CHAPTER 44: CHAPTER 44: THE NEW DAY

"WHAT IF I DREAM AGAIN?" she whispered, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "What if I get trapped like before? What if I can’t wake up?"

The terror in her voice was raw and unmistakable. The memory of the dream realm was still too fresh, too vivid—how easily she had been manipulated and nearly destroyed.

Soren’s expression immediately softened with understanding. He set down his medical bag and leaned forward, his ancient eyes meeting hers with gentle reassurance.

"That won’t happen," he said firmly, his voice carrying absolute conviction. "The connection between you and the dream realm has been severed. Grayson made sure of that."

"But what if another incubus finds me while I’m sleeping?" she pressed, her voice trembling. "What if Kieran comes back, or someone else like him? I’ll be vulnerable, defenseless..."

"No," Soren interrupted gently but firmly. "I’ve placed protective wards. No supernatural entity can reach you. And beyond that..." He paused, seeming to weigh his words carefully. "Your essence is too depleted right now to attract that kind of attention. You need to recover your strength before you become... appetizing... to other predators again."

The way he said it should have been reassuring, but instead it only emphasized how close she had come to complete destruction. She was like a wounded animal, temporarily safe only because she was too broken to be worth hunting.

She wanted to say more, to ask more questions, to demand answers to the dozens of concerns that were swirling through her mind. But the elixir was pulling her down into a deep, healing sleep that her battered body desperately needed.

Just as consciousness began to slip away, she heard the soft sound of the bedroom door opening.

"Doctor Morrison," a familiar voice said, and her heart leaped at the sound of it. Grayson. He was here, he was awake, he was—

"She’s just fallen asleep," Soren replied quietly, his voice carrying a warning undertone. "The healing process is delicate. She shouldn’t be disturbed."

"I know," Grayson said, and even through the haze of approaching sleep, Mailah could hear the exhaustion in his voice, the way each word seemed to cost him effort.

Mailah tried to open her eyes, tried to turn toward the sound of his voice, but her body refused to cooperate. The elixir had taken hold, pulling her consciousness down into the deep waters of restorative sleep.

But she could feel him there, could sense his presence in the room like warmth from a distant fire. He was alive, he was conscious, and he had come to check on her just as she had wanted to check on him.

"She’s been asking about you," she heard Soren say softly. "She’s very concerned about your condition."

"And I’m concerned about hers," Grayson replied, his voice closer now, as if he had moved to stand beside the bed.

"She’s stronger than she looks," Soren assured him. "The restorative treatments are working. Her life force is beginning to stabilize."

There was a long pause, and then Grayson spoke again, his voice so quiet that Mailah had to strain to hear it. "I nearly killed her."

"You saved her," Soren corrected firmly. "If you hadn’t intervened when you did, she would be dead now."

"I should never have let it get that far in the first place," Grayson said, and the pain in his voice was like a knife through Mailah’s heart.

"You’re not the first of your kind to struggle," Soren replied diplomatically.

"That’s the problem," Grayson said quietly.

"Perhaps," Soren suggested carefully, "you should consider telling her the truth. All of it. She deserves to know what she’s gotten herself into, and she’s proven herself to be remarkably resilient."

The last thing she heard was the soft sound of footsteps approaching the bed, and then Grayson’s voice, so close she could feel his breath against her ear.

"I’m so sorry," he whispered.

She tried to respond, tried to tell him that she forgave him, that she understood. But her body betrayed her, and she slipped into the deep, dreamless sleep that her battered spirit desperately needed.

When she next became aware of her surroundings, sunlight was streaming through the heavy curtains, painting golden patterns across the burgundy sheets. Her body felt marginally stronger, though still fragile, like a flower recovering from a harsh frost.

And sitting in the chair beside her bed, looking pale and exhausted but blessedly alive, was Grayson.

Their eyes met across the space between them, and for a moment neither of them spoke. There was too much to say, too many questions and explanations and apologies hanging in the air between them.

Finally, Grayson cleared his throat. "Doctor Morrison," he said, his gaze never leaving Mailah’s face, "could you give us a few minutes alone?"

Dr. Morrison glanced between them, his ancient eyes assessing the tension that seemed to sizzle in the air like electricity before a storm. After a moment, he nodded and rose from his chair.

"Of course," he said. "But remember—she’s still recovering. Don’t overtax her strength." His gaze lingered meaningfully on Grayson. "And no supernatural influence. Her psyche is still fragile from the trauma."

Grayson’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he nodded. "Understood."

The door closed behind Dr. Morrison with a soft click that seemed to echo in the sudden silence.

For a long moment, neither moved.

The air between them felt charged, heavy with unspoken desire and the memory of dream-touches that had felt more real than reality itself.

She could see the war playing out across his features—want battling with self-loathing, need fighting against what he believed was right.

She serched for some glimpse of the man who had whispered her name with such desperate need in the dream realm. But his expression had become carefully neutral, almost clinical.

"You look terrible," she said softly, hoping to provoke some genuine reaction.

Something flickered across his features—so brief she almost missed it—before he inclined his head with polite acknowledgment. "The psychic backlash was... significant," he said, his tone suggesting he was discussing the weather rather than his own suffering.

The careful distance in his voice stung more than she expected. "That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?"

His blue eyes met hers, and for just a moment, she saw something raw and desperate swimming in their depths before it was quickly suppressed. "What would you have me say?" he asked, his voice perfectly controlled.

"The whole truth," she said, frustration bleeding into her tone. "About the dreams. About what happened between us. Were they real?"

He was quiet for so long she began to think he wouldn’t answer. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, careful.

"The dream realm operates on a different set of rules than this world," he said. "What you experienced there had substance, yes. But it was designed to facilitate feeding. Nothing more."

The dismissal of their intimate moments hit her like a slap. "Nothing more? Is that really what you believe?"

For just an instant, his mask slipped. She saw pain flash across his features, saw his hands clench almost imperceptibly at his sides, before the careful blankness returned.

"What I believe is irrelevant," he said, his voice steady as stone. "What matters is that you nearly died because of me."

"Irrelevant?" The word came out sharper than she intended. "Is that what you call what happened?"

"I allowed the feeding to continue longer than was safe," he said, each word precisely chosen. "My judgment was... compromised."

She could see the struggle playing out behind his eyes. It was like watching someone hold their breath underwater, fighting against every instinct to surface and breathe.

"You didn’t have a choice... you were starving."

His jaw tightened, and she caught the briefest glimpse of something that might have been vulnerability before it vanished. "That’s not important."

"It is to me."

"You need to leave." The words came out flat, final. "Pack whatever you need and go. Get as far away from here as possible."

"I’m not going anywhere," she said firmly.

Something cracked in his composure—just for a moment—and she saw desperation bleed through. "You don’t understand the danger—"

"I do. Completely."

He stood abruptly, moving to the window with fluid grace. With his back to her, his shoulders rigid, he seemed more statue than man.

"The feeding process creates a psychic bond," he said, his voice carefully modulated. "As I’ve told you before, once you’re marked, other incubi will be drawn to you."

"For how long?"

"It can fade," he said, still not turning to face her. "If I maintain distance. If you resist any... urges to call out to me in dreams or thoughts. Perhaps a few weeks. Perhaps longer."

"And what happens to you if I leave?" she asked, studying the rigid line of his shoulders.

The question seemed to catch him off guard. She saw his reflection in the window glass—a brief flicker of something that might have been pain before his expression smoothed back.

"I’ll manage," he said.

"That’s not an answer."

For a long moment, the only sound was the soft whisper of curtains stirring in an unfelt breeze. Then, she realized something.

"So if I leave," she said, understanding dawning, "you’ll go back to starving yourself."

His silence was answer enough.

"That’s not going to happen," she said firmly.

"Mailah—" For just a moment, her name on his lips sounded almost like a plea before he caught himself.

"No," she interrupted. "I’m not going to run away so you can slowly kill yourself out of some misguided sense of... what? Duty? Penance?"

"It’s not your concern," he said.

"You’re wrong." She leaned forward, ignoring the weakness in her limbs. "I’m staying."

The effect was immediate and devastating. His carefully maintained composure cracked like ice under pressure, and for one unguarded moment, she saw everything—the hunger, the longing, the desperate need he’d been fighting to conceal.

Then the mask slammed back into place, leaving her breathless from the intensity of that brief glimpse.

"You don’t know what you’re saying," he said, his voice steady once more, but she could see the tension in every line of his body.

"I know exactly what I’m saying."

"You think you want to stay only because of what you experienced in the dream realm," he said. "What you felt was manufactured. Designed to make the feeding more... palatable."

"And what did you feel?" she challenged.

The question seemed to hit him. She watched him struggle, saw the war between honesty and self-preservation playing out across his features.

"Feelings aren’t important right now," he said flatly, but she could hear the strain beneath the calm.

"Is it? Because the way you’re fighting so hard not to touch me right now suggests otherwise."

His hands clenched into fists at his sides—the only outward sign of the battle raging within him. "I’m trying to protect you."

"From what? From yourself, or from what you want to do to me?"

A charged silence settled between them. She could see him trembling with the effort of maintaining control, could practically feel the hunger radiating from him in waves.

"Both," he whispered, and the raw honesty in that single word sent fire racing through her veins.

For a heartbeat, the room was suspended in absolute silence. Then something in Grayson’s carefully constructed control finally snapped.

"Damn it," he breathed, his voice rough with centuries of suppressed need.

He moved toward her with fluid predatory grace, his blue eyes darkening to something primal and hungry.