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The moon was high in the sky; Stiles was glad it wasn’t full. He didn’t honestly believe that Scott would become violent, but ever since Theo showed up to ruin their lives, he barely knew who Scott was anymore. Stiles knew that probably wasn’t fair, but he had never been the compassionate one. Stiles knew he wasn’t a bad guy, but he leaned further into the dark than his dad appreciated. Until then, he had felt bad for keeping things from Scott, but he knew better now. He knew that it was for the best.
He had never wanted to be the guy who kept secrets that could blow up in his best friend’s face from him, but he had a gut feeling. He had trusted his intuition, keeping his lips sealed during pack meetings. When people started coming back to life or an old enemy/ally came around with a new set of ruby eyes; Stiles had decided that it was better that Scott didn’t know.
Before he really understood how or why he was dry, sitting on the edge of his bed with his phone in his hand. He had to wonder if his strangely good intuition had planned for this. He wanted to know if that dark part of his mind that had a spark of light igniting when he needed it had seen that Scott would betray him. Had his spark had known that he would need them and the end of some torturous road, and that was why he kept them secret from Scott? Did his flash of magic keep an entire pack from his best friend to give him somewhere to go when it all went to shit? He had to wonder, but he didn’t have the time to focus on it- not yet. He had a call to make.
Of course, the asshole answered after one ring, not giving Stiles a chance to change his mind. “Hello, darling. What do I owe the pleasure?”
For whatever reason, that seemed to open the floodgates; his body betrayed him. Hearing Peter’s voice on the other end of the line put it all into perspective. It made the infected bite mark on his shoulder and the ache in his heart throb. Stiles hadn’t wanted to cry; he didn’t want to give Scott or Theo the fucking satisfaction, but teas burned his eyes, and instead of words tumbling past his lips, a broken sob tore at his throat.
“Oh, Stiles, doll, take a deep breath.” Peter guided him out of the throes of a budding panic attack with a calm and steady voice. “Derek and I will be there in twenty.”
“You don’t--” He choked down a sob. “You don’t have to come out here. Scott is already on a paranoid rampage.”
“Stiles-” Peter cut off his rapid thoughts. “We’ll be there soon. Do you have any tea?”
Stiles scoffed. “Of course, I have your stupid tea.” Stiles rolled his eyes at Peter’s huff. “That shit was expensive. Did you think I would just toss it?”
Peter hummed. “You are a vindictive little thing, dear. How was I to know?”
Stiles couldn’t help but smile. Peter wasn’t wrong, not that he would ever tell Peter that. “You know where the key is, big bad.” He hung up, not waiting for any more confirmation or snide comments.
The call disconnected with a final beep, and Stiles let out a shaky breath, leaning heavily against the kitchen counter. His fingers tapped nervously against the granite as he stared at his phone, willing himself to keep it together. He knew Peter’s presence would be a double-edged sword—comfort wrapped in snark and an undeniable knack for getting under his skin.
The sound of the wind rattling the windows reminded him just how eerily quiet the house had become. With a huff, he pushed himself away from the counter and moved to the living room, glancing warily at the shadows creeping along the walls. Pulling down the expensive tin Peter had gifted—or, more accurately, left behind—Stiles couldn’t help but sigh at the guilt welling up in his gut.
When Erica and Vernon made their appearance after being dead and gone for a year, Stiles didn’t hesitate to call Peter- to call Dere, The Hales. He knew that they were the best option for them. They would never follow Scott, and he would never trust them to be out and about. He wouldn’t kill them; Stiles knew that for sure, but there were things worse than death. There were cells buried under tons of mountain ash where screams echoed down the halls. That had been an easy choice.
The kettle hissed. The tension in his shoulders began to ebb slightly, but the silence still pressed in, too heavy to ignore. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to put his life in Peter’s hands.
Stiles was almost sure that Peter wouldn’t kill him. There had always been an undercurrent of something else between them that Stiles couldn’t name. When Peter had escaped, Stiles had known. Of course, he did, but he kept Peter’s secret without even thinking about it. He thought it was only fair after what they had done to the man. Sure, yeah, he was the bad guy. He had killed Laura, but he was out of his mind. Stiles could only imagine what it was like to burn alive and survive the fire that killed his family. Then, be burned alive again. Stiles didn’t think he would ever rid himself of the guilt from that- his role in tormenting an already tormented soul.
The soft clink of the teapot lid snapped Stiles out of his spiraling thoughts. He realized his hands trembled slightly as he set the teapot down on the coffee table. Wrapping his arms around himself, he paced the living room, glancing out the window every few steps. The shadows seemed to move just a little too much for his liking, and the familiar unease settled deep in his chest. He wasn’t safe in Beacon Hills anymore. Stiles had to wonder if he ever was.
Peter would be here soon. He’d sweep in like he always did, with a cutting remark and a smirk that made Stiles want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure. Stiles shook his head, trying to dislodge the unwelcome thought. It wasn’t the time for that kind of nonsense. There was no point and time that Stiles could even dare to think about kissing Peter Hale. There was just too much history there.
The distant roar of an engine made him shake as adrenaline flooded his system. Stiles turned toward the sound, his heartbeat picking up as the rumble grew louder. He wasn’t sure if he felt relief or dread when Peter’s sleek black car pulled up in front of the house. The man had a knack for making an entrance, and tonight was no exception. The car door slammed shut, and Stiles could already hear the click of expensive shoes on the driveway.
Then, Stiles’ body betrayed him. Traitorous tears filled his eyes as Peter shifted the rock to grab the spare key. Peter opened the door, taking in Stiles’ hunched shoulders and tears in his eyes. “Oh, darling, what did they do to you?”
Stiles would be embarrassed later at the sob that tore from his throat. “I killed someone, and Scott kicked me out of the pack.” Before he knew it, Peter had pulled him into a warm hug, and Derek watched them with sad eyes.
Peter’s arms tightened around Stiles, the hug surprisingly gentle for someone so sharp-edged and calculating. Stiles wasn’t sure what he expected—maybe a snide remark or a smug “I told you so”—but not this. Not Peter holding him like he was something fragile, something worth keeping safe.
Stiles peeked over Peter’s shoulder to see Derek leaning against the door frame, arms crossed. “You didn’t kill anyone,” Derek said, his voice quiet but firm.
Stiles pulled back slightly from Peter’s embrace, his brows drawn together. “You don’t know. I—fuck--”
“You defended yourself,” Peter interrupted his voice, which was low and velvety but carried a sharp edge. “If Scott can’t see the difference, then he’s more of a child than I thought.”
Stiles fought another breakdown. “He didn’t even give me a chance to explain myself.”
Peter sniffed, frowned, and sniffed again before manhandling Stiles to turn him around. “Why do you smell like blood?” Peter’s fingers were surprisingly gentle as he peeled Stiles’ shirt from the half-healed bite mark. “Oh, darling,” Peter sighed as Derek stepped closer to get a better look.
“Who bit you?” Derek’s voice was a low growl, his eyes flashing that telltale beta gold as he stepped up beside them. His gaze locked onto the angry wound, bruised and torn on Stiles’ shoulder.
“Not important,” Stiles muttered as he tried to twist away from Peter’s hands. But Peter held him firm, his fingers pressing lightly around the edges of the bite, assessing it with a precision that made Stiles squirm. He didn’t call them for the bite. He didn’t call them about Donovan or even Theo. He called them because he had to get the fuck out of Beacon Hills. “His body disappeared. There’s not even any proof that I killed him.”
Instead of backing off, Peter’s expression shifted into something darker, colder—like a predator catching the scent of a fresh kill. “And this wasn’t proof enough to the esteemed Tru Alpha that it was self-defense? This creature-” Peter spat. “tore a chunk of flesh from your body.”
“I am okay,” Stiles said through gritted teeth, though he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. His head was spinning, his chest aching where the bite throbbed dully beneath Peter’s scrutiny. “It’s not a big deal. It’s healing already.”
Peter’s ruby-red eyes flashed. “That was not what I asked, love.”
Stiles licked his teeth, rolling his neck and stretching away from Peter’s warm hands. “He doesn’t know. Theo didn’t tell him about the bite or the sick game of chase, where he threatened to eat me feet first.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Can I come with you until I can figure something out?”
Peter smiled, showing too many teeth to be sweet, but it still warmed Stiles’ insides. “I haven’t had a chance to drink my tea, dear. Go pack a bag.” Peter shooed him away.
“Erica and Vernon asked us to bring home food, so be quick!” Derek called up the stairs as Stiles started shoving clothes into his bag.
By the time he was done, Peter had finished his tea and washed his cup, and Derek was scrolling on his phone. “Let’s get out of here,” Stiles smirked at them, pushing past them to the door. “I don’t want the newest zombiewolves to get a hankering for brains.”
Peter gave a soft chuckle, making the hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck stand on end. “Zombiewolves, darling? How delightfully macabre.” He followed Stiles to the door, Derek trailing behind with an exasperated sigh.
“They’re not zombies,” Derek muttered, locking the door behind them as they stepped out into the cool night air. “They’re revenants. Technically.”
“Oh-kay, nerdwolf, technically, you’re splitting hairs,” Stiles shot back, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he climbed into the back seat of Peter’s car.
Peter glanced at him in the rearview mirror, one eyebrow arched. “Do you even know the difference?”
“Nope.” Stiles popped the “p” with a grin, earning an eye-roll from Derek and a smirk from Peter. “But I know it doesn’t matter.”
Stiles felt the tension in his chest ease as they pulled onto the road. The town lights faded behind them, replaced by the sprawling woods and the comforting hum of the engine. For the first time in days, he could breathe without the weight of guilt and fear pressing down on him. He didn’t know what was coming, but being away from Beacon Hills, Scott, and Theo would improve his life.
Stiles couldn’t take it anymore; he needed to know, and his phone was dead. “So... revenants,” he started, leaning forward between the seats. “What’s the difference? Asking for a friend.”
Peter’s lips twitched as if he were suppressing a laugh. “Revenants are creatures brought back by supernatural means. Zombies are... well, let’s just say they lack any finesse.”
“So, basically, revenants are the artsy hipster version of zombies?” Stiles settled back into his seat, a small smile playing on his lips. Despite the chaos he’d left behind in Beacon Hills, he couldn’t deny the strange sense of security he felt with Peter and Derek. Sure, Peter was morally ambiguous at best, and Derek’s brooding could kill the vibe in any room, but they were here. They had his back, even if they didn’t say it outright.
As they drove deeper into the woods, Stiles couldn’t shake the nagging thought at the back of his mind. “Hey,” he said, breaking the silence again. “You don’t think they will try to come after me, do you?”
Peter’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, and his smile turned razor-sharp. “Oh, darling,” he purred, his voice dripping with menace. “I wish they would.”
Stiles blinked. “Right. Cool. Totally not ominous.”
Derek sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Stiles, just... try not to attract more trouble, okay?”
“No promises,” Stiles replied, leaning his head back with a grin. “Trouble loves me.”
Peter chuckled lowly. “And we love trouble.”
For the first time in days, Stiles allowed himself to relax, letting the sound of the road and Peter’s unsettlingly reassuring presence lull him into a strange, fragile peace. Whatever came next, he’d figure it out. He always did.
There was something to be said about living with werewolves. He had always been around a pack, or at least what passed for a pack in Scott’s eyes. But living with the Hales, Erica, and Vernon was a different story. None of them had ever really gotten along, not in a real way. With that being said, and no doubt true, they had fallen into a routine. Honestly Stiles didn’t know how they had survived without him. He wouldn’t say that he was doing it alone. They had each come to their own unspoken agreements.
Stiles and Derek cleaned the pack house every Wednesday; Stiles had never known that Derek was so insistent on a clean house. Stiles was reminded of the rusty death bucket of the “pack house” they had called home all those years ago. Vernon got up every morning with Stiles to help make breakfast; even if he spent more time washing dishes and cooking, Stiles appreciated it. Even Erica went grocery shopping with him every week.
Last but not least, there was Peter. He was an enigma; Peter Hale broke his heart and put him back together daily. Peter kept his distance as something uncomfortable between them built and twisted around their pack bond. Stiles couldn’t help but think of the sounds Peter made as he burned and knew that the distance was his fault. He was making Peter uncomfortable in his own home, but at the same time, Stiles would find fresh-cut herbs on the counter when his back was turned. There was always fresh venison in the freezer, and new books kept finding their way to his pillow.
There was a thin line between love and hate, and Stiles kept finding himself firmly on one side when previously he used the line as a jump rope. Stiles found himself in love with Peter Hale and he hated it.
Vernon and Erica were already out of the house; Peter had sent them across state lines to get a book that he needed. But that didn’t stop Stiles from making breakfast and packing a lunch for Derek, who worked at the local garage. Stiles almost dropped the eggs when Peter’s voice came out of nowhere.
“You don’t have to do that, darling. Derek and I can feed ourselves.”
Stiles started cracking the eggs as he hummed. “Sure, but I don’t have much else to do.”
Peter leaned against the bar, snagging a mushroom as he watched Stiles whisk the eggs. “I know what you’re doing.”
Stiles felt his shoulders tighten as he curled in on himself. Did he know? Did he know that he was begging for forgiveness by taking care of the pack? Did he know that he was trying to worm his way into the pack as a real member? Did he know that Stiles was in love with him? “I’m not doing anything?” Stiles refused to meet his eyes.
“Stiles, look at me.” Stiles wanted to fight the order; it wasn’t like Peter’s alpha voice worked on him. Their eyes met across the counter. “You don’t have to earn your spot in the pack.”
Stiles’ heart raced, pounding out of his chest as Peter’s eyes flashed red. “Yeah?”
Peter smiled, melting the last bit of ice around Stiles’ heart. “You already have it.”
Stiles felt a lump form in his throat, but he swallowed it down, trying to maintain his composure. His hands kept moving, whisking the eggs a little too vigorously, though his mind wasn’t on breakfast anymore. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His cheeks flushed, betraying his attempt at indifference.
Peter’s gaze softened, though his smirk remained firmly in place. He pushed off the counter and came around to Stiles’ side, moving with the kind of predatory grace that always made Stiles’ stomach flip. When Peter stopped just behind him, close enough that Stiles could feel the heat radiating off him, the younger man’s hands faltered, the whisk clattering into the bowl.
“Stiles,” Peter said, his tone lower now, almost gentle. His hand reached out, hovering near Stiles’ shoulder before finally settling there. The touch was light but grounding. “You’re a part of us. A part of me. You don’t have to keep proving it.”
The words hit Stiles harder than they should have. He stared down at the bowl of eggs, his vision blurring slightly. “It’s not... It’s not that simple,” he whispered, his voice cracking just a little.
Peter tilted his head, studying him. “Isn’t it? I see you, Stiles. I know you’re not just here for the pack. And if you’d let yourself admit it, you’d see I’m not just here for the pack, either.”
Stiles’ breath hitched. His eyes darted to Peter’s hand, still resting on his shoulder, then up to his face. The sincerity there was almost too much to handle. “You—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Don’t play games with me, Peter.”
Peter chuckled softly, but there was no malice in it. “For once, Stiles, I’m not playing.” His hand slid from Stiles’ shoulder down his arm, his fingers lingering just a moment too long before pulling away. “Think about it.”
With that, Peter stepped back, his usual smirk back in place, though there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. He snagged another mushroom off the counter as he walked away, leaving Stiles standing there with his heart in his throat and a very inconvenient flutter in his chest.
Stiles had more than enough to think about, but he didn’t get much further than plating their breakfast. Derek came bursting through the door, his eyes blue as he called out for his uncle.
“Peter! We have a problem.”
Stiles rounded the corner, coming face to face with Derek. “What’s going on?” He really didn’t need any other issues.
Derek looked from Stiles to Peter. “Theo is in town with a pack of chimeras.”
“Oh.” Stiles’ heart stuttered in his chest. He wasn’t scared of Theo, not really, but wherever Theo was, death followed. If Theo were looking for him, the pack would be in danger. He needed to leave.
Stiles swallowed hard, his mind racing. Theo wasn’t just some lingering bad memory; he was a threat, one Stiles knew firsthand. And now, with a pack of chimeras at his back, he was even more dangerous. “I need to leave,” Stiles blurted out, surprising even himself. He wasn’t planning on telling them. He already had a raw plan of disappearing into the night.
Both Peter and Derek turned to him, confusion and frustration evident in their faces. “What?” Derek snapped. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Derek’s right,” Peter added, his voice steadier but no less commanding. “Running won’t help. If Theo’s targeting us, it’s better to stay where we’re strongest—together.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “He’s not targeting us. He’s targeting me. We have unfinished business.” Stiles rolled his shoulder back, straightening his spine. “He doesn’t want to kill me; he wants to collect me.”
Peter moved toward him, his calm but deliberate steps setting Stiles’ nerves on edge. “You think abandoning the pack will stop him? That leaving will keep us safe?” He stopped just inches away, his piercing gaze locking onto Stiles’. “It won’t. Theo’s not someone you outrun.”
Stiles scoffed. “I’m not running, big bad. I’m going to kill him.”
“We protect our own, Stiles,” Peter said, his voice slightly softening. “And that includes you.”
For a moment, the room was silent except for the refrigerator’s hum and the pounding of Stiles’ heart. He wanted to believe them and to let himself trust that they could handle Theo together. But the fear gnawed at him, whispering that staying would only make things worse. “Fine,” he said, at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “But if this goes south, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Peter’s smirk returned, though it was tempered by a glint of something protective in his eyes. “Oh, Stiles,” he said smoothly, his confidence unwavering. “Let him come. He has no idea what he’s walking into.”
Stiles couldn’t stop the spark of arousal in his belly. “Yeah? What are you going to do, zombiewolf?” Stiles asked, ignoring Derek’s soft gagging.
Peter hummed, his eyes turning dark as he stepped closer. “Would his heart prove it?”
Stiles licked his lips, his heart racing, no doubt pumping pheromones into the kitchen as Derek ran away. “Prove what?” His voice was nothing but a whisper.
Peter’s smirk deepened, his eyes glowing faintly as he closed the remaining distance between them. Stiles could feel the heat radiating off him now, the primal intensity of Peter’s presence like a live wire. “Prove,” Peter murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to curl around Stiles’ spine, “that no one touches what’s mine.”
Stiles’ breath hitched, his mouth suddenly dry. His mind raced, searching for a witty comeback to defuse the tension, but nothing came. Instead, he found himself rooted in place, his body betraying him as Peter’s words hung in the air, heavy and charged.
Peter reached out, brushing a thumb along Stiles’ jawline in a way that was both gentle and possessive. His touch sent a shiver down Stiles’ spine, and for a moment, all thoughts of Theo, chimeras, and impending doom faded into the background. It was just Peter—calculated, magnetic, and utterly infuriating.
“You’re not leaving,” Peter said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not when you’re the reason he’s here. Not when he thinks he can take you from us.”
“He’s here for me, remember?”
Peter’s smile was predatory, his teeth flashing in a way that sent a jolt of heat through Stiles’ chest. “Oh, I remember. And that’s why he’ll regret ever stepping foot in this town.”
Stiles swallowed hard, feeling like he was teetering on the edge of something dangerous—something he couldn’t control. He wanted to push Peter away, to laugh this off and regain some semblance of control, but he couldn’t. He was drawn in, his body betraying him as his heart pounded in his chest. “You’re impossible,” Stiles muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.
“And yet,” Peter said, his thumb grazing over Stiles’ bottom lip for the briefest moment, “you’re still here.”
Stiles couldn’t help but smirk as they moved closer together. “And why do you think that is?” His voice was warm and husky. Stiles hadn’t known his voice could sound like that, but he loved the way it made Peter’s eyes glaze over.
Stiles abruptly stepped back, putting himself out of Peter’s reach. “I thought you said I was the one playing games, love?”
Stiles’ head tilted to the side as he looked Peter up and down. “And you promised me a heart.”
Stiles could hear Derek gag again from outside, but they ignored it. “Anything for you,” Peter said before he was off like a flash, pushing past Derek with no care in the world.
Stiles was on edge the rest of the day. He knew Peter could hold his own against Theo and his pack of misfits, but that didn’t quell his anxiety. It didn’t make him stop staring at the clock, wondering when Peter would make it home. The moon was shrouded by clouds, and Stiles could hear the soft snores from the rest of the pack, but he could not find any rest. He could not doze off until he knew that Peter was safe.
Stiles could see the first rays of the sun breaking through the horizon as Peter slipped through the door. The box in his hand was the first thing Stiles noticed, but it was quickly overshadowed by the tacky blood coating Peter’s hand and forearm or the speckles on his face. Stiles knew that Theo was dead, and the sight of Peter covered in his blood should be off-putting, but it wasn’t.
Stiles shifted his blanket falling from his shoulders and pooling in his lap. “Is that for me?”
Peter’s lips curved into a sly smile as he held up the box. “What kind of man would I be if I broke my promise?”
Stiles arched a brow, his gaze flickering between the box and Peter’s bloodied form. “And here I thought you were all about breaking hearts, not delivering them.”
Peter chuckled softly, stepping closer and dropping to his knee before Stiles. The metallic tang of blood clung to him, sharp and unignorable, but Stiles found it oddly grounding. “Oh, I delivered alright.” Peter said, setting the box down on the coffee table with deliberate care.
Stiles eyed the box, his curiosity at war with the apprehension crawling up his spine. “You didn’t—”
“Don’t ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to,” Peter interrupted smoothly, brushing a crimson-stained knuckle against Stiles’ cheek. The touch sent a shiver down Stiles’ spine, not from fear but from something far more delicious.
“And what if I am ready?” Stiles challenged, tilting his chin defiantly.
Peter’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of dawn. “Then open it.”
The room fell silent, except for the clock’s rhythmic ticking and the faint rustling of the pack’s stirring breaths. Stiles reached for the box, his fingers steady despite the storm inside him. The latch clicked open with a soft snap, revealing a velvet-lined interior, blood soaking into the material around the heart. “Oh.” He should be disgusted. He should be terrified.
Stiles closed the box, setting it on the could next to him. He grabbed Peter’s collar, twisting the stained material around his fingers as he jerked Peter closer. “Is that what you wanted, love?” Peter asked, their lips close enough that Stiles could feel his breath.
Stiles didn’t answer; he didn’t need to. He closed the distance, and Peter tasted like blood, tea, and something spicy. Stiles was ready to drown in it. Stiles pulled back. “No more games.”
Peter smiled. “Yes dear.”