength to protect her from the falling chandelier. That wasn’t the action of someone who saw her as merely a resource to be exploited.

The memory of that moment played in her mind like a film reel stuck on repeat.

The terrible grinding sound of the chandelier’s supports giving way. The knowledge that she was going to die, crushed beneath tons of crystal and metal.

And then Grayson, appearing like some dark angel, his eyes blazing with inhuman power as he moved the massive fixture with nothing but his will.

He’d chosen to save her. Without hesitation, without calculating the cost to himself, he’d chosen her life over his own survival.

Now that he needed her, would she make the same choice?

"Mind if I join you?" came Dr. Morrison’s calm voice.

Startled, she turned to find him at the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his expression neutral—but his eyes sharp and assessing.

She shook her head. "Not at all."

His gaze flicked to her foot, still slightly elevated. "How’s the ankle?"

She grimaced. "Bruised. Achy. Still attached, though."

"May I take a look? If you don’t mind," he offered, stepping closer.

Mailah hesitated, then nodded. As he knelt before her, his fingers deft and gentle, she watched him work in silence, unsure of what to say.

"I thought you only treated... beings like Grayson," she said finally, her voice light with curiosity. "Supernaturals."

Dr. Morrison chuckled softly. "It’s not forbidden to treat human patients. Besides, you’re part of this world now whether you like it or not." His tone was warm, his hazel eyes twinkling in the light. "And I don’t discriminate against sprained ankles."

She huffed a quiet laugh, charmed despite herself. "That’s comforting."

He cradled her ankle carefully, rotating it slightly in his hands.

"Okay," he said after a moment. "Try twisting it a bit. Slowly."

With hesitation, she followed his instruction—and blinked in disbelief. There was no sharp sting, no dull ache. Just... nothing.

She looked at him. "That’s weird. It doesn’t hurt."

He gave a small nod, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

" Sometimes pressure and suggestion help reset things."

"You make it sound like magic," she murmured, still amazed.

His expression darkened with something unreadable. "You’re living in a house where magic is the least strange thing."

That made her laugh, the tension easing from her shoulders. "Touché."

He stood slowly, brushing his palms together. "You’re fine to walk now, but take it easy."

"Thanks, Dr. Morrison."

"Soren," he corrected smoothly, meeting her eyes.

She blinked. "Sorry?"

"Call me Soren," he said again, with the kind of quiet insistence that suggested familiarity, not ego.

She gave him a questioning look, but nodded slowly. "Soren, then."

Their eyes held for a moment—hers searching, his unreadable. And for once, he didn’t mention Grayson. Didn’t ask about her decision.

He simply stood, gave her a respectful nod, and let her enjoy the silence and the sun.

"How long do we have?" she asked gently though suddenly, surprised by how steady her voice sounded.

"Hours, not days," he replied honestly. "His body is failing rapidly. The longer we wait, the more dangerous any feeding attempt becomes. If he gets much weaker, he might not be able to control himself even if he wanted to."

"And if I agree to this," she said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth, "what are the chances I survive it?"

Dr. Soren Morrison was quiet for a long moment, and she appreciated that he didn’t try to lie to her or dress up the truth in comforting platitudes.

"In his current state? Maybe sixty percent. Seventy if we can wake him first, get him coherent enough to understand what’s happening."

He paused, studying her face. "Those aren’t good odds, I know. But they’re better than his chances without intervention, which are essentially zero."

Sixty percent. More than the flip of a coin. Still, she’d be gambling her life.

But what was the alternative? Let him die while she stood by and watched, safe in her own skin but knowing she could have saved him?

Live with the knowledge that the first person in years to show her genuine care and protection had died because she was too afraid to take a risk?

She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the fear and the memories and the voice in her head that screamed at her to run, to save herself, to refuse to be used again by someone who needed her for their own survival.

But when she opened them again, she wasn’t thinking about the Richardsons or foster homes or the long, lonely years of protecting herself from anyone who might hurt her.

She was thinking about Grayson’s hands cradling her face with devastating gentleness. The way he’d looked at her in those dreams—not with the calculated interest of someone sizing up a mark, but with genuine desire and something that had felt like reverence.

The way he’d pulled back when she’d asked him to show her his true form, fighting his own nature to protect her even when she was begging him not to.

The way he’d stood over her broken body in the foyer, his eyes blazing with inhuman power as he moved a two-ton chandelier like it weighed nothing, because her life mattered more to him than his own survival.

Maybe she was being foolish. Maybe this was just another form of being used, dressed up in supernatural packaging instead of legal documents and emotional manipulation.

But for the first time in her life, someone had protected her without expecting anything in return. Someone had sacrificed for her instead of demanding she sacrifice for them.

If she was going to gamble with her life, she could think of worse reasons to roll the dice.

She turned to Soren, her decision crystallizing in her mind like water freezing into ice.

Soren watched her with those penetrating eyes, reading her choice in the set of her shoulders, the lift of her chin.

"I’ll do it," she said, her voice steady despite the terror clawing at her throat.

"I’ll let him feed."