CHAPTER 53: CHAPTER 53: THE GUARDIAN DEMON 2

"CLOSE YOUR EYES," he said softly, his voice carrying that hypnotic quality she remembered from their earlier session.

Mailah’s heart stuttered to a complete stop.

The way he’d said it—low, intimate, with that particular cadence that made her skin flush with heat—combined with the way he was looking at her in the dim lamplight, made her pulse race with anticipation.

His blue-gray eyes held an intensity that seemed to pierce straight through her, and the space between them on the massive bed suddenly felt charged.

This was it.

He was going to kiss her again.

She let her eyes drift closed, her lips parting slightly in unconscious invitation.

Every nerve ending in her body seemed to come alive, hyperaware of his presence just inches away.

She could feel the heat radiating from his bare torso, could catch the subtle scent of sandalwood mixed with his unique scent that made her want to lean closer.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she waited for the brush of his lips against hers, for the electric shock of contact that would set her world on fire again.

The memory of their earlier kiss burned in her veins, and she found herself holding her breath in sweet anticipation.

"You’re safe," Grayson said gently, his voice coming from what sounded like a carefully maintained distance. "I’m here. You can sleep peacefully now—no nightmares, no dreams that aren’t your own. Mason can’t reach you while I’m guarding your mind."

Mailah’s eyes snapped open in mortification.

He was sitting up against the headboard, arms crossed over his chest in a distinctly non-romantic pose, looking for all the world like he was settling in for a long night of supernatural guard duty.

The expression on his face was one of gentle concern, completely devoid of the passionate intensity she had been so certain she’d seen moments before.

Heat flooded her cheeks as the full scope of her misunderstanding crashed over her.

He hadn’t been about to kiss her. He’d simply been trying to help her relax enough to sleep, and she’d turned it into some swoony romantic fantasy in her head.

"Oh," she managed, her voice coming out smaller than she intended. "Right. Sleep. That’s... that’s what we’re here for."

"Are you all right?" he asked, and she caught the faintest hint of something that might have been amusement in his tone. "You look a bit flustered."

"I’m fine," she said quickly, pulling the covers up to her chin as if they could somehow hide her embarrassment. "Just... tired. It’s been a long day."

Grayson studied her face for a moment longer, and she had the uncomfortable sensation that he could see right through her pathetic attempt at nonchalance.

But if he had any idea what she’d been expecting, he was gentleman enough not to comment on it.

"Remember our compromise," she said, desperate to change the subject and regain some semblance of dignity. "If it becomes too much—"

"I leave," he finished with a nod, though something flickered across his expression too quickly for her to interpret. "I remember."

"Good," she said, settling back against the pillows and determinedly closing her eyes again.

This time, she kept her expectations firmly in check, focusing on the practical rather than the romantic.

Sleep. Rest.

Protection from Mason. Those were the only reasons they were sharing a bed.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension, but Mailah forced herself to regulate her breathing, to relax her muscles one by one.

She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and despite the awareness of Grayson’s presence beside her, she could feel sleep tugging at the edges of her consciousness.

What she didn’t see was the way Grayson’s hands clenched into fists at his sides as he watched her settle into sleep.

She didn’t notice how his jaw tightened when she’d looked up at him with such clear expectation, her lips parted in unconscious invitation.

She had no idea that it had taken every ounce of his supernatural self-control not to give in to what they both so obviously wanted.

He had seen it—the way her breath had caught, the subtle way she’d leaned toward him, the disappointment that had flickered across her features when he’d chosen safety over desire.

And it was killing him.

But Mason’s threat hung over them like a sword, and Grayson knew that losing control now, giving in to the hunger that clawed at him with increasing desperation, would only make them both more vulnerable.

So he sat vigil in the darkness, watching over her dreams while fighting the most difficult battle of his considerable existence.

The battle against his own nature.

Hours passed in the hushed darkness of the bedroom.

The estate had settled into complete quiet around them, with only the distant sound of wind through the trees and the occasional creak of old wood to break the silence.

Mailah had fallen asleep despite her earlier conviction that she wouldn’t manage even a wink of rest.

The mental and emotional exhaustion of the day, combined with the strange sense of security that came from having Grayson watching over her, had eventually overcome her racing thoughts.

But sleep, it seemed, brought its own complications.

Grayson had been maintaining his vigil with supernatural stillness, his consciousness partially extended into the dream realm to monitor for any sign of Mason’s influence.

So far, her dreams had been peaceful—fragments of memories and half-formed anxieties that posed no real threat.

It was just past three in the morning when she began to stir.

At first, it was just a subtle shift in her breathing, a slight restlessness that suggested her dreams were becoming more active.

Grayson remained motionless, alert to any change that might signal danger, but ready to intervene if Mason made his move.

Then she murmured something unintelligible in her sleep and turned toward him.

Grayson went rigid as Mailah’s unconscious form sought the warmth and comfort of his presence.

In sleep, all her careful barriers were down.

She moved with the natural instinct of someone seeking safety, seeking connection, seeking the one person who made her feel truly protected.

Her hand, which had been resting on the pillow beside her head, began to move across the space between them with dream-slow precision.

Grayson watched in fascination as her fingers stretched toward him, guided by some unconscious need for contact.

He could have moved away. Should have moved away.

But he found himself frozen, transfixed by the innocent beauty of her sleeping face and the trust implicit in her unconscious gesture.

In sleep, she looked more vulnerable, and the fierce protectiveness that rose in his chest was almost overwhelming in its intensity.

Her hand continued its slow journey across the sheets, and Grayson realized that she was reaching for his chest.

If her fingers made contact with his bare skin—if she touched him while his defenses were already strained to the breaking point—he wasn’t sure he’d be able to maintain control.

The hunger that lived in him roared to life at the prospect of her touch.

Every instinct he possessed screamed at him to close the distance, to gather her against him and finally, finally take what his body craved.

But the human part of him reacted with desperate speed.

His hand shot out and caught hers just as her fingertips were about to brush against his chest.

The contact was electric, devastating, perfect.

The moment her skin touched his, Grayson’s world exploded into sensation.

Her hand was soft beyond imagining, warm enough to brand him, and so perfectly fitted to his larger grasp.

This was so much worse than torture—this was ecstasy and agony twisted together.

He held her hand suspended there so close to his chest that he could feel the phantom heat of what her full touch would be like.

Every muscle in his body went rigid with the effort of not pulling her palm flat against his skin.

He could feel the delicate bones of her fingers, the flutter of her pulse at her wrist.

Her fingers flexed slightly within his grasp, and her head turned on the pillow, dark hair spilling across the white fabric like liquid shadow.

Then her eyes opened.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

She blinked slowly, confusion giving way to awareness as she registered their position—her hand caught within his, their bodies mere inches apart.

Her eyes widened as she took in his face, and he saw the exact moment she became fully aware of what was happening.

But instead of pulling away, instead of the embarrassment he expected, her gaze dropped to their joined hands and then traveled slowly up his bare chest to meet his eyes again.

When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper, thick with sleep. "Grayson..."

The way she said his name—soft, questioning—nearly shattered what remained of his control.

She made no move to pull her hand away from his grasp.

Instead, her eyes traveled from their joined hands up the length of his bare torso, lingering on the defined muscles of his chest, the scars that marked his skin, before finally meeting his gaze again.

The hunger in her eyes was unmistakable, and it sent answering fire racing through his veins.

"You were reaching for me," he said, his voice coming out rougher than gravel, barely controlled. "In your sleep."

Color bloomed high across her cheekbones, but she didn’t look away. If anything, she seemed to lean closer.

"Was I?" she whispered, and there was something almost breathless in her tone.

"Your hand..." He swallowed hard, his thumb tracing unconsciously across her knuckles. "If I hadn’t caught it, you would have touched..."

"Where?" The question was barely audible, but it hit him like a physical blow. "Where would I have touched you?"

His free hand moved, hovering over the spot on his chest where her fingers would have landed, just above his heart.

"Here," he said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

Her eyes followed the movement of his hand, and he watched her lips part slightly as she imagined what that contact would have felt like.

The air between them grew thicker, making his skin burn everywhere she looked.

"What would have happened?" she asked. "If I had touched you there?"

"Everything," he breathed, his hand still caught in hers, their faces now only inches apart. "Everything would have happened."

The moonlight painted her face in silver and shadow, highlighting the curve of her lips, the flutter of her pulse at her throat, the way her chest rose and fell with increasingly unsteady breaths.

"Grayson," she whispered again, and this time his name sounded like a prayer on her lips.

Before he could stop himself, his free hand came up to cup her face, his thumb tracing the arch of her cheekbone with reverent gentleness.

Her skin was impossibly soft beneath his fingers, warm and alive.

"We can’t," he said, though even as the words left his lips, he was leaning closer, drawn by a force stronger than gravity itself. "We can’t do this."

"Why?" The question was barely a breath against his lips, so close now he could taste the sweetness of her exhale.

"Because if I kiss you now," he said, his voice breaking with the weight of his confession, "I won’t be able to stop. If I touch you the way I want, it won’t be gentle. And you deserve better--to be made love to properly."

Instead of pulling away, instead of the fear he expected to see, Mailah’s eyes grew soft with understanding.

"What if I don’t want better?" she whispered, her words barely audible in the charged space between them. "What if I want you exactly as you are?"