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“Gargoyle.”

She blinked. “You’ve been a gargoyle from the beginning?”

“Beginning of what?”

“My employment,” she said, exasperation pushing panic to the side.

“Of course,” he said, slamming a new chip into his machine gun. “Saw you. Knew who and what you were. Couldn’t let you run all over town. Someone had to keep an eye on you until the magic kicked in.”

Truly opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Her bafflement prompted Montrose to go on. “Your power is good and set now, though, isn’t it? Scales are off, so you see me as I truly am… in all my gorgeous gargoyle glory.”

Gorgeous gargoyle glory.

Truly snorted, half laugh, mostly disbelief.

“Don’t know what your problem is, Triple,” Montrose said, taking exception to her reaction. “You’re running around with a Slayer —”

“Assenta,” Westvane growled.

Montrose rolled his eyes. “And a hybrid, at that. You’re not worried about Westvane and his wings, so why’re you so bothered by me?”

Good point. Irritating, per usual, but Montrose wasn’t wrong.

Her attention snapped to Westvane. “Seriously? You couldn’t have warned me about the wings?”

“None of your business, princess.”

Ah, no. No way would she let that pitch sail by. “Double-edge sword, Westvane. You can’t invade my privacy and expect to retain your own. Everything about you became my business when you entered my house uninvited. You told me you had no magic.”

“I lied.”

Her brows popped up. “You lied?”

“Of course,” he said, his tone conveying ‘no big deal.’ “Never promised you honesty, Truly.”

She scowled. “What else have you lied about?”

Tipping his chin down, he looked at her from beneath furrowed brows. What he didn’t do was answer. Not a good sign. A stubborn Westvane might prove to be too much for her. She suspected when an Assenta warrior dug in, he became an immovable object, and there wasn’t a living soul capable of shifting him. Not that she planned on giving up. Westvane possessed the answers she needed. No way would she let him off the hook.

Avoiding the flaming tip of his sword, she stepped in close. “You’re a hybrid. What does that mean?”

He hesitated, predatory nature piqued as he studied her, no doubt trying to decide how much to share. He took his time. Truly allowed him to look, hoping he not only picked up on her curiosity, but also read the intent behind her inquiry. She wanted him to trust her. She needed him to know she accepted him, warts and all. No one was perfect. Everyone walked around with scars on their hearts and unaddressed issues inside their heads. Emotional turmoil didn’t play favorites. Trauma might take different paths, but at some point, it came for them all.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

She held his gaze, refusing to look away.

His brow furrowed. “Stubborn.”

“Yes,” she said. “Tell me what you don’t want me to know, Westvane. Say it out loud, share the fear, and it loses power.”

He looked away, breaking eye contact.

She moved a bit closer. “Westvane.”

“I’m half-Assenta, half-Electi. My father belonged to the royal house, my mother born to one in the second-tier caste,” he said, voice soft, expression set in hard lines. “Different castes are not permitted to mingle socially or form romantic attachments. It’s against the law, which makes my birth an illegal act. In Azlandia, I’m considered an abomination, athingthat never should’ve been born.”