CHAPTER NINETEEN
"What in the ever-living Fae?" I asked and scrambled backwards. I turned on the light, not believing my eyes. Lawrence stood there, but it wasn't him. But it was. My mind ping-ponged between the two — was-wasn't, was-wasn't.
I'd seen shifters, plenty of them, but this was my first gargoyle in ages. He still wore his silk pajama bottoms, but rather than being loose, they stretched and strained over his bulging thighs and — oh, my. I hastily slide my glance upward to his stone-colored abs and pecs, all clear of hair. He looked like a statue of some sort of demon, complete with horns and tusks.
"Are you all right?" he asked. His voice had become deeper, more resonant.
Sir Raleigh slithered out from between the bed and night-stand and walked over to him, sniffing his feet,
