There is almost no research on gargoyles—considering the Unkillable Beast has been chained for centuries and I’m the only other one in existence for a thousand years, at least as far as anyone knows. Then again, I do have myself for a test subject, so there is that.
It doesn’t take long before I find my groove, and I spend nearly two hours immersed in both my research and a random playlist on Spotify. But when James Bay’s “Bad” comes on, it jerks me straight out of the article I’m reading and back into my own personal hell.
My hands shake as the lyrics slam through me like grenades. As he sings about a relationship being so broken that it can’t ever unbreak again, I can’t help but feel each word burn my soul.
I drag my earbuds out of my ears like they’ve caught fire and shove back from the table so hard that I nearly go over backward in my chair. It takes me a second to right myself, but when I do, I can’t help noticing Hudson staring at me from across the library.
Our eyes meet and, even though the damn earbuds are halfway across the table, I can still hear the song. My breath catches in my throat, my hands tremble, and those damn tears are back in my eyes.
I tap at the screen erratically, desperate to make it stop, but I must have accidentally hit the output source button instead because now the song is playing from my phone speaker, the lyrics echoing off the walls of the otherwise silent space.
I freeze. Shit, shit, shit.
Suddenly, Hudson’s long, elegant fingers close over mine, and everything goes still…except the stupid song. And my even stupider heart.
9
Me and My
Unmentionables
Hudson doesn’t say anything as he eases my phone out of my death grip.
He doesn’t say anything as he turns off the song and blessed silence finally fills the library again.
And he still doesn’t say anything when he slides the phone back into my trembling hands. But his cold fingers brush against my own, and my already fucked-up heart starts to beat all fast and hard.
His blue eyes, bright and brilliant and bold—so bold—stay locked on mine for the length of several painful heartbeats. His lips move just a little, and I’m certain he’s going to say something, certain he will finally break the silence that’s been echoing between us for days.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns away, heads back to his own table without so much as a word to me. And I can’t take it for one more second—the silence that throbs between us like a pounding heart that suddenly forgets how to beat. “Hudson!” Like the song, my too-loud voice echoes through the thankfully nearly empty room.
He turns back with a regal lift of his brow, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black Armani dress pants, and I can’t help but smile. Only Hudson Vega—with his perfect Brit boy pompadour and even more perfect smirk—would be wearing dress pants and a dress shirt to a late-night reading sesh at the library.
His only concession to the growing lateness of the hour is the sleeves of his probably very expensive, very designer shirt, which are rolled up to the middle of his perfect forearms—which, I have to grudgingly admit, only makes him look better. Because he’s Hudson and of course it does.
I realize I’m staring at him about the same time I realize he’s staring back at me, that endless gaze of his burrowing into my bones. I swallow in an effort to push back the sudden nerves blooming inside me. I don’t even know why they’re there.
This is Hudson, who spent weeks living inside my head.
Hudson, who saved my life and nearly destroyed our whole world to do it.
Hudson, who has somehow—despite everything—become my friend…and now my mate.
It’s that word, “mate,” that hangs between us. And it’s that word that has nerves bubbling up inside me even as I give a small smile and say, “Thank you.”
His look turns slightly mocking, but he doesn’t say any of the things I can see brewing right behind his gaze. Instead, he just inclines his head in a kind of you’re-welcome gesture before turning and walking away.
And just like that, my blood boils. Because seriously? Seriously? Jaxon doesn’t want to be with me because he thinks Hudson is in pain, but Hudson can’t even talk to me when I’m clearly upset about a damn song? I know their relationship is complicated—know this whole thing is complicated—but I’m tired of being collateral damage. I mean, who lets their friend avoid them for a week without even trying to find out why?
And just as quickly, I’m over it. Completely, 100 percent over it. Throwing my phone onto the table, I shoot after him. “Really?” I say to his broad shoulders as I chase him across the library. His long, rolling stride eats up more distance than my short-legged one does, but my annoyance gives me speed, and I catch up to him before he can sit back down.
“Really what?” he answers, and this time his gaze is watchful.
“You’re not going to say anything to me?” My hands are on my hips in challenge, and I just barely fight the urge to stamp my foot. I know what I’m doing—deep down, I know. I’m angry with the world, with the universe, for doing this to all of us. For taking Jaxon from me and then taking my friendship with Hudson, too. I’ve been working through my grief since it happened, but last week Jaxon forced me to give up the denial I’ve been clinging to since our bond was broken. Now I guess I’m fully embracing stage two: anger. And I’m not even a little sad I’m misdirecting it at Hudson.
“What would you like me to say?” His crisp British accent makes the words, and the look that accompanies them, even colder.
I throw up my hands in exasperation. “I don’t know. Something. Anything.”
He holds my gaze for so long, I think he’s going to refuse to speak. But then his mouth curves in that obnoxious smirk that’s driven me wild from the first time he showed up in my head, and he says, “You have a hole in your sweats.”
“What? I don’t—” I break off as I glance down and realize not only do I indeed have a sizable hole, but also that it’s in a pretty embarrassing area, providing a decent glimpse of my very upper thigh. And my underwear. “Did you just do that?”
Now both brows are up. “Did I just do what?”
I gesture to my pants. “Make this hole. Obviously.”
“Yes, yes I did,” he answers, his expression completely deadpan. “I absolutely used my fabric-ripping superpowers to disintegrate a hole over your crotch. How did you guess?” He lifts his wrist, and the magical handcuff around it, and waves it in front of my face.
“I’m sorry.” Heat floods my cheeks. “I didn’t mean—”