Page 42 of Fated to the Gargoyle

I reach up and lay my hand against his cheek. His eyes close. He leans in with all that weight behind it, trusting me to hold it.

I bring my other hand up and make him look at me. “I don’t want to be worshiped, Soren. I want to be loved. I want a partner.”

He goes down. His knees hit the floor, and I sit back on the edge of the bed as he lays his head in my lap, wings spilling low on both sides.

I cradle the back of his head, and his pointed ears twitch under my fingers.

“My only requirement is that you wear pants.” His shoulders shake once under my hands. “Because what you’re packing under that loincloth? Oh no. No ma’am. I already had one woman pull a measuring tape on you in broad daylight. I am not going to war with some ravenous woman over what’s mine.”

He lifts his head out of my lap. There’s a shine in his gold eyes.

“I will wear the pants,” he says. “But I will not agree to not worshiping you, Treasure. You are a gift. A true treasure from the gods.”

I roll my eyes and laugh anyway. “Okay, baby. Okay.”

The window changes, the black outside going gray at the edges. Soren rises off the floor fast and moves for the far corner of the bedroom.

“Soren?” I grab the bedpost.

“The sun.” He puts his back to the corner and lowers himself into the crouch. His wings fold tight, and his claws curl. “Forgive me. I wanted more of the night.”

Then it takes him, and I watch all of it with my hand over my mouth.

The gray doesn’t take him in any order that makes sense. It starts at his feet, skips to his wingtips and pours over the folded webbing, then runs up one arm while the other stays living, midnight-black skin going granite in patches.

His jaw catches next, and his eyes hold mine while they still can. The gold dims. The stone closes over his face last.

I slide off the bed carefully and cross the floor. My hand’s not quite steady when I lay it against his cheek. Still warm, same as that first day outside the diner.

“I won’t leave you, Soren. When you wake, I’ll be here.”

I give him one more pat, then hobble back to the bed and the tray on the nightstand. It’s a full breakfast. I’m starving. I grab a sausage with my fingers and fold a piece of toast around it.

“I’m gonna need a long recovery after the way you banged me out,” I say, pointing my toast at him, and take my first bite.

Sore doesn’t cover it, but it’s the good kind. Last night plays back in full color while I chew. My careful gargoyle held out as long as he could stand it, and then he didn’t. I watched all that self-control lose to me, his wings spread wide over both of us.

I press a hand to my forehead. “Whew.”

“I can smell you.” His voice rolls through the room, easy, clear as if he’s standing right behind me. “You are aroused again.”

I choke on my bite and turn myself around on the bed. He’s still a statue, stone from crown to claw, not one thing about him moved.

“How⁠—” I point a finger at him.

“Your claim mark, my love.” The words come from somewhere under my own skin. “You were granted more than the years. The bond does not go quiet when the sun rises. Nothing of mine is closed to you anymore.”

I bring my hand up to the mark on my neck. It sits warm under my fingers. I trace the shape of it, grinning at him.

“So I’m not just left to my thoughts, huh?”

“No.” He sounds pleased with himself. “And I love it when you hum. You hummed between tables at the diner. You hummed that first night in your apartment while the water ran, and I stood at your window and memorized it.”

I stop with the toast halfway to my mouth. “Hold on. You watched me?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t even have the decency to sound sorry about it.

A stalker with wings should scare me. Mine brought me breakfast. I shake my head and go back to my tray.