Chapter Four
“This is a bloody disaster.” Three days, or perhaps more to the point, three nights in the godawful caravan, and Redford was ready to admit defeat.
Put simply, the caravan was too small for someone his size.
He was so cold that even his gargoyle couldn’t keep him warm – in fact, his gargoyle complained all the freaking time because he didn’t like the cold, not at all.
The one time Redford plugged in the one bar heater, he’d blown all the fuses in the caravan so he couldn’t have that on and the lights at the same time.
The shower was a trickle of lukewarm water that kept cutting off every thirty seconds, and he didn’t even want to think about the composting toilet that wasn’t going to last a week, let alone the month Redford had been told it was guaranteed for.
He’d spent the previous night wedged into a bed clearly designed for somebody a foot shorter, his shoulders cramped and his back protesting every movement.
But he was stubborn, and that stubbornness had him determined to stick it out.
He refused to impose on Damon, not when Damon had no idea that they were mates.
You’re being foolish, his gargoyle grumbled. Your pride is keeping us from our mate.
“It’s not pride,” Redford muttered as he shaved in the tiny mirror. “It’s me being considerate.”
His gargoyle’s derisive snort echoed through his skull – not helpful, but Redford was getting used to it.
The days of working at the castle were as bad as staying in the caravan.
They were just a different kind of torture.
Every moment with Damon was something Redford wanted to memorize and go over again and again when he was alone, but there were other issues.
Like the stones singing every time Damon was near him, and after five hundred years of wondering what it might be like to hear those dulcet tones, now Redford couldn’t get them out of his head.
Damon was, in a word, everything. He was strong, competent, and kind in a way that seemed effortless.
He moved heavy stones like they weighed nothing.
Just the day before he’d scaled a wall that was definitely wobbly, causing Redford to basically stand mute, his fists clenched, doing his best not to shift into his gargoyle form, fly up, and save his mate.
But Damon didn’t seem scared or even worried.
Redford had no idea what Damon did for a living – or if he even did anything at all - but he had a confident manner that the contractors seemed to trust. The workers were going to Damon for advice on how to handle various situations, and Damon never seemed put out about it.
He wasn’t even part of the crew, but the men respected him.
Realistically, that was probably a good thing. Redford spent every day constantly distracted. Like now, for example, standing on the east tower, supposedly discussing foundation repairs with the structural engineer.
Instead, his gaze kept drifting to where Damon worked below in the courtyard, his muscles flexing as he hauled more debris. Damon’s T-shirt had ridden up, exposing a strip of tanned skin on his lower back, and Redford’s gargoyle rumbled his appreciation.
“Mr. Stone,” the engineer’s voice cut through his thoughts. “What do you think about the timeline?”
Redford forced his attention away from the curve of Damon’s ass. “Sorry, yes. That sounds reasonable.” The engineer seemed happy and wandered away, which was just as well, because Redford had no idea what he’d just agreed to. I really should be focusing on more than Damon.
By midafternoon, Redford had watched Damon do that “thing” again - that thing that confirmed he was definitely paranormal.
Damon apparently needed a crowbar and, checking to make sure nobody else was watching, he reached toward empty air, and suddenly one materialized in his hand.
It just appeared as if summoned from nowhere.
The first time it had happened, Redford had nearly dropped the stone he was carrying. He was more used to it now, but he was still fascinated, wondering what kind of paranormal could create objects from thin air.
He thought back to a case he’d worked a few months earlier involving a journalist by the name of Lamont, a man who’d been caught up in corporate espionage.
Lamont was a hellhound, an extremely rare paranormal who apparently couldn’t scent their mates.
From the brief details Redford learned, hellhounds could only know who their mates were for certain due to some form of test. The lack of “knowing” had caused some complications in his mate’s case, because while the mate knew who Lamont was, Lamont didn’t have a clue until much later…
almost too late, from what Redford could recall.
Could Damon be a hellhound, too? It would definitely explain why Damon seemed oblivious to their bond, although the chances of Redford meeting two hellhounds in the space of a year, when he’d barely been aware of their existence for decades, were slim.
But it did help put the “he doesn’t know he’s my mate” aspect into context. Gargoyles didn’t rely on scent either. They knew their mates through touch and, if they were handy, singing stones. So Redford had known the moment Damon’s hand clasped his that they were meant to be.
But if Damon was a hellhound, then perhaps that’s why he didn’t know, and he wouldn’t be able to know until…
“You’re staring again.” Redford’s head snapped up. Damon stood a few feet away, wiping stone dust from his hands, a knowing smile playing at his lips.
“Sorry.” Redford felt the heat flood his face. “I was just thinking about what the structural engineer had been telling me. Something to do with the integrity of the foundations.”
“Are you sure it was the foundations you were thinking about, or was it me?” The words were light and teasing, but there was something else underneath them, an awareness that made Redford’s pulse quicken.
Their eyes met and held, the moment stretching between them so heavy with possibility.
Damon’s pupils had dilated, and his breathing quickened.
Redford could feel his own gargoyle pushing at his skin, desperate to reach out, to touch, to claim.
“Mr. Stone,” the architect’s voice shattered the moment. “I need your approval on these plans before we can proceed.”
Damn it. In that moment, Redford would’ve happily said “to hell with the castle,” and taken Damon somewhere private to see if the promise in his eyes was as good as Redford was sure it could be.
But it was Damon who looked away first, clearing his throat. “I should get back to clearing the last of those rocks,” and just like that, the moment was gone. Redford had to watch him walk away…again. The frustration was coiling tight in his chest, and it was getting worse.
Three days of almost moments, heated glances, and his gargoyle’s constant - and getting more and more furious - commentary on how he was handling everything wrong.
Tell him, his gargoyle demanded. Make him understand.
“It’s not that simple,” Redford murmured, although he really wished that it was.
Damn human self always complicating things, the gargoyle grumbled. That mate is ours.
Evening arrived with the same miserable routine.
The contractors left, Damon disappeared into his cottage, and Redford, faced with the cold comfort of the caravan, had actually gone out and picked up fish and chips from the village.
But they’d gone cold on the drive back, and now he sat in his at the caravan’s pathetic excuse for a table, trying to review renovation plans by the dim overhead light that kept flickering.
It would probably pay for him to know what was going on, it was his castle.
But the plans might just as well have been written in ancient Sumerian for all the sense they made.
Redford couldn’t focus, his shoulders were aching from the cramped bed, his back was protesting every movement, and the temperature had dropped to the point that he could see his breath with every exhale. It was fucking ridiculous.
Our mate offered shelter, his gargoyle snarled. Good shelter, warm shelter.
“He doesn’t know he’s my mate,” Redford argued, not for the first time.
So tell him.
“And say what? Hi, we met three days ago, but you’re my fated mate. That’s completely normal and not at all insane.”
His gargoyle’s response was a wordless roar of frustration, and Redford dropped his head into his hands. His mother’s advice echoed through his memory. Words spoken three centuries or more ago when Redford had asked how gargoyles courted each other.
“We build trust through actions, not words. Show your mate you’re worth claiming.
Show your mate you can provide, protect, and shelter them.
Words are the wind, deeds are the stone that form the foundation your mating will be built on.
” Sound words, solid advice, but how could he show Damon anything when he was being too stubborn to accept even the most basic offer of hospitality?
Maybe it was pride, or maybe it was fear. Fear that if he got too close and spent too much time in Damon’s home, Redford would reveal the truth too soon and scare the man away. Fear that Damon would reject the bond once he knew. Fear that…
A sharp knock rattled the caravan door, and Redford frowned. It was nearly eight o’clock, full dark outside, and he wasn’t expecting anybody. The knock came again, more insistent, and he got up and opened the door.
Damon stood there backlit by the cottage lights, wearing jeans and a thick sweater and a determined look on his face. Redford shivered, not that the cold air outside was much worse than the inside of the caravan.
“That’s it. I’ve seen enough. Pack your stuff.”
“Wait, what?”
“Pack. Your. Stuff.” Damon crossed his arms. “You’re staying in the cottage. I’m not watching you freeze in this tin can when I have a perfectly good spare room.”
Redford’s mouth opened, but before he could get a word out, Damon held up his hand.
“I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ve spent three nights watching you shuffle around in here like a giant in a dollhouse, and it’s driving me mental.
The spare room has a proper bed, a private working shower attached complete with hot water that doesn’t cut off, and better yet, a working fireplace.
“You’re cold, you’re uncomfortable, and before you go getting pedantic about it, you’re my landlord, which means I have a vested interest in keeping you alive and functional.”
“Damon…”
“Plus,” Damon continued, steamrolling over Redford’s objection, “You’d be doing me a favor.
” That made Redford stop and listen. “My hound has been a right pain about you being out here. Apparently, watching over you from a distance isn’t good enough, and he’s been pacing under my skin for three solid nights.
” Damon’s jaw tightened. “So, really, you’d be helping me out. ”
Redford stared at him. His hound? Damon had just casually confirmed what Redford suspected. He was a hellhound, which meant he truly didn’t know about their bond and couldn’t know without whatever test had to be done.
“I don’t want to impose.” Redford tried one last time because pride was a thing that he kept wrapped firmly around his shoulders like a coat, even when it wasn’t keeping him warm.. although his resolve was crumbling fast.
“You’re not imposing, I’m insisting, so just agree.” Damon’s expression softened slightly. “Look, I get it. You’re trying to be considerate, or whatever, but you’re just being daft. You’re going to catch your death out here, and then where will my castle renovation be?”
Redford chuckled. “Your castle renovation?”
“Well, I’ve been helping, haven’t I? So I’m invested now.” Damon shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “So, what do you say? Can we stop this stubbornness and just be practical about things?”
Redford looked past Damon to the cottage.
It did look warm, it was definitely solid, and it was infinitely more appealing than the metal icebox he’d been living in.
He thought about spending evenings near Damon instead of in isolation, and his mother’s advice about building trust through deeds not words.
That was without his gargoyle’s overwhelming approval radiating through every cell of his being. “All right,” he said quietly. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”
Damon’s whole face lit up with a smile. “Brilliant. Come on. We’re doing it now. I’m not giving you a chance to change your mind. Grab your things and let’s get back where it’s warm.”
It took less than ten minutes to pack as Redford hadn’t bought much. Damon waited patiently, then led the way across the dark courtyard to the cottage. The interior glowed with firelight and warmth, and Redford felt something in his chest unclench as he stepped inside.
Home, his gargoyle whispered.
Not yet, Redford thought, but maybe soon…someday. Provided he didn’t completely fuck things up in the meantime.