Vernal Page 12

I rub my palms over my face. “This has been . . . interesting, but I have somewhere other than here to be. Thanks for the hiding place . . . and unsolicited advice.”

  “The bad unsolicited advice,” Nassa corrects.

  “Tristan,” Gage’s voice deepens before I teleport. “It’s not allowed. She isn’t yours. Don’t start a war over her.”

  I motion my chin toward Nassa and slide my gaze toward Gage. “Enjoy living in your happily ever after.”

  Gage scoffs. “I’m not the happily-ever-after guy.”

  Nassa’s expression falls the slightest bit at his words.

  In this moment, it truly sinks in.

  I really am Gage’s son.

  In more ways than just a shared bloodline.

  Serena

  The moon’s silver rays cut through the window, leaving shadows on the walls. I eye the clock, hoping Tristan is enjoying his little outing, because when he walks through the door, I’m going to kill him for running out on me.

  Was I expecting flowers and declarations of love? No. However, I certainly wasn’t expecting to be left naked in his bed while he ran away to God only knows where.

  The door opens, and I watch as Tristan quietly slides back in, placing his keys on the counter before stiffening. Sensing my presence, he slowly turns and faces me.

  At the sight of him, my anger-filled rage takes over, and I flick two daggers at him. They embed themselves in the wooden door with a hard thud, one on each side of his head.

  “Good to know that you can throw knives with precision and accuracy,” he states, unfazed.

  I watch as he yanks out the weapons from the wood. “It’s a hobby of my Aunt Eve’s. She taught me.”

  The air fills with electricity as Tristan moves around the room. His presence is suffocating, causing me to keep my focus on the two small holes the daggers left.

  “I was curious as to how you’d handle this. I see you’ve decided to go the black widow route. How romantic of you.”

  I throw him an unfriendly smile.

  “Are you implying that one misstep after sleeping with me can lead to a lethal end for you?” I ask in a light tone.

  My words cause him to pause and become motionless. A moment later, he composes himself and walks over to me, holding out his hands and handing me back my weapons.

  “We need to talk,” he states.

  My brow arches. “You sure you want to return these?”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  He’s silent as he waits for me to take them. I clasp my palms around the weapons, brushing his fingers in the process. Immediately, he jerks away, and in a stupid girlie moment, my feelings are hurt by the action.

  While Tristan isn’t exactly overflowing with welcome and warmth, he does wince and sigh at his response to me.

  “Sorry,” he offers.

  “For what exactly? Having sex with me? Sneaking out and hiding after? Or flinching at my touch?” I tick off.

  He blinks at me and clears his throat.

  “All of it.”

  “You ran,” I state.

  “I did,” he admits.

  A silent beat passes between us before I speak.

  “Where did you go?”

  “Paris.”

  “Paris?” I repeat.

  “I had some business to attend to.”

  I blow out an annoyed breath. Paris is where Gage lives. Did he see him? Why? Honestly, it’s not my place to ask, and I fear if I push him, then I’ll just piss him off even more.

  “Serena,” he begins. “It’s not that I didn’t enjoy your company, but as you’ve probably figured out, I don’t do—I’ve never really learned how stay after—”

  “Sex?” I cut him off.

  He shifts uncomfortably. “Could you stop saying that?”

  I huff out a sigh. “We’re adults, Tristan. I’m not asking you to mate with me. Or be the love of my life.” Every inch of him tenses. “We simply indulged in an impulsive moment, on both our parts. The End,” I shrug. “It’s done.”

  His forehead crinkles. “You deserve better than that.”

  I scoff. “Why? Because I’m royal blood? Would you be apologizing like this if I were a nymph?”

  “I wouldn’t have come back.” Tristan’s tone grows cold. “Nymphs are designed to be used for sexual pleasure. You deserve respect. Not to be used for selfish needs.”

  I ponder his words. “We used one another. There is no harm in that. What isn’t okay is that you ran out on me.”

  Tristan’s eyes are hard but soften at my words.

  I place my daggers on the end table next to the oversized chair I’m sitting in, before standing and taking a few steps in his direction.

  Once I’m directly in front of him, I bend down, and with my arms on either side of his body, cage him in on the couch. Then I lean in near his ear. “Next time, stay.”

  “There won’t be a next time.” He looks at my mouth.

  “Is that a promise?” I ask.

  “All I can promise you is the worst. I’ll always let you down; that won’t change. I won’t change. Don’t think you can fix me, or take the darkness away. You can’t,” he says.

  I push away and cock my head to the side. “Okay, then.”

  “Serena.” His tone is firm. “There won’t be a next time.”

  A slight tingling sensation runs up my spine at the roughness in his voice. Unexpectedly, I’m hit with visions of all the dirty, sexy things I want him to do to me.

  A smile falls across my lips. “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  My gaze holds his, searching for truth in his words.

  “Good night, Serena.”

  “Good night, Tristan.”

  Serena

  I TRY TO KEEP MY NERVOUS energy to a minimum. After all, she can smell fear from a mile away. Literally. I clear my throat and square my shoulders as Mags stares me down.

  “Morning,” I chirp brightly.

  “I know.” Her expression is flat.

  “Know what?” I say dryly.

  Her gaze lifts from the pancakes she’s making.

  She pins me with her don’t be stupid look. “I warned you about this, Serena. On multiple occasions.”

  Busted.

  I wince. “I can explain.”

  “I don’t want an explanation,” she shoots back harshly.

  “Why are you so mad?” I ask, confused.

  “Because I hate when you do this.”

  “I don’t do this that often,” I bite out.

  Actually, never.

  “Yes. You do. All the time,” she argues, and steps around me, pulling a water bottle out of the fridge.

  I turn slowly and face her. “It was a one-time thing, Magali. A momentary lack of self-discipline,” I assure her. “One that I am fully regretting this morning. Trust me.”

  “What?” Her face scrunches. “Stop being dramatic.”

  “No really. Regrets all over the place. Not to mention the guilt and shame,” I lie, trying to calm her down.

  She twists the cap back onto her water bottle and sets it on the counter, furrowing her brows. “Serena—”

  “Honestly, it was a huge mistake. Big. The biggest ever.”

  Magali tilts her head to the side. “What did you do?”

  “I’m sorry, what?” I squeak out, not understanding.

  “This can’t just be about the towel,” she signs.

  “What towel?” I ask.

  “The wet one you threw on the bathroom floor and left overnight. The one with your makeup smeared all over it. You know I hate that,” she explains. “It ends up smelling all gross and moldy. How hard is it to hang it up to dry?”

  Oh. The towel. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid, Serena.

  “Right. Crap. Sorry. Yeah, the towel.” I ramble.

  Her gaze narrows, but before she can inquire further, the door to our suite opens and in walks Zander with Rulf behind him, pushing him farther into the space forcefully.

&nbs
p; “This satyr belong to someone in here?” Rulf asks sternly. With one final push, he thrusts Zander toward me.

  Magali smiles brightly. “He’s mine.”

  “What?” Rulf and I say at the same time.

  “He’s here to see me,” she clarifies.

  A triumphant smile appears on Zander’s face.

  “I tried to tell him but he didn’t believe me,” he explains.

  Magali shoots Rulf an annoyed expression.

  “I invited him for breakfast.”

  Rulf raises an eyebrow. “That all you invited him for?”

  “Of course,” she retorts, with her hands flying wildly.

  With a grunt, Rulf grabs a pancake off the plate and throws me an exasperated glare before leaving.

  Zander stands in the middle of the room looking sheepish.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he greets, presenting to Magali a bunch of wild flowers that he was hiding behind his back.

  I watch my best friend melt into a huge puddle of goo as she takes and sniffs them, then mouths a thank you to him.

  She rarely mouths words unless she’s extremely comfortable with you, so that in itself is curious.

  “I didn’t realize it was customary to bring your trainees flowers.” I don’t try to hide the sarcasm in my voice.

  Zander looks at me and winks. “That’s because you’re training with a demon, and they have no manners,” he jests.

  “Half-demon.” Tristan comes up behind me and I freeze.

  Our gazes meet in the reflection off the microwave.

  One look and suddenly, he’s everywhere, taking up all the accessible air in the room. It’s amazing how his mere presence immediately renders me stupid. I really need to learn to get my emotions under control around him.

  Last night was no big deal.

  I squeeze my eyes closed and remember the look in his, right before he freaked out and pulled out of me.

  Like I was his everything.

  With effort, I return my attention to Zander, but falter when I notice the playful light in his eyes has disappeared, as he watches Tristan and me closely.

  Tristan steps forward to stand next to me, and I concentrate on breathing. Everything inside me tightens in response to his nearness. I look to Mags, who is filling a vase with water, oblivious to all the tension.

  The side of Zander’s mouth kicks up. “Speaking of instructors and trainees, what have you two been up to since we last saw one another?” His tone is light.

  “None of your fucking business,” Tristan retorts in a gruff voice, before smacking him on the back of his head.

  Magali turns around just in time to see her guest get whacked. “Hey! No hitting at breakfast,” she scolds.

  I watch quietly as she grabs the plate of pancakes she whipped up and places it down in front of Zander, who’s made himself comfortable on a stool at the counter.

  Tristan takes the second seat, and I’m left standing while Mags places coffee, fruit, and bacon on the counter.

  “How long have you two been friends?” I manage.

  Zander’s smile drops as he looks, confused, between me and Tristan. “Since childhood. Five or six, I guess?” his answers comes across more like a question than an answer.

  “Us too,” Magali beams, causing Zander to light up.

  I turn my attention to Tristan.

  He’s watching Zander and Magali, with his lips turned down in an unhappy manner.

  “That’s a long time to befriend a dangerous male nymph,” I tease, and instantly regret saying it when I see Tristan’s face line with shadows.

  “Nymphs are dangerous. Satyrs are not,” he states.

  “Why is that?” I prod.

  “Nymphs have the ability to turn you mad. Satyrs just have the ability to bed you,” he replies harshly.

  The insinuation of his words causes a silence to fall and hang over all of us. Most beings within the supernatural world use nymphs for their own selfish needs, and then just discard them.

  Magali and I were brought up differently. We were taught that every being has value, regardless of bloodlines and supernatural ties. With the exception of goblins; my uncle Asher and aunt Eve have this unnatural hatred of the little green creatures.

  Magali knocks on the counter, gaining our attention.

  “So you’re a prince?” she asks Zander.

  “I am,” he dips his chin.

  “That must be cool,” she tries to end the unease.

  He lifts a shoulder. “It has its moments. Mostly it’s a lot of pomp and circumstance. Right, Tristan?”

  We all swing our gazes to Tristan, who has fallen silent, his mind obviously somewhere else.

  “How would Tristan know what that’s like?” I question.

  Once again, Zander throws me a curious glance.

  “We’re brothers,” he replies. “Didn’t he tell you that?”

  I glance at Tristan and swallow. “Brothers?”

  His eyes pierce mine before sliding to Magali.

  He flinches, knowing he can’t lie.

  She’ll sense it.

  “Your mother is Queen Ophelia? Queen of the woodland nymphs?” My voice cracks, because all of a sudden my unmerited attraction to him makes complete sense.

  His secondary bloodline is satyr, meant to seduce.

  “Does that change your opinion of me, raindrop?” He waits for my answer. I swear he’s holding his breath.

  At my silence, Tristan’s face falls.

  Irritated at my lack of response, he stands, grabs his empty plate and steps around me.

  His arm brushes mine ever so featherlightly, and every nerve in my body kick-starts at the brief contact.

  I watch him throw the plate in the sink and turn back to me, leveling me with a harsh look.

  No, it’s not the satyr blood that draws me to him.

  There’s something else there, something deeper.

  A darkness that calls to me.

  One I can’t shake, and it both excites and terrifies me.

  Tristan

  MY GAZE STAYS LOCKED ONTO SERENA’S. I’m pissed that she thinks her attraction to me is because I’m half satyr. The fucked-up part of all this is that it’s most likely the protector bond, the one she isn’t aware of, that is the reason for our unnatural sudden pull and attraction.

  I shouldn’t have healed her last night, but she looked like she was uncomfortable and I couldn’t help myself. The idea of her being in pain—pain that I caused—unsettles me. The shared connection I opened to restore her just sent us both into a clusterfuck of heated need.

  Her eyes dart to her bracelet and she begins to run her fingers over the stones. The action causes anger to build in me, at the fact that I make her uneasy.

  I’m suddenly seeing visions of Zander’s face on the other side of my sword, for opening his big mouth.

  Fuck, why do I even care?

  “Well, does it?” I ask her again, keeping my voice from sounding angry at her reaction. Even so, my question came out as a hoarse whisper.

  I’m finding that when it comes to Serena, I struggle. Her presence makes me both weak and strong. I hate it.

  “It just caught me off guard. That’s all,” she replies.

  I nod. “Right,” I clip out.

  My entire body is tense, and her answer does nothing to calm me. I inwardly groan at my interest.

  Commotion outside the doorway pulls all of our attention to the other side of the room, as an uproar of voices become louder the closer they approach.

  Without warning, the door swings open, and in walks Serena’s dad, Callan, followed by Keegan, his eldest brother, and Asher, the current reigning king of the gargoyle race.

  The St. Michael brothers’ expressions are intimidating on the dark-haired, blue-eyed royal protectors that lead the London clan of gargoyles.

  Within seconds, Rulf joins them, bringing up the rear.

  “Dad?” Serena squeals, turning to face her family.

  “Hey,
pumpkin,” Callan responds, approaching her before pulling her into his arms and kissing her on her temple. “You all right?” his eyes narrow at me over her head.

  “Yes, of course. Why?” Serena asks.

  “Abs has been trying to get a hold of you for a week. We’re here to make sure you’re still breathing,” he gives her a toothy, megawatt smile. “I am begging you, call your mother, Serena. Often. Daily. Just . . . call,” he exhales.

  “I texted her,” she argues.

  Callan shakes his head. “Nope. Doesn’t work. My girl is convinced that evil knows how to text. She needs to ‘hear your voice.’” He rolls his eyes, obviously not agreeing with his mate’s helicopter parenting style.

  Serena’s shoulders sag as she steps away from her dad.

  “Do not make that frowny face at me,” he warns, placing his hand over his heart, as if in pain.

  Callan clearly adores his daughter and is wrapped around her finger. That makes two of us.

  “I’ll call,” she exhales, and nods toward her uncles. “Why is everyone here?”

  Callan shrugs. “It takes a village to raise a child.”

  “I’m a grown woman,” she counters. “Not a child.”

  “No you aren’t,” Keegan states in a rough tone.

  Her uncle Asher approaches Serena and drops a kiss to the top of her head. “We’re just worried about you. That’s all, Serena. We love you and care that you’re safe, yeah?”

  She nods her head in understanding.

  “Who is this?” Callan’s focus shifts to Zander.

  “That is the breakfast satyr,” Rulf interjects.

  Callan’s gaze roams over Magali and Serena. “Explain.”

  “I invited him for breakfast,” Magali signs.

  “What time did he arrive?” Keegan inquires.

  “About an hour ago,” Rulf replies.

  “Is that your way of asking if he spent the night?” Asher asks, turning to his older brother.

  Keegan shrugs. “I’m trying to be more . . . polite.”

  Asher dips his chin. “Polite looks good on you.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Callan responds, looking at Zander. “These girls are not to be played with. One wrong move and I’ll slit your throat.” He pauses, holding his stern glare on Zander for a beat to make sure his words have sunk in. “Now, what type of hair product do you use? I like that your hair is styled but still appears soft.”