2. Stella

2

STELLA

“Fuck you,” I breathe out finally, staring at the open balcony doors. Cold air seeps into the room and clashes with the heat in my cheeks.

The cold is the reason I’m trembling. Not from the sudden loss of my bearings. Not from the deep humiliation of being used as a prop.

Or is it rage? Rage would be more comforting.

Yeah. It’s rage. Fuck that manipulative gargoyle right to hell.

I wipe my eyes to hide any moisture there from myself. I can’t quite stop the gasping sob that catches my breath as details come from the woodwork of what just occurred.

He knows about my ability with jewelry. He must. He removed his rings and piercings so I wouldn’t divine his intentions from them.

I probably wouldn’t have been able to. I can only pick up emotions from jewelry when the piece is absolutely saturated with it, but that taste of something unfamiliar and heady when I’d brushed his earrings makes me curse for not paying better attention.

Once he bit me, he didn’t have to keep up his seductive charade.

There’s a deep irony to this moment. I chose this path to helping Kalos because I wanted to destroy Lorenzo for throwing Mom and me away. The anger toward him had burned and burned, but I’d known I was too minor of a player to make him pay in the way I wanted him to.

I’d married Stoneheart to make that strike. To stop being a minor player in the world of giants. And now he thinks I’m merely a piece for him to play with.

I’m not. I won’t let him turn me into a pawn.

I have allies.

First things first, clean up and clothes. And maybe by then, I’ll be composed enough to come up with a scheme. Anything.

My inhale is ragged as I finally take in the room. It’s decked out in the kind of luxury I’ve seen fringes of while growing up, and it’s unsettling.

This was the world I’d been slated for if I’d come out a shifter like I was supposed to, but that was wiped away. Mom was disowned when Lorenzo Leonid rejected her. Luckily, she’d had some money, and we were able to make do, but there’s something about feeling so out of place with the lush décor around me that adds another sting to the situation.

I blow out a hard breath and stand, not bothering to keep Stoneheart’s release from dripping. He can afford an extra cleaning charge.

I close and lock the balcony doors first. The snick of the latch helps me separate from the emotions that threaten to continue to rage.

I inhale and continue moving, pacing the suite, hating that his scent still has the ability to make my mouth water.

I need to wash this claiming away. A shower would be heavenly, but I eye the room doors doubtfully. I’m alone here and hardly protected. The guards standing outside are Stoneheart’s men, and I’ve lost my trust in them. They didn’t mastermind what happened, but they’ve been tarred by the same brush.

Anger comes crackling back to the surface.

I’m angry at everyone. The Council, the guards, the nameless woman acting as the Council’s spy who will probably gossip about me to a territory where I have no friends, and especially my husband .

My skin starts to itch. I need to wash off, even if it’s not a full shower. The bathroom is as outstanding as the rest of the room. As big as my bedroom at home and the giant tub has Jacuzzi jets. Bitterness flares at the back of my throat. I’d very much have enjoyed this whole experience if Stoneheart hadn’t plotted behind my back.

There’s a stack of washcloths that I make quick use of before I notice what’s missing. I frown, looking through all the cabinets.

There are no towels.

What the fuck? Incredulous, I go back into the room to search the closets. The towels aren’t the only thing missing.

My bag was supposed to be here with clothes and toiletries for the night and my cell phone. The plan had been that we spend the night at this hotel because it’s neutral ground. The silent understanding was that we’d consummate the marriage, then move to the building in the Leonid territory where Stoneheart had set up his base of operations.

Did Stoneheart misplace my stuff on purpose? Is this a way he’s trying to control me? My rose-colored glasses for him have truly shattered after his earlier stunt.

But his items are missing too.

As much as his true colors seem to be all asshole, this feels too elementary for him. The humiliation of the interruption served to confirm our mating with the Council. Me being trapped here with no towels only serves to diminish my standing…

I groan, and my eyes sting.

Shifters.

The more I think about it, the more sense it makes. Some disgruntled Leonids decided to poke the new leadership. It’s juvenile, but I expected some dominance issues with this take over.

I want a shower and to pass out in a comfy bed, but that’s not going to happen until I solve this.

This would be an inconvenience if Stoneheart were here. But alone? If I use the hotel phone, people will find out that he’s gone. I’d have to wrap myself in sheets to speak with the guards, and that would be more debasing than I can handle tonight. I can’t trust their discretion.

I’m familiar with the game of hierarchy that shifters play but fuck everyone. I’m a witch. I play by my own rules.

I blow out a breath. I have options.

I pull the sheet free from under my enemy, the duvet, and wrap myself in it. Immediately feeling better.

I kick at the destroyed wedding dress. The torn fabric is too similar to my ragged emotions for comfort.

I pick up a couple of pins that litter the floor, avoiding the memory of just how fully Stoneheart had played me with his seduction. The bitterness will be useful for later. Right now, my fingers itch, and I wish I had my tools.

I don’t need my pliers or soldering iron to work my magic, but it would make it easier. The pins are ultimately wire and pearl and bite into my calluses as I twist the metal. The sting is welcome as I work.

There’s one person who told me to call him if I needed anything. He didn’t mean magically, but I’m nothing if not resourceful.

I pluck a flower from the carpet next. The energy that warms my fingers takes on a deep, sweet note that makes me want to press my face in and inhale. It wouldn’t work. The magic is only picking up traces of the man who organized the flowers.

I have no talent for crafting a charm using plants, but meaning gives objects power. Symbolism may be a statement, but when it’s used to communicate? To give one last message?

That’s impactful…but only if he’s thinking of me.