Lahat ng Kabanata ng Till The End of The World : Kabanata 21 - Kabanata 30

CLARA. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?!” “Oh, relax!” I snap. “I'm not fucking dead!” I spin toward him so fast my hair whips across my face. I'm already furious, already overwhelmed. My ears are still ringing from all the screaming downstairs, from bowls shattering against walls, from an entire kitchen full of people looking at me like I'd personally crawled out of a sewer and sat at their table. “Relax?!” The word slams into me hard enough that I actually blink. Did he just yell at me? Evan never raises his voice. Ever. Not when I'm being difficult. Not when I'm actively making his job harder. Not even when I climbed out of his favourite bloody window. But right now he looks one bad decision away from strangling me. His chest rises beneath his white shirt, controlled, restrained, like he's forcing himself to breathe before doing something he'll regret. His jaw is set tight and his eyes— Fuck. They're...they're bloodshot, filled with anger. He's not only angry, he'

CLARA. "I’m sorry.” Huh. My eyes snap open before I can stop them. “…Sorry?” I repeat immediately, because the word itself is suspicious. Did he say that? Really? “Is this a new tactic?” I ask hoarsely. “I have to say, it’s a weird follow-up to ‘you’re selfish and people are going to die because of you.’” No words. He just stands there in front of me while I sit on the bed, and I'm too exhausted or too lazy to even lift my head and look at his face. So I stick with his boots and honestly, both give me the same reaction anyway. Then suddenly he moves. One second I'm staring at the boots, the next his face is right there as he crouches in front of me. The fuck? "What are you doing?!" I yell, voice barely recognisable, like my throat’s been dragged through a snowstorm and left there. “Look at me,” he demands. No. “Look at me,” he says again, softer now. I exhale through my nose, then do it anyway, but barely. "There," I mutter. "Happy?" "No." The answer comes so quickl

CLARA. “Ah… anything I can help with?” I ask, and it comes out slightly more awkward than I intended. The kitchen freezes. Again. For fuck’s sake. Do these people have an off button every time I speak? At this rate they're never finishing that ridiculous dinner menu. Half the palace will die of old age before the roasted whatever-the-fuck reaches the table. Martha blinks once. Then twice. Not dramatic or rude, just the sort of blink that says her brain has run directly into a wall. To be fair, mine too. For a second she simply stands there, one hand resting on the preparation table while three people wait for instructions behind her. Ah. Give the poor woman a break. “Help with what?” she asks carefully, and somehow she manages to sound professionally confused. I gesture vaguely at the entire kitchen. “Any of it.” Not the dishes though. Martha just keeps staring and I think I've accidentally unplugged her. Somewhere behind me a pot continues boiling away and

CLARA. Then his eyes land fully on me. “…Explain.” And just like that, the good mood I'd been enjoying for the last five minutes packs its bags and leaves. Well, here comes my bad luck. He’s still standing in the doorway with one hand on the handle, somehow taking up too much space for one person. He's in a blue button down shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark navy blue trousers and no blazer. Huh. A few strands of dark hair have escaped whatever expensive gel he usually uses to keep them in place. Either he's had a bad day or Emma had, and considering he came through that door like it insulted his entire bloodline, and the little show I put up this morning, I'm blaming Emma. Honestly, the woman deserves a raise. Several raises. And maybe a vacation with my husband? Who currently is looking at me with eyes that are blacker than black, before his gaze shifts to Evan, then back at me. He steps inside, boots striking the floor in slow, measured steps before stop

ALARIC.Smoke curls through the office as I drag a long puff from my cigarette, watching it disappear toward the ceiling.The report sitting on top of my desk has already irritated me twice, and I've only read it once.Stefan Vance.The cancellation notice lies open beneath my hand, professionally written, carefully worded, and completely useless.No explanation worth mentioning. No attempt to renegotiate. No room for discussion.Just a refusal.Most humans are smart enough to understand that declining the Alpha King's proposal requires a certain amount of tact.Stefan apparently disagrees.I lean back in my chair andtoss the report aside. The paper slides across the desk, disappearing beneath a stack of council documents waiting for my attention.Arrogant. Not because he refused, but because he clearly doesn't care whether the refusal offends me or not.The old Vance would've called. He would've explained. He would've spent an hour trying to preserve the relationship.Stefan sent a