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

Chapter 316: The Demon’s Worship 1

"THIS," Grayson said, standing in front of the washing machine as if it were an enemy combatant, "is an inefficient use of space and time."

He was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing veins that pulsed with a slow, demonic rhythm beneath his skin.

He looked at the pile of laundry on the floor—mostly his silk shirts and Mailah’s jumpers—with a disdain that was almost majestic.

"It’s a washing machine, Grayson," Mailah said, leaning against the counter with a mug of tea. "Not a riddle from the sphinx. You put the clothes in, you add the soap, you press the button."

Grayson reached out, his fingers hovering over the dial. A faint, silver spark jumped from his fingertip toward the machine’s control panel.

"Don’t you dare," Mailah warned.

The spark vanished.

Grayson looked at her, his expression one of pained endurance. "I could have these clean, dried, and pressed in three seconds. The moisture would be evaporated and the dirt displaced. Why am I standing here staring at a plastic drum?"

"Because," Mailah said, stepping closer until she was within the circle of his heat. "We are laying low. Using your magic here is like lighting a flare in a dark room. You know how much energy it takes to maintain the surreptitiousness of this cottage. If you start blasting the laundry, you’re going to drain your life force."

She reached out and tapped the center of his chest, right where his heart beat a steady, stubborn rhythm.

"And remember," she whispered, her eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and genuine warning. "In this place, I am your only food source once your power starts depleting. If you use up your mana on a load of whites, I’m the one who has to deal with a very hungry, very cranky demon who needs... ’replenishing.’"

Grayson’s gaze darkened. It wasn’t the silver of his power, but a deep, smoldering black that felt far more dangerous.

He looked at her mouth, then back to her eyes. The air in the tiny utility room suddenly felt thick, charged with a tension that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the fact that they were alone in a house on a cliff.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" he asked, his voice dropping into a rough, jagged caress.

"It’s a reality," she countered, though her breath hitched. "Now. Put the detergent in the tray. Not the whole bottle. Just the capful."

Grayson picked up the bottle of detergent with the same focused intensity he used to sign multi-million dollar contracts.

He poured the liquid into the cap, his movements precise and geometric. He looked as though he were handling liquid nitroglycerin.

"This substance," he remarked, "is unnecessarily viscous. And it smells like... artificial spring."

"It’s ’Alpine Fresh,’" Mailah said. "Humans like it."

"Humans are strange," he muttered, but he poured it into the tray and shoved it shut with more force than was strictly necessary.

He turned the dial. The machine let out a groan, a clatter, and then began to fill with water.

Grayson stood back, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the glass door as if expecting the clothes to attempt an escape.

"See?" Mailah said, patting his arm. "You’re practically a native."

Grayson didn’t look at her. His gaze was fixed on the tumbling clothes. "I find this process... offensive. The lack of control. The reliance on a mechanical rhythm."

He shifted, his large frame nearly blocking the light from the small window. He looked at the cottage—the simple wooden furniture, the cracked mugs, the lack of a security detail.

He looked like a king who had been stripped of his crown and told to rule a garden.

"I want my memories back... I just don’t know if I’ll still be the man you fell in love with."

He turned back to her. He didn’t reach for her, but the way he looked at her was a physical weight.

"My other self," he said, his voice quiet. "The one who lost his mind. He loved you. I can see why. You’re the only person who looks at me and doesn’t see a prince or a monster. You see an idiot who can’t operate a washing machine."

"I don’t think you’re an idiot," Mailah said softly.

"You laughed when I burned the egg," he reminded her, a ghost of a smile touching the corner of his mouth.

"Well, that was funny."

He moved then, a blur of motion that she didn’t see coming. One moment he was three feet away, and the next, he had her pinned against the vibrating washing machine. His hands were on the counter behind her, caging her in. He was so big he seemed to swallow the room.

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at her, his eyes searching hers with a desperate, silent inquiry. He was trying to find the man he used to be in the reflection of her pupils. He was searching for the reason he had risked everything for a human girl.

"I realized something," he said, his voice a low vibration that she felt in her very bones. "When Theron had his hand on you. When I thought I wouldn’t get to the room in time."

His hand came up, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip. It was a possessive gesture, arrogant and unyielding—a man who didn’t know how to ask for what he wanted, so he simply claimed it.

"I wasn’t angry because he was touching my ’property,’" Grayson whispered. "I was afraid. A demon prince of the Ashford line, afraid of a man with a needle." He let out a short, self-deprecating huff of air. "I don’t like fear, Mailah. It’s an inefficient emotion. But the thought of this world continuing without you in it... that is the only thing that truly terrifies me."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against her forehead, then her temple. It wasn’t a kiss of passion, but something far more intimate—a surrender.

"I still don’t remember the ’why,’" he admitted against her skin. "But I don’t seem to care about the ’why.’ I just know that you belong here. With me."

He pulled back just an inch, his eyes hooded and dark. "Now. If this machine doesn’t stop making that rhythmic clicking sound in the next five minutes, I am going to unmake it. And you can ’replenish’ me however you see fit."

Mailah laughed, a bright, clear sound that seemed to chase the shadows out of the corners of the utility room.

She reached up, her fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down until their lips were almost touching.

"It’s called the spin cycle, Grayson," she breathed. "It’s supposed to do that."

"It’s annoying," he muttered, but he didn’t pull away. He kissed her then—a deep, territorial kiss that tasted of the sea and the "Alpine Fresh" detergent and the terrifying, beautiful future they were building in the ruins of his memory.

In that moment, Grayson Ashford didn’t need his titles or his fire. He had the only prize that mattered.

And as the washing machine rattled and the Welsh wind howled against the glass, the demon finally began to understand what it meant to be home.

The washing machine reached a crescendo of mechanical violence, vibrating with such intensity that the detergent bottle began to dance toward the edge of the counter.

Grayson’s hand shot out, clamping down on the lid with a force that made the plastic groan.

"It is attempting to self-destruct," he noted, his voice vibrating in sync with the floorboards. "Mailah, the machine is failing."

"It’s just the final spin, Grayson! It’s physics, not a rebellion." She was laughing again, her hands resting on his shoulders for stability as the utility room turned into a blur of motion and sound.

He looked down at her, his eyes narrowing as he processed her amusement.

To a man who had commanded legions and orchestrated the movement of soul-capital across dimensions, being mocked by a vibrating box of wet laundry was a unique brand of indignity.

Yet, seeing her like this—flushed, laughing, and entirely unafraid of the monster in her space—did something to the heavy, cold knot in his chest that no ancient ritual ever could.

The machine gave one final, shuddering thud and fell silent. The sudden absence of noise was deafening, leaving only the sound of their breathing and the distant, rhythmic slap of the tide against the cliffs.

"It’s done," she whispered, her smile softening into something more dangerous. "You survived your first load of laundry. I’d say that deserves a gold star."

"I don’t want a star," Grayson rasped.

He moved with that sudden, predatory grace that always caught her off guard.

e didn’t just step closer; he invaded her space, his large hands sliding from the counter to her waist.

He lifted her easily, his fingers digging into the soft denim of her jeans as he hoisted her higher on the counter until her knees were hooked over his hips.

The cold-hearted demon prince was gone. In his place was a man who looked at her with a hunger so raw it felt like a physical heat.

"You mentioned a reward," he said, his voice a low, jagged rumble. "And you mentioned replenishment."

"I did," she breathed, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his chest.

Grayson didn’t kiss her lips this time. He went for the pulse point at the base of her throat, his tongue trailing a line of fire against her skin that made her head fall back.

He was a creature of extremes; he didn’t know how to do anything halfway. If he was to be human, he would be the most passionate version of one, driven by instincts he was only just beginning to name.

"You think you’re teaching me," he murmured against her skin, his hands sliding down to the small of her back, pressing her closer until there was no air left between them. "But all you’re doing is making me realize how much I’ve wasted."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark with a territorial pride. He looked like a conqueror who had finally found the one territory worth holding. Without a word, he began to sink to his knees.

Mailah’s breath hitched. "Grayson?"

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He moved with a deliberate, agonizing slowness, his hands sliding down the length of her thighs, tracing the line of her legs until he reached her knees.

He looked up at her from below, a king kneeling before his only sanctuary, his face set in a mask of fierce, unyielding devotion.

The air in the room seemed to thin. He reached for the button of her jeans, his fingers steady despite the fire she knew was roaring through his veins.

He wasn’t looking for a quick thrill; he was looking to worship. He was looking to prove that even without his memories, his body knew exactly where its home was.

He leaned forward, his forehead resting for a brief, heavy second against the center of her being—the core of her that held all the life he so desperately craved.

"I told you," he whispered, his breath hot through the fabric, "I’m an efficient learner."

He gripped her hips, his head dipping lower as he prepared to claim her in a way that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the man he was becoming.

Mailah’s fingers tangled in his hair, her eyes fluttering shut as the world outside the cottage ceased to exist.

There was only the scent of salt, the heat of the demon at her feet, and the terrifying, beautiful certainty of what was coming next.