Chapter 48
The Werewolf Realm.
Clara's POV.
I came out for dinner, and my night officially collapsed.
Marcy's mother didn't just cook a random meal…
She cooked crab pasta.
CRAB.
Pasta.
Of all foods in the world, she cooked the one thing I'm deathly allergic to.
Not even slightly allergic—no.
If crab touches me, my skin turns red, I swell up, then I get cold chills like someone threw me naked into winter.
And apparently… crab pasta was Marcy's favorite.
I'm dead.
I already know this won't be the last time she makes it.
I picked up my fork with the same energy someone picks up a poisonous snake. I hesitated, stared at the pasta, swirled it slowly, and put it in my mouth.
I forced a smile because both of them were watching me like I was the star of a cooking show.
Marcy's mom leaned forward.
"How do you like it, dear? I hope it tastes the same."
I nodded with the fakest smile ever produced by man.
"Yes, Mom. The taste is just the same. I… missed this."
Meanwhile my soul was crying inside.
I could already feel the itch starting on my neck.
Tonight, my pretty skin would pay the price.
Cold. Rashes. Redness. Zero sleep.
Perfect.
Marcy's dad cleared his throat.
"So, how have you been these past years?"
I smiled politely. "I've been fine, Dad."
Marcy's mom smiled warmly.
"What have you been up to? What job do you do now? What did you do in the human world?"
My brain froze.
When I was in the human world, I wasn't working.
Dad sent me money.
He paid for the surgery.
I literally spent my days recovering and shopping.
So now I had to lie.
Fast.
They both stared at me like two detectives waiting for my confession.
I smiled sweetly.
"What do you think I was doing, Dad?"
Marcy's father chuckled softly.
"Well, I imagine you worked in a bakery or something since you always loved baking… and humans love pastries."
I blinked.
That was the most random, accurate guess in the history of wrong guesses.
"Wow, Dad… great accuracy. That's… exactly right. I worked in a bakery."
If only he knew I can't bake anything.
I burn water.
I can't even boil an egg.
I'm doomed.
We talked for a long while, well mostly them talking while I nodded and laughed like a polite little angel.
Then Marcy's mom said,
"Dear, finish your food. It will go cold."
I smiled painfully.
"Yes, Mom."
I ate. I suffered. I survived.
Barely.
After that, I excused myself, wished them good night, and went to bed.
Or rather—Marcy's bed.
I collapsed immediately, praying my allergic reaction wouldn't kill me in my sleep.
---
THE NEXT MORNING
I woke up with swollen lips, itchy skin, and a small headache.
Fantastic.
I yawned like a normal person—not like my actual self who growls in the mornings. I took a bath, cleaned up, fixed my hair, and walked into the dining room.
There was no food on the table.
And like the Clara I am, I yelled:
Then I froze.
Because Marcy wouldn't yell.
Marcy was gentle, calm, sweet, and polite.
I got up, straightened my nightgown, and cleared my throat. I had to act like Marcy, not Clara. Marcy never yelled, never panicked, never forgot herself like I just did. She was calm, gentle, soft-spoken… everything I was not.
I forced a small smile and waved awkwardly at the omega.
"Sorry," I said, trying to mimic Marcy's soft tone. "I… uh… thought I saw a spider on the table."
The omega blinked, then relaxed and actually giggled.
"Oh, dear goddess, you scared me… I thought it was something serious."
"Mm-hmm… totally just a spider," I lied quickly.
She bowed and left the room, probably thinking I was still the same old Marcy she remembered. If she knew the real me—Clara, the girl who couldn't bake, couldn't lie properly, and was severely allergic to last night's dinner—she'd probably faint again.
I rubbed my eyes. They were already slightly swollen. My cheeks felt warm and itchy. Yep. The allergy was setting in.
Great. Amazing. Incredible. I'm slowly turning into a puffy tomato.
I walked around the dining hall again, searching for even crumbs of breakfast. Nothing. Not even bread. Not even the smell of something cooking.
"What kind of werewolf house doesn't have breakfast out by now?" I muttered.
Then I remembered.
Marcy could cook right? I wasn't so sure, yes she can cook , if not how would why would she work in a bakery. I have to cook.
Dead. I am absolutely and unquestionably dead.
I gulped and whispered to myself,
"Oh goddess… I can't cook. I can't even fry an egg. I once burned water. WATER."
But if I didn't cook right now, her parents would notice something was off. And then? Suspicious questions. Awkward explanations. And possibly being kicked out. I wasn't ready for that—not when all the pack members was out there waiting for me to come back and be humiliated.
So I rolled my shoulders and marched into the kitchen like a warrior preparing for battle.
The kitchen looked innocent enough—pots, pans, spices, knives—but to me, it felt like a death arena.
I picked up a frying pan cautiously, like it was some enchanted weapon.
"Okay, Clara… just do something simple. Something basic. Something impossible to mess up…"
My brain: Toast? Just toast bread.
I nodded.
"Yes. Toast. Simple. Safe. Toast can't kill me."
Five minutes later… I regretted every decision I had ever made.
The toast was black. Not brown. BLACK. Like "burnt-sacrifice-to-the-moon-goddess" black. I panicked, grabbed another bread slice, and tried again.
Then I smelled something burning. Something… not bread.
"OHHH SHOOOT!"
The cloth near the stove had caught fire.
I slapped it with a towel, panicked even more, then slapped it again. After a dramatic mini battle, the fire died out but the smell… the smell filled the whole house.
Just wonderful.
This is how Clara Burns Down Marcy's Family Home.
I opened windows, fanned the air with a plate, begged the gods, basically everything except summoning rain spirits.
That was when I heard a voice behind me.
"What on earth happened here?"
My entire soul left my body for a moment.
I turned around slowly…
Marcy's mom stood at the door, eyebrows raised, looking at the smoke-filled kitchen.
My heart nearly jumped out through my throat.
"UHHH… so… funny story," I began with the fakest smile of my life. "I was trying to surprise you… with breakfast… and um… the bread… attacked me?"
Her mom burst into laughter.
Actual laughter.
I blinked.
"…Huh?"
"Oh, dear," she said, wiping a tear, " I know you love preparing food and all, but you've always struggled with cooking. I thought the human world might have forced you to learn." She moved past me, still chuckling, and opened the pantry. "It's fine. I'll cook. You can just set the table."
Relief washed over me so strongly I nearly collapsed on the counter.
"Right! Yes! The table! I can do that. I can definitely… set a table."
As she cooked, I arranged the plates. Then Marcy's father walked in, sniffed the air, and frowned.
"Smells like something burnt."
I froze.
Marcy's mom casually said,
"Your daughter tried to make toast."
He burst into laughter too.
"Oh! That explains it."
I forced a laugh.
"Yes… haha… toast."
Kill me. Just kill me now.
We ate breakfast—well, they ate. I barely touched my food; my throat was sore from the allergy reaction and my face was swelling like a cursed balloon. Marcy's mom noticed eventually.
"Dear, are you feeling alright? You look red."
I panicked internally.
Do NOT mention the crab.
Do NOT mention the crab.
Do NOT mention the crab.
"I didn't sleep well," I said quickly. "Maybe just tired."
She nodded but still looked unconvinced.
After breakfast, I went outside for a walk, to breathe fresh air. The cold wind touched my skin and I hissed—everything hurt.
After walking for a while I sat on the pack's wooden bench and watched the wolves training in the distance. Some sparred, some ran laps, others practiced shifting. It was strangely peaceful.
But I couldn't ignore the heavy feeling in my chest—the constant reminder that this wasn't my life. I wasn't Marcy. I didn't belong here. I was living inside someone else's memories, someone else's family, someone else's room.
I swallowed hard.
As much as I wanted to feel safe…
this wasn't safety.
This was borrowed time.