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Eventually, my eyelids grow heavy again. My body aches for real rest, but I refuse to appear weak in front of him. I press my lips together, forcing myself to stay awake, to watch him. He’s perched in a half-crouch, scanning the ruin’s open arches as though on guard duty. The picture of a gargoyle protector. My mind reels at the contradiction.A moment of fracture,he called it—some shift in his priorities that made him spare me.

The tension in the air is thick, tangy like ozone after a storm. I sense that any day, any hour, this precarious arrangement could shatter. He might come to his senses, remember his duty, and decide I’m not worth the risk. Or maybe the Alpha will track him down, and there’ll be a bloodbath.Where will that leave me?

I cradle my ankle, feeling the faint numbness from the root poultice. The fire crackles, casting dancing shadows across Korrin’s stony features. In that flickering half-light, he almost looks… lonely. Or haunted.

My stomach lurches, and I realize with a start that I’m pitying him.Why?He’s my captor, a gargoyle executioner. And yet, when I see the tension in his posture, the subtle flick of his tail that betrays his inner turmoil, I find myself wondering what burdens he carries. What conflicts roil in that powerful body.No, Elyria. Don’t do that.I can’t let pity or curiosity snuff out my anger.

For now, I resolve to watch him, to push his buttons, to see just how far he’ll go to keep me alive. If I’m forced into captivity, I’ll turn it to my advantage. Maybe I’ll find a weakness or a way to manipulate him. The thought feels manipulative and borderline cruel, but this entire situation is cruel. I have to ensure my survival somehow.

A wave of exhaustion cresting again, I shift to find a more comfortable position. My limbs ache. The stone beneath me is unyielding, the collar an ever-present reminder of my lost freedom. But it’s warmer here than the forest, and my ankle is less painful than before. The hypocrisy of feeling grateful for these small mercies while cursing my captor twists my insides.

“Get some rest,” Korrin murmurs, his tone gentler now. “I’ll keep watch.”

I meet his gaze, which gleams in the dim light. My throat tightens with the words I want to fling at him:You can’t order me around. I hate you. Let me go.But they tangle, refusing to pass my lips. Instead, I turn my head away. “I’m not tired,” I mutter, even though we both know it’s a lie. My lashes flutter, my body drifting. I’m balanced on the cusp of sleep.

He sighs, a low rumble, but says nothing more. In the hush that follows, I let my eyes slip shut, my mind swirling withresentment, confusion, and a traitorous flicker of relief that I’m not alone in the dark. The fire’s warmth lulls me, the gentle flicker dancing across the inside of my eyelids. Perhaps in sleep, I can escape these conflicting emotions, if only for a short while.

I’ll find a way out eventually,I promise myself.But for now, I’ll submit to this false sense of safety. And maybe I’ll learn what truly drives this stone beast who claims to spare me.

6

KORRIN

It’s been more than a fortnight since I carried Elyria to this ruined outpost. In the grand scheme of my gargoyle years, two weeks is a flicker—but these days feel like entire lifetimes piled on top of each other. Time unfurls in uncertain hours of slow, tense cohabitation: I gather supplies, keep an eye on distant threats, and struggle to decipher the girl I’ve taken under my reluctant wing.

If anyone had told me months ago that I’d willingly share a roof—or what’s left of one—with a human, I would have laughed in their face. Or slit their throat. That was before the day I broke my executioner’s oath in a single reckless moment of fracture. Now my entire existence stands on a razor’s edge, split between lethal instinct and an alien protectiveness that flares whenever I look at her.

I still wake each morning expecting some part of me to remember who I was. To crave her death as I once craved the thrill of the hunt. Instead, I find myself hunting only to bring back fresh kill so she can eat, or trudging through the forest in search of medicinal roots to ease her lingering pain. And everytime I realize how far I’ve strayed from the Alpha’s orders, guilt and panic twist in my gut like a coiled serpent.

Elyria’s ankle has improved since that first day. I’ve forced her—against her will, of course—to soak it in the cold stream at dawn, apply my homemade poultices, and rest more than she’s accustomed to. The result is that her limp is now barely noticeable, though she keeps the bandage for a bit of extra support. She still glares daggers at me whenever I remind her to go easy on it.

The ruin we inhabit has become a sort of uneasy truce zone. I’ve gathered enough moss and old cloth scraps to fashion a crude sleeping pallet for her near the east wall, where some stones still stand tall enough to block the wind. I sleep across the tower, propped against the rubble with one wing half-unfurled, always half-alert for intruders. The remnants of an ancient staircase lead to a precarious vantage point on the broken second level, which I occasionally climb to scan the forest. So far, no sign of other gargoyles or dark elf patrols, though paranoia gnaws at me daily.

Elyria stokes the fire in the mornings, an unspoken habit. I provide the wood; she arranges it with nimble, stubborn hands. We’ve settled into a cautious routine, but it’s riddled with tension that sparks whenever our gazes lock. She despises being captive, no matter how gently I try to frame it. I’m too harsh, too large, too threatening for her to see me as anything but a beast holding her prisoner. She’s not wrong.

There’s something else beneath her anger, a crackle that crackles in the air whenever we stand too close. I sense it when I help her walk, or when our hands brush accidentally by the creek. She pretends to hate my every breath, but her heartbeat spikes if I step behind her unexpectedly. My own blood roars whenever I catch the faint scent of her hair—like rain on stoneand a hint of something warmer. That mixture of fear and desire is potent enough to drive me mad.

I perchon what’s left of the second-level staircase, scanning the horizon for movement. The forest canopy spreads out below like a blanket of green and gold. Dawn’s light breaks through the trees. A hush lingers, broken only by the far-off call of a bird and the trickle of the stream.

Down below, Elyria kneels by the fire pit. I can see the tension in her shoulders from here, the set of her jaw as she prods the embers awake. Her near-black hair is pulled back loosely, revealing that silver streak that stands out even in dim light. The chain and collar are still there—I haven’t dared remove them yet, and the knowledge burns a hole in my chest. If I do free her, will she vanish into the forest, only to be slaughtered by gargoyles or dark elves? Or will she vanish by choice because she despises what I am?

I grunt, forcing the thoughts away. Below me, Elyria stands, stretching her arms overhead. The hem of her shirt lifts a fraction, exposing a strip of skin above her waistband. My breath snags, an unexpected jolt of heat pulsing through my veins.Why does she captivate me like this?I clench the stair’s edge, claws scraping stone.

For a moment, I consider dropping down, offering her breakfast, maybe searching for more game. But I hesitate. Lately, the tension has grown almost unbearable. We’re like two predators circling, each uncertain if we want to fight or—my mind flinches from the wordmate.That’s absurd. A gargoyle and a human? She’s not even truly purna—at least, not awakened—yet my body doesn’t seem to grasp the impossibility.

Shaking off the confusion, I leap down from the broken stair, landing with a light thud near her. She spins with a start, eyes narrowing.

“You move too quietly,” she accuses, holding her chest as though to steady her heart.

“You hear me now,” I reply, stepping over a slab of rock. “I have fresh fish from the creek. If you’re hungry.”

Her expression cools. “You think I’m going to starve myself out of spite?”

I don’t miss the flicker of dryness in her tone. “Wouldn’t put it past you,” I tease, but my voice is too low and rough to sound kind. “You’ve threatened worse.”

She huffs. “Maybe I’ll starve you.”

A flicker of amusement tugs at my lips, though I keep my face neutral. “I’m not so easily killed.”