I watch her leave before I look over at Gage, giving him my unamused look. He tries to speak before pointing a finger to his mouth, demanding that I release him of the spell.
“Loquor,” I mutter, and his lips are released.
He presses them together a few times and licks them. “If she were smart, Branna would look at me as if I am seconds from ending her life, instead of being unafraid.”
“How badly do you want the treaty?” I ask in a calm voice. “Because she is your ticket to getting it, so I suggest you stop treating her like shit, and start playing nice.”
“I will if she does.”
“Gallagher,” I warn.
“I can’t . . .” He trails off for a moment. “She’s so damn frustrating to be around.”
“She’s tough on you because she is my friend who loves me.”
His jaw clenches. “Oh, believe me, I know she loves you, buttercup. I fucking know.”
Frowning at the gruff and demanding tone in his voice, I search his eyes for the meaning behind his words. All I see is that he doesn’t have patience for her. Not at all. I shake my head and step over to him, placing my hands on his chest. Under my palms I can feel his body trembling with annoyance. Looking down, his eyes lock with mine.
“Hey,” I whisper. “You can do it. You can play nice.”
“You have a lot of faith in my ability to adult.”
“Adult? No.” I smile up at him. “Get something you want? Yes.”
“Fine,” he huffs. “But if she insults me again, I will strangle her.”
“And here I thought that was a lost art, strangling,” I quip.
Gage closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Always one-upping me.”
Pleased with myself, I step closer. “You wanted to talk?”
With a sigh, he charges toward me, grabbing my arms, and whispers, “Not here.”
13
Complicated
NASSA
I wait for the dizziness to subside as it always does after Gage teleports us. Even after all this time, I’m still getting used to it, and this time he did it so fast that I didn’t have time to mentally prepare for the odd sensation of disappearing and reappearing. Taking in a breath, I look around the crumpled ruins surrounding us. As I do, I make a slow circle, staring at all the broken stones, and then finally face Gage.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“What’s left of Domus Gurgulio Castle. Once home to the Royal Gargoyle Council of Protectors,” he lowers his voice. “I need you to veil us from sight and sound.”
“Silentium et invisibilitatem.” I watch him. “We’re concealed.”
He looks around. “The heartbeats we silenced here left more blood on my hands.”
The anguish in the space between us is palpable. His gaze returns to mine and all I see is shame in his eyes and guilt in his stance. The space between us feels heavy with words unsaid. Regrets and pasts always seem to come back to bite us in the ass.
“Why are we here, Gallagher?”
“I needed to speak to you in a place that was already destroyed.”
Pinching my brows, I look around. “What? Why?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Sometimes you have anger issues.”
I fall silent, shocked. I’m not stupid; I know this is going to be bad.
“And when you get angry at me, sometimes you throw magic around.”
“What the hell are you going on about?” I sigh.
“I went to the woodland realm,” he speaks quietly. “Ophelia and I are . . . old friends.”
My stomach bottoms out.
Of course they are.
Who isn’t old friends with him?
“And by old friends, you mean—” I prompt.
“A few months after Camilla died, I ran into Ophelia.” His voice is even.
“Where?” I ask, unsure why I even care.
“It doesn’t matter. Her mate had also recently died. We were both . . . grieving, and in need of something to help ease the hurt. The sadness that we were both feeling.”
My magic energy runs through my veins, draining the warmth in my heart.
“So you fucked her?”
He flinches at my blunt question. “It was one night. That’s it.”
With a heavy exhale, I nod. “Why are you telling me this? No offense, but I know you’re kind of man whore. I assumed you had some one night stands in your history.”
He doesn’t answer right away, just stares at me.
“Gallagher?” I inwardly roll my eyes at his silence.
“I don’t want there to be any secrets between us,” he lulls.
“Oh,” I blow out, relieved for some reason.
“Ophelia is the queen of the woodland realm,” he states. “Someone I trust.”
I bite down on my lower lip. “Okay.”
“There aren’t many beings in our world that I blindly trust, but Ophelia is one I do.” He steps closer. “We were only . . . intimate that one night. Now, I go to her for counsel. Like Siobhan.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I repeat the question.
“I don’t want there to be any weirdness between us about my friendship with her.”
A wave of my hair falls across my shoulder and left cheek as I kick the ground.
Gage’s fingers pinch my chin, forcing my head up so he can look at me. “Ophelia and Siobhan are important to me, in the way Branna is to you. If you’re going to be . . . with me—” He swallows, hard. “I need you to understand those friendships.”
“Of course.” My smile feels bitter as I fake it.
“All right then, no more talk of friendships.”
I nod. “Why did you seek her counsel?”
“I wanted to see if what Itzy told us about the woodland and water realms was true.”
“And is it?”
“It’s complicated, but yes.”
“Complicated?”
“The leader of Ophelia’s army, Rionach, has a son. The child’s mother lived in the water realm. She’s dead—” He trails off, allowing me a moment to connect the dots.
Looking up, I search his eyes as understanding crosses over me. “I see.”
“A sordid tale for another time,” he whispers.
I close my eyes and look in the other direction, curbing my desire to know more.
When it’s time, I’m sure the rest of the story will unfold.
In the meantime, this means the supernatural realms are truly on the verge of war.
14
First Kiss
GAGE
The first time Nassa’s lips moved against mine, it hurt. Our first kiss was when the initial sparks of life in my cold dark heart relit. I remember jerking away from her and clenching my hands into fists. The burn of her kiss lingered, as did her bittersweet taste. The desire within me to be possessed by someone again completely wrecked me. Hurt. I wanted it all again. All of it, but this time, I wanted it with her.
That first kiss is nothing more than a distant memory. One I’ve shoved back into the furthest recesses of my mind. In that moment, when her lips first touched mine, I knew she was different. Like a coward, I couldn’t bring myself to look at her, because I was unable to face the all questions I knew would linger in her eyes. So I closed my eyes.
I couldn’t accept her need for more. Her desire to know me. When her warm hand touched the bare skin on my forearm, the ease of her touch caused my eyelids to flutter open. When my gaze tangled with her emerald one, I inhaled. For the first time since Camilla, I didn’t flinch away from a woman’s touch. Not like I did all the others that came before the sorceress. Nassa’s deep green eyes were filled with nothing but acceptance.
Even so, it wasn’t the same as when I’d first laid eyes on Camilla. My heart didn’t soar with the need to make Nassa mine. It was the opposite. Hate. Passion. Frustration. All ran through my veins. It was life-altering. And she became everything. Only now have I come to realize that all those emotions wer
e ignited within me because in every moment with Nassa, I’ve been forced to live. To breathe. To protect. To want to possess someone.
Someone other than Camilla.
To love Nassa . . .
I would have to let go of Camilla.
It was all too much. I wasn’t ready to let go of Camilla. Nassa somehow felt like the beginning of the end, and I wasn’t ready for the end. I walked away and didn’t look back.
Until the day I unexpectedly saw her again. Nassa was sitting across from me, in that damn conference room, looking breathtaking. There she was, within reach again. When our gazes met, after all that time had passed, everything inside of me came to life again.
With one look, I recognized that I’d been stumbling, lost in the dark for too long. Her emerald gaze was like a fucking beacon, calling me home. Right there, during a summit in the St. Michaels’ flat in London, it hit me. Seeing her again was like coming home.
That night, I kissed her, hoping I wasn’t too late. After a moment, she kissed me back, and once again, her lips breathed life into me. I consumed her like a man starving for oxygen. For acceptance. For understanding. For love. I took. And I took. And I took. And without hesitation, she gave and embraced me, every damn dark corner.
As a gargoyle, I’m used to weakness and fragility in others. That isn’t Nassa—there is nothing weak or fragile about her. I like that she doesn’t need me—she just wants me.
As I am.
Even if I never measure up.
Back then, I hadn’t been enough to deserve her, and even now, I’m not sure I deserve even a small part of her. Something deep within me has shifted, and I can’t help wanting to be someone deserving of her. With each passing day, that desire grows more intense. With each of her understanding and accepting reactions to the corners of my darkness, she becomes . . . more. I’ve come to like it. To find my worth again. My identity.
Standing here, amongst the ruins where one chapter of our story closed, I hold out my hand to her. Hopefully, this will open another chapter between us. A deeper one.
“I want to show you something,” I whisper. “Will you let me?”
I’m not surprised when her hand slides across mine without hesitation—she’s fearless.
Nassa steps closer, looking up into my eyes. “I’ve already seen it. It’s impressive.”
“Not that.” I pull her into my arms, my lips at her ear as I mutter, “Close your eyes.”
When I sense she does, I teleport us. Once we’ve safely reappeared, and I’ve given her a moment to adjust to reemerging out of thin air, I give her a tiny squeeze and step back.
Nassa takes in the rolling countryside in front of her. “Where are we?”
“My childhood home, in the Loire Valley. About an hour outside of Paris.”
She pinches her brows as she takes in the cherry orchards and large stone structure in front of us, surrounded by well-manicured green grass and deep blue still waters.
Looking at me she frowns. “You grew up in medieval fortress?”
I bite back a laugh. “I like to think of it as a fourteenth-century country house.”
“It’s a friggin castle!” she scoffs. “A white. Stone. Friggin. Castle.”
“Not a castle,” I reply, amused. “A château in a valley known architecturally for its old-world villages and storybook manors, like this one, owned by my mother’s family.”
Nassa’s eyes widen and I cross my arms, entertained at her response.
“This might be the first time I’ve ever seen you speechless, buttercup.”
“Um,” she draws out. “It’s just . . . that you never—” She swallows the words before inhaling through her nose and finishing. “You never talk about your mom.”
I offer her a one-shoulder shrug. “What’s there to say? I have one.”
Her perfect lips part as she rambles. “Yeah. No. I mean, of course you do.”
An awkward silence falls between us and I shift, uncomfortable.
This was a mistake.
“Is she like”—Nassa pauses, having trouble forming thoughts—“a queen? Or—”
“Her father, my grandfather, owns most of the artichoke and asparagus fields here in the valley. Along with hundreds of acres of cherry orchards.”
Blinking rapidly, Nassa simply stares at me like she’s gone into complete shock.
“What?”
“I-I don’t know.” She looks at me as if I’m the crazy one here. “I guess, ah, I just assumed,” she stumbles through her words, “that you grew up locked in a dark, dank dungeon, or something. Not running amongst cherry blossoms and . . . artichokes.”
The knife in my chest twists as she eyes me. Talking about my childhood is hard. It never even occurred to me that if I brought her here, I’d have to talk about my mother, or my lonely upbringing. I look around the grounds, realizing why she’s confused. The romantic castle, and rolling orchards with beautiful pink flowers on the trees, I guess, to the untrained eye, all looks like a fairy tale. My eyes shift to the still lake, taking in the dragonflies flying across the top and the white swans stretching their necks. Christ!
“What are their names?” she whispers, regaining my attention.
“The swans?”
“Your parents.”
“Juliet and Corentin Gallagher.”
“Juliet is a beautiful name,” she compliments quietly.
I clear my throat. “My mother died in childbirth. The only women in my life were the many mistresses my father tossed aside. A lot of the time, he traveled with Asher’s father, Garrick, on protector business, which meant I spent most of my childhood with the London clan and their caretaker, Fiona.” I stop, swallowing. “Listen, I’m not . . .” I exhale roughly. “I’m not good at this. Talking about my life. About me and—”
“You’re doing fine,” she assures me quietly.
I fidget, needing a cigarette. “My family. My past. It’s all . . .”
“Litha,” she blurts out, using a gentle tone.
Looking down into her gaze, I frown, not following. “What?”
“My mother’s name is Litha. She is the sorceress of the summer solstice and sun.”
Trusting eyes pin mine and I dip my chin, understanding what she’s doing.
“It’s a pretty name,” I manage, not having heard it before today.
She crosses her arms and I hang my head, grasping what she’s divulged. A worried expression clouds her eyes as I work through her admission. The sun. And the moon.
“Your aunt Lunette is the sorceress of the winter solstice and moon,” I point out.
“She is.”
“So they’re—”
“Gemini twins. Identical. Given the ancient torture of twin-merging in covens, the Black Circle keeps the sun and winter solstice pieces off their formal Black Circle titles.”
I eye her. “That’s some covert coven shit you’ve shared with me.”
“We’re obviously playing a game of trust today,” she mutters breathily. “Thought it was my turn to give you some more of my crazy.” Her emerald gaze slides to me, then over the grounds, the château, and to me again. “Given all this, and what you’ve shared.”
I grit my teeth. “Let me show you why we’re here.”
Grabbing her hand, I pull her toward the stone manor. Once we’ve reach the oversized arched doorway, I press my palm against the hidden screen. Within seconds, my palm and fingerprints are scanned and the door clicks open, recognizing my handprint.
Releasing her hand, I place mine to her lower back and guide her into the foyer.
“Modern. Given the house was built in the fourteenth century,” she murmurs.
“I own a few architecture firms. I had things reworked a bit.”
She snorts. “Obviously.”
Once we step inside, Nassa looks around, taking in the white marble walls and high-arched ceilings. Her gaze lowers to the white and navy marble tiles on the floors before she walks over to the gilded moldings. Lifting h
er hand slowly, she gently caresses the gold with her fingertips. There is an expression of awe on her face when she realizes it’s not paint, but each is adorned in gold leaf. Large golden chandeliers hang from the ceiling every few feet, and smaller ones hang in each arched oversized window lining the hallways. A few years ago, I had everything restored to its fourteenth-century beauty.
The entire château is done in bright whites, dark blues, and golds.
It’s all very French countryside.
Shaking her head, she sighs. “My aunt’s entire cottage could fit into this foyer.”
“I doubt that.” I tilt my head toward the left and she follows me.
Our footsteps echo on the marble as we walk toward the back of the manor. Velvet navy curtains frame each window looking out onto the grounds, fields, and orchards.
A few steps in front of her, I stop when I realize she isn’t following me anymore.
Turning, I take in her petite frame as she stands in front of a large painting.
My throat tightens.
Nassa’s fingers run over the engraved plaque under the gold-plated ornate frame. “Is this your mother, Juliet?” she whispers.
Even though her voice is soft, in the emptiness of the house, it feels loud.
“Yes.”
She nods, looking at me, then the painting. “You look just like her. Golden hair. Fair skin. Sea-green eyes,” she tells me. “Your mother is . . . exquisite, Gage. Just like you.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I push out. “I never had the chance to meet her.”
She pinches her brows. After a quiet contemplative moment, she follows me again.
As we walk, I try to calm my racing heart, given that she is here, in this place. A place that no one, not even Camilla, has ever been to. I barely come here myself. Inhaling, I try to push away the familiar feeling of panic and unease. I promised myself—never again. That I would never again do what I am about to, but I have no choice. Which is why Nassa is here, touching paintings of my mother, invading my life even more than before.
I make a right and we walk down the long corridor. Each step feels forced as we make our way to the end of the hallway, where a large lion photo almost covers the entire wall.
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