Chapter 133 Forrest’s Guide to Being a Delightful Nuisance

Chapter 133 Forrest’s Guide to Being a Delightful Nuisance
Forrest's POV
It all started with a very simple question: How many mini-marshmallows would it take to drive Ash to a psychological breakdown?
The answer, it turns out, was fewer than you'd expect.
Forrest had always operated on instinct. Some wolves used their supernatural senses for hunting, tracking, protecting the pack. Forrest used his to locate the exact moment Ash was at his breaking point and shove him off the edge—usually with a sparkler and an airhorn.
And today? Oh, today was going to be a masterpiece.
The scene: Ash's room. Pristine. Organized. So clean it practically glared.
The trap: a small, seemingly innocent pile of laundry.
The weapon: hundreds—yes, hundreds—of mini-marshmallows, meticulously tucked into every pocket, sock, and sleeve.
He even spelled out "SOFT LIKE YOUR FEELINGS" across the top of Ash's folded shirts in glitter glue.
It wasn't just petty.
It was art.
He was admiring his handiwork from the hallway (like any proud craftsman should) when the door creaked open.
Ash stopped dead in his tracks.
For a full three seconds, he simply stared. And then—
"Forrest," he said in that tone. The one that suggested he was debating whether prison time was worth it.
Forrest beamed. "Happy Marshmallow Monday!"
Ash blinked. "It's Tuesday."
"Is it?" Forrest gasped. "I must've lost track while spending hours gluing marshmallows into your underwear."
Ash took a single, very deliberate step forward.
Forrest was already running.
He didn't make it far—Ash tackled him in the hallway, and suddenly it was teeth, fists, and Forrest shrieking, "I'M AN ARTIST, YOU BRUTE!"
Ridge appeared around the corner with the exhausted air of a man who had seen this exact scene too many times. "Do I want to know?"
"No," Ash and Forrest said at the same time—Ash through gritted teeth, Forrest with pure glee.
Eventually, Ash gave up trying to physically strangle him (again) and settled for slamming Forrest into a kitchen chair.
"For the love of the Goddess," Ash muttered, brushing glitter off his sleeves, "Why the hell do you keep targeting me?"
Forrest blinked. He looked genuinely surprised. "Because it's fun?"
Ash's eyes narrowed.
"No, really," Forrest said, leaning back like this was a perfectly reasonable Q&A session. "You make that face, and it gives me joy. Your forehead vein is basically a stress barometer."
Ash glared.
"But," Ash said slowly, "why not Opal? Why don't you ever mess with her?"
The room went quiet.
Forrest tilted his head. For a moment—just a moment—his usual smirk faded.
"Because," he said finally, voice softer, "Opal doesn't need that kind of chaos. She's already fighting enough battles."
Ash blinked.
Forrest shrugged, suddenly very interested in peeling the label off his water bottle. "She wakes up to nightmares, Ash. She's got a witch breathing down her neck, the weight of the pack on her shoulders, and a future that might rip her away from everything she loves. You? You're just emotionally constipated and in desperate need of a personality cleanse."
Ash snorted. "You're such an ass."
Forrest grinned. "And you love me."
Ridge muttered from the corner, "This is why Dad has gray hair."
"For the record," Brooks said, walking in with a bag of popcorn, "I have video footage of all of this, and I plan to set it to dramatic opera music."
Ash rubbed his temples. "I will set the entire packhouse on fire."
"I've already moved my stuff," Forrest said cheerfully. "Your rage is predictable."
Ash stood. "I swear, if you even think about replacing my shampoo with maple syrup again—"
"Too late."
"Forrest."
"Oh, relax," Forrest said, patting Ash's shoulder. "I only replaced half of it."
Ash's eye twitched.
Kael walked in, took one look at Ash's glitter-covered chest, then turned to Forrest.
"Why?"
Forrest didn't miss a beat. "Therapy's expensive."

Opal's POV
It started with glitter.
So much glitter.
Opal had just sat down for breakfast, her fork halfway to her mouth, when Ash entered the kitchen like a man on the edge of a breakdown.
"Don't," he said sharply, pointing a trembling finger at Forrest, who was already snickering into his cereal. "Say. A. Word."
Opal blinked, setting her fork down slowly. Ash's usual immaculate black T-shirt was shimmering like a disco ball. Silver glitter coated every inch of him—hair, eyebrows, neck, even his lashes. He looked like a vampire caught in the sunlight.
Forrest didn't hold it in. He howled with laughter, nearly falling off his stool. "You look like a Twilight reject! You Edward Cullen-looking—"
Ash lunged.
Ridge caught him by the arm, barely managing to stop the full-on tackle across the kitchen. "Bro! Chill."
"I will murder him with a spoon," Ash hissed, glitter cascading from his shirt like deadly fairy dust.
Opal bit back a laugh. "Okay, I'll admit… it's impressive. How did you get that much glitter into his body wash?"
Forrest preened. "Trade secret."
Brooks entered next, holding a tablet, barely glancing up until he paused mid-step. "What… happened to you?"
"I am vengeance," Ash growled.
Forrest sipped his orange juice. "You are sparkle vengeance."
"I am done," Ash snapped, shoving away from Ridge and marching toward the door. "I've had it. Ridge. Brooks. With me. War council. Now."
Brooks blinked. "War council?"
Ash didn't stop walking. "We're ending this little troll today."
Forrest gasped dramatically. "A declaration of war! How romantic. Shall I wear a crown when I win?"
Ash spun around, pointing directly at Opal. "And why—WHY—does he never prank you?"
Forrest's grin turned downright devilish. "Because she's unpredictable. I have standards. Chaos respects chaos."
Opal raised her glass. "Cheers."
Ash turned back with a growl. "Let's go."
Opal sipped her juice and sighed. "Gods, this is going to be good."
—
Brooks' POV
The war council convened in the garage. Because, apparently, nothing said "revenge strategy" like being surrounded by oily rags and half-finished motorcycle parts.
Ash stood at the center like a general rallying his troops.
"Operation Forest Fire," he said, smacking a whiteboard with far too much intensity.
Brooks raised a brow. "That's a bit dramatic."
Ridge leaned against a workbench, arms crossed. "No, I kind of like it."
Ash paced. "Phase One: Psychological warfare. We isolate the problem."
"You mean Forrest," Brooks deadpanned.
Ash pointed at him. "Exactly. We separate him from the herd. Phase Two: Humiliation. Public. Memorable. No witnesses willing to testify in his favor. Phase Three—"
"Victory?" Ridge asked.
Ash turned, eyes burning with vengeful glee. "Shaving cream. In his boots. Chili powder. In his boxers. Super glue. On his toothbrush."
Brooks blinked. "That escalated."
"Good," Ridge muttered. "Let's make it painful."
Brooks sighed. "I feel like we're the villains here."
"We are avenging glitter-based war crimes," Ash snapped.
"And my eyebrows never grew back even after the feather incident," Ridge muttered.
Brooks exhaled. "Fine. But if this backfires—"
Ash interrupted. "It won't."
—
Forrest's POV
It backfired.
Oh, it backfired so hard they'd be coughing up prank regret for a decade.
Forrest had known something was off when Ridge offered to make him a protein shake. Ridge didn't cook. Ridge didn't blend. Ridge didn't know where the protein powder even lived.
He played along, sipping the shake slowly, eyes darting between his three brothers, all failing miserably at looking casual.
Oh, boys.
Forrest finished the shake, smacked his lips dramatically, and leaned back in his chair. "Delicious."
Ash stiffened.
Brooks blinked.
Ridge looked deeply betrayed.
"You… liked it?" Ash asked, suspicious.
"Loved it," Forrest replied cheerfully. "I mean, you did forget the chili powder, but nice touch with the fake sprinkles. Very colorful."
Ash looked like he might scream.
Forrest sighed, cracked his neck, and stood. "I had a feeling you'd try something stupid. So I made a few… improvements of my own."
Ash narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?"
Forrest grinned. "I unleashed the beast."
—
Opal's POV
It started with the screams.
High-pitched, panicked, and far too dramatic for the middle of the day.
Opal dropped her book, startled, as Brooks barreled past her in the hallway—shirtless, shoeless, and absolutely covered in green paint.
She stood just in time for Ridge to sprint through next, his entire face painted like a sad clown, foam clinging to his arms.
Then came Ash.
Naked.
Covered in feathers.
Chased by a robotic vacuum cleaner wearing googly eyes and blaring polka music.
"What in the actual hell?" Opal whispered.
From the balcony above, Forrest leaned over, tossing popcorn into his mouth. "Behold, my masterpiece: Operation Flaming Peacock."
Opal couldn't breathe. "You… oh my goddess… what is that vacuum doing?"
Forrest smirked. "It follows Ash using a heat sensor. I glued a tracker to his butt."
Ash shrieked from below. "I WILL END YOU."
The vacuum beeped cheerfully.
Ridge stumbled to a stop next to Opal, breathing heavily. "I sat on a glue trap. My ass is ruined."
Brooks skidded to a halt, slipping on the wet floor. "My eyebrows! The paint's permanent!"
Ash finally gave up running and collapsed on the ground, face down, the vacuum circling him triumphantly.
Opal clutched her sides, wheezing. "This… this is the best day of my life."
Forrest descended the stairs slowly, regally. "Ladies and gentlemen… I accept your surrender."
Ash moaned into the floor. "You are a menace to society."
"And proud," Forrest said, ruffling Ash's glitter-filled hair. "So. Very. Proud."
—
Later That Night
The house was calm.
Too calm.
Forrest lounged on the couch, confident, cocky, and completely unaware that a second war council was forming.
In the garage.
Opal peeked her head around the corner, sipping tea.
"Oh, you boys are so not done," she whispered to herself.
Because if Forrest thought he had won?
He clearly hadn't learned who he was dealing with.
And the next battle?
It was going to be nuclear.