Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband

Chapter 274: The Knot

"GET YOUR THINGS. NOW," Grayson commanded.

It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

"Grayson, talk to me. What did James say? If something happened—"

"Mailah." He caught her eyes, his gaze pinning her in place. "The time for ’sharing perspectives’ has concluded. We are moving. Move with me."

He didn’t wait for her to agree. He strode back into the bedroom, and before Mailah could even reach for her carry-on, he had snatched it up.

He grabbed her laptop bag, her discarded sun hat, and the heavy wicker basket from the beach, slinging them over his shoulders as if they weighed nothing more than a handful of feathers.

Despite the rising panic in her chest, Mailah couldn’t help but stare. He was draped in luggage—her floral tote hanging off one muscular arm and a backpack on the other—yet he still managed to look like a lethal weapon.

It was the most absurdly attractive thing she had ever seen: a demon prince acting as a high-speed bellhop.

"Stay behind me," he said, his voice dropping an octave as they reached the door. "Exactly one step back. If I stop, you stop. If I tell you to drop, you do not ask any questions. Am I understood?"

"Crystal," Mailah whispered, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

The descent to the garage was a study in high-stakes tension. Grayson didn’t use the main elevator. He led her down a narrow, reinforced concrete stairwell.

Every time a floorboard creaked or the wind whistled through the vents, Grayson’s head snapped toward the sound, his body tensing like a coiled spring. He wasn’t just being a "bodyguard"; he was acting like a predator sensing a scent he didn’t like.

When they reached the heavy steel doors of the underground garage, Grayson came to a dead halt. He held up a hand, signaling Mailah to stay in the shadows of the stairwell.

He stepped into the garage alone.

The space was a vast, tiled cavern, housing a fleet of vehicles.

Mailah watched from the doorway, her breath held. Grayson didn’t just look around; he moved through the space with a terrifying, fluid grace, checking the corners, scanning the rafters, and finally crouching down to inspect the undercarriage of a black SUV.

It was a beast of a vehicle—an armored Ashford Centurion, plated in reinforced composites and glass thick enough to stop a railgun.

Grayson stood up, his eyes scanning the perimeter one last time before he beckoned her forward. "Now. Quickly."

He opened the passenger door for her, his hand hovering over the frame to ensure she didn’t bump her head—a strange, courtly gesture in the middle of a tactical evacuation.

He practically lifted her into the seat, his warmth lingering on her arm.

"Stay low until we are clear of the house," he ordered.

He hurriedly put all their things in the trunk and rounded the front of the car, his eyes never leaving the garage door, and slid into the driver’s seat.

He didn’t turn the key. He tapped a sequence into a hidden panel on the dashboard, and the engine roared to life with a deep, guttural growl that vibrated through Mailah’s very bones.

He reached over, his hand brushing her thigh as he checked her seatbelt, tightening it until she was pinned against the leather. "Grayson, you’re crushing my ribs," she choked out.

"Better a bruised rib than a trajectory error," he muttered.

He hit the remote for the garage door. As the heavy steel shutters began to grind upward, Grayson didn’t floor it. He sat perfectly still, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard the leather groaned.

He watched the gap of light growing at the bottom of the door, his eyes darting from the shadows to the driveway outside.

The silence in the car was suffocating. Mailah’s fingers were knotted together in her lap. "Grayson, please. Just tell me. Is it Julian? Did someone break into the estate?"

He didn’t answer. The door cleared the top of the SUV, and Grayson surged forward.

He didn’t drive; he launched.

The Centurion tore up the steep driveway, the tires screaming against the pavement. He didn’t slow down for the main gates, which swung open just a second before the heavy bumper would have smashed through them.

Only when they reached the winding coastal highway—the "Devil’s Spine"—did Grayson relax his grip on the wheel, though his eyes remained fixed on the rearview mirror.

"Grayson!" Mailah finally shouted, the suspense snapping her composure. "You are driving at a hundred miles per hour and you’re acting like the apocalypse just sent us a ’save the date’ card. Tell me what’s going on or I’m jumping out at the next curve!"

Grayson cut a sharp glance at her. He saw the tremble in her hands, the way her eyes were wide with a fear he had spent the last hour trying to suppress.

He exhaled, a long, ragged sound that seemed to deflate some of his rigid posture.

"The helicopter was not delayed by weather or logistics, Mailah," he said, his voice surprisingly steady, though it lacked its usual arrogance. "Someone found it in the hangar at the city airfield."

"And?"

"The pilot... he is no longer with us. It was not a clean end. And the aircraft itself..." Grayson paused, his jaw tightening. "It was subjected to what I can only describe as a ’mechanical murder.’ The rotors were not broken. They were tied. Knotted like twine, as if the steel were made of soft ribbon. The engine block had been crushed into a cube the size of a grapefruit."

Mailah felt the blood drain from her face. "Knotted? Grayson, that’s... that’s impossible. No machine could do that. No human—"

"Correct," Grayson said grimly. "It was a display. A message written in high-tensile alloy. It says: I can touch the things you trust. I can bend the things you use."

Mailah gripped the armrest.

The image of the twisted helicopter played in her mind, a grotesque metal sculpture of a warning. "Valerius," she breathed, the name of the High Council’s most ruthless enforcer tasting like copper. "Or Caspian. It has to be them. They’re angry, aren’t they?"

Grayson shook his head, a sharp, dismissive motion. "No. I know the High Council. Valerius is a butcher, but he is a butcher of protocol. He prefers a clean execution or a long, bureaucratic rot in our realm. He does not ’knot’ helicopters. It is too theatrical. Too... messy."

"Then who?"

"That," Grayson said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble, "is the variable I am currently attempting to solve. It is a signature I do not recognize. It is ancient, yet it feels... personal."

He reached out, his hand covering hers on the center console. His skin was unnaturally cool now, but the weight of his palm was the only thing keeping her from spiraling into a full-panic attack.

"You told me you wanted to be a priority," he said, his eyes flicking back to the road. "You are. But a priority must be protected. I am not keeping you in the dark to slight you, Mailah. This is one of the things I was trying to protect you from."

"I’m already screaming on the inside, Grayson!" she countered, her voice pitching up. "If we don’t know who did it, how do we know any place is safe? How do we know the car isn’t going to turn into a ’cube’ while we’re in it?"

"Because I checked the car," he said simply. "And as you know, the estate is warded. It is an old ward. It doesn’t just stop intruders; it unravels them."

Mailah blinked. "That’s... oddly comforting. In a horrifying, supernatural sort of way."

Grayson actually let out a small, dry chuckle. It was a beautiful sound—short, rare, and entirely human. "I am glad my ’horrifying’ nature provides you with solace."

He squeezed her hand before returning his own to the wheel.

Mailah looked at him—really looked at him. His profile was carved from granite, his eyes still scanning the horizon for threats she couldn’t even see.

"I’ll be okay," she whispered. "Just... don’t forget to talk to me. Even if the news is about knotted helicopters and a supernatural murder."

"I find it a strange requirement," Grayson admitted, "but for you, I will endeavor to be... communicative."

The drive continued, the SUV eating up the miles of the Devil’s Spine. For a while, the silence was almost peaceful. The tension hadn’t vanished, but it had shifted from ’terror’ to ’teamwork.’

"Grayson?" Mailah asked after a few miles.

"Yes?"

Mailah took a breath, trying to settle the shaking in her chest. "Could you do one thing? When we get back and you’ve made sure everything is safe... can you give me a hug?"

Grayson’s head snapped toward her for a split second before his eyes returned to the road. "No."

"No?" Mailah blinked. "Just like that? A flat no?"

"I have a crime to solve, Mailah," he said, his voice returning to its cold, CEO-standard tone. "I have to find out who turned a machine into a knot. A ’hug’ is an inefficient use of my hands when they should be holding a weapon or a security tablet."

"It’s not inefficient if it stops me from having a panic attack," Mailah countered. "I feel better when I can actually feel you there. It makes all the scary stuff feel... further away."

Grayson gripped the steering wheel harder. He looked like she had just asked him to calculate the meaning of life using only his toes. "You are suggesting that physical contact provides a psychological shield?"

"Yes. It’s a human thing. It makes us feel safe."

He grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a curse in an ancient language. He went quiet for several miles, his jaw working as if he were debating with a ghost. Finally, he exhaled a long, frustrated breath.

"Fine," he snapped, though there was a hint of a flush on his high cheekbones. "Once the penthouse is scanned, the guards are placed, and I have confirmed that it’s safe... you may have a hug. But only because it serves a medical purpose for your ’calmness.’"

Mailah let out a small, shaky laugh. "Deal. One medical-grade hug."

"Do not make it a habit," he muttered, though he didn’t move her hand from his thigh.

Mailah leaned her head back against the leather seat, a small smile forming. He was impossible—a disaster of a human and a masterpiece of a demon prince.

He fought against his own nature just to give her a few seconds of comfort, and the sheer, grumpy effort of it made her heart swell.