by Rosalie Redd
LOVE BEWITCHED
GARGOYLE NIGHT GUARDIANS BOOK 3
ROSALIE REDD
Copyright © June 2020 by Rosalie Redd
All rights reserved. The uploading, scanning, and distribution of this book in any form or by any means—including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
For permissions contact: [email protected]
Cover design by Croco Designs
ISBN: 9781944419295
United States of America
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
About Rosalie
CHAPTER 1
“Don’t remove the bandage.” Wynne crossed her arms and pegged Damian with a warning stare. She’d brought him back from the brink of death. The least he could do was allow himself to heal.
Seated on the couch, Damian dwarfed the claw-footed furniture that had been in the Becknell family for more than a century. Dressed in dark jeans, combat boots, an ever-present pair of black leather gloves and nothing else, he sported six-pack abs, a broad chest, and a couple of biceps larger than any she’d seen. He was a massive male, a gargoyle night guardian, and her current crush.
“You mean this one?” He pried the bandage from his chest, tossed it into the garbage can across the room, and met her gaze. A deep rich bronze, his eyes matched his skin tone, courtesy of his African ancestors. He winked at her, and his lip curled into a lopsided grin.
Wynne’s temper flared, and the kindling she’d stacked in the fireplace burst to life.
Damian raised an eyebrow then chuckled.
“Don’t be so casual.” Wynne pursed her lips. “When you dragged yourself here three nights ago, I wasn’t sure I could save you. A fae shredded your chest and almost ripped your spark stone right off. That takes longer to heal than your skin. You’re lucky I had some of the rare magic salve.”
His spark stone flared a deep red. Her chest tightened, and she recalled what he really was—a gargoyle. The special gem, placed over his heart, contained a piece of his spirit. Claimed at death as a questionable soul by the goddess, Rhiannon, he served her in the war against Gwawl and his fae army.
He rose from the couch, and the hard muscles in his shoulders bunched, the new scar on his chest pulling taut against his skin. Strength rolled off him like fog coming in from the ocean which only added to his imposing presence. With the natural grace given to him by the Goddess, he closed the distance in an instant, wrapped one gloved hand around her waist, and cradled her chin in his palm.
A shot of adrenaline kicked Wynne’s pulse skyward. Her hands landed on those massive biceps, hard as steel beneath his smooth, warm skin.
He leaned forward, trapping her between his body and the brick fireplace. His breath tickled her ear and sent a shiver to tingle her bottom.
“I so enjoy your tough, demanding side,” he purred.
Caught between the desire to lean into him and the need to draw away, her entire body tensed. Damian’s masculine scent, a mixture of musk and cloves, filtered into her senses. Despite her reservations, she relaxed into his embrace.
“So, I’ve discovered,” she whispered.
Indeed, over the past few months she’d healed a few of Damian’s injuries, and the attraction between them had grown. Although he’d attempted to kiss her a few times, she’d always backed away.
The thing was, she had a bad habit of falling for unattainable men. As a gargoyle, Damian met that criteria and then some. His top priority was to his goddess, Rhiannon, and the war against the fae. He couldn’t give her the type of love she needed, the “until death do us part” kind. Besides, she’d experienced rejection at the hands of a gargoyle before and knew better than to throw her damaged heart at the feet of another. Once was enough.
Between the crack in the curtains, the fading sunlight lit up the rug. Bits of dust floated in the bright shaft like diamonds.
“Dusk will be here soon.” She pressed against his biceps.
Damian’s gaze roamed her features, lingered for a moment on her lips, and then he returned his attention to her eyes.
“I hate that I have to leave.” The briefest hint of disappointment tinged his expression, but he stepped to one side. “Thank you for your healing gift, as always.”
Despite spring’s arrival, a cool draft drifted across Wynne’s shoulders. As much for warmth as for a distraction, she snatched a log from the hearth and threw it onto the fire. The wood crackled as flames licked greedily at the fresh fuel.
Rustling from across the room caught her attention. Damian tugged on a black T-shirt, one of many she stored as spares for the gargoyles she treated on an almost nightly basis. The breadth of his shoulders strained the material and accentuated his muscular build.
He glanced to the window. A frown marred his gorgeous features. “Grayson contacted me on the mind link. I have to meet up with my partner near Soldier Field, but I’ll stay for a bit longer until,” he met her gaze and a deep sadness reflected in their depths, “you know.”
Wynne’s mouth dried as if someone had shoved cotton between her teeth.
She raised her hand. “Thanks, but you don’t need to—”
The last sliver of sunlight on the rug disappeared.
Wynne’s muscles froze, her hand still raised. Like the gargoyles trapped in their daytime stone forms, she stood motionless and would remain this way for the few minutes it took for night to claim the sky.
In a fit of rage over the rebuke of a gargoyle, Wynne had let the protection spell over his stone figure lapse, and a human enemy had destroyed his stone form. Rhiannon had sentenced Wynne to freeze at dusk and dawn every day and all night each month during the three nights of the full moon. A fitting punishment for her selfish act.
Damian strode to her side and trailed his always gloved fingers along her cheek. His sorrowful gaze slid over her face as if memorizing every detail. “I’d gladly take this from you and suffer in your place.”
Wynne’s heart ached at his sincerity. Tears threatened, and even though none spilled from her lashes, they weighed heavy in her soul. She would never ask that of anyone.
After what seemed like an eternity, dusk gave way to night. On an intake of breath, her lungs expanded. She lowered her hand and hid her trembling fingers behind her back.
“Thank you for staying.” Her voice wavered.
Damian brushed a stray hair away from her eyes. “You know I—”
The crash of the front door slammi
ng against the doorstop split the silence, and Damian drew away.
“Sis, you home?” Sasha’s voice echoed down the hallway.
“In the living room!” Wynne replied.
Sasha’s high heels clicked on the polished wood floor. A moment later, she hurried into the room. She wore a tight red skirt, a billowy white blouse that left little to the imagination, and six-inch red stilettos. Such a sharp contrast to Wynne’s modest sundress and flats, but that was par for the course. Although they could’ve been twins with their blonde hair, blue eyes, and high cheekbones, they were as different as night and day.
Sasha’s young daughters, Rachel and Marjorie, weren’t far behind their mother and wore matching shirts emblazoned with the words “Everything is better with a little magic.”
“Auntie Wynne!” the girls chimed in unison.
Rachel, the older of the two by three years, raced to Wynne’s side and wrapped her arms around Wynne’s waist. Marjorie joined her sister, and together, they squeezed Wynne with all their strength.
Love for these girls expanded in Wynne’s chest so hard she struggled to breathe. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around their shoulders. What would it be like to have children of her own? Hope, with a mixture of bitter and sweet, settled into that lonely spot inside.
Given her responsibilities, not to mention her track record with men, she’d never have kids. Most of the guys she’d dated had failed to call, had showed up late, or hadn’t shown up at all. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Witches had a hard time maintaining relationships. It seemed most men found witch magic intimidating. That’s why so many witches raised their kids on their own, including Sasha.
“Hi, Damian,” Sasha said. He gave her a quick nod, and Sasha hurried to Wynne’s side.
“That’s enough, girls. Let Wynne breathe.” Sasha tugged them away then dragged Wynne in for a quick hug before stepping back. Her eyes widened. “We have to talk. I heard from cousin Erwina that—”
“Time for me to go.” Damian set his hands on his hips. “Wynne, I’m—”
“Rachel, Marjorie.” Wynne placed her palms on each child’s shoulder and smiled. “The cauldron needs cleansing. Why don’t you work on the infusion spell in the kitchen? I’ll be along in a few minutes to check on your progress.”
Before her aunt died, she had groomed Wynne to take over. True to her responsible nature, Wynne had stepped up as head of household for the entire Becknell clan, all thirty-three aunts, cousins, and nieces. As such, she had ultimate responsibility for ensuring all Becknell witches received proper training. Wynne took this to heart, as with all her duties, and vowed to make sure Rachel and Marjorie obtained the best instruction ever.
“I’m going to nail it this time.” Rachel’s eyes, the typical blue of the Becknell clan, gleamed.
Wynne’s lungs expanded, pride settling in deep. “I have no doubt. Maybe you can show your sister how’s it done.”
“I will.” Rachel grasped her younger sister’s hand and raced toward the hall.
“I’ll make sure they start out correctly.” Sasha followed her children from the room.
Damian cleared his throat. “Wynne.”
She glanced at him, and the look of longing in the depths of his deep brown eyes knocked the breath from her.
While holding her gaze, he rubbed his gloved hands together. “I’m scheduled for a day off soon. I could stop by…”
“I’d like that very much.” The words flew from her lips before she could stop them.
His glorious smile brightened the room and filled her heart with a warmth she had no business feeling. Over the years, she’d had a string of short-lived romances and broken dreams. She wanted a guy that would make her his number one priority. Damian would only hurt her in the end. His job was his wife, and he had no room for a mistress. She shouldn’t have given in, shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up, but damn, that dream of hers had her in its grasp.
“I’ll be in touch.” Damian gave her a wink then strode down the hallway. The click of the door latch echoed down the hall.
The soft brush of fur against Wynne’s bare leg caught her attention. She knelt and stroked her fingers along Neira’s back. Gray with white paws and a white patch that ran along her chin and down her belly, Neira had lived with the Becknell witches for countless generations. As a female with a questionable soul, at her death, Rhiannon had thrown Neira’s spirit into a cat and made her the Becknells’ familiar.
Just like the gargoyles, one day Neira would face her test. If she passed, she’d become human once again. Until then she served Wynne by protecting the family, keeping watch while in feline form, and assisting in the medical needs of the gargoyles when necessary. Impertinent and audacious, she didn’t always like her role, but hey, everyone had a job to do in this war.
Neira strutted away then transformed into her human form. She wore a wide-bottomed black pantsuit, the ends swirling around her bare feet. A red bow tied her dark hair in a ponytail at the top of her head. She smiled, her green eyes shifting to yellow and back again.
Sasha returned from the kitchen. “Kids are making great progress.”
“Hi Sasha. You have some delicious gossip to share?” Neira clapped her hands and plopped onto the couch. She placed one arm along the back and crossed her legs over the cushions.
Sasha pursed her lips as she glanced at Neira. “I wouldn’t call what I have to tell you ‘gossip.’ It’s disturbing, if you ask me.”
“C’mon, sis. Let’s sit.” Sasha gripped Wynne’s arm and dragged her to the sofa. Neira tugged her knees to her chest to make room as they sat together on the rose-colored fabric.
“You won’t believe what Erwina told me.” Sasha grasped the gold chain around her neck, her fingers trailing to the small crystal pendant. Her blue eyes held a hint of sadness.
“Go ahead.” Despite Wynne’s natural tendency to downplay her expectations when it came to her sister, Sasha’s unease had Wynne’s knee bouncing with anxiety.
Sasha glanced at Neira before focusing on Wynne once again. “Council leader Daniella passed away last night.”
A chill swept over Wynne’s shoulders. In her late twenties, Daniella was the youngest witch on the council and someone Wynne respected. “Do you know how?”
Sasha’s brow pinched together. “No. Erwina didn’t have a clue, but you know what that means, don’t you?”
The witches council is down one member. Wynne’s mind spun with possibilities. She’d long wanted an opportunity like this but never at the expense of another witch, especially one as gifted and talented as Daniella. Besides, she wasn’t sure she was ready. Too many expectations to follow in her mother’s footsteps.
Wynne fanned her hand in front of her too warm face. “I hope Daniella didn’t suffer.”
Neira let loose a long sigh, readjusted herself on the cushions, and crossed her legs. “Wynne’s too refined and discerning, so I’ll come out and say it. There’s an opening on the council. Wynne, you should contact Aveline and state your interest in the—”
A knock on the front door echoed through the room. For a moment, the only sound was the fire’s crackle.
Wynne rose to her feet. Blood rushed south, making her lightheaded. She gave herself a moment then hurried to the front door and peered through the peephole. Aveline’s black and silver-streaked hair shone in the porch light’s glow. Wynne let out an uneasy sigh. The leader of the Chicago coven had a knack for bluntness that bordered on rudeness. With shaky fingers, Wynne opened the door.
Aveline met Wynne’s gaze. A forced smile slid across her face, accentuating the lines around her mouth. “Are you going to invite me in?”
Wynne hastened a step back, opening the door wide. “Please, Grand Mistress, come in.”
The elder witch strode across the threshold and down the hallway, her black coat tucked tight around her petite frame. Wynne followed in her wake.
They entered the living room, and Sasha rose to her feet. She straighte
ned her skirt, and a blush crept up her neck. “Grand Mistress, this is a surprise.”
Neira spread her legs down the full length of the couch and stretched her arms over her head. An amused smile graced her lips.
Annoyance flared across Aveline’s features. She sniffed and raised her chin.
Wynne moved into Aveline’s line of sight, blocking her view of Neira. “What brings you to our humble home?”
Aveline’s features softened, but the steely glint in her eyes left no doubt as to who was in charge. “I’m sure you’ve heard the news about Daniella.”
Sasha studied the ceiling as if searching for a stray spider.
Wynne’s attention shifted to Aveline. “I…uh. Yeah. I’m sorry to hear about—”
Aveline raised her hand, exposing the blood diamond ring nestled on her thumb, the one that revealed her role as coven leader. “Save your sorrows for the family. I’m here to discuss coven business. With Daniella’s unfortunate departure, we have a vacancy on the Council of Nine. You are our leading candidate.”
Blood surged through Wynne’s veins. Me? She caught herself before the word slipped from her lips. “I…I’m honored you’d want me on the—”
“Spare me the rhetoric.” Aveline waved her arm and strode to the fireplace. When she glanced over her shoulder, flames reflected in her vibrant green eyes. “I said you were the leading candidate, thanks to your mother, Victoria, and her legacy as Grand Mistress, but you are not our only option.”
Aveline had become coven leader after Wynne’s mother disappeared. The witch had never let Wynne forget her mother had abandoned them all. Irritation flared at Wynne’s temple. Several jars of herbs rattled along the sideboard table.
An amused smile curled Aveline’s lip, causing lines to form in her cheek. “Your powers continue to manifest. Wonderful. If we could bottle energy like that, we wouldn’t need spells.”
Her fellow witches considered Wynne blessed with special powers because she was born during a solar eclipse and bore the telltale birthmark—the moon obscuring a crescent sun on her left arm just below her shoulder.
