Chapter 439: The Errand

Grayson gasped softly against her mouth, his breath catching in his throat as her sweet kiss washed over him. His hands instinctively moved to cradle the back of her waist, pressing her close to his heart. The gentle, lingering kiss was full of warmth, quiet promises, and an endless devotion that needed no grand words to be understood.

When she finally pulled back, her cheeks were glowing with a soft pink blush. Grayson stared down at her, his dark lashes fluttering, his blue eyes shimmering like a sunlit sea. For a brief second, the terrifying, ancient demon looked utterly spellbound, completely at the mercy of a human woman’s smile.

Then, he blinked, shook his head, and quickly cleared his throat, trying to regain his royal composure.

"Right," Grayson announced loudly, his voice dropping into its most dignified, authoritative register as he carefully lifted her off his lap and set her back on the soft duvet. "The kiss was... acceptable. A solid attempt at appeasing your husband. However, words alone will not defeat my past self. Action is required!"

Mailah rested her chin on her hands, watching him with an amused smirk. "Action?"

"Immediate culinary action!" Grayson declared. He threw back the blankets with a flourish, stepping out of bed with the grace of an emperor addressing his court. "I shall descend to the kitchen and prepare a morning meal so magnificent that you will completely forget that other version of me ever existed."

Ten minutes later, Mailah walked down the spiral staircase into the sunny, open kitchen, and immediately stopped to suppress a loud snort of laughter.

Grayson was standing at the granite island. He was wearing black trousers and a crisp white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his strong, pale forearms. But over his expensive shirt, he was wearing a brightly colored floral apron with frilly pink borders—an apron Mailah had bought as a joke three weeks ago.

He was holding a stainless-steel whisk in his right hand as if it were a deadly broadsword, staring down at a glass bowl of pancake batter with an expression of intense, dark concentration.

"Are you preparing breakfast or declaring war on flour?" Mailah asked, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed.

Grayson did not break his glare from the bowl. "This batter is rebellious, Mailah. It lacks discipline. It attempts to form lumps in my presence. I shall not tolerate lumps."

"It’s pancake mix, Grayson," Mailah giggled, walking over to stand beside him. "You just have to stir it gently."

"Gentleness is for mortals," Grayson grumbled grandly, though he immediately softened his whisking motion to a gentle, careful rhythm the moment she stood near him. "Besides, I am adding a secret element of dark perfection to these cakes."

"Oh? And what secret element is that?"

"Love," Grayson said smoothly, without missing a single beat. He turned his head to look down at her, a swoon-worthy, breathtaking smirk curving his sharp lips. "And a tiny drop of vanilla extract. But mostly love."

Mailah felt her heart give a sudden, helpless flutter. "You are completely unfair, you know that?"

"I am an ancient, immortal being. I play by my own rules," Grayson boasted softly, leaning down to press a quick, warm kiss against her cheek before turning back to the stove.

He moved around the kitchen with practiced, elegant precision. Even doing something as simple as flipping a pancake looked like a performance. He caught the golden pancake effortlessly on the pan, plating it beside a stack of perfectly sliced strawberries and bananas.

When he placed the plate in front of Mailah at the dining table, she noticed something that made her heart swell.

Beside the pancakes were two slices of toasted white bread. The crusts had been removed with absolute, surgical perfection, leaving only the soft, warm center, cut neatly into two neat triangles.

Mailah looked up at him, her eyes softening. "You actually cut the crusts off."

Grayson pulled out a chair and sat down across from her, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. He tried to look nonchalant, though the faint pink tinge on his ears gave him away.

"Naturally," Grayson said loftily, waving a hand dismissively. "I recalled that you once mentioned—in passing —that toast crusts are far too dry for a proper morning meal. A lord remembers every detail regarding his territory. And you are my entire territory."

Mailah picked up a piece of toast, her eyes shining with warmth. "Thank you, Grayson."

"Do not thank me yet," Grayson said, his eyes narrowing in dramatic determination as he watched her take a bite. "Eat the pancakes first. Then evaluate them. Scale of one to ten. And keep in mind that my past self only offered you symbolic dream-berries, whereas I have provided real, edible carbohydrates."

Mailah took a bite of the fluffy, warm pancake, letting out an appreciative hum. "Mmm. Ten out of ten."

Grayson’s shoulders visibly relaxed, a look of immense, childish triumph washing over his handsome face. "Ha! Victory! Take that, past self!"

"You really need to stop competing with yourself," Mailah laughed, shaking her head as she poured two cups of tea. "It’s getting ridiculous."

"It is not competition; it is historical correction," Grayson corrected smoothly, taking a sip of his tea. "Now, eat quickly. We have an urgent errand to run."

Mailah paused, her tea cup halfway to her mouth. "An errand? On a Sunday morning? Where?"

Grayson sat up straight, his blue eyes flashing with theatrical gravity. "To the regional organic market. We must purchase every single fresh berry in the district. I swore I would build you a greenhouse, but until the carpenters arrive, I shall convert our refrigerator into a kingdom of fruit."

Twenty minutes later, Mailah stood by the front door, waiting for Grayson to finish getting dressed.

When he finally walked out of the master bedroom, Mailah stared at him in utter disbelief.

He was wearing a floor-length, double-breasted charcoal cashmere trench coat, polished black leather boots, a dark silk scarf wrapped elegantly around his neck, and sleek black leather driving gloves. He looked like an aristocrat attending a high-society funeral in late December, despite the fact that it was a bright, warm, sunny morning outside.

"Grayson..." Mailah sighed, pressing two fingers to the bridge of her nose. "Where do you think we are going?"

"To the local farm stand," Grayson replied casually, adjusting the collar of his thousand-dollar coat in the hallway mirror. "Why?"

"It is twenty-five degrees outside! Sun is shining! People are wearing shorts and t-shirts!" Mailah pointed out, gesturing to his heavy outfit. "You look like an international spy who lost his way to the opera!"

Grayson turned around, looking deeply offended. "A demon must not step out into public in casual garments, Mailah! What if my arch-nemesis is lurking near the organic tomatoes? What if a rogue shadow sees me in a hoodie? My authority would be ruined!"

"Grayson, the only thing lurking near the tomatoes is old Mrs. Gable from down the street!" Mailah argued, grabbing his leather-gloved hand and pulling him back toward the bedroom. "Take off the coat. Take off the scarf. Take off the gloves."

"You are stripping me of my regal dignity!" Grayson protested dramatically, though he allowed her to drag him back into the closet without putting up any real physical resistance. "This coat cost three thousand dollars! It commands respect!"

"It commands a heatstroke," Mailah countered, reaching into his closet and pulling out a soft, cream-colored, oversized knitted sweater and a pair of dark jeans. She shoved them into his chest. "Put these on."

Grayson stared down at the soft sweater as if she had handed him a piece of poisonous moss. "A... a knit sweater? Mailah, this lacks dark majesty. It makes me look... soft. Approachable. Friendly!"

"Good! You are going to buy strawberries, not conquer a village," Mailah said firmly, crossing her arms. "Put it on, or we aren’t going."

Five minutes later, the great demon prince emerged from the closet, sulking heavily.

The soft cream sweater draped over his broad shoulders and chest, softening his sharp, intimidating silhouette. Combined with his slightly messy dark hair, he didn’t look like a terrifying creature of the night at all—he looked like a ridiculously handsome, swoon-worthy lead actor straight out of a romantic television drama.

Mailah’s breath hitched slightly as she looked at him. "See? You look wonderful."

Grayson folded his broad arms over his chest, pouting like a giant, spoiled child. "I feel stripped of my terrifying dark aura. If anyone smiles at me, I am blaming you."

"I’m sure you will survive," Mailah giggled, taking his hand and leading him down to the garage.

Their ride to the open-air weekend market was an event in itself.

Grayson drove his sleek, pitch-black SUV with absolute, military precision. He sat up completely straight, both hands gripping the leather steering wheel at precisely ten and two, staring down the suburban streets as if navigating a dangerous obstacle course.

"Grayson, you can relax," Mailah said softly, leaning back against her headrest. "The speed limit is forty."

"I am currently analyzing the driving habits of these mortal vehicles," Grayson said sternly, his dark eyebrows pulled together in serious focus. "That silver sedan in front of us cut us off without using its directional light signal. Should I summon a small plague of dark crows to peck at its tires?"

"No! No crows!" Mailah exclaimed quickly. "You cannot summon crows every time someone forgets to use a turn signal!"

"It is a matter of civil order," Grayson muttered huffily, though he obediently kept his hands on the wheel and did not summon any birds. "Humans lack discipline. In my realm, failing to signal resulted in three days in the stone tower."

"Well, welcome to Earth," Mailah smiled, reaching over to gently squeeze his knee. "We just grumble under our breath and move on."

The moment they arrived at the bustling farmers market, Grayson’s dramatic defenses immediately went on high alert.