Page 59 of Fated to the Gargoyle

I push my mate behind me and set my wing between her and the lot.

“Hey!” She smacks my wing. “Let me see my brother be petty!”

She worms out from under my wing as Sable takes hold of the truck’s frame and pulls the whole thing off the ground. He raises it overhead and slams it down. The lot light flickers, and car alarms answer from down the street. Then my brother folds the truck in on itself while the metal screams and the glass pops, until what is left is a ball of pickup no taller than his knee.

Lena’s engine starts. She pulls out of the lot at a very reasonable speed for a woman who just watched that, and Treasure waves after her headlights. “See you this weekend!”

Lamar stands alone in the middle of the lot with his mouth hanging open.

Sable looks at Lamar. Then, gently, he rolls the ball of truck across the asphalt toward him. It grinds past the parking lines and sheds a hubcap. Lamar jumps out of its path and watches it roll on down the lot.

Then he takes off running.

Sable lets the cook run. He spreads his wings and lifts off after Lena’s taillights. I followed a little hatchback home for the same reason. It is how we court.

Treasure giggles herself breathless against my side. I turn. She shrugs again and lifts her arms, and I pick my mate up off the sidewalk.

“Come, my love. I will follow your car home to our cabin.” I press my forehead to hers. “And then I will go collect my brother before he comes fully unhinged.”

“Too late,” she says, and settles into my arms.

23

TREASURE

I’m humming when I lift the lid on the crockpot and give my beef stew a stir. The whole cabin smells like I know what I’m doing.

A week of deliveries and decorating opinions, and this place is finally ours instead of just his. I hemmed yellow curtains on my Singer for every window, and my gargoyle hung them without needing a ladder. There’s a thick rug under the sitting area that I dig my toes into every chance I get. My picture frames went up on the long wall. Two are filled from my phone, and the rest are waiting on the festival.

I run my hand over the rug pile on my way through and smile at the laundry basket by the hall. It’s full of clean clothes I’m not allowed to touch. Soren made me promise. Folding is his now. He squares up every corner of every shirt, and God help the crease that comes out crooked.

I fold the throw blanket over the sofa back and click the television off. I hum my way into the bedroom, fluff the pillows, and turn the lamp on. Then I sit down at my vanity and get to work on my hair.

I take my twists down section by section, still humming the tune my gargoyle loves, and pick up my flat irons. I want to look nice for him tonight. I’ve got my reasons.

When the last section falls straight and swinging, I stop humming to fluff my curls out at the ends, and his voice comes warm off the stone in the corner. “Why did you stop?”

I smirk at him in my mirror. “You’re about to wake up. You can hear the live version.”

“Thank you, my love,” he says.

I hum the rest for him anyway while I lay out a pair of pants and a shirt for him on the bed. Then I head back to the kitchen and start on a fruit bowl. My gargoyles will eat fruit all week long, right up until the hunt urge hits. What happens at the lake after that is none of my business.

I’m slicing melon when the sun slips behind the ridge and his stone lets go.

He goes quiet-footed to the bathroom, and I listen to my monster brush his sharp teeth and start the shower, domestic as anything. And now I’m standing here grinning at a crockpot.

The fruit bowl goes in the fridge. I’m taste-testing the stew when he comes out and pulls his clothes on. I keep my back turned when he fills up the kitchen behind me, towering close enough that his warmth beats the stove’s.

I set the lid back on the pot and turn around, and he’s already right there. He lifts me off my feet and presses his forehead to mine with his eyes closed.

“Hi, baby.” I hook my wrists behind his neck.

He answers by carrying me to the sofa and settling into the corner seat I picked out special at Cozy Corner, the one with the low back so his wings have somewhere to go. He tucks me against his chest and holds on.

“Maybe Lena and Sable will come out of their cabin for dinner,” I say into his shirt.

“We could barely keep our hands off each other in our first days,” he says, and rests his chin on top of my head. “I doubt they will surface.”