CHAPTER 140: CHAPTER 140: THE ALMOST

"WAIT," Grayson said suddenly, his hands stilling on her waist.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and breathless.

Mailah’s pulse thudded in her ears, every nerve alive, waiting for him to move, to speak—anything. But Grayson just looked at her. His pupils were wide, near-black, edged with faint silver light—the kind that shimmered along his skin whenever his control started to fray.

"Grayson?" she whispered, still straddling him, palms pressed against the smooth, hard plane of his chest.

He blinked, as if dragging himself out of some internal storm. "We should... not here."

Her breath hitched. Not here didn’t sound like no.

He rose in one fluid motion, steadying her as though she were fragile glass. His touch contradicted that—firm, deliberate, almost reverent. When he caught her gaze, the faintest smile ghosted over his lips, a silent challenge, a promise of what he wasn’t saying.

Without another word, he led her out of the library. The corridor beyond was dim, lit only by the dying gold of the Tuscan sunset bleeding through the villa’s tall windows.

Shadows stretched long across the marble, and the air smelled faintly of dust, wine, and roses—somehow grounding, somehow dizzying.

Mailah followed him, barefoot and half-dazed, until they reached her assigned room down the hall. It was bigger than the others and its windows overlooking the vineyards below. The space was warm and quiet, bathed in late sunlight that turned everything honey-soft.

Grayson pushed open the door, and for a moment he just stood there, his back to her, head bowed slightly as if steeling himself.

When he finally turned, the restraint in his eyes was almost a physical thing.

"If we continue," he said softly, "I might forget where I end and you begin."

Mailah’s breath trembled. "Maybe that’s the point."

That broke him.

He was on her again, but slower this time—no rush, no hunger for dominance. Just intensity.

Their lips met, and everything that had been building between them—weeks of unspoken desire, half-meant promises, stolen glances—ignited.

His kiss was deep and consuming, but not rough. When he lifted her onto the bed, his hand cupped the back of her neck like a prayer.

Mailah’s fingers found the edge of his shirt that somehow he wore again between the library and that room, tugging it off completely one more time.

His skin was hot under her palms, faintly marked by glowing sigils that pulsed when she touched them. She’d seen them before, flickering when his magic surged—but now they responded to her.

"What—?" she whispered, tracing one along his collarbone.

He shivered. "They react to intent."

"Intent?"

"Yours," he murmured, voice low. "You want, they listen."

That small admission did something to her.

She kissed down his throat, feeling the slow rumble of a groan against her lips. His hand slid into her hair, fingers curling just enough to make her gasp.

"You have no idea," he breathed, "what you do to me."

Her laugh was shaky. "I might have some idea."

He smiled, brief and devastating, then leaned in until his forehead rested against hers. "Tell me to stop."

"I won’t," she whispered.

"Mailah..."

She silenced him with another kiss, her hands exploring the familiar and the unknown—his jaw, the curve of his shoulder, the faint scars that traced his ribs like ancient stories.

He was all contradictions: heat and restraint, danger and tenderness.

He rolled her gently beneath him, and the world narrowed to the rhythm of their breath and the feel of his weight pressing her into the sheets.

Every move was deliberate—slow friction, shared breaths, the tension between pleasure and restraint drawn taut as a wire.

When his lips found the hollow of her throat, Mailah arched up involuntarily. He groaned against her skin, the sound rough and unguarded.

"Grayson..."

He froze for half a heartbeat, then his mouth was on hers again—urgent now, edged with something almost desperate. His hands roamed lower, sliding beneath fabric, tracing the curve of her hip, her thigh—until the smallest, sharpest spark flickered along her skin.

She gasped—not from pain, but from the strange pulse of power that came with his touch. The air shifted around them, faintly charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.

"Your energy—"

"Leaking," he said hoarsely. "Trying to sync."

"With me?"

He nodded once, eyes dark. "It wants you."

That should have terrified her. It didn’t.

Instead, she lifted her hand to his cheek. "Then stop holding back."

He inhaled sharply, but when he met her gaze, something vulnerable flickered there—fear, yes, but something softer, too.

"You don’t know what you’re asking," he said.

"I do," she replied, and pulled him down again.

This time, he didn’t hold back.

The world went molten.

He kissed her like he’d been starving for centuries, and maybe he had. His power rippled under her palms, through her body—an electric thrum that felt like it could devour or protect, depending on how tightly he held his control.

Mailah’s mind went hazy. She wasn’t sure where the heat ended and the magic began. The room itself seemed to pulse with them—the curtains fluttering though there was no wind, the shadows twisting like they were watching.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged.

"Grayson," she whispered, dizzy, "don’t stop."

He closed his eyes, as if the words physically hurt him. "If I don’t, you’ll burn."

"Then let me."

He groaned, low and tortured. "You can’t ask that of me."

Her hand trembled as she cupped his jaw. "Then tell me the truth. What are you afraid of?"

He opened his eyes, and for a moment they glowed—red shot through with silver, ancient and wild.

"Of losing you," he said. "Of taking too much. I don’t want to visit you in dreams again because it means I’ve lost control in reality."

Mailah’s chest tightened. "What if I let you? What if I say yes?"

His expression broke—somewhere between longing and despair. "Then I’d still refuse. Because consent doesn’t change what happens when I stop being me."

The silence that followed was unbearable. Only their breathing filled the room—the slow ebb of heat, the echo of almosts.

Finally, he sat back, forcing distance between them. His magic dimmed, the light fading from his skin. "I won’t risk you again. Not like that."

Mailah reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. "You keep saying again. What did you see the first time?"

He looked away, toward the window. The moon had risen now, silvering the vineyards below.

"I saw you burning," he said quietly. "And I almost didn’t wake up fast enough to stop it."

Her breath caught.

He turned back to her then, and there was so much emotion in his face that she couldn’t speak.

Without thinking, she touched his cheek again. "Don’t leave this time," she whispered. "Stay."

He didn’t answer. He just leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers, eyes closed.

For a long time, they stayed like that—breathing the same air, caught between want and fear, light and shadow.

Outside, the villa was silent.

When Grayson finally moved, it was only to whisper, "If I stay any longer, I won’t stop again."

"Then go," she said softly, though every cell in her body screamed otherwise.

He lingered another second—one trembling, suspended heartbeat—then stood.

At the door, he looked back once. "Lock it after me."

She tried to smile. "I thought you liked locking doors."

His lips twitched. "Only when I’m the one inside."

The door clicked shut, the softest sound in the world—and yet it echoed through her like a gunshot.

And then he was gone.

Mailah lay back against the sheets, her skin still tingling from his touch, her pulse still wild. She stared up at the ceiling, trying to slow her breathing, to anchor herself in something ordinary.

But all she could smell was him. All she could taste was magic.

She turned her head slightly, eyes tracing the doorway. Empty. Silent. As if the villa itself was holding its breath.

The ache in her chest wasn’t just from wanting. It was from the absence—an ache shaped exactly like him, like everything he refused to say.

For a moment, she hated him for leaving. Then she hated herself for wanting him to stay.

Her fingers brushed the sheets beside her, where faint traces of light still shimmered—residual magic, the kind that responded to connection. It pulsed faintly, like the ghost of a heartbeat that wasn’t hers. She stared at it, mesmerized, until it dimmed and vanished into the linen, leaving nothing but warmth behind.

She should sleep. She should try to sleep. But the thought of closing her eyes felt wrong—too final, too much like surrendering to the part of her that still trembled from what almost happened.

Instead, she rose slowly from the bed, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. Her bare feet met the cool marble floor, grounding her. The room was still open to the night—curtains shifting gently in the faint wind from the vineyards below.

Outside, the moon had climbed higher, washing the hills in silver. The vines glowed like rows of liquid glass, the whole world holding a kind of stillness that made her skin prickle.

She walked to the window, resting her palms against the cool stone frame. The reflection in the glass caught her by surprise—flushed cheeks, hair tousled, eyes dark with something she didn’t want to name.

He’s right, she thought. He shouldn’t stay. Not like this.

And yet, deep down, she knew that what scared her wasn’t his loss of control. It was her own.

Because when he’d said he might forget where he ended and she began, she’d wanted that.

Because when he’d pulled away, part of her had wanted to follow.

Because every warning he’d given her only made her want him more.

The kind of want that didn’t feel like choice—it felt like fate disguised as defiance.

Mailah closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the glass. The chill kissed her skin, grounding her in the now. In the quiet. In the aftermath.

Her fingers unconsciously brushed her neck, where the faint imprint of his lips still lingered—heat fading slowly, stubbornly refusing to die.

She exhaled, soft and unsteady. "You always leave," she murmured into the night.

The villa gave no answer.

Only the wind replied, carrying the faint rustle of vines and something else—something low, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.

For a moment, she thought it was her imagination. But then she felt it—beneath the floor, subtle but real. A slow, steady pulse that didn’t belong to her or to Grayson. It was older, deeper, like the land itself remembering something.

She straightened slowly, glancing toward the door. No footsteps. No shadow. Just that quiet thrum beneath her feet.

Her mind whispered the obvious: It’s nothing. Just nerves. Just the storm fading.

But her gut said otherwise.

Whatever it was, it was awake now.

And as much as she wanted to believe the night had ended with Grayson’s leaving, Mailah knew better.

Some things didn’t end when the door closed.

They began there.

She drew the blanket tighter around her shoulders and forced herself back to the bed. But as she lay down, her heart refused to settle. It beat too fast, too loud—echoing the rhythm beneath the villa’s stone foundation.

Somewhere, in the distance, thunder murmured one last time.

And even as sleep finally began to drag her under, the warmth of his touch refused to fade.