Chapter 60: Cramps Moods

Chapter 60: Cramps Moods Clare POV: You’d think Reed storming out like some dramatic alpha drama queen would’ve meant peace and quiet. Nope. Not even twenty fucking minutes passed before I heard it— Taptap. The kind of sound that makes horror movie girls go check the window like idiots. And of course, who else would it be? The devil himself. Blaze. The vampire stalker prince with too many daddy issues and the emotional range of a brick. Of course he would come slinking back in like the literal nosferatu he is. Before I could even spin around and scream at him to get lost, bam— Another presence. A darker, more chaotic one bursting in like hell’s own hound. Reed. Of course. Growling at the door like he’s rabid. Eyes yellow and glowing like I’m the chew toy he’s about to maul. And Blaze at the window with his damn red eyes and those fangs out like some dramatic goth mosquito with anger issues. And here I am. On a bed. In a curled ball. Bleeding. Cramps tap dancing on my uterus like they’re auditioning for a Broadway show. Mood in full inferno mode. I’m stuck between a possessed bat and a growling mutt. Like, could the supernatural apocalypse take a damn number and come back never? All I wanted was a hot water bottle, a moment of silence, and maybe a goddamn cookie. Instead? Welcome to Hell: Love Triangle Edition. I swear if one more supernatural idiot tried to lay claim, growl, or even breathe near me, I was going to summon the rage of every period-having woman and bring down divine justice. Oh— Oh shit. I gotta pee. Like right now. So yeah, I peel one eye open, my whole body aching like I just got trampled by a herd of supernatural jackasses (which... honestly, not far off), and I sit up. Don’t look at the bed. Nope. That crime scene is not my business right now. We’re pretending it doesn’t exist. I shuffle past the two still-mid-standoff idiots—one growling like he’s auditioning for Cujo, and the other glowering like a Victorian ghost bride who just got jilted at the altar. "Y’all can kill each other later," I mutter under my breath, clutching my stomach. "Just keep it down." Bathroom. Blessed, glorious, mine. After dealing with the most basic of bodily betrayals, I stare at my reflection for a second. Hair a mess. Eyes half-dead. Still bleeding. Mood: unstable. And that’s when the thought hits me like divine intervention— Hot. Bath. Why the actual hell didn’t I try that before? Instead of sitting there like a passive punching bag in a supernatural cockfight, I could’ve been soaking in sweet, sweet boiling water like a pissed-off raccoon in a spa. I dig through the cabinet. Thank god. Tampons still here. Grab one. Undress. Everything hurts. Lower myself into the tub. Hiss. Steam. Burn. Relief. Heaven. It’s not world peace, but it’s damn close. So yeah, now I’m soaking in this molten lake of sanity, and I’ve left the idiot werewolf and the bloodsucker to fight over whatever delusion they think they’re entitled to. Honestly? Let them. If anyone needs me, I’ll be here, marinating in rage, cramps, and lavender bath salts. This is my villain origin story, and it smells like eucalyptus. There it is. Shuffling. Thuds. A low growl. A loud crack. Yeah, definitely turned physical. I sink a little deeper into the hot bath, letting the water rise to my chin as I stare blankly at the ceiling. The way the echoes bounce through the bathroom tiles makes the chaos outside feel even closer. "Fantastic," I mutter. "Let’s add property damage to the list of today’s blessings." I hear something—someone —get thrown against a wall. Something crashes. Maybe a table? Hopefully not my desk, I still have stuff in there. Hopefully not the window, I’m not freezing for these assholes. I close my eyes and count slowly to ten. Nope. Doesn’t help. I should be panicking. I should be running out in a towel, screaming at them to stop acting like testosterone-poisoned toddlers. But you know what? I just don’t have the energy. I really, really don’t. Not when I’m bleeding. Not when I’m in pain. Not when the only things keeping me from full-on homicide are hot water and peppermint-scented bubble bath. If they break my mirror, though? Or the bathroom door? Then I’m committing war crimes. Let them rip each other apart like two cavemen fighting over a bone. All I ask, all I freaking ask, is that they don’t trash my damn place. Because if I have to mop up blood on top of everything else, I swear to every supernatural god out there, I will go feral. Just give me one night of peace. One damn bath. And then maybe—maybe—I won’t stab one of them with my tampon applicator. After thirty glorious minutes of sweet bath bliss, the water finally goes cold and ruins everything. Of course. I peel myself out of the tub, cold air immediately slapping me back to reality. I rise from my temporary sanctuary, water sloshing around me like it’s disappointed too. I grab a towel, dry off, and stare at the thing on the counter—the wig. That ratty, itchy, identity-consuming mass of lies. Hell. No. That thing’s retired. Let it die in peace. Besides, the two supernatural idiots already know I’m a girl—no need to continue the charade. I wrap myself in my robe and brace myself to face whatever warzone waits outside. And yeah, it’s bad. Like post-apocalyptic battle royale with a side of testosterone soup bad. Reed, half-shifted, yellow eyes blazing, is straddling Blaze, whose claws are fully out and lips slick with blood. From the looks, definitely not his blood. Awesome. They both freeze when I walk in. Reed’s punch hovers in midair like it forgot what gravity was. His eyes slide from my face to my hair—my real hair—the one thing I never let him see. The one thing I kept hidden in wigs and caps. His breath catches. Blaze’s eyes, red and shameless, track down my body like I’m wearing nothing but a glare. He doesn’t even pretend to look away. I don’t care. My uterus is throwing a full-blown rebellion. My room is a disaster zone. And two man-children are bleeding on my floor. Reed looks like he’s been sucker-punched by a rainbow. Blaze looks like I just walked out of his dreams. Their stares slide down, hot and unsettling, even though I’m very much not naked. I’m in a damn robe. Still, from the way Blaze is looking, you’d think I walked in stark naked, glowing under moonlight with rose petals in my hair. I ignore them. I have more important things to deal with. Like my room being a complete disaster. My mirror? Shattered. My bedside table? Flattened. One of them definitely used it as a landing pad. There’s blood on the wall and feathers in the air—where the fuck did feathers even come from? I sigh, stepping over a cracked frame, making a beeline for my wardrobe. Thankfully, it survived the chaos. I pull out a clean pair of panties, sweatpants, and a loose t-shirt. Comfort clothing. My sacred uniform during the monthly blood sacrifice. Comfort first. Survival second. Modesty? Somewhere waaaay down the list. I don’t give a damn if they’re still watching. Let them look. Let them drool. I’m too busy not dying to care. I change like I’ve done this a thousand times—quick, efficient, robe still on while I slide into pants, then off just long enough to pull on the shirt. No show. No performance. Just me, battling cramps and chaos and praying to whatever god exists that I still have a heating pad somewhere in my luggage. From the way their glowing eyes are still tracking my every movement, I’m guessing neither of them has blinked once. I don’t even say anything. Because if I open my mouth right now, it’ll either be a scream or a murder threat. And I’m still trying to decide which would be more satisfying. The glowing eyes? Still locked on. The tension? Still thicker than molasses. But me? I’m just trying to remember if I packed chocolate. Because screw the drama, I’ve got cramps and blood-soaked sheets to handle—and if they’re gonna stand there like stunned gorillas, they better be ready to mop up after themselves. I yank the ruined sheets off with a grunt, roll them into a messy ball, and toss them into the laundry basket like a pissed-off basketball player. Victory: the mattress is clean. Small mercies. The broken mirror glints at me like it’s judging my life choices. Yeah, same. I sidestep the shards barefoot with all the grace of a war-torn ballerina, throw on the fresh sheet, and just when I think I might actually have five uninterrupted seconds to find my heating pad— Boom. Pain. Like, not "ow, cramp," but "congratulations, your uterus is summoning demons again." I double over, clutching my stomach. "Fuuuck—" I freeze, just breathing through it, willing it to pass. One second. Two. Three. Just hold on— Bang. Whoosh. What the— I barely process the sound before there’s movement. Air shifts. And suddenly Blaze is there—right there—at my side like he teleported through hellfire. Apparently, he yeeted Reed off him like a used tissue and zipped over to me the second I bent over. Cool. Totally not creepy. Did he just toss Reed like a salad to get here? His hands hover like he wants to touch me but doesn’t know where or how. Or maybe he’s afraid I’ll break. Like I’m glass instead of just a girl who’s bleeding from her literal womb and still cleaning up after two supernatural toddlers who can’t keep their claws to themselves. "Don’t," I growl between clenched teeth, still hunched like a gremlin mid-exorcism. He ignores me, of course. Because why listen to the human? "Pet," he breathes, voice low, like I’m about to vanish if he blinks too hard. I swear to God if he tries to offer me vampire blood like I’m in some cheesy romance novel, I’m gonna drown him in my heating pad when I find it. Jesus. Somebody bring me chocolate and a hot pad before these two idiots decide to play tug-of-war with me.