Vernal

by Randi Cooley Wilson

  “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.”

  Tristan

  I slowly back away, wearing a stupid grin, while holding her wide-eyed stare. The energy dancing between us is almost unbearable, and I have to force myself to look away from eyes that are bluer than any ocean I’ve ever seen.

  Normally, unmated female gargoyles have gray eyes, highlighted with small flecks of color that match the clan they’re born into. Of course the royal heir would defy the rules and have deep sapphire irises.

  I look away from her and an unwelcome heaviness descends. Trying to appear unfazed, I turn my back and full-on walk away, before I do something stupid like storm back, pull her into my arms, and make promises I can’t keep.

  Then it hits me—I’ve left her unguarded. Shit!

  Regardless of my assignment, I’m aware that Serena St. Michael can defend herself. Yet, the idea of leaving her out here, unprotected, causes my chest to tighten.

  Why is that?

  I press forward, reminding myself that her primary guard is close by. My nostrils flare at the thought.

  Christ, she was dancing naked in the rain, with another male protector watching her. It’s obvious she has no inhibitions, and that’s both infuriating and sexy.

  So. Fucking. Sexy.

  A vision of her unclothed body hits me. The reminder causes me to growl like an animal. The photos in her file didn’t do her justice.

  Goddamn, she’s beautiful.

  I approach my Harley Davidson, digging my fingers into my front pocket to pull out the key. I’m drenched. Groaning, I straddle my Street 500 and bring her to life. The only thing sexier than my blacked-out, custom bike is the protector with the piercing blue eyes I just left.

  In the split second that I laid my eyes on her, everything inside of me decided I wanted to be the reason she breathed. When a slight grin turned her mouth up at the corners, it was all I could do not to lean over and claim her lips.

  Taste her.

  Mark her.

  Make her mine.

  Something about the way she studied me, quietly considering me—in that instant, it became my mission to obliterate any space between us. Without thinking, I placed myself as close to her as I could.

  A bad idea, because within seconds, my hands lifted of their own accord, cupping her cheeks. I became fascinated with the little bead of water that sat on her bottom lip, beckoning me to suck it off. I couldn’t, though. Instead, I allowed my thumb to do what my mouth wanted to.

  At the recollection, my heart thuds against my chest, and for a brief moment, I regret touching her altogether. All it took is that one time, damning me to hell. The moment I held her delicate face between my hands, my heart vowed to follow her to the end of all time.

  Protect her.

  Be her champion.

  It didn’t go unnoticed by me that at my touch, goosebumps immediately formed across her bare body, and her skin took on a slight pink hue.

  Maybe I’m not alone in the inexplicable pull department.

  I lick my lips and refuse to allow my mind to go there. To the place where I steal her away and permanently etch myself on her. The simple fact is that no matter what I want, at the end of this appointment, I’m the one who has to break her. Educate her in the ways of her reality.

  Angrily, I take off out of the parking lot without a look back. It doesn’t matter how hypnotic Serena St. Michael is. She’s hands-off. An assignment. Nothing more.

  I’m not allowed to want her because it’s not about me.

  It is about blood, oaths, and protection.

  Loyalties and obligations that we’re both tethered to.

  If our pasts collide, our bloodlines would divide us.Acting on an attraction would trigger a shitstorm of darkness to fall over both our futures. I’ll protect both of us from that fate, with my last breath if I have to.

  I bristle as the scars and wounds etched deep in my psyche choose this moment to fester. I refuse to respond, instead tightening my grip on the hand clutch and pushing all thoughts of Serena St. Michael out of my mind.

  Tristan

  THE PUDDLE OF WATER THAT I’M leaving on the rug is growing by the second. The rain finally let up halfway through the drive here, but the damage from this afternoon’s encounter has already been done. Literally and figuratively.

  I look down at my ruined jeans and shirt before exhaling roughly. The current state of my appearance is probably not the best first impression. Not that I’m trying to make one.

  Agitated, I clench and unclench my fists, gaining the attention of the gray-haired woman typing on her computer. She looks up and offers a warm smile.

  It does nothing to soothe me, but I wink in response, causing a blush to form under the lines etched in her aging face. The phone on her desk rings, ending our exchange.

  “Mr. Gallagher?”

  “Yes?”

  Her tone is kind. “He’s waiting.”

  “Thank you,” I reply.

  She stands, adjusts her dark skirt suit, and opens both heavy oak doors, allowing me to make a grand entrance into the traditional hunter-green, wood-paneled office.

  The doors close silently behind me and I wait, rooted in my spot, observing the middle-aged gentleman staring out the window. Bored, I crane my stiff neck from side to side.

  After a few moments of being ignored, I clear my throat, announcing my presence. At the sound, he turns to face me.

  The skin at the sides of the protector’s eyes doesn’t crinkle. His smile is tight, almost as tight as the ridiculous plaid bow tie he’s wearing with his brown tweed suit.

  My gaze shifts, and I focus on the light filtering through the windows, casting squares across the rows of leather-bound books that line the shelves of several bookcases running the length of one of his office walls.

  In four strides the salt-and-pepper-haired gargoyle approaches and motions for me to sit in one of the two chairs placed in front of the untidy, large desk between us.

  Uncomfortable, I take a seat as he removes his glasses, placing them on a pile of manuscripts. I notice several of them strewn all over the piece of antique furniture.

  The silence stretches between us while we consider one another, before he breaks it. “Mr. Gall
agher.”

  “I prefer Tristan, Chancellor Davidson.”

  He dips his chin. “Your father and I are old friends, Tristan. I believe that affords you the right to bypass formalities. Please, call me Henry. In private, of course.”

  At the mention of my father, I shift. The elder gargoyle studies my uneasy movements before offering a sympathetic glance. In turn, I fixate my stare on one of the large windows and attempt to rein in my displeasure at the abrupt reminder of my paternal bloodline.

  The doors to Chancellor Davidson’s office open, and the woman from earlier steps in, carrying an elegant silver tray. She places it amid the chaos of papers and books dispersed on his desk. We both watch in silence as she pours the hot amber liquid into two dainty teacups.

  “Thank you, Annabelle,” Henry says, before she leaves. “May I offer you some tea, Tristan?”

  I stare at the small cups with amusement. “No, thank you.” Amber liquid in the form of brandy is more my cup of tea, but the Indiana Jones look-alike sitting across from me doesn’t need to know that.

  “I’d like to thank you for coming.” His tone is polite.

  “I didn’t really have a choice. It was either this or stone petrifaction,” I remind him of my sentencing.

  Henry clears his throat. “Yes, well. Regardless of the circumstances surrounding your presence, I appreciate that you are here,” he counters, ignoring any discussion of the offenses I’ve been accused of.

  Within the gargoyle world, living out the rest of your existence as a marble statue is the worst punishment a protector can receive.

  Stone petrifaction is more or less an eternity, watching and hearing everything around you, unable to live or to participate. I shiver at the thought, grateful to have dodged that particular punishment.

  “Have you made contact?” Henry questions.

  I motion to my damp appearance and his lips turn up into a grin, a clear sign of his fondness for the princess.

  “Serena is a spirited young protector. It’s the reason Rulf is having such . . . difficulty guarding her,” he says.

  Henry takes another small sip of tea, hiding his amusement behind the flowered cup. Small relaxed lines have now formed around his eyes. It appears that Serena’s free spirit entertains him.

  I shrug. “Maybe he’s simply a terrible handler.”

  The leather of the executive chair groans under the weight of Chancellor Davidson’s shifting body. “I’m quite certain there isn’t a gargoyle in existence that could . . . handle Miss St. Michael. But yes, Rulf is finding Serena challenging now that she’s older and more . . . defiant. This is the reason her clan has sought additional protection for her while she finishes her last year here at the Academy—given what her future holds for her.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “You’ve been briefed by the Spiritual Assembly?”

  I nod. “I’m aware of the details in her dossier.”

  “Good.” He casually places the teacup and saucer back on his desk. “The London clan is adamant that she is not to know who you are or why you are here. Are we clear?”

  My jaw clenches. Living in the shadows is as easy for me as breathing.

  “Crystal. No offense, Henry, but this seems like a black-and-white assignment. Guard the royal heir so she can fulfill her destiny, and all my previous transgressions will be overlooked. Ten months and I’m free of all charges.”

  My father made sure of it.

  A humorless laugh emerges from him. “I don’t envy your position. Miss St. Michael will be anything but a ‘black-and-white’ charge. I would think your brief encounter with her this afternoon would have alerted you to that fact.” He arches his eyebrow in challenge.

  I take a steady breath.

  He’s right. This isn’t going to be easy.

  A moment later, Henry pushes an envelope toward me. “Your living arrangements while at the Academy, Tristan. As well as your schedule and payment.”

  I remain silent as I open the package and go through its contents. My brows rise before I meet the gargoyle’s twinkling stare. “Isn’t this frowned upon?”

  “Where the royal heir is concerned, nothing under the category of protection is frowned upon. If there are issues, come directly to me. And only me, Tristan,” he adds firmly.

  “This should be interesting,” I mumble, forcing the papers back into the envelope before running my fingers through my drying hair.

  The chancellor holds out his hand in a cordial manner.

  I extend mine, allowing him to take it as I stand.

  “I’ll see you at the assembly. Until then, best of luck to you, son,” he offers, with an amused expression.

  “Luck is something I won’t need, Henry.”

  His features turn compassionate. “I disagree.”

  He fails to remember I carry my mother’s pedigree and lineage. To us, luck is just a four-letter word.

  I turn and head toward the closed doors. Just as I’m about to pull one open, his softened voice reaches me. “You’re different . . . than Gage portrayed.”

  The sound of my father’s name causes blood to roar in my ears. “Probably because he doesn’t know me well enough to describe me accurately,” I bite out angrily.

  He frowns. “You’re a lot like him, you know.”

  Chancellor Davidson and my father met years ago at the Ecole d’Architecture in Paris. Gage Gallagher was on an assignment and Henry was his architecture professor, while simultaneously working to obtain his doctorate.

  They became instant acquaintances, and recently their paths crossed again during another mission both gargoyles were assigned to. At least that’s the account outlined in the paper file I’d read before taking on this assignment. I’d only found out recently that Gage is my biological father.

  I shrug, unaffected. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Henry’s comment and my response linger heavily between us. I’ve been Gage’s official son for all of two months and I’m already fucking sick of it.

  I yank open one of the doors with more force than I intended. It squeaks loudly with the intensity of my pull, echoing throughout the small space.

  “Please reach out if you need anything,” he adds.

  “I won’t.”

  “Be in touch?” He pauses. “Or need anything?”

  “Either,” I throw over my shoulder.

  I’ve never needed anyone and I’m not about to start.

  Henry falls silent, and I do what I do best, walk away.

  The moment I leave the building a shudder runs through me. Why do I feel like I just walked through Hell’s gates and my life as I know it is about to cease to exist?

  Taking in a deep breath, I make my way to the parking lot and attempt to pull my shit together by reminding myself of my mother’s blood. We’re not afraid of anything.

  As I straddle my bike, waves of auburn hair, floating in the wind, catch my eye. Seeing her again makes the tight knots in my stomach unclench.

  I watch Serena rush across the campus quad.

  That’s when it hits me.

  I am terrified of something.

  I’m scared of her.

  Serena

  I’m late, per usual. I reprimand myself at my own tardiness and make my way across the sprawling open campus, toward the old castle that has been transformed into the main academic building on campus.

  The Academy is located in County Kerry, Ireland. It’s divided into two quadrants: the lower and upper schools. Each is built around a breathtaking jade quad, intricately woven with ancient stone paths, vibrant vegetation, and centuries-old trees.

  Situated on the west side of campus, the upper school houses the academic buildings and training centers. It’s protected by tall cliffs and miles of blue ocean. Located to the east is the lower school, which contains the student dorms and instructor housing, surrounded by lush forest.

  The rain has let up, and thin beams of sunlight are breaking through the clouds, giving the sky a divine appearanc
e. I inhale a deep brine-filled breath. The salty scent is floating on the light breeze coming off the ocean.

  “You’re late,” Rulf states from the bottom step.

  My attention remains skyward as I try to ignore Rulf’s disapproving glare. “You know,” I muse, “I’ve been training here at the Academy for two years and have yet to see an amazing, mind-blowing rainbow. You would think a country known for its rain, and its leprechaun folklore, could manage to produce at least one colorful arch.” I sigh and motion to the lackluster rainbow forming. “These multicolored rainbow wannabes are dull and uninspiring.”

  Silence.

  When I meet my guard’s gaze, he rolls his eyes at my ramblings. He’s used to them.

  I shrug in retort, while his focus falls to the shirt my dad sent me in his weekly care package.

  “My Sperm Donor Rocks,” Rulf reads out loud.

  The minute I saw the play on words, I fell in love with it and threw it on. My dad and I are gargoyles; we need stones, or rocks, to enhance our supernatural abilities.

  “Dad sent it,” I announce proudly.

  “It has Callan’s sense of humor written all over it.” At the mention of my father, Rulf’s face softens before my guard sighs heavily. “Serena, I’m here to protect you. I can’t do that if you continually attempt to evade me.”

  I meet his annoyed expression. “It’s not my fault. You should delve into your psyche to find out why you assume I’m being truthful when I claim demons are on campus. If you ask me, Rulf, I think you have a hero complex.”

  He studies my face, unimpressed. “You’ve been trying to ditch me since you were three. It was tolerable then, because you were cute. You are no longer cute, therefore it is no longer tolerable.”

  I wince.

  He’s right.

  Since my birth, Rulf and I have had an understanding. I don’t drool, bite, puke, or pee on him, and he lets me do whatever I want, so long as I don’t get into trouble.

  Or killed.

  Lately, I haven’t been living up to my end of our deal.

  The trouble part, not the being killed part.

  “Sorry,” I offer sincerely.

  He nods once and motions toward the doors. “Go in.”