He would deal with the aggravating gargoyle later.
Testing the air, he caught the scent of salty foam as waves crashed against the rocks below, the acrid tang of smoke from the chimney, and the distant perfume of a water sprite playing among the whales.
But overriding it all was that tantalizing aroma of warm peaches.
A potent aphrodisiac that once again compelled him forward.
Levet grabbed his back pocket. “Where are you going?”
Roke didn’t miss a step as he swatted the pest away. “To get my mate.”
“I do not believe that is a good idea.”
“Thankfully I don’t give a shit what you think.”
“Très bien,” the gargoyle sniffed. “You are the panty boss.”
“Bossy-pants, you idiot,” Roke muttered, heading directly for the back door.
He’d officially run out of patience twenty-one days and several thousand miles ago.
Which would explain why he didn’t even consider the fact Sally might be prepared for his arrival.
Less than a foot from the back steps he was brought to a painful halt as an invisible net of magic wrapped around him, the bands of air so tight they would have sliced straight through him if he’d been human.
“What the hell?”
Levet waddled forward, his wings twitching as he studied Roke with open curiosity.
“A magical snare. Sacrebleu. I’ve never seen one so strong.”
Roke flashed his fangs, futilely struggling to escape.
Damn, but he hated magic.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” he snarled.
“I did,” the gargoyle huffed in outrage. “I told you it was a bad idea.”
Okay, he hated magic and gargoyles.
“You didn’t tell me there was a trap.”
“You are chasing a powerful witch. What did you expect?” The damned beast dared to smile. “Besides, it’s such a fine spell. It would have been a pity to spoil Sally’s fun.”
“I swear, gargoyle, when I get out of here—”
“Are all vampires always so bad-tempered, or is it just you?” a light female voice demanded, the scent of peaches drenching the air.
Roke swallowed a groan, a complex mixture of fury, lust, and savage relief surging through him.
None of it showed on his face as he turned to study the tiny female with shoulder-length hair that was a blend of deep red tresses streaked with gold. She had pale, almost fragile features with velvet brown eyes and full lips that begged to be kissed.
“Hello, my love,” he said in a low, husky voice. “Did you miss me?”
Sally Grace had been well aware that she was being hunted.
Not only hunted . . . but hunted by a first-class, grade A, always-get-my-man predator.