Chapter 93: Strip (ii)

Chapter 93: Strip (ii) CLARE — POV He bent down again, clearly ready to scoop me up like I was some damsel in distress out of a gothic fairytale, but this time I wasn’t having it. "Nope," I said quickly, turning on my heel—or, well, limping slightly to the side with my not-so-cooperative ankle. "I’m still on my periods and currently bleeding, and since I don’t have anything beneath me..." I gestured vaguely to the oversized shirt clinging to my damp skin, "I might get the stain on you." He paused, blinking once as he looked up at me—expression puzzled at first, like the math wasn’t mathing in his head. Then realization hit, and slowly, that wicked, soul-devouring grin stretched across his face. "The thought of you wearing absolutely nothing under my shirt is... exhilarating," he said, voice low, smug, and so goddamn pleased with himself I wanted to slap him with a pinecone. I stared at him. "Huh? That’s what you took from what I said?" He arched an eyebrow, completely unbothered. "Was there something else I was supposed to focus on?" "Are you sane?" I demanded, stepping back again and narrowing my eyes. It wasn’t a rhetorical question. I genuinely needed to know. Ever since I stepped foot on this cursed stretch of land, it’s been one nonstop horror show. I’d been kidnapped, chased, caged, hunted like a rabbit, and now carried around by a snarky, emotionally questionable vampire with a hero complex and a flair for dramatic entrances. The odds that he was just another unhinged addition to my growing list of supernatural headaches felt dangerously high. He chuckled—chuckled—like I’d just asked him if the sky was blue. "Ah, little pet. You should know the answer to that by now." "You mean yes, right? That was a yes?" I asked, just to clarify. He ignored me, his gaze sweeping over me with the kind of casual amusement only someone who’s seen centuries of chaos could afford. Then he tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming faintly with something unreadable. "And as for the blood..." he took a slow step toward me, "Vampires aren’t afraid of a little blood." "Correction," I said quickly, stepping back, "humans are—especially when it’s dripping down their legs and the only person around is someone who once said they’d like the taste of their blood." He smirked, and in a blink, he was in front of me again. Before I could protest, dodge, or start another sarcastic monologue about bodily autonomy and predatory habits, he lifted me up—again—like I weighed nothing. One arm under my knees, the other at my back. Cradled like a bride, like I was fragile glass and not a stubborn, half-soaked woman who had been through hell in the past twenty-four hours. His chest was bare, cold, and annoyingly solid beneath me. I couldn’t even blame the chill anymore—my cheeks were flushed for entirely different reasons now. "I told you I’m still bleeding!" I groaned, half-mortified, half-defiant. "And I told you," he said calmly, voice brushing against my ear like silk and danger, "I don’t care." I opened my mouth, then closed it. Because what do you say to that? "Great. Just great. Another boundary enthusiast," I muttered under my breath. "Is that sarcasm?" he asked innocently. "Dripping with it. Like my leg." He laughed, and it was honestly unfair how deep and beautiful it sounded. I hated that part. Not the laugh itself, but that it warmed something in me when I should’ve been stabbing him with a stick. We moved in silence after that, his boots crunching against the forest floor, the trees blurring past as he carried me deeper into the unknown like it was the most natural thing in the world. Occasionally, I could feel the rumble of a growl in his chest—not directed at me, but at something distant. Something he was listening for. I peeked up at him. His face was stone, unreadable. But there was tension in the set of his jaw, in the way his fingers occasionally flexed under me, like he was holding back the urge to rip something apart. A predator on edge. "You know," I said eventually, just to break the silence and maybe soothe the knot of nerves still coiled in my chest, and get away from his chest which was making my mind run wild "you could’ve just given me a ride on your back or something. Piggyback. Less intimate, less... vampirey." His eyes flicked down to meet mine. "I don’t carry anyone on my back, Clare," he said, and my name rolled off his tongue like a secret he wasn’t supposed to know. "But I will carry you—because whether you like it or not, you’re mine to protect." I blinked at him, stunned by the intensity of it. The way he said "mine" wasn’t possessive like the wolves. It wasn’t about ownership. It was something else. Something older, deeper, more terrifying. Protection? be my guest. "Okay," I whispered, because honestly, what else could I say? He looked forward again. "Besides, you smell slightly less like wet mutt now. It’s tolerable." "Oh, well thank you," I said with heavy sarcasm. "Your approval means so much to me, Prince Fangface." He chuckled again, and despite everything—the bruises, the pain, the damp shirt clinging to me, the fact that I was being carried through a forest by a vampire—I felt... safe. Not comfortable. Not at ease. But safe. And I wasn’t sure what scared me more—how fiercely he fought to protect me, or how much I was starting to trust him for it. BLAZE — POV One moment, she was cursing me under her breath like I’d dragged her to hell myself—which, to be fair, isn’t an unreasonable assumption—and the next, she was standing there, soaked, shivering, lips blue, glaring daggers at me like I was the villain in her personal horror film. Honestly, it was almost cute. Almost. But then she said it. Loud enough for me to hear with my enhanced hearing, even though she clearly didn’t intend me to: "Honestly, I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to slap him or... yeah, no. Slap him. Definitely slap him." My lips twitched. A slap? She wanted to slap me ? The little human had claws after all. But she didn’t raise her hand. Smart girl. You don’t go around slapping vampires who just scaled cliffs and evaded death squads to save your fragile mortal life. Instead, she did something unexpected. She changed the topic. "Since when do vampires know about hypothermia?" she asked, arms crossed, voice snarky and defiant, even if she was visibly shaking. "Aren’t you like... an ice block?" I gave her a slow, dark smile. "Don’t change the topic, pet," I said. "It’s either you strip, or I won’t mind helping you do it myself." She went rigid. Her eyes widened as I took a step toward her. She threw up a hand between us. "Wait!" The wind picked up, cutting through the trees like icy fingers. Her teeth clattered in rhythm. Adorable. "At least... give me your shirt," she said, voice small but firm. "Huh." I tilted my head. "Disappointing, but... okay. Can’t exactly trust myself carrying you around while you’re naked." I started undoing the buttons of my shirt, slowly, letting the cold air hit my bare chest with indifference. My kind didn’t care for temperature. But I knew she’d notice. Her eyes flicked to me, wide, and then away—face blooming crimson. I smirked. "Like what you see?" That snapped her out of her daze. She snatched the shirt from my hand like it might burn her and turned her back to me, fingers fumbling to undress. I turned away, giving her a moment, but not without amusement. "Turn around!" she suddenly shouted. I turned back with a single brow raised, amused. "You forget, little pet," I murmured, voice like velvet and warning. "I’ve seen it. Tasted it already." Her entire body practically vibrated with indignation. "Arrgh, just fucking turn around!" I made a sound of theatrical complaint. "But you watched me." She stared at me like I’d just eaten her favorite puppy. "The actual fuck?" she snapped. "You’re a vampire. You’ve got to be, what—a century old? And you’re acting like a three-year-old who just discovered boobs!" I chuckled. Oh, the irony. She had no idea. "I turned away," she huffed, "plus you’re a guy. It’s just your stupid chest." I tsked under my breath, finally turning away to give her the moment she wanted. "Okay, okay. Modesty wins." Behind me, I heard the squelch of wet clothing, the rustle of fabric as she changed into my shirt. It would be big on her—hang off her shoulders, drop past her thighs—but the idea of her wearing my scent instead of that mutt’s made something dark and possessive curl inside me. Let Reed smell that. Let them all smell it. My name. My scent. My claim. She wasn’t marked—not yet. Not fully. But this was close. And my control... it was wearing thin. Still, I held my place. Back to her. Because despite everything, I wasn’t here to seduce her. I wasn’t here to win her over with charm or threats. I was here because she was mine. And I don’t share. "You decent?" I asked finally, not turning until she answered. "Yeah," came her grudging voice. "Though your shirt smells like graveyard and... pine?" "That’s the scent of surviving the night," I said, turning to face her. She was standing there, arms folded across her chest, glaring at me with all the fire she could muster from that small, shivering frame. My shirt hung off her like a robe, sleeves swallowed her hands. She looked like trouble. And mine. I took a slow step toward her. "Don’t get any ideas," she said quickly, backing up a bit. "I have many ideas," I replied smoothly. "Unfortunately, most of them involve silencing your mouth... in more ways than one." Her face went red. I stopped in front of her and reached out, brushing a wet strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger on her cheek just long enough for her to stiffen. Then I stepped back. "Come on," I said, all humor gone. "We need to keep moving." Her lips twitched into something that might’ve been the beginning of a smile. "Still a better gentleman than the stupid wolves," she muttered. I froze for a fraction of a second, the mention of them cutting through the moment like a blade. But I said nothing. Because she didn’t need to know how close I’d come to killing Reed and his entire species for ever touching her. Even if I fall with them like Samson of the bible....what? I did say I am centuries old. Not yet.