Claimed by the Alpha and the Vampire Prince: Masquerading as a Man-Chapter 125: At The Begining

CLARK POV:

Sometimes, I seriously wonder if Clare and I were actually twins... or just two lookalike babies accidentally swapped at the hospital. I mean, sure, we share the same face—mirror images, really—but beyond that?

Total opposites.

Where I’m calm, responsible, and mildly obsessed with punctuality, she’s chaotic, lazy, and somehow allergic to schedules.

So aside from the fact that we have the same face, there’s almost nothing alike about us. I think the hospital somehow sent our parents home with a lookalike stray and I peg the stray to be Clare.

I mean, look at us now: I’ve been dressed, packed, and done with breakfast for nearly half an hour. Meanwhile? Clare’s still in the shower, probably using it as an excuse to nap standing up. She’s still in the shower with only ten minutes left before school starts. If it weren’t for our parents guilt-tripping me with the "family sticks together" speech, I would’ve left her lazy ass behind ages ago.

I’d already woken her up five times. Five. And somehow, she managed to fall back asleep each time. Wouldn’t even surprise me if she was passed out in the shower right now, using the shampoo bottle as a pillow.

"Clare, I swear—if you’re not down here in one minute, I’m leaving your sorry ass and I won’t help you with your homework!" I shouted up the stairs.

Thirty seconds later—bam! She came flying down, wild-haired and unapologetic, combat boots stomping like she owned the place, wild hair, combat boots, leather jacket, leather pants, and that signature look like she just walked out of a post-apocalyptic biker movie. Yep, that’s my twin. Bad girl vibes, heavy eyeliner, and attitude to match.

Honestly? I kind of admire it.

We couldn’t be more different. She handled the bullies; I handled the books. She hated studying with a passion that burned like a thousand suns, and half the time our "study sessions" ended with her passed out while I basically tutored myself.

She’s the one who has my back when bullies get bold—mouth like a sailor, fists like a freight train. And me? I’m the one keeping her GPA alive, the unofficial tutor she never asked for. Not that she’s ever studied. Nope. Clare treats studying like a sleep aid.

So yeah, I usually just did both of our assignments.

I can’t count the number of times she’s dozed off mid-equation while I’m explaining something, only for me to end up doing both our assignments. Over time, I got smart about it. I’d write out two versions of the same answer, worded differently, and let her pick which one to copy. In math, I’d solve problems using two formulas—hers always the simpler one.

We never got caught.

Not once.

Teachers never suspected a thing. I mean, who would think the school genius was helping the leather-clad rebel cheat?

People said we were inseparable—and I guess that was true. But they didn’t really get why. I wasn’t just covering for her because we were siblings. I did it because I knew, deep down, that Clare would burn down the whole world for me if she had to.

And I’d solve every damn equation in it for her.

She’s the chaos to my calm.

And even when she drives me up the wall, I wouldn’t trade her for anything.

"We’re taking my bike," she announces like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And of course, I immediately disagree.

First of all, she’s a lunatic behind the handlebars. Second, she’s reckless and treats traffic laws like mere suggestions. Third—and most importantly—she doesn’t even have a freaking license. That’s right. She’s riding that motorbike illegally, and if Mom and Dad ever found out? Game over.

And no, Mom and Dad won’t know, at least not through my lips. She made me swear a "twin promise" not to tell—one of those guilt-trip, pinky-swear blood-oath things she pulls when she wants something.

She keeps the bike hidden, only rides it when our parents aren’t home, and somehow thinks that makes it okay. And now here she is, sandwich in one hand, smirking like she owns the road.

"Come on, we’ll miss the bus if we go to the bus station. I bet we already did," she says through a mouthful of bread and attitude.

Unfortunately... she’s probably right.

And today’s not a day to be late. We’re supposed to be choosing our college and university preferences. Huge day. Life-changing. Responsible adult things. You know, my lane.

So I agree. Begrudgingly. But not without yelling at her first, obviously.

"This is all your fault! You and your inability to wake up before noon!"

She just shrugs like it’s no big deal, walking ahead while munching on a sandwich. Unbothered. Unapologetic. Classic Clare. Licking her fingers and already walking toward the garage.

"Come on, help me drag it out," she commands, like I’m her personal pit crew.

We reach her hiding spot—an old storage shed behind the garage where she keeps her sparkly blue death trap., and there it is—her sparkly, dangerous blue devil of a motorbike. bold, electric blue that screams badass troublemaker.

We have seven minutes before the school bell rings, announcing our late entrance in surround sound. We’re so not gonna make it.

But she thinks otherwise.

"Quit sulking and help me out. We’re gonna make it," she insists, pushing the sleek, rebellious machine like it’s some kind of warhorse. And yep—her bike is blue. Not pink. Not red. Not yellow. Blue. Her favorite color. Definitely not your dainty, girly-girl type. Shoving the bike with one hand and holding her sandwich like a victory trophy in the other.

She tosses me a helmet—just one, mind you. For me.

She doesn’t wear one herself.

Reckless. Told you.

She swings a leg over the bike, turns the ignition, and the engine growls to life.

God, I hate this.

But what choice do I have?

The engine roars like it’s part of some underground racing club.

"Get on."

Oh god. I hate this. I hate this.

But I climb on, wrap my arms around her waist, and shut my eyes like I’m about to die. Because honestly? There’s a chance I might.

She lets out this evil cackle like some villain in a comic book. The one she reserves for when she’s about to do something either brilliant or insane. Sometimes both.

That’s our thing, though—whenever one of us is about to venture into the other’s world, we parade ourselves.

For me, that’s equations, formulas, and top-tier academic madness.

For her, it’s chaotic life-threatening stunts on a blue motorcycle.

And then she hits the throttle—and we’re off.

Like we’re in Fast & Furious: Twin Edition.

Probably smiling like a maniac while I pray for dear life behind her. ƒгeewebnovёl_com

True to her word, we made it——barely—with a whole one minute to spare before the bell rang. Not late, technically, but definitely not early either.

We left behind a trail of chaos, with hundreds of drivers and pedestrians probably still cursing us out. Or rather, cursing her, since I wasn’t the one behind the handlebars. I was just the unfortunate soul clinging on for dear life, praying I wouldn’t die before I submitted my college application.

Yep. She managed to piss off every driver on the road and a good number of pedestrians too, thanks to her reckless driving. The pedestrians looked like they’d just survived a war zone. There were so many dangerous maneuvers that I lost count of how many heart attacks I had in the span of five minutes. I was this close to vomiting my entire breakfast all over her blue death trap.

At one point, I seriously thought that was the end for me.

But clearly, there’s a God up there, and maybe He’s a fan of genius brains because mine didn’t end up splattered across the street—despite riding with someone who clearly doesn’t know how to read road signs especially a a stop sign. Or more accurately, someone who just doesn’t give a damn about any road signs whatsoever.

She always forgets that those rules aren’t just for the safety of other drivers and pedestrians—they’re also for her own survival. You’d think she’d care, since you know, she’s the one doing the driving. But no, Clare sees traffic laws as optional background decor.

When we finally pulled up at school, I climbed off the bike on wobbly jelly legs, shoved the helmet back into her hands, and gave her my final word:

"Never again. You are never driving anything with me on it ever again. I mean it."

And I meant every syllable. I might not survive a second round.

That ride was a one-time experience. A never-again, I-stared-death-in-the-face-and-survived kind of situation.

Definitely not happening twice.

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