The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  But it was the two men in front of me, one large and meaty, the other thin with a nose that hooked at the end, who lit an inextinguishable fuse to the bomb of anger inside me.

  “I wonder if she fucks as well as she plays,” the wiry one said.

  “Forget about the music, a woman like that is made for only one thing—to sink your cock into each of her holes.”

  My vision went red.

  I’d never heard it firsthand, but I knew from the news how sexual harassment of women in Paris was on the rise, making national and international headlines. Putains making comments like this or worse, groping or forcing themselves on women in the metro or on the street was almost as prevalent as the tourist shops selling Eiffel Tower trinkets.

  “You think she’s Muslim? The way she wears that scarf? Maybe we should detain her,” he snickered, and my fists clenched.

  “Who cares? I’ll fuck that scarf right off her pretty little head.”

  My nostrils flared. I could report them. They could be fined for what they said. But all I wanted to do was beat them so badly they’d never be able to speak again, let alone say things like that to any other woman.

  But doing that would draw attention. To me. To my scars. To my presence.

  Attention that could cost me my life.

  “Mademoiselle!” My eyes whipped to the beefy one as he called out to Esme with a lusty disrespect in his eyes. “Come dance for me when you’re done and we’ll see how well you can play my instrument—”

  I’d never know if he planned on saying more because I gripped his shoulder and spun him toward me, slamming my fist directly into his jaw and sending him flying backward onto the pavement away from the crowd.

  Distantly, I heard the gasps and the music falter before it picked up even louder than before, I assumed to try and keep the children distracted from my violence.

  “What the fuck—” he whimpered and whined from the ground, holding his face and pushing himself up as I advanced on him.

  I caught his eyes bulge when they opened and saw me—of the man who’d hit him.

  “Monstre—” Bending down, my hand cinched tight into the collar of his shirt, cinching off blood and air to his disgustingly small brain.

  Maybe I was a monster for this—for not caring about anyone except her.

  Maybe I was mistaken and merciless.

  But I lived in a world that was black and white, right and wrong, with no room for shades of gray.

  And this man was wrong—and I was going to make sure he never wanted to be fucking wrong again.

  “Hey, what the hell—” The hook-nosed man grabbed my shoulder, and I spun on him while holding his friend.

  “Don’t fucking speak,” I demanded, hauling him to his feet and forcing him back toward the steps at the side of the park.

  Fear evaporated the color from his face. When my grip tightened around his friend’s throat, adding a sickly purple hue to his skin, he instantly retreating with a panicked but wordless apology to his slowly suffocating friend because he couldn’t help him.

  “I didn’t mean it,” he wheezed through my grip while he stumbled down the steps I forced him to descend backward.

  “Liar,” I drawled as we made it to the last step before he would be in the Seine.

  “W-What kind of monster are you?” he demanded, his gaze indicating that he meant both in action and appearance.

  My grip tightened, and I felt him begin to jerk against me, his body desperate for air that I was rapidly rationing.

  “Monsieur!” Her voice stopped me.

  I wasn’t going to kill him. At least, I didn’t think I was. But the rich warmth, even tainted as it was by fear and concern, made me realize just how close I was coming to doing exactly that.

  I allowed myself one glance. One look over my shoulder to prove Esme was there.

  And she was.

  But standing next to her was also the larger man—the one who looked at her with the same wanting I did but without the violent need for her light to illuminate my darkness.

  He could protect her. He should protect her. Not me.

  Bitterness burned like acid on my tongue as I whipped my gaze back to my victim.

  “I’m the kind of monster that is always watching,” I growled, yanking his face closer to mine and threatened, “Every step. Every word. Don’t let me hear you say anything like that again or next time you won’t even have a second to beg for your life before I take it.”

  His choked gasp and wide, petrified eyes were the last thing I saw before I released him with a push, sending him crashing backward into the cold waters of the Seine.

  I didn’t look back as I walked along the edge, eager to disappear into the shadows of the Île as the small crowd I’d drawn was too busy fishing that sputtering putain out of the river.

  This was why I never should’ve responded to her that evening in Notre Dame.

  Why I never should’ve wondered about anything more than what my duty necessitated.

  Because she could never be ma dame.

  Because she could never be mine.

  And as alert as I was the entire way back to the cathedral, prepared to duck and hide, disappear at a moment’s notice at the sound of police in search of me, my distracted mind listened only for the sound of sirens following me.

  And in doing so, I completely missed instead the soft chimes that trailed in my wake, determined to catch up to me and deliver a different sort of punishment.

  The kind that would handcuff my heart, rather than my hands.

  Esme

  It was the fierceness in his eyes that sent me after him, leaving Khal and a few others to rescue the gasping man from the Seine.

  I didn’t know he’d followed me to the park.

  Between rushing out the door to meet the guys and then overwhelmed with admiration and ache for the tiny refugees, most of them innocent and unaware as to where they were, why they were here, and where their parents were, I was lost in a whirlwind of emotions.

  We were supposed to perform for the children later this week, but Khal had called to tell me the orphanage had gotten the days mixed up and were on their way to the small square, so I’d dropped everything to meet them tonight.

  I’d been so focused on the children, knowing that lost feeling and how every instance of kindness I’d received while I drifted through the foster system had left a mark on my soul.

  I hadn’t expected my gargoyle to follow me—to guard me.

  And I needed to know why. Why he was there. And why he’d attacked that man.

  I jogged as I watched him slip through the door back into the cathedral, needing to catch him before he disappeared completely into the hidden halls where I’d never find him.

  “Monsieur!” I yelled out as the same door closed behind me, sending a rush of cool night air against my back, pushing me farther into the space.

  For a moment, I thought I was too late.

  But then I caught the movement in the dark slash of shadow just on the other side of the nave.

  My gladiator sandals hadn’t made any noise as I pursued him across the middle of the church.

  “What the hell was that?” I demanded. “Why did you attack that man—No, why were you even there? Were you following me again?”

  His head turned over his shoulder first before the rest of him slowly rotated. I could see how his body strained against his clothes—the adrenaline and exertion of what I’d just witnessed pumping up his muscles like air into a balloon, testing the limits of what his clothes would absorb before they burst.

  “I was teaching him right from wrong,” he bit out, the brief flash of white revealing his perfectly clenched teeth.

  “By killing him?” I breathed.

  “I wasn’t going to kill him,” he growled. “Although I can’t say I don’t think he deserved it for—”

  “For what?” I demanded when he cut himself off.

  His lips thinned in frustration as he held out for a few secon
ds before finally replying, “For talking about you the way that he was.”

  The words of reprimand that were cocked and loaded in my throat caught and detonated into a gasp, choked off by his explanation.

  For me.

  He’d been defending me.

  Of course, he’d followed me to the park. But I hadn’t even considered that the fight had been about me.

  I wasn’t an idiot. I’d just spent several tense minutes earlier this afternoon explaining to my guardian gargoyle the various ways I was mistreated and judged; I knew exactly the kinds of things that were probably said and knew they didn’t deserve to be repeated.

  With each breath, moments of my time at the park became clearer. Parts that I’d filtered out, choosing to focus on the children and my music instead.

  Now, I remembered seeing those men in the back, leering at me behind the children. But I’d determined to ignore them, just like I did all the pigs who lacked a respect for women. And that was where I must have missed Monsieur Gargouille joining the crowd.

  My feet carried me closer to him, searching for the familiar details of his face in the darkening room.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I said more softly this time. “But thank you.”

  He didn’t respond, but I caught the way his eyes shimmered, and I wondered if he’d ever been thanked before.

  “Don’t thank me, madame.” His dismissal proved me right. “I live in the shadows for a reason—to find those who would try to destroy the good… the light.”

  Warmth flooded over me.

  And just as quickly, the fire froze over as I remembered he’d followed me there—before that asshole had shown up.

  “Are you complimenting me or insulting me, Monsieur Gargouille?” I crossed my arms and pinned him with my glare. “Because you came there for me, not him… You came there to find me. Why?”

  His gaze narrowed as he fought himself on whether to answer me or not. “Because I haven’t decided yet whether I’m complimenting or insulting you, Madame St. Claire. I need to know more, I need to stop being so damn distracted—” he broke off with a growl, his gaze lingering on my lips for a moment before he stared up and behind my head and finished, “before I make that decision.”

  He began to turn away—to disappear again.

  “It seems a little unfair, don’t you think,” I blurted out tartly, reaching out to grip his arm and stop his retreat. The ripple through the rock-solid muscle sent a shiver up my arm, down my torso, and pooled needily between my thighs. “To say you need to know more when you know my name and why I’m here. When you’ve watched me work and watched me play. And yet, I know nothing about you?”

  He turned back to face me, but before my hand could fall, his fingers locked around my wrist, holding it prisoner between us as his head bent down to mine.

  “Fairness is nothing more than a beautiful lie; that’s why it’s only attributed to women and wanting,” he said coldly.

  My chin rose eagerly searching for more of this fight because it was the battles that exposed us. It was the wounds that revealed the things we’d die to keep secret. And to know his would be worth the sacrifice.

  “You’ve watched me for weeks now, Monsieur Gargouille, and you still think me a liar? You accuse me of hiding something and yet refuse to reveal a single thing about yourself?” I laughed to myself and tried to pull my hand away, afraid he could feel my desire pulsing through my veins. “Maybe you’re the liar.”

  I felt the rush of air that carried his growl, the air thinning with each breath I tried to take.

  “There is a difference between secrets and lies, Madame St. Claire,” he rasped, dragging me against him. “And I only followed you to determine where you fall.”

  “Is there?” I taunted. Even in the darkness, the glint of his black eyes shone like beacons. “Last I checked, they were both used to conceal the truth.”

  I caught the twitch of his jaw, especially the way it rippled over the skin that was unnaturally smooth and yet laced with seams of his injury.

  For the first time since being in his presence… For the first time in these weeks… his proximity terrified me.

  Not because of his scar. Not because I watched him almost kill a man today with the calm confidence to suggest it wouldn’t have been his first time. Not because his words were harsh and indicated his distrust. Nor because of his imposing and intimidating demeanor.

  What terrified me was the way my mouth dried up and my heart began to pound. What terrified me was the way the pool of desire opened up in my stomach and sent heat flooding between my thighs. It terrified me—the size of the ache I’d never felt before.

  I’d wondered, as the weeks progressed, if it was just lust that I felt. Lust for the gorgeous phantom who lingered even in my mind when he wasn’t physically present.

  It had to be, right?

  Only, I knew what lust was.

  And I’d indulged. I’d given into desire, let it satisfy me, and then moved away and moved on.

  But this felt different.

  This felt like, in order to satisfy, I’d have to give more.

  And more was always terrifying.

  His other hand rose, cupping the side of my face, but I refused to break his stare, wondering if he thought I’d scream or try to fight him off. The turmoil in his dark eyes suggested he expected me to flee at any moment—like the sight of him alone was too repulsive to be able to stand.

  If he looked closer, he’d see my greatest struggle was to not pull him tighter—to not satisfy my dreamt desires and darkest needs.

  My tongue darted out to moisten my lips, unmistakable desire crashing in his irises. The subtle flex and pause of his fingers on my jaw made me shudder before they slid back toward my ear.

  For a man carved with such harshness, he touched me with an incomparable tenderness.

  He traced along my hoop earrings and then up the stepping-stones of stud piercings that lined the shell of my ear and moisture flooded between my legs, wondering what his fingers would feel like on the rest of my piercings. If he would be as kind to them, or if he would treat them with the savage need I felt him holding back.

  “The difference, madame, is the intent,” he said with a coarse voice.

  His hand toyed with the tie in my scarf that rested at the base of my neck. And then, I felt my head being pulled back. Slowly at first, and then with a firmness that bared my entire neck to him. I fought to swallow—and to keep his gaze—as my pulse skyrocketed and my hands, both now free, reached out as my balance became unsteady.

  He let out a long hiss when my fingers curled into the soft cotton of his shirt—a poor mask for the hard muscles that rippled underneath it.

  “One meant to protect, the other meant to harm,” he continued and I felt the warm granite of his other hand at the base of my neck, gently brushing over my skin before resting on the rapid racing of my pulse.

  It was hard to see him from this angle, but I could feel the wave of desire that radiated off of him as he allowed himself to touch me.

  And then the wave crashed and swallowed us whole as his fingers around my throat began to tighten. He didn’t cut off my breathing or my blood flow. But he could. With an easy flex of his fingers. My fingers tightened into his shirt, walking the fine line between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

  “For example,” he continued as I felt the heat of his breath against my neck and knew his lips were so close. “My hand on your neck is used to hold you steady.”

  “I think it’s doing a little more than that,” I managed in a ragged whisper.

  His soft chuckle was my reward, and my hands tipped over the balance and pulled him closer. The movement, along with my retort, was unexpected and I felt his fingers tighten, though it was still hard to say whether it was suffocating desire or the very fringes of suffocation that made my lungs work a little harder to breathe.

  His face drew up over mine and captured my widened eyes. His lips were so close to
mine that if I stuck my tongue out, I could lick them, taste the harshness of his words and see if my palate could distinguish secret from lie.

  “But the intent, Madame St. Claire, is what matters,” he growled. “Whether I intend to kill you or kiss you makes all the difference.”

  My breath stopped on its own volition as the world seemed to stop spinning for a moment, frozen in breathless anticipation of the choice he’d presented.

  “Then you should probably tell me your name,” I murmured, swearing I could feel the faintest brush of his mouth on mine.

  He paused, knowing the answer and yet asking anyway, as though it would stop him, “And why is that, Esme?”

  He taunted me with the delicious sound of my name rasped from his lips, making my core spasm with the drawn-out and purposeful tease. I pulled him hard against me, knowing the strain it required for him to keep his mouth separate from mine.

  “Because, Monsieur Gargouille, you should never kiss someone you can’t even share your name with.” I couldn’t stop the way my hips rolled against his, feeling along the hard length of his erection trapped in the dangerous game between us.

  The savage growl that escaped him was the only confirmation that I’d struck a chord. And that I was going to pay for it.

  “Who said I was going to kiss you?” His teeth sank into my lower lip, the burst of pain made my vision dot with bright spots of pleasure, and I moaned deeply.

  “Who said I was going to give you a choice?” And just as decisively, I fired the first shot and crushed my lips to his.

  And hoped this battle wouldn’t destroy me.

  Rain is rain.

  Sometimes, it comes in summer showers or spring storms. Sometimes, it comes in small drizzles or rapid rushes. But the rain itself is always the same.

  Like rain, the basis of a kiss never alters from the fusion of lips and tongue. But, also like rain, that didn’t mean a kiss always came the same way.

  This kiss was no summer shower. It was no spring storm or quick drizzle.

  It was a deluge.