Claimed by the Alpha and the Vampire Prince: Masquerading as a Man-Chapter 130: Last Days Together

CLARK POV:

After I finished messing with the CCTV footage—giving Clare a vague, manly silhouette and trimming anything that could link her to the late-night beatdown at Bull’s Eye Club—I picked up my phone and sent a quick text to Sara.

"Hey, sorry I won’t be able to chat tonight. Something came up. Talk soon."

She was cool and easy to talk to, and we’d kind of made it a habit to text each evening. But tonight? It was Clare Night. And when Clare was in one of her post-fight clingy moods, there were rules—unspoken but ironclad. No texting anyone, especially not girls. Not because she actually cared who I talked to. No. It was more like she’d catch a glimpse of my phone, see me smiling at a screen, and suddenly I’d be interrogated like I was hiding state secrets. Not because I had anything to hide, but because Clare had a special radar for these things. If she so much as suspected I was talking to someone, she’d immediately start teasing me into oblivion.

And if she found out about Sara?

God help me.

She’d never let me live it down. The jokes would never end. "You sure it’s not some fat, 50-year-old dude named Steve with a hairy chest pretending to be a teenage girl?" Yeah, that was her default response to anything online-friend related. She was convinced everyone on the internet was secretly a creep. Then she’d hit me with fake concern—"Clark, sweetie, you’re just so naïve, I swear you’d fall for a potato if it had Wi-Fi." So yeah... no thank you. I couldn’t even blame her. Clare was Clare—paranoid, protective, a little unhinged... but mine.

So yeah, for now, Sara was my little secret.

By the time I finished up with the last adjustments to the footage and triple-checked that Clare couldn’t be identified as the "mysterious attacker," she had already devoured the snacks I brought and was curled up under my blanket like she paid rent in my room. She was scrolling through movies, probably hunting for one of her creepy, horror-fantasy favorites. Sure enough, she settled on Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters—the darker, action-packed Brothers Grimm version.

She always liked that one. Said it reminded her of us.

"We’re the reverse Hansel and Gretel," she once told me. "Except I’m the smart, cool, kickass sister, and you’re the goofy tagalong brother who carries the emotional baggage."

Thanks, sis. Except in our case, I was the smart one, and she was the hurricane in combat boots.

Somewhere between the fifth and sixth Chapter of the movie, she passed out—head half on my shoulder, one arm slung across my chest, bandaged knuckles resting like she’d fought a dragon instead of just Jason. She was clinging to me like a toddler to a teddy bear.

I sighed. Yeah, sleeping with Clare was always a mess.

She hogged the blankets, snored when overly tired, and had a tendency to kick me if I moved too much. She mumbles weird stuff in her sleep—usually about bikes, food, or fictional characters she wants to fight. But tonight? I didn’t really mind. The cold war was over. The storm had passed. And honestly, having her next to me—even if it meant risking a bruised rib or two—felt comforting.

Besides, now that she was asleep in my bed, I had the ultimate upper hand.

Usually, she locked her bedroom door tight, especially when I tried waking her up early for school. I’d end up knocking like a deranged monkey for ten minutes while she ignored me, or worse, fell back asleep. But now? Oh, now she was in my territory. No locked door. No escape. Tomorrow morning, I was going to wake her up by pushing her off the bed. Maybe even pour cold water if I felt extra dramatic.

I turned off my phone, set it on the bedside table, and glanced at her one last time. Her hair was a wild mess over her face, and she had her ridiculous favorite pillow clutched tight under her chin—the same one she claimed gave her "good dreams." Honestly, it looked like it belonged in a museum exhibit titled ’Survived Childhood, Barely.’

I smiled quietly.

As annoying as she could be, she was still my other half. My chaos. My constant.

But that’s also what made everything feel heavier tonight.

Because if I got into Memoville University—and I planned to—I’d be leaving. Really leaving. A whole country away. No more twin sleepovers. No more insane bike rides. No more tackling her out of janitor closets or hacking security systems to keep her out of detention.

And if she stuck to her "I’m not going to college" nonsense, this could be the beginning of the end for our crazy, inseparable dynamic.

It kind of hit me then, lying there with her snoring softly beside me—how much I was going to miss this. The bickering. The weird movie nights. Her barging into my room like she owned it. As annoying as it was sometimes, it had always been us. Me and Clare. Team Disaster.

And the truth? I didn’t want to go through life without my other half.

But what could I do?

The thought pulled something tight in my chest.

I shifted closer, letting her rest her head more comfortably on my shoulder. Even if she was a blanket thief and serial elbow-jabber in her sleep, I’d miss this. Miss her.

So for now, I let her cling to me like a human octopus with a black belt in chaos. And I closed my eyes with one last promise in mind:

Come morning, I was pushing her off the bed. That was non-negotiable.

But deep down, I also knew... I’d do whatever it took to make sure we didn’t end up in separate worlds.

Even if that meant dragging her into college one bat-swinging, snack-hoarding step at a time.

She grumbled something incoherent and turned over, planting a foot squarely in my ribs.

Charming.

Still, there was a tiny bit of satisfaction in knowing I’d get to wake her up early tomorrow. She always locks her door to avoid my wake-up ambushes—turns her room into Fort Knox. But now? She was defenseless. One good push and boom—sweet revenge.

I smiled at the thought and closed my eyes.

Yeah. I’d miss her like crazy.

But for now, I had one more night with her by my side. And that was enough.