Chapter Two
You’re supposed to be on holiday. Redford would have slapped the side of his face to stop his less-than-pleasant thoughts. However, he was driving, and that meant keeping both hands on the wheel. That was just the type of driver he was.
In theory, the drive through Scotland should have cleared Redford’s head. It was just him in his car with no phone to disturb him. Or people pestering him with more demands than he could keep up with, which had been the story of his life for freaking years.
Instead, he just had the open road to contend with, rolling hills, and the beauty of the Scottish scenery. And was he thinking about any of that? No. I can’t stop mentally reviewing case files that I shouldn’t even be worrying about because I’m on leave, damn it.
“You’re burning out,” his office supervisor had said just three months before. The concern in Greta’s voice had been unmistakable. “When was the last time you actually took time off, Stone? Not a long weekend, but actual real vacation time.”
Redford, because he was an idiot who genuinely believed work was the most important aspect of his life, had pointed out that he had responsibilities and cases that needed him, not to mention a large team that depended on him.
He ran the only paranormal corporate corruption program, a task force as such, and the work never stopped.
So when Greta had expressed her concern along with the typical sentiments people seemed to use along the lines of “You’re not good to anyone if you don’t look after yourself,” Redford had still stuck with it for another three months until a blinding headache and a forced shift - which wasn’t pleasant for any gargoyle - had made him file his leave forms. Thank goodness I was at home at the time.
In other words, Greta had been right. She always was.
Twenty years in the bureau and she could spot burnout a mile away.
And it’s not like Redford hadn’t noticed for himself.
Every case felt worse than the one before.
So many needless deaths, so many companies willing to sacrifice employees, both paranormal and human, just to save a few dollars or protect their own selfish interests.
The sort of cover-ups that never seemed to make the front of the newspaper, yet Redford had to deal with every one of them.
The castle, when he finally remembered he had it, actually seemed like the perfect answer.
He’d inherited Duncarrick from a distant uncle some five years before and hadn’t bothered to do anything with it at all except pay the property management fees.
Just because he was a gargoyle didn’t mean he had any historic building expertise – Redford spent most of his time in an office - and the reports of the castle’s condition had been…
discouraging. In fact, Redford distinctly remembered his uncle saying something along the lines of, “I hope you’re good with a trowel and mortar, boy, because you’re going to need them. ”
But now, with nothing but time ahead of him, renovating a rundown castle could be something constructive that would keep him busy.
Something where he could see positive results at the end of a hard day – fixing something instead of trying to put out fires and stopping other people’s lives from falling apart.
Redford sighed as he turned a corner and the Scottish Highlands opened up before him, all dramatic peaks and valleys swathed in pockets of mist. It was beautifully peaceful, and Redford prayed with everything that he was that spending time in a remote area would be the salvation he was looking for.
As he crested the final hill, Duncarrick Castle suddenly appeared, and Redford’s breath caught.
The photos hadn’t done it justice. Yes, it was crumbling.
The towers looked half-collapsed. And the walls were more ivy than stone in places.
But it was beautiful – a true testament to how long stone could last, even when it was completely ignored.
A small cottage sat nestled against the hillside directly below the castle ruins.
According to the property management company, it was the caretaker’s cottage, and someone had been living there for years, apparently, although Redford had never bothered about the details.
That’s why he had a property management company.
Ignoring the cottage and its possible occupant for now, Redford swung into the long driveway up to a large circular parking area in front of the castle.
Two vehicles were already parked there, the architect and the local contractor Redford had hired, right on time. Redford did appreciate punctuality.
He pulled up beside them, turned off the engine before climbing out of his car, stretching his arms and legs that were cramped from the long drive. The air smelled of damp heather and the soft earth and…and…
The world stopped. Not as in somebody had actually stopped the world, but for Redford, in that moment, his world stopped as he heard something he never believed he would ever hear.
The stones from the ancient castle were singing.
One hand still on the car door, Redford’s entire body went rigid with shock.
His gargoyle side that had been snoozing during the long trip surged forward with such force he nearly shifted right then and there. Eight feet of leathered skin and muscle that would send the human contractors running for their lives if they caught a glimpse of his other side.
Not now! You can’t! Not here! But Redford already knew his vacation plans were about to make a hundred-and-eighty degree turn.
Gargoyles heard the stones sing when their mates were nearby.
That was an absolute fact that Redford knew as surely as he knew birds flew south for the winter and salmon knew how to swim upstream.
Actually, Redford didn’t know a lot about birds or freaking fish at all, but he knew what a singing stone meant to a gargoyle.
He had given up on ever hearing it. At over five hundred years old, Redford had resigned himself to a mateless existence.
There’d even been a time when Redford considered taking a bond mate, but in the end, it had been easier to focus on his work instead.
Redford had never been so grateful for that decision as he was in that moment.
The song seemed to swell, and Redford’s head whipped around, searching frantically. Where? Who? The waiting contractor and architect weren’t the one he’d waited his life for – his gargoyle let him know that with one glance.
Turning again, Redford’s gaze landed on the cottage.
Since he’d parked the car, a man was now standing outside of it – big, handsome, with dark hair that was styled short on the sides and longer on top.
He wore jeans and a worn T-shirt that showed off impressive shoulders and arms. And he was staring at Redford with an intensity that made every nerve ending in Redford’s body come alive.
There! His gargoyle had no doubts. That one, he’s ours.
Redford would have to touch him to be sure, but even as Redford studied the man, the stranger’s expression shifted and looked confused.
A sudden growl could be heard, and Redford realized the man’s fists were clenched at his side, and it seemed as though his whole body was taut as if he was hiding something.
Caught a whiff of my scent and trying to stop a shift, perhaps?
If he’s a shifter, that’d make things easier.
Although, for now, the man was clearly struggling, and Redford’s gargoyle really wanted to make an appearance. It took every ounce of Redford’s control to stay in his human form, when every instinct screamed at him to spread his wings and cross that distance in seconds.
For fuck’s sake, breathe. Focus. You don’t want to scare him.
Meanwhile, the man seemed to win whatever internal battle he was waging.
His solid shoulders relaxed a bit, although Redford could still see the tension radiating from every line in his body.
He started walking over, and Redford could tell it took a real effort for the man to appear calm and move as if nothing strange was happening.
“Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to be caught staring.” The man’s voice was deep and pleasant, definitely friendly, although Redford caught the edge of something rough underneath. “I really don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I hope you can excuse me.”
That smile was fake – Redford could recognize something like that at twenty paces.
“The name’s Damon. I rent the cottage.”
He held out his hand, a perfectly normal human thing to do when one person greeted another.
Redford took it, and his knees literally went weak.
That touch told him all the singing stones had already signified.
Electricity shot up his arm, through to his chest, and straight to his core.
His gargoyle was roaring in his mind, determined to claim the man right then and there in front of a human architect and a busy contractor.
Damon’s pupils dilated so wide that the color nearly disappeared, and his hand tightened around Redford’s, holding on for just a fraction too long, his thumb pressing against Redford’s pulse point, almost as if he was trying to memorize the rhythm.
But then, just as quickly, he jerked his hand back like he’d been burned.
“Redford.” Redford coughed and tried again. “Redford Stone. I’m the owner…of the castle, I mean.” Oh, brilliant. Very smooth. Five hundred years old and completely undone by a handshake. Get your shit together, Redford.
“Right. Yes, I was expecting you. The letter from your management company mentioned you were coming.” Damon shoved his hands in his pockets, then pulled them out again as though he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “You’re here to do renovations?”
“Yes, the renovations.” They stood there, an awkward silence stretching between them. Damon’s gaze kept darting to Redford’s face and then away again, like he couldn’t help himself, and Redford found he was doing the same thing.
“I’ve…uh…yeah, arranged to live in a caravan during the work,” Redford said, struggling to find something normal to say. “The contractor recommended it. Apparently, nowhere in the castle is habitable.”
Something flickered across Damon’s expression. Redford would have liked to have thought it was concern. It was hard to tell. “You could stay in my cottage. I do have a spare room.”
But Redford could tell, even before Damon had finished speaking, that the man hadn’t meant to say anything like that at all. It was as if the words had fallen out of his mouth having bypassed his brain entirely.
And while every cell in Redford’s body screamed at him to say “yes,” Redford forced himself to think past his instincts and to appear professional, even though that was the last thing he wanted to do.
“That’s very generous,” he said carefully, “but I couldn’t impose. We’ve only just met, and I’ll be here for months. The caravan will be fine for now.”
Damon’s expression flickered. Relief? Disappointment?
Redford couldn’t tell. “Right, yes, of course. That makes sense.” Damon took a step back, and Redford forced himself not to close the gap again.
“I see you have people waiting, so I should let you get on to your meeting. I just wanted to introduce myself. Welcome to Duncarrick Castle and all that.”
Stunned, Redford managed to stammer out, “Thank you,” as Damon nodded, took another step back, then turned and walked toward the cottage.
Redford watched him go, unable to look away.
When Damon reached his door, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.
Their eyes met for another heartbeat before he disappeared inside.
The stone’s song had faded to a gentle hum, but it was still there.
“Mr. Stone?” Redford jerked his attention back to find the architect and contractor approaching. Both of them were human, both of them probably wondering what it was they’d just witnessed.
I instructed them to be here, the least I can do is go through with this meeting, even though, in that moment, Redford would far rather examine the cottage and the man living there.
Forcing his professional face back on, Redford gave a small smile. “Shall we inspect the castle? I’d like to know what I’m dealing with here.”
But as they walked toward the crumbling walls, and the architect launched into a very detailed explanation of the structural issues, Redford could barely focus.
His gargoyle was demanding his attention, determined to go back and speak with Damon again.
It took a hell of a lot of effort for Redford to hold him back.
It was clear Damon had no idea what they were to each other.
He was definitely paranormal, that growl left no doubt about that at all.
But apparently, he couldn’t sense or scent his mate the way most paranormals could, which raised a dozen questions Redford desperately wanted answers to – and none of them had anything to do with the crumbling castle.
The contractor was saying something about the roof.
The architect pointed out the tower that looked about ready to collapse.
Redford nodded at appropriate moments and made sounds of agreement, but his mind was still fifty feet away in a stone cottage, or more specifically, with the man who lived there.
We need a plan, Redford told his gargoyle firmly. He doesn’t know what we are to each other. We need to figure out what he is first and then find a way to tell him without scaring him away. We’ve got the time.
Redford was going to make sure he had the time. He took three months’ worth of leave to renovate a castle – three months where he hoped to find peace that would soothe the burnout that had been slowly eating him alive.
Instead, he’d found his mate – an oblivious mate.
Thank goodness I was blessed with patience, he thought, as the architect droned on about load-bearing walls.
Unable to help himself, Redford’s gaze drifted back to the cottage one more time, and he caught a curtain twitching in the window.
He mentally smirked. Damon might not know they were mates, but it seemed the man was keeping an eye on him. Redford could work with that.