Chapter 10

Prue

I was grumpier than usual this morning, which made me mentally pause and wonder – was my period coming soon? I opened the app I use to track my cycle. Nope. Still a week to go. So much for that theory. Maybe it was just one of those delightful hormonal curveballs my body liked to throw now and then. Fun fact: being a female is such a joy. Please note the sarcasm.

Honestly, if guys had to deal with periods, they’d probably off themselves after six months. Between the mood swings, bleeding, cravings, and the occasional emotional meltdown, I sometimes wondered if womanhood was some kind of punishment for sins from a past life. And if that theory held any water, I was more than ready to drop to my knees and beg the universe for forgiveness – anything to get my uterus to quit its monthly tantrums.

Still, I couldn’t complain too much. I didn’t have cramps or a heavy flow like some girls I knew. Back at my last school, there was one girl who basically went into hiding the first three days of her period. She practically lived in the bathroom or shower – said it was like someone opened a faucet. I always wondered… has any woman ever actually died from period blood loss? Morbid curiosity, I guess.

Anyway – why the hell was I spiraling into period talk at 7 a.m.? Right. I was in a foul mood.

By the time I reached the school gates, that heavy, restless feeling had only gotten worse. Like my gut was whispering that something awful was about to go down – I just didn’t know what. Again.

Was one of the teachers planning a pop quiz I hadn’t studied for? No, that wouldn’t set off my internal alarm this hard.

Even my wolf’s fur bristled as I crossed the lawn toward the school entrance.

What the actual hell?

Was one of the local werewolves planning to jump me? That would be... new. I scanned the area cautiously, eyes flicking toward the corners of the building, the hedges, even behind the parked cars. No movement. No weird scents. No lurking threats.

Still, I couldn’t shake it. Something was coming. And whatever it was – I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like it.

I was just stepping onto the stairs, hand outstretched to pull the school doors open, when something cold and shocking drenched me from above. A sudden splash – like a bucket of icy water – hit me square in the head and shoulders, stealing my breath in an instant. I gasped, stumbling back as the cold soaked straight through my clothes.

Around me, students jumped away, gasping and muttering. A few choked back laughter, while others just stared. The surrounding echoed with surprised noises until I heard it – low chuckling from above.

And then, just when I thought the humiliation was over, something soft plopped onto me from the same direction. A thick, gloopy mass oozed down my hair, across my shoulders, and splattered onto my chest and backpack.

Flour. Freaking white flour.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," I hissed, spitting the wet flour from my mouth.

I stood frozen, drenched and heavy with the sticky mess, trying to process the chaos. Bits of it slid down my arms and splashed onto the steps, leaving a slimy trail behind. My skin prickled from the cold, but worse – so much worse – was the heat rising from my chest.

I knew that laugh. Even muffled by distance, I knew exactly who it belonged to. Tom. Of course it was Tom.

I looked up just in time to see heads ducking away from a second-floor window. More laughter echoed deeper into the building as the perpetrators made their escape.

Anger surged through me like a live wire. My hands clenched, but the flour clung to my fingers, smearing as I tried to wipe it off. The more I shook myself, the more it just... stuck. It was all over me – my hair, my face, my clothes. The wetness made it cling like second skin.

I rubbed my face vigorously just to breathe properly and clear the gunk from my eyes. It felt like someone had dumped pancake batter on my head and said, “Good luck, sucker.”

God, it was disgusting. Sticky, cold, and public.

Tom was going to pay for this. Hard. Loud. And merciless.

Oh, I was going to bring him to his knees – breathless, humiliated, gasping for life. His public image? Shattered. Ruined. Just wait.

I tried to scrape the dough off my clothes, but it only clumped further, sticking to every fiber, turning into a slimy paste that made me scream out in raw frustration.

Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes – hot and angry. I’d been through messes, but no one had ever dared to pull something this next-level deranged. This wasn’t just a prank. This was war.

Spinning on my heel, I stormed toward the sports hall. There was only one place that might help me peel this crap off my skin: the girls' showers. I ignored every stare, every muffled snicker and whispered comment as I passed. Let them gawk. Let them watch. I didn’t care. Right now, I was pure, vibrating rage.

I shoved open the locker room door, tossed my bag to the floor, and marched straight into the showers – clothes and all. No time to undress, no time to think. I turned on the first faucet full blast. Cold water hit me like a slap, but I welcomed it. Maybe it would numb the humiliation.

I scrubbed at my clothes with furious speed, calling on every bit of wolfen strength I had – but it didn’t help. The dough was too thick, too embedded. I yanked my sticky shirt over my head and peeled off the rest of my clothes, chucking the mess into a soggy pile on the tile. I tried scrubbing my body clean, but the worst part? My hair.

Someone had left a bottle of cheap shampoo in the corner, and I attacked my head like a wild animal. But no matter how much I lathered, rinsed, repeated, the dough clung like a curse. My fingers kept getting stuck in the clumps. My scalp ached.

“AHHHH!” I screamed, pounding the wall with my fist.

“What the hell am I supposed to do?!”

I looked around the shower room in desperation, my eyes scanning for inspiration – anything. Then I glanced at the space around me. The shower area was big enough. Without a second thought, I shifted. My wolf sprang out in an instant, shaking her fur aggressively, flinging bits of dough across the tiles.

Then, just as fast, I shifted back. I wasn’t going to risk anyone catching me mid-transformation. I ran my hands through my hair, hopeful.

Nope. The dough hadn’t magically disappeared. But the shift had helped – some of it had disappeared. Progress.

“Fu.ck,” I cursed under my breath, half-laughing now, half-choking on helplessness.

I stood there, dripping, and angry, forcing myself to breathe. Damn it, I’ve never felt this helpless before. Okay – breathe. Just breathe. I forced myself to inhale slowly, steadying the panic clawing at my chest. In. Out. Focus.

Think. There has to be a way out of this.

I needed a plan.

First, I had to get home. My hair needed serious treatment. And I needed help – AI style.

I stared down at the soggy, dough-crusted mess on the floor that used to be my clothes.

Fantastic. Just… perfect. There was no way I could walk around in that disaster. I probably couldn’t even squeeze back into my soaked jeans if I tried.

I poked my head out, hoping to spot some forgotten clothes lying around. Nothing. Not even a crusty gym towel.

Still naked, I darted to the lockers and ripped them open one by one until I found something usable: a small, old t-shirt and a pair of oversized, stinky gym shorts. It smelled like someone’s forgotten P.E. memories, but I was desperate. I yanked them on over my damp body and glanced in the mirror. Nipples showing through the thin cotton. Lovely.

Whatever. Couldn’t care less.

I looked at the ruined heap of my original outfit and sighed. With a reluctant heart, I dumped them into the trash. I liked those jeans and that tee, but let’s be real – there was no saving them. Dry cleaning would cost more than their actual worth, and I wasn’t about to pay a ransom for ruined denim.

With my soaked sneakers and still-doughy backpack, I took off running. I didn’t care how it looked. My wolf's blood fueled me, and I must’ve looked like an Olympic sprinter to any poor soul I passed. I slammed through the front door of my house and charged up the stairs straight to the bathroom.

I dropped my backpack carefully on the sink – no more spreading this disaster. Then, I grabbed my phone and typed: "How to get raw dough out of hair."

Top answer? Olive or coconut oil together with fine-tooth comb.

Oh. Hell yes.

I ran downstairs stark naked, thankful my dad wasn’t home, and snatched the olive oil from the pantry as I didn’t have coconut oil. Back upstairs, I went to work – coating my scalp, massaging it through the strands, working section by section. Then rinse. Shampoo. Repeat. Twice. Three times.

Finally, I reached for a fine-tooth comb and began the painstaking process of dragging out the clumps. Slowly, one by one, the dough surrendered. When my hair dried, I used my wolf’s natural speed to shake it out. More little crumbs flew off. One last comb-through. Gone. I stared in the mirror. My hair looked good again. Maybe even better than before.

I collapsed onto my bed, exhausted. Two hours. It took me two freaking hours to recover from that mess.

Tom... oh, Tom. You have no idea the storm you just invited into your life.

I lay there, plotting. Turning over revenge ideas in my mind like tarot cards. One was too tame. Another, too dangerous even for me. But eventually – oh, eventually – I landed on the one. A delicious plan. Risky, theatrical, just the right amount of psychological torture.

Now, I just needed to gather a few details, prep the stage, learn my lines. Give it a week.

And Tom? You’ll wish you never looked in my direction. No one treats me like this and walks away unscathed. Tom was truly dumb to come for me – and now, I’ll be the nightmare that wrecks his silly little world.

You poked the wolf. Now the wolf bites back.

The only question still quietly nagging at the back of my mind was – why did he start picking on me in the first place?