My eyes were closed when he saved me.
It sounds crazy, I know, the kind of thing you read in dusty books or hear from mad old women who talk to cats.
But there I was, kneeling on the cold floor of the great hall, hands covering my face, trembling like a leaf in the wind, while armed men shouted all around me, and I couldn’t open my eyes.
Not because I was afraid of what I would see, but because if I looked, he would turn back into stone.
and stone can’t fight.
Stone can’t protect me.
Stone can’t hold me afterward and whisper that everything is okay.
So I trusted I trusted the man I had never seen.
I trusted the voice I only knew in the dark.
I trusted the arms that held me when the candles went out.
The hands that blindly found mine.
The heart I felt beating against my ear on stormy nights.
I heard everything.
The roar that wasn’t human.
The sound of stone shattering, bodies hitting the floor, furniture breaking, and then silence, footsteps approaching, a warm hand touching my face.
You can open your eyes, his voice said.
Horse, breathless.
I think we passed the trust test.
And when I opened them, for the first time in weeks of darkness and whispers and blind kisses, I saw not a statue, a man.
If you want to know how I ended up falling for a stone decoration that only worked when I wasn’t looking, stick with me.
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It all started when I accepted the worst job of my life.
The castle looked exactly like the kind of place where people disappeared and no one bothered to look for them.
I knew it the moment the carriage dropped me off at the rusty iron gate, and the coachman sped away too fast, as if afraid to stay.
The black towers sliced the gray sky, covered in moss and crows.
Empty windows watched me like dead eyes, and the wind howled between the stones with a sound that seemed like the sigh of an ancient creature.
Home sweet home for the next few months.
I adjusted the shabby backpack on my shoulder and started up the path of loose stones.
Every step echoed in the silence, and I found myself counting the cracks in the ground just to have something to do besides imagining all the ways I could die there.
Falling rock, collapse, vengeful ghost, absolute boredom.
The options were endless.
The main door groaned when I pushed it open, revealing a foyer covered in dust and spiderw webs.
Faint light entered through the dirty stained glass windows, projecting colored splotches on the cracked marble floor.
The air smelled of mold, old candles, and abandonment.
You must be the new one.
[clears throat] The voice came from somewhere to my left.
I turned and found a short, plump woman emerging from the shadows.
Gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, stained apron, and eyes that seemed to have seen too much to be impressed by anything else.
Mrs.
Pritchard, the housekeeper, or what was left of one.
Hazel Ward, I said, trying to sound professional.
I was hired to I know what you were hired to do.
She scrutinized me from head to toe with the subtlety of a butcher assessing meat.
Clean, organize, keep the place standing until the Lord decides to show up, if he decides to.
He doesn’t live here.
No one lives here, girl.
Not really.
She turned and started walking.
Come, [clears throat] I’ll show you your room in the kitchen.
You’ll figure out the rest on your own.
I followed her down the dark corridors, trying to memorize the path.
Left, right, stairs, long hallway, another left.
The castle was a labyrinth of stone and shadows, and every corner seemed to hide decades of dusty secrets.
Mrs.
Pritchard spoke as she walked, pointing out doors and explaining rules.
Kitchen is in the basement.
Your room is on the third floor, east wing.
Well, water is clean, but boil it before drinking and avoid the great hall after dark.
I stopped.
Why? She stopped, too, looked at me over her shoulder with an expression I couldn’t decipher.
You’ll understand when you see it.
The great hall was impossible to ignore.
It was in the heart of the castle, an immense space with an arched ceiling and stained glass windows that must have been magnificent before centuries of grime obscured them.
A monumental fireplace dominated one wall, cold and unlit.
Rotten curtains hung from crooked rods, and in the center of it all, a top a pedestal of black marble, the statue.
I stopped at the entrance, unable to look away.
It was a wolf, or something like a wolf.
The sculpted creature had the body of a massive beast, muscles taught as if about to leap.
But there was something almost human about the proportions, claws that looked like hands, shoulders too broad, and the face, though lupine, carried an expression of intelligence that made my skin crawl.
The eyes were the worst.
Made of some pale stone with silvery veins, they seemed to shine faintly in the light of the stained glass, and they followed.
I swear they followed.
When I walked to the left, the sockets seemed to track me.
When I moved to the right, the sensation persisted.
The stone wolf, Mrs.
Pritchard said behind me.
It’s older than the castle, according to some.
What is it? A statue girl.
What else would it be? But her tone said otherwise.
Her tone said caution.
There’s a legend, she continued, coming to stand beside me.
They say he was an alpha long ago.
Lord of these lands.
Leader of a wolf clan.
Powerful.
Proud.
Until he crossed someone he shouldn’t have.
Who? A witch connected to the moon.
They say he refused something she wanted.
A marriage.
A pact.
Depends on who tells the story.
And she cursed him.
Mrs.
Pritchard lowered her voice.
Stone when observed.
Can only move when no one is looking.
I looked at the statue again.
At those silver eyes that seemed so alive.
That’s ridiculous.
Of course it is.
She shrugged.
But even so, I’d avoid turning your back on him for too long.
She left after that, leaving me alone in the hall with my new coworker.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the statue.
The stone wolf stared back at me, motionless, eternal, completely harmless.
Great, I said out loud, because apparently I was the type of person who talked to decorations.
My roommate is a grumpy gargoyle.
At least you don’t snore.
The statue didn’t answer, obviously.
I shook my head and turned to leave.
I had work to do, rooms to clean, a miserable life to organize.
I didn’t have time for old women’s superstitions.
But when I reached the door and looked back one last time, I could have sworn the wolf’s head was turned a few degrees further in my direction.
Nonsense.
Light and shadows.
Travel fatigue.
Even so, I walked faster through the corridors.
The first night was quiet, relatively.
My room was small, cold, and smelled stale.
The bed groaned when I sat down, and the mattress had the consistency of stones wrapped in straw.
But there was a thick blanket, a candle on the nightstand, and a window that showed the starry sky over the cliff.
It could be worse.
I spent hours trying to sleep, but the silence was overwhelming.
It wasn’t the silence of the city, full of distant noises.
It was a living, heavy silence, as if the entire castle was holding its breath.
Around midnight, I gave up.
I lit the candle and decided to explore.
Not the forbidden rooms or the dangerous towers, just the nearby corridors to familiarize myself with the place that would be my prison for the next few months.
I ended up in the great hall.
I don’t know why I went there.
Maybe morbid curiosity.
Maybe the same force that makes people look at roadside accidents.
Maybe just the fact that it was the only interesting place in that pile of stone.
The candle flickered when I entered.
The hall was darker at night, the shadows thicker, the air colder.
The fireplace remained unlit, and the stained glass was just black patches against the sky.
But the statue, the statue was there.
Where else would it be, Hazel? It’s a statue.
Even so, I approached.
The candle light danced over the stone, revealing details I hadn’t noticed before.
scars sculpted on the muzzle, veins of darker mineral running across the chest as if the creature had been wounded and healed into stone.
And the eyes, those silver eyes shining with the reflected flame.
You’re disturbing, I informed the statue.
Just so you know.
Silence.
Mrs.
Pritchard says you were an alpha, a lord of these lands.
I tilted my head, studying the Lupine muzzle.
If that’s true, you had quite a fall, huh? from lord to hall decoration.
Nothing.
All right.
Great conversation.
I’m going back to my coffin room now.
I turned to leave and stopped because I could have sworn could absolutely have sworn that I heard a sound.
Faint, almost imperceptible, like stone grading against stone.
I looked back.
The statue was exactly where it should be, motionless, harmless.
But the head, the head was more inclined now, turned further in my direction, and one of the claws, which had rested on the ground before, seemed slightly lifted, as if it had been caught midmovement.
My heart pounded.
“No,” I said out loud, more to myself than to the statue.
“No, no, no.
This is fatigue.
This is bad light.
This is anything but what it looks like.
” The statue didn’t move.
Of course, it didn’t move.
I was looking.
I backed away slowly without taking my eyes off the stone wolf and only breathed again when I reached the corridor.
That night, I locked my bedroom door.
And even so, it took me hours to fall asleep.
The next morning, I convinced myself that I had imagined everything.
Bad light, fatigue, loneliness playing tricks on my mind.
It was the only rational explanation, and I was a rational person.
At least that’s what I kept repeating as I walked down the stairs with my bucket and broom, determined to do my job and ignore disturbing statues.
The great hall needed a deep clean.
Decades of dust covered every surface.
Spiderwebs hung from the chandeliers like abandoned bridal veils, and the marble floor was so dirty it was impossible to make out the original pattern.
I started with the windows.
It was hard, repetitive labor, exactly the kind of thing that allowed me to turn off my brain and just exist.
Scrub, rinse, repeat.
The faint autumn sun slowly filtered in as the glass became cleaner, and for the first time, the hall seemed less threatening.
The statue remained in the center.
I ignored it deliberately.
I kept my eyes on the windows, the curtains, anything that wasn’t that stone wolf with eyes that seemed to follow my every move.
It worked for about an hour.
Then I dropped the broom.
It was a stupid accident.
My hands were wet.
The handle slipped and the broom ended up a few feet away near the statue’s pedestal.
I sighed and went to fetch it.
When I bent down to pick it up, I noticed something strange.
The marks on the floor, long parallel scratches in the stone, as if something heavy had been dragged.
They started at the pedestal and stretched for a few inches toward where I had been working.
I frowned.
Maybe they were old.
Maybe someone had tried to move the statue years ago.
Maybe.
I stood up and looked at the stone wolf.
It was exactly where it should be, motionless, harmless.
But the broom, the broom I had dropped feet away, was now leaning against the base of the pedestal.
My blood ran cold.
“Very funny, Hazel,” I said out loud, trying to stay calm.
“You dropped it there.
You just don’t remember correctly.
” I picked up the broom and went back to the windows.
But now I was paying attention.
The second time was with the bucket.
I left it near the fireplace while I climbed a ladder to clean the chandeliers.
It was tedious work, and my arms achd after minutes.
When I climbed down to wet the cloth again, the bucket wasn’t where I had left it.
It was 6 ft away, closer to the pedestal.
“That’s not possible,” I muttered.
“Buckets don’t walk by themselves,” I looked at the statue.
The statue stared back at me with those silver eyes that expressed nothing.
I had an idea, a completely ridiculous idea that I would regret but couldn’t shake off.
I deliberately placed the bucket in the center of the hall, equidistant from me and the statue.
Then I turned my back and started counting.
1 2 3.
I spun around.
The bucket was in the same place.
The statue was two.
I tried again.
This time I closed my eyes for a few seconds before turning.
The bucket had moved maybe 4 in toward the pedestal.
My heart started beating faster.
“All right,” I said, facing the statue.
“All right, let’s do a test.
” I grabbed a chair and placed it in the path between the statue and the door.
Then I went to the other side of the hall, turned my back, and waited.
I counted to 10.
When I looked, the chair had been pushed aside, and the statue, that cursed statue, seemed to be a few inches closer to the door than before.
No, it didn’t just seem to be.
It was.
I could see the marks on the floor where the pedestal had dragged.
“Red light,” I whispered without thinking.
The statue didn’t move.
“Green light.
” I turned away.
I counted to five, spun around again.
The stonewolf was definitely closer.
its head tilted in my direction.
One claw raised as if it was midstep.
I should have screamed.
Run, called Mrs.
Pritchard.
Anything sensible.
Instead, I laughed.
It was a nervous, slightly hysterical laugh.
The kind of sound you make when reality decides the rules no longer apply.
You’re fast for a guy without joints, I said to the statue.
Congratulations.
Very impressive.
Silence.
What are you? A ghost trapped in stone? A curse? A very bored witch’s experiment.
Nothing.
You’re not going to answer me, are you? Of course not.
You’re a statue.
Statues don’t talk.
I rubbed my face with my hands, trying to process what was happening.
A statue that moved when I wasn’t looking.
It was absurd.
It was impossible.
It was exactly what Mrs.
Pritchard had warned me about.
Stone when observed.
Can only move when no one is looking.
The legend was real.
I spent the rest of the day testing the limits.
I discovered he only moved when I turned my back or closed my eyes.
Blinking very quickly wasn’t enough, but blinking slowly.
Keeping my eyes closed for more than a second allowed for micro movements.
I discovered he seemed to have a goal.
He didn’t move randomly.
If I was near the fireplace, he approached the fireplace.
If I went to the window, he went to the window as if he was following me or protecting me or flirting with me.
The third option was ridiculous, but it explained why he always ended up between me and the door.
Or why, when I dropped my shawl and turned to retrieve it, it was carefully folded over the statue’s stone arm.
“You’re a gentleman,” I said, taking the shawl.
“Disturbing, but a gentleman.
” The statue didn’t reply.
But I could have sworn its expression was different, less fierce, almost amused.
If you were actually useful, I continued, returning to cleaning.
You’d pick up this bucket for me instead of following me around like a lost puppy.
When I turned to fetch fresh water, the bucket was at my feet.
I stopped, looked at the bucket, looked at the statue, which was now across the hall, innocently motionless.
This is completely insane.
I [clears throat] informed no one in particular.
I’m having a conversation with a decoration.
My life has reached a very strange point.
Mrs.
Pritchard appeared late in the afternoon.
She brought tea and biscuits, depositing the tray on a side table with the efficiency of someone who had done it for decades.
“How was the first day of work?” she asked, looking around.
“The hall looks better.
” “It was interesting.
” “Interesting?” I hesitated.
How to explain that I spent the afternoon playing red light, green light with a possibly cursed gargoyle.
The statue, I said finally.
It moves.
Mrs.
Pritchard didn’t look surprised.
I warned you.
You told me not to turn my back.
You didn’t say it would literally follow me around the hall like a needy puppy.
He never did that before.
She frowned, studying the Stonewolf with a thoughtful expression.
Not with the others.
Others? You’re not the first servant, girl.
Many came before.
None stayed long.
She picked up the empty tray, but none of them mentioned him moving close to them.
I looked at the statue at those silver eyes that seem to be watching me even now.
What does that mean? It means, Mrs.
Pritchard said, already walking toward the door, that either you are special or he is very bored after a few centuries.
I’d bet on the second option, but who am I to judge a Stonewolf? She left.
I stayed there alone with the statue processing.
So I said finally, crossing my arms.
You’re bored.
Is that it? Centuries without anyone interesting to bother.
And then I show up.
Silence.
Great.
Glad I can be your entertainment.
Just don’t appear next to me when I’m trying to sleep.
Okay.
I have limits.
The statue didn’t answer.
But when I left the hall and looked back one last time, I could have sworn it was smiling.
Or maybe it was just the light.
Probably just the light.
The storm arrived without warning.
I was in my room trying to read a dusty book I had found in the library when the first thunder shook the windows.
Seconds later, the wind began to howl and the rain poured down as if the sky had decided to collapse on the castle.
The candle on my nightstand trembled and went out.
Total darkness.
I wasn’t scared at first.
Storms happened.
Candles went out.
I just needed to find the matches and relight it.
Simple, except the matches were wet.
The box I had brought in my backpack was near the window, and the rain coming through the cracks had ruined everything.
Great.
I stood up, fumbling in the dark.
Maybe there was another candle in the hall.
Maybe Mrs.
Pritchard was awake and could help me.
Maybe a sound, low, distant, but unmistakable.
Stone grading.
My heart pounded.
The great hall was two floors below.
Even so, the sound echoed through the empty corridors, amplified by the castle’s silence.
Stone moving, heavy footsteps, something large coming toward me.
No, not coming.
Climbing.
I backed up until I hit the wall.
My breathing was too short.
my heart too fast.
The sound grew louder every second closer and I couldn’t see anything.
Absolutely nothing.
Just impenetrable darkness.
The footsteps stopped right outside my room.
I stopped breathing.
Silence.
And then a voice.
Don’t be afraid.
It was masculine.
[clears throat] Deep horse as if it hadn’t been used in a long time.
And it came from less than 3 ft away.
I opened my mouth to scream.
I promise I won’t let anything hurt you.
The voice was gentle.
Strangely gentle, and there was something about it, a quality I couldn’t identify that made my panic subside enough for me to think.
Who? My voice came out as a squeak.
I cleared my throat and tried again.
Who is there? You know who? And I knew.
Of course, I knew.
I reached out my hand in the dark, slowly, trembling, expecting to find air or wall.
or anything normal.
My fingers touched fabric, soft leather, clothing, and underneath warmth.
Not the cold of stone I expected.
Human skin, warm and alive, covering taut muscles.
I pulled my hand back as if burned.
Your your flesh and blood.
The voice had a touch of humor at the moment.
Yes, while the darkness lasts.
My mind was spinning.
The statue, the stonewolf, the curse Mrs.
Pritchard had mentioned.
Stone when observed can only move when no one is looking.
In total darkness, no one could look.
If you’re a ghost, I said, trying to maintain composure.
You’re very solid, he laughed.
The sound was unexpected.
Low horse, genuinely amused.
It wasn’t the laugh of a monster or a cursed creature.
It was the laugh of a man who had heard a good joke after a long time without laughing.
Not a ghost, Hazel.
Just a very stony man during business hours.
You know my name.
I know a lot about you.
He paused.
You talk to yourself when you clean.
You complain about the cold, the dust, the smell of mold.
You swear in at least three different languages when you drop something.
I felt my face heat up.
You were spying on me.
I was observing you.
There’s a difference.
No, there isn’t.
Technically, when you observe something, it implies active attention.
When I observe, I literally can’t do anything else because I’m stuck in stone form.
So, actually, you’re the one observing me.
I just exist in the same space.
I blinked in the dark.
That was the most elaborate excuse for stalker behavior I’ve ever heard.
Another laugh, shorter this time.
Fair enough.
We were silent for a moment.
Thunder roared outside and the rain continued to beat on the windows.
I should have been scared.
I was locked in the dark with a creature that spent its days pretending to be decoration.
It was exactly the kind of situation that ended badly in horror stories.
But I wasn’t scared.
Strangely, inexplicably, I felt safer than at any other time since I arrived at the castle.
What’s your name? I finally asked.
Grayson.
Grayson.
[clears throat] I tested the word.
And you’re really an alpha cursed by a witch.
That’s the short version.
Yes.
And the long version? Silence.
The long version, he said slowly.
Involves pride, stupidity, a very vengeful moon witch, and about 300 years of regret.
300 years, more or less.
I lost count after the first century.
I tried to process that.
300 years trapped as a statue.
300 years watching people come and go, unable to speak, to touch, to exist as anything but stone.
That’s I had no words.
That’s horrible.
It has its moments.
His voice was softer now, but the last few days have been better.
Why? Because you arrived.
Something warm spread through my chest.
I pushed the feeling down, refusing to examine it too closely.
I’m just a servant, I said.
There’s nothing special about me.
You’re the first person in decades who hasn’t run away screaming when they realized I move.
I considered running.
I just couldn’t decide where to go.
He laughed again.
You’re funny, Hazel Ward.
And you’re a decoration come to life.
We both have problems.
The silence that followed was different.
Lighter, less tense.
I still couldn’t see anything, but I could feel his presence.
large and warm, less than an arm’s length away.
Can I? I hesitated.
Can I see your face? Not now.
The darkness isn’t total enough near the windows.
The lightning, as if in response, a flash of light illuminated the room for a fraction of a second.
I closed my eyes by instinct, but not quickly enough.
I saw a silhouette, tall, broad, dark hair, and then he was gone.
Not gone for good.
I could hear his breathing, feel the warmth radiating, but he was no longer flesh.
He was stone again.
[clears throat] The darkness returned.
Grayson.
Silence.
The thunder roared.
I fumbled in front of me and my fingers found a cold, rough surface, sculpted rock.
The shoulder of a statue that seconds ago was a man.
“This is very unfair,” I muttered.
The statue didn’t reply.
But when the next lightning bolt illuminated the room, I saw where he had frozen.
Right beside me, a stone claw raised as if about to touch my face, I stood there for a long time, waiting for the darkness to return, waiting for him to return.
And when he finally came back, when the clouds covered the moon and the lightning decreased, his voice was closer, softer.
Sorry, I don’t control when I know.
I found his hand in the dark.
Warm fingers intertwined with mine.
I know.
We stayed like that for a moment.
Hand in hand, two strangers in the dark, connected by something neither of us understood.
Do you want to know more? He asked.
About the curse? About me? I want to know everything.
And he began to tell me.
The next few hours were the strangest of my life.
Grayson spoke about the past, about being the alpha of a powerful clan, lord of that castle when it was still new, about the moon witch who wanted a pact he refused, a political marriage that would have given her access to the clan’s power.
She didn’t take the rejection well, he said with that dry humor I was starting to recognize.
Apparently, no wasn’t part of her vocabulary.
And she cursed you.
She cursed me.
You who have always been seen and feared shall be stoned when observed.
Only the love of one willing to trust what she cannot see shall free you.
Love, I repeated, and trust.
Someone who loves me as a man, not as a statue.
Someone willing to trust me even without seeing me.
That sounds impossible.
It seemed that way until you started playing red light, green light with me instead of running away.
I laughed.
The sound echoed in the dark, and I realized it was the first time I had truly laughed since arriving at the castle.
I’m terrible at running away, I admitted.
I always choose the most stupid option.
That’s not stupid.
That’s brave.
It’s the same thing, just with different results.
He laughed, too.
And then, without warning, his hand was on my face.
Warm fingers traced my cheek, my chin, the line of my nose.
He was seeing me the only way he could, through touch.
You have freckles, he said surprised.
Can you feel freckles? No.
Mrs.
Pritchard mentioned them once.
You spy on kitchen conversations.
I don’t have much else to do during the day.
I should have pulled away.
I should have said something witty and built a wall between us.
But his fingers were gentle, and the warmth of his palm against my skin was the most real thing I had felt in a long time.
Hazel.
His voice was horser now.
Closer.
I can.
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t need to.
I leaned in the dark, following the warmth, and found his lips with mine.
The kiss was soft at first, hesitant.
Two strangers learning each other without the benefit of sight.
But then his hands found my waist, and mine found his shoulders, and the kiss became something more urgent, desperate, as if we both knew it could end at any second.
A lightning bolt cut across the sky.
Light flooded the room.
I closed my eyes by reflex, but not quickly enough.
The lips against mine hardened.
The warmth turned cold.
And when I opened my eyes, I was kissing stone.
The statue was leaning toward me, frozen mid-kiss, a position that would be comical if it weren’t so devastatingly sad.
“Great,” I muttered against the stone mouth.
“My first kiss in months, and it was interrupted by cursed quantum physics.
The statue didn’t reply.
Obviously, I pulled away and sat on the floor, leaning against the wall.
The storm still raged outside, but the lightning was less frequent now.
Soon the darkness would return.
Soon he would return, and I would be waiting because however insane it was, however impossible it seemed, I was starting to fall in love with a man I could never see.
And honestly, my life was already strange enough that I didn’t care.
The following weeks established a routine that no book of etiquette would ever cover.
During the day, I cleaned, swept, dusted.
I pretended that the statue in the center of the hall was just a statue, even though I knew he heard every word I said.
Sometimes I talked to him on purpose, telling him about my life, my frustrations, the mundane details of existing as a servant in an abandoned castle.
Did you know the spiderw webs in the east wing are so thick they look like curtains? I said one afternoon, scrubbing a chandelier.
I could have sworn I saw a spider the size of my fist yesterday.
If it attacks me, I’m blaming you.
The statue didn’t answer.
But when I turned to grab another cloth, I could have sworn its expression was more amused.
At night, everything changed.
I blew out all the candles in my room, closed the curtains to block the moon, and waited in the dark until I heard the sound of stone grading, heavy footsteps, and then his voice, “Good evening, Hazel.
Good evening, walking decoration.
” He always laughed when I called him that.
Our conversations lasted hours.
Grayson told me about life before the curse, about battles he fought, decisions he made, mistakes he committed, about the loneliness of existing as stone while the world spun around.
Generations being born and dying without him being able to participate.
The worst isn’t being trapped, he said one night, his voice heavier than usual.
The worst is being conscious, seeing everything, hearing everything, and being unable to do anything.
My hand found his in the dark.
You’re not alone anymore.
I know.
He squeezed my fingers.
Believe me, I know.
I also told him about my life.
About growing up in the kitchens of big houses, always invisible, always in the background, about never having a place that was truly mine, about taking this job because it was better than the alternatives, not because I wanted to.
You deserve more.
Grayson said one night, “I’m a servant.
I don’t deserve anything.
You are much more than that.
His hand found my face in the dark.
You’re brave, funny, loyal.
You deserve an entire castle, not a basement to sleep in.
Technically, my room is on the third floor.
Hazel.
Fine.
Fine.
I turned my face to kiss his palm.
But you’re biased.
I’m the only one who has talked to you in 300 years.
Exactly.
300 years of experience have made me an excellent judge of character.
I laughed and then he kissed me again.
The [clears throat] kisses were becoming more frequent, longer, more intense.
In the dark, without sight to guide us, every touch became amplified, the texture of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the sound of his breathing accelerating.
One night, I stumbled trying to get too close.
I fell against his chest, hands fumbling for balance, and ended up holding on to something that was definitely not a shoulder.
Is that I started my stomach.
Oh, right.
Good to know.
He laughed.
The sound vibrating against my palms.
Your aim in the dark is terrible.
It’s not my fault you’re too big.
You take up too much space.
I could say the same about your personality.
I pretended to be offended, but I was laughing, too.
These moments were my favorite.
Not the kisses, although I loved the kisses, but the laughs, the jokes, the feeling that even in the middle of an impossible curse, we had found something light, but not everything was light.
One night, I asked about breaking the curse.
You said it needs love and trust, I summarized.
Someone who loves you as a man, not as a statue.
Someone willing to trust without seeing.
Yes.
What exactly does that mean in practice? Silence.
Grayson.
It means, he sighed.
It means that in a moment of real danger, you would need to trust me completely.
Keep your eyes closed while I acted.
Even if every instinct screamed at you to look, and that would break the curse.
That’s what the witch said.
To be seen with the heart, not with the eyes.
I processed the information.
So basically, I would need to be in mortal danger.
close my eyes and trust that you would save me.
When you put it that way, it sounds simple.
Isn’t it simple? Another silence.
Hazel.
In 300 years, no one has ever come close to doing it.
Not because they haven’t tried, but because in the critical moment, instinct takes over.
People look.
They always look.
Are you saying it’s impossible? I’m saying that he paused.
I’m saying I don’t want you to get hurt trying to save me.
If the choice is between you alive and me free, I choose you alive always.
Something warm spread through my chest.
That was very romantic for a gargoyle.
I’ve had 300 years to practice dramatic declarations.
I found his face in the dark and kissed him.
I’m not giving up, I said against his lips.
Just so you know.
I know.
That’s why I love you.
I froze.
What did you say? Silence.
Grayson.
I He cleared his throat.
I said, “I appreciate you very much intensely.
You said you love me.
Maybe possibly.
” The dark distorts words.
I laughed, the sound bubbling up from inside me like something uncontrollable.
“The dark distorts words.
It’s a perfectly valid explanation.
It’s the most pathetic excuse I’ve ever heard.
And you already gave me the stalker one.
” He groaned.
“You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?” “Never.
I snuggled against his chest.
And just for the record, I love you too, you idiot statue.
His hands wrapped around me, pulling me closer.
Are you sure? I’m literally a decoration 80% of the time.
The remaining 20% is pretty convincing.
He laughed against my hair, and we stayed like that, intertwined in the dark, until the first light of dawn began to peek through the curtain cracks.
“I have to go,” he murmured.
“I know.
Tomorrow night, I’ll be here.
He pulled away.
I heard the heavy footsteps moving away.
Then the sound of stone grading as he returned to the great hall.
And then silence.
I opened the curtains and let the light in.
The bed was empty.
The room was empty.
But I could still feel his warmth on my lips, on my hands, in my heart.
I’m dating a statue, I said out loud, testing the words.
This is officially the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me.
But I was smiling because however strange it was, it was real.
It was mine.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Mrs.
Pritchard noticed the change.
You’re different, she said one afternoon, watching me as I polished the silverware.
Lighter, almost happy.
It’s the clean cliff air.
Lies.
She narrowed her eyes.
You’re spending too much time in the great hall.
I clean the great hall.
It’s my job.
You talk to the statue.
I stopped scrubbing.
How do you know? I’m not deaf girl.
These walls echo.
She crossed her arms.
Do you know what you’re getting yourself into? Honestly, no.
At least you’re honest.
She sighed.
Just be careful.
Curses are tricky things, and hearts are even trickier.
She left before I could answer, but her words stayed in my head for the rest of the day.
The first shadow of danger appeared a week later.
Mrs.
Pritchard mentioned it casually at breakfast.
Strange men have been seen in the area talking about stone relics, asking about the castle.
My stomach dropped.
What kind of men? Treasure hunters, looters, the kind who don’t mind destroying to get what they want.
She looked at me seriously.
You should lock the doors at night.
I always lock them.
Lock them better.
That night, I told Grayson about the men.
He tensed in the dark.
I could feel his muscles hardening under my hands.
Relic hunters, he said, his voice deep.
They show up from time to time.
They want to steal the statue or destroy it.
Destroy it.
Why? Because there is power in me.
Even as stone, witches and collectors pay fortunes for fragments of cursed creatures.
My blood ran cold.
They want to break you into pieces.
It’s a possibility.
That’s not going to happen.
I squeezed his hand tightly.
I won’t let it.
Hazel.
No.
Listen.
I’ve spent my whole life being invisible.
Letting bad things happen because it wasn’t my business.
Because I was just a servant.
Because it wasn’t my place to interfere.
My voice trembled.
But you are mine.
And I won’t stand by while they try to hurt you.
Silence.
Then his voice thick with emotion.
>> [clears throat] >> What did I do to deserve you? You stood still in the hall being handsome for 300 years.
Apparently that works.
He laughed.
But the sound was tense.
If they come, he said slowly.
You need to promise me one thing.
What? Run away.
Don’t try to protect me.
Just run.
Grayson.
Promise.
Hazel.
I didn’t promise because we both knew I wouldn’t keep it.
They came on a moonless night.
I was in the great hall pretending to clean while talking to the statue about plans for the next day.
It was late, almost midnight, and Mrs.
Pritchard had gone to sleep hours ago.
The castle was plunged into that heavy silence I had learned to love.
And then I heard it voices, not the ghostly voices the wind sometimes created in the cracks.
Real voices, masculine, coming from the main entrance.
My heart pounded.
I hid behind one of the columns flanking the hall, barely daring to breathe.
Footsteps echoed through the vestibule, approaching.
Three men, maybe four.
Heavy boots against the marble.
Muffled laughter.
I told you it would be easy.
A deep voice said, “One old woman and a maid.
No guards, no protection.
Where is the statue?” “In the great hall.
” “That’s what the records say.
” The footsteps approached.
I pressed myself against the column, trying to merge with the stone.
My eyes met the stone wolf statue, motionless in the center of the hall, bathed in the faint light of the few candles I had lit.
If I could blow them out, if I could create darkness.
Too late.
The men entered the hall.
There were four of them, large, armed, with the kind of faces that said they weren’t there to negotiate.
The leader was the biggest of them all.
A scar running from his left eye to his chin.
Small, cruel eyes assessing the space.
“There it is,” he said, pointing at the statue.
The Stonewolf, exactly as described, they approached.
I should have stayed quiet.
I should have let them take what they wanted and leave.
I should have been the invisible servant I always was.
But the idea of them touching Grayson, breaking Grayson, selling pieces of him to collectors of cursed curiosities, I couldn’t do it.
Get out of here.
My voice echoed through the hall before I could stop it.
The men turned around.
Four pairs of eyes found me behind the column.
The leader smiled.
A slow, predatory grin.
Well, look at that.
The maid.
This castle belongs to Lord Ashworth, I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
He won’t like knowing you invaded his property.
Lord Ashworth hasn’t been here in 10 years.
The leader took a step toward me.
And he won’t show up tonight.
The guard? What guard? You have an elderly housekeeper in you.
Another step.
Not exactly an army, is it? I backed away.
He advanced.
You know what I think? he said, his voice low and threatening.
I think you’re going to tell us where the safe keys are.
You’re going to show us where the Lord keeps the jewels, and then you’ll stay very quiet while we take what we came for.
And what if I don’t? His smile widened.
Then we’ll have to convince you.
He gestured to the others.
Two of them grabbed me before I could run.
Arms strong as iron closed around mine, dragging me to the center of the hall.
I struggled, kicked, tried to bite, but they were too big, too strong.
They threw me onto the floor at the foot of the statue’s pedestal.
The leader crouched in front of me.
Last chance, maid.
Where are the treasures? There are no treasures, I spat.
This place has been abandoned for years.
All that’s here is dust and spiderw webs.
Liar.
His hand found my hair and pulled, wrenching a scream from my throat.
Tears of pain welled up in my eyes.
Let’s try again.
Where? Hazel.
The voice came from inside my head.
Low, urgent, familiar.
Hazel, you need to trust me, Grayson.
I don’t know how he was speaking to me.
Maybe it was the curse.
Maybe it was the bond we had built night after night in the dark.
But his voice was there, clear as water.
Close your eyes now.
The leader pulled my hair again.
I asked where.
Close your eyes, Hazel.
Please.
Instinct screamed at me to keep my eyes open, to see the danger, to know where the next blow would come from.
Closing my eyes with four armed men around me was madness.
It was suicide.
But Grayson was asking, and I had promised to trust.
I closed my eyes.
What are you doing? The leader’s voice sounded confused.
Open them.
Look at me when I talk.
I kept my eyes closed.
Hey.
Hey.
He shook me.
Open your eyes, you.
The sound started low.
A scrape.
Stone against stone.
The sound I had learned to associate with movement, with life.
With Grayson freeing himself.
What the hell? The scraping turned into a crash.
I felt the floor tremble.
I heard the pedestal crack and then a roar.
Not human.
Not animal.
Something between the two.
Charged with fury and power contained for centuries.
The men screamed.
What happened next? I could only imagine from the sounds.
Bodies hitting walls, wood shattering, screams of pain and terror, running footsteps, more screams, the wet sound of flesh meeting claw, furniture tipping over, glass breaking, and through it all, that roar, furious, protective, absolutely wild.
I kept my eyes closed, even when something heavy fell inches from where I was.
Even when the air grew thick with the smell of fear and blood.
Even when every fiber of my being begged me to look, to see, to know what was happening, I trusted.
And then silence.
A silence so absolute I could hear my own heart beating.
Footsteps approached.
Lighter now, more human.
A warm hand touched my face.
You can open your eyes, Grayson’s voice said.
Horse, breathless.
I think we passed the trust test.
I didn’t open them immediately.
Are you okay? I asked, my eyes still closed.
Did they hurt you? Hazel.
There was a smile in his voice.
I am a 300-year-old stone statue.
They tried to hit me with swords.
Guess who came off worse.
A laugh bubbled in my throat.
Half hysterical, half relieved.
I was so scared, I admitted.
I know.
Me, too.
His fingers caressed my cheek, but you trusted me.
You kept your eyes closed.
You his voice broke.
Grayson, open your eyes, Hazel.
I opened them.
The first thing I saw was destruction.
The hall looked like it had been hit by a hurricane, furniture overturned, curtains torn, chandeliers on the floor, the four men scattered in the corners, unconscious or groaning in pain, but alive, and the marble pedestal in the center.
cracked in half, empty.
The second thing I saw was him.
Grayson was kneeling in front of me.
Not a statue, not a silhouette in the dark.
A man, tall as I imagined, broad shoulders, defined muscles, dark hair to the nape of his neck, slightly wavy, dusted with stone powder.
and his eyes.
The eyes were exactly as I felt when he looked at me in the dark.
Silver gray, luminous, filled with something that looked like love, relief, and reverence mixed together.
“Hi,” I said stupidly.
“Hi,” he replied.
And then I started to cry.
Not from sadness, from relief, from happiness, from realizing that after weeks of talking in the dark, kissing in the dark, falling in love in the dark, I could finally see the face of the man I loved.
And he was beautiful, more beautiful than I had imagined, more beautiful than any sculpture could capture.
Grayson pulled me into his arms, and I let myself be held, crying against his chest that was now flesh and blood, not cold stone.
It worked.
I murmured between sobs.
The curse.
It worked.
You worked.
He kissed the top of my head.
You trusted me.
Eyes closed with armed men around you.
You trusted me.
I said I wouldn’t give up.
I know.
Stubborn.
You love me like that.
He laughed, the sound vibrating against my ear.
I do more than you can imagine.
We stayed like that for a long moment.
Then I pulled back enough to look at him again, to memorize every detail.
The scar on his eyebrow that I had felt so many times in the dark, the shape of his nose, the curve of his lips.
“You’re real,” I said.
“I am real, and I can see you.
You can.
” He smiled, and it was the most beautiful smile I had ever seen.
Without needing to put out the candles, that will require adjustments.
I was getting used to the mystery.
He laughed again and then he kissed me in the light for the first time.
The kiss lasted an eternity or maybe just a few seconds.
It was hard to measure time when his lips were finally on mine in the light.
When I could see the freckles he didn’t know he had on his nose, when every touch was accompanied by the miracle of being able to watch his face.
When we pulled apart, I was smiling so wide it hurt.
Your crooked tooth, Grayson said, his eyes fixed on my mouth.
What? The tooth? The incizer.
He touched my lower lip with his thumb.
Mrs.
Pritchard described it once.
I imagined so many times what it would be like.
It’s even better than I thought.
I felt my face heat up.
You have a strange fixation on my flaws.
They’re not flaws.
They’re you.
He kissed the corner of my mouth.
And I spent 300 years unable to see you.
Let me enjoy it.
I was about to say something witty, but a moan interrupted us.
One of the intruders was waking up.
Grayson stood up in a fluid motion, pulling me behind him.
The protective stance was automatic, instinctive, and now in the light, I could see exactly what the intruders had faced.
He was massive, not just tall, but wide, solid, every muscle defined in a way that made it clear he wasn’t just any nobleman.
He was a warrior, an alpha, and even in human form.
There was something wild about him.
Something that said crossing his path was a bad idea.
“What do we do with them?” I asked.
“Tie them up.
Leave them in the forest for the county guard to find.
” He looked at the scattered bodies with a look of disdain.
They’ll wake up with a headache and a story no one will believe.
A statue that came to life and beat them up.
Exactly.
I laughed.
And then a voice echoed from the hall door.
For the love of all that is holy.
What happened here? Mrs.
Pritchard was standing at the entrance in her night gown and cap, holding a candalabram.
Her eyes swept over the destroyed hall, the fallen intruders, the cracked pedestal, and finally stopped at Grayson.
For a long moment, no one said anything.
Then the old housekeeper sighed deeply.
I knew this stone was going to give me trouble one day.
She looked at me.
Couldn’t you find a flesh and blood boyfriend without demolishing half the room, Hazel? Technically, he was flesh and blood the whole time.
He just didn’t look it.
Technically, I’m going to need a lot of tea to process this.
Grayson took a step forward.
Mrs.
Pritchard, I know this is unexpected.
Unexpected? She raised an eyebrow.
Young man, I’ve worked in this castle for 40 years.
I’ve seen things that would make grown men cry.
A statue turning into a person is Tuesday.
She pointed at the intruders.
What is Wednesday is cleaning up this mess.
You two tie these fellows up.
I’m going to make tea.
And she left, muttering about reckless youth and destroyed furniture.
Grayson looked at me.
She took that well.
She’s pragmatic and probably knew more than she let on.
Probably.
We worked together for the next few hours.
We tied up the intruders and left them in the stable to be taken away in the morning.
We collected the furniture that could be saved.
We swept up the shards of glass and stone.
And when the sun began to rise, tinting the hall pink and gold, we stopped.
Grayson looked at the light coming through the windows.
I haven’t seen a sunrise in 300 years, he said softly.
Not really.
Not without being stoned.
I took his hand.
What’s it like? It’s He searched for the words.
It’s warm.
Alive like you.
I’m not warm.
You’re the warmest thing I’ve ever touched.
He pulled me close in every way.
Was that a pickup line? An attempt? 300 years rusts the skills.
I laughed against his chest.
You need practice.
Will you help me? Depends.
Are you going to keep chasing me around the castle like a lost puppy? Maybe.
Old habits.
then maybe I’ll help.
He kissed me and this time the sun was shining down on us.
The following weeks were about rebuilding, not just the hall, but everything.
Grayson officially reclaimed the castle, which was technically always his.
The property was registered under the name Lord Ashworth, a fake identity he had created decades ago to keep everything functioning while he was trapped in stone.
Lawyers came, papers were signed, and slowly the abandoned castle began to transform into a real home.
I should have left.
My job as a servant was technically finished.
I had no reason to stay.
I could take my salary and find another job, another kitchen, another place to be invisible.
But Grayson wouldn’t let me.
You’re not leaving, he said one evening as we dined in the kitchen that Mrs.
Pritchard insisted on keeping spotless.
Are you giving me orders? I’m asking you.
He took my hand across the table.
Stay.
Not as a servant.
As partner, mistress.
Whatever you want to be.
I looked at our intertwined fingers.
I’m a maid, Grayson.
I don’t know how to be a mistress of anything.
You’re the woman who broke a 300-year-old curse because you refused to give up.
He squeezed my hand.
You can be anything you want.
I thought about my life before.
the dark kitchens, the servant quarters, the constant invisibility.
I thought about all the times I had accepted less because I thought I didn’t deserve more.
And then I thought about Grayson, the kisses in the dark, the laughter, the way he looked at me as if I were the most important thing in the world.
Okay, I said, but I’m still helping in the kitchen.
Mrs.
Pritchard needs me.
She needs someone to complain to.
Not necessarily help.
True, he laughed.
and I stayed.
The small statue was Mrs.
Pritchard’s idea.
“You need a momento,” she said one day, handing me a fist-sized sculpture.
“I found this in the attic.
It’s a miniature version.
It was the Stonewolf, a perfect replica of the statue Grayson had been for 300 years, carved from black obsidian.
” Grayson looked at it for a long moment.
“I should hate this,” he said.
“It should be a reminder of everything I lost.
” But but it’s a reminder of how you found me.
He placed the small statue on a shelf near the fireplace in the restored hall.
Of what you gave me.
I just closed my eyes.
You did much more than that.
He turned to me.
You loved me when I was just a voice in the dark.
Trusted me when you had no reason to trust.
Saw me as a man before you saw me as a man.
My eyes stung.
You’re getting really good at this.
At what? At romantic declarations.
300 years of practice paying off.
He smiled and then he did something I didn’t expect.
He knelt.
Grayson, wait.
He took something from his pocket.
A small velvet box.
I had this made in town.
The goldsmith thought I was crazy, but he opened the box.
Inside there was a ring.
Silver with a small silver gray crystal in the center, the same color as his eyes.
Hazel ward, he said, his voice husky.
You were the first person in 300 years who didn’t run from me.
The first who talked to me.
The first who kissed me in the dark without caring what I was in the light.
You saved me.
And I want to spend the rest of my life repaying that favor.
Is this a proposal? This is a proposal.
I looked at the ring at him at the restored hall around us full of light and warmth and life.
I’m still a maid, I said.
You’re the woman I love.
I have a crooked tooth.
I love your crooked tooth.
I talk to myself when I clean.
I know.
It’s adorable.
I’m going to keep calling you a statue when you annoy me.
He laughed.
I wouldn’t expect anything less.
I took the box from his hand.
Then yes.
My answer is yes.
He stood up and kissed me.
And somewhere in the kitchen, I heard Mrs.
Pritchard grumbling about how now she was going to have to plan a wedding in addition to keeping the castle standing.
That night, Grayson blew out the candles in the room.
“Miss the dark?” I asked, lying next to him in the bed that was now ours.
“Sometimes?” he pulled me close.
“Not the dark itself, but our moments in it.
We can have moments in the dark whenever we want.
” Now, I know, he kissed my forehead, but now I can have moments in the light, too.
We were silent for a moment.
Then, I laughed.
What is it? I was thinking, I said, that if someone had told me a few months ago that I was going to fall in love with a hall decoration, I would have thought it was the crulest joke in the world.
And now, now I think it’s the best love story that ever existed.
He laughed, too.
The stonewolf and the stubborn servant.
It has a certain charm.
It needed a better title.
Suggestions? I thought for a moment.
How about the Stonewolf finally turned man? And it’s a little more work to wash out the blood than the dust.
But at least now I can see the face of the idiot I decided to love.
That’s a long title.
It’s a long story.
He kissed me and I let myself be kissed there in the darkness we chose by a man I could finally see and it was perfect.
Thank you for being here and for joining me for another story.
I truly hope you enjoyed it.
If you want, leave your comment.
I love reading what you feel and think after each episode.
Thank you for the love and see you in the next story.
