Chapter Text
The first thing Clarke noticed was the taste of blood.
Metallic and stale, it coated the inside of her mouth like rust on a spoon. She blinked, once, twice, trying to piece together why her tongue felt heavy, why her throat was raw, dry as paper.
The second thing was the cold.
It crept in slowly, not sharp but dense, the kind of chill that settled beneath the skin like fog. Her body was curled sideways on a bed that didn't belong to her. The sheets were rough, unfamiliar. Too clean. Her cheek stuck slightly to the pillowcase, and when she shifted, a low groan escaped her before she could stop it.
Pain radiated from the base of her skull, not sharp but throbbing, a dull, insistent ache like something had been pressing on her temples for hours. Her limbs felt too heavy, her stomach too light. Everything about her body was wrong. Not wounded, but... used. Her skin was flushed, hot in patches. Her inner thighs ached in a way that made her chest tighten.
She sat up too fast. The room tilted. A sharp wave of nausea overtook her. She gagged, folded over the edge of the bed, and forced herself up, barefoot and trembling, navigating a room she couldn't recognize.
The hallway was too dark, the floor too cold. She stumbled into what must have been a bathroom, some minimalist, high-end thing with stone tile and warm lights under the mirror. She caught sight of herself and nearly recoiled.
Her hair was a disaster, tangled in matted waves like she'd been dragged backward through a wind tunnel. Her face was blotchy, her mascara smeared across one cheek like a bruise. Her lips were red, swollen, chapped at the corners. She wore someone else's oversized t-shirt, soft cotton clinging to one shoulder, and her own ripped tights beneath it. No bra. No underwear. Just the aching stretch of her own skin and the hard pulse of something unspoken beneath it.
Water. Toothbrush. Oxygen. Time machine. In that order. Or any order.
She dropped to her knees just in time. The contents of her stomach emptied violently into the sink, twice, her body convulsing. When it was over, she rinsed her mouth and gripped the edges of the counter, forcing herself to look in the mirror again.
A bite mark bloomed faintly on her collarbone, she stared at it. Mouth open. Her fingers hovered over the bruised skin but didn't touch, a flicker behind her eyes. Not memory, not exactly. More like a flash of something felt, not seen.
Teeth. The press of a body against hers. Fingers digging into her waist. A thigh between hers. Warm skin. A moan she didn't recognize, but felt in her own throat.
Her stomach pitched. She stumbled back from the mirror like it had lunged at her. "Nope," she breathed, shaking her head. "Absolutely not."
The apartment, whoever's it was, had already gone silent. There was no note on the kitchen counter. No glass of water by the bed. No number saved in her phone. No condom wrapper in the trash. No name. No certainty. Just silence and a body that didn't feel like hers anymore.
She dressed as fast as she could, yanking her coat over the t-shirt, clutching her boots by the laces. Her chest burned. Her hands shook. The door shut behind her with a soft click that felt like the final line of something she didn't remember agreeing to.
She didn't tell Raven at first. She could already hear the tone, the raised brow, the sarcasm laced with concern. You? One-night stand blackout with a mystery hottie? Wow. Did hell freeze over too? But a week passed. Then another.
And her body didn't go back to normal. Her chest felt tight in ways it hadn't before. Smells she used to ignore made her gag. She cried over a thirty-second commercial about lost kittens and a little boy who missed his goldfish. Her stomach twisted every morning. Her skin felt too thin.
Raven dragged her to the pharmacy.
"Just to rule it out," she said, tossing a pregnancy test into the basket like it was toothpaste. Clarke laughed, weak and high-pitched, and tried not to imagine it.
But the second pink line appeared before she even finished washing her hands. Not possible, not unless.
The next morning.
No.
She would've remembered. If it had been a woman. Wouldn't she?
She didn't have time to fall apart, not now. Not with a second-round interview looming at Woodson Enterprises, one of those companies people wrote LinkedIn posts about like they'd won the lottery. She had prepped, she had practiced. She wore the blazer that didn't quite feel like her and the shoes that made her walk like she was confident.
She walked into the boardroom and froze. The woman standing at the head of the table was carved from marble. Tall. Elegant. Wearing a slate-gray suit that looked like it cost more than Clarke's rent. Her dark hair was pulled into a severe bun, cheekbones sharp, posture controlled.
But it was the eyes that undid her. Green. Unblinking. Intense. Hungry.
Lexa Woodson didn't smile. She didn't nod, she didn't offer her hand. She just stared. And Clarke felt it, a tremor through the spine. Not recognition, but something deeper. Primal. A flicker of heat beneath her ribs. She sat down, her knees barely holding.
The press of hands. That scent: sharp, clean, citrusy. A groan in her ear.
No. No. It wasn't her. That's impossible. You're spiraling. It was a guy. You're pregnant. It had to be a guy.
But then Lexa licked her bottom lip. Slow and deliberate. And Clarke forgot how to breathe.
By Tuesday, Clarke had convinced herself she was hallucinating. The stare, the heat, the slow, predatory stillness of that woman. It had to be projection. Just nerves. Power does that to people. Except Lexa didn't look at anyone else like that. She sat at her new desk, tea untouched, inbox overwhelming, when Raven peeked over the wall.
"You good?"
Clarke blinked. "Yeah."
"You look like you saw God... or got electrocuted by the sight of her cheekbones."
"First-day jitters."
Raven smirked. "Right. Has nothing to do with our emotionally repressed CEO and her hot, sexy stare."
"She wasn't—"
"Babe. She looked at you like you were dessert. I thought she was going to bite."
Clarke flushed so deeply it made her nauseous all over again.
"She didn't."
"Sure. Tell that to the baby growing inside you."
Clarke shut her laptop and didn't say anything because she didn't have to.
Lexa didn't appear again until Thursday. Clarke almost relaxed until the message arrived.
From: Executive Admin
Subject: 10-Minute Check-In – 4:30PM, 14th Floor.
She stared at it. The cursor blinked back at her, judgmental.
"I'm dead," she whispered.
"What now?" Raven asked.
Clarke turned the screen.
Raven let out a low whistle. "Wow. Fast track to the boss's lair."
"It's probably routine."
"Routine? With lip licking? I missed that step in orientation."
Clarke threw a pen at her. It hit a plant instead. The 14th floor was made of glass and stone. Expensive quiet. The kind that made you feel like your shoes were too loud. The air smelled like money and cologne.
Lexa's office door was open. Clarke knocked, even though she was visible. Lexa looked up. That stare and stillness was even hotter, somehow. Focused like a blade.
Clarke entered, heartbeat in her throat.
"You're settling in," Lexa said.
"Trying to."
"Is the team meeting expectations?"
"Mostly. It's... structured."
Lexa arched a brow. "Structure prevents chaos."
"Sometimes chaos is where the good stuff is."
Lexa's mouth twitched.
"Unexpected," she murmured. "Right."
Silence envloped them and Clarke could smell her perfume. Something rare. Cedar and something smoky beneath it. It made her knees want to bend.
Lexa leaned back, folding her arms.
"You could've gone anywhere. Why here?"
"Because I got the job."
"And if someone else had called first?"
"I wouldn't be in this room."
Lexa's eyes dropped to her lips.
Clarke's breath hitched.
Lexa stood, fast. Too fast.
"You can go," she said, voice sharp.
Clarke turned to leave, her hand on the door.
She glanced back.
Lexa hadn't moved. But her reflection in the window said everything her face didn't. Eyes closed. Jaw clenched like letting Clarke walk away was the hardest decision she'd made all day.