The Witch Vol.1 - Werewolves

February 9th, 2011 – Wednesday

Amidst the jubilant celebration following their victorious game, Scott found himself adrift in a sea of fervent teammates and exuberant fans, his eyes darting around as he desperately sought his friend Stiles. The crowd's enthusiasm made it nearly impossible to locate his best friend.

As Scott scanned the buzzing surroundings, he accidentally bumped into someone, only to realize it was Allison. Their eyes met for a moment, a charged silence hanging between them, until Brian's loud interruption broke the spell.

"State! State! State!" Brian chanted excitedly, his energy infectious but poorly timed.

Allison bit her lip, clearly weighing her words, before managing a nervous smile. "Uh, you were pretty awesome out there."

Surprised, Scott blurted out an automatic response: "Thanks. You too!" His eyes remained fixed on her, clearly not paying attention to the content of his own words.

Allison raised an eyebrow, confusion flickering across her face. "Wait, what?" she asked, thrown off by his response.

Scott shrugged awkwardly, realizing his mistake. "I mean, that's not what I meant…"

Before the moment could grow more uncomfortable, Brian barged in again, still chanting, "State! State! State!"

Allison, sensing Scott's growing embarrassment, threw him a lifeline. "No, no, I did some pretty awesome cheering. You can thank me," she said, balancing on her heels, nervous yet playful. "I went from 'Go team, go!' to 'Defense! Defense!' without even taking a breath. I totally brought my A-game."

"Really?" Scott asked, genuinely surprised by her support.

But before they could continue the conversation, Brian interrupted once more with his boisterous cheers. This time, Scott shot him a deathly glare, causing Brian to freeze mid-chant, then back away like a scolded child.

Allison gave Scott one last smile before turning to join her father. Scott watched as they made their way toward the car park, unable to tear his gaze away from her.

The young werewolf seemed mesmerized, completely oblivious to another approaching figure — his co-captain, Jackson Whittemore.

"Ooooh…" Jackson sighed theatrically. "Awww, isn't that just heartbreaking? Gosh, I bet it causes a lot of sleepless nights. You, your hand, and a packet of tissues…" He laughed in Scott's face, clearly enjoying himself, but Scott remained unfazed, refusing to rise to the taunt.

"You know what, though, McCall? I actually sympathize... which is why I'm going to make this mutually beneficial. You give me what I want, and I'll help you get her back."

"What?" Scott's interest piqued despite himself; the offer was undeniably tempting, but deep down he knew he couldn't give in.

"Well, three days puts us just in time for the winter formal. Imagine you taking her instead of me. And think about all the things you'd have to do to get her out of some tight little dress by the end of the night. See how this could work out for everyone? Three days, McCall. Have fun." Jackson patted Scott patronizingly on the cheek before sauntering away, leaving him stewing in anger and confusion.

Fuming, Scott trailed him toward the locker room, seeking solace in the form of a shower. Exhausted, sweaty, and unsure of how to handle his manipulative co-captain, Scott finally emerged from the steamy locker room, a towel slung low around his hips.

As Scott passed Danny, who was already dressed in regular clothes and preparing to leave — perhaps heading off to a victory celebration — Danny unexpectedly made a comment to Scott.

"By the way, McCall? Apology accepted," Danny said with a slight grin.

"I didn't apologize," Scott retorted, caught off guard.

"Every time you got the ball tonight, you passed it to me," Danny continued, his smile radiant and sincere, clearly unwilling to harbor any hard feelings.

Scott chuckled, a warm smile creeping onto his face. "Every time I passed the ball to you, you scored," he replied, unsure if he was offering an excuse or simply praising his teammate's undeniable skill. It was impossible not to like Danny, after all.

"Apology accepted," Danny repeated with a smile, slinging his rucksack over his shoulder before walking out of the changing room, leaving Scott completely alone, as the last remnants of the team had already filtered out.

Now, as the empty room echoed around him, Scott grappled with the weight of his thoughts.

As Scott hurriedly dressed, the rhythmic echoes of footsteps filled the otherwise silent locker room, breaking the stillness.

"Danny?" Scott called out, raising an eyebrow as he assumed the friendly acquaintance might have forgotten something. Peering around a row of lockers, he felt a wave of relief wash over him when he saw Derek standing there. "Thank God! Where the hell have you been?" Scott motioned towards him, a weight lifting from his chest. "Do you have any idea what's been going on?"

But his words hung in the air as Derek's posture tensed, his attention shifting sharply behind him, sensing something sinister. Scott followed Derek's gaze, his heart dropping when he spotted Charlotte's petite figure, standing with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Behind her, an all-too-familiar figure came into view — Peter Hale, Derek's uncle.

Peter, once a catatonic patient confined to a hospital bed, now stood before them, looking remarkably restored. His face, once marred by grotesque scars, was now disturbingly smooth and handsome. In his hands, he casually twirled a lacrosse stick.

"I really don't get lacrosse..." Peter mused, his eyes focused on the stick before he shifted his gaze to Scott. "When I was in high school, we played basketball. Now that was a real sport. But I read somewhere that lacrosse has its origins in Native American tribes — apparently, they used it to resolve conflicts. Am I right?"

Peter leaned the lacrosse stick against his shoulder, his eyes drifting into thought, as though reflecting on some grand philosophical truth. The witch standing beside him rolled her eyes, clearly exasperated by the dramatics that seemed to run in the Hale family. Scott expected an outburst or a show of anger, but he was surprised when Peter calmly set the lacrosse stick against the wall, contradicting the aggression that seemed to linger in the air.

"Hmm... I've got a bit of a conflict of my own to resolve, Scott... and I need your help to do it," Peter said softly, fixing his unsettlingly gentle blue eyes on the younger werewolf. Despite his recent escape from the hospital, Peter carried himself with an unsettling grace, dressed immaculately in a leather jacket over a button-down shirt.

"I'm not helping you kill people," Scott spat through gritted teeth, his voice hard. Peter smiled at the defiance, but the expression quickly faded as his gaze flickered toward Derek.

"Well, I don't want to kill all of them…" Peter began, his voice calm but dangerous. "...just the ones responsible. And that doesn't have to include..." He paused, turning to Derek for assistance, as though momentarily forgetting a key detail.

"Allison," Derek sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the situation. Scott could see the conflict playing out in Derek's eyes — Derek was trapped, and Peter knew it.

"You're on his side?" Scott's voice rose in disbelief, his gaze fixed on Derek, trying to make sense of the betrayal. "Are you forgetting the part where he killed your sister?"

"It was a mistake..." Derek said flatly, his eyes locked on Peter, though his jaw clenched, the tension betraying his calm facade.

"What?" Scott's voice cracked, disbelief flooding his tone.

"It happens," Derek stated solemnly, hoping Scott would understand the gravity of the situation. With Peter's watchful gaze on him, he couldn't afford to say more.

"Scott, I think you've got the wrong impression of us," Peter interjected smoothly, his voice laced with an unnerving calm. "We just really want to help you reach your full potential."

"By killing my friends?" Scott asked quietly, his eyes shifting to the witch instead of Peter, trying to gauge her reaction. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw fear flash in her eyes, but it quickly vanished, replaced by cold indifference.

"Sometimes the people closest to you are the ones holding you back the most," Peter said, his voice low and steady, unnervingly calm. His words sent a chill through the room, the air thick with tension as the hairs on the backs of their necks stood on end.

"If they're holding me back from becoming a psychotic nut-job like you, I'm fine with that," Scott snapped back. He noticed a subtle nod from Charlotte, but before he could process it, Peter stepped forward, raising a hand toward Scott's face.

"Maybe..." Peter murmured, examining his fingers as they morphed into sharp claws. "...you could try seeing things from my perspective..."

Without warning, Peter lunged, his claws extending as he grabbed Scott by the throat, sinking his claws into the young werewolf's flesh with a chilling smile.

Scott's eyes rolled back as if retreating deep into his skull. Before Charlotte could react, the teenager collapsed, sprawled across the cold, unyielding floor. Her hands reached for his head, cradling it with uncertainty, her mind racing, unsure of how to help. Derek stepped forward, but a simple, commanding gesture from his uncle, Peter halted his movement, forbidding any interference.

Charlotte, frozen in place, her hands resting on Scott's temples, watched in shock as her eyes flickered an unnatural green. Alpha Peter, now satisfied, stepped back, his lips curling into a smug smile. He turned and left the locker room, confident of the outcome, without so much as a glance at his nephew, leaving Derek to grapple with his own helplessness.

Derek knelt beside the unmoving pair, his gaze fixated on them, aware that he couldn't disturb whatever was happening. Scott's eyes suddenly snapped open, glowing a bright gold. They stared blankly ahead, filled with a strange, unearthly awareness — as if witnessing visions only he could perceive. And indeed, he was.

Distorted images unfolded before Scott's mind in a slow, disjointed sequence.

A darkened room, shrouded in thick, choking black smoke. A man and a woman, their hands covering their mouths, coughing violently, their screams muffled by the overwhelming haze...

Unger and Reddick — Scott recognized them from the woods — appeared through a dirty basement window, pouring liquid from large canisters over a house. The pungent scent of petrol mixed with something more insidious... wolfsbane...

A man struggling to lift a child into a ventilation shaft, the small body barely squeezing through the narrow passage...

Hands desperately grasping a door handle, trying to wrench it open as dark, oily smoke suffocated everything in sight...

A head of brown, curly hair obscuring the view of a door left ajar, a faint line of mountain ash scattered behind it...

A red-haired nurse carefully laying Peter's scarred body on a bed, his one visible blue eye blinking from beneath bandages...

The full moon's light lazily filtering through a window, casting Peter's face in an eerie, pale glow...

Peter, lying in bed without his bandages, stirred by the moonlight, compelled to rise. The nurse, Jennifer, standing in the doorway, watching in stunned fear, as he obeyed its call...

Footsteps in the woods, twigs snapping underfoot. A girl with dark hair and striking green eyes — Laura Hale — peered through the shadows, her gaze piercing the darkness to see a silhouette, a man wearing hospital pajamas. His face, half-disfigured by scars, turned toward her.

"Peter?" she whispered, startled, taking a hesitant step forward. But he didn't see her — his eyes were vacant, his lips parting to reveal razor-sharp fangs...

Scott's mind reeled at the vision of Laura's mangled body, half-hidden, discovered while searching for his inhaler...

The memory of digging up Laura's grave with Stiles flashed before him, the scent of wolfsbane still clinging to the soil, viewed from above, as if observed by unseen eyes in the treetops...

Laura's lifeless, empty eyes stared up at them from her grave...

The witch's hands finally withdrew from Scott's head, and her body trembled violently. Derek's strong arms caught her just in time, preventing her from collapsing to the floor.

"I'll take you home," Derek murmured into her ear, his voice low and soothing. "It's over; you're fine."

"Scott..." she protested weakly, her voice laced with concern. She knew they couldn't leave him like this.

"He'll be fine," Derek growled, lifting her into his arms. He spared only one glance at the unconscious Scott before striding out of the locker room, carrying Charlotte with him.

Moments later, Scott's eyes fluttered open, and he gasped as though surfacing from deep underwater. He sat up, dazed and disoriented, his surroundings coming into focus. The locker room was eerily empty. No sign of Peter, Derek, or Charlotte — the mysterious witch whose role in all of this remained a puzzle.

Staggering to his feet, Scott moved toward a bench and sank onto it, elbows resting on his knees, his head cradled in his hands. His mind raced, piecing together the surreal fragments of what had just occurred.

"Dude, we have a huge problem!" Stiles burst into the locker room, nearly tripping over himself in his haste, his eyes wide with alarm.

"Trust me... I know," Scott muttered without even glancing up, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

***

Silver moonlight filtered into the room through the partially drawn curtains, casting pale beams across the floor. Allison lay on her stomach in bed, her eyes wide open, unable to quell the torrent of thoughts racing through her mind, much less surrender to the pull of sleep. Her body remained still, yet her mind buzzed like a restless swarm of bees.

As she reluctantly closed her eyes, a shadow seemed to descend over her. Scott appeared by her side, tenderly brushing her hair aside before placing a delicate kiss on the nape. The warmth of his presence was undeniable, but when Allison rolled onto her side, she found herself alone in the room once again.

Yet his touch lingered. His fingers traced over her shoulder, so light they were like feathers drifting across her skin. She could still feel his breath, warm and intimate, caressing the bend of her arm. But no matter how real it felt, Scott was not there. She shifted again, now lying on her back, her breath quickening with frustration. With her eyelids squeezed tightly shut, she tried to force the thoughts of him from her mind, willing herself to forget his touch, his warmth.

But he returned, his presence more vivid than ever. Towering over her, he leaned down, his lips trailing a line of kisses down her neck, brushing along her jaw, her cheek, and finally resting upon her chin. Slowly, he moved to claim her lips, and as she lifted her head to meet his kiss…

Abruptly, she sat up in bed, engulfed in darkness once more. Her breath came in quick gasps, her pulse pounding in her ears. Her hand moved instinctively to the soft skin of her neck, as if checking whether those kisses had been real or merely a figment of her imagination. But in that moment of disorientation, something else caught her attention — something was missing. Her fingers brushed over her cleavage, and she froze. She realized her pendant was missing, the one she had worn since the day it was given to her.

A chill ran down her spine. She rose gracefully from the bed, moving as though possessed by an invisible force, and flicked the light switch on, flooding the room with a soft, golden glow. A frantic search followed — under pillows, over both bedside tables, and across her desk. She even rifled through the pages of a book she had recently read, thinking perhaps she had tucked the necklace away within them. But no. The pendant had disappeared. Her motions grew more erratic, more desperate, as she yanked open drawers, her hands trembling. She felt as though a vital piece of herself had been torn away, leaving her vulnerable, exposed.

Deep down, however, she knew the necklace wasn't in the room.

Descending to the garage, Allison harbored a flicker of hope that perhaps she had left it in the car. Her search was methodical but tense as she examined lockers and cup holders with increasing urgency. Still, the chain eluded her. She cursed under her breath, running her hands through her hair, when suddenly the garage door groaned as it swung open, the sound slicing through the silence and sending a jolt of fear down her spine. In an instant, she slid down into the seat, her body curling into itself in an attempt to disappear.

Her father's large SUV pulled into the garage. After a moment, Chris and Kate stepped out, their conversation filling the air.

"It hasn't been an issue since we lived here," Chris remarked, his tone calm yet insistent.

"All I'm saying is that firing those things so close by is bound to draw attention," Kate replied, her concern clear despite the smile that played on her lips. The two made their way toward the gun cabinet.

"These things have saved my life more than once," Chris declared, holding something up for Kate to see. "Besides, I know how to be inconspicuous when I need to be." With that, he tossed the object into a nearby dumpster with a nonchalant flick of his wrist.

"This, coming from a man whose weapon of choice is a crossbow," Kate scoffed. "You know, these extra skills are something you could be teaching your daughter…"

"Not yet," Chris sighed, his voice weighed down with exhaustion. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket, signaling that this was not a new conversation.

"Ever?" Kate pressed, her gaze drifting toward the small Mazda parked behind him.

"Not yet," he repeated, this time with finality. He turned toward the front door of the house, his shoulders sagging with the weight of unspoken words.

Kate lingered for a moment, setting her bag down on the table with a quiet deliberation. Chris paused, eyeing her with thinly veiled curiosity as she rummaged through the contents.

"You coming?" he asked, taking a step forward as if to catch a glimpse of what she was up to. But Kate, with her ever-present smile, turned toward him and followed him inside, leaving the door to close behind them with a resounding thud.

Only then did Allison dare to emerge from her hiding place, her mind buzzing with intrigue. She moved toward the table, her eyes sweeping over the objects strewn across its surface. Most of it was familiar to her — bullet molds, a hobby of her father's, though he could easily have bought factory-made ones. Scattered pieces of paper bore nothing of interest. But near Kate's bag, something gleamed in the light — a peculiar arrowhead.

It wasn't like the sporting or hunting arrowheads she had seen before. This one was strange, resembling a pinecone or a delicate bauble, and it was heavier than it looked. Her brow furrowed as she examined it, turning it over in her hand. Curious, she reached into the dustbin and retrieved what her father had tossed away earlier.

The discarded object was twisted and mangled, a piece of metal that seemed to have exploded from within. When compared with the strange arrowhead on the table, the similarity was undeniable. They had once been the same object.

Allison's mind raced as she pieced together the fragments of the mystery, the clues that Kate had been subtly dropping ever since she arrived. She was so engrossed in her investigation that she failed to notice the soft creak of the house door, or the way Kate stood watching her with a knowing smile.

***

February 11th 2011 - Friday

The foliage beneath their feet rustled softly, punctuated by the crisp snap of twigs as they made their way through the dense forest. A petite girl with reddish-blonde hair, clad in a dress and heels, stirred up more noise than her companion, who moved with a practiced ease, seemingly at home in the wooded environment. The brunette, burdened by a large black sports bag, appeared just as out of place, dressed for anything but a hike, although they hadn't ventured far from the parked car.

"Allison... when you said we had to stop for an errand before shopping... a five-mile hike through the woods wasn't exactly what I had in mind," Lydia panted, her breath quickening as she struggled to keep pace with her friend.

"It won't take long, and it hasn't been five miles," came Allison's composed reply.

"Can you at least tell me what we're doing?" Lydia pressed, growing increasingly frustrated.

"You'll see."

"You know, the human body only has to drop to 95 degrees to be hypothermic, right?" Lydia quipped, attempting to sound playful, though the faint tremor in her voice betrayed her discomfort. The biting wind found its way through her light jacket and dress, chilling her to the bone.

"Before I forget, I wanted to ask if you're okay with something...," Allison said abruptly, her tone tinged with something unsettling.

"I'll say yes to anything if it means getting out of here."

"Jackson invited me to the winter formal."

"Did he?" Lydia's voice faltered, her uncertainty bleeding through.

"Jackson invited me to the winter formal," Allison reiterated, walking ahead without turning to face her. "But I wanted to make sure you're okay with it first."

"Sure. As long as it's just friends," Lydia answered, unable to completely mask the nervousness creeping into her voice.

"Well, yeah. It's not like I would take him to the coach's office during lacrosse practice and make out with him or anything..." Allison's voice held an unexpected edge, a sharpness Lydia hadn't heard before. The brunette threw a glance over her shoulder, still moving forward, while Lydia faltered, her pace slowing as the weight of the remark hit her.

"Uh..." Lydia stammered, her face flushing. "About that..."

Allison came to a sudden halt and dropped the large sports bag she had been carrying.

"We should be good here. It's isolated enough," she stated calmly, her gaze sweeping over their surroundings.

Squatting down, she unzipped the bag, revealing its contents — a bow and a quiver of arrows. Lydia's eyes widened with curiosity, but her gaze quickly shifted, taking in the thickly wooded area that now felt eerily remote. A nervous laugh bubbled from her lips.

Allison reached into her pocket and pulled out the strange arrowhead she had discovered the night before in the garage. She carefully attached it to one arrow she had prepared in advance.

"What does that do?" Lydia asked, watching her companion with growing curiosity.

"We're about to find out..." Allison murmured, her eyes narrowing in concentration as she scrutinized the arrowhead to ensure everything was secure. Satisfied, a small smile tugged at her lips as she stood up, bow in hand.

Positioning herself with her legs spread wide, Allison squared herself to face a tall tree a few yards away. She notched the arrow, drew the string back to her cheek, and took a moment to aim, calculating the angle because of the arrowhead's weight. Then, with a swift release, she let the arrow fly.

The arrowhead struck the tree with a sharp thud, and in an instant, brilliant white sparks burst from the point of impact, scattering through the air. Allison's brow furrowed as she studied the result — whether it was some kind of blinding projectile or perhaps a signal arrow, she couldn't quite tell, but it definitely leaned toward the former.

"What the hell was that?" Lydia gasped, her initial shock giving way to anxious curiosity. She stared at the brunette, who still gripped the bow tightly in her hands.

"I don't know..." Allison admitted, her eyes locked on the arrow embedded in the trunk. A faint trail of smoke curled up from the tree bark, the aftermath of the small explosion caused by the arrowhead's contact with the tree.

"Well, that was fun!" Lydia laughed nervously, though the chill in the air and the subtle stirrings of fear made the laughter feel forced. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. "Any more lethal weapons you wanna try out?"

Both of them directed their gazes forward — Lydia, with her focus fixed on the target, while Allison's eyes wandered beyond, scanning the trees before drifting toward the misty distance. The silence between a sudden sound, a rustling of branches and leaves in the nearby undergrowth, interrupted them.

"What was that?" Lydia whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Quiet..." Allison immediately hushed her, her voice low but commanding. It was too late. The noise stopped, leaving them enveloped in an eerie silence. "Hold this," she said, handing the bow to Lydia without breaking her gaze on the trees.

"Why? Why?" Lydia asked, her voice betraying her rising anxiety.

"Because I thought I heard something," Allison murmured, her tone steady but cautious.

"So... what if you heard something?" Lydia pressed, her fear bubbling to the surface.

"Don't worry — it's probably nothing." Allison's words echoed those she had repeated to herself countless times. She was tired of the fear that had gripped her since the events at school, manifesting in every corner of her life. She needed to summon courage, to drive out the cold, creeping unease that had settled in her chest.

"Well, what if that nothing is something, and that something is dangerous?" Lydia couldn't hold back the anxious thoughts racing through her mind.

"Shoot it," Allison instructed calmly, her voice barely above a whisper, gesturing toward the bow she had just passed to Lydia. With that, she stepped into the shadows of the trees, disappearing from view.

Left alone, Lydia stared at the weapon in her hands, disbelief washing over her. Her gloved palms were trembling, her breath catching in her throat as she clutched the bow tighter, unsure of what to do next.

Meanwhile, Allison had slipped off the path, moving swiftly and quietly through the thick underbrush. She paused abruptly at the sound of rustling nearby, her senses heightened. She took a slow step back, holding her breath, then pivoted sharply, a taser already in her hands — the same one her aunt had given her. Without hesitation, she squeezed the trigger, sending two electrodes flying straight toward the figure in the bushes.

Scott.

The electrodes struck his chest, and he collapsed with a muffled moan, his body convulsing as the taser's current coursed through him. Writhing on the forest floor, he struggled against the spasms gripping his muscles.

"Scott?" Allison gasped, her shock turning into frantic action as she rushed toward him. She moved to reach for the electrodes, but his voice interrupted her.

"Finger... trigger... finger..." he wheezed through gritted teeth.

Allison suddenly realized she was still clenching the taser's trigger, the current still flowing into him. "Oh! Oh, God," she cried, immediately releasing the device and letting it drop to the ground.

Scott's body relaxed as the painful electricity subsided, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He lay still for a moment, surrounded by fallen leaves.

"Oh, God. I'm so, so, so sorry," she whispered, kneeling beside him, her hands hovering over his body, unsure of how to help.

"No, it's my fault. Totally my fault," he managed, his voice shaky but reassuring.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her concern clear as her eyes searched his face.

"Yeah... I'm fine," he muttered, though another shiver ran through him.

"I didn't know it was you. If I'd known it was you, I..." she trailed off, guilt flooding her voice.

"Still would've pulled the trigger?" he teased, a weak smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"No! Of course not. I'm seriously, really, really sorry," she insisted, a nervous laugh escaping her as she unhooked the electrodes from his shirt. He squirmed under her touch, but said nothing. Together, they worked to untangle the taser's wires, though Scott's body gave another uncontrollable spasm, causing the device to slip from his hands. Allison caught it quickly before it hit the ground.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked again, her voice softer, full of concern.

"Yeah. I think so," Scott muttered, though he still looked dazed.

"What were you doing here, anyway?" she asked, a note of suspicion creeping into her voice. Realizing how odd the situation was, she added, "Were you... following us?"

"No. Not at all! Your dad told me you run this trail sometimes, and I was hoping to catch you alone."

"...By following me?" she asked, laughing at the absurdity.

"Nooo... yes," he admitted with a sheepish grin and a sigh.

"What for?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Scott pulled out something small and shiny. "I found this at school," he said, opening his hand to reveal the chain and pendant she had been searching for the night before.

Allison let out a deep sigh of relief, her face lighting up. "Thank God!" she exclaimed, taking the pendant from him. "I was starting to think it was stolen."

"No! No, just lost. Definitely not stolen by anyone," he said quickly, trying to reassure her.

As she fastened the chain around her neck and adjusted her hair, Scott watched her, momentarily forgetting to breathe. When she glanced back at him, his heart stuttered in his chest.

"Thank you for finding it. And for bringing it," she said, her smile radiant.

"You don't think I'm a total stalker now, do you?" he asked playfully, wrinkling his nose in mock embarrassment.

"No, I just think you're weird. Like always," she laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she looked at him.

Without thinking, she reached out and hugged him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. Maybe just a little too long. Eventually, the memory of their broken relationship surfaced, and she pulled away, avoiding his eyes as she walked off.

When she returned to where Lydia was waiting, her friend was trembling, clearly rattled, as she attempted to draw Allison's bow. Lydia let out a sigh of relief the moment she saw her friend approach, quickly relinquishing the weapon. "Thank God you're back," she muttered.

***

Jackson seethed with fury, desperately searching for an outlet for the turbulent emotions roiling beneath his skin. A combustible mix of anger and anticipation churned within him, failing to coexist peacefully, fueled by the relentless jealousy that had plagued him since McCall's sudden rise to the first team and subsequent appointment as co-captain. Co-captain! Jackson couldn't fathom how Coach Finstock could give such a prestigious role on someone he deemed a loser—especially a position that Jackson believed was rightfully his.

Inside the cabin of his Porsche, heavy-metal music blared at full volume, shaking the windows as it thundered through the car. Unbeknownst to him, the deafening noise masked the strange sounds emanating from the engine. The car decelerated rapidly; the dashboard lighting up like a Christmas tree with a dazzling array of warning lights.

Fortunately, Jackson found himself near a seldom-used parking lot in an industrial zone. Maneuvering with skill, he brought the Porsche into the lot, applying the handbrake and leaving distinctive tire marks in a dramatic display of circles on the concrete. If anyone had been watching, they would undoubtedly have been impressed—the scene could easily belong in The Fast and the Furious.

When the car finally came to a halt, the engine sputtered, coughed, and then died, unresponsive to Jackson's increasingly frustrated commands. Enraged, he slammed his fists against the steering wheel, accidentally setting off the horn. His frustration only deepened; what was meant to be a relaxing drive had turned into yet another disappointment.

"Fuck!" he yelled as he stepped out of the car, slamming the door with a force that reverberated through the otherwise empty lot. His eyes swept over the desolate area surrounding the abandoned factory. No buildings. No pedestrians. No one. He shouldn't have expected anything different. Leaning heavily against the Porsche, he rested his elbows on the roof, burying his face in his hands.

The sound of an approaching vehicle broke through his thoughts. Lifting his head, Jackson saw a large red SUV pulling up beside him. His stomach dropped when he recognized the car. It belonged to Allison's father. Panic surged through him—McCall's revelations during the last game had unnerved him, and now that fear clawed at him again. He hated it.

"Car trouble?" the grey-haired man asked with a smile that, to Jackson, seemed more than a little forced. It was a smile Jackson knew well—one he'd worn many times himself.

"It's okay. I'm just gonna call a tow truck," Jackson replied, eyeing the older man warily as he pulled on a pair of leather gloves and approached the Porsche.

"Oh, I know a few things about cars. It could be something simple," Argent responded, his tone friendly as he opened the hatch where the engine was located—at the rear of the Porsche, unlike most other cars.

"I don't know… I mean, it's a pretty expensive car, and they do all that warranty crap if you mess with it yourself, right?" Jackson tried to dissuade the man, his discomfort growing. Something about Argent unnerved him.

"Well, I won't tell if you won't," Allison's father replied with an easy smile. "It's Jackson, right?" He glanced up at the teenager, still standing a few feet away. "Come on, I'll show you what to look for."

Argent tugged Jackson closer by the shoulder, leaning over the engine as he did so. His eyes flicked to the boy's neck, and before Jackson could react, Argent pushed back the collar of his leather jacket. The boy tensed, instinctively pulling away, but the older man's grip held firm.

"Oh, sorry," Argent muttered, though his voice carried a weight that made the apology seem anything but casual.

"What?" Jackson asked, his unease intensifying.

"Your neck. You hurt yourself?" There was genuine regret in the man's tone, as if he already knew the answer.

"No..." Jackson reflexively touched his neck, where the nearly healed marks still lingered. He straightened up, avoiding eye contact with Argent, who was still holding him by the back of the neck, examining the wounds with a practiced eye. "I mean, it's just—just a scratch."

"It looks like more than a scratch. Have you seen a doctor about it?" Argent's voice was calm, but Jackson could sense the probing intent beneath the surface.

"Yeah, he said it's nothing."

"You might want to get a second opinion. 'Nothing' isn't exactly how I'd describe it. How did it happen? They look a lot like claw marks." Argent's eyes bore into him, but Jackson jerked away, breaking the man's hold.

"I think I should probably just call a tow truck," Jackson said hurriedly, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

"Any reason you're so reluctant to tell me what caused those marks?" Argent's voice remained friendly, though his persistence was becoming more unsettling.

"No," Jackson replied curtly.

"So..." Argent's tone dropped, becoming quieter, almost gentle. "What happened?"

The question lingered in the air, fraught with tension. Jackson felt the weight of it pressing down on him, but he remained silent, torn between fear and frustration.

The teenager was about to respond when a blue jeep pulled up beside them. Scott and Stiles were inside.

"What's up?" called out Stiles from the driver's seat, his tone light but curious.

"Everything okay?" asked Scott, leaning out of the open window, his dark eyes scanning the scene.

"Hey, Scott," greeted Argent with a broad smile. "Your friend here is having a little car trouble. We were just taking a look."

"There's a shop down the street. I'm sure they have a tow truck," Scott said, nodding in the direction they had come from—the only route available, as locked gates blocked the road further down between the industrial buildings.

"Want a ride?" Stiles asked, glancing at Jackson with a mischievous grin. Scott opened the door, offering the blond a seat in the back.

"Come on, Jackson. You're way too pretty to stand out here alone," teased Stiles. Though he didn't particularly like Jackson, both he and Scott weren't about to leave him stranded.

Scott gave his co-captain a pointed look, silently warning him to keep his cool, though Argent remained unbothered, his expression unreadable. Jackson let out a nervous laugh, hesitating for a moment as he moved toward the Jeep. Just as he was about to slide in, Argent leaned over the Porsche's engine and, unnoticed by the teenagers, pocketed a small device he had discreetly removed.

"Hold on, boys!" Argent called out, walking to the driver's side of the Porsche. He inserted the key into the ignition and, with a turn, the engine roared to life, purring as if nothing had been wrong. "Told you I knew a few things about cars." Without waiting for a thank you, he walked away, leaving the boys in stunned silence.

Relief washed over them, and all three teenagers let out the breaths they hadn't realized they were holding. No one moved until Argent disappeared from view.

"What? Are you following me now?" Jackson snapped, his frustration bubbling over as he turned to Scott, his voice aggressive, his emotions barely under control.

"Yes, you stupid, freaking idiot! You almost gave everything away back there," Scott retorted, his own anger flaring.

"What are you talking about?" Jackson demanded, confusion creasing his brow.

"He thinks you're the second Beta!"

"What?" Jackson's eyes widened in disbelief.

"He thinks you're me!" Scott yelled, his irritation with Jackson's ignorance boiling over. He clenched his fists and punched the side of the Jeep, the impact reverberating through the vehicle. Any harder, and he might have left a dent—or worse, struck Jackson.

Meanwhile, Stiles climbed out of the Jeep, approaching the escalating argument.

"Dude. My Jeep..." he protested, pointing at the vehicle with a reproachful look.

"I could hear your heartbeat from a mile away! Literally!" Scott shouted, his anger not abating. "Now he knows something's wrong, and now I have to keep an eye on your stupid ass so he doesn't kill you too." His fists clenched again, but instead of hitting Jackson, he turned back toward the Jeep, fighting the urge to lash out.

Stiles, ever the peacemaker, quickly intervened. "How about we step away from Stiles's Jeep?" he suggested, trying to diffuse the tension.

"This is your problem, not mine, okay?" Jackson shot back, his voice dripping with venom. "I didn't say anything, so you're the one that's gonna get me killed. Okay?" He shoved Scott hard, sending him stumbling back against the side of the Jeep. "This is your fault!"

"Can we stop hitting my Jeep?" Stiles almost cried, throwing his arms up in frustration, but his words fell on deaf ears as the two continued to scuffle. Stepping in, Stiles grabbed both of them by the fronts of their shirts, pulling them apart, his face a mix of exasperation and concern.

"When they come after you, I won't be able to protect you," Scott said, his voice strained as he tried to rein in his anger. "I can't protect anyone," he added, quieter now, glancing at Stiles with a troubled expression.

"Why are you looking at me?" Stiles asked, his confusion evident.

An awkward silence fell over them as they exchanged cautious, calculating looks.

"You know, now you have to do it," Jackson said urgently, his eyes flashing with desperation. "Get me what I want, and I'll be fine protecting myself."

"No, you won't!" Scott shot back, gritting his teeth. "Just trust me… all it does is make things worse."

"Oh, yeah, really?" Jackson sneered, his voice thick with envy and contempt. "You can hear everything you want and run faster than anyone else. Sounds like a real hardship, McCall."

"Yeah, I can run fast, except half the time I'm running away from people trying to kill me!" Scott countered, his frustration spilling over. "And I can hear things, like—like my girlfriend telling people she doesn't trust me anymore, right before she breaks up with me. I'm not lying to you, Jackson! It ruins your life."

"It ruined your life," Jackson said with a sly grin. "You had all the power in the world, and you didn't know what to do with it." He reached into his pocket and jingled his car keys, taking a few steps away from the group. "You know what it's actually like? It's like turning sixteen, and someone buys you a Porsche when they should've started you out with a nice little Honda. Me? I drive a Porsche."

With that, he got into his car, the engine revving loudly as he sped off, tires squealing against the dusty lot. A cloud of dirt rose in his wake, leaving Scott and Stiles standing there, watching the sports car disappear into the distance.

***

The sheriff sat at the kitchen table, a mountain of papers spread before him, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he focused intently on his work.

Stiles burst into the room like a whirlwind, yanking open the fridge and grabbing a carton of milk. He took a long sip directly from it, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, savoring the minor act of rebellion. Victorious in his minor crime, he was about to leave when he noticed his father, submerged in the sea of documents, sprawled across the table.

"What'cha doing?" Stiles asked with an air of innocence that barely masked the mischief lurking beneath.

"Work," Noah replied without looking up, his attention still glued to the paperwork, half-hidden behind the stacks of notes and reports.

"Anything I can help with?" Stiles offered, his tone playful but curious.

"You know, if you poured me an ounce of whiskey, that would be awfully nice," came the sheriff's distracted response, still buried in his work.

Without missing a beat, Stiles vanished into the lounge, returning moments later with a bottle and a glass from the bar. As he approached the table, his eyes flitted over the documents with growing interest. He couldn't resist the urge to reach out, but before his fingers could make contact with one of the papers, his father was quicker, tapping him lightly with the pen in his hand, like shooing away a meddlesome fly.

"You know I can't discuss that with you," the sheriff sighed, clearly resigned to the fact that he wasn't about to shake his son's attention. "Not too much," he added, still without looking up, while Stiles unscrewed the cap on the bottle.

The teenager paused for a moment, bottle in hand, a plan already forming in his head. He glanced at his father, then down at the pile of papers, and finally back at the bottle. His expression shifted as he carefully began pouring whiskey into the glass. The liquid splashed against the bottom, but the sheriff remained engrossed in his notes, oblivious to the sound.

A sly grin crept across Stiles' face as he poured more, and more until the glass was nearly brimming with the amber liquid.

"Here you go, Dad," Stiles said, handing over the generously filled glass with all the nonchalance he could muster. "To the bottom."

"Thanks," Noah muttered absently, not noticing the weight of the glass as he took it in hand. He raised it to his lips, taking a large sip, and then another, all the while still fixated on the papers before him.

Stiles watched with satisfaction as his father unwittingly drank deeply, none the wiser to his little scheme. The sheriff, enveloped in his work, hadn't even realized the full extent of his son's playful mischief.

When the sheriff finally set the glass down on the table, it was completely empty. Folders and loose sheets of paper littered the surface of the table, and Stiles stared at them with barely concealed fascination.

"You know, Derek Hale would be a whole hale of a lot..." Noah's speech was slurring, his tongue struggling to cooperate with his foggy brain. "Hale of a lot..."

"Hell of a lot?" Stiles prompted, smirking.

"Hell... Yes..." Noah raised his hand in triumph, smiling warmly at his son. "He'd be a hell of a lot easier to catch if we could just get an actual picture of him."

"How do you not have a picture of him?" Stiles quipped, fully aware of the irony. Given that mug shots were a standard procedure, and he had practically helped put the werewolf in jail himself. His father pulled out a photograph and placed it in front of him.

"It's the weirdest thing... Every time we try to get a mug shot, it's like two laser beams are pointing at the camera."

The photograph indeed showed Derek, but only someone who had seen him before could tell. The familiar leather jacket and dark hair were there, but two large glares and several smaller green-yellow flares completely obscured Derek's face. Stiles studied it, noticing that Derek had flashed his wolf eyes just as the picture was taken. A clever move. Stiles had to give him credit for that.

"Nice," he muttered under his breath.

"Oh my god..." the sheriff groaned, rubbing his face as he removed his glasses and leaned back in his chair. "Ohhh, God, that ounce hit me like a brick. And I've said way too much, and if you repeat any of that..." He pointed a warning finger at Stiles, his eyes narrowing.

"Dad!" Stiles protested, feigning indignation. "It's me! I'm not gonna say anything. Come on!" He grabbed the bottle still sitting on the table amidst the papers. "Want some more?"

"Absolutely not... Not a drop..." The sheriff hesitated, then added, "Maybe a drop, a little bit." He handed the glass back to his son with a resigned nod.

Stiles poured a bit more whiskey into the glass, though he tried not to look at the way it quickly filled to the brim. Instead, his attention shifted to the folder lying open on the table. A photograph of a dead deer, its side marked with a spiral burn, caught his eye.

"See, the thing is, they're all connected..." Noah's voice broke the silence. "The bus driver that got killed? He was an insurance investigator assigned to the Hale House fire." Stiles straightened in his seat, now fully engaged as he leaned closer to his father's side of the table, reading over the notes.

"Terminated under suspicion of fraud," Stiles read aloud.

"Exactly..." Noah muttered, nodding.

"Who else?" Stiles pressed.

"The video store clerk who had his throat slashed? He was a convicted felon... history of arson."

"What about the other two guys, the ones who got killed in the woods?"

"Priors all over their records, including..."

"Arson?" Stiles finished, his voice quiet as the pieces clicked into place. His father nodded solemnly.

"So, maybe they all had something to do with the fire..." Stiles mused, leaning back in his chair, mirroring his father's gesture. He reached for the bottle again, intending to pour more whiskey.

"No," Noah stopped him, his tone firm. "That's enough."

"Dad, come on! You work really hard, all right? You deserve it," Stiles coaxed with a grin. Unfortunately for the sheriff, who was already too far gone, the false sincerity in his son's words went unnoticed.

"Oh, my God... I'm gonna have such a hangover..." Noah groaned, massaging his temples.

"You mean you're gonna have such a good night's sleep," Stiles corrected with a laugh as he poured the whiskey into the glass. He muttered to himself under his breath, "I'm gonna have an eternity in the lowest circle of hell..." making sure his father didn't overhear his confession as he refilled the drink.

After another hour had passed, Stiles carefully took the glass from his father's hands, preventing it from slipping and breaking.

"Stiles, there are just so many questions..." the sheriff sighed heavily, propping his head up on his hands, the weight of the case and his exhaustion pressing down on him.

"Like what?" Stiles asked, trying to keep his tone casual despite the tension building in the air.

"Like... if Derek wanted to kill everyone involved in the fire, then why start with his sister? She had nothing to do with it. And if he killed Laura, why is Diana still alive..."

"What?" Stiles' eyes widened, surprised by his father's last statement.

"Diana was in that fire... She was the only survivor. That's why I had to take her off the case. There's also Peter Hale, but he's still unconscious..." Noah paused, his words heavy with the burden of unsolved mysteries. "So... why did Derek kill his sister?"

"Good question," Stiles muttered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, feeling the unease rise in his chest.

"And why make it look like some kind of animal did it?" Noah continued, his voice carrying the weight of yet another unsolved piece of the puzzle.

"Another good question," Stiles whispered, more to himself than to his father, as he struggled to fit the pieces together.

"Something else is strange..." The sheriff leaned back, rubbing his temples. "When that cougar showed up in the parking lot, I checked with animal control... Wild animal reports have been up seventy percent over the last few months. It's like they're going crazy, running out of the woods..." He trailed off, lost in thought.

"Or something's scaring them out," Stiles murmured under his breath, barely audible as he cast a last glance at the scattered files. His hands moved instinctively, sorting through the papers, packing them back into their respective folders. His jaw clenched, and the muscles in his cheeks twitched nervously.

"You know, I miss talking to you..." Noah's voice softened, and he looked at his son with a mixture of nostalgia and affection. It felt like only yesterday that he and his wife had been choosing a name for their unborn child, like just moments ago, he had held Stiles in his arms for the first time. But now, sitting beside him was a sharp-witted teenager, already taller than him, and it felt like time had slipped away too fast. "It's like we never have time anymore..."

"Dad, you know, I have to make a phone call. I'm sorry," Stiles said abruptly, rising from the table, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I'll be right back."

"I do... I miss it..." Noah muttered, his voice quieter now, watching his son move away once again. "And I miss your mum," he added, the pain clear in his words, though he hadn't meant for Stiles to hear it.

"What'd you say?" Stiles asked, his voice cracking slightly as he pulled the phone away from his ear.

But Noah didn't respond. Instead, he reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels still sitting on the table, his hand moving slowly, intending to pour himself another shot of whiskey. Before he could, though, Stiles stopped him mid-motion, gently placing his hand over his father's.

"Thanks," Noah whispered, offering a small, weary smile. He turned his gaze back to the pile of documents in front of him, staring blankly as if lost, unsure of what to do next.

***

Scott rushed into his bedroom, threw his backpack to the floor, and slammed the door shut behind him. Only after the door clicked did he pull out his phone, anxiously playing with the voicemail recordings that echoed through the room.

"Scott, it's Dr. Deaton. Getting a little concerned about how much work you've been missing. Please give a call when you..."

"Shit..." he muttered under his breath, quickly skipping to the next message.

"Scott, it's Charlotte Benoit. I'm calling about school stuff. I noticed you didn't turn in your homework today. I know you've got a lot on your plate, but I can extend your deadline by a maximum of 48 hours."

"Shit..."

Just as he was about to play another message, a knock sounded at the door.

"Not now, Mom..." he sighed heavily, assuming it was her. But the knock came again, more insistent. Frustrated, Scott crossed the room and swung the door open. "I said, not now—"

To his surprise, it wasn't his mother standing in the hallway. It was Allison, her face tense and confused.

"Sorry, your mom let me in," she mumbled.

Scott stood there, frozen, staring at her in disbelief, his mouth slightly ajar. For a moment, he couldn't quite process the fact that Allison was standing in his house, in his hallway. It felt like a dream.

"Can we talk?" she asked, finally releasing the breath she had been holding.

He nodded, gesturing for her to come into the room. Allison stepped inside, and he motioned for her to sit on the bed. When she did, Scott joined her. They both sat awkwardly for a moment, embarrassed by the silence that stretched between them.

"Do you want me to say something first?" Scott finally asked, unable to endure the quiet any longer.

"No," Allison quickly denied.

"Okay..." he hesitated. "Do you want me to leave you alone for a few minutes?" he suggested, trying to make sense of the situation.

"Why would I want that?" Her question caught him off guard.

"I don't know. It's just that, um... you came in here and said you wanted to talk, and we've been sitting here for like ten minutes, and you haven't said anything yet. And it's starting to freak me out."

"Sorry," she said with a disarming smile. "It's just... it's a little hard to start. I didn't want to bother you with this. I called Jackson, but he's not answering his phone."

"He's not?" Scott felt a swirl of emotions. He should have been angry that Allison had tried to reach out to Jackson first, but he was relieved that Jackson hadn't answered. Still, the worry gnawed at him—concern for his co-captain's safety crept in despite everything.

"I don't know if he's the best person to talk to anyway," Allison continued. "I feel like sometimes he pretends he's listening, but really, he's just waiting for me to stop talking so he can start again."

"That sounds about right," Scott muttered, not hiding his agreement.

"And I definitely can't talk to Lydia about this. It's going to sound ridiculous... I guess I don't want you to laugh at me."

"I would never laugh at you," Scott said earnestly. Allison looked into his eyes, and after a moment, nodded, believing him.

"It's about my family," she began, drawing a deep breath.

"Okay..." Scott tensed, anxiety flooding his mind as he braced himself for what might come next. Was she about to reveal that her family hunted werewolves?

"A little while ago, I caught them in a lie. It was small, but still..." she said, her voice laced with frustration. "When my aunt, Kate, arrived, she had car trouble. My dad said it was a flat tire, but my aunt said she needed a jump start."

"Maybe it was just a little miscommunication," Scott offered cautiously, not wanting to stir up more tension.

"That's what I thought at first," Allison continued, "but then I found glass on her car, like the window had been smashed in." Scott nodded slowly, trying to mask the fact that he knew exactly what had happened that night. "And lately, I've been overhearing some really strange conversations."

Scott stiffened, his gut twisting with dread. He knew exactly where this was going.

"And I think some of it has to do with Derek and Ms. Benoit."

"Are you sure?" Scott swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak.

"Yeah. And this is where it's really going to start sounding unbelievable... and you have to promise not to laugh or look at me like I'm crazy," she said, her voice faltering slightly. "Because I think... I think..."

"Scott! Coming home late tonight," Melissa's voice rang out from the hallway. Scott heard Melissa's voice ringing out from the hallway, causing both teenagers to jump nervously as the door to his bedroom swung open. It felt as if they had been caught doing something inappropriate. Melissa smiled at them warmly, and it was then that Scott noticed something unusual—his mom was wearing heels and a dress, a rare sight.

"What's wrong? The hair? Makeup?" she asked, her voice tinged with nervousness as she caught her son's gaze.

"No, nothing. You look beautiful," Scott stammered, seemingly at a loss for words.

"Amazing," Allison chimed in with a broad smile, though her eyes glittered with curiosity.

"Amazing… Why do you look amazing?" Scott asked, confused by her appearance.

"Because, amazingly, I'm having dinner for once with a member of the male gender who's above the age of sixteen," she explained, her smile broadening, clearly pleased.

"Who?" Scott rolled his eyes, his tone edging toward disbelief.

"A medical rep who came into the hospital today. We just started talking. Next thing I know, I'm saying yes to dinner." She gestured excitedly, her hands flitting about as she recounted the events. "I regretted skipping my gym visit last week," she added with a slight squirm.

"What medical rep?" Scott asked, the question coming out in a slow, almost exasperated drawl. At that moment, the front doorbell rang.

"That medical rep. God, I'm not ready..." Melissa exclaimed, rushing out of her son's room. "Get the door, talk to him. Be nice!" she called as she hurried away.

Scott turned to Allison, his expression a mix of disbelief and worry. Allison simply nodded, encouraging him to comply with his mom's request.

With a sigh, Scott ran down the stairs, passing framed photos from his childhood that lined the walls. His eyes lingered for a moment on the older photos, where his father still appeared—a rare topic of conversation between him and his mother. As he reached the door, a strange sensation crept up the back of his neck, freezing him mid-motion. The doorbell rang again.

"Scott! Get the door!" Melissa's voice came from upstairs.

But Scott remained rooted to the spot, staring at the doorknob, unmoving. A wave of fear rippled through him, paralyzing him in place. His heightened senses picked up a steady, unnerving heartbeat from the other side of the door. His hand twitched involuntarily as the bell rang once more.

"Scott, for the love of God—" Melissa's voice trailed off as he heard her heart racing lightly, the familiar sound oddly comforting.

Just as Scott reached for the lock, the doorknob turned on its own. His hand hovered in midair, but before he could touch it, the door swung open to reveal…

An empty porch. Scott blinked, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. He turned back to look at his mother, who was descending the stairs.

"What are you doing? Aren't you going to invite him in?" she asked, her face peeking around the corner.

Scott turned back to the doorway, only to be greeted by…

"Hello there," Peter Hale said, his smile wide and unnervingly cheerful. He stood in the doorway, elegantly dressed and neatly combed, and his blue eyes twinkled with what could only be described as childlike amusement. But the smile did nothing to calm the storm of terror raging in Scott's chest.

Scott moved to slam the door shut, but it didn't budge. Peter's hand had stopped it effortlessly, his strength far beyond that of the teenage werewolf.

"Really? Slam the door in my face? Come on, Scott, take a second to think that through," Peter said smoothly, his voice dripping with condescension.

"I'll tell her," Scott replied, his voice trembling despite his attempt to sound firm.

"That I used to be a catatonic invalid with burns covering half my face? Good luck with that," Peter mocked, his tone icy.

"If you hurt her, or even touch her..." Scott's threat faltered, the tremor in his voice betraying the helplessness he felt.

"Scott, if I can interrupt your Top Five Most Impotent Sounding Threats for just a moment..." Peter's voice carried an almost amused tone as he said, "Try to remember, I've been in a coma for six years. Don't you think I'd like to have dinner with a beautiful woman?" Scott wasn't fooled, even though his sincerity seemed genuine for a fleeting moment.

"Just a second, sorry!" Melissa's voice called out from inside. Peter's eyes flicked over Scott's shoulder, softening for a moment, his expression momentarily becoming almost handsome, as if even the sinister gleam in his eyes had vanished. But the moment passed, and as soon as she was out of sight, his face returned to its cold, calculating mask.

"Or, maybe you think I've come up with a different idea?" Peter continued, stepping across the threshold, forcing Scott to retreat. "Like how it might be easier to convince you to join the pack... if your mother is part of it too. Or maybe even your friend, Stiles." The Alpha took another step forward, his presence overwhelming as Scott instinctively backed away. "You need to understand how much more powerful we are together, Scott. You, me, Derek... and even that little witch of his," Peter added with a twisted smile at the mention of the red-haired teacher. He wasn't sure what effect biting her would have, but with Derek at his side, he already had her under his control—something no other Alpha could boast of.

"Did you know that some of the most successful military operations during World War II were the German U-boat attacks? Do you know what they called them?" Peter leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Wolf packs. Did you know that? Or are you failing history as well?"

"I know the Germans lost the war," Scott said quietly, a trace of defiance in his voice. But the growl that should have accompanied his words was nowhere to be found. His gut twisted at the mere thought of challenging Peter, the werewolf who had bitten him—the Alpha who should have been his leader, but wasn't. Still, deep inside, Scott knew he couldn't let this happen. That thought alone gave him the courage to stand his ground, to protect the ones he loved, including the teacher who had helped him navigate his new life.

"I think you'll find most historians would argue that was a failure of leadership..." Peter concluded with a wry smile. "And trust me, we don't have that problem here."

"Mrs. Benoit said an incompetent leader is just as bad as one who tries to instill fear instead of loyalty," Scott muttered. He knew Peter had heard him—those piercing eyes flashed ominously in response.

"I'm ready," Melissa announced, breaking the tense silence between Scott and Peter as she approached the door, her bag slung over her shoulder. "I'm sorry again," she added with a small smile.

Peter's expression shifted effortlessly, almost as if he had flipped a switch. He now radiated warmth and charm, the very image of a gentleman. Scott couldn't help but think that if this version of Peter—the one who played the role of a polite, well-mannered man—were the real one, he might have even considered joining his pack. But the bitter truth remained: if Peter had truly been that man, Scott wouldn't be a werewolf right now.

Peter extended his arm to Melissa, like a true gentleman.

"Mum..." Scott blurted out, snapping out of his thoughts as the adults prepared to leave.

"Yes, sweetheart?" Melissa asked, turning back to look at him. Her gaze was full of curiosity and concern, a silent plea not to ruin her first date in a long time.

"Have a good time," Scott finally managed, struggling to keep his voice steady. He wanted to beg her to stay, to protect her from the danger she was walking into, but he couldn't tell her the truth, and nothing else came to mind.

Both Peter and Melissa smiled warmly at him before they turned and walked out, disappearing into the deepening twilight.

Scott rushed back to his room, momentarily startled to find Allison still sitting there, as if he'd forgotten she was waiting for him.

"If you just stay, I swear... I'll be right back. I just—I just have to, um..." he stammered, pacing frantically around the room, looking for something with no coherent plan. "I wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't totally, incredibly important," he insisted, catching the way her lips tightened, and the disappointment flickered in her eyes.

"It's okay," Allison responded, her voice quiet and resigned, as though this was exactly what she had expected all along.

"No!" Scott objected, sitting down beside her, his eyes locked on hers. "I want to talk to you. There's actually nothing I want to do more right now. Can you please stay? Please? I'll be right back."

Allison hesitated, her uncertainty hanging in the air, but then she nodded, albeit slowly. Scott breathed a sigh of relief, thanking her before bolting out of the room, leaving her alone once again.

She shifted on the bed, trying to get comfortable, though the tears welling up in her eyes made it hard to sit still. The silence of the house pressed in on her as time dragged on.

Annoyed by the prolonged wait, Allison glanced at her phone, checking the time. She sighed, rising from the bed, her movements slow and defeated. The screen of her phone lit up with a new message from her aunt: "We need to talk."

Her heart sank further. The last thing she wanted was to go home and face her family, especially with everything she had been keeping inside. The thought of confronting them now, while still grappling with her own doubts and fears, felt overwhelming. She sank down to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest.

Time passed, and she moved restlessly, her thoughts swirling. She wandered in and out of the bathroom, checked her phone over and over, and grew increasingly frustrated with herself, with her family, and with Scott.

Eventually, the waiting became unbearable. Her frustration boiled over, and she stood up, exhaling sharply. Without a second thought, she walked to the door, her heart heavy with disappointment. She left Scott's room, closing the door quietly behind her as she left.

***

Peter escorted Melissa to the car, a vehicle that had once belonged to his nurse. With an air of practiced chivalry, he opened the passenger door for her and helped her inside before slipping into the driver's seat himself.

Since regaining his senses and being "discharged" from the hospital, Peter had discovered a deep love of driving. After settling his business with Scott, he often indulged in long drives around Beacon Hills and its outskirts, savoring the freedom. He hadn't realized just how much he had missed the simple joy of being behind the wheel.

As they drove, Melissa watched the passing neighborhood with growing unease. Peter, however, seemed completely at ease, occasionally casting curious glances in her direction, studying her as if trying to read her thoughts.

"Everything okay?" he finally asked, his voice smooth and composed.

"I don't know... I just feel like maybe we missed the turn for the restaurant?" Melissa replied, her concern genuine. It felt like they were heading further away from the town center, not closer. The look of fear on her son's face as she had left the house lingered in her mind, feeding her growing sense that something wasn't quite right.

"Hm..." Peter furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "I'll pull over. We can map it on your phone."

"Okay," she said, smiling nervously as she rummaged through her purse for her phone. Meanwhile, Peter parked the car at the curb behind a dark blue Chevrolet Chevelle—a vehicle he had likely noticed outside the hospital earlier that day.

As Melissa fiddled with her phone, checking the route, Peter watched her intently. His gaze lingered a bit too long, making her uneasy. She laughed softly, glancing up at him.

"What?" she asked, looking away from the phone and meeting his eyes.

"I was just noticing that you have the most incredible skin," Peter whispered, his voice low, as though this newfound observation entirely consumed him. His gaze never wavered, and he seemed oblivious to the discomfort his comment caused. "Flawless," he added, recalling the horrific burns that had once ravaged his own face, a reminder of the fire that had taken his family.

"Hm..." Melissa muttered, a little thrown off by the odd compliment. "That's a new one on me," she said, feeling embarrassed as she turned her attention back to her phone.

"Do you mind?" Peter asked suddenly, his hand halfway raised toward her face, drawing her focus back to him.

Melissa froze for a second, unsure of how to respond as Peter's fingertips brushed against her cheek, trailing gently along her skin. He seemed fascinated by the small crow's feet at the corners of her eyes—signs of her warmth and joy. A sudden shudder ran through her, one she couldn't control, and in that moment of unease, her phone slipped from her hands and fell to the floor.

"Oh... I'm sorry," she stammered, quickly leaning down to retrieve it, breaking the strange, intimate moment.

Unbeknownst to her, Peter's eyes had flashed a bright red, his pupils dilating as his teeth lengthened and sharpened into wolf-like fangs. He found himself entranced, teetering on the edge of letting his predatory instincts take over. For a brief second, he was close—so close—to biting her.

But then something slammed into the side of the car, jolting both of them upright and snapping Peter out of his trance. The abrupt impact broke the strange atmosphere that had settled between them, and the adults straightened in their seats, the unsettling moment they'd shared now abandoned.

Melissa checked the side mirror, but there was nothing visible. Unsettled by the noise, she got out of the car to investigate. Years of single-handedly raising Scott had ingrained in her the habit of taking charge when something needed doing. When she spotted the familiar blue Jeep that had collided with Peter's car, her anger flared.

"Are you kidding me? Stiles!" she yelled, seeing her son's best friend's Jeep seemingly unscathed. She could only hope Peter's car had fared the same.

"Mrs. McCall?" Stiles called out as he clambered out of his vehicle, his face a mixture of surprise and guilt. "Wow, this is—this is just crazy. What a coincidence, huh?" he laughed nervously, trying to diffuse the tension with his usual awkward charm.

A short woman emerged from a nearby house, her puzzled expression matching the scene. She glanced at her own car, parked just a few meters away, which was thankfully untouched. She stood quietly, observing the growing commotion.

"Nicely done, Scott," remarked Peter, who had gotten out of the car and was now exchanging a knowing look with the werewolf hidden nearby. The look in Peter's eyes showed a silent appreciation for the strategy at play. "Really, not bad," he added, casting a glance at the Witch—Charlotte Benoit—who was now part of the scene.

"I mean, I don't know what happened! You guys just came out of nowhere..." Stiles babbled, his voice growing more frantic as he noticed the fury on Melissa's face, completely ignoring the approaching Alpha.

"Came out of nowhere? We were parked on the side of the road, Stiles!" Melissa snapped, her anger boiling over.

"How crazy is that?" Stiles chuckled nervously, his voice far too high-pitched for the situation.

"I think we should call the police," Charlotte interjected coolly. "They'll need to file an accident report. And Stiles is clearly under the influence of alcohol. I'll have to report it to the school," she added, turning to Stiles, hoping her words would sink in.

Melissa, only just noticing the redhead standing by, gave her a polite smile. Recognition flickered in her eyes—she knew Charlotte as Scott's teacher.

"I don't think that's necessary," Peter said calmly, stepping closer to the group, his voice disarmingly soft.

"Are you sure?" Charlotte's gaze sharpened as she looked at Peter, her tone skeptical. "The kid was either drinking or on something. It's not something we should just ignore."

"I think I'm feeling a little whiplash..." Stiles groaned dramatically, rubbing his neck and striking a theatrical pose.

"There'll be something wrong with your neck when I strangle you with my own hands," Melissa growled, casting a dark glare at him.

As the argument between Melissa, Stiles, and Charlotte heated, Peter, uninterested in the squabble, decided it was time to take his leave.

"I know you're there, Scott, and I'm impressed." He pitched his voice low enough that only Scott could hear it, and his words were meant for the young werewolf lurking nearby. Charlotte, sensing something, strained to catch his words, knowing that if a werewolf was nearby, Scott would have no trouble picking up on Peter's message. "It's too bad most teenagers aren't that smart. Take Jackson, for instance."

The mention of Jackson chilled Charlotte. She knew Peter had something planned, and it was terrifying to think he might use Derek as part of it—Derek, who had pulled away from her long ago. "Thinks he knows all about us," Peter continued with a smirk. "You know how they say 'Knowledge is power'? Not in his case."

Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte spotted movement between the parked cars across the street. Her gaze sharpened, and she realized it was Scott. He must have understood Peter's thinly veiled threat and was rushing to protect his co-captain, Jackson.

Deciding to act, Charlotte discreetly stepped away from the escalating argument, her mind racing. She shot a quick, subtle signal to Stiles, showing that he shouldn't let Melissa drive off with Peter under any circumstances. Stiles caught her hint, his expression turning serious for once as he nodded, determined to keep Melissa from leaving with the dangerous Alpha.

***

The reverberating echoes of heavy rock and metal music pulsed through the locker room doors at Beacon Hills High School. Method of Mayhem's "Fight Song" blasted from the iPhone speakers, perfectly matching the intensity of a teenager engrossed in a weightlifting session. Jackson, drenched in sweat, continued to push himself, adding more weights to the bar as he fought through the burn.

Suddenly, the music cut off, yanking him out of his workout-fueled trance. He dropped the dumbbells onto the concrete floor with a loud clang.

"What the hell?" Jackson growled, irritated by the abrupt interruption. He rose from the bench, heading toward where he had left his music player. "Hey!" he shouted when he noticed someone unfamiliar seated beside his speakers.

"I like your taste in music," came a soft, almost casual response. The voice sent an involuntary shudder down Jackson's spine, though he quickly chalked it up to exhaustion. "Haven't heard this one in a long time." The man remained facing away as he picked up his phone, plugging it into the speaker slot.

The haunting opening chords of "Lose Your Soul" by Dead Man's Bones filled the room—an eerie contrast to the previous track. Jackson recognized it immediately, knowing it was a band fronted by Ryan Gosling, one of Lydia's favorite actors. When the man finally turned to face him, Jackson's heart sank—Derek Hale.

"I'm not scared of you!" Jackson shouted, trying to mask the tremor in his voice as he grabbed a nearby lacrosse racket for a semblance of protection. But both knew that the words were more for Jackson's own reassurance than a real declaration of defiance.

Derek rose slowly from the bench, his movements deliberate. He approached Jackson, who, despite his physical stature, visibly trembled. The fear was palpable, radiating off the blond boy even as he tried to summon bravado.

"I'm not afraid," Jackson repeated, his breathing heavy, as if he had just run laps around the field.

Derek's bitter smile barely reached his eyes. "Yes, you are. I can see it in you. I bet you haven't had a single day in your life where you weren't afraid of something. But... you won't have to be anymore." His voice softened into something almost inviting. "Not when you're one of us."

For a moment, Jackson's lips curled into a smile, but it wasn't one of warmth or camaraderie. It was dark, twisted with malice and arrogance—a smile that unnerved Derek, not out of fear, but because it was so out of place. It wasn't Scott's familiar friendly grin or even Stiles' lopsided smirk. This smile dripped with venom, as if Jackson relished the idea of something sinister.

Derek commanded, "Come with me," turning and heading toward the door with the confidence of someone who knew he would be followed. Without hesitation, Jackson trailed after him, abandoning the locker room.

Neither of them noticed Kate Argent lurking just around the corner of the hallway, her eyes gleaming with predatory satisfaction as she watched them. A self-satisfied smile curled at the edges of her lips, like a hawk circling its prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The man led Jackson to his sleek black Camaro, and together they drove deep into the woods, heading toward the old, charred remains of the Hale house. It had been several days since Derek had last set foot there, and the air around the dilapidated structure seemed heavy with memories and regret.

"This is it? This is the place?" Jackson asked, his voice trembling under the weight of Derek's presence. He couldn't shake the unsettling tingling at the back of his neck, where the bite marks had yet to fully heal. Every step closer made his skin crawl.

Derek nodded in response, his face unreadable. His expression, usually a window to his intentions, was now a mask of emotionless calm. There was something unnervingly dead in his eyes—none of the familiar intensity or purpose Jackson had seen before. It was as if all the life had drained from him, making the teenager even more nervous.

"Is it safe? I don't want rafters falling on my head," Jackson hesitated, but his question was met with silence. Derek didn't bother to answer, and Jackson swallowed nervously, taking a tentative step onto the creaking porch. The wood groaned beneath his weight, and he could feel the tremor in his own hands as he reached for the doorknob. "What's in here?" he asked, casting a fearful glance back at Derek, who stood right behind him.

"Everything you want," Derek said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "Just go in there."

The door creaked open, and Jackson felt Derek's firm hand land on his shoulder, holding him in place, ensuring there would be no escape. "It's gonna be all right," Derek muttered, his tone eerily calm. "Trust me."

With a gentle but insistent push, Derek guided Jackson inside and closed the door behind them.

"This house..." Jackson whispered, his eyes scanning the charred walls, a strange sense of familiarity creeping over him. Memories—ones he couldn't explain—flooded his mind. "This is the same h-house..."

"What'd you say?" Derek asked, narrowing his eyes. He had heard the words clearly, but they made little sense. Jackson had never been here before—he would have known if he had.

"I've dreamt about this place," Jackson murmured, still staring at the stairs, his fingers absently brushing against the scratches on his neck. "I—I remember the stairs," he gestured, pointing toward the twisted banister. "And these—these walls. Everything. It's all here."

"You've been here?" Derek's suspicion deepened, his brow furrowing. He would have recognized Jackson's scent if he'd ever set foot in the house.

"No, never," Jackson shook his head, his voice trembling. "I've only dreamt about this place," he muttered, running his hand along the stair railing. But as he caught sight of the anger rising in Derek's face, he immediately went quiet. The shift in Derek's demeanor was palpable—dangerous. "...There's no one else here?" Jackson asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Something told him that whatever was happening it was about to get much worse. "Nobody's coming?"

Derek shook his head, his jaws clenched tight. Fury simmered beneath the surface, and his claws extended from his fingers. Derek knew that following his uncle Peter's orders would lead to trouble, but he felt trapped in the inescapable web he was caught in. If he didn't act, Peter would kill Charlotte, Scott, and who knows how many others.

"Please don't," Jackson pleaded, backing away from the looming threat, stumbling down the stairs in his desperation. "I'll stay quiet, I swear. I'll never tell anyone anything. I'll leave Scott alone. Please, don't do this," he begged, his voice breaking into sobs, his fear now laid bare. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision, and he couldn't see whether Derek's resolve was weakening.

"I don't deserve this," Jackson whimpered, the tears spilling freely now as his fear turned into panic. His vulnerability was raw, his bravado completely shattered.

"I think you do, though," Derek muttered, trying to steady his own shaking hands, though he felt the weight of his words.

"No!" Jackson wailed, his voice cracking as his emotions spilled over.

"Look around!" Derek roared, his voice finally erupting with the pent-up anger he had been holding back. "Wouldn't there be someone here trying to save you? There's no one. There's a reason for that. No one cares that you drive an expensive car. No one cares that you've got perfect hair. And no one cares that you're captain of the lacrosse team!" His voice rose with each sentence, the bitterness of every grievance dripping from his words, each one like a blade cutting deeper into the truth Jackson had tried so hard to avoid.

"Excuse me," a resonant voice echoed around them. Both Jackson and Derek snapped their heads toward the stairs, where Scott now stood, his presence commanding attention. "Co-Captain." With effortless grace, Scott descended, landing between Jackson and Derek, his eyes flicking with concern toward his schoolmate. Jackson, startled by Scott's transformed face, flinched, but Scott's attention had already shifted back to Derek, who was now fully in his werewolf form, growling, his readiness to strike clear but held at bay.

"Move," Derek growled, his patience wearing thin.

"No," Scott replied firmly.

"Fine. I'll kill you too," Derek shrugged, his electrifying blue eyes flashing with deadly intent.

Just as the tension reached a boiling point, Charlotte rushed in between them, shouting, "Cover your eyes!" Her words were perfectly timed with the release of drawn chords and arrows that whizzed through the air.

Without hesitation, the teacher threw herself in front of the most vulnerable—Jackson—shielding him with her body. In the next instant, Derek's weight crashed onto her back as he dove to protect them both.

Scott, however, had failed to heed Charlotte's warning. The blinding flash disoriented him, leaving him stranded in the middle of the corridor. A staccato of machine gun fire erupted, the bullets laced with aconite. Derek scooped Charlotte off the ground, his other arm securing Jackson, and shielded them from the deadly gunfire.

"Run!" Charlotte commanded, her words laced with a subtle compulsion spell aimed at Jackson. "Quickly!"

Jackson obeyed without hesitation, sprinting into the night. Charlotte's heart sank when she spotted Scott slumped against the wall, bleeding, smoke rising from his wounds. Desperation crept into her eyes as she looked at Derek, silently pleading for guidance. She hadn't expected things to escalate like this—she believed words would be enough to defuse the situation.

"Charlie," Derek growled into her ear, his grip on her tightening. "Get Scott out of here. Run. I'll divert their attention."

"They'll kill you," she objected, her voice low but filled with dread. There were no more options left, and she was well aware of that.

"They want Peter. They'll use me as bait. I'll survive," Derek muttered, his voice full of determination. He pushed away from the wall, helping the injured Scott to his feet. With a last command, he urged, "Run!"

Following Jackson's lead, Charlotte helped Scott, glancing back only once to see Derek in his full werewolf form, leaping through the front door into a hail of bullets. His roar echoed through the night, challenging the hunters.

Jackson ran without looking back, fear driving him forward. Moments later, Scott stumbled out of the ruins of the Hale house, heavily supported by Charlotte, who struggled to keep the much larger teenager upright. They moved as quickly as they could, putting distance between themselves and the danger.

The gunfire had ceased, and Charlotte feared it meant the hunters had captured Derek. Scott's steps grew heavier, and he faltered, losing more blood with each staggering step. Charlotte, her arm still wrapped around him, grabbed her phone. She hesitated, unsure whom to call. Stiles was busy, and his father couldn't be involved. Peter was out of the question.

She leaned Scott against a tree, her heart pounding. Closing her eyes, she blindly selected a contact, hoping for the best. When she opened her eyes, she realized she had called the vet. A bitter chuckle escaped her lips as she stole a glance at the injured teenager.

"Well, you're full of surprises," she murmured.

Scott's lips moved soundlessly. He moistened them with his tongue, an ominous sign of his deteriorating condition. Charlotte leaned over him, still holding the phone to her ear.

"Allison..." Scott mumbled weakly as Charlotte finally got through to Dr. Deaton.

Within fifteen minutes, Deaton arrived. Together, they loaded the delirious teenager into his car and sped toward the clinic. In the healing room, Deaton worked methodically, extracting the aconite-laced bullets from Scott's body.

"He'll be fine," Deaton assured Charlotte as he finished cleaning the last of the wounds.

Charlotte focused on wiping the blood from Scott's skin as he gasped for breath, slowly regaining consciousness.

"I wouldn't get up just yet..." Dr. Deaton cautioned as Scott stirred, trying to rise.

"Where am I?" Scott asked groggily, his words slurred as his eyes rolled around the room, struggling to focus.

"It's all right, Scott," Deaton reassured him. "I've given you something to speed up the healing process."

"But... you're a vet..." Scott croaked, his dry lips cracking as he finally focused on the man before him.

"That's very true," Deaton smiled warmly. "And ninety percent of the time, I'm mostly treating cats and dogs."

"Mostly?" Charlotte raised a skeptical eyebrow, the tension in her face relaxing for the first time since the confrontation.

"Mostly," Deaton repeated with a knowing smile, his calm demeanor sending a slight chill down Charlotte's spine. There was always more to the vet than met the eye, and today was no exception.

***

The heavy metal door, worn by the ravages of time, swung open with a clatter and a creak, revealing a shadowy, dust-filled corridor. The air was thick, and the space exuded a foreboding atmosphere, reminiscent of the forgotten tunnels deep beneath New York. Kate strode forward with confidence, her movements fluid and deliberate. Behind her, Allison followed hesitantly, her eyes darting around as she took in the unfamiliar surroundings with growing apprehension.

"What is this place?" Allison asked, her voice barely a whisper, the tension clear in her tone.

"Let's start with the basics," her aunt replied, her tone casual as she glanced back at her niece. After a few long, echoing steps, they reached another door. Kate paused, turning to face Allison with a knowing look. "You know how every family has its secrets?" she asked, watching Allison's expression closely. Satisfied with her niece's reaction, she turned the handle and pushed the door open. "Ours is a little different."

Allison leaned forward, peering over Kate's shoulder to catch a glimpse of the room beyond. The scene that greeted her was unsettling—a dark, damp cellar illuminated by the faintest glimmer of moonlight filtering through a small, barred window. The light cast eerie shadows on the floor, giving the space an even more sinister edge.

Kate stepped inside, momentarily blocking Allison's view. But what she could see made her heart race. Against one wall stood a bay of wrought iron fencing, behind which a crumbling wooden staircase rose from the floor, the stairs themselves charred and blackened—remnants of a fire. Realization struck Allison hard and fast—they were standing beneath the ruins of the Hale house. The thought sent a chill down her spine, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around herself, trying to steady her trembling body.

Despite the fear gnawing at her, curiosity pushed her deeper into the basement. Just then, Kate flicked on a spotlight, illuminating something previously hidden in the shadows.

Allison's breath caught in her throat as her eyes met the glowing, unnatural blue of Derek Hale's eyes. But this wasn't the Derek she had known. He snarled viciously at them, his rage palpable. If Allison hadn't felt her aunt's gaze on her, she might have instinctively taken a step back, even though Derek was chained to the iron bars. Fury twisted his face—his eyebrows knotted, his forehead creased with anger. Allison hadn't been this close to him before, but she was certain his eye color was not natural. The deep, guttural growls that emanated from him sent shivers through her, reminding her of a wild animal trapped and desperate.

The growls reverberated in her own chest, unsettling her even further, though he seethed with attention fixed entirely on Kate. His gaze burned with raw hatred. Allison turned her head slightly to look at her aunt, and what she saw made her gasp. Kate's face was alight with satisfaction, her smile dangerously close to gleeful. The cruelty in her eyes, coupled with the near-ecstasy she seemed to derive from Derek's suffering, sent a fresh wave of nausea through Allison.

"Isn't he beautiful?" Kate asked, her voice dripping with a twisted admiration. She moved closer to Derek, trailing a finger over his bare chest. The touch sent him into another fit of rage, his roars echoing through the small, dank space.

Allison stood frozen, her mind spinning. The Derek she knew was gone, replaced by this caged, furious creature—and her aunt, once trusted, now appeared as monstrous as the werewolf she tortured.