Mailah stood in front of her closet, staring at the array of designer clothes that had belonged to her sister. Nothing seemed right for learning to ride a motorcycle. Everything was too delicate, too expensive, too... Lailah.
She finally settled on dark jeans that hugged her curves and a fitted black t-shirt—the most casual items she could find. As she laced up a pair of leather boots, her hands trembled slightly. Whether from nerves or anticipation, she couldn't tell.
The garage was larger than some people's homes, housing a collection of luxury cars. But it was the sleek black motorcycle in the corner that made her breath catch.
It was beautiful in a dangerous way—all chrome and leather, built for speed and power. Just like its owner.
"Second thoughts?"
Grayson's voice came from behind her, and she turned to find him leaning against the doorframe, watching her with those intense blue eyes. He'd changed too—worn jeans that molded to his long legs, a plain white t-shirt that stretched across his broad chest, and battered leather boots that looked like they'd seen actual use.
He looked nothing like the polished businessman. This version was rawer, more primal. More dangerous.
"None," she lied, her voice steadier than she felt.
His lips curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Good. Because once we start, there's no backing out."
He moved past her toward the bike, his shoulder brushing hers in the process. The brief contact sent electricity racing through her veins.
"This is a Ducati Panigale," he said, running his hand along the sleek tank with the reverence of a lover. "Nine hundred horsepower. Zero to sixty in under three seconds."
"Sounds terrifying."
"It is." He looked at her then, something flickering in his gaze. "But you said you wanted to learn to live dangerously."
"I did."
"Then pay attention." His voice dropped to that commanding tone that made her knees weak. "First, this is not a toy. It's a weapon that can kill you if you're not careful."
She nodded, trying to focus on his words instead of the way his muscles moved under his shirt as he demonstrated the controls.
"Clutch." He squeezed the left handlebar lever. "Brake." The right lever. "Throttle." His wrist twisted the right grip. "These three things control your life on this bike."
"That's a lot of responsibility."
"Everything worth doing is." His eyes met hers. "Still want to learn?"
"Yes."
"Then come here."
She moved closer, close enough to smell his cologne mixed with the scent of leather and motor oil. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Put your hands on the grips."
She reached for the handlebars, and he stepped behind her, his chest nearly touching her back. His hands covered hers, guiding them into position.
"Feel that?" His breath was warm against her ear. "The way the bike responds to your touch?"
All she could feel was him—his solid presence behind her, his hands warm and strong over hers, his voice sending shivers down her spine.
"I... yes."
"Good." He didn't move away. "Now, squeeze the clutch slowly. Feel how it engages."
She squeezed, hyperaware of his fingers guiding hers. The simple action felt intimate, charged with meaning.
"Perfect." The praise in his voice made her pulse quicken. "You're a natural."
"I haven't done anything yet."
"Haven't you?" His voice was rougher now, and she could feel the tension in his body. "You've been surprising me all morning."
She turned her head slightly, and found his face inches from hers. His eyes were dark, pupils dilated, and she could see the internal war playing out in their depths.
"Grayson..."
"We should start with theory first," he said abruptly, stepping back so quickly she nearly stumbled. "Before you get on the bike."
The loss of his warmth was like a physical blow.
"Theory," she repeated, trying to regain her composure.
"Balance. Control. Anticipation." Each word was clipped, professional. The mask was back in place. "These are the fundamentals."
For the next twenty minutes, he explained the mechanics of riding with the cold precision of a textbook. But Mailah caught the moments when his control cracked—when his gaze lingered on her lips as she bit them in concentration, when his jaw tightened as she laughed at his increasingly frustrated attempts to stay professional.
"I think I'm ready to try," she said finally.
"You're not."
"You don't know that."
"I know you're not taking this seriously."
"I am!" She planted her hands on her hips. "You're the one who's been acting like a robot for the past twenty minutes."
His eyes flashed. "I'm trying to keep you safe."
"From what? The bike? Or from you?"
The question hung in the air between them like a challenge.
"Both," he said quietly.
"What if I don't want to be safe?"
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're not afraid of me."
"I'm not."
"You should be." His voice was rough, strained. "You don't know what I'm capable of."
"Then show me."
The words were out before she could stop them. They stared at each other, the air between them pulsing with tension.
"Get on the bike," he said finally.
"What?"
"You want to learn? Get on the bike."
His tone brooked no argument. She swung her leg over the seat, settling onto the leather with a thrill of fear and excitement.
"Too far back." His hands gripped her waist, lifting her slightly forward. "You need to be in control of the bike, not the other way around."
His touch burned through her shirt, and she had to bite back a gasp.
"Now what?" she asked breathlessly.
"Now you learn what it feels like to have power between your legs."
Heat flooded her cheeks.
"Grayson..."
"Start the engine," he commanded, his voice rough. "Push button, clutch in, then hit the starter."
She followed his instructions, and the bike roared to life beneath her. The vibration was intense, almost overwhelming.
"Oh," she gasped, her hands tightening on the grips.
"That's just the beginning," he said, his voice barely audible over the engine. "Feel how it responds to you. How it wants to move."
She did feel it—the barely contained power, the promise of speed and freedom. It was intoxicating.
"Now, slowly release the clutch. Feel the bite point."
She let the clutch out too quickly, and the bike lurched forward. She squeezed the clutch again, her heart hammering.
"Too fast," Grayson said, but his voice was gentler now. "It's like a dance. You have to learn the rhythm."
"I don't know how to dance."
"I'll teach you." He moved closer, his hand covering hers on the clutch. "Slowly. Feel for the moment when it catches."
With his guidance, she found the sweet spot where the clutch engaged. The bike crept forward, and she laughed with delight.
"I'm doing it!"
"You are." There was something like pride in his voice. "Now, a little throttle. Gentle."
She twisted the grip, and the bike responded eagerly. Too eagerly. She panicked, squeezing both the clutch and the brake, and the bike jerked to a stop.
"I'm sorry, I—"
"Don't apologize." He was beside her in an instant, his hand on her back. "You're doing better than most people on their first try."
"Really?"
"Really." His smile was genuine this time, not the practiced one he wore in public. "Most people drop the bike at least once."
"The day's not over yet."
He laughed, and the sound sent warmth spreading through her chest. "Try again. But this time, don't think so much. Feel what the bike is telling you."
She tried again, and this time she managed several feet before stalling. Then several more. Each time, she got a little further, a little more confident.
"You're overthinking it," Grayson said during her fifth attempt. "Stop trying to control everything. Sometimes you have to let go."
"Easy for you to say."
"Is it?" His voice was quiet, serious. "You think I find it easy to let go?"
She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the truth in his eyes. This man who seemed so controlled, so in command of everything around him, was fighting his own battles with control.
"Then let's both try," she said softly.
Something shifted in his expression. "Lailah..."
"Just for today. Just here. Let's both try to let go."
He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Okay. But we do this my way."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you trust me. Completely."
The weight of his words settled between them.
"I trust you," she whispered.
"Then get off the bike."
"What? But I was just getting the hang of it."
"Get off," he repeated, but his voice was gentle. "I want to show you something."
She dismounted, confused, and watched as he swung his leg over the bike. He looked natural on it, like he'd been born to ride.
"Get on behind me," he said.
"I don't think—"
"Trust me, remember?"
She hesitated, then climbed on behind him. The seat was smaller than she'd expected, forcing her to press close against his back. Her arms went around his waist instinctively.
"Hold on," he said, and she felt the rumble of his voice through his chest.
"Grayson, I don't think this is a good idea."
"Probably not." He looked back at her, and she saw something wild in his eyes.
Before she could respond, he gunned the engine and they shot forward.
The garage door was already open, and suddenly they were outside, the wind whipping through her hair as they accelerated down the long driveway. She pressed closer to him, her heart pounding with fear and exhilaration.
"You're insane!" she shouted over the wind.
"Probably!" he shouted back, and she could hear the grin in his voice.
They reached the main road, and he slowed to a more reasonable pace. The fear began to ebb, replaced by something else—pure, unadulterated joy.
"This is incredible!" she called out.
"This is nothing," he replied. "Hold on."
He leaned into a curve, and she felt the bike tilt at an impossible angle. She should have been terrified, but instead she felt alive in a way she'd never experienced. The world rushed past in a blur of green and gold, and she understood suddenly why people became addicted to this feeling.
They rode for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, winding through country roads she didn't recognize. Finally, he pulled over at a scenic overlook and cut the engine.
The sudden silence was deafening.
"That was..." she began, then realized she didn't have words.
"Terrifying?" he supplied, not turning around.
"Amazing."
He climbed off the bike and extended his hand to help her down. "Come on. I want to show you something."
She took his hand, ignoring the spark that shot through her at the contact, and followed him to the stone barrier at the edge of the overlook.
The view was breathtaking. Rolling hills stretched out before them, painted in shades of gold and green by the afternoon sun. A river wound through the valley like a silver ribbon, and in the distance, she could see the spires of the city they'd left behind.
"Oh my God," she breathed. "It's beautiful."
"I come here sometimes," Grayson said quietly. "When I need to think."
"I can see why." She leaned against the barrier, imagining how spectacular this place must look at night with the city lights twinkling below. She promised herself she'd come back after dark someday.
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the clouds cast shadows across the landscape.
"About this morning," Grayson said finally. "My mother."
Mailah turned to look at him. "What about her?"
"I should ask for your patience with her." He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect style. "I might not have mentioned it before, but she's tough for a reason."
Mailah kept her expression neutral, though her heart was racing. Lailah had never mentioned this in any of the journals she'd read. There must be others she hadn't found yet.
"When my father died," Grayson continued, his voice rough, "she had to take over everything. She raised me and my brothers, had to step into his role at the companies. Even now, when my brothers and I are more than capable of handling things, she still feels like she has to be the strong one. The one in control."
"That must have been incredibly difficult for her," Mailah said softly.
"It was. And it made her hard. Suspicious of anyone who might hurt the family she fought so hard to protect."
"Including....me?"
He looked at her then, something vulnerable in his eyes. "Especially you. She's been waiting for you to prove yourself worthy of the Ashford name."
"And have I?"
"Today? At breakfast?" A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You more than proved yourself. I've never seen her look at anyone the way she looked at you when you left."
"How did she look at me?"
"Like she finally saw someone worth her respect."
The words made something shift inside her—quiet, but unmistakable.
"So… is that why you brought me here? To toast my successful survival?"
Grayson gave a small huff of amusement. "Not exactly."
Her breath caught in her throat.
He turned to face her fully. There was something unguarded in his expression—something real.
She met his gaze steadily.
He took a slow step forward.
The space between them hummed.
"Lailah…" he said her name like it hurt to say it, his voice rough. He reached out, fingers grazing her cheek with unexpected tenderness. His thumb brushed along her jaw, slow and steady, like he was memorizing the shape of her.
She tilted her head into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut. Then she opened them and found him watching her.
"You've become... a complication I didn't see coming."
Her eyes searched his, uncertain. "Is that your way of saying you regret things?"
He shook his head, a quiet scoff escaping him. "No. It's my way of saying I don't know what to do with you."
She arched a brow. "And is that... a bad thing?"
"I haven't decided yet," he said, voice low, eyes locked on hers. Then, softer—almost like a confession—"But I don't want it to end."
That was the moment the walls gave way.
He stepped in, one hand sliding to the curve of her waist, the other lifting to her cheek, and kissed her.
It wasn't careful. It wasn't rehearsed.
It was raw.
A kiss that spoke of every stolen glance, every simmering moment, every word left unsaid. His lips met hers with a need that had been quietly building—relentless, hungry, real.
She responded instantly, her fingers curling into the front of his shirt like she needed to hold on to something—because the ground beneath her had shifted.
The world blurred.
He kissed her like he didn't care what followed.
And when they finally pulled apart, gasping for breath, their foreheads pressed together, still tethered by the electricity of what had just passed between them.
He didn't speak.
Neither did she.
They didn't have to.
Then Grayson's phone buzzed.
He hesitated. Glanced at the screen.
Then he picked up.
Mailah watched the shift happen—his spine straightening, his jaw locking tight.
"Yes?"
A pause.
"How bad?"
Another pause.
He turned away from her slightly, but she still caught the low, taut edge in his voice.
"Is anyone hurt?"
More silence.
"We'll be there in a few minutes."
He ended the call and exhaled slowly.
"Grayson?" Mailah asked, dread crawling into her throat. "What's going on?"
He turned to her, voice low, controlled—but barely. "There was a fire at the estate."
Her stomach dropped. "Where?"
"The east wing. Near the bedrooms."
She felt all the blood drain from her face.
"Mrs. Baker said it started near the master suite," he added. "Yours."
Her mouth opened, then closed. "But—. How—?"
"It was caught quickly. Put out before it spread." He gave a short nod, but his tone sharpened. "The room is soaked. The walls are scorched. And the air... reeks of smoke."
Mailah could barely breathe. "That doesn't make sense. Where could the fire have come from?"
Grayson's expression darkened—not with panic, but something colder.
Calculated. Protective. Dangerous.
"I need to see it for myself."
Mailah stared at him. "You think someone started it?"
"I think," he said carefully, "it wasn't an accident."
His hand found hers, firm and warm.
"Stay with me tonight," he said. "And until I know who—or what—is behind this... don't go anywhere alone."