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  We pull away and I stare at his mouth as he speaks.

  “Just remember, I’m the unhappy ending.”

  Tristan

  I am a selfish asshole because in this moment, I need to be inside Serena more than I need to breathe. Looking at her naked form underneath me, I wait for her to tell me no.

  To tell me to stop.

  To tell me that letting me inside of her is a mistake.

  To tell me that I will only bring her heartache and pain.

  The minute she whispered yes, that was it. I’d like to think I’m gentleman enough to stop if she had said no, but the truth is, when it comes to her, I’m not. So here we are.

  Between the feel of her soft, pale skin under my fingertips, her silky hair splayed across my pillow, and her flowery spring scent wrapping around me, I’m choking.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  My body is desperate, in a way I’ve never been before, as a frenzied sort of madness takes over my senses.

  My nostrils flare as she rolls the condom on me. When she’s done, she catches me staring at her lips and reaches out, grabbing my face and pulling me to her, so I have no choice but to stop thinking and slam my mouth against hers.

  This time, my kiss is harder. Punishing. Because with each touch of her tongue, her lips, my defenses crumble.

  I push the anger at my lack of control into every stroke and she meets me, kiss for kiss, moving her lips beneath mine. Not backing down.

  A deep moan escapes from the back of my throat. Within seconds, everything else fades away. Powerless, I lose myself in the feel of her lips. It’s just her and me. And the hunger and fire burning between us.

  Trying to get control, I pull away. She whimpers in protest. Smirking, I kiss the corner of her mouth before trailing my lips over her collarbone, while my thumb rubs circles around her clit and my fingers run through her folds.

  Serena releases a soft mewl and the sound becomes my addiction, a very, very bad one. My body hums with the primal urge to claim her, as the tension builds between us.

  I move my hands away and without a second thought, push inside her, hard. Fast. Unromantic. Thoughtless.

  “Fuck,” I pant out.

  She feels like heaven.

  “Tristan,” she gasps, my name a prayer on her lips.

  My forehead drops to hers and I still, because my body is throbbing with a need that is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. The heat radiating from within her is too much.

  After a few trembling moments, I faintly hear her voice.

  “Are you okay?” Serena asks, looking right into my eyes.

  Her breathing is heavy and the weight of her gaze goes straight through me, penetrating each layer.

  It’s all too much.

  Too personal.

  Too emotional.

  Which is why it needs to stop. All of it needs to stop.

  Needing to break our connection, I pull out of her, flip her over onto her hands and knees, and shove into her from behind. She deserves better, and how I’m treating her kills me, but in the heat of this moment, it’s all I can offer.

  It’s what I am.

  “Yes,” she moans, arching her back and pushing into me.

  Fighting for control, I run my hand up her back, sending shivers across her skin. Squeezing the back of her neck, I force her to lift her head and arch even more as I move behind her. Each pump into her is more mind-numbingly perfect than the last. The need for relief has us both frantic.

  The friction between us ignites the sparks in my core.

  I lean over her, squeezing her neck harder, and with my other hand, reach down to rub her clit, sending her over the edge with a hard and fast orgasm that produces a scream.

  A primal growl escapes my mouth as I grab her hips and slam into her a few more times before one final thrust has me releasing a guttural roar, while I pulsate long and hard.

  It wasn’t romantic.

  It wasn’t hearts and flowers.

  But it also wasn’t promises or lies.

  Regardless, she just fucked me in more ways than one.

  Tristan

  IT’S SILENT EXCEPT FOR THE CRACKLING and popping of the kindling fueling the roaring fire. I bring the bottle to my lips and tilt it back, swallowing with my eyes trained on the orange flames that climb higher and higher in the hearth.

  A sharp hiss passes through my lips, a reaction from the sting of the alcohol as it slides down my throat. I take in a deep breath through the burn—a futile attempt to calm myself down because for some reason, the air won’t stay in my lungs. I feel paralyzed, yet, at the same time, I’m coming off an adrenaline high after having slept with Serena.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  I keep trying to convince myself that it was just one time. That it’s not a big deal. They’re all lies, because when she looked at me, with her trusting eyes, I wanted to possess her. Own her. Claim her as my own.

  The moment realization set in, I got dressed, and without a word or a backwards glance, left her in my bed. As foolish as it sounds, it was the right thing to do.

  I sink further into the modern, black, leather sofa that wraps in an L-shape around a granite coffee table. For a brief moment, I close my eyes and just exist.

  The sound of expensive shoes on metal breaks through the silence. My eyelids open and my focus slides to the spiral staircase, leading to the second floor mezzanine.

  With a swagger and air of cockiness that matches my own, the gargoyle dressed in all black makes his way down each stair, before coming to a standstill in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Paris.

  A lit cigarette hangs casually off his bottom lip, while the Eiffel Tower shadows his lean form. He looks me over before running a hand through his golden hair. I push away the idea that watching him is like looking into a mirror. We aren’t the same, shared DNA or not.

  After a moment of assessing the situation, the protector slides his hands into the front pockets of his dress pants and narrows his sea-green gaze at the bottle in my hand.

  “I have crystal tumblers,” he states, around his cigarette.

  I take another swig directly from the Baccarat decanter.

  A challenge.

  He releases a disappointed sigh.

  “That bottle of Louis XIII de Rémy Martin is meant to be sipped,” he adds, as his right hand escapes his pocket, moving to his face and pinching the cigarette between his index finger and thumb. He removes it from his mouth before running his thumb over his bottom lip in contemplation. “What are you doing here, Tristan?”

  “Ironically, I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” I reply.

  His face is void of emotion. “What about Ophelia?”

  At the sound of my mother’s name, my eyes meet his defiantly. “She’s busy with my father, Rionach.”

  My words are meant to be cutting. To hurt. But they don’t. They don’t penetrate his uncaring exterior.

  Without flinching, Gage Gallagher saunters over to the bar, flicks his cigarette into the fire, and grabs two glasses.

  He walks back and sets them on the table, pouring a small amount of the expensive top-shelf liquor into each.

  Gage hands a glass to me and takes a seat in a chair across from me. Studying the amber liquid, he swirls it in his glass a few times before bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply.

  “Christ. This is awkward,” he mutters into the drink.

  “Yeah?” I ask sarcastically, eyeing him.

  “It feels like only a few months ago I was protecting a divine secret. Suddenly, I have a twenty-two-year-old son.”

  I look around his concrete loft, avoiding his glare. “Nice place.” Hematite, my protector stone, is embedded into everything. It must also be Gage’s mineral. “It’s not really kid-friendly. I could fall down the stairs, or put my fingers in the exposed electrical outlets.” I point out.

  “Then I suggest you don’t do either.” He waits me out, tossing the entire contents o
f his glass back in one swig. “How did you get in?” He places the tumbler on the coffee table, then sinks back into the chair.

  “Teleported.”

  “Interesting,” he replies in a murmur.

  “A protector gift from you, Dad,” I draw out the word.

  He clears his throat. “I prefer Gage.”

  I lick my lips and lean my head back against the cushion. I’m not drunk enough for this conversation. Not even close.

  The fire snaps and pops through the silence.

  “I didn’t know,” he states in a flat tone, “about you.”

  “Would it have changed anything?” I ask, my focus trained on the oak beams running across the high ceilings.

  “No.” Ouch. I knew this, but his confession stings.

  “Then why mention it?” I counter dryly.

  “I owe you an explanation,” his tone unremorseful.

  My nostrils flare. “I’m too old to care that you used my mother to numb the inner turmoil the death of your true love and mate caused you.” I level him with a cold glare.

  Gage’s eyes become hollow, his gaze distant. “First off, don’t ever speak of Camilla. And second, given your reputation, I’m sure you can appreciate two beings losing themselves in one another in order to escape reality.”

  “There is no escaping reality. As queen, my mother knows this all too well. I have a feeling she was at a disadvantage when it came to your advances,” I bite out.

  “I didn’t take advantage of Ophelia. We enjoyed each other’s company for a brief moment in time. The End.”

  I snort, sit up, and place the glass on the table before flashing him a stern expression. His words are a reminder of what I just did. I guess being an asshole is part of the Gage Gallagher DNA strand. Needing to take my frustration out on something, I decide he’s as good a punching bag as any.

  “Except it wasn’t the end, because I’m here.” I counter.

  “Yeah, well, shit happens, Tristan,” he retorts. “As Ophelia explained it to me, you grew up with a mother, father and brother. You were loved and cared for. That’s a better life than any I could have possibly offered you.”

  I refuse to acknowledge the scars and wounds etched deep in my psyche from growing up without him. Yeah, Rionach was always there, but I wasn’t his blood.

  “You’re an asshole.” My voice is gruff.

  Gage’s expression is clear and calm. “Says the protector hiding in my loft to avoid whatever it is that he’s running away from. Then again, I’m not sure I care all that much.”

  “If you don’t care, then why did you bother to help me after the royal court sentenced me?” I counter.

  “Ophelia asked me to,” he replies coolly.

  “You expect me to believe the Queen of the Woodland Nymphs asked a traitor for help?” I ask. “As I understand it,” I throw his words back at him, “you walked away from leading the Paris clan. From your race and friends. You turned your back on your protector oaths and loyalties.”

  A sour expression crosses his face. “Let’s get one thing straight, Tristan. I expect nothing from you. We aren’t friends. Hell, we aren’t even acquaintances. We don’t know one another. Where Ophelia—your mother—is concerned, believe anything you want. As for why I walked away from my clan, I have my reasons. They don’t concern you. What should matter to you is your current reality.”

  “Which is?” I taunt.

  “Like it or not, I am your father. Was I there? No. Would I have been? No. Does that make me an asshole? Yeah, I guess it does in your eyes. Maybe with time, we’ll get to know one another, but right now, you need to focus on your assignment, which grants you the right to freedom. So, I’ll ask you again, all bullshit aside, what are you doing here, Tristan?”

  We stare at each other for a long, silent moment.

  “I fucked up,” I state.

  His eyebrows dip low over his eyes in a fierce scowl as his gaze roams over me. After a moment, he pulls out a cigarette and offers a second one to me. I wave it off, watching as he lights his and sucks in the nicotine. I could really use one right now. More than breathing. But I refuse to take anything Gage offers directly to me.

  “Lay it all out for me,” he exhales the thick smoke.

  “I took on this assignment on as a punishment exchange. That was supposed to be all,” I begin. “It’s becoming . . . more. I think she’s becoming . . . more,” I admit.

  He releases a dark chuckle that feels like it’s masking a hidden meaning. “Protector assignments are always more when there is a beautiful woman at the other end.”

  “I should have just let them sentence me. Though I can’t believe the extent to which they decided to discipline me.”

  “You killed a royal protector. What’d you think would happen when the holier-than-thou London clan found out?”

  “I killed an enemy who infiltrated my army. He was working for both the woodland guard and protectors.”

  “Regardless. You spilt royal protector blood and almost started a war within the supernatural world,” his voice firm.

  “What would you have suggested I do? Let him kill my mother?” I retort. “Our realm is already on the verge of war with the water dimension. Oren is out for blood this time.”

  Gage tilts his head to the side and considers me silently for a long moment. “Oren is a power-hungry twat. How he became the emperor of the water fairies is beyond me. That said, things are not always as they seem. You’re impulsive and you act without thought. It’s why you’re in this position in the first place. Not everyone is your enemy.”

  “Oren is the enemy!” I shout.

  “No. The only nemesis you have is yourself,” he retorts.

  I narrow my gaze. “Is that so, Gage? After two months, you think you know me well enough to know who my adversaries are? You don’t come from my world. Or understand my race. Remember, I only share half my blood with you. You know nothing of our realm, so don’t speak of, or take sides in, a war you have no understanding of.”

  Gage stands, rising to his full height. “I understand the darkness that lingers within the supernatural world better than you think. But my blood running through your veins is even darker. I may not be from your world, but I am a gargoyle, as are you. And right now, I’m the one you are indebted to for your continued existence. Not Ophelia.”

  I stand, too, and cross my arms.

  “You want a thank you?” I snip.

  “No. I want you to focus on your assignment. This oncoming war is larger than all of us. It’s not just about the water and woodland realms falling. If the Diablo Fairies get hold of Serena, your entire existence as you know it will vanish, and none of the shit you’re spewing will matter.”

  “Why do you care so much about her? You and the St. Michaels aren’t exactly . . . close,” I ask.

  “I don’t give a fuck about Serena. Or the gargoyle race.”

  I just stare, taken aback at his cold expression. “You know, I can’t decide if you’re the good guy, or the bad.”

  “I don’t take sides, Tristan. My loyalty is to those I love. Dead or alive. You, though, are blood. Whether you live or die happens to matter to me. So for fuck’s sake, stop thinking with your mother’s lineage when it comes to Serena St. Michael, and start acting like a protector. Or your existence won’t be the only one that will cease.”

  I huff. “You’re going to educate me on how to be a protector? When you safeguard no one, or nothing.”

  “Untrue. I protect what’s mine,” he replies.

  “I hope that includes me, Gallagher.” A deep raspy voice infiltrates our conversation, coming from the petite woman descending the staircase and making her way toward us.

  At the sound, Gage’s body stiffens. She approaches him slowly, almost as if not to spook him, while pinning him in place with her wild emerald gaze.

  “I believe we established that last night,” Gage replies.

  Her deep purple lips morph into a small smile.

  A
n odd feeling floats through me.

  I like the way she looks at Gage, like he’s not broken.

  She turns to me and holds her hand out.

  “Nassa, sorceress of prosperity.”

  “Tristan,” I announce, taking her soft hand in mine.

  So this is the sorceress that my father has been on and off with for years. Theirs is a sordid, complicated tale. One in which I don’t want to get involved. It’s not my place.

  I study the dark plum highlights strategically placed throughout her shiny raven hair. She’s pretty, delicate even.

  Not at all what I imagined her looking like.

  She curls her black manicured nails around my hand firmly, pulling me closer as she searches my eyes. “Shit, Gallagher. He looks just like you,” she exhales in awe.

  I quickly yank my hand out of hers, causing her to stumble forward a bit before catching her footing.

  Gage takes a slight step between us. If I didn’t know any better, I would assume it was almost protective in nature.

  His gaze narrows at me. “I suggest you not get emotionally involved with your charge,” he warns. “It leaves you vulnerable. She isn’t yours to play with, Tristan.”

  Nassa snorts. “That’s the advice you’re giving him?”

  He looks back at her. “Don’t get involved, buttercup.”

  Thwack.

  The hard sound of the back of her hand meeting his ribs echoes around the concrete loft. She’s tiny but she can hit.

  “Christ! Stop slapping me.” Gage rubs his side.

  “I keep warning you that if you keep calling me that, I will continue to smack the shit out of you. Don’t ever let it be said that I don’t keep my word,” she growls.

  “I’ve been calling you that for years,” he points out.

  Nassa throws him an angry glare. I can’t tell if it’s playful or if she really is going to stab him one of these days.

  Gage faces me. “This is what happens when you let your guard down,” he motions to Nassa. “She’s in love with me.”

  “You’re an idiot,” the sorceress snips at him.