CHAPTER 141: CHAPTER 141: THE DREAM MEET

THE AIR WAS thick with warmth and the scent of rain.

Mailah stood barefoot in what looked like the villa’s garden—except the vines glowed faintly silver under a moon too close, too heavy. Every leaf shimmered like it was painted with starlight. The world was familiar, but off-balance, like a memory wearing a stranger’s face.

"Mailah."

His voice was behind her—soft, unguarded.

She turned. Grayson stood among the roses, shirt undone, the faint light tracing the runes on his chest. They pulsed slowly, in rhythm with her heartbeat. He looked different here—less guarded, less burdened by control. His eyes weren’t just red or silver; they were molten, alive.

"Are we dreaming?" she asked, though her voice came out quieter than she meant.

"Maybe," he said, stepping closer. "Maybe this is what happens when I try not to think of you."

Her breath caught. He was close enough now that she could see the faint shimmer of power moving beneath his skin—like lightning beneath glass.

She should’ve stepped back. She didn’t.

Instead, she reached up and touched one of the glowing lines on his collarbone. It flared at her touch, heat blooming under her fingers.

His voice dropped. "You shouldn’t be able to touch me here."

"Why not?"

"Because maybe this isn’t just a dream."

He caught her wrist before she could pull away, his thumb brushing the inside of her arm. The contact was grounding, impossibly real. His warmth sank into her skin, and the garden pulsed brighter, as if reacting to them.

Mailah swallowed. "Then what is this?"

"Somewhere between us," he said. "Where our energy meets when I forget to guard my thoughts."

She blinked. "You mean—this is your fault?"

He gave a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Probably. I told you you’d burn me alive someday. I didn’t think it would be in my own mind."

Her laugh came out breathless. "You always say that like it’s a bad thing."

"Mailah..."

The warning in his voice only made her pulse quicken. She leaned closer, drawn by something she couldn’t fight, couldn’t name. His hand still circled her wrist—loosely now, no real restraint. When her other hand came up to rest on his chest, his breath hitched.

For a heartbeat, everything went still.

Then his control cracked.

He pulled her to him—not rough, but with a desperation that felt like surrender. His lips found hers, and the dream tilted.

The world around them burst into light—petals lifting off vines like sparks, shadows bending inward. The kiss deepened, slow and consuming, filled with all the things they hadn’t said.

It wasn’t like before, when restraint had been a wall between them. Here, there was no wall. Only truth.

When his hand slid to the back of her neck, she felt the thrum of his magic flood through her veins—hot, alive, terrifyingly intimate. It didn’t hurt. It felt like flying.

Her fingers curled into his hair, her lips parting under his, and the rush of it nearly stole her balance. He caught her easily, pulling her flush against him, their heartbeats syncing in uneven rhythm.

Every time she breathed, she tasted rain.

Every time he moved, the world shifted.

"You shouldn’t be here," he whispered against her mouth, though his lips didn’t stop moving. "I could hurt you even like this."

She smiled faintly. "Then wake up and try to stop me."

He froze. Their eyes met.

For a split second, something raw crossed his face—fear, hunger, longing tangled so tightly they looked the same.

Then he kissed her again, and this time, the magic inside him flared bright enough to make the garden tremble.

The vines coiled and unfurled, the air humming with power. Her body felt weightless, her senses sharpened to unbearable clarity.

When his hands trailed down her back, she shivered—not just from touch, but from the way the energy responded, curling around her like smoke.

He broke the kiss only to whisper, "You shouldn’t want this."

"I do."

His eyes darkened, the glow in them deepening. "Say it again."

She didn’t hesitate. "I want this. I want you."

The words hung between them, and for a moment he looked as though they were both a gift and a curse.

Then he exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead to hers. "You make it sound like redemption."

"Maybe it is."

He laughed softly, the sound rough, beautiful. "Or damnation."

Before she could answer, the garden shifted again—the moon lowering, the light distorting. A wind moved through the vines, carrying whispers she couldn’t understand.

Mailah tensed. "Grayson?"

He went still. The glow on his skin dimmed, and his gaze flicked upward, scanning the darkening sky.

"Someone’s here," he said.

"Who?"

He didn’t answer. The garden began to unravel—the petals burning into light, the air thinning.

"Wake up," he told her, voice suddenly sharp.

"What—?"

"Mailah, wake up now!"

A flash of white swallowed the dream, and the last thing she felt was his hand on her cheek, gentle and desperate all at once.

Then everything went black.

She woke with a start.

Her room was filled with morning light—soft gold spilling across the sheets. Her heart pounded as if she’d run for miles.

For a few seconds, she didn’t know where she was. Then the scent of roses and dust grounded her again.

The villa. Tuscany.

And the faintest trace of him—magic lingering in the air like the ghost of heat.

She sat up, pressing her hand to her chest. Her skin still tingled where he’d touched her in the dream.

It wasn’t just a dream.

"Grayson..." she whispered.

Before she could think further, a sharp meow came from the hallway.

Shadow.

A second later, the sleek black cat darted through the doorway, tail flicking with imperious authority. Her eyes gleamed like twin lanterns in the morning light.

Shadow leapt gracefully onto the edge of Mailah’s bed and yowled—a low, throaty sound that carried more scolding than greeting.

"Good morning to you too," Mailah murmured, rubbing her eyes. "What’s the verdict? I’ve slept too long, haven’t I?"

Shadow’s tail swished in a clear yes. Then, with an elegant turn, she padded to the door, pausing to look back expectantly.

"You’ve been sent to drag me out of bed, haven’t you?" Mailah sighed. "Fine. Lead the way, tyrant."

The cat blinked, clearly satisfied, and padded ahead with that deliberate, queenly stride only felines possessed.

Mailah wrapped a shawl around her sleepwear and followed through the sunlit corridor.

Morning filled the villa in layers of sound—soft laughter, the muted thud of footsteps, the clink of dishes from somewhere below. The air carried the scent of strong coffee and something buttery and sweet.

By the time she reached the kitchen, she almost laughed aloud at the sight before her.

Lucien stood at the stove, dusted in flour and looking like he’d lost a duel with the bag of it.

Oliver leaned against the counter, sipping coffee with lazy amusement, while Elin perched cross-legged on the countertop, scrolling through her phone as if they weren’t in a centuries-old Tuscan villa once meant for noblemen and sorcerers.

And Grayson—Grayson was at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly disheveled, washing something with methodical precision.

The sunlight through the tall windows caught the curve of his jaw and the faint shadow along his cheek. He looked painfully human in that moment—and somehow that made him even harder to look at.

Lucien noticed her first and lit up like he’d been waiting for an audience. "Ah, Sleeping Beauty has risen!"

Mailah arched an eyebrow. "Judging from the carnage, I think I woke up just in time to save breakfast."

"Don’t insult the artist at work," Lucien declared, attempting to flip a crepe with exaggerated flourish. The crepe folded on itself midair, then flopped unceremoniously to the floor.

Shadow, quick as lightning, pounced and claimed it.

Oliver smirked. "Guess the critic approves."

Elin didn’t glance up. "She approves of anything she can destroy."

Mailah laughed softly, her eyes drifting over the chaotic scene. There was something strangely tender about it all—the noise, the laughter, the domestic imperfection. For the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like they were fugitives or fractured souls bound by survival. It felt like... family.

She crossed to the counter, careful not to brush against anyone, but Grayson turned before she could speak. Without a word, he handed her a cup of coffee. Their fingers grazed. Barely.

It was nothing. And it was everything.

The warmth from his hand lingered longer than the heat from the cup.

Her breath caught, her pulse tightening against her ribs. He froze too, eyes flicking up to hers with that unreadable stillness she’d come to recognize—the kind that always meant too much.

For a heartbeat, the air between them was taut and fragile.

Lucien, of course, couldn’t stand silence. "Well," he drawled, "if the tension in here gets any thicker, I’ll need a knife, not a spoon."

Grayson’s look in response was glacial enough to silence him—almost.

Mailah fought the smile tugging at her lips. "Careful, Lucien. He’s thinking of ways to make you disappear."

Lucien grinned wider, utterly unbothered. "Worth it."

Mailah snorted, the last of her unease melting into amusement. She leaned against the counter, letting the warmth of the coffee and the chatter wash over her. Yet every few moments, her eyes strayed back to Grayson—quick, unbidden glances she couldn’t seem to stop.

And every single time, he felt it. His jaw would tighten, or he’d shift slightly, avoiding her gaze as though the act itself cost him control.

Shadow leapt lightly onto the windowsill then, her tail brushing Mailah’s arm as if to remind her she was being watched.

Mailah smiled faintly. "Jealous, are we?"

The cat blinked once, slow and disdainful.

Lucien was still talking about burnt crepes and blackmailing Grayson into making lunch, Oliver was quietly refilling everyone’s mugs, and Elin was pretending not to film Lucien’s culinary disasters for future leverage.

It was all chaos—and somehow, perfect.

Mailah’s heart clenched with something she couldn’t name. For this one golden morning, it didn’t matter who they were running from, or what shadows waited beyond the villa walls. They were here. Together. Breathing. Laughing.

Grayson brushed past her just then—too close, too suddenly—and her breath caught. The touch was fleeting, barely a whisper of fabric against her hip, but it sent heat racing up her spine.

She turned before she could stop herself, catching his gaze.