Hunting My Werewolf Ex
536 Views · Ongoing · Agatha Christie
Curfew night. Storm-black sky. My werewolf husband racing his red fox mistress through the no-fly zone like it's a goddamn game.
Ivy's wasted, craving adrenaline. She banks hard into my son's flight path.
Impact. Explosion. Metal rain.
Silas cradles his sobbing side piece while my boy's helicopter spirals into hell:
"Easy, sweetheart. You're breathing, that's what counts. Little punk got himself killed being stupid—not our problem."
Hours later, after they've hosed the wreckage off the runway:
"Roxanne? Your mother and son are ash. Come identify the remains."
I'm ready to burn the world down when my phone lights up:
Mom! Me and Grandma are at the underground fights. Holy shit, what exploded out there? Some poor bastard just got roasted!
They never flew.
So whose charred corpses are cooling in the morgue?
Ivy's wasted, craving adrenaline. She banks hard into my son's flight path.
Impact. Explosion. Metal rain.
Silas cradles his sobbing side piece while my boy's helicopter spirals into hell:
"Easy, sweetheart. You're breathing, that's what counts. Little punk got himself killed being stupid—not our problem."
Hours later, after they've hosed the wreckage off the runway:
"Roxanne? Your mother and son are ash. Come identify the remains."
I'm ready to burn the world down when my phone lights up:
Mom! Me and Grandma are at the underground fights. Holy shit, what exploded out there? Some poor bastard just got roasted!
They never flew.
So whose charred corpses are cooling in the morgue?
















































