Page 19 of Never Been Gargoyled (Harmony Glen #4)

Feydin

S omething in Dazy's face changed as we sat there on the steps. One moment she was talking about deserving second chances and the next, tears were rolling down her cheeks.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, pressing her hands against her face. “I don't know why I'm crying. This is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid at all.” The weight of everything had finally caught up with her.

The legal threat, the uncertainty, the possibility of losing everything she'd started to build here, care for here.

“You don't need to apologize.” I moved closer to her on the step, tightening my wing around her back.

“I'm not usually a crier.” Her voice came out muffled behind her hands. “I'm supposed to be strong and handle things and…”

The words dissolved into a sob that made my lungs spasm. I pulled her against my side, tucking her head under my chin. She fit perfectly there, her soft curves pressed against me.

“You’re strong,” I said into her hair. “I see it in everything you do.”

“I don't feel strong right now.”

“Strength isn't about never breaking down. It's about getting back up afterward.”

She cried against my chest while I held her, my wings curled protectively around her. Each tear felt like a blade to my heart. This was my mate suffering, and I was powerless to fix the source of her pain.

But maybe I could offer her some comfort.

When her tears had stopped flowing, I eased away from her, rising.

“Wait here,” I said.

She looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Where are you going?”

“I'll be right back. Don't move?”

Giving me a shaky smile, she nodded.

I rushed up the stairs, taking them three at a time. In the master bathroom, I turned on the taps in the enormous clawfoot tub, adjusting the temperature until it was just right. While the water filled, I flew back down to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of wine, along with a clean glass.

Next stop was the bakery box on the counter. I selected a chocolate croissant, arranging it on a pretty plate. From the living room, I retrieved the paperback novel she'd been reading, the one with the orc cowboy on the cover .

Back in the bathroom, I turned off the taps and surveyed my work. The bath looked inviting, but something was missing. Outside the bathroom window, I spotted the answer.

I leaped out through the window and flew down to the ground, where I gathered handfuls of flower petals. White and fragrant, they would float on the water like stars.

When everything was arranged to my satisfaction, I went back downstairs. Dazy was still sitting on the front steps, staring at the ground.

“Come with me,” I said, offering her my hand.

She looked up at me with curiosity but took my hand without question. I lifted her into my arms and flew her upstairs, stopping outside the bathroom door.

“Close your eyes,” I said, lowering her to her feet.

“Feydin, what are you doing?” She sounded startled, but her eyes were sparkling with a touch of humor already.

“Trust me.”

She closed her eyes, and I guided her into the bathroom. The space glowed with warm light from the candles I'd lit. Steam rose from the tub, carrying the scent of the flower petals scattered across the surface. The wine and pastry waited on the small table beside the tub, along with her book.

“Open them,” I said softly.

Her eyes flew open, and she gasped. She stared at the bath, then at the wine, then at me. Her expression was so full of wonder and a light that looked almost like love that it stole my breath.

“You did all this for me?” she asked.

“I want you to relax, to find peace again. I promise this will work out alright.”

The words hung between us, and I realized I'd made a vow I might not be able to keep. Rebecca could win in court, and Dazy would lose the estate. But for the first time since I'd bonded myself to this crumbling building and the wild gardens around it, I was willing to leave.

If Dazy had to go, I would follow.

The thought should’ve terrified me. This place had been my sanctuary, my purpose, my entire world since I fled France years ago.

But looking at her now, seeing the tears still clinging to her lashes and the grateful smile spreading across her face, I knew with absolute certainty that home wasn't a place anymore.

It was wherever this woman laid her head at night.

“Thank you.” She stepped closer to me. “This is beautiful.”

“You deserve only beautiful things.”

Reaching up, she touched my cheek, her fingers warm against my skin. “What did I do to deserve you ?”

Everything. She'd woken me from stone sleep with the joy she found in the world around her. She'd brought life back to the gardens with her gentle hands. She'd made me feel useful and wanted and…

Loved.

Because that's what this was. This overwhelming need to protect her, to provide for her, to make her happy. This ache in my chest when she smiled and the way my heart floundered when she looked at me. This wasn't just the mating bond anymore.

I was completely, utterly in love with Dazy.

“I should let you bathe.” I eased away before I did something foolish like confess my feelings when she was emotionally vulnerable.

“Will you stay close? I mean, not in here, but…” She blushed. “I don't want to be alone right now.”

“I'll be in the library. Call if you need anything.”

She nodded, and I forced myself to leave, closing the door behind me. In the hallway, I leaned against the wall and tried to process what had happened.

I'd revealed my hand completely. The bath, the flowers, the careful attention to every detail that might bring her comfort. This was pure gargoyle courting behavior. If she understood what it meant, she'd know exactly how I felt about her.

But humans didn't know about gargoyle customs. Maybe she'd think I was being helpful. Sweet, as she kept calling me. Was this something friends did for each other?

I made my way to the library and settled at the large desk, pulling out my phone to continue researching Rebecca's case. But my mind kept wandering upstairs, imagining Dazy sinking into the warm water, her skin flushed from the heat, flower petals clinging to her curves.

Focus, I told myself sternly. She needs you to find a legal solution, not fantasize about her in her bath.

I searched through case law, looking for precedents that might help us. Biological children who'd successfully contested wills. Adopted children who'd failed to prove inheritance rights. The outcomes seemed to depend heavily on the specific circumstances and the quality of legal representation.

My phone buzzed with a text from the colleague who specialized in estate law.

Found something interesting about your case. Call me.

I dialed immediately.

“Feydin? I've been thinking about what you told me,” she said. “You mentioned the biological daughter claimed she'd contacted the deceased multiple times over the years.”

“That's right. She said Helga never responded to her letters.”

“That could actually work in your favor. If we can prove Helga received those letters and chose not to respond, it strengthens the argument that her will reflects her true intentions.”

My heart leaped. “How do we do that?”

“Paper trail. If she sent letters to Helga's address, there might be postal records. If she tried to call, there could be phone records. Email records if she used those. You’re inside the estate, correct? Look around and see if she saved them. The point is to show that Helga was aware of her daughter’s existence and made a conscious choice to leave her estate to someone else. ”

“And that could invalidate the biological daughter's claim? ”

“Not invalidate it, but it would significantly weaken her case. A judge would have to consider why a mother would ignore her biological child's attempts at contact and leave her estate to a great-niece instead.”

Hope bloomed in my chest. “Perfect. We’ll put together dates, methods, and see if we can find those letters here. And I'll start working on a counterargument.”

“Awesome.”

“I appreciate your help.”

“Anytime, Feydin. Anytime.”

After I hung up, I sat back in the leather chair and allowed myself to feel cautiously optimistic for the first time since Rebecca had walked into the tea shop. We had a strategy. A real chance to fight this.

From upstairs, I could hear the gentle splash of water and knew Dazy was still in the bath. The wine would be loosening the knots of tension in her shoulders. The flower petals would be reminding her that beautiful things could bloom even in difficult circumstances.

I'd given her what comfort I could, but she was still facing the possibility of losing everything. And I was still hiding the most important truth of all.

That I loved her. That she was my fated mate. That I’d follow her anywhere, do anything to keep her safe and happy.

But how did you tell someone that without sounding out of your mind? Humans didn't believe in fated mates or bonding or the idea that two souls could recognize each other instantly. They believed in dating and getting to know each other slowly and making rational decisions about compatibility.

They didn't believe in the kind of love that hit like lightning and burned away everything else.

Maybe someday I'd find the courage to tell her how much she meant to me.

But for now, I'd be content to love her quietly, to show her through my actions what I couldn't yet say with words.

I'd be her protector, her provider, her devoted gargoyle.

And that would be enough.