Page 31 of The Gargoyle's Captive

“Or maybe we’ll find out if you really do burn after all.” She’s practically shaking with fury. It’s a beautiful sight, though I don’t know what it says about me that I think so.

I don’t burn. I don’t feel much temperature fluctuation at all, courtesy of my skin. I won’t say that Grace is no danger to me, but I recognize that she’s taking an avenue that will cause no permanent damage and might make us both feel better. I doubt she’s doing it intentionally... but I am. It’s toxic, but I don’t give a fuck.

“Silas.” I barely have to raise my voice. I know he’s standing just out of sight around the doorway to the kitchen. I can sense him there, his curiosity and worry lingering at the edge of my line of sight.

He emerges a few seconds later, and I can appreciate that he doesn’t appear like he was eavesdropping. “Are you ready to eat?”

“I think we’ll skip straight to dessert. Please bring me matches, oil, and those lovely little marshmallow things you made earlier today.” They’re soft and gooey and should burn rather nicely.

To his credit, Silas doesn’t hesitate, though I catch more worry in his energy before he slips away. There’s no worry inGraceas I turn back to her. She has her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What are you up to?”

“One of the first times you ever spoke to me was to ask if I burn. Let’s find out together.” I lean forward, bracing my elbows on the table, daring her with my eyes to back down. “You might like the way I fuck, but don’t pretend you like me. Don’t pretend you don’t crave freedom from my presence to pursue your poor, dead mother. So burn me, Grace. Unless you don’t really want answers at all. Maybe you’re just as much a coward as I am. I’m your mirror, after all.”

18

GRACE

This godsdamned fool of a gargoyle. After the shit show in his office this afternoon, I realized he didn’t understand. I don’t have the words to make him. I don’t have the time. I sure as fuck don’t have the patience.

But then he comes here and throws my vulnerability back in my face? I didn’t have to let him in, even the smallest amount, yesterday. I might not have given him the full truth, but I didn’t have to confess even that much. Now I’m glad he doesn’t know everything about me and my family. Ifthisis how he returns vulnerability, best not to show it at all.

And now he wants to use me to hurt himself.

Neither of us speaks as Silas comes back into the room with a small tray. He hesitates for a moment and then sets it on the center of the table between us. It contains an artful display of matches in a round container, a little gravy boat thing that appears to have oil in it, and a pyramid of fluffy square marshmallows. He walks out of the room without another word.

I’d like to believe this is a bluff, but I know Bram well enough now to recognize his lack of hesitation. The problem is that the man has no self-preservation. Which might mean that he’ll be fine if I follow through on this ridiculously risky path... Or it might mean that he’s about to die right in front of me. My fury burns hotter at the acknowledgment. He calls me selfish, but what is this? I don’t expect him to genuinely care for me—at least I don’t think I do—but this is so cruel, I can barely stand it. I should walk away. In fact, I will walk away. Right fucking now.

Except I don’t.

I sit my ass back down in the chair and reach over to take the container of matches. I hold Bram’s eyes as I sit back and place a single match, head down, between my middle finger and the table. It’s a stone table, so it’ll work just as well as a matchbox. I strike the match and flick it toward him. It lights and sails through the air toward Bram. It lands on his plate and sizzles for a moment before burning itself out.

“Cute bluff. But I don’t think you have the courage to do it for real.” He grabs the container of oil and pours it over his chest. Even knowing I should look away, I can’t help tracing the path the oil takes down his chest to his waist. I know how those muscles feel beneath my hands, my tongue, pressed against my breasts and back.

I know better than to let my rage take the wheel. Nothing good comes from losing control. Only pain.

I reach for another match. We’re playing a game of chicken that might have deadly consequences. This is toxic and a huge indicator that we are a terrible pair. Neither one of us has the brakes to divert this runaway train. I can’t stand the thought of him calling me a coward again. More, a dark part of me wants to punish him, to prove that he doesn’t actually want to die.

I flick another match toward him. This one lands on a napkin next to the plate, and we both watch in silence as it goes up in flames. Bram looks at me, and all the tension leaches out of his body. He gives me a cocky smile. “Surely you can do better than that. If not, we’re going to be here all night.”

I am a broken creature. I’ve known that about myself for as long as I’ve been aware enough to understand that my family is not like other families. If I had any kindness, any self-preservation, it was trained out of me before I knew the meaning of the word. Normal people don’t fall back on violence as the first solution to any problem. Normal people lose sleep at night when they end a life, justified or not. Normal people... But then, I’m not normal. I never have been.

I flick a third match toward him.

This one lands right in his lap. I watch in horror as the flames course up his chest. I belatedly realize I’m on my feet without having had any intention of standing, my hand closing around my goblet of water, when the rest of what I’m seeing registers.

Bram hasn’t moved. He hasn’t flinched. He’s not writhing in pain or screaming. He’s just sitting there staring at me with that self-satisfied smirk on his face. Apparently gargoyles really don’t burn. I get a flash of his teeth through the flames. “Do you feel better now?”

“Hardly. I was merely indulging in this stunt of yours.” I grab a marshmallow and shove it onto a long fork. I perch a hip on the table and lean over so I can reach the heat coming off the flames on his body. Are my hands shaking? I can’t tell. The entirety of me seems to be racked with tremors. Not my voice, though. I sound remarkably normal when I speak. “Doyoufeel better? Does this change anything at all?”

Bram, the bastard, laughs as the flames slowly dwindle away to nothing.

It snaps something inside me. I crawl across the table and shove the marshmallow into his mouth. He makes a surprised noise. He isn’t laughing anymore. He starts to spit it out, but I grip his jaw closed. I’m not touching him anywhere else, so all he has to do is lean back to escape my grasp. “What’s wrong, Bram? Don’t you like the taste of your own consequences?”

He holds my gaze as he chews slowly. It can’t be entirely comfortable with me holding his jaw, but Bram seems to crave the discomfort I give him. When he swallows, I shift my grip to his cheeks and pinch hard. It forces his mouth open a little, and he makes a sound that has nothing to do with pain.

I’m so angry, I can barely see straight. One thing I always prided myself on was that I never let my violence take control. Not unless the situation called for it and there was no other option. I can’t say that’s the truth tonight. There were plenty of other options that didn’t include me flicking match after match at his oiled-up body. I wondered if he was using me to hurt himself and even that wasn’t enough to make me stop.

I study his face, the way his brows have relaxed now that he views me as being in control. “It’s not fair, you know.” I pinch him a little harder, earning yet another sexy whimper. “You’re being an asshole to provoke a reaction out of me to make yourself feel better. If you want me to punish you, all you have to do is ask. But this? This shit is unhealthy, and if you do it again, I’m walking away for good. Do you understand me?”

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