Chapter 14 Stella's Discovery
I spend the rest of the day in a strange fog, going through the motions of my duties while my mind races ahead to midnight tomorrow. Mrs. Chen watches me with knowing eyes but says nothing, just presses an extra sandwich into my hands at lunch with a meaningful look.
That evening, I begin the careful process of sorting through my belongings. What's essential? What can I bear to leave behind? The room that's been my home for years suddenly feels like a museum of a life I'm about to abandon.
I'm folding a sweater when I hear it—footsteps in the hallway, moving with purpose toward my door.
My blood runs cold. I know those footsteps. Know the particular cadence of Stella's gait, the way her expensive boots click against the hardwood.
The door slams open without warning.
Stella stands in the doorway, her eyes blazing with fury. In her hand, she holds my backpack—the one I'd hidden under the bed, already half-packed with supplies.
"Going somewhere?" Her voice is silk over steel, deadly calm.
My heart stops. "Give that back."
"Give it back?" She laughs, the sound high and cruel. "Oh, I don't think so. Not until you explain why my omega is packing to run away."
My omega. The possessive phrasing makes my skin crawl.
"I'm not yours. I'm not anyone's." I take a step toward her, trying to project a confidence I don't feel. "Now give me my bag."
"No." She dumps the contents onto the floor—clothes, toiletries, the carefully hoarded protein bars and bottled water scatter across the room. "What's this? Supplies for a journey? Money?" She snatches up the envelope containing my savings, my tips, everything I've scraped together over months.
"That's mine!" I lunge for it, but Stella dances back, holding it out of reach.
"Nothing here is yours. Don't you understand that yet?" Her eyes are wild now, her carefully maintained facade cracking. "Everything in this packhouse, everyone in this pack—it all belongs to me. I'm the Luna. I'm Mason's mate. His true mate."
"I know that. I've never tried to—"
"Liar!" The word comes out as a shriek. "You think I don't see the way you look at him? The way you moon over him like some pathetic puppy? You think I don't know you're trying to steal what's mine?"
"I'm not trying to steal anything. I'm trying to leave!"
"You don't get to leave!" Stella's face is flushed now, her breathing rapid. "You don't get to just walk away and make me look weak. Make it look like I can't control my own pack. Do you know what the other Lunas would say? What they'd think?"
And there it is—the truth beneath all the cruelty. Stella doesn't hate me because she thinks I'm a threat to her relationship with Mason. She hates me because my very existence challenges her authority, her control.
"This isn't about me at all," I say slowly, the realization dawning. "This has never been about me. It's about you. About your image. Your power."
"Everything is about power." Stella tosses my money onto the bed, but I can see her hand sliding toward the pocket of her designer jacket. "And you've just made a very stupid mistake, little omega. You've challenged mine."
The knife appears so quickly I barely have time to register it. A small, silver blade—the kind Stella carries for cutting open packages, for trimming loose threads on her expensive clothes.
Now she's pointing it at me.
"You're not leaving this pack," Stella says, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You're not embarrassing me. You're not making me look like a Luna who can't keep her wolves in line."
"Stella, put the knife down." I raise my hands slowly, trying to appear non-threatening. "You don't want to do this."
"Don't tell me what I want!" She takes a step closer, and I see madness dancing in her eyes. "You have no idea what I want. What I need. Mason gave me everything—Alpha mate, Luna position, respect. But it's never enough, is it? There's always someone trying to take it away. Someone trying to make me look weak."
"I'm not trying to—"
"LIAR!"
She lunges.
I try to dodge, but the room is small and I'm cornered between the bed and the wall. Stella's hand—the one not holding the knife—catches my face, nails raking across my cheek with brutal force.
Pain explodes across my skin. I feel the sting of torn flesh, the hot trickle of blood.
"You'll never leave!" Stella screams, and now both hands are on me, clawing, tearing. "You'll never embarrass me! Never make me look like I can't control my own pack!"
I try to fight back, try to push her away, but years of abuse have made me weak. Years of starving myself to avoid the pack dining hall, of isolating myself to escape Stella's notice, have left me with no strength to resist.
We crash to the floor. Stella lands on top of me, her nails finding my arms, my neck, any exposed skin. The knife clatters away—thank the Goddess—but her hands are weapons enough.
"Please," I gasp, trying to protect my face, my stomach. "The baby—"
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Stella freezes. Her hands, mid-strike, hover in the air. Her eyes, wild with rage just seconds ago, sharpen with terrible understanding.
"What did you say?"
I'm breathing hard, bleeding from a dozen scratches, my body curled protectively around my midsection. I don't answer. Can't answer.
"Did you say baby?" Stella's voice has gone quiet. Dangerous. "Are you pregnant, Sage?"
Still, I say nothing.
Her hand shoots out, grabs my shirt, and yanks it up before I can stop her. There, impossible to hide at this angle, is the small but unmistakable swell of my stomach.
Stella's face transforms. The rage that was there before was nothing compared to this. This is pure, incandescent fury.
"You're pregnant with Mason's baby." It's not a question. "You're carrying his child."
"It doesn't matter. I'm leaving. You'll never have to—"
"DOESN'T MATTER?" She's screaming again, but worse than before. This is the sound of someone who's completely lost control. "You stupid, stupid girl. Don't you understand what this means?"
Her hands find my stomach.
And then she starts to claw.
I scream. Actually scream, something I've never done before despite all the abuse, all the pain. Because this isn't about hurting me anymore. This is about killing my baby.
"No!" I thrash beneath her, trying to dislodge her, trying to protect the tiny life inside me. "Stop! Please!"
But Stella is beyond reason. Her nails dig into my stomach, tearing through my shirt, scratching at the skin beneath. Blood wells up—my blood—and I can feel something warm and wet spreading across my abdomen.
"You'll never have his child!" Stella pants, her nails dragging across my belly again and again. "Never! Do you hear me? This baby dies tonight!"
I'm crying now, begging, trying desperately to curl into a protective ball. But Stella is stronger, fueled by a jealous rage that gives her terrible strength.
"Help!" I sob. "Someone help!"
But my room is in the omega wing, far from the main areas of the packhouse. At this time of evening, everyone is at dinner or in their own quarters. No one can hear me.
No one is coming.