The Grayson estate rose like a king's fortress in the early morning haze—white marble columns catching the first blush of the sun, black-iron gates yawning open for no one but royalty. Manicured lawns rolled out like emerald carpets, fountains whispering as if afraid to disturb the mansion's slumber. Inside, the place reeked of old money—crystal chandeliers dangling like frozen lightning, velvet runners swallowing each footstep, gold-framed portraits of men who all wore the same cruel, perfect smile.
They said the Graysons bred perfection. They didn't mention the arrogance.
Back when the real Grayson walked these halls, he was a storm in a tailored suit—obsessed with control, with the image of himself. The maids used to whisper curses under their breath whenever they had to knock on his door. Now… it was different.
Unfortunately for Clara, the unlucky maid of the morning, today's burden was hers.
She stood outside the master bedroom, fists tightening around the hem of her skirt, rehearsing how she'd politely tell him someone was waiting downstairs. The memory of the old Grayson's sharp tongue still haunted her—those cutting blue eyes that measured every flaw.
She knocked.
A slow, heavy set of footsteps padded closer. The door clicked. And when it swung open—
Clara's mind blanked.
He wasn't the Grayson she remembered. This man leaned lazily against the doorframe, bare chest sculpted like sin itself—broad shoulders dusted with the faint shadow of sleep, muscles rolling casually under warm skin. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes in a way that shouldn't have been legal, a devil's smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Her knees went weak. Literally weak. Like her body had just remembered gravity existed.
"Morning," he drawled, voice smooth, dark, like black coffee spiked with something dangerous. His gaze slid over her—not in the impatient, arrogant way of the old Grayson, but slow… deliberate… like he was unwrapping her in his head.
She swallowed. "Uh—sir—um, there's a guest. He says your father sent him. Something about… c-college."
He tilted his head, smirk widening a fraction. "Mm. Same speech every day." He stepped a little closer—not enough to be improper, but enough that she caught the faint, intoxicating mix of soap and something sharper.
Clara's pulse went insane.
"Thank you… Clara, right?" he said, his voice dipping like it was just for her.
Her eyes shot up. "Y-yes, sir."
His smirk deepened. "I like your perfume. Maybe…" his gaze flicked down, then back up with molten slowness, "you should come to my room sometime. Let me smell it on you properly."
She turned scarlet. Not pink. Not blush. Scarlet. Her breath caught, and she spun on her heel, fleeing down the hall like she'd just escaped a crime scene.
By the time she reached the maid's quarters, three others were waiting with curious eyes.
"What happened? Did he yell? Throw something?"
She shook her head, still breathless.
"He… he opened the door. No shirt. And—" Her voice cracked, her hands waving helplessly. "He's not the same. He's… hotter. Like… sinful-hot. I swear my knees almost—"
The other maids gasped, one covering her mouth, another leaning in.
"What did he do to you?"
She pressed her palms to her burning cheeks. "Nothing. That's the problem."
And just like that, the gossip wildfire started. By noon, every maid in the mansion had heard about the new Grayson. And every one of them was wondering the same thing.
What would it be like....to be called to his room.
*********
Stone sank into the chair at the edge of the massive bed, long fingers drumming on the polished wood armrest. His gaze swept the room, lingering on the extravagant furniture, the gilded mirrors reflecting light across the ceiling, the sheer size of the mansion — a fortress of wealth and indulgence.
Is this how this idiot acted… or am I doing it wrong? His lips twitched into the faintest smirk, almost imperceptible. The thought was cold, detached, a mental shrug at the life he'd inherited.
Rows of maids moved silently through the hallways below. Their uniforms clung in the right places, skirts swishing, high heels clicking. He studied them like a general studies his troops: posture, hesitation, fear, attraction.
Why are there so many of them… college… has he even ever gone to school? His eyes narrowed, scanning the room again. The mansion was a cage of idleness, and yet… a tool. Everything could be a tool.
He inhaled slowly, smoke curling from the cigarette in his hand, the glow catching his vermilion eyes.
I need to destroy the demon hunters from the inside… but how do I get in… A thin smirk crept across his face. Every plan was a blade in his mind, sharp and exacting. I beat them up, I'm sure they'll try to find me… too bad they won't remember their mission… at least, not everyone who knew about it…
His hand traced the edge of the chair, muscles tense, controlled. The thought of college entered, an alien notion, almost… mundane.
College, huh… I always thought I'd never make it there. So… why not. I'll give it a shot. The words were quiet, almost a whisper, but the intent behind them was steel. Not hope. Not ambition. Calculated experimentation.
Stone leaned back, eyes glinting with detached amusement, the smoke curling around his jaw like a halo of shadow. Let them come. Let them watch. I'll show them… everything. And still, I'll remain untouched, untouchable.
He flicked the ash from the cigarette into the crystal ashtray, eyes narrowing as the sunlight shifted across the walls. Every move I make… everyone I let in… a test. And I? The one who decides the outcome.
A faint laugh echoed from his chest, emotionless yet chilling. Not joy. Not triumph. Just… observation, as sharp and precise as a knife sliding between ribs.
The mansion breathed around him, servants scuttling like insects, unaware of the predator in their midst. Stone exhaled slowly, eyes sweeping the room once more.
College… the demon hunters… the fools chasing shadows… everything will bend to me, eventually. And I'll enjoy watching the pieces fall…
*********
The mansion was quiet, the kind of quiet that hums just beneath the surface, broken only by the faint shuffle of maids in the halls. Stone emerged from his bedroom, dressed casually but impossibly sharp — black silk shirt, unbuttoned at the top just enough to hint at the lines of his chest, dark tailored pants clinging to his legs like second skin, and soft leather loafers that made no sound on the polished marble floors. Even in this relaxed attire, every movement radiated control, power, and danger.
From the moment he appeared at the top of the grand staircase, the maids froze, their hands gripping trays and dusters. Eyes widened, breaths caught. He descended slowly, deliberately, each step measured, as if the air itself bent around him. His hair, dark and tousled just so, framed a face carved with devilish precision. Vermilion eyes flicked over them, absorbing their awe, their panic, their inexplicable desire.
One maid's knees went weak; she had to lean against the railing to keep from collapsing. Her pulse raced, her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping before she could stop it. Another girl bit her finger to stay silent, wide-eyed, trembling. Every inch of them seemed to hum under the gravity of his presence. He moved like a predator through a field of startled prey, yet entirely casual, his expression unreadable — a predator in leisure, a king among ants.
Stone's lips curved in a faint smirk, a ghost of amusement that betrayed nothing, yet spoke volumes. He stepped onto the marble landing at the bottom of the staircase. The shadows cast by the chandelier flickered over his perfect skin, highlighting the contours of muscles he didn't need to flaunt, the subtle power in his posture, the air of someone who could destroy everything around him without lifting a finger.
"Good morning," he said softly, voice smooth, almost hypnotic. Not cheerful. Not warm. Enticing. Commanding.
The maids shuffled back instinctively, eyes glued to him, some whispering frantic confessions to one another as they fled to safer vantage points. "He… he's unreal…" "I can't… breathe…" "Did he always… look like that?"
Stone's eyes followed them just long enough to make their hearts pound, then he pivoted gracefully and walked toward the drawing room where the guest awaited — the man sent by Grayson's late father to discuss college arrangements. His gait was easy, fluid, like water running over polished stone, yet every motion exuded authority and magnetic menace.
The guest rose, nervous but polite, adjusting his tie, trying to appear confident despite the palpable aura of the figure approaching him. Stone stopped a few feet away, hands resting casually at his sides, head tilted slightly, eyes assessing, reading every microexpression.
"I hear you have some matters to discuss," Stone said, voice calm, almost teasing. The guest swallowed hard, unable to stop his gaze from tracing the line of Stone's jaw, the flare of his collar, the quiet menace in the vermilion depths of his eyes.
"Yes… college… your father thought—well, he wanted you to continue your studies. It's important for your future, for managing the estate…" the man stammered, his carefully rehearsed speech evaporating under the force of Stone's presence.
Stone leaned slightly, his shadow brushing across the man, unnerving him further. "College, huh?" he murmured, almost to himself, yet every word landed with precision. "I suppose even a fool like me can entertain the idea." His smirk lingered — devilish, enticing, unreadable.
The guest nodded, words sticking in his throat. Stone's aura seemed to ripple in the air, the red-black undertones of his power subtly pressing, invisible yet undeniable. Every instinct in the room screamed that this man, Grayson… was no ordinary heir.
Stone tilted his head, eyes glinting. "Let's hear the details. Convince me." The words were casual, almost bored, but the implied authority left no room for negotiation.
The guest began again, stumbling through dates, requirements, and schedules, acutely aware of every inch of Stone's presence. Every twitch of a muscle, every shift in posture, made him feel smaller, weaker. Stone didn't raise a hand, didn't snap a finger, didn't even frown — but the tension in the room was suffocating.
Stone listened, occasionally leaning closer, letting the faintest smirk curl his lips, making the man's words falter further. Every pause was deliberate, a silent mockery. He asked questions that seemed casual but cut like knives, testing logic, patience, and fear.
By the time the conversation ended, the guest was pale, sweating, yet oddly relieved — Stone had not destroyed him, not yet. He simply nodded once, stood upright, and turned, his movements smooth, casual, yet commanding the room with silent authority.
Stone's silvery grey eyes swept the room one last time before he left, every maid's gaze following, hearts racing, whispers of awe trailing him as he disappeared down the hallway. His presence lingered like smoke, intoxicating and dangerous, a predator moving unseen, a ghost walking among the living.