Page 17 of Never Been Gargoyled (Harmony Glen #4)

Feydin

A fter breakfast, Dazy and I settled in to do some research. She took her laptop to the dining room table while I spread Rebecca's documents out on the surface across from her, studying each one with the methodical attention I'd learned in law school.

The birth certificate looked legitimate. The paper had the right texture, the seal appeared authentic, and the information matched what Rebecca had told us. Helga Margaret Morrison, mother. Father unknown. Date and location of birth consistent with what we'd found online.

I photographed each document and sent them to three different lawyers I knew, asking for their opinions on authenticity. Within an hour, I had replies from two of them. Both confirmed what I'd suspected: the documents appeared genuine.

“Find anything interesting?” Dazy asked, returning from the kitchen with two glasses of water .

“Unfortunately, her story checks out so far. What about you?”

“She's definitely real. Marketing consultant, lives in the city, went to business school at a state college. There are photos of her at various charity events over the past five years.”

I frowned at the adoption papers in front of me. Everything was in order. Too much in order, perhaps. But that didn't necessarily mean anything suspicious.

“I'm going to make some calls,” I said, pulling out my phone.

“I can’t find anything else online, so I’ll go work outside.” She left, stroking her fingers across the tips of my wings as she passed, making me shiver with need.

It took time to compose myself after she’d left, but I stiffened my backbone and lifted my phone.

The first person I reached was an old colleague from law school who specialized in estate law. After I explained the situation, she was direct in her assessment.

“If the birth certificate is legitimate, she has a strong case,” she said. “Biological children typically have inheritance rights regardless of what the will says, especially if they can prove the parent knew about them.”

“Even if the parent chose not to leave them anything?”

“That's where it gets complicated. She'd have to prove Helga deliberately excluded her. If Helga genuinely didn't know if she was alive…”

“Then the will could be invalid. ”

“At least partially. A judge might order the estate split between the biological daughter and the named heir.”

My stomach sank. That wasn't what Dazy needed to hear.

But Helga had known. Rebecca said she’d reached out to her numerous times. Was this before Helga started to get early-onset dementia or after?

I thanked my colleague and hung up, then immediately called another lawyer who dealt with contested wills. His assessment was similar. Rebecca had a legitimate claim, and it would be difficult to dismiss.

Through the window, I could see Dazy working in one of the side gardens, her red hair bright in the afternoon sunlight.

She was sashaying her hips, and if I knew my mate, she was humming the same melody that seemed to follow her everywhere.

The sight of her, so content despite everything hanging over us, made my heart pinch with protective instincts.

I couldn't let Rebecca take this away from her.

Setting the documents aside, I searched the internet for more clues but found nothing. I leaned back in my chair and puffed out a breath, then decided to channel my frustration into something useful. The estate needed work, and keeping my hands busy might help me think more clearly.

I started with the shutters. As she’d said while we sat on the roof, many were hanging askew, making the beautiful old house look neglected. Flying up to the second-story windows made this job easy, and there were plenty of tools to fix the loose hinges in the shed.

As I straightened one shutter after another, I watched Dazy working below. She'd moved closer to the house and was weeding a flower bed. I caught her glancing up at me regularly. Was she checking on my progress or worried I might fall?

Or was she watching me with the same interest I showed toward her?

The thought made my wings snap out involuntarily. I gripped the shutter tighter, trying to focus on the task at hand before I tumbled to the ground. But knowing she might be looking at me with interest made my hands unsteady.

When I'd finished with the shutters, I moved to the exterior wall where ivy had climbed almost to the roof. The vines were beautiful, but they'd work their way into the mortar and cause damage. They had to go.

I landed on the ground and retrieved the shears from the garden shed. The ivy was thick and woody in places, requiring significant force to cut through.

“Be careful with those shears,” Dazy called out from where she worked on a flower bed on the other side of the path weaving around the building. “They're really sharp.”

The concern in her voice made my heart race. She was worried about me. That had to mean something, right?

“I will,” I said, then promptly sliced through a particularly thick vine with more enthusiasm than skill. The shears slipped. Pain shot across my left hand as the blade caught the side of my palm.

I hissed and flew down to the ground, dropping the shears and pressing my right hand against the wound.

“Feydin?” Alarm sharpened Dazy's voice as she came closer. “What happened?”

“Nothing serious.” Though blood was seeping between my fingers. “It’s only a small cut.”

“Let me see.” She reached for my hand, her touch gentle but insistent.

I let her examine the wound, trying not to focus on how her soft fingers felt on my skin. She was so close, I could smell her shampoo, could see the concern written across her face.

“This needs to be cleaned and bandaged,” she said. “Come inside.”

“It's fine?—”

“It's not fine. You're bleeding on my walkway.” She tugged me toward the house. “Kitchen. Now.”

I followed her inside, oddly thrilled by her bossy tone. She cared enough to fuss over me.

In the kitchen, she pointed to one of the chairs. “Sit.”

I did as directed.

She bustled around, gathering supplies from various cabinets. First aid kit, clean cloth, antiseptic. I found myself mesmerized by the sight of the care she was taking with such a small cut.

“Hold still,” she said, gently cleaning the wound with a wet cloth. She dabbed antiseptic on the cut, frowning in concentration when I winced .

“Sorry.” Her face pinched. “Almost done.”

“Take your time.” I could sit here forever if it meant having her attention focused solely on me.

She applied antibiotic ointment next, then carefully wrapped my hand in gauze. Her fingers lingered on my wrist as she secured the bandage, and I wondered if she could feel my pulse racing.

“There,” she said finally, stepping back to examine her work. “Try not to use that hand too much for the next few days, and maybe wear gloves to keep it covered.”

“Thank you.” The words came out rough. “You didn't have to?—”

“Of course I did.” She looked genuinely puzzled by my comment. “You hurt yourself working on my house. The least I can do is patch you up.”

Her house. She'd called it her house without any hesitation, despite Rebecca's threats. The confidence in her voice made something fierce and protective surge in my throat.

“It's not just your house,” I said before I could stop myself.

She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” I struggled to find the right words. How could I explain that this place felt like a home to me now because she was in it? That I'd defend it with everything I had because it was hers? “I mean you're not alone in this. Whatever happens with Rebecca, you have help.”

Her smile came out soft and warm. “I know. And I'm grateful for that. ”

Grateful. Not exactly the word I'd hoped for, but it was something.

“How did the rest of the research go?” she asked, moving to put the first aid supplies away.

“Rebecca's documents appear legitimate. The lawyers I contacted think she has a solid case.”

Dazy's face fell. “Oh.”

“But that doesn't mean we give up,” I said quickly. “There are still options. Counterarguments we can make.”

“Like what?”

“We can argue that Helga's will reflects her true intentions. That she was of sound mind when she wrote it, which she was, and that she chose to leave the estate to you for specific reasons.”

“Do we know what those reasons were?”

I hesitated. The truth was, I had no idea why Helga had chosen Dazy over her own biological daughter. But I couldn't tell Dazy that.

“Helga valued people who would love this place the way she did,” I said instead. “I bet she wanted someone who would restore it, care for it, not just profit from it.”

“And you think that matters legally?”

“It might. Especially if we can prove Rebecca's primary interest is financial.”

Dazy nodded slowly. “So we keep digging.”

“We keep digging.”

She glanced at my bandaged hand. “Maybe you should stick to research for a while and let me handle the manual labor. ”

“I can work with one hand.”

“Feydin.” She fixed me with a stern look. “I’d tell you to stop for the day, but I know you. You’re just as eager to get this done as me. But promise me you'll be more careful.”

The concern in her voice, the way she said my name… My heart felt ready to burst from my chest. This was what it felt like to be cared for. To matter to someone.

“I promise,” I said.

“Good.” She smiled again, then glanced around. “I have to admit, the house is looking better already. You've done amazing work.”

Pride shot through me. She'd noticed the care I’d taken with her home. She was happy with my efforts to improve it.

“There's more I want to do,” I said. “The gutters need cleaning, some of the roof tiles are loose, and there's definitely something living in the attic that shouldn't be there.”

She winced. “What sort of something?”

“Well, I’ll admit there could be mice within the building.”

“Ah-ha. Told you so!”

I huffed but she was right. “I'll have a word with them.”

She laughed. “How in the world are you going to do that?”

“Gargoyles are good at convincing small creatures to relocate,” I said seriously. “A stern talking-to usually does the trick. ”

“You're going to lecture mice into leaving?”

“If necessary.”

Her laughter was bright and genuine, and the sound of it made my wings float out with happiness. I'd made her laugh. Despite everything weighing on us, I'd managed to bring her joy.

“I'd like to see that,” she said, still grinning.

“Stick around and you might.”

The words hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning. Her expression grew thoughtful, and I worried I'd overstepped.

“I'm not going anywhere,” she said quietly. “This is home now.”

Home. She'd said it again, and this time, she was looking directly at me when she said it.

My heart, which had been racing since she'd bandaged my hand, felt like it might explode from the emotions surging through me. This was what the mating bond felt like. It gave me an overwhelming need to protect and provide and be near her always.

I was falling for her completely. Had already fallen, if I was being honest.

The only question now was whether she might ever feel the same way about me.