CHAPTER 135: CHAPTER 135: THE FAVOR’S PRICE

"GRAYSON!"

Mailah’s voice pitched somewhere between outrage and disbelief.

Grayson had the good grace to look mildly guilty—though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed that he was also a little too pleased with himself.

"I wanted it to be special," he said, tone infuriatingly calm. "Custom work takes time, and I thought—"

"You thought?" she cut in, folding her arms. "You thought you’d commission a wedding dress for me without even asking what kind of ceremony I wanted?"

"Well, I did consult the designer," he offered, as though that made it better.

"Oh, wonderful," Mailah said, voice dripping with mock sweetness. "You and some stranger decided what I’ll wear on one of the most significant days of my life. How thoughtful."

"She’s not a stranger," Grayson said quickly. "She’s a dryad couturière from the Third Ring. Her fabrics are enchanted—woven with living silver. They respond to the wearer’s emotions."

Mailah blinked. "Wait. Living what?"

"Silver," he repeated like he hadn’t just casually described an outfit capable of emotional telepathy. "It shimmers with mood resonance. If you’re happy, the gown glows. If you’re angry—"

"It bites?" she guessed.

He hesitated. "Only slightly."

"Grayson," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You cannot keep doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Making absurdly expensive, dangerous decisions in the name of romance!"

He smiled, slow and unrepentant.

"This is unhinged," Mailah shot. "You don’t just go around ordering sentient dresses without consent!"

Lucien, who had been lounging silently by the window with a cup of something suspiciously golden, finally burst into laughter, announcing his presence. "Oh, this is marvelous. Please, don’t stop on my account. You two could charge admission."

Grayson didn’t even glance at him. His eyes stayed on Mailah, warm and maddeningly patient. "If you don’t like it, I’ll cancel the order," he said finally.

And there it was—that soft sincerity that turned her anger into something molten and confusing.

"You can’t say things like that mid-argument," she muttered. "It’s cheating."

His grin was all dark delight. "Then I’ll cheat as often as necessary."

Lucien groaned theatrically. "I’m going to be sick."

"Then leave," Grayson said smoothly.

"I would," Lucien said, setting down his cup, "but watching the mighty demon lord get scolded by his fiancée is my new favorite hobby."

Mailah threw him a glare that would have vaporized a lesser celestial. "Don’t you have wings to polish or mortals to torment?"

"Both scheduled for later," Lucien replied with a wink.

Grayson exhaled through his nose, clearly restraining himself. "Lucien."

"All right, all right," the fallen angel said, holding up his hands. "I’ll go. But only because I like you two too much to watch you combust in the daylight." He rose, sauntered to the door, and added over his shoulder, "Try not to devour each other before the rehearsal dinner."

Mailah’s face flamed. Grayson’s didn’t—but only because he’d perfected the art of maintaining demonic composure.

The silence that followed Lucien’s exit was... charged. Not awkward, not tense, but humming with something that made her pulse quicken.

"Living silver, huh?" Mailah said after a moment, her voice deliberately casual.

Grayson’s eyes darkened slightly, that faint trace of hunger always just beneath the surface. "It would’ve looked beautiful on you."

"Would’ve?" she teased, trying to dispel the sudden heat curling low in her stomach. "You mean will."

He smiled faintly. "If you forgive me."

Mailah tilted her head, pretending to consider. "I suppose... maybe... if you promise no more secret projects for at least a week."

"Three days," he countered.

"Five."

He extended a hand, palm up. "Deal."

She took it, her fingers brushing his, and just like that, the air shifted again—thick with warmth, something unsaid trembling between them.

It wasn’t always like this—sometimes they fought, sometimes they laughed—but the undercurrent was constant: magnetic, alive, impossible to ignore. He looked at her like she was both temptation and salvation, and it terrified her how much she needed that gaze now.

Later, when she finally escaped to her room under the excuse of "reviewing Liora’s documents," Mailah realized she hadn’t actually processed a single practical detail of the day’s conversation.

The words replayed in her head in a strange, looping rhythm: feeding, wedding, silver dress, Grayson’s eyes when he said lucky.

It was ridiculous. Entirely unproductive. She had research to catch up on—all about the supernatural world—but all she could do was replay snippets of dialogue and imagine what he was doing right now. Probably organizing more wedding surprises. Or bribing celestial florists. Or whatever absurdly grand gesture demons used.

Liora had been right about one thing: being with Grayson meant living between worlds. And sometimes, in quieter moments like this, she wondered if she’d ever fully belong to either.

Her laptop pinged softly—another update from Lailah’s assistant, no doubt—but she ignored it. Those came daily, neat little summaries of projects she no longer had the time or emotional energy to oversee herself.

She should’ve opened it. Instead, she found herself staring at her phone, the screen dark and inert. Hardly anyone called her--Lailah-- anymore. Not directly. Messages, yes. Notifications. But voice calls? Those belonged to another lifetime.

Which was why the sharp buzz that suddenly split the silence made her flinch.

Mailah stared down at the glowing screen.

Unknown number.

No name, no region code.

She didn’t move. Just watched it vibrate against the table, like the device itself wanted to escape.

When it finally stopped ringing, she let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

"Probably a telemarketer," she whispered to herself.

But then it rang again.

Same number.

Mailah’s stomach dropped. The rational part of her said ignore it. The part that had lived through rituals, possessions, and interdimensional rifts said don’t ever answer an unknown call.

And yet, she found herself swiping the screen anyway.

"Hello?" she said carefully.

At first, only static. Then a voice—low, distorted, almost mechanical.

"Tell Grayson the Hollow remembers."

Mailah froze.

The voice continued, faintly amused now. "He can run from the debts of blood, but the Hollow collects what it’s owed. You should stay out of his shadow."

Then—click.

Silence.

Her phone screen dimmed to black.

Mailah just sat there, heart hammering against her ribs, the words looping through her mind. The Hollow remembers.

She didn’t know how long she stayed that way before she realized her hands were shaking.

When she finally stood, it was automatic—her body moving before her mind caught up.

She left the study, still gripping the phone, wandering the hall like someone trapped between dream and nightmare.

She almost collided with Grayson rounding the corner.

He took one look at her face and his expression changed instantly—something cold and lethal flashing through his eyes. "Mailah?"

She opened her mouth, but her voice failed. She tried again. "Someone called."

His entire frame went still. "Who?"

"I don’t know," she said, forcing the words out. "They didn’t say their name. Just..." She swallowed. "They said, Tell Grayson the Hollow remembers."

For a long, breathless moment, Grayson didn’t move. The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop several degrees.

Mailah had seen him angry before—but this was different.

"Grayson," she whispered. "What does that mean?"

He looked at her then, eyes burning a deep.

"It means," he said quietly, "someone I thought we’d never hear from has decided to collect."

Mailah’s pulse quickened. "Who?"

His jaw tightened. "Kieran’s client."

The name landed heavy in the silence—less a curse this time, more like a warning.

Mailah frowned. "I thought he was an ally."

"He was," Grayson said, voice low. "And I owed him for helping me—helping us—during my first full feeding. When the hunger nearly..." He trailed off, looking away. "I kept my promise to grant him one favor. But the clients he was working with... they weren’t ordinary. Dangerous people. The kind who make debts vanish in blood."

"So the call—"

"Wasn’t Kieran," he said grimly. "It was about whoever he angered."

Mailah felt her skin prickle. "And they’re coming after you. And me."

Grayson gave a slow, humorless smile. "Guilt by association. My favorite kind."

She took a step closer. "What did you do, exactly?"

"I shielded my business," he said. "Pulled some strings, erased a few names, made sure certain... entities never learned who his clients really were. It was supposed to keep things quiet."

"But it didn’t."

"No," Grayson said softly, almost to himself. "Looks like it only ruffled the wrong feathers."

A cold silence settled between them. Mailah could hear the faint hum of the mansion wards pulsing against the windows, the air thick with static.

Before she could speak again, before she could even process the chill crawling up her spine, Grayson’s phone buzzed—one sharp vibration that felt more like a warning than a notification.

He didn’t answer it. Didn’t need to.

Whatever had just been set in motion, they both felt it—like the world itself had inhaled and forgotten to exhale.

And in that stillness, standing in the dim corridor with her heart in her throat and his fury simmering beneath the surface, Mailah understood.

They gained another enemy.