In a different time, another situation, she’d be all I saw. Circumstances are what they are, though, and my interest in her can’t exist. I take a large sip of my brandy to calm myself down. With an inhale, I allow myself to feel the burn in the back of my throat. Everything inside of me tells me that I’m going to need a fucking case of this stuff to get through this protection assignment.
“What do you want, Striker?” She asks the loaded question with her beautiful eyes staring daggers at me. And there it is. She has no idea who I am or why I am here. Strange that she can’t sense the gargoyle blood running through my veins—perhaps our bond is masking it from her.
Deciding now isn’t the time or place to divulge my purpose, I lean closer to her. Umbria’s eyes widen a bit before they flutter closed as I lean closer to her ear. It’s hard to tell whether she’s attracted to me or if it’s the bond we share that is making her feel something. Either way, my only interest in her is for purposes of her protection. That doesn’t mean I won’t use her attraction to me to my advantage.
“Your cheeks have gone all rosy.”
“No, they haven’t.” Her voice is shaky.
“Liar,” I taunt softly. “Whatever you’re imagining about me, it’s bigger.”
Umbria takes a step back and takes in a shaky breath. “I’m not imagining anything.”
“No?” I tease. “I think you’re imagining all the ways I can blow your mind.”
“Actually,” she whispers, “now I’m imagining kneeing you in the balls and pushing you into the churning water below us. Maybe the fall will bring you back down to reality.”
“My wings would save me.” I lean into her face. “You have a light spattering of freckles.”
“So?”
“Are they from your mother or father?” I inquire.
She clears her throat and takes a step back. “Will you please stop doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“You’re staring at me. And changing topics quickly to confuse me.”
I try not to laugh. “You stared at me first.”
Her lips part. “Only because you were getting into my personal space. Making me feel—”
I take a step into her space again, cutting her off. “Feel what?” I deepen my tone.
“All . . . uptight and shaky. I don’t like it,” she grinds out.
“You were all uptight and shaky before I stepped out of the shadows. If I had to guess, I’d say you’re pretty uptight in general. I’m guessing that’s the reason you’re standing out here instead of being inside, enjoying the ball.” I cock my head to the side and lower my voice as her annoyed gaze lifts to mine. “Then again, being the queen of the Caballucos del Diablu, I expect that most of your life you’ve lived in a constant state of unease and neurotic behavior, making you uptight.”
Her eyes widen in sudden alarm. “Did you just call me a tight-ass?”
I dip my chin because getting her riled up is fucking fun. “Don’t worry. I’m here to help.”
Blinking furiously, she turns her face away and her jaw tightens. “I don’t know who you are. Or what you want. But I know this—” Meeting my eyes, she darkens her tone. “I don’t need help.”
“I disagree.” I hold her stare because she is in over her head and definitely needs me.
Umbria turns toward the castle. “It’s been enchanting meeting you.”
I allow her the breadth of two steps before I quickly snap my hand out and grab her elbow, causing her to turn and face me again. “Are you trying to get rid of me? Umbria.”
“Do you normally annoy women like this?”
“No.” I shrug. “Then again, I never realized it could be this much fun.”
Umbria stares at me with a hard glare. “Let go.”
“I can’t do that.”
She clicks her tongue, exasperated. “Why the hell not?”
The question hangs in the air between us before I let out a sharp breath. “I’m your bonded protector.”
Chapter Three
SWEET CREATURE
Umbria
Protector. The word rattles around my head with a bad taste. I am not a divine supernatural creature; therefore, Striker has to be lying to me about being assigned as my protector. Dark-souled beings are not bestowed the honor of gargoyle protection—not even royal ones. Not to mention, I already have an Unseelie guardian, Darciana. I think it’s safe to say that she had nothing to do with going to the gargoyles and contracting them to me for protection purposes.
Inside the ballroom, the siren on stage changes her voice into something haunting and seductive, singing about how we’re living like monsters in a cage, as I make my way to the bar.
I feel Striker before I see him. In his presence, the electricity in the air shifts.
Suddenly, my lungs feel like they’re about to explode, and I force myself to fight the strange hold that the gargoyle seems to have on me. Instead of looking at him, I focus on Iridessa.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she greets me with a knowing smile. “What can I get for you?”
“Another Fireball shot please.”
“Make that two,” Striker orders, stepping to my side at the bar.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I whisper under my breath.
“I never kid about Fireball shots,” he replies, and Iridessa begins to pour.
I lift my gaze and narrow it at him. “Are you sure you want to slum it with shelf whiskey?”
The right side of his lip lifts in amusement. “Maybe I enjoy playing with fire.”
I can’t help but smile at his response. “Liar.”
With a dark chuckle, Striker takes off his tux jacket, placing it on the bar, and rolls up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt to his elbows. Once his forearms are free, he undoes the bowtie at his neck, throwing it onto the jacket, and unbuttons the top button of his tuxedo shirt.
“This monkey suit is a torture device,” he explains.
Iridessa slides the fire-lit shot glasses over to us and Striker drops a wad of cash on the bar for her before lifting our drinks and handing me one. Holding my eyes, he clinks the glasses, and without breaking eye contact, we both take our shots. It’s then I notice not a single scar mars him. Odd for a protector. Normally, gargoyles have scars in addition to an abundance of tattoos.
He is wearing the normal leather-and-stone protector bracelets around his wrists, but the Celtic cross tattoo that should be on his forearm is missing. In its place is a lion breathing fire.
His eyes follow mine to the tattoo before his voice cuts through the siren’s sultry song.
“It’s a liogon,” Striker explains when he notices I’m staring. “A cross between a lion and dragon. The lion’s head, body, and tail represent my father’s clan—the Paris clan of gargoyles. The fire it’s breathing and dragon wings represent my mother’s clan, the London clan.”
“The London clan?” I repeat. “The royal family?” I ask, like I’ve been kicked in the gut.
He dips his chin quietly as he looms over me, blocking out the pixies dancing on the ceiling.
“And the Paris clan,” I mutter. “That would make you . . .”
“Striker Gallagher. Son of Tristan and Serena. Prince of the gargoyle race,” he replies.
I push away to leave because he’s dangerous, but he grabs my hand, preventing me from going anywhere. When I try to pull away from his grasp, he holds it firmly, driving me to anger.
“No Spiritual Assembly tattoo?” I challenge, knowing that gargoyles who are assigned protection details are required to be marked with the Celtic cross. Especially the royal clan.
The question sits between us as Striker’s expression turns angry then sad. “No.”
“You haven’t aligned with the divine? That makes you a traitor,” I bite out.
“NO! That makes me your protector. You are a dark-souled fae, which means in order to bond with you, Umbria, I can’t align with the divine. I must be secular. Understand?” He
snaps back.
“Why the hell would I need a gargoyle protector?” I grind out. “I am an Unseelie queen.”
“Are you really this naïve? Or are you just playing dumb?”
“Hey, watch it.” I yank on my hand, but he refuses to let go. “Let me go.”
“No.” Striker studies me with a surprising curiosity as his gaze slides down my body.
It takes forever, but when his baby blues meet my gaze again, he presents me with a lazy, appreciative grin that, if I’m being honest, makes my knees a bit weak. Damn, he’s good. Where the hell did he learn to do that? My stomach swoops, and all thoughts of anger are pushed away.
I push my shoulders back, trying not to show how he is affecting me or my emotions. After a moment, he pulls me closer to him so that his chest barely brushes mine. I try not to shiver.
Striker bends down so his warm breath tickles the outside of my ear. “Dance with me.”
At his closeness and the way his voice becomes all raspy, my throat goes dry. “What? Why?”
“Well, for one—I love this song.”
“I’d prefer not to,” I growl, interrupting him.
“And two.” He leans back, staring at me as he offers me a grin. “I’m going to explain everything. But in order for that to happen, I need to keep a hold on you so that you don’t bolt.”
“Bolt?”
“Disappear. Teleport. Fade into fairy dust,” he ticks off, entertained.
“Planning to keep tabs on me now?” I say through gritted teeth.
“It’s always good to know which direction the tornado is coming from.” He pulls me onto the dance floor under protest. When we’re in the middle of the room, Striker guides me closer to his body, curling me between his arms as he leans toward my ear. “Or which direction it’s going.”
I drag my eyes away from his, pretending his proximity isn’t affecting me. All lies. It so is. He must have a good foot and a half on me, and his scent is a heady mixture of sweet and spicy.
Slowly, we begin to sway to the sexy music. “You come here often?”
I roll my eyes. “No,” I say, not looking at him.
“Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
My gaze shifts and meets his. “Did you just use the ‘Do you come here often’ line on me?”
“I asked you first.” His voice is sexy, teasing.
I tighten my jaw at his lusty stare. “You are annoying.”
“Not my worst trait,” he murmurs.
“I don’t expect it is,” I challenge.
Striker takes in a deep breath. “It’s good that I’m here.”
I frown. “And why is that?”
“I can help you relax. Learn how to have some fun.”
“You’re not my type.”
He chuckles. “What is your type?”
“Well, not a broody, damaged, rude, alpha gargoyle kind of being.”
“Did you just insult me?”
“I did.” I smile at him before looking around the room. “There are plenty of beautiful women, or men if that is your thing,” I suggest as I side-eye him, “here tonight. Why are you annoying me?”
Striker’s lips twitch. “Women. And I’m your protector. That makes you my only target to annoy.”
“Are you going to tell me why it is you think you are assigned to me?”
Striker looks down into my eyes. “Because you need it.” His voice is husky and low.
“No. I do not. I have been doing fine on my own,” I argue.
He shakes his head. “You’ve been hiding in the mortal world. I would hardly call that fine.”
“What’s wrong with the human realm?”
“Nothing. But a Caballuco queen living among mortals unprotected is a dangerous thing.”
“We don’t hurt humans. We purify their souls by absorbing their sins before death.”
Striker snorts. “You are in danger. If that danger finds you, Umbria, harm could come to the mortals that live their lives around you. Have you even thought of that? Or are you too selfish?”
“Hey,” I snap out. “I would never purposely hurt anyone.”
“Maybe not, but you’re hiding in their realm,” he points out.
I narrow my eyes. “How do you know all this?”
“I have over a hundred pages of information about you. Your family. Your realm.”
“Are you stalking me?”
“Do you always ask so many questions?”
“Yes,” I answer with a mocking smile.
“It gives me a headache.”
“Then I sense a lot of Advil in your future.”
He snorts. “Me too.”
Another slow, sultry song begins, and Striker guides me even closer to him.
His voice is deep and lulling as he speaks. “I know what happened to your family.”
I take in a deep breath and try to push the pain away. “We don’t need to talk about this.”
“We do.” He holds me tighter. “Their deaths are the reason I am here, Majesty.”
Of their own accord, my fingers tighten the hold they have on him for support. “What?”
“Your great-grandmother, Siobhan, was friends with my grandfather’s wife, Camilla.”
“She was?” I ask, never having heard the name before. Odd, if they were friends.
“Yes. Camilla was human, but she loved Siobhan like a second mother and your grandmother like a sister. Even though she knew they were Caballuco fae, she embraced them as family.”
“A mortal was comfortable with demon fairies?” I question, not believing him.
Striker smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Camilla was comfortable with darkness.”
“She was your grandfather’s mate?”
He dips his chin. “She was Gage’s world. His reason for being. Before—” He stops.
“Before what?” I prod.
“Before she was murdered.”
I frown. “How sad for Gage.”
“Over the years, Gage remained friendly with Siobhan. A few months before your mother was to become the new reigning queen, your great-grandmother reached out to my grandfather. She was concerned about the unrest happening in your realm and distrust among the Court under your grandmother’s reign. Siobhan was afraid for all three of you,” he explains.
“Why was she afraid?”
“Because there’s a traitor in your Court. One who no longer wishes to see your bloodline reign over the realm. They feel that under your family’s regime, the dark fae have become too soft.”
My focus darts around the room, watching the supernatural creatures at the ball laughing, drinking, and dancing. The atmosphere seems so out of place with what Striker is saying.
“You know it’s true,” he whispers. “It’s why you hid, Umbria.”
My gaze falls onto the buttons on his shirt, and I stare at them with great intensity.
A warm finger slides under my chin and gently lifts my face, forcing me to look at him. Striker’s expression is gentle. There is no sign of his cocky amusement as he studies me. It’s terrifying, the way he’s almost reading my soul. My inner thoughts. Like there is a connection between us deeper than a protector bond. For one perfect moment, it is just him and me in our own bubble. Nothing and no one else at the ball exists. A strange connection floats between us.
Even though it’s not real—it’s because of the link—I feel safe with him.
“It’s not the only reason I hid.” Striker doesn’t take his eyes off me as I swallow and fight for words. “I wasn’t there the night they were murdered. I was supposed to be, but I had no interest in partaking in the celebration. I tend to shy away from the Court. Instead, I snuck off to a bonfire with some friends. We were absorbing souls, illegally, when Darciana found me. Caballucos aren’t supposed to engage sins without permission. It gives you sort of this . . . unnatural ravenous high. And for a royal member to do it in the manner I did, it’s inappropriate,” I add.
He dips his chin at me wi
thout judgment.
“Darciana was supposed to be guarding my family that evening. Right before the coronation, my mother sent her to retrieve me. We had had a horrible fight about me attending the coronation and my future role at Court. It was childish and unbecoming.” I smile sadly. “My mother’s words.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was my fault Darciana wasn’t there to protect them when they needed her,” I counter.
“That’s why you hid in the mortal realm? Guilt?”
I exhale and nod. “Darciana found me earlier and demanded I return. So, here I am.”
“So you ran, again?”
“I ran, again.”
The playful light disappears from his eyes, and his entire body tenses. Striker stares down at me, unblinking, his lips slightly parted. When his gaze falls to my lips, I concentrate on breathing.
His jaw clenches. “Seems that we have more in common than I thought.”
The slow song winds down, and in its place, a fast beat wraps around us, breaking the spell we seemed to be under. Coming out of his trance, Striker takes a step back and interlaces his fingers with mine. With a squeeze, he pulls me toward one of the empty couches. I look around, expecting to be the focus of every eye in the room; however, no one is paying attention to us.
They’re all partying.
When we sit, he moves closer so he can speak in a low voice. “Siobhan approached the gargoyles. Before her death. She asked the London clan for a protection appointment for you.”
My lips turn down. “I don’t understand.”
“Among her other gifts, you do know your great-grandmother was a very powerful seer?”
I nod, unable to speak.
“Siobhan knew you’d survive the traitor’s attack, and when you did, you would need protection from your realm and kin. She asked Gage for help. He agreed and went to our king, my mother’s uncle, Asher St. Michael, who approved my appointment to protect you.”
My brows furrow. “Did my great-grandmother mention who the traitor was in the vision?”
“She didn’t see them, but she had her suspicions,” he explains.
“So, she hired you to protect me?”
The Monster Ball: A Paranormal Romance Anthology Page 22