Page 36 of Shadows and Stone

By the next morning, the film set of Empire of Beasts is buzzing with chaotic energy. Crew members scramble with lighting rigs, wardrobe assistants carry racks of armor, and Director Kang shouts directions through a megaphone across the soundstage.

As Teagan's official personal bodyguard, I stand at the perimeter of the set, my arms crossed over my chest, my glowing blue eyes scanning every face in the crew. The anonymous, stalker-linked package we intercepted mid-month still hangs in my mind. The token from his idol days proved the threat isn't just an internet stranger—they are near. For all I know, the bastard could be watching us now.

"Ryker!" Director Kang calls out, waving me over. "Teagan is doing his final makeup touch-ups in his personal trailer. Can you go retrieve him for the next scene?"

"On it," I nod, stepping off the soundstage perimeter and heading toward the row of cast trailers parked behind the soundstage.

The air outside is crisp with late October chill. I walk up the metal steps of Teagan’s trailer and knock twice on the door. "Tae? They're calling for you on set."

No answer.

I frown, pushing the door open. "Teagan?"

The trailer is empty. A half-eaten apple sits on the counter alongside his script, but Teagan is clearly still in the main hair-and-makeup trailer down the line.

I start to step back outside, but a strange, metallic scent catches my attention.

My nostrils flare; gargoyle senses are attuned to physical disturbances in our territory. I turn slowly, my eyes sweeping over Teagan's small dressing area.

On the vanity table, surrounded by his makeup brushes and hair products, sits a framed photograph. It’s a backstage picture of Teagan and me from our first week on set, laughing together.

I step closer, my stomach churning with dread. What the fuck?

The glass frame is shattered. Deep, jagged gouges are scratched directly into the surface, violently defacing the photo. The sharp scratches crisscross brutally over Teagan’s face.

And tucked beneath the shattered frame is a handwritten note in red ink:

HE DOESN'T DESERVE YOU. TONIGHT AT THE BALL, YOU COME HOME TO ME.

A terrifying growl erupts from deep inside my chest. My wings flare out instinctively, clipping the edges of the narrow doorway. My claws extend, digging into the edge of the counter.

They were inside his fucking trailer. On campus. On set. This damn stalker didn't just break into a public space—they violated Teagan's safe haven. They touched his things. They threatened my mate.

I reach down, carefully picking up the note, my eyes burning with a dark, primal rage. The Blood Moon may have passed, but the territorial fury surging through my veins right now is twice as deadly.

"Ryker?" Teagan's voice calls out from the trailer steps. He steps inside, holding a bottle of water, his purple hair freshly styled for the scene. "Director Kang said you came to—"

He stops dead in his tracks, his eyes falling on the shattered frame in my hand and the lethal expression on my face. I turn to him, my tail lashing behind me, my voice dropping into a guttural, terrifying register.

"They were here," I say, stepping between him and the trailer door, shutting out the outside world with my shadow. "Tonight, at the ball, Tae... you stay glued to my side. You fucking hear me?"

Instead of flinching at my growl, Teagan rushes forward, wrapping me in his arms. My wings close around him, my heart pounding. “It’s okay, Ryker. I’m right here. I’m safe. You made sure extra guards were on set today.”

I huff, clearly none of us could do our damn job, if the asshole snuck in here. Still, they kept their eyes on Teagan. That’s what’s important.

“This ends tonight,” Teagan whispers. “You’ll keep me safe. I know it.”

The blood haze begins to settle. I tighten my hold on Teagan. “I should be the one comforting you,” I say. “Not you trying to comfort me.”

He shakes his head. “We’re mates. Equals. We comfort each other.”

Chapter seventeen

Teagan

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Ryker over the last two months, it’s that behind his broad shoulders, midnight-black hair, and protective gargoyle instincts lies the soul of a perfectionist.

When he found that shattered frame in my trailer yesterday, I expected him to freak out. To go back into total lockdown mode. I fully prepared myself to be dragged back to Karloff Hall, bundled into a nest of blankets, and kept under guard until the end of the semester. But Ryker isn't just a protector; he’s an artist. A talented creator. And as he stands in front of the full-length mirror in the bonus room, smoothing down the material of my coat with those sexy, clawed hands, his intense eyes scream determination.