be cataloging my every weakness, every nuance and emotion, with surgical precision. This guy would know exactly how to hurt you the most—and you’d never see it coming.
Nothing in the world could have stopped the shiver that slides down my spine.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned around and there was a sign plastered across the back of his silver-gray dress shirt spelling out villain in huge black letters.
That’s how perfect he is at looking bad. At being bad. And that’s before I even notice that his free hand is shoved negligently into the pocket of a pair of expensive-looking black dress pants.
Because of course it is. Looks like the devil really does wear Gucci…
“These are Versace,” he answers, indignation ripe in his tone.
“Who cares?” I demand as my brain finally catches up with my observational skills. “Have you been standing there all along?”
“Yes, Grace, I’ve been here all along,” he tells me with a long-suffering sigh. “No offense, but where else would I be? We’re kind of attached, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Believe me, I’ve noticed.”
“Then why ask a silly question?”
I roll my eyes at him. “I’m so sorry. I’ll stop asking silly questions if you stop—oh, I don’t know—hijacking my body to try to kill people.”
“I already told you, it was just supposed to be a little prick. It is not my fault werewolves have such abysmal tempers.” He lifts one dark, perfect brow. “But I’ve got to say, you are a feisty one. Do you really think Jaxon can handle you?”
“It’s none of your business what Jaxon can and can’t handle.”
“So that’s a solid no, then?” This time, he flashes a sly little smile that should be obnoxious but somehow only ends up making his already perfect face look even more perfect.
“Aww, you think I have a perfect face?” He turns his head to the side to emphasize his sky-high cheekbones and chiseled jaw. “What’s your favorite feature?”
“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“I’m in your head, Grace. I hear everything.”
“But I see you over there, and your lips are moving.” All of a sudden, his words register. “Everything?”
He holds up one finger. “First, only you can see me. Your mind is manifesting me. And two…” His smile gets even slyer. “Everything.”
I duck my head so he can’t see the heat scorching my cheeks. “I have no idea how to respond to that.”
“No worries.” Hudson winks at me. “I’m used to girls being speechless around me.”
I groan. “I wasn’t worried.” And are you really going to keep doing this?
“Doing what?” He pastes a mock-innocent look on his face.
“Commenting on my thoughts, even when I’m not talking to you.” I groan again and flop back onto the bed.
He grins. “Consider it extra motivation.”
“For what?” I demand.
“I don’t know.” He pretends to study his nails. “Getting me out of your head, maybe?”
“Believe me, I don’t need any extra motivation. The sooner I get you gone, the sooner I never have to see you again.”
I brace myself for his next sarcastic remark, figuring it will be a doozy. But for long seconds, he doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, he pulls a ball out of thin air and starts tossing it up in front of his face and then catching it again.
Once, twice, then again and again. At first, I’m grateful for the silence—and the peace that comes with it. But the longer it goes on, the more antsy I become. Because the only thing worse than knowing everything Hudson is thinking is knowing nothing that he’s thinking. I can’t help but guess he’s plotting to murder me like I’m plotting to murder him right now.
Eventually, though, he turns his attention back to me. “See,” he says with another of those deadpan looks of his, “I told you, you had a mean streak.”
Then he tosses the ball up in the air yet again.
“Yeah, well, I’d rather have a mean streak than an asshole streak,” I tell him.
“Everyone has an asshole streak, Grace.” He looks me straight in the eyes when he says this, and for the first time, it feels sincere. He feels sincere. “The only difference is whether or not they’re honest enough to let you see it. And those who aren’t? Those are the ones you need to watch out for.”
“Why does that feel like a warning?” I wonder aloud.
“Because you’re not some pathetic little human anymore. You’re a gargoyle, and when it comes to how people feel about gargoyles—knowing one, owning one, possessing one—nothing and nobody is quite