Heart of Stone (Rock Star Fairy Tales #1)

Chapter 40

C h apte r 40

Misrepresentations and Al arm Clocks

Morning, Sunday, February 22 nd at the Palace of Lord Rebinus in Demacia , Lorellon

W hen Margot woke, she spent some time studying the room, fingers searching the blanket for a tag—none—as she listened to Tobin’s steady breathing next to her. Though they had snuggled most of the morning hours, she had woken with only his hand resting on her hip as he lay on his side, pillow crunched beneath his head and that white hair covering part of his face.

Handmade blanket, she decided, then slowly slid off the bed. She dipped into the lavish bathroom first, body heating as she recalled the fun they had in the shower and later in the huge bathtub, then returned to the bedroom, hunting for her jeans. She found them on the floor, and she dug her phone out of the pocket, flipping it open to check for messages. The screen was dark, and after a long press to reboot it, the phone only spent some time searching for a network before shutting o ff again.

Note to self: Fae realm doesn’t have cell coverage.

Movement jarred her still sore hand, and she flexed it, finding it was much better than it had been. She glanced out the window, trying to judge the hour. Not wanting to go outside to the balcony naked, she snagged Tobin’s shirt from the floor and shrugged it on, automatically twisting her hair into a fat braid. She had lost her hair tie, but it would stay for a bit if she didn’t move too much. Moving quietly across the thick carpet, she slid the door open, carefully stepping onto the stone outside.

The view was spectacular, mountains and the sun still low in the sky. Margot hoped that meant it was still morning. Her internal clock said it was still early, but she had an appointment that afternoon in Sivas. Turning around to face the building, Margot stepped to the far edge of the balcony, trying to see as much of the house—palace?—as she could. White stonework decorated the outside with detailed work around the windows. Margot could make out a winged man in armor fighting a dragon—and winning—along the edge of the closest casement. The palace continued in both directions, ending in turrets and wide towers. She considered her wings, knowing she could fly up and see the whole place but that would mean taking off Tobin’s shirt, and she didn’t want anyone seeing her naked and flying around. Having wings was cool, but not practical in terms of modesty. She wondered if she should swap out tank tops for those weird fa e shirts.

Shaking her head, Margot glanced down instead, trying to determine how tall the building was. Without leaning too far over, she counted five windows below the balcony.

Your rooms, my ass , she thought, recognizing a penthouse when she saw one, and headed back inside. Tobin still slept, and she used the few moments of privacy to rifle the drawers in the dresser. The top ones held some kind of silky shorts—what she assumed passed for underwear in this realm. The middle row held bottoms in varying lengths and fabrics: velvet pants ending below the knee, silk wide-legged pants, tight black material that would hug every curve of ass and thigh. She moved to the lower drawers, finding a wide assortment of socks in all heights, materials, an d colors.

If this was Tobin’s room, he regularly dressed like a fae prince, something out of a fairy tale book in her world. She could see him in it, as ridiculous as it seemed. Tobin could pull it off, barely. Unbidden, the image of Ash in the same style flashed in her mind, and she knew he seemed better suited for those clothes. Maybe it was because she had seen him in so many different outfits—regular clothes, rock star clothes, cover model clothes, music video clothes—of course he would wear these clothes well if they were in dark colors, reds and blacks, not all this silver a nd white.

Feeling guilty for imagining Ash in Tobin’s clothes, if they were his clothes, she banished the singer from her mind, continuing her examination of the room. She wondered if she should feel guilty for rummaging through his stuff, then decided not to feel bad. He had lied to her. Well, not lied, but certainly misrepresented. She thought Tobin might misrepresent himself a lot. A quick peek in the closet—long robes, cloaks, platform shoes—only proved her suspicions: this was not Tobi n’s room.

And if it wasn’t his room, it could only belong to one other person: Lord Rebinus.

Margot wandered back over to the full-length mirror they had walked through the night before. She ran her hands along the edges, having seen enough movies about magic mirrors to think there might be a switch, something to activate it, but she found nothing. So the mirror may be a convenient exit for the portal, but she needed Tobin to create t he magic.

Why does his portal exit in his Lord’s room? Frowning, she wondered if Tobin was allowed so many liberties because he and Rebinus were lovers, then discounted the possibility. Tobin had assured her he wasn’t with any one else.

He also assured you this was his room.

No, actually he didn’t, she reminded herself. What he had said was: Why? Shouldn’t this b e my room?

As she thought about his words, she also remembered his reply to her question about him being single: I have particular tastes, he had said, and high standards . Again, not a n answer.

“Oh, Tobin,” she whispered, staring at her reflection in the mirror, her tousled hair hastily bound in the braid, his shirt covering her body to her upper thighs. She wondered if Lord Rebinus used the mirror as some kind of spying device, if he could see her now. Her skin prickled, and she wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her forearms to remove the sudd en chill.

“Darling,” came a lazy drawl from the bed, “you look wonderful in my shirt.”

Margot turned to face him, less annoyed than she thought she should be. “What time is it?” she asked him. “My phone doesn’t wo rk here.”

“Oh,” he said, clearly not expecting the question to be the first words out of her mouth. He rolled over to the edge of the bed, revealing a lovely bare ass, and opened one of the nightstand drawers. He retrieved something that looked like an ancient wind-up clock and rested it on the top of the nightstand. Rubbing his eyes, he peered at it, then announced, “Half-past 8. No worries. You won’t be late for your appointme nt today.”

“Is that some kind of ala rm clock?”

He nodded, abandoning it, and rolled back over to lay on his back, hands folding under his head as he looke d at her.

“Why is it inside th e drawer?”

“I’m a sound sleeper,” he quipped. “I’m more likely to smash it than wake up, so it’s safer in th e drawer.”

“Did you set an alarm for this morning?” she pressed, wondering how much he had planned and how much he was making up as he we nt along.

“No,” he admitted. “I hoped you might wake me up.” Margot stared at him, the silver god naked in what must be his master’s bed, surrounded by silky blankets, his hair mussed, his eyes wicked, his body clearly eager for her, and decided that there would be time for questio ns later.