Chapter 52: Stupid Human

Chapter 52: Stupid Human Clare POV: "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?" he shouted, voice so loud, so raw, that it echoed through the broken frame of the front door. His other hand shot to his hair, tugging at it in frustration before his eyes locked back onto me like laser beams. I swear I could hear my heartbeat banging in my ears. Then came the charge. I barely had time to process it. One second he was a step away, the next he was on me, grabbing me by the neck and pressing me back, fast and hard, until my spine met the wall with a dull thud. The towel I’d used earlier fell to the floor behind me with a whisper of betrayal. His hand gripped me like a collar, not choking—but more than threatening. Controlling. Yep. He was pissed. Nuclear-level pissed. His hand clamped around my neck, not tight enough to choke—but firm enough to make my survival instincts scream. My hands flew up, instinctively trying to pry him off, but it was like trying to move a stone pillar with spaghetti arms. No budge. His eyes were wild, flickering with that red that screamed wolf-on-edge. "I fucking told you to bathe so you could rid yourself of that awful scent—only for you to put on the same damn clothes?" His voice was low now, dangerous. Each word deliberate. "Are you fucking with me right now?" My mouth opened, then shut again. He wasn’t done. "What do you think I am? A stupid fucking clown?" Okay, I thought, he’s not wrong for being mad—kinda—but maybe not full-throttle rage monster mad? I wanted to scream, or run, or punch something—or better yet, explain, calmly, that I didn’t exactly have an infinite wardrobe of non-Sara-scented clothes on standby after my door got blown in and my life flipped upside down. But with the way he was looking at me now? Like I’d just spat in his food and insulted his ancestors? I just did what any terrified, exhausted, barely-holding-it-together fake boy with secrets to protect would do— I gulped. Hard. Please, please don’t sniff too close. Please don’t see past the hoodie. Please don’t notice the panic. And for the love of gods—please don’t ask me to strip again. "Fine, I’ll fucking get rid of it myself." His voice was more growl than speech now, guttural, beastly, like it was being ripped straight from his shifting throat. And then he was on me. Fast. Too fast. One blink and he was there—one clawed hand gripping my hoodie, the other wrapped around my arm like a steel trap. My feet barely scraped the floor as he hauled me closer, eyes glowing with pure rage, and I felt my lungs constrict under the pressure of his grip. "I told you to get rid of that fucking scent," he hissed, his breath hot against my skin. "And you dare walk out wearing the same fucking clothes? Are you mocking me? Do you think I’m a joke?! A fucking clown for your amusement?!" My mouth opened, maybe to explain, maybe to scream—but nothing came out. Just air. Just fear. He didn’t wait. With a violent snarl, he tugged at the hoodie, claws shredding through the fabric like it was wet tissue. The sound of tearing cloth echoed loud in the room, louder than my pounding heart, louder than the panic ringing in my ears. No. No, no, no—this couldn’t be happening. I twisted in his grip, struggling, but it was like fighting against a hurricane. He didn’t budge. He didn’t care. His hands were rough, unyielding, ripping through the layers I had so carefully wrapped around myself. "Stop! Wait—Reed—" My voice was cracked, breathless. Desperate. But the moment was cracking open. Because under that destroyed hoodie... My chest was bound. My breath hitched. His hands froze. A low, deadly growl rolled from deep in his throat as his eyes slowly dropped to the bindings. Then to my waist. Then back up to my face. And everything...stopped. The silence between us was deafening. The tension in the room turned razor-sharp. My secret was laid bare beneath the wreckage of shredded clothing. I stared at him, paralyzed. Waiting. Waiting for him to speak. To rage. To kill. To do anything. And for one terrifying second—I thought he’d snap my neck. Reed POV: Why. The. Fuck. Is he being this difficult? Is it just a him thing, or are all humans this fucking stubborn? He said he’d do anything—his words, not mine—if I let the fucking slut go. And I did. I let her run, spared her miserable life, because he asked. But now? Now the stench of her still clung to him like a curse, sweet and rotten, crawling all over the scent that should’ve been just his. Mine. And that—that—made me want to rip the walls down with my bare hands. He gave himself up so easily. Like it meant nothing. Like he meant nothing. Offered himself to me like some kind of martyr to protect her. And it made me sick. Sick because I hated it. Sick because I liked it. I wanted him to choose me, not just sacrifice himself like I was some monster with a price tag. But a gift horse? You don’t spit in its mouth. He was willing. No force. No chasing. No biting. Willing. And I’ve always liked my fucks served fresh and compliant, not torn up and screaming. My wolf, even in his blood-hungry haze, wanted him clean—untainted. So I told him: go bathe. Get rid of her stench so I could finally breathe him in without gagging on her filth. He obeyed, scurried off, and then... click. That pathetic click of the bathroom door locking behind him. A locked fucking door. Like that was going to stop me? Stupid, stupid human. I could hear his heart pounding behind that wood panel like a caged animal. His fear. His panic. I could smell it. And all it did was excite the beast in me. While he bathed, I tried to distract myself—tried being the fucking keyword. My eyes kept flicking toward the broken door I’d shattered in a fit of rage. Yeah, I could’ve left it like that as a reminder, but something about him made me... fix it. I slammed it back in place, wedging it into its frame just enough so it’d hold—barely. A good push and it would fall again. Just like the pathetic illusion of control he thought he had over me. I should’ve left. I should’ve gone. But instead, I found myself drifting back to his room like a shadow on autopilot, like a beast that hadn’t finished its kill. I paced, I sat, I cursed under my breath. What the hell was taking him so long? "You better be planning to get out of the fucking bathroom right about now, or I will drag you out myself!" I roared at the door, my patience gone, ripped from me by his scent, his defiance, his everything. Two fucking minutes passed. Then the door creaked open. And what do I see? Not a towel wrapped low on his hips, dripping wet skin glistening like a goddamn tease. Not a new set of clothes, clean and free of her scent like I told him, a fresh change of those oversized, shapeless rags he called clothes. But no. No. He stepped out drenched, his hair wet, his face pink from the heat of the water—but he reeked the same. Because he’d pulled on the exact same goddamn clo The motherfucker walked out wearing the same fucking clothes. The same filthy hoodie and sweatpants tainted with her scent. A growl ripped through me, low and primal. No shame. No respect. No understanding of the line he just crossed. Like he thought capturing my attention gave him the right to play games with me. Like he thought I wouldn’t follow through. That I wouldn’t snap. My wolf growled in my chest, claws itching just beneath the surface of my skin, screaming to tear the insult right off him. He was supposed to obey. Submit. That was the deal, wasn’t it? And yet, here he was. Still wrapped in filth. Still testing me. Did he think that because he’d managed to crawl under my skin, that because I hadn’t broken him yet, he could play games with me? That he could tempt me, mess with my head, and still parade around like he wasn’t mine? That’s not how this worked. That’s not how I worked. He was mine. He just didn’t know what that meant yet. But he would. Soon. And I was so fucking done being tested. I was beyond livid. The foolish little human had the audacity—the fucking gall—to look at me like I was overreacting. As if he hadn’t just slapped my command in the face. As if slipping back into those filthy clothes wasn’t a deliberate insult. And then—he asked me if I was happy now. Was he trying to die? If it weren’t for my cursed wolf holding me back—growling low like a chain straining at its final thread—I would’ve already ripped his pretty fucking throat out. "Fine. I’ll fucking get rid of it myself." The words scraped out of me like broken glass. I let the shift take me halfway—just enough. My bones cracked. My fingers twisted into claws, thick and dark, the skin along my knuckles stretching and blackening as fur spilled down my arms. The moment my eyes locked on him, they burned red-hot, feral. This wasn’t about dominance anymore. It was about violation. He had violated me, my demand, my presence, us. Wearing her scent like some fucking badge. Daring to bring it near me. In my space. On my boy. So I snapped. I grabbed him. My claws slashed through the air, straight for the hoodie. Rip. The fabric tore like paper beneath me—useless threads falling to the floor. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. His struggling only made my grip tighter. My rage deeper. "You love her fucking scent so much you’d wear it again?" I snarled, voice a hybrid of mine and my wolf’s. "Then let’s see if you still love it once I’ve torn every last piece of it from your goddamn body." He squirmed, panicked. Good. Because now he knew. Now he understood what it meant to defy not just a wolf but an Alpha wolf.