Chapter 457: The Missing Demon 3

“I will not leave you here,” Grayson said softly, his voice a low rumble that cut through the roaring wind. “But when we find them, you must listen to every word I say. You will not step in front of me. You will not try to be a hero. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear,” Mailah answered, looking up into his dark, fierce eyes. “Just get us to her.”

Grayson gave a single, sharp nod. He kept her hand locked in his as they turned back down the trail, moving twice as fast as before. The mud was slick and treacherous, but Grayson’s footing was absolute. He guided her down the mountain with that same terrifying, fluid grace, carrying them through the worst of the storm until the warm yellow lights of the cabin broke through the trees.

Once inside, Grayson did not waste a single second. The stoic, domestic man who complained about undercooked rice was gone. In his place was an ancient lord preparing for a hunt.

He stripped off his wet oilskin and tossed it onto the floor. He walked into his study and pulled open a heavy cedar drawer. He did not pull out swords or magical artifacts. Instead, he pulled out a long, tailored black wool coat and slipped it on over his dark sweater. The coat fell past his knees, giving his broad, tall frame an incredibly sharp, intimidating outline. It was a classic, dramatic look—the kind of quiet power that made the air in the room feel thin.

Mailah ran to the kitchen, quickly stuffing a canvas bag with a first-aid kit, a dry thermal blanket, and a heavy brass flashlight.

When she turned around, Grayson was standing in the hallway, holding a set of heavy car keys. His face was a mask of cold, beautiful stone.

“Are you warm enough?” Grayson asked, his eyes dropping to her damp boots. Even now, with his cousin missing and his temper barely held in check, his first instinct was to check her comfort.

“I am fine,” Mailah said, stepping up to him and putting her hand on his chest. His heart was still beating with that fast, dangerous rhythm. “I am ready.”

Grayson reached out, his long fingers gently tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “The abandoned lumber mill is four miles down the south dirt road. We are taking the Land Rover. Stay close to me.”

He led her out the side door into the covered garage. Sitting in the shadows was a classic, dark green 1985 Land Rover Defender. It was a massive, blocky vehicle built like a military tank. Grayson opened the passenger door, lifted Mailah by her waist into the tall leather seat with effortless ease, and buckled her seatbelt himself.

He shut her door, walked around the front, and slid into the driver’s seat. He turned the key, and the heavy V8 engine roared to life with a deep, angry growl that shook the floorboards.

Grayson slammed the heavy gear shift forward. The Land Rover burst out of the garage and into the driving rain, its thick tires tearing through the mud as they raced toward the south pass.

The drive was tense and silent. Heavy tree branches whipped against the windshield, and the rain poured down in blinding sheets. Grayson drove with terrifying skill, one broad hand controlling the heavy steering wheel with smooth, precise movements, while his other hand reached across the center console to hold Mailah’s.

His warm, broad palm was locked over hers, his thumb rubbing slow, steady circles over her knuckles. It was a small, grounding gesture that told her he was still here, still in control.

“Grayson,” Mailah said softly, keeping her eyes on the dark, winding road. “Why would smugglers steal those old chests? What is inside them?”

Grayson’s jaw tightened. “They are fools. The chests look like antique treasure trunks from the outside. They bear our old family crest. These local thieves likely believe they are full of silver bars or gold coins.”

“What is actually in them?”

“Tax records from the year 1842,” Grayson replied, his voice flat and deadpan. “A collection of dull butter knives. And three boxes of Chloe’s childhood art projects.”

Mailah blinked, a small, breathless laugh escaping her lips despite the fear in her chest. “You kept her childhood art projects?”

Grayson kept his eyes glued to the dark road, but in the dim green light of the dashboard, Mailah saw a faint, dark flush touch the tips of his ears.

“They were in the bottom drawer,” Grayson muttered defensively. “It was not a matter of sentiment. It was simply an administrative oversight. I forgot to throw them in the fire.”

“You are a terrible liar,” Mailah smiled warmly, squeezing his hand. “You kept her macaroni art because you love her.”

“I am a dark creature of the shadows,” Grayson corrected smoothly. “I do not care for macaroni. But when we get her back, I am going to make her alphabetize those tax records as punishment for leaving the cabin.”

Suddenly, Grayson’s head snapped forward. He cut the Land Rover’s headlights instantly, plunging them into total darkness. He downshifted smoothly, letting the heavy truck roll to a quiet stop beneath a thick canopy of pine trees at the edge of a deep ridge.

“We are here,” Grayson whispered.

Through the rain-streaked windshield, Mailah looked down into the valley. A quarter-mile away sat the old lumber mill. It was a massive, rusted metal building sitting beside the rushing river. Two dim, yellow work lights were shining near the open loading dock.

Parked directly outside the dock was a heavy black utility truck.

“Is that the truck?” Mailah asked, her pulse racing.

“The tire treads match the mud at the gate,” Grayson said, his voice dropping into a razor-thin rumble.

He unbuckled his seatbelt. He turned to Mailah in the dark cab. The faint moonlight filtering through the trees caught the sharp, beautiful angles of his face. He reached out, framing her face in his large, warm hands.

“Listen to me,” Grayson murmured, leaning in until his breath washed over her lips. “I am going inside. You will lock these doors. You will not get out of this vehicle. If you see anyone running toward you, you move to the driver’s seat and you drive away. Do you understand?”

“I am not leaving you,” Mailah said stubbornly, her hands gripping his wrists.

“I am not asking you to leave me,” Grayson said, his dark blue eyes burning with an intense, protective light. “I am asking you to stay safe so I can do my job without losing my mind with worry. Please, Mailah.”

Mailah softened. She leaned forward and pressed a quick, fierce kiss against his mouth. “Okay. Just get her. And don’t do anything stupid.”

“I am never stupid,” Grayson smirked slightly. “I am highly educated.”

He opened his door, stepped out into the storm, and shut the door with a quiet click. Mailah locked the doors immediately, her eyes glued to his tall, dark figure as he walked down the muddy hill toward the mill. He didn’t rush. He walked with a slow, powerful stride, his long black coat snapping in the wind.

Inside the Land Rover, the minutes felt like hours. Mailah held her breath, staring at the glowing yellow lights of the loading dock. She couldn’t just sit there. The anxiety was eating her alive.

She remembered his promise—stay in the car. But she also knew she could not just wait in the dark if Chloe was hurt.

Very carefully, Mailah unlocked her door and slipped out into the rain. She stayed low, keeping to the thick line of trees at the edge of the gravel yard, moving quietly until she reached the side of the rusted metal building. She found a dirty, cracked window near the ground and wiped the grime away with her sleeve.

Inside, the mill was a massive, echoing cavern of dust and old machinery.

In the center of the room, sitting under a bright hanging work light, was Chloe. She was tied to a wooden chair with thick yellow rope. Her hair was wet and messy, and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, but she did not look terrified.

She looked deeply, incredibly annoyed.

“I am telling you for the fourth time,” Chloe was saying loudly, glaring at the two large men in muddy work coats standing near her. “You are wasting your time! You cannot pawn that stuff!”

One of the men, a tall, rough-looking guy holding a heavy iron crowbar, kicked the side of the antique chest. “Shut up, kid. These iron boxes belong to the old Vance estate. There’s got to be silver in here. Maybe old gold bonds.”

“There is macaroni!” Chloe yelled back. “Dry noodles glued to construction paper! If you break that lock, my cousin is going to end your entire bloodline! Do you know how fussy he is about brass fittings?!”

“Your cousin ain’t here, loudmouth,” the second man laughed, raising a heavy pair of bolt cutters toward the antique padlock on the chest.

“Actually,” a smooth, dry, terribly calm voice echoed from the shadows of the mill. “He is.”

The two men spun around, dropping the bolt cutters.

From the dark corner of the room, Grayson stepped into the light.