Claimed by the Alpha and the Vampire Prince: Masquerading as a Man Chapter 145: Scared Roomie

Clark POV:

I lay on that unfamiliar mattress, staring up at the dark ceiling, listening to the slow, rhythmic hum of the building. Sowhere down the hall, a door creaked, then slamd. Soone laughed—too loud, too long. The wind outside scraped faintly against the windows, like fingers tracing the glass.

Still no reply from Sara. My last ssage just hung there, delivered, unread.

I tried not to spiral, tried to tell myself she was just busy. She was probably knee-deep in open suitcases, already gossiping with her roommates about who’s hot, who’s weird, and which prof has the ugliest shoes. That’s what girls did, right?

Maybe it was the shaken figure curled up on the other bed, wrapped tight in the covers like the walls might cave in. I didn’t even know his na. I’d literally just arrived at the dorms, and now this?

I should’ve left. Maybe wandered around. Found a vending machine. But one look at him—his shoulders twitching with every random sound, his soft gasps like he was holding in a scream—and I knew I couldn’t. No way I was leaving this guy alone.

Sotis when fear claws through you, you just want soone. Anyone. Even a stranger.

So, yeah, I stayed.

The dorm lights buzzed faintly as night crept in. The shadows outside our window grew deeper, longer. A strange hush settled over the building. I couldn’t hear much beyond the faint wind whistling outside. No chatting from neighboring rooms, no footsteps. It was like the building exhaled and then forgot how to breathe again.

I lay down, hoping sleep would drag under. It didn’t.

I tossed, turned, my mind buzzing.

Everything kept pointing back to one thing: bullies. It had to be. The guy in bed looked like soone who had been cornered, shaken down, probably roughed up for looking the way he did—delicate, pretty, fragile even. Maybe they thought he was an easy target.

I hated bullies.

God, I hated them.

Not just because of so moral high ground, but because I knew what it was like. I knew that feeling—the cold dread in your stomach, the sha of being seen as weak, the hopelessness when no one does anything.

I turned on my side, staring at the ceiling, and suddenly I was six years old again.

Grade two.

Clare had called in sick—faked it, actually. She just wanted to laze around and sneak extra cake from Mom. I’d gone to school anyway, being the good twin, thinking I could take notes and help her catch up.

That day, the math teacher ca in like a storm. Banging the door, face red, fury dancing in her eyes. She didn’t even open her books—just started firing off addition questions like bullets. Anyone who got one wrong got pinched. Hard.

It beca a ga of survival. Kids flinching, tears forming. She didn’t spare anyone. Except .

I knew my additions. I answered fast. No pinches for .

Billy, though—he didn’t answer a single one right. The teacher had it out for him. He flinched every ti she walked by, already red from her cruel little pinches. And when the class ended, he looked at like I was the reason he suffered.

Later, during recess, he cornered behind the classrooms.

"You think you’re better than ?" he sneered.

I said nothing. Just tried to walk past.

He grabbed . Pinched . Over and over. Red marks blood across my arms. His fat fingers digging in. I could still hear him laughing. His breath slled like stale cereal. I didn’t cry—not in front of him—but inside, I was dying.

He told if I ever told anyone, he’d knock out my front teeth. Said people would laugh every ti I smiled. Said I’d be a freak.

So I kept quiet.

I didn’t tell Mom. I didn’t tell Dad. But Clare? Clare knew sothing was up. She always did.

She caught alone in our room that night and cornered with her signature scowl. I gave in. Told her everything—on one condition. That she wouldn’t tell.

She promised.

But the next day, she woke up eager for school, which never happened. She hated it more than math itself. Even Mom raised an eyebrow but let her go.

That afternoon, Billy ca to crying.

Big, tough Billy. Red-faced and sniffling.

When the teacher asked what happened to him, Clare sang sweetly, "He fell."

Billy nodded. Hard.

She bit Billy.

Not taphorically—literally. Bit him. In his face.

She told , deadpan, "I bit the math out of him."

And apparently, she did so other things too. Stuff I was too "pure-minded" to understand, she claid. She never told the full story, but I knew Billy never looked at again. He wouldn’t even walk on the sa side of the hallway.

Clare never needed to raise her voice to be scary. She just was.

I wished I had even half her guts.

That was Clare.

She was my shield.

But here? Now?

I was alone.

And I had a roommate who looked like he’d stared into the gates of hell—and they had stared back.

I wished I was brave like Clare. I wished I could bite and scratch and scare the monsters off. But I wasn’t her. I was just Clark—the quiet twin, the observer, the hacker who hid behind screens and silence.

And those seniors I’d seen? The ones with the glowing eyes and that weird, otherworldly aura?

They didn’t feel like bullies.

They felt like sothing else entirely.

Like predators.

And this university? It was starting to feel like a cage.

My eyes fluttered shut again, trying to ignore the cold breath of fear crawling under the doorfra. I could hear my roommate breathing, still shallow, still fast.

Now I was the guy lying in a dorm room with a traumatized stranger, and all I could do was wish I knew how to help.

I turned back toward him. His figure was still bundled under the covers, unmoving. I wondered if he was asleep, or just pretending to be. Sotis, it was easier to pretend.