Page 26 of Bumpy, the Gargoyle Slayer

Maybe the vampire should have just drained me.

The gargoyle is standing in the lobby, frowning, wrapped in a robe similar to the one I wore earlier. “That will be all for tonight, Jean-Luc. Thanks for getting her home safely.”

Home. The word echoes in my head.

“Don’t be too hard on her.” Jean-Luc squeezes my arm before exiting out the door.

Alain and I just stare at each other until the driver disappears. Then, all the fight seems to drain out of him. “You probably need a stiff drink. I know I do.”

“Um, do you have a cola?” I need cola after I’ve been upset. I don’t know why. I’m just not that into alcohol, but sugar… I need the sugar fix.

He gives me a strange look, but nods before gesturing me into the front parlor. From there, he picks up a phone, orders my cola, a decanter of whiskey for him, and sandwiches. When he’s done, he sinks down across from me into one of the chairs.

“So. That happened.”

“Yeah.” I have the mad urge to apologize. Maybe not so mad given I just revealed the supernatural to reporters and implicated him in the mess just by virtue of him being my fake-billionaire-boyfriend, but whatever. Oh, and then there’s his global initiative whosie-watsie. I probably just destroyed that, too.

Why am I such a mess? Why did I go after the vamp?

Alain squeezes his eyes shut and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose before he takes a deep breath, but when he opens his eyes, I don’t see rage. I see despair. “You were nearly killed, Bumps. You were nearly killed on my watch,” he says in a ragged whisper.

“You’re not responsible for me.” But it’s hard to push the words through my closed throat.

“I am. You’re my fake girlfriend. You’re living in my home. I… you’re mine.”

He looks so serious, so distraught by what almost occurred, that I can’t help feeling sorry, truly sorry, for what I’ve done. For what I’ve revealed. And guilty for making him feel bad about my own stupidity.

“It was just… instinct. I’m sorry.”

“Come here. Please. I need to… please.” He opens his arms, his gaze steady and unwavering, but his look beseeches.

I don’t even hesitate. I don’t even think about the fact that he could obviously hurt me. I just need to be in his arms as much as he seems to need to have me in them.

A sigh goes through us both as he grabs me onto his lap, huddling over me like a protective… gargoyle. He rocks me back and forth, whispering into my ear. “You’re fine. You’re alright. No harm done. You’re safe,” he murmurs, his accent suddenly deeper.

“I screwed up. The reporters…”

“I called my lawyer. It will be fine, Bumps.” His nickname for me lets me breathe easier, and when I look up, he swipes tear stains from my cheeks with his fingers. His normal, make-up covered fingers. “If anything had happened to you…”

“I revealed the supernatural. I’m so sorry.”

He nods. Then shrugs. “We’ll see. I don’t believe the reporters captured photos of me in fighting form, and my lawyer will pay off the police, the woman you rescued, and any journalist who thinks to sell the story. But Bumps… you rescued that woman. She’s be dead now if it wasn’t for you. I’m so proud of you, it’s… it’s kind of insane. And I’m so afraid for you, I want to take you over my lap and spank you until you can’t sit for a week. I want to lock you up so I never, ever lose you.”

Belatedly, he seems to realize what he’s just said. His eyes widen.

“I’d be okay with that.” I don’t know where my words come from, either. I don’t mean them, obviously. I can’t. That’s ridiculous.

Except, the thought of this big, protective monster taking me over his knees and spanking my bottom before maybe chaining me to his bed so he can claim me—forever—makes me wet.

So wet, I have to jump from his arms, even though that’s the safest place I want to be.

CHAPTER 8

Alain

Three weeks later

Three weeks have sped by like time decided to accelerate just to screw with me. Between dinners and lunches, activities, and simple hours spent with my fake-girlfriend, my work has suffered, but I’m not sure I care. I don’t even care how the paparazzi are lapping up our appearances. They’ve started spinning tales about Bunny being a princess from a tiny island nation since they can’t find much on her background (of course, they can’t. I’d have to take issue with her parents and her tutelary if they could. Slayers don’t dance about headlines, not if they want to remain among the living).