Chapter 11

Prue

I’ve done my homework. For the past week, I’ve tracked Tom like a shadow – eyes on him at school, eyes on him after. I know his routine better than he does. When he trains. When he showers. When his doting parents get home from work and start slicing vegetables like it’s a cooking show. Such a wholesome picture of little loving family.

Only child. Of course he is. Explains that inflated sense of importance he struts around with.

It’s Monday night. Tom’s at basketball practice. His parents have been home for about thirty minutes – chopping, frying, laughing like the world’s still safe. Oh, the perks of wolf senses. Eavesdropping is a breeze when you can hear onions sizzling from a block away.

If you saw me now, you wouldn’t recognize me.

Red, blue, yellow, and purple bruises blot my arms, my legs, even my face. I look like a crime scene had a baby with a Jackson Pollock painting. A rattled, twitchy rainbow. What about superhealing, you ask? Let’s just say I kept my wolf on a strict “hands-off” policy all weekend. She wasn’t allowed to fix anything unless it was life-threatening – or in an awkward spot that didn’t suit the aesthetic.

The training with Dad left me nicely battered. And I made sure not to let those bruises fade. This was method acting at its finest.

At lunch, my girls practically choked on their food when they saw me. I brushed it off: “New martial arts regime with Dad.” They bought it – nerds rarely question anything outside the syllabus. I kept my hood up, my gaze low, avoiding eye contact with teachers. No questions. No attention. Just the way I needed it.

Every time I look down and see all the bruises, I can’t help but laugh. It’s like a little trip down memory lane. I haven’t looked this beat-up since I was fifteen – before my superhealing kicked in. Back then, before we’re strong enough to shift, the wolf starts showing itself in subtle ways: first through whispers in our minds, then sharper eyesight, heightened hearing, and finally – the healing. Mine started talking to me when I was fourteen. It made me weirdly happy. Just me and Dad all the time – it gets lonely. Lone wolves and all that. Lonely lone wolf, I snicker to myself. God, I’m hilarious.

Anyway – focus, Prue.

My eyes look puffy and red, but not from actual crying. It took almost an hour and half with an onion rubbed under my eyes to get them this convincingly bloodshot. The tears sting a little, but hey – beauty is pain. Or in this case, justice is.

I’m trying to dig up the saddest, most terrifying moments of my life – anything to help me slip fully into the role I’m about to play.

I fix my hoodie and tug my sleeves down, practicing the tiny, broken movements, before timidly knocking on the door. Just for effect, I glance nervously over my shoulder, like I’m half-expecting a monster to leap out at me from the bushes.

I hear the door creak open, but I pretend I don’t, keeping my eyes fixed on the street, wide-eyed and jittery, like a spooked deer. The scent hits me a second later – definitely human, and judging by the nervous sweat, I’d bet it’s his father.

“Hello! Can I help you?” A deep voice rumbles from the doorway, startling me like it’s the first sound to pierce a heavy silence. I jerk back, clutching my chest, wide-eyed and gasping like a frightened rabbit.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the man says gently.

I lock eyes with him, my eyes still wide, mouth slightly parted as I struggle to calm my breathing.

“I… no… It- it’s okay. You just startled me,” I stammer, weaving the kind of shaky lie he probably sees right through but chooses to accept out of politeness.

“I’m really sorry I startled you. How can I help you, Miss?” he asks, this time with a warm smile that’s slightly dimmed by the concern in his eyes. Wow. This guy’s got actual manners? How the hell did he end up raising that douchebag? I almost feel bad for him now.

His gaze flicks across my face – lingering just long enough on the bruises on my face to register discomfort. There it is. He noticed.

I glance behind his shoulder, pretending to scan the entryway like something might be lurking. Then I throw a quick look toward the stairs – no movement.

“Is… is Tom home?” I ask hesitantly, letting my voice wobble just enough to match the anxious energy radiating off me. I can feel the sweat collecting in my palms, giving me a solid excuse to nervously wipe them on my shorts.

“No, sweetheart, he’s at practice right now,” he replies gently, his tone already dripping with pity.

God, he’s good. Buying my act like it’s on clearance. I like him. He’s sweet, unsuspecting.

“Oh… I see,” I murmur, adding just the right edge of surprise. I meet his eyes again, trying to project desperation and fragile sadness. My vision blurs a little – tears gathering on cue.

“Would you like to come inside and wait for him?”

He offers kindly, clearly moved by my shaken state. What a sweetheart. Honestly, too nice to be Tom’s dad.

“I… I can come in,” I murmur, letting hesitation color my voice.

He steps aside and opens the door wider, motioning for me to enter. I throw a nervous glance over my shoulder, like I’m half-expecting someone to be tailing me. Then, slowly, I step inside – timid, cautious, my eyes scanning the space as if danger might still be lurking.

“Please, have a seat,” he says, gesturing toward the open-concept living room. I hesitate in the entryway for a beat longer, casting furtive glances at the doors and windows, subtly checking whether they’re locked or cracked open.

“Who is it, honey?”

A soft voice calls out from the kitchen. His wife appears, drying her hands on a dish towel. I peek at her from under my lashes, chewing my lip as I freeze in place like a startled animal.

Her polite smile falters as she takes in my bruised legs.

“She’s one of Tom’s friend, just visiting,” his father said confidently.

I snap my gaze to him, eyes wide.

“N-No, I’m not… not friends with T-Tom,” I stammer with a shake of my head, my voice nervous and uncertain.

His parents exchange a quick glance – the kind that says “If she’s not his friend, then… what is she doing here?”

“Oh… well, come in and have a seat,” his mother says quickly, clearly trying to smooth over the awkward silence.

I glance between them nervously, then take a few hesitant steps toward the loveseat, choosing it over the open sofa. Smaller. Safer.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asks gently.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Maybe just some water?” She offers again, not taking no for an answer.

“…Okay,” I mumble, eyes flicking from her to the floor as she disappears into the kitchen.

Left alone with his father, I pull my sleeves over my hands and start biting my thumb – a nervous tic I haven’t faked in years.

“So, what’s your name?” his dad asks, settling onto the sofa. One arm drapes casually over the backrest, the other resting on his raised knee – a quiet display of authority, or maybe just habit.

I drop my gaze to the floor, shrinking into myself like a frightened snail.

“Grace,” I whisper, careful not to meet his eyes.

Of course, it’s not my real name. It’s my middle name – there’s just something about certain words that shape perception. Grace sounds delicate. Soft. Sympathetic. Something your brain associates with fragility. And today, I need to be all of that.

“So, are you here to wait for Tom, or is there something else you wanted to tell us?” he continues, going straight to the point. No small talk. No wasted time.

I glance at him, unsure. Can I trust him? My eyes flick back to the floor, then scan both sides of the room as if instinctively searching for an escape route.

Right on cue, his wife returns with a glass of water, setting it gently on the side table next to me.

“Thank you,” I murmur, barely lifting my head, watching her from under my lashes.

She settles beside her husband, leaning into the space he’s made for her.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” she asks gently.

I lift my eyes to hers, summoning the pain, the fear – reaching for the darkest corners of my memories to bring real tears to the surface. Her brows knit slightly before her expression melts into sympathy.

“I get the sense you came here with something on your chest,” his father says softly.

“Would you like to share it with us?”

His dad asks gently. Wow, I think. He’s good. Really good. The way he phrases things – just the right amount of warmth, the perfect touch of concern – it’s practically designed to make someone spill their guts.

From what I’ve gathered, he’s a lawyer. He’s definitely got that read-between-the-lines energy.

I glance at him wide-eyed, then flick my gaze to his wife. My eyes dart sideways, then drop back to the floor. My right leg starts bouncing – nervous tick, textbook. I wring my hands in my lap, curling into the role I’m playing like it’s second skin. I have to sell this.

“It’s okay. You can tell us,” Tom’s mom coaxes gently, her voice lined with maternal concern.

I reach for the glass of water and gulp down two big swallows – too big. I choke a little, coughing into my hand as I set the glass back down. Okay, maybe tone that part down next time, I scold myself silently.

My eyes flit across the room again – from their worried faces, to my lap, to the floor, then back to them.

“I… I…”

My voice trembles, and I tip my head back to stare at the ceiling, trying to force the rising tears to stay put. Or better, let them come.

“It’s such a stupid idea…” I mumble, barely audible.

“I…” I clench my eyes shut, whispering inside my own head – Come on, you can do this. Make it real. Feel it. This has to be all in, or it won’t work.

“I thought… before I go to the police, I just…” I glance up at them, my voice barely holding together.

“…wanted to see what kind of parents raised... a monster like Tom.”

The words hang heavy in the air. I cover my mouth with my sleeve, letting a quiet, choked sob slip through as two thick tears trail down my cheeks.

It’s tragic. It’s raw. It’s perfect.

I could practically hear the gears turning in their heads, their parental instincts clashing with confusion and suspicion. But I kept my eyes anywhere but on them – scanning the room, the walls, the floor – anywhere that wasn’t their faces. I was a trembling picture of vulnerability, and I needed them to feel it.

“What exactly are you talking about?”

His father asked carefully, voice even but cautious, as if afraid to trigger a breakdown. I glanced at him briefly, just enough to register his heartbeat spiking. Good – he was nervous. That meant he was paying attention.

“He...”

The word barely made it out of my throat. It was like dragging glass through molasses. My eyes darted again. My leg bounced. My palms twisted together like I was trying to wring out the trauma.

“He...” Still stuck.

“Yes?” His mother leaned in, tone sharper, less patient.

I caught the subtle way her husband placed a hand over hers – steady, measured. Ah, the rational one. He understood I couldn’t be rushed. I almost respected that.

“He was... bullying me,” I finally choked out, my voice cracking just enough to make it real. I let my whole frame shake, like a leaf caught in a storm.

“For some time now... before...” A pause. Deep breath. Then –

“He did this.”

I reached for my hoodie, slowly, deliberately, and peeled it down to reveal the bruising across my cheekbone and jaw. His mother gasped, exactly as I hoped.

“And... this,” I added, lifting the hem on one side of my hoodie to show the deep, violet finger-shaped marks blooming across my ribcage. The bruises from Dad’s perfectly placed training grip. It couldn’t have looked more convincing if I’d planned it with a movie makeup team.

I let the fabric drop and curled back into myself – sleeves pulled down again, arms wrapped tightly around my body like I was trying to hold myself together.

“Why would he do that?” His father’s voice was calm, still collecting data.

He wasn’t about to leap to conclusions. God, I might actually be falling a little bit in love with him.

“He...” I whispered, trying to speak.

“He...” Again, no words came out. My throat closed up, my chest tightened, and I let the silence stretch. Let the discomfort bloom in the room.

“He what?” His mother snapped, irritation breaking through her concern.

Yeah, this one had her son on a pedestal. Golden boy syndrome.

I looked at her, then back down, letting my eyes shimmer with unshed tears. And just like that, they spilled over – perfect, fat drops that slid down my cheeks like I couldn’t hold them back anymore.

“I... I can’t do this,” I whispered, sounding defeated, broken.

“Drink some more water, sweetheart. Take your time.” His father again, so gentle.

He'd definitely dealt with trauma victims before. Maybe even PTSD cases. Impressive. I gave him a nervous glance, then obediently reached for the glass, taking two shaky gulps. A little water dribbled down my chin as I set the glass back, adding to the fragile effect.

“I was at school... walking through the empty hallway...” My voice was a small thread now.

“He jumped me. Pulled me into the janitor’s closet. Said horrible things while he grabbed me. Rough. Mean. I don’t bruise easily, but... he was brutal.”

I hesitated, eyes wide. “And then–”

The door swung open and in walked Tom. Ugh, sh.it. I’d hoped to be finished before he showed up and ruined the performance.

“Honey, you’re home early,” his mother said quickly, springing to her feet.

I bolted up too, panic blossoming across my face as I backed away, eventually pressing myself against the wall like I wished it would swallow me whole. I let my breath come quick and shallow, like I couldn’t handle being in the same space with him.

“What the... What are you doing here?” Tom’s voice rang out at last, sharp and cold. But polite. Huh. Turns out he could fake civility when he tried.

I stared at him, lips parted slightly, my breath catching in my throat. My eyes flicked to his mom, then to his dad, before settling on the door again – my only exit.

“I should go...”

The words slipped out in a whisper, barely audible. My legs twitched, as if torn between fight and flight.

“Wait,” his father said calmly, but with weight behind his voice. “If you could repeat what you just told us – now that Tom is here – so he can share his side of the story...”

“No!” The word burst out of me, sharp and loud, like a whipcrack. I shook my head with force.

Tom blinked, frowning.

“What’s going on?” he asked, tone laced with confusion and something darker. He didn’t like being left out. Or blindsided.

“Would you–” his dad tried again, gesturing gently in my direction.

“No!” I snapped, louder this time. Panic flared in my chest. I glanced between them all, my pulse pounding in my ears.

“Can I then?” his father offered gently, like a seasoned negotiator.

“I... I have to go home.” My voice trembled. I took a couple of steps toward the door, practically pleading for an escape.

“Wait. Stop,” his father said, firm but not harsh. His voice was steady, grounding. “Maybe we can talk about it here, before you go to the police.” The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.

“What police?” Tom barked, eyebrows drawn together. His voice cracked slightly. Too late. The damage was already done.

“Grace came to inform us that you’ve been bullying her,” his father said, turning to him sharply. His eyes pinned Tom in place, searching for tells.

“I... I...” Tom stammered, eyes darting from his dad to me. I could see it clearly now – he hadn’t expected me to rat him out. He looked stunned.

“And that you hurt her,” his father added, gesturing to my bruised face. Tom flinched.

“I didn’t do that!” Tom said quickly, loudly, panicked. Both his parents turned to me then.

I stood there, breathing hard, willing the tears to rise again – to be my shield, my proof, my weapon.

“That’s what you said you’d do!” I cried, voice cracking with emotion. “You said no one would believe me. That you’d deny everything.”

Tom’s face twisted in disbelief.

“You said horrible things. Touched me with your disgusting hands. Put your mouth on me like I was thing not a human being!”

My voice broke completely as I spat out the last words, trembling.

And then I ran.

I bolted through the door like it was on fire, slammed it behind me, and sprinted down the walkway until I could duck behind a bush near the side of the house. My heart thundered in my ears, but I couldn’t leave. Not yet. I had to hear the fallout.

I crouched beneath the window, holding my breath as I listened.

“...she said. You are in big trouble!” his father was saying loud, more furious.

“I didn’t do that, Dad!” Tom shouted back.

“So you didn’t bully her?” his father snapped, voice dripping with disbelief.

“I... I teased her a little, okay? Messed with her. But I didn’t bruise her up like that! I swear! I didn’t lay hands on her like that!”

He sounded desperate. Good.

“You listen to me very carefully, boy,” his father said coldly, his voice like steel. “If she goes to the police, you’re done. You’ll be lucky to avoid jail time.”

“What?!”

Tom shouted while his mother sucked in a sharp, horrified breath.

“I’ve seen cases,” his father began, his voice cutting like a blade, “where teenage girls clearly lied about being assaulted – and those boys still rotted in prison. But this girl?” He paused.

“Even I believed every single word out of her mouth.”

Tom made a choked sound of protest.

“From your reactions, I can tell where she’s exaggerating. But here’s the truth, boy – if she takes this to court, she could convince the devil himself, and you will be wearing an orange jumpsuit before you know it.”

“That’s not possible! I didn’t do anything!” Tom’s voice cracked, a note of desperation bleeding through. I imagined Tom's face pale, his mind spinning.

“Then pray she doesn’t go to the police,” his father said coldly.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” his father continued, voice calm and deadly. “Number one – you will do whatever it takes to make sure she doesn’t file a report. Beg her on your knees, bribe her with diamonds, grovel, I don’t care. But you fix it.

“And,” he added coldly, “Number two – you’re done with public school. From now on, you’re homeschooled. No sports. No after-school freedom. Just tutors drilling your weakest subjects.”

Ohohoho!  I laughed inwardly. This was beautiful. Thank you, Dad. I liked you from the very start.

“What?! Are you kidding me?” Tom exploded.

“You heard me. If my son has time to bully girls for fun, then my son doesn’t belong in public school. Now go to your room.”

“And your gadgets? Gone,” he added. “All of them.”

“What the–”

“I said go to your room!” his father roared, his voice final and unyielding.

A smile spread across my lips as I slinked away from the window, silent as a shadow.

Well, my work here is done. Even I couldn’t have come up with a better punishment than the one his dad just handed down.

Sweet, satisfying sleep was calling me now. I stretched, wincing at the bruise on my side. Yo, bi.tch, heal me already, will ya? I teased my wolf, and we both chuckled in perfect sync.

You shouldn’t have messed with me, Tom. Next time? Think twice.