Page 8 of Dance in the Stones

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.”