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Lahat ng Kabanata ng Till The End of The World : Kabanata 31 - Kabanata 40

41 Kabanata

31. Making Art

CLARA It turns out inventory work is less terrible than I expected. Not exciting and fun. Not at all. But not terrible too, since I'm not the one doing the heavy work. For the last hour I've been moving through the warehouse with a tablet in one hand and a growing understanding of why Stefan called me an idiot in the other. Never tell him that. I'm currently seated behind a wooden desk that's been shoved between two shelves of inventory records. Someone thoughtfully left me a chair too. Every shipment that arrives gets checked. Every crate gets counted and every supplier gets recorded too. The air smells like flour, grain, wood, and enough spices to make me hungry. A worker drops another inventory sheet onto my desk, with a little too much force for the poor paper. I see, we're both unhappy about this arrangement. "Twenty-seven." He grumbles. I glance down. "Twenty-eight." The worker frowns, a second later I realize I'm reading the wrong row. Fantastic. "It's

32. Warehouse Chaos

CLARA. “EVAN BLAKES!" My voice echoes through the warehouse, making several workers instantly drop what they do, heads turning so fast you'd think someone had pulled a fire alarm. I scoop a handful of flour from the sack and throw it at him. He sidesteps easily. "Flour got in your eyes?" he taunts. Fuck. I point at him. "You're so dead!” I jump off and go after him, but he just turns and walks away. Seriously? No. you’ve picked the wrong person to fight, Human tower. “Get him!” I shout, pointing at the nearest worker. He freezes mid-step, crate still in his hands. “Move!” I snap, grabbing another handful and throwing it myself. He ducks—clean. Too clean. The flour flies past him and hits a worker behind instead. “Come on!” I yell, already moving. “Stand still now!" He’s already gone again, I run after him fast, too fast for a warehouse that suddenly feels way smaller than it was five seconds ago, every aisle somehow leading to exactly where he isn't.

33. Choices and Consequences

CLARA. I turn slowly to see Emma standing at the entrance, perfectly composed, perfectly clean, not a single speck of flour on her. Her cream dress falls in smooth lines to her ankles, her dark hair pinned neatly in place, and beside her one of the maids clutches a tablet to her chest, looking about three seconds away from fainting. Silence crashes over the warehouse so hard even the carts have stopped rattling. Flour still flies in the air, drifting through the shafts of sunlight, and somewhere behind me somebody coughs into the sudden quiet. Emma's eyes sweep over the warehouse once, taking in the overturned sacks, the white footprints, and the workers suddenly pretending none of it exists, before finally stopping on a very white-looking Evan. “What,” she asks again, her voice soft and sharp at the same time, “is happening here?” I glance around and find everyone frozen, one man still clutching a handful of flour like he forgot how hands work, another halfway behind a shel

34. His Duty

CLARA. For a second, I simply stare at him, genuinely wondering if enough flour got into my mouth to finally reach my bloodstream. Then he moves. His boots strike the concrete with quiet thuds, little clouds of white powder puffing off his clothes with every step, and before my brain can catch up, he's standing in front of me. Not behind me. Not beside me. Right in front of me. Broad shoulders blocking half my view of Emma, and up close I can see flour still caught in the dark strands of his hair, streaked across his shirt and dusting the sharp line of his jaw. The faint smell of soap and grain reaches me, and a few loose specks drift down from him onto the floor between us. I blink as a drop of sweat slides slowly down my neck, and somewhere behind us somebody sucks in a sharp breath, but my brain is too busy trying to process the giant, flour-covered problem currently standing between me and Emma. What...what's he doing? Is he... Is he defending me? Me? “Evan?”

35. The Price of Loyalty

EMMA. I wake before I fully open my eyes, strong footsteps reaching me first. A second later, his scent finds me. Smoke. Leather. Pine. And beneath it all, something unmistakably him. Even half asleep, I know exactly who stands outside that door. The handle clicks softly, wood moving against carpet as the door opens, and a thin strip of light slices through the dark room. The steady thud of his heart reaches me through the quiet, strong and unhurried, beneath the low hum of the air conditioner. Slowly, I open my eyes. He stands in the doorway, one hand still wrapped around the handle, broad shoulders outlined by the light behind him. His gaze sweeps over the room before finally coming to rest on me. For a moment, neither of us moves. The room remains still, filled only with the quiet rhythm of two hearts beating in the dark, until there's a faintest change in his. And suddenly, I'm wide awake. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice even, though not surprised as he clos

36. The Promise of Us

EMMAThe door closes firmly behind me.For a moment, I remain standing outside his room, my hand still resting against the handle. The cool brass presses into my palm while the scent of smoke and leather still lingers in my lungs, stubborn and familiar, refusing to fade despite the distance now separating us. I close my eyes for a second, letting the quiet settle around me. When I open them again, the corridor stretches ahead, long and empty, the polished floors reflecting the dim light overhead. I straighten my shoulders and force myself forward, my footsteps steady against the silence, leaving whatever passed between us where it belongs—Behind closed doors.Alaric's wing has always reflected him, minimal, controlled and impossibly quiet. Soft recessed lights cast a warm glow over dark wood and charcoal walls, while floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the sleeping territory below, countless lights glittering against the night. Even the artwork is understated, chosen more for balance t

37. Cupcakes

CLARA"Another one," I mutter to myself, reaching for another cupcake, making the tiered stand wobble in protest.The one thing nobody tells you about important pack ceremonies is that they're incredibly boring before they even begin. Everyone dresses up, stands around with expensive drinks in their hands and pretends they aren't all just waiting for the fucking moon to turn red.I lean against the long buffet table beneath the open sky, peeling the paper from my third cupcake of the evening.Vanilla.Buttercream.An unreasonable amount of frosting.Exactly what this evening needs.A smear of icing sticks to my thumb. I lick it off absentmindedly, my gaze drifting to the enormous full moon hanging above the palace grounds.It looks...Normal.White.Round.Very committed to being a moon."So..." I mumble around another bite. "When exactly do you become dramatic?"For the past three days, I've heard nothing except Blood Moon this and Blood Moon that.The Blood Moon.Capital letters inc

38. Mission Accomplished

CLARA. I quietly slipped through the palace doors, and reached the residential building without much attention and entered the main hall soon. Empty. Good. Everyone who mattered was outside watching the Blood Moon, everyone who didn't matter was probably serving everyone who did, and that left me with long corridors, polished marble and an entire building to myself— "Lady Clara?" Fuck! Someone's here? How the ... Why? I take a deep breath and put on my best innocent face before turning around. Two maids are standing there, and judging by the direction they're headed, they're on their way to the gardens too. Couldn't they have left five minutes later? "Yes?" I ask after realizing I've been staring at them a second too long. "Lady Clara, everyone's at the gardens." One says softly. I know, woman. "Yeah...?" "Do you need something here? Should I help—" "No." The answer jumps out before my brain approves it. "I mean... the Blood Moon's already woken up. You sh

39. The Protector's Oath

EVAN. There are promises a man chooses to make. Then there are the ones that choose him. Mine has always been simple. To protect. And protecting Clara Vance has quickly become the most exhausting responsibility of my life. Which is remarkable, considering she isn't actually mine to protect. That woman is trouble. I knew it the moment I watched her throw herself out of a third-floor window with all the confidence of someone who had clearly mistaken luck for skill. Most people make plans. She makes disasters and somehow survives them. So when I catch the faint crease between Alaric's brows, his attention breaking from the Blood Moon for the first time tonight, settling on the glowing watch on his wrists. I knew something happened. Or rather… Someone happened. Around us, the gardens have fallen into reverent silence. Hundreds stand beneath the crimson moon with their heads bowed, silver offering bowls reflecting scarlet light that humans will never see. The a

40. Listen To Me

CLARA "Whether you understand it or not, Human Luna..." His eyes never leave mine. "Your life is no longer yours alone." I blink at him. "What?" What the fuck does that even mean? That sounds disturbingly cult-like. Did he hit his head on the way down? He sure did— Before I can ask, the sharp crunch of boots over gravel cuts through the night. Guards. Shit! The sound comes fast, branches rustling as flashlights sweep through the hedges. "There!" someone yells. Of course. Of fucking course. I have to escape! I have to run— Everything moves at once. Evan's hand settles against the small of my back, steady and firm, moving me behind him before my brain even catches up. One step. That's all it takes, and suddenly all I can see is the width of his shoulders filling my entire view. He's shielding me? ...Again. "Evan!" One of the guards skids to a stop, chest heaving as the beam of his flashlight swings straight onto us. Right into my eyes. I squint,

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