Chapter 408: The First Day Out 1

Mailah took a slow, deliberate sip of her pulp-free orange juice, watching her husband over the rim of the glass.

He was still wearing his yellow duck apron over his sleek black sweater, standing by the marble counter with his arms folded tightly against his broad chest. His sharp jaw was set in that familiar, majestic pose—half regal prince, half dramatic golden retriever on high alert.

"Grayson," Mailah said softly, setting her glass down on the island.

"Yes, my love?" Grayson replied smoothly, his deep voice carrying an immediate, devoted warmth.

"I am stir-crazy," she declared, resting her chin in her hands. "I have been staring at the exact same four walls of this sunroom and kitchen for a week. I want to go outside."

Grayson stilled. His dark eyebrows pulled together in a sharp, defensive line.

"Outside?" Grayson repeated, as if she had suggested taking a leisurely stroll through an active volcano. "Into the uncontrolled mortal wilderness? Mailah, your leg is in a delicate stage of healing. The sidewalks are uneven. The weather is unpredictable. Human crowds walk with zero spatial awareness!"

"Grayson, I have crutches. And I have you," Mailah pointed out, flashing him a small, coaxing smile. "We don’t have to go far. Just a quiet coffee shop down in the city. A change of scenery. Please?"

Grayson stared down at her. He tried to maintain his stern, unyielding expression, but the moment her soft eyes met his, his resolve crumbled like a dry cookie.

He let out a long, dramatic sigh, placing his large hands on his hips.

"Very well," Grayson conceded haughtily, holding his chin high. "However, this operation shall be conducted under maximum security protocols. I shall inspect the location beforehand, control the environmental temperature, and personally escort every single step you take."

Mailah grinned, her eyes sparkling with delight. "Deal. Now go change out of the duck apron, Mr. Bodyguard."

Half an hour later, Grayson stood at the bottom of the grand staircase, waiting for Mailah.

He had traded his domestic sweater for a tailored charcoal turtleneck, slim black trousers, and a sweeping, floor-length dark coat that made him look like he had just stepped off the runway of a high-fashion show in Paris. His dark hair was styled back, emphasizing his sharp, breathtaking cheekbones and intense, brooding eyes.

When Mailah slowly navigated her way to the top of the stairs holding her crutches, Grayson’s breath caught completely in his throat.

She wore a soft, cream-colored oversized sweater and a warm beige wool coat that matched his aesthetic perfectly. Her dark hair fell in gentle waves around her shoulders, her face glowing in the morning light.

Before she could even place her crutch on the first step, Grayson was already at the top of the stairs.

"What are you doing?" Mailah asked, laughing as he gently took her crutches from her hands and leaned them against the wall.

"Stairs are an unnecessary physical hazard," Grayson stated flatly.

Without waiting for her permission, he swept one long arm behind her knees and the other around her back, scooping her up into his arms as effortlessly as if she weighed no more than a feather.

"Grayson! I can walk!" Mailah gasped, instinctively wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.

"You can walk on flat surfaces," Grayson corrected arrogantly, carrying her down the wide marble steps with slow, smooth, majestic strides. "You shall not risk an angular tendon twist on my watch."

Mailah looked up into his sharp profile. His chest was broad and solid beneath his dark coat, his signature scent of cold rain and cedar wood wrapping around her like a warm blanket. Her heart did a sudden, frantic flutter, a soft blush spreading across her cheeks.

Even after all this time, the sheer, effortless romance of his presence made her feel entirely lightheaded.

When they reached the foyer, Grayson set her down gently on a velvet bench near the front door. He reached into the coat closet and pulled out a thick, cashmere scarf in a rich dark chocolate shade.

He knelt down on one knee in front of her.

"Hold still," Grayson murmured softly.

He raised his hands, wrapping the soft wool gently around her neck. His large, warm fingers brushed against her chin, lingering for a moment against her skin. He adjusted the folds of the scarf with meticulous care, his sharp dark eyes focused entirely on her face.

Because he was kneeling, his face was directly level with hers. The close proximity was intoxicating. Mailah could see the faint charcoal flecks in his dark eyes, the sharp curve of his jaw, and the subtle, possessive warmth radiating off his skin.

"There," Grayson whispered, his deep voice dropping into a low, velvety purr. "Now the cold air cannot reach you."

Mailah’s breath hitched. She reached out, her fingers gently touching his sharp lapel. "You look very handsome today, Grayson."

A slow, breathtaking smirk broke across Grayson’s face. It was an arrogant smile that lit up his dark features, making him look dangerously attractive.

"I look handsome every day, my love," Grayson rumbled smoothly, leaning forward until his lips gently brushed against her cheek. "It is merely a gift I bestow upon the mortal realm."

Mailah rolled her eyes playfully, pushing his chest. "Take me to the coffee shop, you arrogant demon."

The cafe Grayson chose was an exclusive, glass-walled establishment situated on a quiet, cobblestone street in the historic district of the city. Rain had begun to fall softly outside, misting the large glass windows and casting a cozy, romantic glow over the dark wood tables and soft leather armchairs inside.

When Grayson opened the heavy wooden door, the small brass bell chimed softly overhead.

The entire atmosphere of the cafe seemed to freeze for a fraction of a second. Several customers looked up from their laptops and books, their eyes widening at the sight of the tall, impossibly handsome man in the dramatic black coat holding the door open for his wife.

Grayson paid no attention to any of them. His focus was entirely on Mailah.

He guided her toward a secluded booth near the back window, completely away from the draft of the front door. He placed a soft velvet cushion behind her back, gently helped her rest her foot on a footstool he had dragged over from another table without asking, and draped his own heavy coat over her shoulders to keep her warm.

"Are you comfortable?" Grayson asked gravely, standing over her like a tall, protective wall. "Is the lighting acceptable? Do you feel a draft?"

"Grayson, I am perfect," Mailah smiled warmly, tucking her hands into his oversized coat sleeves. "Sit down before people think you’re my bodyguard."

"I am superior to a bodyguard," Grayson declared haughtily, taking his seat across from her. "I am your husband."

A polite, young male barista with curly hair and a friendly smile walked over to their table holding two leather menus.

"Good morning!" the barista said cheerfully, offering a bright smile to Mailah. "Welcome to The Glass House. What can I get started for you two today?"

Mailah looked up, returning the smile warmly. "Hi! I’d love a roasted hazelnut latte with oat milk, please."

"Excellent choice," the barista beamed, making a quick note on his pad. "Our hazelnut syrup is made in-house. It’s super smooth and warm—almost like a sunny autumn day."

Grayson’s eyes narrowed into dangerous, icy slits.

A sunny autumn day?! Grayson thought, his mind instantly flashing back to Ethan the fairy and his gentle summer breeze. Was every mortal male in this city trained in floral weather descriptions?!

Grayson slowly leaned forward, placing his long, elegant hands flat on the wooden table. The subtle, cold authority radiating from his presence was so sudden that the young barista’s smile instantly froze, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.

"My wife shall have her hazelnut latte," Grayson commanded, his deep voice smooth as polished stone but carrying a chilling, lethal edge. "Heated to precisely sixty-five degrees Celsius. The espresso shot must be pulled for exactly twenty-two seconds. If the foam displays any artistic representation of leaves or flowers, I will return it."

The barista swallowed hard, stepping back a full foot. "Uh... y-yes, sir! Sixty-five degrees! No flowers! Got it!"

The barista practically sprinted back toward the counter.

Mailah buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with stifled laughter. "Grayson! You just terrified that poor guy! Why did you threaten him about latte art?!"

"I did not threaten him," Grayson stated with supreme, aristocratic dignity, adjusting his sweater cuffs. "I merely provided precise culinary instructions. I do not wish for you to consume fraudulent woodland foam."

"You are unbelievable," Mailah wheezed, shaking her head in utter amusement. "You get jealous over everything."

"I do not experience jealousy," Grayson lied flatly, looking out the window with a regal, brooding expression. "Jealousy is a petty human emotion. I am merely enforcing high quality standards for my wife’s beverage."

Before Mailah could tease him any further, a soft chime rang from Grayson’s trouser pocket.

He pulled out his phone. A single encrypted message flashed across the screen:

[Silas: I am outside. We have a situation regarding Victor and the Blackwood deal.]

Grayson’s sharp jaw tightened. The playful, possessive banter vanished for a split second, replaced by the cold, calculating mind of an ancient demon prince. He looked across the table at Mailah, instantly softening his expression so she wouldn’t notice the sudden shift.

"Mailah," Grayson said gently. "My chief financial secretary, Silas, has arrived with urgent corporate documents that require my physical signature. He is waiting at the counter. Will you permit me two minutes to address this matter?"

Mailah looked at him, noticing the subtle, serious edge in his posture. She knew Grayson managed vast business holdings, and while he kept her sheltered from most of the dry corporate details, she trusted him completely.

"Of course," Mailah smiled, patting his hand. "Go handle your business, Mr. CEO. I’ll enjoy my non-leafy latte."

Grayson leaned across the table, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against her forehead. "I will return shortly. Do not speak to any other sunny-day baristas while I am away."

"Go!" Mailah laughed gently.

Grayson stood near a quiet, shadowed corner near the back entrance of the cafe, out of Mailah’s line of sight.

Silas stood beside him, holding a dark leather folder. The middle-aged administrator looked pale, his wire-rimmed glasses resting slightly crooked on his nose.

"State the issue, Silas," Grayson commanded, his deep voice dropping into an ice-cold whisper. "I have ninety seconds before my wife grows suspicious."

"My Lord," Silas whispered urgently, opening the folder to reveal several surveillance photographs. "Victor held his tongue as promised, but the transaction at the Blackwood Gallery last night did not go unnoticed. A second party was watching the vault."

Grayson’s dark eyes narrowed, staring down at the photographs. They showed a tall, sharp-featured man in an expensive grey trench coat standing near the gallery subterranean exit.

"Who is he?" Grayson asked coldly.