“Stop. You and I both know, better than anyone, that there are times it’s better not to accept and embrace your paternal bloodline,” I point out. “He’s better off without me.”
Nassa brushes her lips over mine again. “Whatever your decision, I’ll support it. Regardless of my agreement with it, or not. When you’re ready, we’ll welcome him.”
“And if I’m never ready to welcome him?”
“It’s okay to want to know him.”
“I know.”
“It’s also okay to be angry, to be sad.”
“I know.”
“No matter what, I know you will protect him, Gallagher.”
“I will. He has my last name. That makes him mine. And I protect what’s mine.”
Vernal
The Royal Protector Academy Series
SERENA
My eyelids slide closed as the tiny drops of water cascade from the darkened sky. The warm beads hit my face, trickling effortlessly across my cool skin. The sensation of being alive wraps around me, as my spirit connects to the energy the weather bestows. Strength bleeds into my body, penetrating each layer until the energy drifts throughout my veins.
I ignore the dull ache making its way into my neck, a result of tilting of my face skyward. Instead, I lift my arms and, without thought, twirl and embrace each tiny droplet of water as the rain soaks the crenulated coastline around me in a fierce assault.
The elements heighten my supernatural powers, causing my core to hum with vitality. My lips form a small smile as I pirouette my way through the mist-shrouded, endless emerald hills. Each rise is crisscrossed by tumbledown ancient stone walls. My laughter floats in the wind. It’s the only other sound encircling me, aside from the rainfall.
I loved doing this as a child. Spinning so fast I’d become dizzy and disoriented, until the earth around my feet would simply slip away, and breathlessly I would collapse onto the blades of grass. I miss the carefree days of my youth. There’s something freeing—liberating—about standing in an open field, with your arms extended, allowing the rain to wash away your inhibitions. Not that I have many hang-ups, but the ones I do—they wrap around my heart like chains, squeezing until the simple act of breathing becomes almost impossible.
Another childish laugh escapes me as my body tumbles and collapses onto the soaked ground. I stretch my lean limbs and sink into the sponge-like soil, becoming one with the aged earth below my undressed body. My wet, auburn hair falls messily around my face and some of the long pieces stick to my dampened skin.
I don’t care.
For the first time in days, I feel alive again.
Lying on the ground, I simply stare at the dark sky above, as the world spins around me. For a fleeting minute, the dizziness offers a brief reprieve from the musings that constantly cloud my head.
My free-spirited revel ends abruptly at the sound of a throat being cleared. I release a half moan, half sigh, knowing my moment of serenity has come to an end.
Rather than sitting up to face Rulf, the royal guard assigned to protect me, I pout like a child. My unhappiness overtakes the bliss I was feeling seconds ago.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy Rulf’s company. It’s just that his presence reminds me of my royal bloodline, my duties, and my obligations.
Knowing the gargoyle’s temperament, he’s probably standing with his arms crossed, aggravated by my lack of acknowledgment while he continues to get wet.
“Go away, Rulf.”
“You’re naked.”
The statement comes from an unfamiliar, seductive, masculine voice, filled with an inherent confidence.
Definitely. Not. Rulf.
Unaware of who this stranger is, I remain still and strategize a plan of attack, should I need one. Though I’m without my weapons, I’m not concerned. Years of training with the best protectors have made me a skilled opponent. If all else fails, I always have my supernatural powers to help me kick this guy’s ass.
I clear my throat and remain motionless.
“Your ability to state the obvious is mind-blowing.”
The stranger releases a dark chuckle, unnerving me. I shiver in response, and my slight grin falls. My lips press together in annoyance at my reaction to something as simple as his enthralling laughter. It’s like silk.
Cool.
Sensual.
Designed to pull you in and entrance you.
“I guess I missed the clothing optional portion of the Academy’s handbook,” he counters.
My stomach clenches in response as his velvety voice drifts over my exposed skin, caressing it. I swallow, in an attempt to keep myself in check and my tone even.
It is an epic failure.
“Something to work on, then.” My voice is shaky.
“What’s that?”
“Reading.”
“Reading?”
“A prerequisite if you’ll be attending the Academy.”
A beat of silence passes between us before he speaks.
“Is nudity a habitual behavior of yours?” he questions, with an amused lilt to his tone.
At the sound of his deep voice, I roll onto my stomach, lift my gaze, and meet his curious expression.
He’s breathtaking, in a dark and unrefined manner, if you’re into that sort of thing. By the way my breathing has become erratic and my heart rate is spiraling out of control, I guess I’m into it.
“Yes,” I reply.
A knowing smirk appears on his full lips. “Nice ass,” he compliments, while his stare runs the length of me.
I don’t shy away from his open perusal. I’m comfortable with my curves. Self-assurance comes with my title.
His eyes roam across my body, leaving imprints everywhere they go. I blush uncharacteristically at his heated intensity. My poise cracks as raw desire slithers inside me, crawling into the crevices, choking me.
Confused by the way my body is responding to him, I pinch my brows. He tilts his head to the side, watching my reaction. There’s something captivating about the way he’s looking at me. He’s drawn to me, but can’t figure out why.
I notice his self-confidence start to fade. Taking advantage of the fact that he’s lost in his own thoughts, my focus shifts to his mouth, and I stare at a tiny, sexy scar on his upper lip. His breathing is smooth and soft.
Unlike me, with my unsolicited need to have him whisper dirty things to me, he seems unaffected. Cool and calm. Eerily controlled.
The stranger runs both of his large hands through his caramel hair, pushing the long pieces on top back in a sleek and sexy manner. The rain has soaked every perfect strand, and they keep attaching themselves to his sun-kissed face. It’s almost as if they never want to let go.
I narrow my eyes at the wisps. They’re eliciting a pang of jealousy within me. For some unexplainable reason, I feel an overwhelming sense of ownership over him. It’s me who should be the one to touch his slightly scruffy, chiseled face—not those pieces of hair.
Wait, that isn’t right. I don’t even know him.
I scrutinize his thick eyebrows and attempt to compose myself. On most guys a brow piercing looks ridiculous. On him, it looks menacing and wild.
And hot.
So very, very hot.
I drop my gaze to the silver and hematite rings adorning his fingers. Like mine, every finger with the exception of his pinky is covered with them. I blink away the idea that our hands match, and instead concentrate on his broad chest, hidden under a white thermal.
The thin cotton is drenched, allowing me to take in his sculpted body. A pendant sits under his shirt, dangling from a black leather rope, which hangs from his neck.
Annoyingly, I can’t make out what it is.
I sigh internally as my eyes trail over his rolled-up sleeves. They’re pulled up to his elbows, showing off the leather-and-chain bracelets he’s wearing on each wrist. At the sight of the familiar adornments, all my internal alarms go off, and something inside of me sinks. I attempt to hide the
awareness that has fallen across my expression, and instead fixate on his worn jeans and heavy boots, while planning my escape.
This guy reeks of danger, and trouble. The air of cockiness he emanates is one I grew up with. It matches my father’s and uncles’.
It all means this hot specimen is one hundred percent off-limits, and being near him is like being near a bullet that you never saw coming. It wounds you so quickly and deeply that you bleed out without even knowing you’ve been hit.
I meet his powerful cognac glare and a shaky breath escapes me. I’m startled by the way he’s staring at me.
Like I’m all he’s longed for.
A light chill brushes through me. I’m not accustomed to someone looking at me and seeing just me, not my bloodline. I need to get a grip on my erratic emotions.
Standing, I put my entire unclothed body on display, hoping to throw him off balance. Pushing some of my damp hair behind my ear, I lift a challenging eyebrow at him, daring him not to look at me.
Unfazed, he holds my gaze with an unwavering stare. A silent pause beats between us.
Who is this guy?
“Are you done assessing me?” he asks.
“You’re a protector?” I point to the shaded Celtic tattoo on his right forearm.
The symbol binds him to the Spiritual Assembly of Protectors, allowing him to accept divine assignments.
Of course he’s a protector—he’s here at the Academy.
Why can’t I think clearly around him?
The stranger’s expression falls, as if my accusation hurt him somehow. He doesn’t say anything, but dips his chin in response, confirming my theory.
I take a step back, empathetic to the heavy burden protectors carry. Nervously, my fingers find and play with my own piece of protector jewelry. The silver bracelet sits on my left wrist and is intricately designed with flowers and vines around the band, hiding my smaller, identical Assembly tattoo.
My aunt Eve gifted the bracelet to me for my eighteenth birthday. It was something her deceased mother Elizabeth, a jewelry designer, had made for her. Aunt Eve had the emeralds, my healing stone, added so they hang off the sides in a pretty and feminine manner. A small watch face was set on top in the hope that I would become more responsible about time management.
Not one of my strong suits.
Along with rules, motivation, education—anyway, you get the point.
It’s crucial that all gargoyles wear something containing their healing stone.
The mineral rejuvenates us, increases our powers, and heightens our restorative abilities.
It’s a necessary evil in my book. I despise the leather bands my family wear. They feel more like handcuffs to me than required protector accessories.
“Tristan,” he says, in a way that slices through me.
Another unwelcome shiver crosses my skin at the sound of his voice.
“Serena,” I reply thinly.
Tristan’s pointed look drops and travels over my body in a palpable manner, as he becomes intimately acquainted once again with my every curve.
“Are you always so . . . welcoming, Serena?”
When his eyes finally meet mine, my brow arches.
“Only to those I like.”
“So you like me then?” He attempts to hide his smile.
I hold him with a glare. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Tristan cocks his head and crosses his arms over his chest. My focus strays to the streams of rain dripping off his face. He steps closer to me, so close that I trap a breath he’s exhaled in my lungs, when the bare portion of his arm brushes my own.
Why am I so reactive to him?
Slowly he bends down, piercing me with an amused expression. “And here I was, completely impressed with myself that I had a beautiful girl naked—and wet—within five minutes of meeting her,” he seduces.
“That a record for you?” I quip.
I offer a shy grin, unable to stop myself.
“It would seem so.”
“Maybe you’re just having an off year,” I surmise.
Tristan stares at me with an obvious sadness that stretches over us. “You have no idea just how off.”
My eyes trace his lips. I start to speak, but he abruptly cuts me off when his hands lift to my face, cupping my cheeks. I stop breathing and my eyes widen at the unexpected motion.
At his touch, a warmth runs through my veins, igniting something foreign within me. His thumb lightly brushes a drop of rain off my bottom lip, and I watch with a rapidly beating heart as he brings the thumb to his mouth and sucks the bead of water off, watching me the entire time.
“It’s been . . . interesting meeting you, Serena.”
My name sounds like a test on his lips.
He releases my face and takes a step back, roughly sliding his hands into the front pockets of his soaked jeans.
I swallow, regarding him for a moment longer.
“You too, Tristan.”
“See you around, raindrop.”
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STRIKER
I stand on the stone ledge. The tips of my boots dangle over the edge as I watch the crashing waves below violently slamming into the jagged cliffs. After each wave breaks, a briny spray reaches toward the night sky before falling back into the churning ocean.
Harsh winds whip around me, causing the sea’s upheaval. Frustrated, I stretch my neck from side to side, a habit I inherited from my father, Tristan Gallagher, the current leader of the Paris clan of gargoyles. Tonight, like the sea below, I am filled with unease.
Sliding my hand into the front pocket of my jeans, I pull out the crumpled piece of paper and drag my gaze away from the elemental chaos happening all around me. Unfolding the tattered square, I take in its worn edges, damaged from carrying it around with me for so long. With a heavy sigh, I stare at the photo of the being I have come to resent even though we’ve yet to meet.
My eyes follow her midnight hair as it falls past her shoulders. If you hold the image just right in the light, there are times it appears as if she has dark blue highlights hiding within the black strands. Her long, thick lashes and manicured brows both match the color of her hair.
I look into her turquoise eyes. They stare back at me intently, haunting me. It’s almost as if they’re trying to see inside me—read my deepest, darkest fears and secrets. It’s fucking unnerving. My thumb brushes over her pink lips and pretty face. She’s unnerving.
The angelic sheen of her fae skin is misleading because Umbria Mendoza is no angel.
In fact, she’s the exact opposite—a Caballuca del Diablu—a demon fairy.
And my assignment.
Umbria is someone I have been appointed to safeguard. I scoff at her photo. No one asked me if I wanted to be her protector, but in my world, the choice isn’t mine to make.
Gargoyles were created for one purpose: to protect. We are guardians assigned to beings, realms, or objects, to ward off those with immoral or malevolent intent. And the fae in the photo doesn’t know it yet, but I have been given the honor and task of guarding her. Keeping her safe.
The problem is, Umbria’s bloodline is dark, not divine, which means she embodies the very immorality that I was created to protect other creatures and beings from—a dark-souled being.
My focus shifts to my forearm where the Celtic cross tattoo should be. In order to become her protector, I had to renounce and walk away from my oaths and allegiances to the Angelic Council. After graduating at the top of my class at the Royal Protector Academy, a school established to train and prepare gargoyles for their protector assignments, I was supposed to swear my loyalty to the Spiritual Assembly of Protectors, a ruling body that oversees the divine sect of the gargoyle race. Once initiated, we are marked with a Celtic cross and permitted to accept assignments from the An
gelic Council.
Since Umbria’s bloodline is that of a dark-souled being, my duty and loyalty to her protection places me instead under the authority of the Secular Council of Protectors, meaning I have no affiliation or devotion to either Heaven or Hell. It also means that, like another gargoyle from my clan—one who never swore his fidelity to the Spiritual Assembly—I will be viewed as a traitor amongst my kind. My kin. My race. And as their prince, that is a shitty place to be in.
Regardless, my fate was sealed two generations ago when a human woman named Camilla Gallagher befriended Umbria’s great-grandmother. Siobhan was the queen of the Caballucos del Diablu, a title and responsibility that now rests upon Umbria. One that has spilled over to me.
I fold up her picture and return it to my pocket, sensing his approach.
“Do you have it?” I grind out.
“No hello? Or, you’re looking quite dashing, as always, Tag,” he teases.
I remain silent, unamused and indifferent to my best friend’s good-natured banter.
“Contemplating jumping?” he asks. “If so, I’d reconsider. Your wings would save you.”
“Fuck off,” I growl, and my wings twitch under the skin on my back, begging to be released.
“Shit, Striker. Who pissed in your cereal this morning?” Tag steps to my side.
Slowly, I shift and face my royal protector. Tag and I have been best friends for years. We regard each other more like brothers—blood—than friends. Our easy friendship grants us both permission for constant teasing and prodding. Tonight, apparently, I’m the target. He raises his eyebrows in question at my agitated state. Normally, I’m a bit more carefree and lighthearted.
A light mist of salty sea spray jumps up and covers us. Lifting my hands, I wipe them over my face, removing the spray, and we step away from the ledge. “Sorry. I’m just . . .” I trail off.
Tag shoots me a knowing glare out of the corner of his eye. “I get it. Nevertheless, it’s time.”
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