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I blinked, and the water spilled over, falling down my cheeks as I remained in the same spot I’d been in.
More than anything, I just wanted to sleep and pretend this horrible day had never happened.
I’d talked to my family, and I’d told Markus what we had to do. The hard part was over. I inhaled deeply and then let it out. No longer panicking and trying to process my situation, I was well aware of the position I was in. I looked around, taking in the opulence of my room with a different perspective. The finishes on the solid woods. The plushness of the rug. Assorted books on a small shelf. The candles were placed on various tables and dressers. It made sense. Vampires didn’t care much for intense light. It was painful for them. Even the chandelier above had candles imbued with magic, I was sure. Otherwise, the wax would have been dripping everywhere. A few paintings lined the walls. One in particular caught my attention. A ribcage with a floral arrangement in the center. I scrunched my eyebrows, wondering what it meant.
I strode to the corner of the room where two decanters sat on a small table. I smelled the contents of one, and it sure smelled like whiskey, so I poured whatever was in it into a glass, then tilted my head back and took a big swallow. It burned, and I coughed, pouring another and drinking it again before walking to the bed and sitting on the edge, placing the empty vessel on the nightstand.
I glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was silent, but I could still hear the imagined ticktock of the hands as time crawled on, like it was taunting me. This was my home now. These feather pillows and these ornate vases. The soft blankets piled high on a stupidly comfortable mattress. These crystal glasses and fine decor. This weird art.
It was nice. Decadent. Befitting of a king’s mate . . . and completely a lie.
Grabbing a pillow, I pressed it to my face and screamed hard. I screamed until my throat was raw. Pulling it off, I gasped for air, trying to shove down the need to hyperventilate and panic all over again. Nova cocked her head, her concern for me evident, but she just watched me with soulful eyes.
Never once had I asked “Why me?” when I was the only shifter who couldn’t shift. But here and now? Today? This entire situation? Indignation and fury coursed through me, shoving down the anxiety that had threatened to take hold only moments before.
I pulled on each end of the pillow. Ripped threads with jagged edges split down the fabric and I tore it apart, tossing it into the middle of the room. Feathers exploded in all directions, as though they were delighted in their escape as they floated in the air.
Why me, damn it? Why?
I grabbed the crystal glass, flinging it at the fireplace, listening to the fragile glass crunch against the stone, shattering into infinite pieces.
What had I done to deserve this? What was so wrong about me that I was meant to endure all of this?
I ran to a table and picked up a vase, throwing it at the wall, watching it fracture into chunky shards and fall to the floor with a clatter.
I stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows, the overwhelming anger and desire to be anywhere else but here taking over. I grabbed another one, winding it up over my head to smash through my prison walls?—
“Why are you destroying my room?” Elias’s voice came from behind me, and his words echoed in my ear.
My room.
I froze, eyes wide. The vase dropped from my grasp, crashing into the floor by my feet and splitting apart with a loud thud. Wincing, I turned to face him. “Come again?” I said weakly.
He looked at the broken item on the floor, and he raised an eyebrow. “That was my favorite vase.”
My lips separated slightly, and I felt like the color drained from my face. Nova watched the exchange with curiosity. “I . . . Ysabeau said this was my room . . .”
He hummed, closing the door behind him and wading through the sea of down feathers that had consumed the floor. “It is yours . . . because it’s mine. Mates don’t have separate rooms. I wanted you to get comfortable. It would appear you did.” Looking at the destruction I’d caused, he let out a long sigh. “Guess I left you alone too long.”
“I, um . . .” It was too much to process. I still couldn’t find the words.
Pointing to the vase I’d thrown at the wall, he said, “That was my mother.”
I blinked a few times, trying to understand his words. Had he said it was his mother? Then it hit me, and my stomach sank.
Looking in that direction, I saw a murky gray residue that had exploded on the wall. Following the path down to the broken vase, I saw ashes haphazardly scattered all over the floor.
It had been a damn urn.
I inhaled harshly, then coughed, choking on my own spit. Placing a hand on my chest, I tried to clear it. “I’m . . . so . . . sorry,” I cried, gasping for breath.
Then he belted out a laugh, and I looked at him, puzzled as I tried to remember how to function and not die by saliva asphyxiation.
“Relax, it was just my dog.” He waved me off.
“You . . . kept the ashes of your dog?” I asked incredulously, finally breathing normally. It didn’t seem like something the leader of Blood and Beryl would do.
“Well, I did,” he answered, gesturing toward the pile. “Until you decided he needed a better resting place.”
