Page 97 of Bewitching Her Monsters

“No.” I look up again at his strange frozen expression. “What’s going on? Why did he turn to stone? Did my witchiness do this?”

“Witchiness?” Maxum chuckles, then mutters, “Womannessis more like.”

“What do we do?” Arran asks Maxum. “We can’t get around him even to see how tight of a hold he has on her.”

“It’s pretty tight,” I inform him. “I can’t budge.”

“Shit.” Arran’s frustration worries me.

“Is there a spell or something to wake him up?”

“He’s not asleep,” Maxum grumbles. “He’s petrified.”

“Forever?” I screech. That’s not a great sound.

“Hopefully not,” Maxum says with a sigh. “We need to calm him.”

“Isn’t he a battle-tested warrior? Why would colliding with me in the hallway upset him?”

“He doesn’t like to be touched,” Arran answers.

“Shit!” I lift my arms away from where they were resting on his. “Can he hear me?”

“Yeah,” Maxum says. “He’s aware of what’s going on in his stone form.”

“Flint?” I begin, my voice soft. “I’m sorry I touched you. Please don’t be upset with me. I like you, and I didn’t mean for this to happen. I will be more careful around you, I swear it. I need you to just soften your stone, and I can stop touching you.”

Tears fall from my eyes, because I don’t like that my budding friendship with him is on the line. I wanted to get to know him, and now he won’t ever want to be around me again.

“I’m so sorry. I keep messing up, making mistakes.” I sniff, feeling like a failure. I don’t know why, but all my problems tumble out of me. Maybe it’s because I’m certain I will die soon. I can feel my life force slowly slipping from my body. Or maybe because I’m so damned exhausted, I can’t think straight.

“I didn’t even know I was a witch. My abusive, warlock ex-boyfriend only dated me to brainwash me and use me to channel dead people. I caught the attention of the wrong hot guys. I invited a wolf shifter who wanted to kill me into my house. I went on a brunch date with a demon who wants to scramble my brains. I’m possessed by a sex ghost who tolerates me only so he can power up. And I’m pretty sure I’m still dying from Rob’s spell. And now? I’m stuck in the arms of a sexy gargoyle who can’t stand my touch.”

Yeah, I’m leaning into my self-pity.

I’m ‘whining’…whatever.

People can be sad once in a fucking while. I’m sick of always having to keep my shit together.

Why is it that the only accepted form of emotional expression is snarky anger?

Be tough. Be strong. And be an asshole.

No. Sometimes we just need to grieve. Say how we feel.

Sometimes, we need to call out how fucked life can be.

If we don’t acknowledge what’s wrong, what makes us depressed, then we rarely make the changes we need to get out of it.

Besides, it’s justified for me to have a fucking breakdown after all that’s happened. Even the emotionally resilient need a vacation from being strong.

Apparently, my sadness shakes something loose in Flint as I hear a moan that sounds like gravel grinding on itself.

Flint’s grip on me loosens until I can slip downward. He still hasn’t let up entirely, though. Of course, as I move down, my face drags over his… not six, not eight, but ten-pack abs. I feel a generous package under his pants. I try my best to not be a perv and ignore that, making this as nonsexual as possible.

But the gargoyle does something to my heart. If I thought he’d be into it and had any strength left, I’d enjoy this trip along his body more.

Finally free from his hold, I collapse onto the floor. I don’t have the energy to get up.

---