Chapter 65: Nice Wolfie?

Chapter 65: Nice Wolfie? Clare POV: I left those two jerks behind like a queen exiting a warzone — no backward glances, no second thoughts. If they wanted to rip each other apart, fine by me. Hell, they could burn the whole damn house down and I wouldn’t bat an eye, so long as they didn’t drag me back into their testosterone-fueled circus. My uterus had already thrown a riot. I didn’t need two supernatural clowns joining the parade. Did I maybe overdo it with the insults? Yeah. Possibly. Did I care? Not in the slightest. I’m not saying yelling at a werewolf and a vampire was smart — it was absolutely not — but you know what else isn’t smart? Having your insides feel like they’re being clawed out and still being expected to smile and play nice. Screw that. So yeah, call it bravery, call it stupidity, call it a hormonal-fueled meltdown. I call it my breaking point. And I’d earned it. I didn’t even bother going back to the bedroom. For one, I was about 99.9% sure those two hadn’t lifted a damn finger to clean up the mess — the room was probably still a horror scene of shattered glass, splintered wood, and leftover testosterone. And two, I was not about to risk cutting myself on something sharp and dying a dramatic, tragic death while already bleeding out of my uterus. That would be peak Clare luck. So, plan B: makeshift heating pad. I filled a bottle with hot water, hugged it to my stomach like it was my firstborn, and crashed onto the couch. The second that heat hit my cramping belly? Bliss. Almost orgasmic. My whole body sighed. If I could have married that damn bottle, I would’ve. No way in hell I was getting up again. I’d built myself a little blanket nest. I had warmth, silence, and distance from the supernatural mess upstairs. What more could a girl want? And anyone who dares call me lazy? I dare them — dare them — to experience their own organs twisting into knots while keeping a straight face. You try not turning into a fire-breathing dragon when your insides are waging war. Nope. I was staying right here. The bedroom was enemy territory now. The living room was my kingdom. The heating pad my loyal subject. And those two dangerous, broody, bickering immortals? They could sort their own damn mess out. If they had a shred of guilt — which I highly doubted — maybe they’d realize I’d literally bled for their nonsense. But I wasn’t holding my breath. Now, if only I had snacks. Or painkillers. Or a flamethrower, just in case they decided to come downstairs again. I don’t know how long I was out — could’ve been minutes, could’ve been years — all I know is I woke up to the most obnoxious, earth-shattering, rage-inducing pounding on the front door. The kind that makes you question if the person on the other side is using their fist or trying to bulldoze their way in with a sledgehammer. My eyes barely blinked open before the chaos decided to hit play again. The second I registered consciousness, the stupid cramps began. And yes — I mean that level of stupid. The supernatural flavor. My personal brand of hell. Who the stupid fuck? I couldn’t even be bothered to guess. One of the two overgrown mutts from upstairs? A new monster to add to my collector’s edition of emotional trauma? Hell if I knew. My heating pad — my precious, soul-soothing bottle of comfort — had gone cold. Just like my patience. Just like my will to live. The pounding continued. Like, whoever it was clearly had the IQ of wet toast and hadn’t registered that my door was hanging on by trauma and rusty hinges. I didn’t remember locking it. I never lock it. Mostly because it’s broken. Like me. "OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, IT AIN’T LOCKED!" I screamed from the couch, not even opening my eyes. My voice came out hoarse, demon-possessed levels of irritated. I wasn’t moving. Not for god, not for Satan, and definitely not for some idiot knocking like I owed them rent. Then — because the universe is a stand-up comedian and I’m the punchline — in comes Reed. Of course. Because my life wasn’t chaotic enough. He barged in like a horror movie killer in the third act, all dramatic and intense, holding a carrier bag like it was some kind of sacred artifact. For a second I thought it might actually be a weapon. Some twisted vampire-werewolf version of a medieval torture kit. I even raised a brow like, Cool. Guess we’re ending it now. Honestly, I’m not even mad. He could’ve just used his claws though. Way faster. Cleaner. Less melodramatic. I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just lay there in my blanket cocoon, watching him like a woman already too dead inside to run. Maybe it was snacks in the bag. Maybe it was Midol and a chocolate bar and a weighted blanket. But knowing Reed? Nah. Probably some "I’m too macho to understand periods" potion or a raw steak or something equally unhelpful. Whatever. Let the chaos begin — again. To my surprise — and trust me, surprise is putting it lightly — Reed actually walked toward the couch. The couch. Where I was still curled up like a human sushi roll, clutching a lukewarm bottle of water like it was the last shred of sanity I had left. He stood there, looming, like a confused werewolf who didn’t know whether to fight, flee, or offer you soup. "How you feeling?" I blinked. Once. Twice. Did he really just— Oh, he did. Seriously? Okay, listen. There needs to be a class. A manual. A full-blown educational summit on What Not to Ask a Girl During Her Period: 101. Chapter one — Don’t ask her how she’s feeling. Because the answer is somewhere between "like death warmed over" and "like a small demon is hosting a knife fight in my uterus." But say any of that out loud and suddenly you’re the "emotional" one. So no. I didn’t answer. Because what would have come out of my mouth would either get me killed, cursed, or kicked out of the supernatural witness protection program I apparently need now. Instead, I just stared at him like he had just asked if I wanted to go for a jog in the middle of a monsoon. Then, to add to my growing list of plot twists, he dropped the bag he was holding beside me and said, "Got you something that might help." Wait. What? He began pulling things out one by one, naming them aloud like he was reading ingredients off some potion list. "Painkillers... chocolate... tea... heating pad..." My eyes zeroed in. Heating pad. Now that’s the magic word. Without even thinking, I reached out and snatched it from his hand like Gollum grabbing the One Ring. My precious. As the warmth from the pad began to settle over my aching stomach, I let out a sigh that was part relief, part maybe he’s not a complete idiot after all. Okay. I take it back. He isn’t as clueless as I pegged him to be. Still annoying. Still broody. Still probably going to ruin something again in approximately 3... 2... But for now? Warmth. Sweet, blessed, glorious warmth. He gets a pass. A small one. A tiny, microscopic, don’t-get-too-comfy pass. But even with the heating pad working its cozy little magic and my cramping uterus momentarily behaving itself, I couldn’t help the gnawing in my gut that wasn’t entirely from pain. I stayed curled on the couch, eyes half-lidded, pretending like I was drifting off or maybe too tired to talk — but my brain? Oh no, it was running a whole-ass marathon. Because why the hell was Reed suddenly being nice to me? I mean, this was the same guy who was pacing like a deranged wolf in labor just hours ago, who looked like he was about to rip Blaze’s undead head off, and who generally had all the emotional range of a wet sock. And now? He was bringing me stuff, asking how I felt (okay, poorly timed, but still), and standing there awkwardly like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Was this... guilt? Pity? Or worse — was he just waiting until I felt a little better before unleashing some slow-burn werewolf revenge for embarrassing him? Because let’s be honest: from his perspective, this whole thing must’ve been one colossal mindfuck. He thought I was a dude for God knows how long. He flirted with me, more like forced himself on me. Teased me, more like choke gripped me. Got close. Hell, mouth fucked me — and all that time, thinking I was a guy. And now? Now he knew I wasn’t. I was a girl. Surprise. And that, in my paranoid, cramp-fueled state, was where my mind decided to pitch a goddamn tent and camp. Was he disgusted? Angry? Regretting everything? Was this weird passive kindness just the false calm before he decided to rip me a new one? Metaphorically. Hopefully. I mean... I don’t know how it works with wolves or, hell, even gays — I didn’t grow up in the most open-minded part of the supernatural world, okay? So was it, like, some huge disgrace to get hot and heavy with someone only to find out you were barking up the wrong gender tree? Was he mad at me? God. My stomach twisted — not just from the cramps now but from the anxiety curling like a second, more annoying uterus in my chest. One with insecurity cramps. I pulled the heating pad tighter to my belly and glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He looked... conflicted. But not angry. Not like that. Not violent. Just... brooding. Maybe even a little lost. Whatever it was — I didn’t know how to read it. I didn’t trust it. I didn’t trust him. And honestly? I wasn’t sure which one of us was more messed up by this.