ChapterThirteen
235 Words
The hospital was quiet at night. Stella drifted in and out of sleep, fragments tugging at her mind—a violin’s cry, firelight, a woman’s voice humming softly.
Stella, sweetheart…
Her eyes flew open.
“My name,” she whispered. “It’s Stella.”
Kurt woke instantly.
“Stella,” he repeated quietly.
Tears slid down her temples. “You stayed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He hesitated. “Because leaving didn’t feel like an option."
In the dead of night, something was stirring between the realms of the human world and the magical. The Guardians gathered as they saw the rip in the veil between realms. Something had crossed, and it was their job to keep balance. The hunt was on for the rogue werewolf Russell, the self-proclaimed king of the gypsies.
Ruth Carlisle arrived to visit Stella the next day with the force of a storm—silver-haired, sharp-eyed, cane tapping decisively against the floor.
Her gaze dropped to Stella’s bruises. “Someone hurt you.”
“I don’t remember who.”
“Then we’ll remember for you.”
She turned to Kurt. “You’re taking her to the estate when she's discharged?.”
“It’s her choice,” Kurt said.
Stella swallowed. The idea of being alone tightened her chest.
“I’ll come,” she said softly.
Ruth smiled. “Good, no rush, get fully well first my dear.”
- Writer
