Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The forest blurred around him, all shadows and teeth. Branches slapped at his arms and tore at his shirt, but Stiles barely felt them. His heartbeat thundered, his lungs burned, and still he ran.

Because stopping wasn’t an option. Not with him closing in.

Leaves crunched somewhere behind him—fast, deliberate, too close.

Asher. Just the name in his head made his pulse spike harder.

The bastard’s voice carried through the night, low and smooth, more predator than person.

“Come on, little fox. You’re the one who wanted to play. Why are you running?”

Stiles’ breath hitched, but the words shot out anyway, sharp and reckless.

“Bite me, asshole!”

He pushed harder, feet slamming the dirt, every nerve screaming at him to keep going.

But Asher was faster. Always faster.

The growl of pursuit grew louder, closer—like claws scraping over stone, like an animal savoring the chase.

“Shit, shit, shit—” Stiles muttered between gasps, every insult aimed more at himself than at Asher. Great job, Stilinski. A+ survival instincts. Run straight into the woods with a psycho chimera on your ass. Genius move. Real FBI material.

The trees broke suddenly, spilling him out toward open ground. Train tracks gleamed ahead, silver under the moonlight. Too late to stop. Too late to turn.

He hit the rails at a stumble—just as Asher slammed into him from behind.

The impact ripped the air from his chest, claws burying deep into his side. Pain tore white-hot through him, his scream echoing across the empty stretch of tracks.

“Caught you, dumbass!” he grinned.

Stiles writhed, tried to twist free, but Asher only pressed him down harder, flipping him onto the cold steel.

Pinned. Helpless. The vibration beneath him told him everything—something was coming. The train’s horn blared, distant but getting closer, shaking the night.

Asher’s smirk was sharp, feral, glowing in the moonlight. “What a tragic little end for you. So young, so clever, and now—splattered like a bug on the tracks. Gruesome, but poetic, don’t you think?”

Stiles bared his teeth, fear clawing up his throat but refusing to come out as a whimper. Instead, he spat out the only weapon he had left.

“Screw you!”

Asher’s claws dug deeper, fire searing through Stiles’ ribs.

And something inside him broke.

Power surged hot and violent under his skin, like sparks waiting for flame. His hands shot up, clutching Asher’s face, and with a raw yell he slammed his forehead forward.

Bone cracked against bone.

Asher snarled, reeling back just enough—enough for Stiles to shove, twist, and plant both feet against Asher's chest.

He kicked. Hard.

Asher flew back, crashing into the dirt just off the tracks, a snarl ripping from his throat.

The train’s scream swallowed everything.

Stiles rolled, ribs screaming, and stumbled to his feet. He bolted, half-running, half-falling, just barely clearing the tracks as the train roared past like thunder made of steel.

The screech of wheels and the blinding flood of light split the night, a wall of metal between them.

But Stiles didn’t stop. Not when his side burned. Not when his legs threatened to give. He ran like distance could erase the sound of claws chasing him in his head.

Behind him, Asher’s voice carried faint over the din, cruel and sing-song.

“Yeah, run, you little roadkill. I’ll get to you soon enough.”

Stiles’ chest heaved, every step a mantra beating against the terror clawing at him.

He failed again. But at least he was still breathing.

 

________________________________________________________________________________

 

The back room of the bar was barely more than a glorified storage closet—smelling of spilled beer, dust, and old wood—but Liam hardly cared. The second the door swung shut behind them, Theo had him pinned against the wall, mouth urgent against his.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t planned. But then again, neither of them ever were.

Liam groaned softly as Theo deepened the kiss, hands sliding over his chest, tugging at his shirt until it bunched under his arms. Theo’s body pressed in closer, all sharp edges and restless heat, the kind of contact that left Liam half-lightheaded and clinging to his shoulders like he might fall without him.

“God, you’re impossible,” Liam muttered against his mouth, breath catching when Theo bit gently at his lower lip.

“Funny,” Theo said, smirk widening. “Your mouth says no, but the rest of you…” His hand squeezed lightly. “…very much says yes.”

His mouth traced lower—down Liam’s throat, across his collarbone, then lower still—each kiss slower, heavier, until Liam felt the tremor start in his knees. His head tipped back against the wall, lips parting around a shaky gasp.

Theo’s hands weren’t still either, roaming over Liam’s sides, his ribs, before sliding beneath his shirt to press against warm skin. Liam shivered, arching into the touch even as his breath stuttered.

“Theo—slower,” he hissed, his fingers tightening reflexively in Theo’s hair. “Slower, slower.”

“Quiet, little wolf,” Theo murmured against him, the words buzzing with amusement before his mouth continued its way down.

Footsteps echoed faintly outside the door. Liam froze, pulse spiking.

“I said slower, asshole,” he whispered harshly, voice catching.

Theo didn’t slow. If anything, his lips curved into a smug smile as he sank lower, ignoring the warning. Liam’s whine slipped out before Theo’s hand pressed firmly over his mouth, silencing him.

The mix of frustration and thrill tangled in Liam’s chest until he was almost dizzy. His hands dug into Theo’s shoulders, clinging tight while Theo’s rhythm stayed unyielding—relentless but steady. Heat pulsed through him, sharp and overwhelming, every muffled sound swallowed against Theo’s palm.

When Theo finally pulled back, he was grinning wickedly, his eyes dark and satisfied. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like nothing had happened, while Liam stood there, disheveled and undone—shirt hanging open, chest heaving, face flushed. His whole body hummed, caught somewhere between relief and hunger for more.

Theo tugged Liam's zipper back up with deliberate care, the faint rasp of it loud in the quiet, while Liam slumped against the wall, still shivering through the aftershocks.

“Stop looking so proud of yourself,” Liam muttered, glaring even as his voice shook.

Theo tilted his head, grin only widening. “Can’t help it. Look at you.”

Liam tried to swat him, but his arm was too weak to follow through. Instead, Theo caught his wrist, pressed a kiss into the inside of it, then leaned in to bury his face briefly against Liam’s neck. He nipped lightly, then softened into a lingering kiss there.

Liam’s breath stuttered. “You’re—such—a pain,” he managed between shallow gasps, his fingers brushing the back of Theo’s neck, stroking without meaning to.

Theo only chuckled low in his throat, one leg slipping between Liam’s, holding him steady when his knees almost gave out. “Doesn't sound much like a complaint though.” he murmured, brushing another kiss against Liam’s jaw.

For a long beat, they stayed like that—Theo keeping him upright, Liam clinging shamelessly, both of them breathing each other in like the world outside didn’t exist.

Then a knock rattled the door.

“Dunbar!” his boss barked from the other side. “This place may be a dump and the clientele may be the worst in town, but I actually expect my barman to be behind the bar when I need him. Break’s over. You’ve got two minutes before I take your tips away!”

Theo leaned back, stifling a laugh as Liam scrambled to fix his shirt.

“Yeah, I’ll be right back!” Liam called, voice strained.

When the footsteps retreated, Liam turned on him with a sharp glare. “Fuck, that was a close one. Too close.”

Theo shrugged, unbothered. “Yeah. And whose fault is that?”

Liam scoffed. “Whose fault—? You pounced the second I walked in!”

“You dragged me in here.” Theo’s grin turned sly. “I just… went along with it.”

“Sure,” Liam muttered, but his eyes betrayed the fondness under the frustration.

Theo brushed his knuckles gently down Liam’s arm, then took his hand, pressing their palms together for a moment like he didn’t want to let go. He dipped in and stole another kiss—slower this time, softer, grounding.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to drag you anywhere if we could actually have a bed for once,” Liam whispered, forehead against Theo’s.

Theo arched a brow. “And whose bright idea was it to leave his apartment and move into the Hale house? You had a bed. Not my fault you gave that up.”

“I still have a bed. A really nice one at that,” Liam muttered.

Theo’s smirk softened into something else—sharper, more guarded. “Liam. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Liam asked, his tone sharp but not cruel. “Point out that this casual thing is stupid?”

Theo’s jaw worked. “No. Don’t pretend you don’t know why I can’t set foot in that house. Or anywhere near them.”

Liam exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, but… I don’t feel good about not telling them I’m still seeing you. Especially Stiles. It feels too much like lying.”

Theo’s eyes softened—just for a second—before hardening again. “It’s not lying. It’s keeping everyone alive. Stiles needs to focus on himself and whatever the hell is keeping him to get a grip on his powers. Derek’s out digging for information, which means he needs me staying discreet, not making more noise. And we all agreed to the status quo. No meddling, no sudden moves. They may not know the specifics, but they know enough. Elijah won’t do anything as long as we play it safe. That’s the best I can give you until I actually find something usefull.”

Liam’s shoulders sagged, torn between the logic and the guilt. His hand drifted absently down Theo’s side—only for Theo to flinch, just slightly. Enough for Liam to catch it.

“What was that?”

Theo cursed under his breath, jaw tight. But it was too late. Liam tugged his shirt up, revealing the edge of a deep bruise, dark and angry across his ribs.

“What the hell is that?” Liam asked, voice low but fierce.

“Nothing.” Theo yanked the fabric back down, avoiding his gaze.

“Theo.”

“I said it’s fine.” Theo’s voice sharpened, but it didn’t hide the tension in his shoulders. He exhaled, softer this time. “Training with Elijah is… harder than it should be. I can’t tell if he’s trying to prepare me for something or just put me in my place.”

Liam stared at him, worry written all over his face. The fact that even as a werewolf, those didn’t heal yet was already more than he needed to understand how rough those “training” must be. He wanted to push, to demand answers, but the look in Theo’s eyes stopped him.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Theo said firmly, even if his voice didn’t carry the same conviction.

This time, Liam didn’t argue. He just reached out and caught Theo’s wrist, thumb brushing lightly over the inside like he was trying to anchor him there. “I’m way past worry at this point,” he said quietly.

Theo’s gaze flicked down at the touch, something unspoken twisting in his expression—almost soft, almost dangerous. His free hand hovered like he wanted to return the gesture but couldn’t bring himself to.

Liam swallowed, the air between them suddenly heavier. But before either of them could push it further, Theo’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, cursed. “Shit. I’m late. I gotta go.”

The words landed like a punch. Liam’s laugh came out bitter, hurt hidden behind sarcasm. “Wow. Nice way to make me feel like a cheap hookup.”

Theo stilled, eyes flicking up to his. “You’re not a hookup, Liam.”

“Well, I’m not your boyfriend either,” Liam shot back, trying not to sound as raw as he felt, “Am I?”

Theo didn’t answer. The silence stretched heavy.

Liam sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. That was a low blow.”

Theo smirked faintly, tilting his head. “You’d know,” he said, winking deliberately toward what they’d been doing minutes ago.

“Asshole,” Liam muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “Well, fun time’s over. I gotta go back to work anyway.”

Theo stepped in again, catching Liam’s mouth in a slow, grounding kiss. Liam melted into it despite himself, his hands clutching Theo’s shirt before sliding reluctantly away.

“I’ll call you tonight,” Theo murmured, forehead brushing Liam’s.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Liam nodded, swallowing hard. “Okay. Go. But next time—I want a bed. I mean it.”

Theo chuckled, kissing him a few more times, quick and playful, before slipping toward the back door.

“And don’t let my boss see you,” Liam called after him. A beat later, impulsively, he added, “I love you!”

But Theo was already gone.

The room felt bigger without him. Too big.

Liam let out a shaky breath, leaning back against the wall, running both hands over his face. His chest still ached from the rush, from the kiss, from the ache of being left alone again.

His jaw tightened, frustration biting at the edges of the warmth Theo had left behind. He hated how much he cared. Hated how much the silence mattered.

“Now, Dunbar!” his boss bellowed again, sharp enough to make Liam jump.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath, pushing off the wall and fixing his shirt again. “Would you please relax, Stanley? And stop threatening to take my tips when I don’t even get tips to begin with.”

He shoved the door open, stepping back into the noise and stink of the bar. But for the rest of his shift, the echo stayed with him—Theo’s mouth on his, Theo’s silence, and those three words hanging unanswered in the air.

Chapter Text

Stiles and Peter sat across from each other in the Hale living room, half drank cups resting in their hands. The silence was crushing, dense enough to feel like a weight on Stiles’ chest. The only sound was the faint tick of the clock on the wall, and even that felt too loud in the charged stillness.

Stiles leaned back in his chair, eyes locked on Peter’s. He knew the game. Whoever spoke about it first would lose. And if there was one thing he was good at, it was being stubborn.

Peter didn’t look away. His posture was the picture of composure — legs crossed, cup poised neatly in one hand, a faint smile that was far too controlled to be genuine. He radiated patience, but Stiles knew better. Behind the calm, there was anger. Not loud, not obvious, but simmering, waiting.

He knows. Of course he knows. Probably smelled the blood before I even stepped inside. He’s just waiting for me to hand it over. Well, screw that.

Stiles smirked faintly, feigning ease. Peter’s smile deepened, equally false. Minutes passed. The clock ticked. Stiles sipped his tea, deliberately slow, eyes never leaving Peter’s. Peter mirrored him, the movement so perfectly timed it was almost mocking.

The room vibrated with their silent standoff.

Peter’s smile widened just slightly, but the cold glint in his eyes didn’t change. Stiles tilted his chin up in response, matching the false amusement with his own. Every second stretched, an endless loop of patience and stubbornness.

Finally, Peter broke the silence. His tone was calm, casual, as though the air wasn’t thick enough to choke on.

“More tea?”

“I’m good,” Stiles replied smoothly, not breaking eye contact.

The quiet came back like a hammer.

The sound of footsteps broke it. Derek walked in, eyebrows drawing together as soon as he caught sight of them. The sight alone was strange enough: Peter and Stiles sitting like civilized roommates, staring at each other in utter silence.

But then Derek caught the scent. His face shifted.

“What is… Wait. Is Stiles bleeding?”

“I don’t know. Are you?” His tone was mild, detached, but his gaze stayed locked on Stiles.

Stiles arched a brow, feigning innocence. “I don’t know. Should I be?”

Derek stared between them, exasperated. Then he shook his head, muttering, “Alright. I guess I’ll leave you to… whatever this is.” He turned on his heel, his voice carrying faintly as he left the room. “Unbelievable.”

Neither Peter nor Stiles moved.

Peter set his cup down with precise care, his voice still maddeningly calm. “So you went out yesterday.”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

“Good.”

“Yeah. Good.”

“Did something happen on this outing?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

The word was soft, but heavy with meaning.

Stiles shifted, starting to stand. “Well, if you have nothing else to ask, I have to—”

“Lift your shirt.”

Stiles froze. He turned back slowly, his smirk faltering. “…I’m sorry, what?”

“Lift your shirt.”

This time, Peter’s voice left no room for argument. He didn’t raise his tone, didn’t move a muscle, but the air seemed to thrum with command. The Alpha edge was there, coiled beneath the calm, like a predator waiting for its prey to flinch.

Stiles’ throat went dry. He knew what Peter would see. The wounds hadn’t closed yet. The blood was old but still there. His healing wasn’t what it should be, and Peter would know immediately.

But Stiles didn’t back down. His smirk returned, weaker this time, more forced, but still there. Don’t fold. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

“Don’t make me come to you. Even my patience has it’s limits.” Peter’s gaze never wavered, and Stiles knew he had no choice but to execute himself.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, slowly, deliberately, Stiles pulled his shirt half way up. The fabric tugged at his side, making him wince, and when his skin was finally exposed, the room went silent again.

His torso was a mess. Dry blood stained his skin, dark against the angry, half-closed gashes carved deep along his ribs. The wounds weren’t bleeding anymore, but they were ugly, jagged, and far too fresh.

Peter’s eyes flicked over him, and his expression didn’t change. But the shift in the air was palpable. The calm was still there, but it was laced with something sharper now, heavier. Anger. Contained, restrained, but undeniable.

“Care to comment?” His voice was low, quiet, the words threaded with something that made Stiles’ stomach twist.

Stiles inhaled slowly, lifting his chin. “I went looking for Theo. Yeah, again.”

Peter stood, moving closer, his eyes burning into Stiles. He reached out, dragging one finger lightly along the edge of the wound. The touch was feather-light, almost gentle, but it made Stiles flinch anyway.

He didn’t pull away. He wouldn’t give Peter that.

“And?”

Stiles’ jaw tightened. “Asher found me first. Again.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, his face unreadable, but his tone finally cracked into something sharp. “You need to stop, Stiles.”

Stiles yanked his shirt back down, covering the wounds again. “I’ll stop when I get Theo back.”

Peter’s hand shot out, gripping his waist, not painfully but firmly, holding him in place. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Yeah, you’re right. And I won’t go out like that again, I know we can’t afford to provoke Elijah right now. But I’m not stopping either. I’ll be more careful.”

Peter’s gaze sharpened, a flash of warning flickering there, though his voice stayed deceptively calm. “You’re not the careful kind.”

Stiles let out a huff, half laugh, half defiance. “And last I heard, you weren’t either. Don’t give me the lecture now, Peter. I’m starting to think I preferred the version of you that would push me to lose control—just to see what kind of damage I could do.”

The corner of Peter’s mouth ticked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “So what? You think I’m too soft on you now?”

“No,” Stiles shot back, leaning forward, refusing to break eye contact. “I’m saying being an Alpha doesn’t make you tamed. And don’t pretend you’ve never wanted me to be more like you.”

Peter tilted his head slowly, like a predator humoring prey. “Murdery? Handsome? ”

“Selfish,” Stiles corrected, his voice low but steady. “Viciously clever as well as just plain vicious, if I need to be. But all you’re doing right now is trying to box me in, to make me scared of my own shadow. And I can’t do that. I won’t. I’m not fragile. And I’m certainly not your goddamn project. Stop treating me like I am broken—because I can’t stand it.”

Peter’s jaw flexed, his calm mask cracking for just a beat. His voice dropped, smooth as velvet but edged like a blade. “Are you insinuating I’ve lost my edge, darling?”

Stiles swallowed, pulse jumping when Peter’s eyes glowed faint red in the dim light. Okay, maybe pushing isn’t my smartest move right now. But he didn’t back down. He tipped his chin higher, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Should I?”

The room thickened with silence. The kind that made the air hard to breathe. Stiles knew he was toeing a line, maybe even crossing it, but part of him wanted to see if Peter would bite back—or prove him right.

Instead, Peter just stared at him, unblinking, the weight of it pressing down until Stiles felt it in his bones. Then, with a slow exhale through his nose, Peter let it go. The glow in his eyes dimmed. His hand, which had unconsciously tightened around Stiles’ wrist, released him.

Stiles blinked, the tension still buzzing in his veins. His voice was softer this time, but no less firm. “Next time I’ll plan something, I’ll tell you beforehand, okay? I’m not trying to go behind your back. All I’m asking is for you to stop being so goddamn condescending.”

For a moment Peter said nothing, his expression unreadable. Then his lips curved—small, sharp, but not cruel. He leaned in just enough for his words to brush the air between them.

“Okay.”

He lifted a hand, brushing a lock of hair from Stiles’ face. His fingers lingered, grounding, softer now. Stiles didn’t move. The tension shifted, not gone, but reshaped into something quieter. Trust, twisted and dangerous.

Peter’s eyes softened faintly as he leaned closer, inhaling, unconsciously brushing his scent over Stiles. The action was subtle, intimate, and Stiles felt it in his chest more than anywhere else.

“Come on,” Peter murmured. “You need a shower and a nap. You’re covered in blood, and your wounds need to finish healing.”

Stiles huffed, forcing his smirk back. “Fine. But me being a little hurt doesn’t mean I’m sleeping in your bed tonight.”

Peter’s mouth curved, faint amusement glinting beneath the steel of his gaze. “If you say so. Either way, your healing is still too slow for my liking.”

“Yeah, to mine too.” Stiles sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I can’t seem to get a handle on my powers yet. It’s like… they’re not part of me. Just circling, waiting for me to figure them out.”

“Your powers are growing,” Peter said evenly. “You weren’t bitten. You weren’t born with this. They’re emerging from you. The learning curve was never going to be easy. You need to accept it as it is if you want to make progress.”

“This is so unfair. You don’t even have to think about it for your body to heal. Hell, now you can even full shift. Like the rest of us weren’t feeling inadequate enough as it is. Why does it have to be so hard for me?”

Peter’s smile was faint, wry. “Because we’re not the same.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “I don’t remember Kira having this much trouble when her Kitsune side flared up.”

“Once again,” Peter said smoothly, “not the same.”

“I find this a little offensive, just to be clear.” Stiles said as he walked away, heading for the stairs. “And also, I hope this goes without saying, but if you even think about coming in the bathroom while I’m in the shower, Alpha or not, I’m gonna beat the shit out of you.”

Peter’s smirk deepened, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

 

________________________________________________________________________________

 

The room smelled like metal and rubbing alcohol and a sweetness of chemicals that made Theo’s nose wrinkle. Overhead, a single lamp threw a clinical circle of light across a workbench crowded with small amber vials, labeled tins, and a neat row of syringes. As Theo shut the door behind him, he found Asher crouched at the bench, concentration carved into that smooth, dangerous face he never managed to fully dislike.

Asher moved with the slow, careful economy of someone who treated violence like a craft. He cleaned a needle with the same small, ritualistic motions he used on everything else: inspect, wipe, draw, cap. No wasted gestures. He filled one syringe, then another; the liquid inside was the color of old honey. He checked for bubbles, tapped the barrel, flicked the cap on with a sharp little click. Every action was precise, efficient — almost respectful.

Theo put his bag down and watched. He should have been annoyed at the theatricality; instead he felt a small, guilty prick of familiarity at the way Asher handled the vials, as though he were watching someone who loved his work.

“Look who finally decided to show up, I’ve been back for two hours you know, you could at least have told me you were here,” Theo said, dropping into the most neutral register he could find.

Asher didn’t bother to hide the smile. If his hands were immaculate and careful, his eyes were all teeth. “I like it when you miss me.”

The sentence was a taunt, crafted to prick. Theo tightened his jaw. He’d learned long ago that any change in temperature at Asher’s edges could mean the difference between danger and…something else — something like curiosity, like attention. Theo hated how that attention slid under his ribs.

“You’re the one who asked to meet,” he said. “At least have the decency to be on time.”

“As if punctuality matters when you’re solving problems,” Asher replied, voice soft as oil. He set the last syringe down and turned, watching Theo as if he were the only thing in the room worth the gaze. “Besides, my little problem’s already resolved.”

Theo bristled. “What problem?”

Asher picked up a syringe, rolling it gently between finger and thumb. “Nothing you need to lose sleep over. Unless, of course, you’ve been speaking with people you shouldn’t.” He let the implication hang there, a knife with a pretty handle.

The way Asher said it — the cadence, the heat under his mockery — was different when he spoke to Theo. It wasn’t the same cruel show he reserved for others. There was an odd tenderness braided into it; an affection that made Theo want to pull away and, awkwardly, to lean in at the same time. He hated that.

“None of your business,” Theo snapped before he could stop himself. “But I haven’t seen Stiles in months, if that’s the angle you’re fishing for.”

Asher’s laugh was small and amused. “Funny that your mind goes there first.” He paused, studied Theo like a painter studying a face, then shrugged. “Good. Sounds like we don’t have a problem then.”

Theo forced a tight smile. “Why did you want me here, Asher?”

The man at the bench set the syringe down carefully, the movement almost reverent. “We were supposed to check the docks. Plans changed. Elijah wants assurances — and he’s not messin’ around. He needs to make sure your friends aren’t gonna wreck the operation again.”

Theo’s hands curled into fists. “So you called me to waste my time.”

“Not necessarily, we could spar a little. Warm up. Before you go fetch your little wolf after his shift.” Asher’s grin sharpened into a dare.

Theo’s mouth went dry. “Don’t call him that. And stop following me. Creep.”

Asher stepped closer, the space between them charged like a live wire. “Come on. I’m pent up from my last outing. Indulge me.” His voice slid from tease to coax as if he were coaxing a cat from a ledge.

Theo should have said no. He should have walked away. He didn’t. There was a thrum in his chest — irritation braided with a thread of something more private, a recognition of the pull Asher always managed to create. It angered him that Asher could still get under his skin like this.

“No,” Theo said at last, sharper than he felt. “I’m not sparring with you.”

“Why? Afraid I’ll cheat?” Asher’s tone was provocative, but his eyes softened in a way he never showed anyone else. “Or that I’ve already beaten you?”

Theo let out a humorless sound. “You do cheat, asshole. And you never really beat me.”

Asher’s expression flickered — a flash of something unreadable — then he leaned forward, close enough that Theo could feel his breath. “How about proving me wrong then?”

Theo found he wasn’t laughing. He was annoyed, yes, but also oddly protective now, and he’d been in the habit of protecting himself. “If you want someone to kick your ass, ask Max,” he said. “God knows she’s been itching to kill me and is furious I’m under Elijah’s protection. Not to mention Elijah’s been benching her for months, same as he did you. Trust me — she’s always in the mood for a fight.”

At the mention of Max, Asher’s face hardened, a shadow passing through it. He touched the edge of the tray with one finger, as if testing its temperature.

“No offense, but if she ends up killing someone, better you than me then.” Theo added with a raised brow and a bored expression.

There was a quiet between them, heavy and electric. Asher tilted his head, that crooked, intimate smile curling just a fraction. “Is my sunshine afraid of a bully?”

Theo scoffed, the laugh falling out of him brittle. “Cute. Now I need to go.”

Asher rose with him, moving to the little cabinet where he’d been working. He pocketed a syringe with the same casualness some men buttoned a coat. For a heartbeat, Theo caught the soft, dangerous look in his eyes — adoration pressed into the shape of a threat.

“Asher,” Theo said, already heading for the door.

“Say hello to Liam,” Asher called, the tone almost playful.

“No.” Theo didn’t need to explain. He didn’t want to give Asher the satisfaction.

As he reached the threshold, Asher added, quieter, almost a whisper only for him: “Listen — Stiles won’t stop. He’s relentless, that much is clear. But if he keeps poking around, I’ll make sure he regrets it.”

Theo felt the words like a cold hand at the base of his neck. He hated being intimidated. He hated admitting that the warning lodged somewhere useful in his chest. He also hated that, despite everything, a part of him trusted Asher’s capability — and his interest — more than most things.

Theo looked back, only once. Asher’s fingers were already stained faintly, the tip of a syringe glinting under the lamp. The man’s smile was unreadable. It promised trouble, or protection, or both. Theo walked away with that unwelcome, private knowledge folded tight inside him.

“Theo.”

The voice came sharp but calm from behind him, just as Theo was passing the heavy oak door of Elijah’s office. He froze mid-step, spine stiffening. Damn it. He’d almost made it out.

He turned slowly. Elijah stood framed in the doorway, the dim light from the desk lamp outlining the sharp edges of his face. He didn’t look angry—not visibly. But his presence filled the hallway like a wall.

“A word,” Elijah said.

Theo swallowed down the instinct to bolt, masking it with a lazy shrug. “Sure.”

Inside, the office smelled faintly of leather and ink. Maps and files cluttered the desk, though none of it looked accidental. Everything here was arranged with purpose. Elijah leaned against the desk, arms folded loosely, posture deceptively casual. Theo stayed standing.

“Do you know anything about what happened last night?” Elijah’s gaze was a quiet interrogation. It weighed more than a thousand shouted accusations.

Theo’s first reflex was to blink, to stall. “Not that I’m aware of. Unless you’re referring to Asher being a jackass.”

Elijah’s mouth tilted the fraction of a degree that meant warning, not humor. “I would be inclined to believe you, but the fact that your friend keeps trying to get in my business would tell me otherwise.”

Do not argue. Do not deflect with a joke, Theo thought, and shaped his words around that rule. “I don’t know what happened with Stiles. I didn’t contact him. I told you I would stay away from them and I did. You got Peter to back off, and he did. Stiles is reckless—and sometimes plain stupid—but he doesn’t know shit.”

Elijah considered him like a chess player scanning the board. “I know you didn’t see him. You wouldn’t put them at risk in such a stupid way. You’re smarter than that.”

Flattery. Keep the flattery in mind; it’s how he opens the next bite, Theo noted, circling his own fear so it wouldn’t show. “He’ll get tired at some point and realize I’m not coming back.”

Elijah’s eyes narrowed, not unkindly. “I hope you’re right, because if these kinds of things keep happening, I don’t care what deal I made with them or with you—I will be the one to deal with him.”

The threat sat in the air, heavy and serene. Theo tasted bile, but his voice was even. “If the situation repeats itself, I’ll handle Stiles.”

“Don’t take the fact I let you see your anchor as a sign of weakness.” Elijah’s hands were loose at his sides, but his presence filled the hollow between them like smoke. “Having you unhinged and out of control would only penalize me. Make sure the next time is the last time, if you don’t want me to have to clean up your mess.”

“You won’t have to,” Theo promised automatically.

Elijah’s look swept him from head to toe, cataloguing the man as if weighing him against some phantom standard. “We’ll see about that. You and Asher will go to the docks tomorrow. Word is another pack has a shipment coming in.”

Theo’s jaw tightened. “What kind of shipment?”

“Weapons,” Elijah said.

Theo let out a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so thin. “Why do you care about it?”

Elijah’s smile was small, precise. “I don’t care about the merchandise. I care about sending messages. Peter has a habit of trying to rally other Alphas to his side. He needs to be reminded that crossing me is a mistake. Anyone willing to assist him will be making themselves targets. Best they learn that lesson now.”

“What do you want from us?” Theo asked.

“Destroy the shipment,” Elijah confirmed. “Remove the men. Do whatever is necessary when you encounter resistance.”

Theo’s mouth tightened. “Whatever—”

“Peter and his pack will be there too,” came the reply, cold as hoarfrost. “This operation will test their loyalty. If they step out of line, you’ll deal with them. And if you don’t, Asher will.”

Theo felt the corners of his vision narrow. So it’s not just about goods. It probably wasn’t about Peter’s allegiance either. This test was for him. He wanted to test how loyal Theo was to him already and how much fight he still had in him. How much he wanted to keep his friends alive, even if he needed to go against them for that.

And at this very moment Theo thought about how much he wanted to kill Stiles for putting me in this situation.

Elijah’s face didn’t change. “One more thing. You’re not to leave this place until then. Cancel whatever date you had. Tomorrow will be long.”

As Elijah turned, his coat catching the light, Theo’s chest tightened. He walked out and fumbled for his phone in his pocket, the urge to call Liam flaring hot and useless in his throat. He had to warn him—had to tell him to stay away from docks, to stay out of whatever trap Elijah might set.

No phone. He checked again—dead weight.

The back of his neck prickled. He turned, and there, in the doorway carved by shadow, Asher lounged, a smirk already in place like a branded mark.

“Looking for something?” Asher drawled, the smugness in his voice a scrape on metal.

Theo’s stomach dropped into a pit he recognized too well. Of course.

Asher’s grin widened. “You heard the boss, sunshine. Pack up your pretty self. We’ve got a show to put on.”

Theo felt the world narrow to the bridge of his own clenched hands. Obedience now, survival later. One move at a time. He walked past Asher, like a man with a target painted on his back who had learned, the hard way, to keep his face calm until the anger passed.

Chapter Text

The road up to Deucalion's place looked like it had been built as an afterthought—pitted, potholed, flanked by scrub pines that never quite let the sun in. Peter parked the car, killed the engine, and, for the smallest moment, listened to the house breathing. Years of old leather and smoke and things that survive fires lived in that sound.

He walked up the warped porch without knocking. It wasn't courtesy he lacked so much as confidence that anyone inside would be in the mood for visitors. The hinges gave a long, complaining groan as the door swung open, spilling him into the dim space.

The first thing he noticed wasn’t Deucalion. It was what was missing.

No trace of Theo remained. The couch was stripped bare of the blanket that had once been left rumpled there, the desk cleared of clutter, the shelves too neat. Even the faint, sharp tang of Theo’s scent—frustration, restlessness, raw edges—was gone. Erased.

Peter clicked his tongue, gaze sweeping the room with deliberate slowness. “Well. That was efficient. Not even a hair left behind.”

From the far side of the room, Deucalion didn’t turn. He stood in front of the shelves, his fingers trailing over spines, pulling books down, flipping them open as though Peter were nothing more than an annoying draft that had slipped in through the window.

“Sure,” Deucalion said, voice smooth, almost bored. “Come in unannounced. No knocking. No manners. Not that you ever cared much for those.”

Peter stepped further in, his shoes clicking against the floor with calculated sharpness. “Manners are for people who need to be invited. I’m not one of them.”

Deucalion hummed, still flipping through pages, then shut the book with a snap and slid it back into place. “What do you want, Peter?”

Peter tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been… quiet. Too quiet. And I don’t like it.”

“That’s because I don’t feel the need to bother,” Deucalion replied, selecting another volume. “Unlike you.”

Peter’s smile flashed, sharp as a knife. “Always charming.”

“Always annoying.” Deucalion didn’t look up. He seemed more interested in rearranging his library, stacking books into neat, precise piles, than in Peter’s presence.“What do you want?”

Finally, Peter’s patience thinned. He took another step forward, voice low but cutting. “I need you to go see Theo.”

That made Deucalion still, just for a fraction of a second. Then he resumed, pulling down a book, brushing the dust from the cover. “And why would I do that?”

“Because the only reason we’re still breathing is Elijah’s deal,” Peter said, tone smooth but edged. “He keeps Theo. We stay out of his way. He leaves Beacon Hills standing. A fragile arrangement, but one we’d be fools to break.”

Deucalion slid the book back, harder than necessary, the thud echoing. “Yes, a deal as bitter to swallow as it was to abide. But here we are.”

“And yet,” Peter went on, voice sharpening, “not everyone seems content to keep their distance from Theo.”

Deucalion smirked faintly, lips curving with disdain. “Liam.” He said it like it was obvious.

“Stiles, actually,” Peter corrected.

That earned him a look, brief and disdainful. “And what part of that is supposed to concern me? He’s your mess, not mine. If you don’t want to babysit reckless brats and half-broken wolves, you don't be an Alpha.”

Peter’s eyes flashed. “I’m not here about Stiles’ suicidal impulses. I’m handling him. But yesterday, thanks to him, we were probably one misstep away from a direct confrontation with Elijah. Do you have any idea how quickly that could’ve ended in blood?”

“So I’ve heard,” Deucalion said lightly, plucking another book from the shelf and setting it in his growing pile. “And yet here you are. Alive. Which makes this little lecture seem a little unnecessary.”

Peter’s jaw tightened, his patience fraying. “I want to make sure that if Stiles pulls another stunt, and if he reaches Theo instead of running headfirst into Asher, Theo turns him away. That he doesn’t drag us all into ruin because he can’t resist playing the hero. You need to make sure this all deal doesn’t come crashing down on us like a goddamn concrete block.”

Deucalion’s laugh was bitter, low. “And what makes you think Theo would listen to me? He hates me, Peter. With good reason.”

Peter leaned against the edge of the desk, watching him with cool amusement. “Theo hates a lot of things. But hate fades. At some point he’ll realize you did what you thought was right. And when that day comes, he’ll need you.”

Deucalion finally stilled. His fingers lingered on the spine of a book, but he didn’t pull it free. His voice, when it came, was quieter, weighted. “He doesn’t need me. You’ve said it yourself—everything he’s become is my fault. Why should I want forgiveness, when I don’t even deserve it?”

Peter’s smile thinned, sharper now. “Because whether you like it or not, it’s your responsibility to make sure he survives this. We couldn’t keep him away from Elijah. But if he dies because we were too proud, too tired, too stubborn to keep him alive—you’ll never forgive yourself either. And neither will I. Not because I care for you personally—don't misread me—but because I don't want what you are to be wasted on a stupid war that can be avoided."

That earned him a full turn. Deucalion faced him at last, arms crossing, his stare sharp as glass. “And you think Elijah will simply let me near Theo? Just like that?”

Peter’s reply was calm, almost lazy. “He will—if you show him you’re not there to meddle. If you prove you’re not a threat. He’ll probably be glad to have a chance to keep an eye on you more closely.”

The silence that followed was taut, a rope pulled to breaking point. Deucalion studied him, the way predators studied each other: weighing patience, pride, and the cost of yielding.

Finally, Deucalion let out a humorless chuckle. “You always had a talent for asking the impossible.”

“And you,” Peter countered smoothly, “always had a talent for pretending you didn’t already want to do it.”

Deucalion’s gaze flickered, sharp but weary. “From what I’ve heard, none of you have seen him for months. What makes you think I could get through to him now, after everything?”

Peter’s expression didn’t waver. “Because I may have turned him, but I was never Theo’s Alpha. Not really. From the moment you took the boy under your care—even when he was an Alpha himself—his loyalty never wavered. You can’t fake that. You can’t just sever it because it’s inconvenient.”

Deucalion shook his head, a mirthless smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not sure Theo would agree.”

“He may not,” Peter said simply. “But that doesn’t make me wrong. Blood doesn’t matter to him. Elijah can’t replace you. And it’s about time you step back into the game.”

His tone was casual, almost dismissive, but the weight beneath it wasn’t. The kind of weight that cut deeper for being left unsaid. Because everyone knew—even Theo, though he would never admit it—that Deucalion had always been more than just a mentor, more than a mistake, more than the Alpha who’d once ruined him. He had been the one Theo looked toward without realizing it, the shadow of a father figure carved into every choice he made.

For the first time since Peter had walked in, Deucalion didn’t reach for another book. He stood still, measuring him, before finally letting out a low exhale.

“Alright.”

“Good” Peter’s smirk curved, sharp and satisfied. “Don’t wait too long. Things are already moving faster than you think.”

He turned toward the door, the faintest echo of amusement in his stride. Deucalion didn’t follow him with words, only silence—but the kind that promised this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

 

________________________________________________________________________________

 

Peter pushed the front door open and paused at the threshold, taking in the tableau in the living room like he was scanning a crime scene. Liam was hunched over a phone between them, faces lit by the screen. Liam's jaw was tight; Scott looked like he'd swallowed a live grenade. Both of them too focused to notice Peter.

Scott paced in front of the couch, his brows drawn tight. “I don’t like this.”

Liam looked up from where he sat, defensive already. “What? You don’t like me seeing him, or the fact that in the last year I apparently specialized in robbery and petty theft?”

“Both, Liam. Clearly both.”

“You know, I didn’t tell you about Theo so you could make me feel bad about it.”

Scott stopped pacing, fixing him with a sharp look. “First, you didn’t tell me. I could smell it from a mile away before you realized you should probably start taking more showers if you didn’t want Stiles to figure it out. Secondly—”

The front door clicked, and Peter’s voice slid into the room like a knife. "What's going on?"

Both of them froze. Scott’s mouth snapped shut. Liam shoved the phone behind his back, guilt written across his face.

Something smelled faintly of smoke and old leather—Theo's scent, impossible to miss once you knew it. Peter's eyes narrowed on the phone in Liam's hands.

“What are you doing?” he asked, folding his coat over one arm as he stepped inside.

Liam snapped the screen off and shoved the phone into his pocket like he'd been caught red-handed. "Me? Nothing."

"Really," Peter said, amused in the way that always made people squirm. "Because from here it looks like you're rifling through someone else's messages. And from the scent I would say Theo's."

Liam's face went pale. "What? Why would I have Theo's phone?"

Peter let the question hang. He liked teasing things loose from people; sometimes it was the most efficient way to get at the truth. "Let's skip the part where we all pretend you're not seeing Theo in secret, and go directly to the part I actually need to know."

Liam looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him. "Wait—does everyone know about it?"

Scott's voice was flat. "You're not as subtle as you think."

Liam threw up his hands. "Theo is going to kill me…"

"And?" Peter asked, like the consequences were someone else's problem and also not at all.

"He's been with them for months," Liam said, words coming fast, breath too loud in the quiet room. "He refuses to give me anything useful, so I decided to try and get information myself."

Peter folded his arms. "Not that I approve, but did you find anything?"

"Yeah," Liam said. "Elijah's men have something going down tomorrow at the docks."

Scott's head snapped up. "Wait—tomorrow? Isn't that—"

"Yes," Peter finished for him. "Saturday."

Scott's mouth tightened. "Satomi asked for our help. Our alliance with her pack matters, I do know that, but do we really want to—"

"Sit it out?" Liam barked. "Because living the last few months like men waiting for a guillotine to drop is better? Doing nothing while Elijah decides if we're too bothersome to keep alive? No."

Peter watched them both, measuring. He could read the fear in Scott like open print; he could smell the anger in Liam. This was never about logistics for them. It was always the heart that made the mess. Damn puppies.

"Until now we had no idea Elijah would be there," Peter said, voice slow. "But apparently he already knows we might be. So far as he knows, we can't avoid it. He'll only be suspicious if we do. Which means… being there gives us options."

Scott rubbed a thumb against his forehead. "Why provoke him when he explicitly told us to stay away?"

"To test us," Liam snapped. "To see if we're still willing to stay in line."

“Or to see if Theo is.” Scott added.

"Then it's a chance to learn how they operate," Peter said. "How many they send, who they trust, what their tactics look like in the field. If we're smart about it, worst case we can claim ignorance. Best case we come away with intel we didn't have before."

"You're advocating for a reconnaissance op," Scott said, incredulous. "Not a fight."

"A recon that keeps its distance," Peter corrected. "We do not engage with Theo or Asher under any circumstances. Theo's reaction to seeing us will tell us everything. Asher is a weapon you do not point at your own people."

Liam's fingers dug into the arm of the couch. "Noted. But if Asher tries to bait me, I'm not promising I won't respond."

"You are to promise it," Peter replied, the command buried in his tone. "If Asher succeeds in getting you to throw the first punch, he wins. Someone gets hurt. You are not to engage, understood?"

"Understood," Liam said, jaw clenching. But the words had teeth in them, and they didn't soften.

"Good." Peter's eyes flicked toward the windows, to the way light gathered on the far wall. "I’ll call Derek. Make sure he's here tomorrow. We'll limit our risk and maximize our observation."

Before any of them could move, the front door slammed with the theatrical entrance only Malia could manage. She flung her luggage into the hallway with the kind of violence that scattered dust and indignation.

"This is the last time I take a fucking plane," she announced, clearly talking to Peter, breathless from whatever chaotic logistics the universe had decided to dump on her. "This is the last time I come back to this town, actually. Why did you have to make yourself an Alpha again, huh? What's wrong with being your usual asshole self? Are you so eager to get killed by Elijah? Are you bored? Couldn’t you pick up another hobby—gardening, maybe? Anything that doesn't require me to fly back and make sure you don't get yourself and Derek killed? Again?"

Her voice wound down when she saw the faces in the living room—Scott wide-eyed, Liam sheepish, Peter unreadable. Her mouth curved into a disgusted smirk at the tableau. "Perfect. I'll find a room. Tell me when the Judas is gone so I can fumigate the place."

She hauled her bags upstairs with exactly five words left for Peter as she passed. "I’m not working with him."

Peter's smirk was sardonic. "Oh, right. Malia will be joining us." He rose from his seat and began toward the kitchen, the decision already having settled in his shoulders like a stone. "I'll get Derek on the line. Liam, you keep your hands to yourself unless I tell you otherwise. Scott, help me lay out a watch rotation and some extraction points. Malia, don’t kill Scott."

Liam followed him with a muttered, "Fuck,"

The room quieted into the sort of tactical hush Peter preferred. He liked to hear how the plan would be voiced—there was reassurance in structure. He moved through it like a conductor setting tempos.

"Satomi's pack wants some of these shipments," Scott said finally, voice low. "This could be a test of alliances. If Elijah wants to show who's in charge, he'll pick a visible target."

"Exactly," Peter said. "So we go as observers with contingencies. Nobody engages unless lives are on the line and we have no other option. If Elijah shows, we don't try to fight him. We don't go in swinging. We watch. We learn. We get the map of his maneuvers. Then we use it on him later, when the odds favor us."

Liam's posture relaxed fractionally at the word later. "And if Theo is there?"

"We don't make it personal," Peter said. "We let him see that we are not pawns he can toy with—or that Elijah can dispose of. If he wavers, we note it. If he acts like he's already joined them, we note it. The goal is information, not martyrdom. Only fight to defend yourselves."

"Which means what?" Scott asked.

"It means split teams," Peter replied crisply. “Four observation points at opposite ends of the docks. Two teams keeps low and watches approach, the others shadows methods and supply routes. We avoid the main shipping docks if possible and focus on the secondary yards. If things go sideways, we slip and extract. No heroics."

"And Stiles?" Liam asked, quieter. "He won't—"

"—I'll handle Stiles," Peter cut in. The word carried the slim promise of a leash and a threat. "I will keep him in one place. He will not go looking for a fight."

Liam's face collapsed into a mixture of gratitude and worry. Peter didn't soften. He could see the worry in Liam's hands; he smelled it clinging to the boy's skin like sweat.

Scott met Peter's eyes. "You're sure about this? You really think it's the right call?"

"I think doing nothing until Elijah decides whether we're worth exterminating is a poor strategy," Peter said. "At least if we go, we go with eyes open."

Scott nodded slowly. "All right. We'll do it. Carefully."

Outside, rain began to fall, soft and persistent, washing the streets in a hasty sheen. Inside, the Hale house hummed with plans and quiet vows. They were going into the teeth of their enemy, not yet ready for the war Elijah wanted—none of them were—but for the first time in months, they were moving instead of hiding.

 

________________________________________________________________________________

 

Stiles hadn’t planned on being early. He’d meant to kill an extra thirty minutes somewhere—coffee, maybe drive around the block a few times—but something in him tugged toward home, like gravity. At least his wounds were healed by now, and that was something. He needed to take a breath and maybe seeing his dad soon was exactly what he needed. So when he let himself into the house and found his dad already there, the surprise hit both ways.

“You’re not at work?” Stiles asked, frowning.

His father looked up from the table where a couple of fishing magazines lay spread open, glasses perched low on his nose. “And you’re early. You weren’t supposed to be here for another hour.”

“I thought I’d start making lunch before you got back,” Stiles said, narrowing his eyes. “So… no work?”

“No,” the Sheriff answered evenly, taking off his glasses.

Stiles wasn’t convinced. He followed him into the living room, studying him with the sharp, relentless scrutiny that used to drive his teachers insane. “You were already on a day off the last time I came without telling you.”

“Yeah,” the Sheriff replied, settling back into his chair. “Needed to ambush you into talking to me, if you remember.”

“And you weren’t working the day Asher got Derek arrested either,” Stiles pressed. “He said you were in plain clothes.”

“You mean the day a building collapsed on you,” his dad shot back, his eyes sharp now, “and nobody bothered to tell me about it?”

“You’re lying to me.” he said half amused, half concerned.

“What is this, an interrogation?” the Sheriff asked dryly.

“Why? Do you feel like you need a lawyer right now?” Stiles shot back, arms folding.

“I needed a vacation,” his father said flatly.

“You don’t take vacations,” Stiles countered. “You hate vacations.”

“I don’t hate them.” His dad’s mouth twitched with the faintest trace of irritation. “And maybe after thirty years without a real one, some people would say I’ve earned it.”

“Dad.”

The word hung heavy.

The Sheriff sighed, leaning forward, hands clasped. “I’m retiring, Stiles.”

The world tilted for a second. Stiles blinked. “What? Are they kicking you out because you’re old? Or is it internal affairs? That’s bullshit. You’re still more competent than any of those douchebags—”

“Tone it down!” his dad barked, before glaring. “And I’m not old, goddammit.”

“Then why?”

“Because I’m done.”

Stiles froze. “Done?”

“I’ve been a cop my whole life,” the Sheriff said, voice quieter now, but steady. “All I wanted was to protect. My town. My family. You. And now…” He exhaled. “You don’t need me anymore.”

“Don’t say that,” Stiles blurted, throat tight. “You know I still need you.”

“You need me as your dad,” the Sheriff corrected gently. “You don’t need me to be Sheriff. You can take care of yourself now. And when you can’t—I know Hale will be here.”

Stiles groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Please don’t talk about Peter.”

“Why not?” his dad asked, leaning back, smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re certainly not gonna bring it up on your own.”

“I’m not ready for this talk. Or the idea of talking about it. Or the idea of both of you being in the same room ever again.”

“Yeah, you may have a point there.” His father laughed. Then his tone shifted, thoughtful. “But there’s something else I want to address.”

Stiles’ eyes widened in warning. “Please don’t make me explain again how I’m not exactly human anymore even though I wasn’t bite. If the hours we’ve already spent on this didn’t make it any clearer, one more isn’t gonna change it. Don’t make me go through this, Dad. Please.”

His father’s gaze didn’t waver. “I want you to take over as Sheriff.”

Stiles stared. Then laughed. Loudly, too loud, borderline hysterical, before he realized his father was being serious and just snapped. “Are you insane??”

“I don’t see how it’s insane,” his father said calmly. “You may have been fired from the FBI, but it wasn’t because you weren’t good at your job.”

“No, it was because I kept disappearing for weeks without notice to deal with supernatural crap. And because Washington is a cesspool of entitled assholes pretending to be professionals I kept getting in trouble with. Not exactly the résumé for ‘small-town dependable Sheriff.’”

“You care about this town. You care about your friends,” his dad said, matter-of-fact.

“Right now, I’m closer to locking half of them up if I’m being honest,” Stiles muttered.

“Well, the perk of being Sheriff is you could do it,” the Sheriff shot back dryly, “and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Stiles squinted at him. “Come on. Why me, really?”

His father’s expression softened, lines around his eyes deepening. “Because I may not understand everything you’re going through. And I might not know all of it, though I’m grateful you’re finally talking to me again.” Stiles opened his mouth, but his father held up a hand. “But. From what I do understand—you need resources. Allies. A new perspective. Maybe this department could give you that. Maybe it’s the only leverage you haven’t tried yet against Elijah.”

“Peter couldn’t take him down, and neither could Deucalion, and they are Alphas,” Stiles argued. “But me and a couple of deputies with tasers? Oh sure, that’ll work.”

“Maybe not,” the Sheriff admitted. “But you’ll find a way. You always do. And even if it doesn’t help—it won’t hurt either. Besides…” He gave him a pointed look. “You’re not alone. Isn’t that the point of a pack?”

“…Yeah,” Stiles said eventually, reluctantly. He looked away, flipping through one of the magazines on the table with exaggerated judgment. “Seriously? Fishing magazines? Please tell me retirement doesn’t mean you’re about to spend your golden years in waders, hanging stuffed fish on the walls.” He snatched it away before his dad could protest.

“Leave my magazine alone.”

“Fine.” But the skeptical look remained, and the Sheriff couldn’t help but laugh.

“I thought things were better now,” his father said after a pause, studying him.

“They are,” Stiles said quickly. “Scott and I are good. First time I can actually say that without a doubt actually. Same with Liam and Derek. And Peter being Alpha? Weirdly… probably the best thing that could’ve happened to us.” he said casually, going through the magazine.

“But?”

“No but.”

“Stiles…”

He snapped, throwing the magazine angrily. “You think that after everything, the asshole could at least give me the courtesy not to freeze me out, don’t you?”

His father’s look softened. “So this is about Theo.”

“I don’t want to talk about him, okay?” Stiles said, rubbing at his temple. “He left. His choice. Nothing else to say.”

His dad didn’t push. Just gave him the look—the one that said he had nowhere to go and he was definitely not dropping this.

“Please don’t do that.”

“Do what? Point out that the guy you hated to death turned into one of your closest friends, and you’re pissed he turned his back on you?”

“Yeah, that. And for the record, Theo is not my friend. He’s an asshole. He’s selfish, self-centered, and an idiot with a martyr streak that would put Mother Teresa to shame.”

“He’ll come around, son.”

“I hope so,” Stiles muttered. “I need him to come back eventually—preferably within arms’ reach so I can stop looking for him and shoot him.”

His father laughed, and Stiles cracked a reluctant smile. The heaviness in Stiles easing up just a little.

“Anyway,” Stiles said, standing, “let’s just have lunch and talk about literally anything else, okay?”

“Sure,” the Sheriff agreed. Then, more softly, “But think about it, son. You don’t have to decide now. But the sooner you do, the sooner I can finally enjoy being old and relaxed. Not to mention you’ll need to have an actual job at some point too.”

“Tss. Fine. I’ll think about it.”

“Good. Now, go set the table and make dinner.” He leaned back, flipping open another magazine with exaggerated leisure.

“You’re really leaning into this whole retirement thing, huh?”

“Might as well enjoy it now before you stick me in a home.”

“Might come sooner than you think,” Stiles mumbled on his way to the kitchen.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!”

Chapter Text

The docks smelled like salt, rust, and diesel—thick in the air, clinging to skin and clothes. The evening had already draped itself in muted gray, the kind that made everything look flatter, sharper, more dangerous.

Liam lay stretched out across the top of a shipping container, staring at the night sky like it might give him answers. Stiles sat cross-legged beside him, restless eyes locked on Peter in the distance. Peter was deep in conversation with two of Satomi’s men, his posture deceptively casual. Too casual. Stiles didn’t like it. He hadn’t liked any of this plan from the start.

It was supposed to be simple: show solidarity, stand watch, lend Satomi’s allies a hand if needed but stay out of their way. Easy job. Except that nothing about standing in the middle of a sprawling dockyard with armed smugglers, fragile alliances, and the looming shadow of Elijah screamed “simple.” To Stiles, it felt like bait on a hook, and Peter was clearly hiding something from him. He just didn’t know what. That omission sat like a weight in his chest.

Liam rolled his head to the side, watching him. “You know, I’ve been thinking about it for a while now—probably since we came back from Japan actually—but you really changed.”

Stiles didn’t look at him, his jaw ticking. “In a bad way?”

That was enough to make Liam sit up, propping himself on his elbows. “No. You’re just… more centered. Sure, you’re still the poster child for ADHD and the risk of not taking meds, but there’s something about you that you didn’t used to have before. Like a quiet storm. And I’m not sure why.”

“What can I say? I’ve been through a lot of shit in my life.” His eyes narrowed faintly on Peter, still speaking with Satomi’s men, still keeping him at arm’s length. Peter’s gaze eventually turned to him from time to time, in a way Stiles didn’t know how to read. “Not to forget the whole Kitsune thing, of course.”

“Maybe,” Liam said, studying him with that irritatingly perceptive look. “But I think there’s more to it.”

Stiles finally tore his gaze away to glare at him. “If you say I am a changed man because of love, I will punch you.”

“Tempting, but no.”

“Good.”

“One thing’s for sure, love didn’t make you any less grumpy.”

A reluctant laugh escaped Stiles, quick and short, before his eyes flicked back to Peter. Peter was already disengaging from Satomi’s men, his sharp gesture—one subtle sweep of his fingers—telling Stiles it was almost time to move.

Stiles’ voice dropped, sudden and quieter. “My father is retiring.”

Liam blinked, thrown, but stayed quiet, waiting.

“He asked me to take over for him.”

“Like… as the sheriff?”

“No, as the president of the United States. Of course as the sheriff!” Stiles shot back. Liam’s laugh broke the tension for half a second, but his smile didn’t last.

“He seems to think I could be good at it,” Stiles went on, softer now, almost distracted. “But I don’t know if I can wear a badge again.” His eyes sharpened, more to himself than to Liam. “Things changed. You’re right. I changed. And maybe I should be careful about the choices I make.”

Liam hesitated, then finally asked the question that had been eating at him for months. “What happened to you in the FBI?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Stiles’ jaw locked. His eyes darted once more toward Peter, who now lingered at the edge of their sightline. “Let’s just go. I think we’re almost ready.”

He slid off the container, separating from Liam without another word. Peter’s gaze caught his across the distance, sharp and questioning, like he’d heard the question himself and was waiting for the answer Stiles had refused to give. Stiles didn’t offer one. He crossed the asphalt, weaving between stacks of containers until he reached Peter.

They fell into step together toward their designated watchpoint, as Liam walked away to his.

“Are you okay?” Peter asked after a beat.

“Please stop asking me that.” Stiles didn’t look at him. “I’m fine. Just go over the plan one more time for me, okay?”

“Satomi has relationships with pretty much every Alpha in the area. Long-lasting alliances. One of her allies works with the ATF. We’re here to help secure these containers.”

“Since when are we working in goods protection exactly?”

“We’re not, darling. We’re working in the rehabilitation domain,” Peter said smoothly. “The Hales used to have the same kind of allies Satomi has. We need to make them understand they can trust us again—even without Talia.”

“And what happens if the shipment gets attacked and we fail to protect it?”

Peter shrugged, wolf-casual. “We fail, we succeed, doesn’t matter. What matters is that we are putting ourselves on the line for them.”

“Okay. Well, at least this field trip gives us a chance to think about something else than Elijah.”

“Yeah…” Peter muttered. His phone buzzed, pulling his attention down for a second. “Derek’s here. He just joined Liam to the south area. Scott is on the west side, Malia is east, and we’re north.”

“Scott and Malia alone?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry. He’s on the abandoned part of the docks and close to our exit in case things go south. He won’t see anyone there even if we were attacked. And Malia is close to Liam and Derek. She’ll be fine.”

“There’s also the fact that he’s on the opposite side of where Malia is.”

Peter shot him a flat look. “We need to stay vigilant and focused here. Last thing I need is for Malia to kill Scott.”

“Sure. We’re guests here. Spilling blood would be bad taste.”

“Exactly.”

And then it hit—the shift.

Peter stilled, his nostrils flaring just slightly. A new scent cut through the air— acrid, unmistakable, wrong. Stiles froze, instinct locking into place. He moved without thinking, stepping in front of Peter with forced casualness, like nothing had changed.

“It’s okay,” Peter murmured, eyes scanning the shadows, voice smooth as glass. “We still have about nine minutes before the shipment arrives.”

Nine. The number wasn’t random.

Stiles understood instantly: nine of them. They weren’t alone. The smell was strong, invasive, and it didn’t belong to Satomi’s men. Elijah’s. Of course. Stiles didn’t know why they were here, but he didn’t care. His gut was already screaming that this night was never about the shipment.

“You’re sure it’s okay for us to go there by ourselves?” he asked under his breath, the words layered with meaning. Can we take them on by ourselves?

Peter’s answering smile was sharp and predatory, flashing like a knife in the dark. “Oh, it’s more than enough.”

A shiver ran down Stiles’ spine, not out of fear but adrenaline, a thrill that curled low and hot at the look in Peter’s eyes.

And then the sound broke the tension—footsteps pounding, fast and coordinated, from between the containers.

Elijah’s men burst out, running straight toward them.

 

________________________________________________________________________________

 

The clash started like a ripple—small, contained—then spread like wildfire across the docks.

Liam’s head snapped up at the echo of a fight breaking out down south, the sharp clang of steel and a chorus of snarls tearing through the night. “You hear that?” he asked, already half-rising.

Derek’s ears twitched, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah. We should go—”

He didn’t finish. Shadows broke loose from the container stacks, Elijah’s men surging forward. Teeth flashed, claws slashed, and the ambush slammed into them before either had time to breathe.

Derek met the first wolf head-on, claws raking across a throat, sending the man sprawling. Liam ducked a wild swing, countered with a punch to the ribs, but another was already on him. He moved to help Derek, but out of nowhere another figure lunged at his side. Liam had no time to dodge.

A hand yanked him backwards—hard. The claws missed by inches. He fell, crashing down onto something solid—no, someone. The ground knocked the air out of him, and for a disorienting second all he saw was a pair of eyes under the dim dock lights.

Theo.

Theo’s hand came up instinctively, brushing Liam’s hair out of his face, checking for injuries. His gaze darted over him, sharp, urgent—until he saw the blood wasn’t Liam’s. Relief softened his features. Slowly, impossibly, he smiled at him with that impossible smirk Liam knew just too well.

“Hey, little wolf.”

Liam just stared at him, stunned, disbelief painted across his face. Then he shoved himself upright, landing a sharp punch to Theo’s arm. “What the hell, Theo?!”

Theo’s grin only widened—before his head whipped back. He grabbed Liam by the waist, rolling them both sideways as a body came hurtling toward them, crashing into the asphalt where they’d just been.

Theo scrambled to his feet, squaring himself against the new arrival. Malia.

Her eyes blazed bright coyote-gold, teeth bared in a vicious snarl. “I’m so gonna enjoy kicking your ass now that you’re not an Alpha anymore.”

Theo’s smirk was immediate, razor-edged. “Look what the cat dragged in. You really think being an Alpha was the only reason you couldn’t kill me until now?”

Malia growled, circling him. Theo mirrored her, sidestepping, never turning his back. They moved in a tight ring, tension crackling between them.

“What?” Theo taunted, his voice sharp. “No need to look at me like that. I’m not Scott.”

Her growl deepened, crouching to spring. But before she could, a roar of chaos rolled across the docks—the fight in the south intensifying, movement surging east. Theo’s eyes flicked toward the sound, calculation flashing.

“Please tell me you didn’t leave McCall alone back there,” he bit out.

Liam stiffened. “Why?”

Theo’s answer was instant, grim. “Asher is there.”

Liam’s stomach dropped. “Fuck.”

Behind them, Derek was still tearing through Elijah’s men, blood streaking his knuckles. Theo glanced at the chaos, saw his opening, and bolted.

“Theo!” Liam shouted, fury ripping through his chest. But the coyote was already gone, swallowed by the maze of containers. Liam cursed under his breath, then turned sharply to Malia. “Help Derek! I’ll go to Scott!”

And he ran.

Southside, the fight was feral.

Peter and Stiles moved like they’d been doing this together their whole lives. Peter was brutal efficiency—every strike precise, every slash meant to end the fight. Stiles was chaos contained, wielding gun and knife like extensions of his own hands, moving faster, sharper, deadlier than he ever had before.

They cut through wolves in tandem, their movements weaving together until the dock floor was slick with blood. Peter glanced over mid-fight, his red Alpha glow catching on Stiles. For a heartbeat, he forgot the enemy.

Stiles dispatched the last two wolves with rare violence—spinning, stabbing, striking until both men lay broken at his feet. His chest heaved, his expression flat, cold. Too cold.

And then, like a switch flipping, he blinked back into himself, shoulders trembling faintly. He turned, searching for Peter—only to find him already watching, hunger carved into every line of his face.

Peter looked at him like he was the only thing left alive on this dock. Lust. Pride. Bloodlust. Stiles froze, his heart skipping a beat. The look rooted him in place, sharp enough to steal the air from his lungs.

Peter’s smile deepened, slow and sharp.

A distant roar broke the spell—the fight carrying east.

Stiles tore his gaze away. “We need to go.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “I’ll find Liam, Derek and Malia. You go to Scott, in case we need to evacuate.”

The calculation was clear: if Theo and Asher were here, this whole thing had been a setup from the start. It wasn’t a test, it was a strike. And the chance were that Theo would be with Liam right now. Better to keep Stiles away—away from Asher, Theo, away from temptation.

“Okay,” Stiles muttered. He hesitated, softer now. “Be careful.”

They split.

Stiles reached Scott’s sector just in time to see the confrontation unfold.

Scott was facing Asher, claws out, both men circling. Theo stood between them, his body taut, caught between ally and enemy.

“Asher!” Scott barked, striking out. Claws met claws, the impact echoing like steel. Asher shoved him back, his grin feral, eyes glinting with the thrill of the fight.

Theo’s arms shot out, blocking Asher from driving his claws into Scott’s chest. “Back off!” he snapped, straining against him.

Scott’s eyes flicked to Theo, uncertainty flashing—but he didn’t lower his guard.

That was when Stiles charged.

Everyone thought he was going for Asher—his body angled, speed deadly. Asher braced, ready to meet him head-on. But at the last second, Stiles pivoted, barreling straight into Theo.

“Shit!” Theo barely breathed out before he realized what was happening.

The tackle sent both of them over the edge of a sideways container, teetering dangerously close to the water. Metal shrieked under their weight as it tipped, and before either of them could catch their breath, the whole thing gave way.

They crashed inside, steel ringing beneath them, and the world tilted. The container groaned, whining like something strained beyond its limits. It dropped just enough to throw them sprawling, the floor sliding sideways under their feet—then jolted to a stop, awkwardly balanced on the edge. For one suspended beat, it rocked there, half-submerged, like a dying beast refusing to topple.

The lid slammed shut with a brutal metallic snap, the automatic lock clicking into place. The dim, stuttering flash of a security light painted the steel walls in suffocating shadows.

Both of them lay there, winded, coughing against the air that stank of rust and diesel. Stiles’ chest heaved, lungs burning. Theo cursed between clenched teeth, his hand tight over his ribs. Slowly, grudgingly, they pushed themselves upright, dripping and furious, their anger sparking hotter than the panic creeping in.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathed, sharp and annoyed.

“Another one of your perfect plans, I see,” Theo muttered, rocking back on his heels with a grimace. “At least no one got deadly injured this time- well, yet.”

“Shut up!” Stiles snapped, storming toward the door and slamming his palms against it. The latch didn’t budge; the hinges screamed but held. The faint, final click of the lock still echoed in his ears.

The fight outside was fading to a dull, distant hum. For the first time since the fall, it was just them.

Theo exhaled, long and steady, but not calm. “Great. Asher is the one who tries to kill Scott and you go after me? Seriously?”

“Screw you, you deserved it.”

“Yeah,” Theo snapped, eyes flashing. “And now I’ve got to find a way to fix your mess. Again!”

Stiles jabbed a finger at him. “So what’s your deal exactly? I screwed up again and now you feel entitled to do the same? What the hell are you even doing here? You know what—screw that. Why did you even join Elijah to begin with?”

Theo’s jaw clenched. He looked away, toward the sealed seams of the container. “I am not in the mood to have it out with you.”

“Tough. I do.” Stiles advanced, the words spilling fast, ragged, furious. “And you would know that if you’d even tried talking to me once in the last few months. Or if you’d warned me before throwing your life down the drain like a moron.”

Theo’s voice dropped sharp, defensive. “I said I wouldn’t sacrifice myself. I never said I would just follow your orders blindly.”

“You said you trusted me!” Stiles barked, his throat tight. “You gave me a piece of the sword the night you left. Why would you try and keep my hopes up only to ghost me for months after that, huh? You’re a fucking hypocrite!”

Theo’s eyes cut back to him, glare like a knife. “Am I now? You know what I find even more hypocritical? How Scott got mad at you for killing Donovan when he had absolutely no problem with you doing the same to Peter with a Molotov cocktail.”

Stiles froze. His mouth opened, then closed. Silence stretched as he tilted his head, processing, teeth grinding.

Theo’s grin twisted smug. “Damn. Did I actually shut you up? That would be a first.”

“Shut up!” Stiles snapped, too late, too hot.

Theo’s tone sharpened, anger spilling through. “I told you not to trust Scott again, and two months later I find out you brought him out on a mission? Not to mention that you left him alone? You know Asher would have gutted him if I didn’t get there in time?”

“You’re one to talk!” Stiles shot back. “What are you even doing here? Checking up on us? This thing has nothing to do with Elijah, so why would he send you here?”

Theo’s laugh was humorless. “I’m sorry, did I miss the memo that said I owed you something here?”

Stiles punched him, fist connecting with a wet smack of frustration more than force.

Theo reeled back, glaring. “What the hell is wrong with you? What, you make peace with McCall and now I can’t say anything about the guy anymore?”

“Well at least Scott communicates, you know,” Stiles snapped. “I didn’t even know you and Liam were back together.”

Theo blinked, caught off guard. “We’re not.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever.”

Theo’s brow furrowed. “Wait—how do you know?”

Stiles huffed, rolling his eyes. “The kid smells like a brothel half the time. It doesn’t take a genius to know he’s been seeing you. I’m pretty sure everyone knows. Me not saying anything to him about it doesn’t mean I’m stupid, okay?”

Theo’s jaw worked. “Not that it’s any of your business, but we’re not together.”

“Wow.” Stiles scoffed. “So you’re still as dumb as you’re blind. Good to know things haven’t changed.”

Theo snapped, “Why do you, all of a sudden, care about every single detail in my life?”

Stiles shot back, rawer this time. “Because before you left like a jackass, I thought we finally got to a place where we could tell each other stuff. And maybe you didn’t tell me everything—I didn’t care, because you told me about the important stuff. But you didn’t tell me about your deal with Elijah. Or the fact that Deucalion had something to do with your adoption. All very important things, I would say—things that friends are supposed to talk about.”

Theo’s face closed down, his voice flat as steel. “Well, maybe we’re not friends then.”

Stiles’ stomach twisted. His voice came out quiet, sharp with hurt. “Wow. Alright. I guess we’re not.”

The container groaned. Metal shifted beneath them, sliding. Both of them grabbed the bulkheads as the whole box tilted further toward the water.

“Uh-oh. Oh, oh,” Stiles muttered, eyes going wide.

Theo’s voice cut low, tense. “We’re moving.” He tried to shift as little as possible, bracing.

“Oh really? Thank you for sharing this intimate detail about your life,” Stiles shot back, voice pitching high with sarcasm.

“Stiles!”

“I know! We’re screwed! I was just being a bitch again!” Stiles snapped, frustration spilling over, making Theo roll his eyes. Then the container gave up the last of its balance and flipped, plunging into the water.

The plunge was brutal. The container slammed into the harbor with a bone-rattling crash, water rushing in through the seams with a roar that drowned out their curses.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit—” Stiles chanted, scrambling as the freezing water surged around their ankles.

“Calm the fuck down!” Theo barked, pushing him back from the door.

“I’m not calming down—we’re sinking! We’re sinking and we’re gonna drown. If I want to die being loud, I’ll die being loud, you don’t get to give me orders!”

The water climbed higher, chilling them to the bone.

Theo’s laugh was sharp and furious. “How mature of you, really! You know what—if someone has a right to choose how to die here, it’s me. Because this is your fault!”

“Oh , boo-hoo, you big baby! Just shut up!” Stiles shouted back, fists balled.

“You shut up!” Theo snarled, just as the container hit bottom with a muffled thump. Both of them stumbled, clutching at the walls as water surged up to their waists.

Breathless, Stiles looked at him, panic raw in his voice. “Okay—what now?”

Theo pressed his palm flat to the steel. His voice was clipped, practical. “The door locked automatically. It’s not mechanical—it’s digital. When the water seeps in, it’ll fry the system. Then we can open the doors.”

Stiles’ eyes widened. “And when do you expect that to happen? Before or after we drown?”

“Move.” Theo shoved past him, ignoring the flare of pain in his ribs. He staggered to the panel by the door, claws out. Sparks hissed as he ripped the casing open, forcing more water inside the circuits.

Water surged higher—chest, shoulders, neck.

“What now?” Stiles demanded, voice thinning with fear.

Theo glanced at him once, steady, then back to the panel. “Now we wait. And you can shut up if you don’t want to actually drown.”

“Fuc—” Stiles started, but cut himself off with a gasp as the water closed over his mouth. Both of them dragged in one last desperate breath before the container filled completely, plunging them into dark, suffocating silence.

The only light was the emergency lamp, flashing weakly in the corner. Every pulse lit Theo’s face across from him, calm in a way that made no sense. Stiles’ chest burned with panic, but that look—steady, controlled—forced him to hold on. For a heartbeat, he almost believed they’d make it.

Then the light blinked once, twice—went out.

A metallic click snapped through the water. Theo lunged, claws wrenching at the hatch, then grabbed Stiles by the arm and yanked. Together they shoved, the door bursting open in a violent rush. The ocean tore through, dragging them out into black water.

They kicked upward, lungs screaming, but their strength was gone. Stiles’ limbs felt lead-heavy, Theo’s movements sharp but slowing. Just as Stiles thought his chest would rip open, hands grabbed him—an iron grip hauling him up. Another pair caught Theo, dragging him along.

They broke the surface with a gasp that was almost a scream. Cold air hit like knives. Both of them coughed, choked, clawed for breath as they were dragged onto the slick deck.

Derek loomed over them, drenched and furious, water dripping from his hair into his eyes. He shoved them both down onto the metal floor, glaring like he could kill them with a look.

“You idiots,” he barked, but his voice was rough with relief. “You still breathing?”

Theo spat out a mouthful of harbor water, coughing hard. Stiles flopped back against the deck, wheezing laughter between gasps.

Theo turned his head toward him, lips twisting. “I fucking hate you,” he rasped, voice hoarse.

““I’ll give you that one. I’m not a big fan of myself at the moment either.”” Stiles muttered back, coughing.

Beyond them, the dock was chaos. A ship burned offshore, black smoke clawing at the night sky. The shipment was in flames. Satomi’s mercenaries tended to their wounded, counting heads; too many had been lost. As Theo and Stiles sank, war had exploded. And from the looks of it, they had lost.

On the shore, Elijah’s men faced Peter and the rest in a tense standoff. Nobody had drawn blood yet, but it wouldn’t take much.

And then Asher stepped forward, slow-clapping, smile sharp as broken glass. “I’m glad to see that some of you still have common sense,” he said, gaze sliding over the group until it landed on Stiles—still coughing, still soaked, glaring daggers.

Stiles flipped him off without hesitation and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, instinct carrying him to Peter’s side.

The lines were drawn. Nobody moved.

And the night wasn’t over.

Asher’s smirk widened when Stiles ducked behind Peter, dripping wet and scowling like hell itself. “Consider this a warning,” he said, gesturing with a lazy hand toward the scattered, lifeless bodies of Satomi’s men. “Stay in line, and things will keep their course. Step out of it…” His smile turned cruel. “And you’ll end up like them.”

Peter’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t move. Derek shifted, shoulders tense. The pack was ready—but waiting.

Then Liam stepped forward. His voice was even, sharp. “Tell me—how much liberty do you really have here, Asher?”

The question hung sharp in the air.

Asher’s grin curled. “Oh, I do like a challenge when I see one.”

Behind them, Theo started forward, expression tight, but Asher lifted a hand without even looking at him. The warning was clear: stay out of this. Theo froze mid-step, jaw grinding. He ruffled his soaked hair, muttered an insult under his breath, pacing like a caged animal as his eyes stayed locked on Liam.

Liam didn’t waver. “I don’t know what this whole thing was truly about, but we kept ourselves in check tonight. We didn’t start this fight with Satomi’s people—you did. All we did was defend ourselves without meddling, and you know that’s not the same thing.” He stepped closer, jaw tight. “And I’m pretty damn sure Elijah didn’t tell you to go for Scott’s throat.” His eyes hardened, a challenge sparking there. “So tell me—how much of this is really Elijah’s order… and how much of it is just you?”

“Watch yourself, Dunbar,” Asher murmured, voice dropping low and dangerous. “The line between us having fun and me reaching down your throat to rip out your lungs is very, very thin.”

Liam leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper, but carrying enough venom to cut. “How close are you to losing it right now, Asher? Tell me—do you really think Theo would ever love a broken thing like you?”

For a fraction of a second, Asher’s grin faltered.

Then he struck. A brutal, fast swing.

But Liam was fast to answer. He hit back—fist cracking against Asher’s face, splitting skin. Blood slicked Asher’s grin, making it wilder, sharper, as though he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

Liam didn’t give him the satisfaction. He stepped past him, shoulders squared, walking back toward his pack with his head high. As he passed Peter, he caught the older wolf’s dark, unreadable stare. The air between them felt heavier for it.

“I said I wouldn’t engage,” Liam muttered low, mostly to himself—but Peter heard it, his gaze flicking with the weight of the words. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t punch back.”

Asher’s tongue flicked against his bloody lip, eyes glinting. He raised a hand, signaling his men. They obeyed instantly, peeling back into the smoke and dark.

The dock felt emptier when they were gone, but no less tense.

Theo watched them leave, expression unreadable, water still dripping off him. He didn’t say anything, but his shoulders were taut with the kind of restraint that hurt. Liam hadn’t looked at him once—and maybe that was for the best.

Stiles, on the other hand, hadn’t even spared him a glance. He was still glued behind Peter’s side, eyes dark and mouth set like stone.

Theo turned at last, moving to follow Asher into the night, when something slipped from his pocket and hit the wet ground with a soft thunk.

He froze. A plastic bag, edges glistening with water, a folded paper sealed tight inside.

Theo crouched, fingers curling around it. Theo slipped the bag back into his pocket, careful, deliberate.

When Theo looked up one last time , his eyes caught the look Derek sent him. He was the one who gave it to him when he got him and Stiles out of the water. They were back in business. Finally.

Chapter Text

Elijah’s lair sat deeper in the old mill than most of Beacon Hills cared to remember—stone and iron braided with cold light, candles turned out in long gutters, the smell of damp wood and something metallic that clung to the air. It had the kind of hush that made even loud men speak in half-phrases. Tonight the lair felt smaller, tighter; the shadows seemed to wait for someone to speak first.

Asher lounged on a low bench, legs crossed, watching the empty corridor with that lazy, dangerous grin that never quite left his face. He toyed with a syringe—cap off, needle glinting—idly rolling it between forefinger and thumb like it was a coin. He liked the quiet. Quiet made other people nervous. Nervous people did careless things.

“Would you look at that,” he said to the room as if anyone else had asked. “Ain’t Theo a popular guy? Looks like everyone wants to be his daddy these days. Peter, Elijah, you.” He chuckled and clicked the cap back into place, then set the syringe down with an almost affectionate pat. “What a time to be alive.”

The door opened without ceremony. Deucalion came in like a question that had been answered poorly: deliberate steps, shoulders squared, every inch a man used to having his way. He didn’t smile. He didn’t waste words.

“Where is he?” Deucalion asked, voice flat.

Asher’s grin sharpened. “He’s not here.”

Deucalion’s gaze cut straight through him. “You may be a good liar, but I don’t need my senses to know you’re lying right now. I know he’s here.”

A beat passed. Asher’s eyes flicked sideways toward the shadowed doorway where Theos bedroom was. “He is,” Asher admitted finally, slow and syrupy. “But he doesn’t want to see you. And having Elijah let you come in here doesn’t give you the right to harass people, by the way.”

Deucalion didn’t smile. “Fine. Tell him I’ll come back.”

Asher shrugged with false innocence. “He doesn’t want to talk to you, but I do.”

Deucalion’s jaw tightened. “I’m not interested.”

Asher straightened, tone sliding from mocking to annoyingly earnest. “I actually wanted to have a word with you if you could spare me a minute.”

“What would you have to say to me?” Deucalion asked, the question like a blade.

Asher rose, circled the older alpha like a shark. “Something’s been bothering me for a while now.” He leaned in, lowered his voice as if sharing confidence. “How little you seem to care about Theo.”

Deucalion’s eyes flicked toward the side door. “Excuse me?”

“You might say you did what you could to protect him,” Asher continued, venom tucked in silk. “But we both know that’s a lie. You dumped him for adoption without any regard for the kind of family he’d end up with. When the Dread Doctors came for him you did nothing. He spent almost ten years with them, and still— nowhere to be found.”

The room tightened. Even the candle flames seemed to lean in.

Deucalion’s voice was a low growl. “I don’t have time for this.”

Asher stepped closer, not intimidated. “Make time, because I’m not done. I was there. I saw what happened to him all those years. I lived it with him. The torture, the fear, the loneliness. He was just a kid and you left him to die without a second thought.”

The older alpha’s face changed, not with anger but with that quiet, dangerous cold only men who have done what they must can wear. A look Asher knew too well. “And as I recall, you did the same damn thing.”

Asher’s smile thinned. “I didn’t leave him because I didn’t care.” He let the sentence hang, heavy with accusation.

“Neither did I,” Deucalion said simply.

Asher pushed harder, stepping into the space Deucalion’s presence carved out. “You spent years by his side. Making him feel like he could trust you, like he could belong somewhere again—until it all came back and you let the truth blow up in his face. And when Theo gets hurt, he doesn’t crumble. He lashes out. If you don’t want him to come after you, you better not come back.”

Deucalion closed his eyes and drew such a long, slow breath that the room held itself. He didn’t move to attack. He didn’t need to. He waited.

When Asher lunged—sudden, vicious—Deucalion didn’t open his eyes. He intercepted the strike blind and hard, catching the man’s wrist and snapping the blow aside with an economy of motion that made Asher, for once, stagger.

He opened his eyes and looked at Asher, fury coiled and contained. “I heard you didn’t need your eyes to fight,” Asher said, breathless, “but I gotta say—that’s really impressive.”

It felt like the last line in a bad joke. Asher expected him to retaliate. Instead, the room hummed with suppressed violence.

Theo stepped out of the doorway then, slow and cool and very much not invisible. He had been listening—he always did—and the sight of Deucalion and Asher cutting at each other like flint and steel tightened something in his jaw.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Theo demanded, voice low.

Deucalion released Asher in the very same moment and straightened, features smoothing into a mask that suggested authority more than affection. Asher backed away with that same knife-edge smile, palms up and feigning innocence. “What? Can’t I have a little fun too?”

Theo’s face didn’t soften for Asher. It went to Deucalion. “I wasn’t talking to you.” He didn’t need to say more; the accusation was carved into the air.

Asher drifted off to take a seat, apparently delighted to be watching a family drama unfold. He made a show of adjusting his jacket and took in the scene like a bored critic at a play.

“What are you doing here?” Theo asked Deucalion, the question raw.

Deucalion kept his voice low. “I need to talk to you.”

Theo’s expression collapsed into something like disbelief and old hurt. “You know when you could have talked to me? Anytime in the last five years we worked together. Or when Elijah came back in the first place.” He pushed the words out in a rush. “Why don’t you ever seem to choose the obvious thing—to speak to me when it mattered?”

“Theo.” There was soft pleading in Deucalion’s single syllable—an appeal both private and weighted with history.

Theo’s laugh tasted of salt. “No.” He let the word land and it hit like a door. “You want to keep treating everyone around you like pawns, be my guest. But you’re done playing with my life.”

He turned and left.

Asher watched him go, smug as a predator. “Told you he didn’t wanna talk to you. Why does no one ever listen to me?” He stood, slipping the syringe back into a pocket with the casualness of a man putting away a toy he couldn’t wait to finally be able to use. He strolled off, humming under his breath as if the whole thing had been entertainment.

Deucalion stayed where he was, shoulders not quite as rigid, eyes tracking Theo’s retreat with something that could have been remorse—or calculation. He spoke when the echo of Asher’s footsteps had faded. “I came because I couldn’t let him stand alone,” he said softly, not looking for forgiveness. “Not anymore.”

In the empty silence that followed, the lair seemed to close in a little. Outside the stone and iron, the world kept its own furious pace, but here, inside that hush, the pieces had shifted.

 

________________________________________________________________________________

 

The room Elijah had given Theo was dim, the single bulb flickering like it couldn’t quite decide if it wanted to hold on. The walls smelled faintly of damp stone and disinfectant, as if someone had tried to scrub the past away but hadn’t managed. Theo lay stretched across the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, every line of him reeking of pain and exhaustion he didn’t want to admit to.

When Asher slipped in hours after Deucalion left, the door closing with a soft click, Theo didn’t even move.

“Are you okay?” Asher asked.

“Leave me alone.”

“Why? Scared I might see you cry? I already know you’re a softy.”

“I need to focus,” Theo muttered, voice raw. “But my head is killing me. Can’t do that if you’re here to give me shit about what just happened.”

“I’m not here to give you shit.”

“That would be a first. Especially after the stunt you pulled at the docks. Did you really have to go after Scott? You know Elijah would’ve gutted you himself if you broke the truce.”

“I’ve done crazier things before,” Asher said with a shrug. “With you. To you.”

“Don’t I know it.” Theo sighed, dragging his hand down over his face. “Just leave, Ash. My skull feels like someone’s driving nails into it, and I don’t feel like dealing with your bullshit right now.”

“I didn’t know you still got those panic headaches.”

“Well, I do. Do you have a point?”

“Yeah, I’m concerned. I don’t like what I’m seeing,” Asher said evenly. “And I wanted to give you some friendly advice.”

“I really don’t want your advice.”

“Fine,” Asher smirked faintly. “Then considerl it unfriendly advice.” He stepped closer but kept a safe distance, watching Theo from the edge of the bed. “I can help you focus, you know?”

“I’m not sleeping with you, Ash.”

Asher laughed, low and amused. “You don’t know what you’re missing. Or maybe you just don’t want to remember. But that’s not what I’m talking about—and you know it.”

Theo frowned, blinking at him. “What? Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“It won’t work.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m not a kid anymore. And I’m not a chimera either.”

“It didn’t work because we were both chimeras, you know? Sure, it helped, because you felt like we were the same and it made it easier for me to help you. But that’s not all it was.”

“Doesn’t matter. It won’t work.”

“Try me.”

Theo lay back on the bed, jaw tight, eyes on the cracked ceiling. His breathing was uneven, chest rising too fast as if his body refused to believe he was safe. The room seemed to press in on him, but Asher’s presence pressed harder.

The older chimera pulled up a chair and dropped into it, legs crossed and boots resting against the bedframe, posture lazy but gaze razor-sharp. His hands folded across his stomach as if he had all the time in the world.

Then his voice came, cutting through the spin in Theo’s head—quiet, deliberate, with that uncanny way Asher had of filling silence like it belonged to him.

“Close your eyes.”

“No thanks.”

“Why? Think I’ll slit your throat the second you do?”

“Killing me isn’t the worst you could do, and we both know it.”

“Stop deflecting. Shut your damn eyes.”

“That won’t—”

“Close them,” Asher repeated, firmer this time.

Reluctantly, Theo obeyed. Darkness wasn’t kinder than light, but at least it gave him less to look at.

“You remember how it works?”

“Not really.”

“That’s harsh.”

“It’s been forever, okay? Excuse me if it’s not second nature anymore.”

“It’s okay. I’ll guide you.”

“Fine.”

“Now listen. Not to the noise. Not to your head. Just… listen between.”

“Between what?”

“Our breaths,” Asher said, leaning in, voice lower, steadier. “Not yours, not mine. The space in between. That’s where you’ll find it. Used to tell you to feel the balance between your wolf and your coyote, but that’s not an option anymore. So just… find that pause. Inhale. Exhale. Let the space carry you.”

Theo resisted. Of course he did. But resistance had its limits. Slowly, carefully, his lungs began to match the rhythm Asher set—drawn in despite himself. And in that thin sliver of silence between breaths, the chaos eased. His pulse slowed. His thoughts loosened.

When he spoke again, his voice was rough, barely audible. “…Still works.”

Asher smiled faintly, something almost genuine flickering at the edge of it. “Told you. It was never about what they made us. It was about us.”

He shifted like he was about to leave, pushing the chair back. But Theo’s hand shot out, fingers closing tight around his ankle, grounding him.

Theo let out a ragged breath that sounded too much like surrender. “Wait. Stay. Just for a while.”

Asher paused, then settled back down without a word, posture loose but watchful. “As long as you need.”

The room settled into a hush. For a moment, Asher thought Theo had slipped into sleep, his breaths evening out, tension bleeding off his face. But then, quiet and raw—

“Why did you leave me?”

Asher didn’t answer. His smile slipped, leaving something sour, something heavy in its place. He looked away, jaw tight, and let the silence carry what words wouldn’t.

Theo finally let his eyes close again, and this time sleep took him for real.

 

________________________________________________________________________________

 

A few days had passed since the docks. No word from Theo. None from Satomi. Silence from Deucalion.

The quiet wasn’t peace; it was weight. Heavy. Suspicious. Maybe Deucalion had change his mind and decided not to go see Theo. He had no idea, and truth be told there’s nothing more he could do about that.

Peter sat in his office, the steady scratch of his pen across paper the only sound. He’d been turning over every detail of that night, every gesture of Asher’s, every silence he had let stretch. None of it fit neatly. None of it explained why they were still breathing.

If Elijah hadn’t unleashed his wrath immediately, then their restraint at the docks—letting Asher have Satomi’s men without spilling Elijah’s men own blood—must have been enough to placate him. For now. That knowledge didn’t soothe Peter. It infuriated him. They’d risked their necks, lost allies, and gained nothing but the privilege of living under Elijah’s leash another day.

The sound of footsteps reached him—hesitant, uneven—pacing just outside his door. Peter leaned back in his chair, listening. Stiles. He didn’t need the scent or the heartbeat to know. The rhythm of indecision outside his office was uniquely Stilinski.

Peter waited. Stiles was at his most revealing when given silence to fight against. And fight he did; Peter could hear it in the stilted pacing, the pauses, the breath caught just before a hand almost lifted to knock.

Finally, the door creaked open without warning. No knock. Stiles slipped inside, shoulders stiff, expression unreadable.

“Hey.”

Peter tilted his head, watching him carefully. “Hey… I didn’t think you’d be in the mood to see me. Or talk to me. Not yet.” His mouth curved, thin and sharp. “And maybe you’re entitled to it, considering I didn’t tell you Theo would be at the docks.”

“What?” Stiles blinked, thrown off, his mind clearly elsewhere. “No, I don’t care about that.” He waved a hand as if brushing the thought away, distracted. “And considering my first reaction was to try to kill him, it’s probably good you didn’t. I’d probably have shown up with wolfsbane bullets if you did.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Really? You’re good?”

“Yeah.” Stiles’ voice was clipped, defensive. “Obviously my judgment hasn’t been perfect lately. Especially when it comes to Theo. I get it.” His words said one thing, but his body said another—shoulders tight, eyes clouded, weight shifting restlessly. Preoccupied.

Peter leaned forward in his chair, studying him. “Are you alright?”

Stiles swallowed and looked away. “I need your help with something.”

“Something.” Peter let the word linger, testing it.

“I’m tired of running into walls,” Stiles said, voice hardening. “Every lead dies before I get close, and I’m not getting anywhere by myself. I need to check the Nemeton.”

Peter’s brow arched. “Unless you actually believe I’ll agree to march straight into Elijah’s forbidden ground, I don’t see how I’m supposed to help.”

“We can’t go there now,” Stiles admitted quickly. “But maybe there’s another way.” His eyes locked onto Peter’s. “Or more clearly—another time.”

A silence stretched between them. Peter leaned back slowly, his expression unreadable. “You want to time travel there.”

“I know it’s been months since the last time,” Stiles said, words tumbling too fast, too tight. “But the Nemeton is the key. It always has been. We just can’t use it, not without risking spreading corruption and killing every damn Nemeton in the world. But if I could find a way to slip in without that happening—if I could see it—maybe we’d finally get answers.” He hesitated, voice cracking slightly. “But I can’t know unless I try.”

Peter’s smile was dry, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles admitted. “But I’ll do it with or without you. I just thought…” His voice dropped, uncertain now. “I thought having someone to anchor me here would be safer. And you’re the one who told me to trust you and turn to you for these kind of stuff.”

“I did say that,” Peter murmured.

“Well, this is me turning to you. For help. For… a partnership. Whatever.”

Something like satisfaction curled Peter’s lips. He stood, closing the space between them with deliberate steps. “Fine. How do you want to proceed?”

“I want you to jumpstart my powers,” Stiles said, voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “Like you did with the sword.”

Peter tilted his head, considering. Then nodded once. “Alright. But brace yourself. It might hurt.”

Stiles gave a humorless laugh. “Okay.”

Peter took his wrists, cold and firm. His eyes shuttered as he inhaled, pulling deep. Claws slid free, tips pressing against Stiles’ skin until small beads of blood welled. Peter’s breath came harder, more ragged, and Stiles clenched his jaw against the instinct to pull away. He forced himself still, his pulse a wild drum beneath Peter’s grip.

Peter’s eyes snapped open—crimson, blazing. His growl rumbled low, vibrating in Stiles’ bones.

The world ripped apart.

The office vanished. Air warped. Stiles staggered, stomach twisting, before landing hard on his knees. The forest closed around him—dense, wet, oppressive. The ground was sodden, stinking of old blood.

He looked up sharply, heart seizing. Peter stood a few feet away, claws still out, expression flickering with confusion. He had been pulled in, too.

Stiles opened his mouth to demand how—but Peter’s hand clamped over his lips instantly, silencing him. His eyes burned a warning.

Stiles froze, then nodded once. Peter withdrew his hand slowly.

Only then did Stiles take in the rest. The forest wasn’t just dark; it was wrong. The silence was too complete, pressing in like a weight. No insects. No rustle of leaves. Just the steady drip-drip of something thicker than water.

Blood.

It streaked the trees, smeared across roots, soaking into the earth. And ahead, winding like a trail meant to be followed, it led straight to the Nemeton. And Stiles realized something. They weren’t in the past, they were in his nightmare. Except this time Stiles wasn’t chased of and there was no bodies laying arround. Something had changed.

The stump pulsed faintly, veins of red light crawling across its surface like molten cracks. The sword was embedded in its center, quivering faintly as though breathing with the tree itself.

Stiles’ breath hitched. Every nerve screamed against moving closer. But he did. One step. Then another. The roots shifted under his shoes, curling, almost listening.

He reached out and gripped the hilt. The moment his fingers closed around it, the world screamed.

A wave of raw power hurled him backward, spine cracking against the ground. The sword shattered in the Nemeton’s trunk, shards scattering like glass. Lightning split the sky inside the nightmare-forest and struck Peter square in the chest, throwing him to the earth. His body arched, then went slack.

His heart stopped.

Stiles’ scream tore through the trees. “Peter!”

The Alpha lay motionless on the forest floor, smoke curling faintly from his chest where the lightning had struck. His eyes were wide open but vacant, crimson glow extinguished.

“No, no, no, no—” Stiles scrambled forward on hands and knees, slipping in blood-soaked earth. He pressed both palms to Peter’s sternum and started compression, his own heartbeat racing like it wanted to burst.

“Come on, you son of a bitch. You don’t get to die on me—not like this, not here.” His voice cracked, too close to breaking.

The forest seemed to lean in, the silence pressing tighter, roots groaning as they shifted beneath them. Stiles bent low, mouth close to Peter’s ear, desperate enough to choke on his own breath. “I swear to god, if you don’t wake up, I will find a way to drag you back just so I can kill you myself.”

His fists tightened. He slammed one more push into Peter’s chest. And then—

A sharp gasp split the air. Peter’s body convulsed, his back arching violently before he rolled to his side, dragging in air like it was razors. His claws tore trenches into the earth. Alive.

Stiles sagged with relief—but it didn’t last.

The roots came alive.

They slithered up from the Nemeton, slick and pulsing, wrapping around Stiles’ ankles before he could scramble back. He shouted and clawed at the ground, but more roots snaked up, twisting around his calves, his thighs, tightening like a vise. His skin lit with burning veins of light, glowing across his nerves as though the Nemeton itself was siphoning him dry.

His lungs seized; every nerve screamed fire. His fingers twitched helplessly against the soil, his body jerking as the life was drawn out of him.

“Peter—” His voice was a rasp, thin and terrified.

Peter staggered to his feet, still gasping, eyes flaring red again as he focused on Stiles. Rage burned through the lingering ache of death. He launched forward, ripping at the roots with his claws, snarling as if the tree itself were prey. But the Nemeton only coiled tighter, dragging Stiles halfway into the earth.

Stiles’ breath came in short, broken bursts, his chest heaving. His hands scrabbled for purchase, for something, anything. His eyes rolled white with the pain as the roots pulled harder, the glow crawling further up his body.

Peter dropped to his knees, hooked both arms under Stiles’ shoulders, and pulled with every ounce of strength left in him. The roots screamed, a hideous creak like bones splitting.

Then, with a tearing crack, Stiles broke free.

Peter hauled him back against his chest. Stiles shook violently, hyperventilating, his hands clawing uselessly at Peter’s shirt as if still trapped in the roots.

The forest shuddered around them. The Nemeton pulsed, furious, its glow flaring like a heart attack in the dark. Then the nightmare began to collapse—the trees folding inward, the ground shaking, the light cracking apart.

And just like that, the world snapped back.

They both hit the floor of Peter’s office, reality slamming into them like a tidal wave.

Stiles’ body moved before thought—he shot to his feet, stumbling backward so fast he slammed into the wall, spine pressed tight, eyes wide and wild. His breath tore out of him in harsh gulps. He looked cornered, like the roots were still on him.

Peter pushed himself upright more slowly, crimson eyes dimming back to blue. He raised his hands a fraction, nonthreatening, taking a cautious step forward.

“Stiles—”

But Stiles recoiled. His fists clenched. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run miles with no air.

Peter froze where he was, watching him. The office was silent again, but the echo of the Nemeton still hung in the room—like blood in the walls, like something that had followed them back.

Chapter Text

The clock on the wall had struck past an hour since they’d come back from the Nemeton. Not a second of silence in all that time—Stiles had been pacing, back and forth, like he wanted to wear grooves into the floor rather than calm himself down.

Peter sat in his chair, following every step, every twitch, with a kind of restless patience. Patience because Stiles had ordered him not to touch him. Restless because doing nothing felt like weakness—and Peter Hale loathed weakness, especially his own.

“Stiles,” he finally said, his voice cracking with the edge of restraint. “It’s been an hour. And you’re not getting better.”

Stiles didn’t even stop. “I know.”

Peter’s hands clenched against the armrests. “I can feel your pain and your nerves from across the room. It’s driving me insane.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Stiles snapped, whirling around, his chest heaving. “You look like you’re ready to kill someone and—” He cut himself off, flinching, a chill racing up through his chest. His hands pressed hard against his ribs as he fought for breath. “—and guess what? That is not helping.”

Peter’s gaze sharpened, more crimson than blue. “Breathe. You’re alive, Stiles. You’re here. You’re—”

“I’m okay?” His voice cracked with disbelief. “Your heart stopped, Peter! Do you get that? You could’ve died, and it’s my fault! I put you in that position. I should never have—”

“I didn’t die,” Peter cut in, tone like steel. “I’m an Alpha. It wouldn’t have killed me. You know that.”

“Your. Heart. Stopped.” Stiles’ words landed like blows. “And I panicked, and I grabbed onto the Nemeton like a damn idiot, and now—” his voice broke, guttural, “—now it feels like it gutted me from the inside out.”

Peter rose to his feet, slow, deliberate. “Let me help you.”

Stiles recoiled instantly, his back almost hitting the bookshelf. “No. Not yet. I can handle it.”

Peter tilted his head, watching every tremor on Stiles’ face. “Then talk to me. What are you feeling right now?”

Stiles let out a jagged laugh, bitter, on the edge of hysteria.

“Like I’m burning and freezing at the same time. Like something drained me dry. I don’t even know if I’m touch-starved or so overstimulated that if anyone lays a finger on me I’ll combust. If a junkie were trying to describe withdrawal, I figure this would be it. I know I need… something. But I don’t know what. The Nemeton bled me out.”

Peter’s voice dropped low. “Let me do it.”

Stiles shook his head violently, stepping away again. “And what if I lose control? What if I throw us back in time—or worse—kill us both this time?”

“Stiles.”

He startled at the tone. “What?”

“I don’t know exactly what the Nemeton did to you,” Peter admitted, “but I know I can’t just sit here watching you unravel. So let me help you.”

Silence weighed heavy between them. Stiles stood pressed to the door, chest heaving, his eyes wild. Peter stayed where he was, steady, waiting. The choice was Stiles’.

“How?” His voice was small, almost broken.

“Do you trust me?”

A bitter laugh slipped out. “You know I do.”

“Then trust me with this too.”

Stiles hesitated, throat tight, before he whispered, “Okay.”

Peter didn’t move closer. He simply held out his hand, palm up, steady, patient. An offer. A promise.

Stiles trembled, every nerve screaming at him to resist. And still, step by shaky step, he came forward. His fingers brushed Peter’s, then clutched, desperate. Peter drew him in carefully, slow enough to give him every chance to pull away.

Stiles didn’t. He folded into the embrace like a storm finally breaking. Heat pulsed through him, Alpha power threading into every hollow the Nemeton had left behind, filling him, warming him.

Peter leaned close, voice almost a growl at his ear. “How do you feel?”

Stiles gave a shaky laugh, raw and thin. “Better. Worse. Both. If you let go right now, I think I’d cry—and honestly? That’d be humiliating.”

“It’s not. And I’m not letting go, so try to relax” Peter murmured. His hold tightened, calm and grounding. “Talk to me. You always think better when you put your theories out loud. Go on—obsess about something. Use it.”

Stiles swallowed hard against his shoulder, breathing him in. “Fine. Okay. So... Elijah said he needed Theo because of their blood link. And he said all of this started when your sister tied him to the Nemeton. So he wants to undo that—and he needs Theo to do it. But we don’t know how Talia did it. Or how to break it. The ritual, the time travel, Theo—everything is connected. Everything Elijah has been after since he got here. I know it’s all connected. I just can’t see the missing piece yet.”

Peter’s hand slid slow and steady along his back, soothing. “And you think you can find it.”

“I know my power works. I just don’t know if I can do it without… losing myself.”

Peter’s lips curved, dark, confident. “I do.”

Stiles tilted his head against Peter’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. His voice was muffled, raw.
“You put way too much faith in me.”

“And I’ve never regretted it,” Peter said simply, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. Then, softer: “How are you now?”

Stiles huffed out something between a laugh and a groan. “Like I’m getting high on your powers. I’m steadier, but I still feel like I could—” He stopped, biting the inside of his cheek. “—like I could cry. And I really don’t want to.”

Peter’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Then cry.”

Stiles snapped his head up, glare sharp. “Hell no. Not while you’re holding me. You cry.”

Peter chuckled, low in his chest. “You need to let go. Crying won’t make you weak. It’ll make you lighter. And if you can’t do it in front of me, then who? I want to see it all, Stiles. Every crack, every fire, every smile and curse and laugh. I want it all. I want to be the one you let see it.”

Stiles went rigid at that, words snagging in his throat. He covered it with sarcasm, his voice tight. “You saying you want to see me cry just makes you sound like a creep.”

Peter let out a little laugh. “Then don’t cry. Just breathe.”

So Stiles did. Deep, shaky breaths, held and released until the worst of the tremors in his hands began to fade. The tension in his spine loosened, his heartbeat fell into something resembling rhythm. He clung a little tighter without realizing it, and Peter let him, saying nothing.

Finally, Peter tried to ease him back just enough to look at him. Stiles resisted, fingers knotting into his shirt. Peter didn’t force it. He simply waited until Stiles let him.

“How now?” Peter asked quietly.

Stiles drew in another long breath, then nodded. “I’m good. I’m… back.” His eyes had cleared, no more flickers of wild power, and the frantic thrum of his pulse had steadied.

They stayed close for a long moment. Then Stiles finally leaned back, embarrassed, cheeks hot. He avoided Peter’s gaze until Peter reached up and brushed a damp strand of hair off his forehead. When Stiles finally looked at him, the expression that met him froze him in place.

Peter’s eyes weren’t cold, weren’t sharp. They were soft, almost reverent, filled with something Stiles had never thought to see there.

“So perfect,” Peter murmured.

Stiles blinked, startled, his instinct rushing back. “I almost killed you like an hour ago. Damn, your standards are low.”

Before Peter could respond, the front door slammed open. Voices carried up the hall.

“Stop,” Malia snapped.

“What?” Scott’s voice followed, cautious.

“You’re stalking me. Stop it.”

“Did we not talk things over last night ? ”

“Yes.”

“Did you even hear me?” Scott’s tone edged desperate.

“I heard. You were terrified of your friends dying, so you thought you had no choice.”

“And I lost my head,” Scott admitted. “I made mistakes. I regret them. But I came back. I’m here. I—”

“You had boyfriend amnesia,” Malia cut in flatly.

“No—” Scott’s voice cracked. “I said I was sorry about what I did to you. You said you understood.”

“It’s not enough.”

“How can it not be enough?”

Malia’s voice was sharp, decisive, final. “When you went behind my back and used us—used me—to betray our friends, you pulled the plug. I’m a sink with an open drain. Everything you say runs out. There is no enough.”

Her footsteps pounded upstairs. A long silence, then Scott’s sigh, retreating the other way.

In Peter’s office, Stiles tilted his head, whispering out of the corner of his mouth, “She could’ve picked a better metaphor.”

Peter’s lips quirked faintly, same quiet tone. “Give her a break. Half the time she doesn’t even know what she’s feeling.”

Stiles huffed, leaning back against him, exhaustion finally weighing down his limbs. “Well, I guess her not killing Scott yet is the best we can hope for.”

Peter hummed, thoughtful, watching the empty doorway. “Don’t hold your breath on that one.”

The silence after was calmer, softer. Peter didn’t release him, not yet. His hand rubbed a slow, grounding line across Stiles’ back, and his voice dropped to something startlingly domestic.

“When’s the last time you actually ate? Or slept?”

Stiles gave a tired laugh into his shoulder. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“And yet,” Peter murmured, “you’re still here.”

 

________________________________________________________________________________

 

The house was quiet in that hollow, late-night way that made every small noise sound huge. Liam lay awake longer than he wanted to admit, staring at the ceiling until the dark blurred into thoughts about Theo: the docks, the fights, the silence since. He hadn’t heard from him and his chest kept tightening every time the phone stayed stubbornly dead.

A soft crack came from the hallway. Liam imagined it—then the door inched open and closed again. He blinked, convinced he’d dreamed it, and drew the blanket further down.

Then something heavy landed on the bed beside him and a warm weight slid up his body. He opened his eyes to find Theo hovering over him, eyes darker and heavier than Liam had seen in a long time—tired and raw and all sudden. Liam started to speak—what the hell are you doing here?—but Theo’s hand clamped over his mouth and his fingers held firm. The gesture was gentle and urgent both; Theo lowered himself until his face was buried in the hollow of Liam’s neck, inhaling like he’d been keeping that breath for days.

“Shhhh… I don’t have long and I want to be gone before anyone finds out I’m here,” Theo murmured into Liam’s throat.

Liam let out a sleepy, muffled sound. Theo finally eased his hand away.

“Can’t even say hello?” Liam whispered.

“Hey, little wolf.” Theo’s voice was rough, barely a whisper.

Liam curled an arm around Theo’s shoulders and pulled him closer on instinct. The contact was immediate, like a match struck in both of them—the house receding, the worry loosening for a second.

“Good. Now, what the hell are you doing here?” Liam asked when he could form words.

“I saw Deucalion today, and I wanted to see you,” Theo admitted.

They were quiet for a long beat; Liam’s fingers found Theo’s spine and began to stroke small circles that seemed to soothe more than either wanted to admit. If Liam didn’t know better, he’d have sworn he could hear Theo purr—soft, involuntary—against his neck.

“Are you sure you even know what casual means?” Liam teased after a moment. “Because sneaking into my room in the middle of the night because you miss me doesn’t scream ‘casual.’”

“Keep pestering me and you’ll be the one screaming,” Theo mumbled without moving. Liam rolled his eyes at that, half amused despite himself.

“Theo?” Liam prompted.

“Hmmm?” Theo answered.

“Why are you naked?” Liam asked, dumbfounded.

“I had to full-shift to get out of Elijah’s place and get here undetected,” Theo said flatly.

Liam blinked, then raised an incredulous brow. “Hmm.”

“Why? Are you feeling shy all of a sudden? It’s not the first time you’ve seen me like that.”

“Don’t be an ass. It was just a question.”

“Shhhhhh… Don’t talk so loud. You’re gonna wake up the whole house.”

“When you said not long, how long did you mean?” Liam prodded, thumb still idly moving over Theo’s back.

“I meant, don’t let me fall asleep. If I’m not back before sunrise, Elijah will know I snuck out and I’ll be screwed.” Theo’s voice dropped; Liam’s hand drifted up to Theo’s nape. Theo’s breath hitched and Liam heard it—a tiny, involuntary moan.

“So, Deucalion?” Liam asked, gentle.

“Yeah.”

“What did he want?”

“No idea. I didn’t want to hear him out.” Theo’s hand found Liam’s, fingers tense.

Liam’s palm rubbed tiny circles at the base of Theo’s skull. “Okay.”

Theo lifted himself on an elbow to look at him—the motion small but deliberate—and Liam’s hand stilled.

“Okay?” Theo repeated, eyebrows drawn together.

“Yup. Okay.” Liam stared at the ceiling again, and the silence was not oblivion but confession; it confirmed the thing Theo had been worrying about.

Theo’s expression sharpened. “No way you don’t have an opinion about this.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You have an opinion about everything,” Theo said. “You know I’ve been avoiding him for months, and for some reason you never said anything about that either.” He sounded accusing, but soft.

Liam finally turned toward him, lips pressed between his teeth. “Yeah.”

Theo watched him, then forced a crooked grin. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing. I’m thinking about nothing.” Liam tried not to sound defensive, and failed. He exhaled and the words spilled out too fast. “I have no opinion whatsoever about any matter regarding your relationship with Deucalion, or Stiles, or Asher, or the fact that you weirdly smell like him today, or that the only places we can see each other these days are my work or the preserve, and that it’s the first time we’ve actually been in a real bed for months and you just told me that you have to leave soon after you literally climbed on top of me naked.” He stopped, cheeks heating, already regretting the tumble of honesty.

Theo’s astonishment softened into something like amusement. “So clearly… no opinion then.”

“Fine.” Liam turned his head away, irritation melting into something more vulnerable. “I have opinions. Most of them are things I know you’ll disagree with or get mad about. And since I can barely see you enough as it is, I didn’t want to risk saying something that would give you a reason to push me away again.” His voice cracked on the last sentence; he swallowed it down and closed his eyes.

Theo’s lips brushed Liam’s forehead, before backing away enough to look at him. “Okay. You gonna shut up and let me talk. Sounds good?”

“Depends. Does it end with one of us with a bleeding nose or you leaving me?”

Theo let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Okay, clearly this pattern I’ve installed—despite my wishes—took a toll on you.”

“Oh, you think?” Liam grinned, half-sarcastic, half-pout.

“I’m not leaving, Liam. And if you don’t want me to be pissed at you, don’t pretend to agree with me all the time. That’s the quickest route to getting punched.” Theo pressed a playful, warning kiss into Liam’s jaw.

Liam’s shoulders relaxed. “I know you’re not leaving.” He paused, then muttered, “It’s not like you have a choice anyway, with Elijah breathing down your neck.”

“How heartfelt. I’m touched, truly.” Theo snorted, but there was warmth under it.

“I’m sorry. I guess I’ve had a hard few days too. I didn’t hear from you since the docks and I was worried.” Liam’s thumb brushed Theo’s temple.

“I would have called but I lost my phone,” Theo said, annoyed with himself.

“Oh, right. About that…” Liam reached over, digging into the bedside drawer. He pulled out a phone and held it up sheepishly.

Theo snatched it from him and used it, tapping it against Liam’s forehead. “Ouch!”

“You’re the one who took it, you little shit,” Theo said with a mock scowl that almost convinced Liam he could be serious. There was no heat in it—only a comfortable, rough affection.

Liam smiled despite himself. “Well, I guess keeping things to myself doesn’t mean I wasn’t curious.”

“Don’t do it again.” Theo’s voice softened, more plea than order. He started to get up, intent on slipping out before sunrise.

Liam grabbed him by the waist and flipped him, lips finding Theo’s in a sudden hard kiss. He straddled Theo, forearms braced on either side of him, and Theo didn’t fight it. The kiss deepened, then shifted—warm, grounding—until Theo eased him back onto his lap, fingers threading through Liam’s hair.

“I gotta go,” Theo said against his mouth, the words tiny, impatient.

“The sun is still far away. You could stay a little more. Make the trip worth the trouble” Liam argued, breath still ragged.

“If you think having sex in the backroom of a bar is bad, think about what having sex while Stiles is in the next room would be like if he wakes up,” Theo said bluntly. “Worse, so mch worse, and not happening.”

Liam huffed, then grinned. “Fine. Then put on some pants and stay a little more to cuddle. I swear I won’t let you fall asleep.”

Theo’s mouth curved. He hauled Liam up by his legs and settled him back under the covers, then padded over to the drawer and tugged on a pair of Liam’s sweatpants. He slipped them on, crawling back in between Liam’s legs and sliding his arms under him. His head came to rest low on Liam’s chest; he started humming,, and Liam rested his hand on Theo’s hair, fingers combing through the damp strands.

They lay like that in the dimness—two bodies tangled in quiet, the night a soft cocoon around them. The world outside kept turning; the houses slept; the clock continued to mark time. Liam felt the last of his worries fade away in the cadence of Theo’s breath.

Eventually Liam slipped into sleep first, the promise of Theo’s weight and warmth pulling him under. Theo watched him for a long time after, tracing the faint line of his jaw with a thumb, a softness in his expression that he rarely let anyone see. When Liam’s breathing evened out, Theo eased himself up, careful not to wake him.

In the hallway, Theo stopped short. Stiles was already there, leaning against the doorframe like he’d been waiting for him. His arms were crossed, his jaw tight, eyes locked on Theo’s with that sharp, unblinking glare that screamed he was two seconds away from snapping.

Neither of them said a word. The silence stretched, heavy and hostile.

Theo bent down slowly, deliberately, and placed his phone on the floor between them—face down, a casual drop at his feet. Their eyes never broke.

Stiles’ lips parted, ready to bite out something scathing, but Theo lifted a finger without a word. The gesture wasn’t calm—it was mocking. A lazy, deliberate “shut it” that only made Stiles’ eyes narrow further.

The stare-down dragged on. Theo’s mouth curled into the faintest smirk, the kind meant to piss Stiles off more than anything else. Stiles tilted his head, jaw working, furious at himself for even giving Theo the satisfaction of a reaction.

Again, Stiles drew in breath to speak, but Theo cut him off with that same finger, a sharper flick this time, as if daring him to cross the line. His eyes weren’t calm either—they burned with the same irritation, the same disappointment. Neither liked what they saw, and both refused to admit it.

Finally, Theo tugged off Liam’s sweatpants in one smooth motion, tossing them aside without breaking eye contact. Stiles’ brows shot up, equal parts disbelief and fury, but he didn’t move.

Theo raised his hand, middle finger up, and with a flash of fur, shifted into his coyote form. He snatched the phone up between his teeth, gave one last pointed look at Stiles, and padded down the stairs.

Stiles stayed there, fists tight at his sides, every muscle wound. He wanted to yell, to throw something, to call Theo every name under the sun—but the hallway stayed quiet.

Only when Theo’s steps faded into nothing did Stiles let out a low growl of frustration, dragging a hand down his face. He hated that Theo had gotten the last word without ever speaking.

He closed the door on the quiet and went back in his room, already knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore that night.

Chapter Text

A few hours after dawn, the Hale house smelled like coffee and burned rope—residue of last night’s flames still clinging to the air. Liam woke to the hollow absence of another body on his side of the bed. Theo was gone. Not surprising; he never expected Theo to stay. Still, the empty space was a small, stubborn thing in his chest he couldn’t shake.

He pulled on a shirt and followed the smell of fresh coffee downstairs like it was a breadcrumb trail. Voices drifted through the house—low, busy. When he stepped into the living room, the scene hit him all at once: Stiles’ glass board was propped up in the middle of the room, scrawled in marker and pinned with photos, printouts, and scribbled timelines. Papers littered the coffee table like a pale snowstorm. Peter sat rigid on the couch, a file in one hand and a steaming mug in the other; Malia slumped next to him, half-asleep, the picture of someone who’d never been born a morning person. Derek was just coming in through the hallway.

“Ouhhhh… Coffee.” Liam whispered low, relieved, padding over to the armchair and pouring himself a cup. The liquid was hot and honest; it steadied his hands.

He glanced at Stiles—head bent over a sheet, eyes scanning—and then at Peter. “What is he doing?”

Peter’s mouth flattened. “Making me rethink letting him live here in the first place.” The annoyance was barely disguised; the living room looked like a war map.

Derek dropped his bag and shook the last of the sleep from his shoulders. “He’s trying to go over what happened at the docks.”

Liam folded his fingers around his mug as if it were an anchor. “What is there to go over? We got our asses kicked, we lost our chance to get new allies and found absolutely nothing useful while doing it.”

Derek crossed to stand by the board, eyes already scanning the pinned photos. “Well, not exactly.”

Liam blinked. “So, we did find something useful?”

Peter cut in, even less convinced “Maybe.”

Stiles, who had been riffling through a stack of printouts, straightened suddenly. “Definitely.” He found whatever he’d been hunting for and held it up as if it were a talisman.

Liam pushed his chair back and leaned forward. “Please, do tell. I would really appreciate some good news for a change.”

Stiles folded his hands around a page as if it were both fragile and dangerous. “I want to ask you something.”

“Me?” Liam echoed.

Stiles met his eyes with an intensity that made Liam flush. “Do you remember the men that attacked us at the docks?”

“In what way?” Liam asked, wary.

“Do you remember seeing any of them before? Like any of the other times we had to face Elijah’s men?”

Liam shrugged. “Not really. The guy seems to have an infinity of men, so…”

Stiles’ mouth tightened. “Yeah, exactly. And the truth is, I don’t remember seeing any of them before either, or seeing any of his guys twice at all.”

“And?” Liam prompted.

Stiles tapped the nearest paper and pushed it toward Peter. “Something Peter told me was bothering me. Satomi’s men were hired by the ATF to secure this shipment. It’s not the first time something like that happens. Truth be told, most secret services in this country use werecreatures on the downlow in this kind of situation.”

“How does it relate to any of this?” Liam asked clearly lost.

Malia stirred, grunting something that translated roughly to “Don’t talk. Sleep.” She padded toward the kitchen, grabbing sugar and muttering.

Stiles lowered his voice like he was revealing the worst kind of obvious. “What if it worked both ways?”

Peter’s brow rose. “Are you suggesting Elijah’s men are hired guns?”

Stiles pushed a second sheet in front of them. “Not all of them. Definitely not his close guard, but a lot of them—yeah. We know better than anyone what money can make people do. The deadpool was a good proof enough of that.”

“How would he even find these resources?” Peter asked, eyes narrowing as he read.

Stiles shrugged, hand steady. “Same way everyone does.” He pushed another sheet across the coffee table. On it, a logo — simple, menacing: a silver bullet. Beneath it, a contractor’s stamp, a front.

Peter scanned the printout and the muscles at his jaw tensed. “I’ll be damned.”

Liam leaned in, peering over Peter’s shoulder as Derek and Peter exchanged the page. “What?” he asked.

Derek’s reply was short, flat. “Of course.”

Liam traced the face in the profile photo with his thumb — a man he didn’t know. “Okay, I’m clearly missing something here. Who’s this guy?”

Stiles flicked the paper wider and jabbed a finger at the bottom. “He was at the docks with the others. I pulled the surveillance tapes from that night and ran a recognizance program to identify them. But who he is doesn’t matter as much as who he used to work with.” He tapped the row of names and logos.

Liam’s mouth fell open. “Wait — is that—?” His voice cut off into a curse. “Fuck.”

Derek’s tone hardened. “Hunters.”

Peter’s voice dropped to something colder. “They’re not just paid with money. They all have reasons to want us dead.”

Stiles flipped through another stack and pushed more files forward. “And not just him. They come from all around and worked with a lot of people.” He pulled out pages with other names and notes. “Gerard, Monroe, The Calavera… all of them.”

“How, why?” Liam demanded, exasperation and dread on his face.

Stiles folded his hands, tired and furious. “They all have one thing in common. They were hunters turned werecreatures at some point — gone from hunter to hunted.” He produced more files, sliding them like dominoes into place.

“How do you know that ?” Derek asked him .

“I know shit. Well in this case, I don’t really know what’s true and what’s not. I never worked with these guys, but I’ve heard about them and the kind of work they do. I didn’t connect the dots before because I didn’t even realize they even…”

Peter turned to him clearly knowing Stiles was beating around the bush “Please stop rambling and get to your point.”

“They’re black ops.” Stiles stated in a short hard breath.

Derek’s jaw tightened. “Black ops like…?”

Stiles’ shrug tasted like confession. “Yeah. They work with the FBI. Off-the-books teams, deniable assets. Men who were dumped, burned, turned into something else and then made to do the work no one else wanted.”

Liam let the implication land. “Wow.”

“These kind of information are classified, not the kind someone your rank would have had any business knowing about, I presume. How did you even found out about it?” Peter asked him curious.

“Like I said, I know shit. Actually knowing shit I shouldn’t is the story of my life,” he said side eyeing Liam “My time at the FBI may has been a short one, but I had more than enough time to get myself into some pretty shaddy stuff with less than okay people.”

“Care to elaborate on that?” Liam asked with a worried look.

“No.” Stiles told him without missing a beat in a definitive tone.

Derek didn’t miss the edge in Stiles tone, but he decided it was better to drop the subject for now and go back to the matter at hand “Okay, so we know who they are. How does that help?”

Peter rubbed the bridge of his nose and then slammed the file shut with a soft thud. “These aren’t just paid soldiers. They’re men with reasons to hate us. Half of them were twisted into what they are—by people like Gerard, by the same systems that turned other people into monsters. They’re useful to Elijah because they don’t have packs, or families, or anything to lose.”

Stiles’ hand hovered over another stack. “They’re only loyal to a certain point. If we get to their leader and make him an offer he can’t refuse—pull his men away from Elijah—we’d do a lot more than push back. We’d cut his army out from under him.”

Liam swallowed. “You know Elijah’s army isn’t our only problem, right?”

Peter’s answer was pragmatic. “Maybe not, but it’s a big part of why we’ve been struggling. Having this kind of advantage is the exact leverage we need when the time comes to go after Elijah himself.”

Derek nodded. “Alright. And how do you suggest we find their leader or convince him to flip?”

Stiles’ mouth curled. “That part’s mine. It’ll take time. It’ll be dangerous. I might have to dig into some old—unsavory—contacts. I’ll need to be ghost-level careful given how Elijah must be watching our every moves. But I can handle it.”

Derek clapped his hands once, decisive. “Table it for now. Gather evidence. Make a plan.” He shouldered his jacket. “We move on scraps otherwise.”

Liam followed him into the hall, but Stiles didn’t stop packing his files. When he looked up again, Peter’s expression pinned him like a splinter.

Stiles bristled under the look and snapped, “I’ll clean the living room okay. No need to be a neat freak about this. I told you I needed the space. If you didn’t want me to spread out in your precious space, you shouldn’t have let me start at all.”

Peter’s face was unreadable a second. Then, quietly: “How much of your life do I still not know?”

For a breath, Stiles’ defenses flickered. “I could ask you the same, you know.”

Peter’s eyes didn’t soften. “You never talk about the time you spent in the FBI. You never answer when someone asks you about it. I just wonder— about the things you’re still keeping for yourself. I’m starting to think you’re hiding something.”

Stiles held his ground like carved stone. “You’re being paranoid.”

“Am I?” Peter asked, voice folded like a knife.

Stiles’ laugh was brittle. “Stop that. I’m not telling you shit.”

Silence sat between them for a beat, full of cheap coffee and the weight of obligations none of them wanted.

“Please tell me you’re not mad about this?” Stiles asked, a little smaller now.

Peter’s mouth curved into a dangerous smirk. “Oh, don’t get me wrong — I like this side of you. It’ll just make it that much sweeter when I finally get you to crack.”

Stiles let out a sound that might have been a laugh or a groan. “I really dug my own grave here, didn’t I?”

Peter didn’t answer. He just sat back, sipped his coffee, and watched Stiles like a man storing up patience and ammunition both. The smirk stayed—half threat, half amusement—a small, private promise.

 

________________________________________________________________________________

 

The bar was crowded but not loud enough to drown out the knot in Liam’s stomach. He was behind the counter, polishing a glass while Mason and Corey sat on stools across from him

Mason broke the silence first, words tumbling out the way they always did when he was nervous. “This is bad. Like Anukite bad. Like Hayden bad. Like… Hikari bad.”

Liam groaned. “You know, if your participation here is just gonna be centered on judging me for my crappy love life, you could’ve done it over the phone instead of coming here to rub my face in it.”

“Oh, come on,” Corey said, leaning forward on his elbows. “Don’t be like that.”

Mason ran a hand down his face. “I knew we shouldn’t have left. You said things were fine, and I believed you. I’m so stupid.”

“Be happy you weren’t there,” Liam muttered. “Things could’ve turned out even worse. At least I didn’t have to worry about you.”

“That bad, huh?” Corey asked, his voice gentler now.

Mason narrowed his eyes. “Okay, so… what’s your deal with Theo?”

Liam froze mid-sip. “What do you mean?”

Mason’s glare sharpened. “I know we haven’t been in touch for a while, but last I heard, you two were well on the road to being together. Finally. But then you weren’t, and then… Well, I stopped keeping track. But now you’re telling me you’re not?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Why?” Corey asked.

“Don’t tell me you’re not sure about your feelings or that you’re not attracted to him,” Mason warned, tone sharp. “Because I can’t do the gay-shaming spiral thing with you indefinitely.”

“I know how I feel, okay,” Liam snapped. Then, softer, “And saying I’m not attracted to him would be pretty hypocritical considering the number of times we’ve had sex.”

Mason choked. “Wow.”

“You good?” Corey asked, biting back a laugh.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Mason said tightly. “I just realized I have no best friend anymore, and I never noticed until now.”

“You’re overreacting,” Liam muttered.

“You, I’m not talking to!” Mason pointed at him, indignant. “You had sex with him, like more than once and you didn’t tell me? I deserved to know the details! You owed me details! As your best best, I was entitled to these details. But clearly, that means nothing to you.”

“I am not gonna give you details! Drop it!” Liam shot back.

Liam grabbed a bottle from the back shelf, poured a drink for a waiting customer, and returned to face them, jaw tight.

Corey held up his hands. “Okay, let me just recap to see if I got this right. You two are still seeing each other, even though Theo is currently—sorta—in a hostage situation. You’re his anchor, he’s yours, you both like each other… Why are you not together again?”

“You know what? You two want details, you can ask him and his date for more details, okay?” Liam said, annoyed. Liam grabbed a tray, moved down the bar to drop off a couple of drinks. His eyes flicked to the other side of the bar where Theo sat in a booth—with Asher.

Mason followed his gaze. “Wait, isn’t that—”

“Yeah,” Corey said, “that’s the guy we saw the last time we came to see Liam here.”

“The one we saw him make out with in public,” Mason deadpanned.

“It’s Asher,” Liam said flatly.

“And who is Asher?” Corey pressed.

“He works for Elijah.”

Mason tilted his head. “Is he the reason Theo and you aren’t together? Because they seem close.”

“What? No. He’s probably just here to keep an eye on Theo or something.” Mason gave him a look. Liam huffed. “Yeah, okay, they have a past.”

“What kind?” Corey asked.

“He’s a chimera too. They grew up together, I guess.”

Mason eyed the booth. “The way this guy is undressing Theo with his eyes right now doesn’t really scream ‘childhood friend.’”

“Is he his ex or something?” Corey asked.

Liam’s jaw tightened. “No. Maybe. I don’t care.”

“Sure…” Mason drawled. Then he smirked. “Well, to change the subject—you do know the guy sitting on the other side of the bar has been checking you out for the last twenty minutes?”

“What? Where?” Liam turned.

A stranger at the counter winked at him. Not just any stranger—someone he recognized, someone working for Elijah. Liam thought about brushing him off, especially with Asher sitting right there. But then he glanced back at the booth. Theo and Asher leaned close, heads tilted together, the air between them too familiar. A look crossed Liam’s eyes that made Mason sit up straighter.

“Liam,” Mason warned. “I was just trying to boost your ego. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m not gonna do anything,” Liam said in a false innocent tone.

Liam wiped his hands on a bar towel, tossed it on the counter, and stepped out from behind the counter like he was about to clock out early.

“I know that look. You’re pissed at Theo and you want to get back at him.”

“I’m kinda curious how this might go,” Corey admitted, grinning.

“Me too,” Mason said dryly, “but it’s really not a good idea.” He turned back, but Liam was already halfway to the bar. “Liam! Don’t do it.”

At the booth, the seemingly friendly setting, was clearly starting to get on the coyote’s nerves.

Theo shoved his beer away and leveled Asher with a stare. “It’s bad enough you’ve been following me everywhere for the last few months, but now you’re not even gonna let me out of your sight?”

“You should’ve thought of that before you slipped out in the middle of the night to do God knows what,” Asher said smoothly. “I help you with your headaches, and you use the fact that I fell asleep watching over you to sneak past me. That’s gratitude?”

“You’re too intense,” Theo muttered.

“I’m too intense?” Asher’s voice sharpened. “The only reason Elijah doesn’t know about it is because I haven’t told him. I’m trying to help you. Don’t be an ingrate—be grateful I’ve still got an ounce of self-restraint.”

Theo’s smirk was thin. “You don’t know what self-restraint looks like. I’m surprised you even know the term.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with them, so you might as well drop it and drink your damn beer.”

“Do you really not have anything better to do than babysit me right now?”

“You almost sound like you’re not enjoying my company.”

“Almost?” Theo’s glare sharpened, before he straightened himself, the air shifting around him. “I don’t get it. One minute you say you want to help me, the next you’re acting like Elijah’s perfect little soldier. So what is it? Whose side are you on—really?”

Asher leaned back, smile dangerous. “You should know by now. I’m on my side.”

Theo shook his head. “You’re not gonna tell me anything, huh?”

Silence stretched before Asher broke it with a shift of tone. “I have a question.”

“Good for you.”

“What’s the deal with the crazy chick I saw at the docks the other day?”

Theo’s eyes narrowed. “What crazy chick?”

“The coyote. McCall’s girlfriend, I think? She was looking at you like she wanted to skin you alive and wear your fur as a winter coat.”

Theo gave him a sharp look. “You really expect me to believe you don’t know Malia, or why she’d react like that just because she can’t stand the fact that I’m breathing?”

“I know the gist,” Asher said lazily. “But I want the details. Should I expect your impending murder, or did you just rub her the wrong way?”

Theo leaned back, tone detached. “Well, let’s see. I killed Scott. I paralyzed Lydia and drove her straight to a mad house. And Malia? I gained her trust, flirted my way in, used her weakness to manipulate her, and then turned on her and shot her. Three times.”

Asher’s smirk widened. “That’s a lot of shady stuff.”

Theo took another drink. “Yeah, well. That’s just the highlights.”

“You killed Scott?” Asher asked like it was small talk.

“Yeah. Didn’t stick, obviously. He held a grudge for a while, but it’s fine now. Somehow he managed to get over it.”

“But I guess she didn’t.”

Theo’s expression turned grim. “When it comes to Malia, don’t think of her as a chick or even human. She’s more coyote than anything. And you’re right about the crazy part. But wait till you meet Liam’s ex. That one’s on a whole other level of bitchiness.”

Asher tilted his head, amused. “And you’re surprised? You tried to seduce her to kill her friends.”

“What?” Theo shrugged, unbothered. “I never claimed to be a saint. Or even a decent person for that matter. Not that you’re one to talk.”

Asher grinned, feigning a wound to his pride. “Are you calling me indecent right now? Not that I object, but still—ouch.”

Theo’s smirk didn’t falter. “If the inappropriate, slutty, and questionably unsanitary shoe fits…” He raised his glass and took another sip, eyes deliberately avoiding Asher’s wink.

Liam slid a glass across the counter for a customer, then leaned in when the stranger took the open stool, their conversation shifting from casual order to something sharper.

Asher chuckled and then turned toward the bar. His smirk grew sharp. “Seems like Dunbar’s feeling like having his share of indecency tonight too.”

Theo’s head snapped around. Liam was at the bar, leaning in close to the man who had been watching him earlier. Clearly flirting.

Theo’s voice dropped. “What's this guy doing here?”

“No idea,” Asher said with a shrug. “Either Elijah doesn’t trust me to keep an eye on you by myself, or he’s here on personal business. Either way, he sure seems to be enjoying himself.”

Theo’s jaw tightened as the man leaned in, murmuring something in Liam’s ear. Liam smiled, hand sliding to the back of the stranger’s arm to stop him from pulling away. For a second it looked like they might kiss—until the man froze, eyes darting to the back of the room. He felt Theo’s stare on him like a blade. The connection lasted only a heartbeat before the stranger pulled back, brushing his hand along Liam’s hand before leaving the bar.

Liam turned, met Theo’s eyes across the room, and raised a brow. The message in his look was clear: What are you gonna do about it?

Theo didn’t flinch. He didn’t even move. He only raised his glass again and drank.

At their table, Asher leaned back, amused. “Such self-control. Should I be impressed, or should Liam be concerned about your lack of interest in his sluttiness?”

Theo didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch, let the beer burn down his throat before he set the glass down. Then he turned, voice low. “Okay. Q&A is over. You want to help me?”

“Always, sunshine.”

“Follow that guy. Find out why he was here.”

Asher arched a brow. “And you think I’m just gonna leave you here alone?”

“Meet me outside when you’re done. I’m not gonna run.”

“And what are you gonna do?”

Theo’s gaze slid back to Liam. His voice was clipped, edged with irritation. “Find out what he thinks he’s doing. And figure out how pissed I should be right now.”

Asher’s laugh was soft, mocking. “Sounds like you could need some couple therapy.” Still, he slid out of the booth and left.

Across the bar, Mason and Corey had both risen, nervous energy radiating off them. Mason’s worried glance flicked between Liam and Theo. “This is gonna end badly,” he muttered.

Corey nodded, eyes locked on the tension stretching across the room like a wire about to snap. They shared one last worried look with Liam before heading out.

Liam disappeared into the backroom, box of bottles in his arms, pretending to busy himself with restocking shelves. A few beats later, Theo followed.

The door clicked shut behind him. The low hum of the bar was cut off. The space shrank, air thick with tension.

Liam didn’t look up, though he knew Theo was there. His jaw was set, his movements clipped as he pulled another bottle from the box.

Theo leaned against the door, arms crossed. “What kind of game are you playing here?”

Liam slammed a bottle down on the counter harder than necessary. “Game? You’re the one who came in here.”

Theo’s smirk was faint, humorless. “And you’re the one who dragged that guy halfway to a kiss just to see if I’d snap.”

Liam’s head whipped around, eyes flashing. “Did you? Snap?”

Theo stepped closer, the air shifting with his presence. “Not yet.”

The silence between them was sharp, waiting to break.

“Need something?” Liam asked, as he kept taking a few bottles out and watching Theo move with an odd, precise economy—like a man who wanted to be invisible. “If you’re looking for your date, he must be waiting for you in the parking lot. Better hurry before he gets antsy and kills one of my customers.”

Theo didn’t answer. He crouched on a crate and began pulling small pouches from a worn leather satchel, arranging herbs and strips of cloth with the careful ritual of someone who worked in silence. He set his soundproofing spell, not carring about Liam’s annoyance.

“Really?” Liam said, because somebody had to fill the silence. Theo kept working, and got back up when he was done.

“Fine,” Liam conceded with a sigh. “Guess I might as well come clean.”

Theo didn’t look up. “You know who this guy is, right?”

“I do.”

“And what kind of business do you have meeting with one of Elijah’s men like that?” Theo cut in, finally turning to watch Liam. His voice was cool; there was no indulgence in it. “Yeah, I know this wasn’t about making me jealous. What I want to know is what you’re up to exactly?”

Liam shot him a look. He had to choose his words carefully.

“Stiles has a theory about Elijah,” Liam said finally.

Theo said the name like he was dusting for clues. “Stiles? Please tell me how Stiles always tends to come up in every one of your bad decisions lately?”

“Shut up,” Liam muttered. “Elijah’s army are ex-hunters. Some of them work for the FBI under the radar. Stiles still has contacts there and he arranged for this guy to meet up with us tonight. He may work for Elijah but Stiles seemed to think he would help anyway. He thought it would be best to have him meet me instead of himself because he thinks Elijah is watching him too closely.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed. Every piece of information landed and he measured it. “And you think talking to the guy in public, while Asher is sitting on the other side of the room, is what? Genius? Because that’s probably the dumbest plan I ever witnessed.”

“I had to talk to him,” Liam said. He kept his voice level, even when the annoyance in it flared. “And I didn’t plan for you two to be here tonight. So I did what I could with what I had.”

Theo crossed his arms. “You flirted with him so Asher would think you were just playing the ‘jealous lover’ act.”

“Yeah,” Liam said. “And from the way the guy reacted when he saw you staring at him like you were two seconds from ripping his throat out, I'd say it worked.”

“I told you I had this under control,” Theo said. “You know what will happen if Elijah even suspects so much as a fraction of what went down tonight? You and Stiles are putting everyone at risk here with your bullshit. You’re safe for now, so don’t try anything like that again.”

“Safe?” Liam’s laugh was flat. He leaned forward, palms on the counter, eyes bright. “We’re not safe. You’re living under the roof of a guy who’s currently planning to kill all of us. Don’t talk to me about safe. You said you would find a way to get to him but we both know you can’t, not while being there. So, yeah, I’m gonna find a way to get you out, whether you like it or not.”

Theo took a breath, slow enough to be a warning. He weighed Liam—evaluating balance and stress points. “Don’t ever do something like that again.”

“Like what?” Liam asked, surprising himself by how calm he sounded. “Getting in Elijah’s business? Or using your obvious jealousy and short temper against you?”

Theo’s exhale folded out in front of him. He stepped closer until the distance between them was only the width of the wood counter. Up close, his face was paper thin, taut with something like exhaustion and hard-set patience. “You used me to distract Asher because you knew how I would react.”

“Yes,” Liam admitted. “In fact I did. But don’t think you have a right to get angry with me for that.”

Theo’s voice dropped, quiet and almost vulnerable in a way that made Liam want to reach across and touch him, and he hated himself for that reflex. “Never said I was.”

“What?” Liam blinked.

“I told you this before. When I came back. You can use me. If it helps you, if you need to, or even if you just want to. You have my blessing. I want you to use me. Things haven’t changed.”

Liam’s mouth went dry. Those words—so blunt, so carelessly given—felt like a relic he hadn’t expected to find in this house of threats and truce. They landed and resonated, like something set down and then left vibrating.

Theo’s tone shifted, darker now. “But what you’re not gonna do is provoke me like that and just hope things won’t blow up in your face. Because I may have brought this on myself when I told you I wasn’t ready for us to be together, but the next time you do something like that, you’ll see what possessive really looks like.”

Liam forced himself to look away from Theo’s mouth. He didn’t need to see the curve of those lips to know what they meant. He could feel the intent packed into the words. It pressed under his ribs like a fist.

Instead of doing what he really craved for, he took a step back, not in fear but as a choice. “You know what? I’m not playing anymore. I’m cutting you off.”

Theo’s eyebrow rose. “Cutting me off? Off what?”

“Sex,” Liam said. “I’m not sleeping with you anymore. You don’t get to play macho man with me when you can’t even call me your boyfriend.”

There it was: the line drawn in ink. Liam felt exposed and oddly righteous.

Theo let out a breath that might have been a laugh and might have been a sneer. “Seriously?” He looked at Liam like he didn’t really believe him, until he did. “Oh my God, you are serious.”

“You can bet your fury coyote ass I am.”

Theo straightened, and for the first time that night vulnerability cracked away and something like amusement slipped in. “Fine. You want to be a little bitch about it, be my guest. We’ll see how far this goes before you break.”

Liam matched him—calm, resolute. “Yeah. We’ll see.”

Theo left with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, half-annoyed and half-entertained. He didn’t bother to soften it for Liam. The satchel bumped against his hip as he pushed through the back door and into the parking lot. The night air hit him like an accusation.

Asher was already there, leaning against the car with his hands loose in his pockets. “So?”

“So, nothing,” Theo said unbothered.. “Liam’s a little shit who just enjoys getting on my nerves. Pretty sure he doesn’t even know who this guy was.”

Asher frowned. “Uh.”

Theo cocked his head. “What?”

“Nothing.” Asher watched him with an expression that was almost thoughtful. “I didn’t get anything from the guy either. He told me he just wanted to have fun and didn’t recognize Liam until he saw us.”

Theo’s jaw tightened. “And you don’t believe it?”

Asher shrugged. “I didn’t say that.” He hesitated, glancing back toward the bar, then meeting Theo’s eyes again. “Would you tell me if something was going on?”

Theo made himself steady. “You mean something that would jeopardize your survival?”

“We both know your friends aren’t the kind to just stay put,” Asher said. “And the real reason Elijah lets you see Liam is to make sure we can keep an eye on them more closely. So I just want to know if you plan to screw me over any time soon.”

Theo’s laugh was short. “I’m not.”

Asher didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. “Good.” He pushed off the car with a slow, impatient movement. “Let’s go before any more shit happens. I’m not in the mood to deal with your lover’s quarrel today.”

Theo watched him go, each step measured, then followed. He felt the strain of it coiled tight in his chest—anger, possessiveness, the old routines of protection mixed with something that felt dangerously like want. Liam’s words hit him in a way he hadn’t expected.

They walked away from the bar into the night: two men who lied to themselves about the shape of their own hearts—one outwardly furious, the other pretending not to be wounded. The parking lights threw their shadows long and thin over the asphalt.

Behind them, through the window, Liam wiped his hands on his apron, watching the door Theo had just gone through. He felt hollow and oddly unburdened at the same time. He’d set a boundary.

He did not yet know if it would hold. He did not yet know which of them would crack first. But he needed to do it.

Outside, under the sour streetlamp, Theo’s grin finally slipped. For a single breath he allowed himself to imagine how it would feel to cross that line back, to take the risk Liam had offered by forcing an ultimatum. Then he shoved the thought away and followed Asher into the dark.

Chapter Text

Stiles jolted awake only to realize he wasn’t awake at all. His body knew the weightless, disoriented tug of time-slipping by now, but that didn’t make it easier. For a beat he thought it was the same nightmare looping on repeat—only this time, when the dizziness settled, he recognized where he stood.

The Hale house. The old one. Still whole. Still alive. Still untouched by fire.

It had been month since he had time jumped in his sleep. Month. But he gets to do it voluntary one time with Peter’s help and he’s right back on the crazy train. Damn it.

Stiles’ breath stuttered. Maybe this was his chance. A chance to find out more about Elijah, maybe even to corner Talia herself before the world turned to ash. If anyone had information on the guy it would be her.

And then the voice came, smooth and amused.

“Well, well, well. Look who’s back.”

Stiles froze. His gut sank. “…Not again.”

Peter Hale stepped out of the shadows like he’d been waiting, dressed sharp even in his youth, the predatory gleam already alive in his eyes.

“I’ll be damned,” Peter drawled. “So you really exist. Thought I was going crazy there for a while.”

“Oh, come on!” Stiles muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Rude,” Peter shot back.

“Not even close.”

Peter tilted his head, studying him like prey. “You left months ago. I really thought you wouldn’t come back.”

“Months ago?” Stiles’ stomach dropped. Fuck. He was in the wrong place. Well, wrong time to be exact. Too close to the fire. Elias would already be unraveling, the tensions with the packs and hunters too high. No chance Talia would trust him, let alone talk to him. He needed to go back further, much further.

“Are you disappointed to see me?” Peter’s smile sharpened. “Or just disappointed to see me alive?”

That startled Stiles enough to halt his spiraling thoughts. “…What?”

“The last time you were here,” Peter said, voice deceptively casual, “you told me my family was in danger. But nothing’s happened yet.”

Stiles swallowed hard. He couldn’t talk about that. Couldn’t warn him. Couldn’t save them. He needed to redirect. “You know, present-you likes to make me believe you don’t remember when I show up like this. But you do. Don’t you?”

Peter’s brow arched. “Not really.”

“What? You just said—”

“I remember when I see you.” His tone was lighter than it should’ve been. “Not everything. Most of it fades whether I want it to or not. But when you leave? It’s gone. All of it. It’s…annoying.”

“It’s better like that. Believe me.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Just out of curiosity,” Stiles asked, trying to ground himself in the conversation, “what did you remember after I left?”

Peter’s eyes darkened as his lips curved. “That I met someone. Someone important. I couldn’t recall your face, or what we said. But the scent—yours and mine, mingled together—it lingers. Potent. Heavier now than before.”

Stiles’ breath hitched despite himself. “So even if you can’t remember it clearly, you can still feel it. That something’s missing.”

Peter’s gaze sharpened. “Why are you asking?”

Stiles hesitated. The truth pressed against his teeth. “Because something will happen to you. Something that changes you. And I think… in the future, you won’t remember me, even if we meet again. But maybe you’ll still feel that missing piece. Maybe that’s why you were interested in me at all.”

Peter chuckled, low and mocking. “You think I’d only be interested in you because you’re a puzzle I can’t solve?”

“Why else?”

“I may not know you,” Peter said softly, dangerously. “Not yet. But I can tell you one thing for sure—your secrets aren’t the most fascinating thing about you. The fact that I marked you should be proof enough.”

Stiles’ pulse jumped. “Wait, how do you—”

“Marking is rare,” Peter interrupted, stepping closer, voice like silk dragged over knives. “But the scent of it is unmistakable. I’d have to be Derek to miss something that obvious.” And for a second it made Stiles smile. But it didn’t last.

Stiles froze. Derek. Talia. Elijah’s words about the link to the Nemeton sparked like lightning in his brain. Talia hadn’t just known—she had been the one to bind him. And she wasn’t stupid; she would’ve had a plan, a backup. She might not have told Peter, but her son… maybe. She could have left Derek something, a clue, a way—

“You just got a very interesting look,” Peter cut in, his tone almost playful. “I wonder what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

The word made Stiles flinch. Not because of the flirtation—he’d gotten used to Peter’s brand of teasing—but because this Peter wasn’t his Peter. Not the one who tempered his darkness with wry affection. This version was sharp edges and hungry eyes. If Stiles let him see too much, if he gave him even an inch, Peter would make a meal of him. Metaphorical… maybe.

Stiles forced a smirk. “Well, I wouldn’t want to spoil the fun by telling you everything now, would I?”

Peter’s grin widened, wolfish. “I can see why I’ll like you. You really are something else.”

“You have no idea.”

“You like playing with me, don’t you?”

Stiles arched a brow. “Look who’s talking.”

The heat in Peter’s gaze dropped away, replaced by something heavier. “What’s going to happen to my family, Stiles?”

The shift in tone sliced through him. For a heartbeat, Stiles saw the man behind the mask—the desperation, the longing. But he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t break the rules. So he gave Peter a sad, small smile before he pulled his armor back on.

“Spoilers, Peter. Spoilers.” He turned to go.

“Wait.” Peter’s voice caught him at the threshold. “Are you going to come back again?”

Stiles hesitated. “…I don’t know. Not if I can avoid it.” He glanced over his shoulder, expression unreadable. “But don’t worry. The best is still to come.”

“And the worst, apparently.”

“Yeah,” Stiles murmured, the weight of it heavy in his chest.

 

________________________________________________________________________________

 

The sound of claws against claws, fists against bone, growls echoing through the cavernous space Elijah used for training—half armory, half prison, and every inch of it suffocating.

Theo’s lip split under a backhand strike, blood trailing down his chin as he staggered but stayed upright. His nails extended, catching Elijah across the ribs in a flash of motion—just enough to draw blood before Elijah slammed a forearm into his throat and sent him crashing against the wall.

Theo’s breath came ragged, chest heaving, muscles burning. But he didn’t crumple. Not anymore. He ducked low, caught Elijah’s ankle, and twisted hard enough to prevent the blow and make him loose his balance. For the briefest moment he thought he’d won some ground—until Elijah’s hand shot up, claws digging into Theo’s shoulder, wrenching him sideways and pinning him against the ground.

The impact rattled his bones. Pain spiked hot through his body. He gasped, his coyote snarling, refusing to yield. His claws swiped up, tearing a line across Elijah’s jaw before his wrist was caught and bent back with a snap that sent fire up his arm.

Theo screamed through his teeth but didn’t tap out. Didn’t beg.

Elijah leaned over him, calm as a blade in the dark. Not winded, not even strained. “Better,” he said, voice low and even. “You lasted longer than you used to.”

Theo spat blood onto the floor between them, defiant even on his back. “And yet… here I am. On the ground. Again.”

Elijah released him and stood smoothly, wiping the blood from his jaw with the back of his hand. “You mistake endurance for failure. Survival is the lesson, Theo. Endurance is victory.”

Theo rolled to his knees, clutching his aching wrist, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “So what’s the real point of tonight? Does it have to do with Stiles again?”

Elijah’s expression sharpened, but not with suspicion. With certainty. “No. Not this time.”

Elijah circled him as Theo got back on his feet, every movement slow, deliberate, predatory. The kind of rhythm that reminded Theo just how far the gap still was between them. He rolled his sore wrist, buying time, buying breath.

“So if it’s not about him,” Theo said, eyes sharp, voice careful, “then what’s this about?”

Elijah smiled faintly, and it chilled more than any snarl could. “Because it’s time you understand why I’ve been training you. Why I’ve allowed your friends lo live, even when your usefulness was… questionable.”

Theo’s gut twisted, but he held the man’s gaze. “You mean my role.”

Elijah’s steps were soundless on the concrete floor. “Exactly. My plans are close to unfolding, and you should know the truth before it happens. You already know part of it, of course. That I want to unlink myself from the Nemeton.”

Theo huffed out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh, his ribs aching. “Yeah, I figured that much. But I have to say, I have been curious. You’re not really the over-sharer kinda guy. At least I know your goal.”

Elijah tilted his head. “But knowing my plan is not the same as understanding your place in it. You may think you’ve been a pawn in this game, Theo. Disposable. But that’s only half the story.”

Theo didn’t move. He’d learned not to. One twitch, one sign of defiance, and Elijah would be on him again. “So what’s the other half?”

“You and Stiles,” Elijah said, voice soft, almost indulgent. “Two children tied to the same root. He through the Nogitsune—the rot that tethered his spark to the Nemeton. You through the ritual your friend began on you and Peter. Two conduits, whether you like it or not. He has the ability, yes. But he’s too raw, too… undisciplined. You, on the other hand, have been tempered. You’re blood. My blood. That makes you the better choice.”

Theo’s mouth went dry. He wanted to scoff, to throw it back in Elijah’s face—but that kind of carelessness got people killed. Instead, he forced out something neutral. “So what—you’re saying my big purpose is to be the sacrificial lamb?”

Elijah chuckled, low and cold. “No. I’ve been training you to survive it. To endure what others would not. Do you think I wasted my time beating strength into you for the sport of it?” He leaned closer, claws glinting faintly in the low light. “You’re not meant to die, Theo. You’re meant to outlive it.”

Theo clenched his jaw. The words should’ve reassured him, but they didn’t. Not even close. “And what about you? Say this ritual works. Say you unlink yourself. What happens when every supernatural out there sees you without your power? They’ll come for you. You’ll have a target on your back the size of this whole damn state.”

That finally earned him a real smile. It was terrifying. “Do you still not understand? The ritual doesn’t only strip me. It strips the Nemeton too. Every Nemeton in the world. Every creature tied to them will feel it—their power bleeding away until nothing remains. What your little friends have been desperately trying to prevent, I will make inevitable. No power left. No alphas. No sparks. Nothing left to threaten me.”

Theo’s breath hitched despite himself. “You’d poison the Nemeton.”

“Yes. And in doing so, every other. Talia understood. That’s why she cut it, tried to contain what was already festering. But the second I give the power back, it will spread like a rot. No one will have the strength to stand against me.”

Theo swallowed hard, choosing his next words like walking a tightrope. “You realize that means me too, right? You take everyone’s powers away, I lose mine and I’m left to fend for myself alone against anyone I have ever wronged.”

Elijah studied him, gaze sharp as a blade. “Perhaps. But perhaps not. You were made, Theo. Unnatural. Built from pieces. If I am right, when the power returns to the Nemeton, it will only strip you down to your foundation. A chimera, reborn.”

For one second—just one—Theo felt a pull in his chest. The thought of being that again. Of not carrying the weight of Peter’s leash, or Stiles’ suspicions, or his own fractured loyalties. But he buried it fast. Too dangerous to let Elijah see it.

He forced a shrug. “Sounds like wishful thinking.”

“Maybe,” Elijah said, smooth as silk. “But I always plan for more than one outcome.”

Theo stayed quiet this time. Because anything he said next could be too much.

Elijah broke the silence himself. “Asher says you fought well at the docks. Stiles lunged at you, almost drowned you both apparently, and still you didn’t waver. You’ve accepted where your loyalties lie. With me. That’s why I allow you this freedom. You may see your friends if you wish. In fact, I encourage it. Find out what they’re plotting. Tell me if they’re bold enough to defy me again.”

Theo’s heart thudded hard. It wasn’t a request. It was a leash disguised as freedom.

“Can I trust you, Theo?” Elijah asked, voice soft, fatherly almost, and for a heartbeat Theo hated how much it sounded like something he’d once wanted to hear.

Theo forced his jaw tight, forced his voice steady. “Yes.”

Elijah’s smile was all approval, no warmth. “One day, you’ll see. You’re making the smart choice. The same choice Asher made.”

The words hit like a knife twist, but Theo didn’t let it show. He only nodded, lowering his gaze just enough to pass for respect.

And while Elijah turned away, speaking of inevitabilities, Theo wondered—not for the first time—if there had ever been a version of this life where Elijah had cared. Before Talia’s ritual. Before the rot of the Nemeton. Before Theo had been handed over like nothing.

If there had been a chance for family.

Hell no.