Chapter 452: The High Ridge Lodge

“He has a walking encyclopedia for a brain,” Chloe muttered, tossing her remaining letter tiles onto the Scrabble board with a dramatic sigh. “I am officially declaring this game finished before he drops a hundred-point word from ancient Latin.”

She picked up her bowl of grapes, stood up from her velvet cushion, and pointed an accusing finger at Grayson. “I’m going to sleep. Don’t wake me up early. And if you two plan on being nauseatingly romantic all night, please keep the whispering down.”

“Goodnight, Chloe,” Mailah called out, laughing as her cousin walked out of the living room, her slippers dragging softly down the hardwood floor until her bedroom door clicked shut upstairs.

The grand living room fell into a quiet, cozy silence. Outside, the autumn rain tapped steadily against the tall glass windows, while the stone fireplace crackled, throwing warm orange light across the velvet rugs.

Mailah turned her head to look at Grayson. He was leaning back against the sofa, his long legs stretched out, watching her with eyes that burned with quiet, steady warmth.

“She is noisy,” Grayson noted smoothly, reaching out to wrap his large arm around Mailah’s waist. He pulled her flush against his chest, tucking her neatly into his side.

“She keeps things lively,” Mailah smiled, resting her head against his broad shoulder. “You’d be bored without her teasing you.”

“I would survive,” Grayson murmured, his raspy voice humming low against her ear. He buried his face in the soft curve of her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin. “I only require you.”

Mailah smiled, her heart fluttering. She turned in his hold, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with her thumb. “Grayson… tomorrow, let’s do something completely different.”

Grayson stilled slightly, his eyes looking down into hers with quiet curiosity. “Different? Do you require more supplies from the village store?”

“No,” Mailah laughed softly, tapping his cheek gently. “No stores. No village trips. No buying plant shelves, soil, or tomatoes. Just us. Somewhere quiet where we don’t have to see a single parking lot or cash register.”

Grayson blinked, processing her request as if analyzing a strategic proposal. “A place without commerce?”

“Yes,” Mailah said, smiling up at his serious face. “Just nature and quiet. Somewhere on the estate where we can get away from everything.”

Grayson’s gaze softened into that deep, swoon-worthy look that always made her pulse race. He reached up, his long fingers gently smoothing a stray lock of hair away from her forehead.

“Then I know where we shall go,” Grayson whispered against her skin. “The high ridge lodge.”

Early the next morning, the rain had stopped, leaving the mountain air crisp, cold, and fresh.

Instead of taking his polished black sedan, Grayson drove a heavy, vintage dark green four-wheel-drive vehicle up the winding, dirt trail that led into the dense pine forests on the northern edge of the estate.

The main house and the village vanished behind them, replaced by towering evergreen trees, damp earth, and patches of white morning mist hanging over the valley.

Chloe sat in the back seat, holding her phone high in the air with a look of growing horror as the signal bars on her screen vanished one by one.

“Wait… two bars… one bar… zero bars?” Chloe gasped, staring at her phone in disbelief. “Grayson, where are you taking us? Is this where you take people to make them disappear?”

Grayson kept both hands steadily on the leather steering wheel, his sharp profile completely unbothered as the vehicle bounced smoothly over a mossy wooden bridge.

“It is the high ridge cabin,” Grayson explained calmly, his deep voice rich and steady. “It was built by my family in the nineteenth century. It has no telephone lines, no television, and no cellular towers. It is peaceful.”

“It’s an isolation chamber!” Chloe whined, falling back against the leather seat. “What am I supposed to do without internet? Read a physical book? Stare at trees?”

“Staring at trees builds mental discipline,” Grayson noted coolly, catching Mailah’s amused gaze in the rearview mirror.

Mailah sat in the front passenger seat, wrapped in a thick knit sweater, her hand resting warmly on Grayson’s thigh. Every time the trail grew bumpy, Grayson’s right hand would instantly leave the gear shift to cover hers, holding her steady with quiet, possessive care.

Ten minutes later, the dense trees opened up to reveal a stunning, hidden sanctuary.

Nestled on the edge of a deep, crystalline mountain lake was a rustic, two-story cabin made of heavy dark timber and hand-cut stone. A long wooden pier extended out over the still, mirror-like water, reflecting the yellow pine trees and the towering gray peaks in the distance. The air smelled entirely of pine needles, cold lake water, and crushed wood.

Grayson parked near the timber porch, turned off the engine, and stepped out into the cool air.

He was dressed in a thick, cream-colored cable-knit wool sweater, dark rugged trousers, and heavy leather boots. Without his formal overcoat and sharp suits, he looked less like an ancient noble and more like a devastatingly handsome wilderness guide.

Mailah stepped out of the vehicle, drawing a deep breath of the mountain air. “Grayson… this place is incredible.”

Grayson walked around the front of the truck to reach her side. The moment he reached her, his large, warm hand found the small of her back, pulling her close against his hip.

“It was built for quiet solitude,” Grayson murmured softly, looking out over the quiet lake. “I have not brought anyone here in over eighty years.”

“I can see why,” Chloe said, stepping out of the back while carrying her small canvas duffel bag. She looked around at the towering trees and the quiet water, her dramatic annoyance softening into reluctant wonder. “Okay, fine. It’s ridiculously pretty. But if a wild bear shows up, Grayson, you are fighting it first.”

“The bears in these mountains know better than to approach my perimeter,” Grayson replied flatly, taking all three heavy bags from the back of the truck in one smooth lift.

Inside, the cabin was warm, cozy, and untouched by modern technology. Massive oak beams ran across the high ceiling, a grand stone fireplace dominated the living area, and wide glass windows looked directly out over the lake.

However, because the cabin was completely off-grid, there were no wall switches or electric appliances.

“First priority,” Grayson announced, setting the bags down on the rustic wooden floorboards. “Firewood and water.”

“I can help,” Mailah offered warmly.

“No,” Grayson said instantly, turning his dark blue eyes to her with absolute gentle authority. “The morning air is cold. You will sit inside by the hearth while I prepare the cabin.”

“Grayson, I’m not made of glass,” Mailah teased softly, reaching out to straighten the collar of his wool sweater.

“You are precious to me,” Grayson corrected low in his throat, leaning down to press a firm, warm kiss to her forehead. “Which means you do not carry heavy logs.”

“I am going to check out the loft bedroom before I die of sweet-talk overdose,” Chloe announced, marching up the wooden staircase with her bag.

Grayson walked out to the woodpile behind the cabin. Mailah stood on the covered back porch, holding a mug of warm water, watching him work.

Grayson picked up a heavy, long-handled steel splitting axe. He stood over a thick block of oak, his posture rigid and focused. He lifted the axe above his broad shoulders and brought it down with smooth, terrifying precision—CRACK!

The heavy oak log split into two perfectly equal halves in a fraction of a second.

He didn’t use any dark magic or supernatural strength; it was pure, practiced human skill, refined over centuries of manual living. He picked up another log. CRACK! Again, perfectly split down the middle.

As he worked, the physical exertion made his body warm up. Grayson stopped, set the axe down, and slowly rolled his sweater sleeves up to his elbows, revealing his thick, muscular forearms and long, capable hands. He wiped a light sheen of warmth from his forehead with the back of his arm, then turned his head to look at Mailah standing on the porch.

His blue eyes locked onto hers with a quiet, confident intensity that made Mailah’s cheeks flush instantly.

“Is the wood pile constructed to your satisfaction, my love?” Grayson asked smoothly, picking up another log.

Mailah took a sip of her water, trying to hide her blushing face behind the mug. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

Grayson tilted his head slightly, a faint, handsome smirk tugging at his lips. “Doing what?”

“Rolling up your sleeves,” Mailah said teasingly. “You know what you’re doing.”

Grayson set the axe aside, wiped his hands on a clean work rag, and walked up the three wooden steps of the porch toward her. He moved with that fluid, predatory grace, stopping right in front of her until his broad chest completely blocked the cool mountain wind.

“I am simply regulating my temperature,” Grayson murmured softly, leaning down until his lips were inches from hers. “However… if the sight pleases you, I shall leave them rolled.”

Mailah’s heart gave a heavy, sweet thud. She reached up, resting her palm against his warm chest. “It pleases me very much.”

Grayson’s dark eyes darkened with heat. He placed his large, warm hand gently behind her neck, tilting her face up, and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her lips that tasted of cold mountain air and pure devotion.

“Hey! Lord Lumberjack!” Chloe’s voice called out from the side of the cabin. She was holding an old iron kettle, looking thoroughly confused. “The kitchen faucet doesn’t work! How do we get water in this place?”

Grayson didn’t break contact with Mailah’s lips for two full seconds before slowly lifting his head, letting out a quiet, patient sigh.

“The sink is not connected to a municipal line, Chloe,” Grayson called back smoothly, keeping one arm wrapped around Mailah’s waist. “Water is drawn from the mountain spring using the iron hand pump on the side porch.”

Chloe walked around the corner, staring at the green cast-iron pump with deep suspicion. “You mean I have to pump a metal handle like a pioneer?”

“It builds character,” Grayson noted dryly.

He stepped over to the iron pump, took the kettle from Chloe’s hand, and gripped the heavy metal handle. Moving with effortless, rhythmic power, he worked the pump four times until clean, ice-cold spring water gushed out of the spout, filling the kettle in seconds.

Chloe stared at the clear water in awe. “Okay… that was actually kind of cool. But I am still not doing manual labor.”

“No one expected you to,” Grayson replied coolly, handing the full kettle back to her. “Take it inside. Mailah requires warm tea.”