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“But he’s tougher,” Rosemarie says. “Almost indestructible.” She shudders. “We found that out when he changed in mid-air and took a tumble down the stairs before even Rona could catch him.”
The memory turns my stomach. I’d been convinced we would lose him in an instant. But he’d simply made a shocked noise and sat on a step, waiting for someone to pick him up.
“He has to be tough,” Jace says. “He’s half-gargoyle.”
“You’re just perfect,” Ava coos at my son.
Val’s serious expression softens and melts into a grin. “Yeah, you are.”
“Hold him just like that,” Meg says. “I’ll sketch a quick likeness.”
The friends pose as if they’ve known each other for centuries. Which they have. The four women have visited between realms, crossing worlds to maintain their friendship.
My mate smiles at me, happiness radiating from her face as she watches her friends and our son.
I couldn’t have planned such a perfect life, but I’m thankful every hour that the gods let me live it.
Hi lovely reader! It’s Jace. Thanks for joining Rosemarie, Atticus, Hudyakis, me, and the others. Wanna know what happens with Val and the dealing demon? Keep reading for a special sneak peek and some mini-monster artwork.
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A Sneak Peek from Dating the Dealing Demon,
exclusively for readers of Gifted to the Gargoyles
Val
This isn’t a haunted house tour.
It’s a freakin’ trap.
How do I know? Because a devilishly handsome man who’s better looking than anyone I’ve ever met—and I’ve met far too many A-list stars—answers the door. No guy this gorgeous would work in a haunted house attraction. His look’s all big screen and Hollywood dreams which means he’s an actor. I’ve unknowingly brought my friends to something worse than any rattling chains or scary stunts a horror attraction could dream up—a taping of my family’s reality TV show.
“Welcome to the Underworld,” he says in a rich voice fit for narrating the filthiest fantasies in one of Meg’s romance novels. He speaks in posh vowels and boarding-school clipped consonants. I want to punch him in his perfect mouth, but it’s not his fault I was dumb enough to believe I would get a grad trip without the Bonetti family circus catching up with me.
He sweeps his hand toward the inside of the house, and seriously, in motion, he’s even more of a dead ringer for a model strolling off a billboard for designer fashion. His clothes must be tailored to his tall, broad-shouldered hotness, and I don’t want to guess how long it took him to get those tousled locks to fall so carelessly over his forehead and dark brows. I would’ve been stuck in hair and makeup for hours to achieve anything close to his effortless style.
I don’t need to envy beautiful people. I’m beautiful in my own unique way.
I repeat the affirmation until my blood pressure lowers from the stratosphere.
It’s not his fault my family refuses to believe we don’t all dream of fame. For me, notoriety has been more of a nightmare.
I push past him through the open door.
Let’s get this over with.
