Page 9

Ryker tugs his long-sleeved shirt off over his head, and I gasp. He does it in such a quick motion, I almost forget he has wings. My eyes trail over his purple, granite skin, his broad chest, and defined muscles. His wings flex behind his back. It’s only then that I notice the snaps on his shirt. My gaze wanders over to his jacket that’s spread out over the back of the sofa. It has snaps for his wings too. There’s a small, frayed tear in his shirt.

Then, to my shock, Ryker’s massive, claw-tipped fingers thread the tiny-ass needle in a single, fluid motion without even squinting. He pulls the thread taut, positions it over the fabric, and begins to sew.

His hands move with a quick, mesmerizing precision. The needle glides through the material flawlessly. He pulls his shirt tight and moves faster than humanly possible. It’s like watching a sewing video on three speed. His massive fingers moving in a beautiful, hypnotic dance that looks practically effortless.

I lean forward, my mouth parted with awe. “Where did you learn to do that?" I ask.

Ryker's hands don't even pause, they just keep moving. "Learn what?"

"That," I say, pointing toward his hands. "You're sewing faster than the wardrobe department on my last K-drama. And your claws—"

Ryker stops mid-stitch. He peers down at the needle gripped between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes widen, a strange, bewildered haze flickering in his expression. He pulls the needle back, looking at his claws as if he’s seeing them for the very first time.

"I..." Ryker begins, his voice shaky. He frowns, his brow furrowing. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" I ask gently, pulling my chair a little closer. Why is he acting like he’s seen a ghost?

"I just picked up the needle," Ryker whispers, staring blankly at the neat line of stitching on his shirt. He flexes his fingers in confusion. "My hands just kind of moved. I didn't think about it.”

“Well,” I hesitate, unsure of how to act. “That’s a handy talent to have.”

Ryker shakes his head, almost lost in his thoughts. “No, I mean, I don't remember ever learning this, Teagan. I don't remember taking a class, picking up a needle, or... anything."

A heavy silence settles over the room. I get the feeling he didn’t mean to confess all that to me. He looks so shaken. A strange impulse to wrap the large gargoyle in my arms washes over me. Forget the fact that I’m too small to wrap a monster like this in my arms. Nevertheless, the feeling doesn’t go away.

I look at his shirt, and then up at Ryker's face. For the first time since he walked through the door this morning, he doesn't look like an imposing gargoyle security guard. He looks vulnerable. Lost. Like a man staring at a map he’s unable to read.

“It must have been from before… How did I know how to sew?”

The realization suddenly dawns on me. "Muscle memory," I say softly. "You said it’s from before. Before the Halloween Wave?" I guess.

Ryker swallows hard, his throat working as he carefully sets the needle down on the coffee table. He pulls his hands back, locking his fingers together to stop them from moving. That stoic mask instantly slams back down over his features, his jaw tense. "No, not the Halloween wave. That was twenty years ago. This only started ten years back when I woke up and… you know what, it doesn't matter," Ryker snaps. "My past isn't relevant to my duties here. Your safety is."

He stands up, and brushes off his jeans, avoiding my gaze. He walks over to the cramped "bonus room," steps inside and closes the door behind him with a soft click.

I just sit there, looking at the tiny sewing kit left open on the coffee table while my mind whirls. All the annoyance and frustration of having a bodyguard is now replaced with curiosity. Where I was previously annoyed by his presence, I’m now burning with so many unasked questions.

Ryker might be here to guard me, but as I look at the now fixed shirt he left behind, I realize there's a hidden story locked deep inside that tempting gargoyle. And I suddenly want to discover every single secret.

I make a mental note to have a discussion with the big guy. If he’s going to play bodyguard, I don’t want him to be obvious. His large bulk and age are probably already a dead giveaway, but if he wants this job, he needs to dress and act like a student. That means Ryker will walk by my side, not four feet behind me. He’ll wear a backpack, get to know me, and give me that sexy smile of his every once in a while.

Satisfied, I head back into my room and get ready for the day. It doesn’t surprise me when thirty minutes later, there’s a soft knock on my door. When I open it and glance down, my ripped jacket is folded neatly and stitched back together.

Chapter five

Ryker

The first day of the fall semester at Creelin University is a chaotic swarm of chatter, rustling backpacks, and early-morning caffeine runs.

Walking beside Teagan through the crowded pathways of the main quad, I quickly realize that guarding a famous K-drama star on a college campus is less like standard security and more like maneuvering a glowing target through a minefield of hyper-attentive, curious eyes. Students pause on the sidewalks, whispering behind notebooks and sneaking discreet pictures on their phones. Some of them don’t even know who he is or if he’s actually famous. Teagan just has that presence. He holds himself up straight and glides or sashays with a regal air. He’s fucking stunning. And just like every other shmuck here, I can’t take my damn eyes off him.

I keep my wings slightly flared behind me, taking broad, deliberate strides to carve out a protective perimeter around him. Teagan explained that he wanted me to act casually and walk next to him, like a friend would. But out in the open with so many eyes on his pretty body, I can’t help but get a little possessive. My inner gargoyle is on high alert. Luckily, my large wingspan makes it easy to shield Teagan from behind without him knowing.

"You don't have to walk that close, you know? Your wings keep brushing against me," Teagan says, tossing a glance up at me. His purple hair is styled to look sexy and effortless. He’s wearing a silk button-down shirt that hangs loosely off one shoulder. My eyes linger on his collarbone before I realize what I’m doing.

I clear my throat.

He’s smirking, his brown eyes dancing. "People are going to think we’re either holding hands or that you’re trying to hump my leg. Not that I’d mind either scenario."