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“No, not really. You’re sweet. Here, take this and serve yourself a muffin with the tongs. Have a nice slice of bread if you like. Butter is in the fridge and jam is in the pantry.” He offers me a plate with his non-stirring hand.

I take the plate wordlessly and do as the gargoyle says. I give myself another muffin and a thick slice of bread, slathering it in cold butter that melts almost instantly and then jam. As I leave the kitchen, I try not to think about where the dropped muffin disappeared to.

My makeshift art studio is quiet in the early afternoon light.

My empty breakfast plate sits licked clean on the small “ paint-free zone ” table beside me.

The muffin that Julius made was the best I’ve ever had.

Two points to Ireland. One for their muffins.

And another one to their orgasms. Maybe that’s why all I can think about is painting pastries with thick white glaze.

I flick the brush across the canvas, adding a softer white for a highlight, and sit back on the stool I stole from the kitchen when I first moved in.

I never paint still-life paintings, but now that’s all I can conjure. Moments and things that don’t quite exist yet. I want to capture them and sink my teeth right in.

Fighting off the urge to get a new canvas and paint the creator of such fine muffins, I mix up a vivid sky blue instead.

The weather has remained a terrible mess, the clouds thick and dark, promising heavy rains in the near future. I want to remember the few perfect moments of unreality when I got here. The sun was too yellow for the dreary bruised sky, the grass too green…a lot like a certain gargoyle—a few of them.

I groan a little and set the palette of paints aside, trying to refrain from mixing the base tones of their skin and just make anything else. I’m more than capable of making lots of “elses,” but my mind does not want “elses”—it wants them.

“I’m going to lose my marbles if I can’t paint.” I huff, standing up and pacing in front of the huge windows with incredible views of the loch on one side and the path toward the town on the other.

Of course I chose the armory as my painting room. It was a mostly empty room when I found it, but I can see it returned to all its glory in my mind’s eye. Swords and shields hang from the walls, and big suits of armor are positioned to look like someone is inside, ready to protect you.

“Charlotte, there you are!” Marcus’ bright voice brings me back to the present.

A jolt of awareness of him snaps against my skin.

He smiles widely at me, standing at the mouth of my converted painting room, holding up a soccer ball in one hand. “Care to come out and watch me kick this around for a bit before the weather turns?”

“Um.” I glance out the window again. It could rain any minute, and I’m hestitent to be the reason he can’t enjoy the slight break in shit weather. “Sure, that sounds fun.”

“Sweet.” He tosses the ball up and catches it in his horns.

The space between them is just wide enough for the ball to perch against the body of his horns, long and straight before they come to an abruptly tapered end that points straight up. It’s almost like a Z if you start from where they meet his hairline.

“I take it you’ll be showing off the entire time?”

“Of course I will. There is a pretty bird watching me.” He shoots me a wink, and I can’t help but blush.

I’ve never been called a bird before, but the slang will grow on me, as well as the accents…I hope. If I’m going to be staying here for at least a year, integrating with these gargoyles, then I need to get used to the Irish verbiage.

“Alright, let’s go so you can kick that soccer ball around.”

Marcus scoffs, hopping up and sending the ball into the air before catching it again. “Football, Char, it’s a football.”

Never trust the weather in the Irish countryside. The lesson is now bone deep, along with the chill.

“I’m so sorry, Charlotte. I thought we had a right bit more time than that,” Marcus says, gripping the huge fluffy towel he had been drying me off with.

“It’s OK, it’s just so cold. Is it normally that cold?” I ask, teeth starting to chatter slightly as I sit on the bottom of the steps that lead to the second floor.

“I mean, I can’t entirely feel it,” he says as he goes about drying the ends of my hair with a delicacy that makes me melt.

“With the stone skin and all, temperature doesn’t really play a factor in my comfort.

You have to let me know before it gets this bad next time.

I wouldn’t be a very good protector if you got sick on my watch. ”

He suddenly sits behind me, the towel between us.

He takes one of my hands and gives it the slightest squeeze, like he’s afraid to break me.

The difference in our heights is something I’ve been trying to ignore.

I’m not used to feeling small. All the guys make me feel small in a good way, and that’s only beginning to lead toward unnecessary feelings.

I feel cared for and precious and delicate. I’ve never let anyone get this close before.

I swallow thickly, trying not to let on how damn comfortable he feels. I want so badly to steal all of him for myself. “You feel warm to me.”

“Magic. I need to think about it a little when I want to be warm. Otherwise I’m just sorta…room temperature?” He tips his head and squints at the thought. “Oh god, I must feel like a dead body.”

I snort loudly, my hand snapping up to catch the last bit of sound before I gaze up at him. God, Marcus doesn’t seem like he would go all monster on me if I offend him, but it’s the last thing I want to do. He’s been so sweet.

“I doubt you feel dead. Besides, when would you have the time to…be felt like that?”

I’m slowly shoving my foot into my mouth, but I can’t stop myself.

I can feel my heart beating in my throat, my pulse racing and blood pumping.

I’m curious if these guys fuck, because maybe they don’t.

If they’ve all taken a vow of celibacy to protect mortals, it would be the second saddest day of my life.

“That’s a very naughty thing to ask, Char.” He teases me, bending his head down toward mine.

Fuck, it’s already too late. I realize that as Marcus leans down and captures my lips with his, or did I lean up and kiss him?

It’s hard to tell once I fall right into the delight of having his mouth on mine.

He’s so fucking warm, and he tastes clean and fresh.

His mouth is surprisingly soft but with a little firmness, like a tensed muscle.

He wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me into his lap. Our soaked clothes are plastered to our bodies, and I can’t find it in me to complain about what I’m feeling through the fabric. I’ve never liked being poked by an erection before, but there’s a first time for everything, I guess.

His chest is as hard and chiseled as stone, and it makes me giggle against his lips.

He takes that as an invitation to slide his tongue into my mouth, and my brain short-circuits.

It’s just a regular tongue that this very hot supernatural man is shoving into my mouth.

I moan around it and begin to suck, doing my best to press my breasts against him and be sexy.

But, of course, I’m wearing gross, soggy overalls, and as I try to rock myself against him, the wet denim starts to chafe my thighs.

“That feels so weird,” I murmur and pull back.

“What? Me? Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, I’ve never done it with a witch before.” He rambles, quickly removing me from his lap and placing me back on the stairs. He kneels at my feet on the floor. “I’m so sorry. I can go less gargoyle if you want.”

My jaw drops as a lot of information flies at me all at once. Each point lands like a dart on a board, but the most important of all: Me? A witch?

“Did you just call me a witch?”