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Erica sat on a white, uncomfortable bench. The clock ticked loudly on the wall and the guards stared openly at her. She kept her elbows on her knees, back hunched, and eyes downcast. It was one of the many new rules she had to learn while she was in prison. If she could keep her head down, keep quiet and out of the way, she’d make it to another morning.“Reyes,” Harding, one of guards with… a kinder demeanor, always spoke her name like it was a sharp tack. A sharp clap of stone striking ice, it’s crack-crack-crack echoing across a lake in the winter. “Come with me. The room has been set up for you and your husband.” A few of the other guards snickered. Erica refused to look at them, to flinch. Her expression was schooled into indifference. They feel nothing for you. Feel nothing right on back. In a few weeks Erica would be nineteen. The words birthday seemed ludicrous in the grey, cold walls of the minimum-security Beacon Hills prison. Harding guided her silently to a side door that led outside, to the kind of shacks you could buy outside of a Home Depot. Inside there was a plastic table, a cheap blue couch with a stain on the far right cushion, and a lamp. An fan buzzed from one of the windows. “Your husband will be here shortly.” Harding unfolded a sheet he had tucked under his arm and draped it over the couch. “Once he’s arrived, I can undo the cuffs.” Erica nodded. “Thank you.”She remained standing. She rubbed her thumb over the empty space on her left ring-finger. She hadn’t been wearing her wedding ring long enough for a tanline to be left behind. A few months wasn’t long enough for her to remember its weight, the feel of it against her skin. When she was little, weddings were fairy tales, where her parents would stop arguing and drink enough to smile freely. Everyone dressed up and ate too much. People brought mountains of presents. There was music and dancing. The bruises hadn’t faded from Erica’s face when Boyd and her went to the courthouse. The inside of her mouth was still cut, copper lingering on her tongue every time she swallowed. At Erica Reyes’s wedding to Vernon Boyd there was no music, no drinking, and no dancing. It was a signing of a document. Boyd had squeezed her hands hard, his lips wobbling because there was no way he could have imagined getting married at eighteen, just so he’d have more visitation rights when his wife went to prison. I’m sorry, Erica said instead of loving wedding vows. I’m sorry this was how it had to be.When he kissed her she tasted salt. She tried to apologize again, but Boyd shook his head, his grip on her shoulders tight.I love you. For every apology he replied with, I love you.The door opened. Erica turned, still squeezing her ring finger. Her husband stumbled inside, his wide shoulders clipping the edges of the narrow door. Harding moved quickly around him, unlocking Erica’s cuffs with a swift twist and then he was gone with a discreet nod as he closed the door behind him. She thought she would be more composed, that she’d have something clever and reassuring to say. She had thought about this moment from the day she arrived. Maybe a “Hey, babe,” or a “This place is a real shithole, isn’t it?” Seeing his face… so familiar and permanently etched into her mind was suddenly brand new.He had deeper lines at the sides of his mouth, deep circles under his eyes, and a frayed longing that weighed down his bones. He was beautiful. He was tragic. He was her husband, and Erica wheezed, her eyes burning. He moved, a dark blur, and she was in his arms, holding onto him like he would be taken away at any moment. “Oh God.” Erica shuddered in his arms, pressing herself as close as they could get. “Boyd.” Erica tucked her face into his neck, her legs bracketing his hips and he held her up with ease, his hands warm and steady against her back. “Boyd.” “I know.” He kissed her cheek. “I know, baby.” She had two hours. Two hours and Erica didn’t know where to start. Her legs felt heavy, her mouth was sticky and sour. Her shoulders jumped when Boyd kissed her neck, quick and affectionate. “I-I.” Erica swallowed. “I don’t think I can… I don’t want to…” Boyd took a deep breath. “Erica,” his hand dragged down her spine. “It’s fine.” He was so warm. Erica remembered thinking, has he always been this warm? She forgot about how his sweat smelled, how he’d have to flex his hand when he held her like this for a long time— except… except he hadn’t readjusted his grip once. Boyd breathed deep, warm air fanning over the tender skin on her neck. Boyd bent down until he was kneeling on the shitty linoleum flooring. Erica drew back, just long enough to get a look at his face. He was the same, he looked exactly the same. He kept touching her face, her neck, her arms, and she wondered if he saw something different in her.He cupped her cheek, the tips of his index and middle finger skimming across her scar. She turned away. “Hey.” Boyd smiled, nice and easy like they were sixteen again. “Hey, don’t do that. I want to see you.” “Yeah.” Erica sniffed and he wiped her tears away. “Yeah, all right.” She took his left hand and pressed a kiss into the center of his palm. His fingers trembled, though he never let her go, he never looked away. He bit his lip, like he was trying to keep something from spilling out from inside. “What is it?”The clock ticked loudly on the wall. Boyd swallowed and for the first time since he got there, he readjusted his grip. Not because he was tired… but almost as though he were giving Erica more space, more room to move. When he spoke, it was in a rushed, bone-dry whisper. “Do you remember the Hale fire?”As the time slipped away, as the world turned indifferently in a cold universe, Boyd told Erica an unbelievable story about a man who came to Boyd and promised him impossible things. Showed him impossible things. Changed him into something impossible. Boyd kept his voice low and his eyes on Erica. He showed her, how his hands could turn into claws, his eyes glinting gold for a moment. I don’t get tired. My eyes are better. Boyd brushed Erica’s hair back, his claws retracting just before they hit her skin. He could hear her heartbeat, he could smell her like he’d never been able to before. It’s the best he’s ever felt. And this man who’d already given Boyd so much, wanted to do the same for Erica. He said… he said that it would cure your epilepsy. He ran his thumb over her knuckles before he kissed them. Erica trembled, her throat too tight for words. I love you, Boyd whispered against her mouth, I love you, we don’t have to do anything, we can forget that this happened and wait but… Erica kissed him. He didn’t taste like salt.
“What do I have to do?”
Fear had been simpler then. Fear of prison, fear of the unknown, fear of having to figure out how to kill a woman with no guards noticing. She had live so long without feeling fear that when she felt it years later, she didn’t recognize the sensation. The way her skin went tight and clammy, the feeling of icy fingers tightening around her throat. For an agonizing moment, her mind was completely blank, wiped of any knowledge and understanding. For a moment, she was free of everything. What came back to her first was the speed of Kira’s heartbeat, the sudden acidity that soured her scent. Pictures fell to floor. Long splashes of bruised flesh on the body of a boy, just a boy, and Erica could tell it was Stiles Stilinski by the moles on his face that, apparently, extended down his chest and hips. His eyes were swollen shut, his ribs purple and black.Next came the numbing thu-THUD of electricity. Kira’s eyes went white just as the door behind Erica opened. She smelled Peter and the Sheriff, their fear, their shock, as Kira’s white eyes glowed as the entire town was plunged into darkness. The Sheriff sucked in five frenzied breaths as Peter whispered, “Kira?”The back-up lights and generators kicked on, the soft emergency lights flickering to life in the corner of the room. Kira breathed heavily, leaning against her desk with her palms pressed against her eyes, her lips slack. Peter and the Sheriff moved as soon as the lights came on, Peter bravely putting his hand on Kira’s shoulder, while the Sheriff bent down to pick up the photos. “Someone,” Kira’s voice was rubbed raw, her hands trembling as she pointed to the photos in the rapidly paling Sheriff’s hands. “Someone sent those here and I— I saw—” “Stiles went to school this morning.” The Sheriff’s eyes were wide, his knuckles white. “He got on the bus. I waited outside.” Peter growled, low and inhuman. Everyone froze, eyes on him as his blood leaked from his clenched fists, his teeth sharpening as his eyes glowed red. “He wouldn’t have been taken in Beacon Hills. That’s not possible. He must have been outside of city limits somehow.” The Sheriff stared openly at Peter’s form, and within a few breaths Peter’s claws had retreated. His eyes still retained their crimson sheen, but his teeth weren’t sharpened when he breathed. Noah Stilinski’s heart raced, his teeth creaked in his jaw, but he hadn’t started screaming. He squeezed the picture in his hands until it crumbled.“How would you know that?” His voice wavered, his eyes shimmering bright as Erica kept thinking fuck, fuck, fuck. “How can you promise that?” She could feel Peter’s frustration, rage, and heartbreak like it was her own. He was only betrayed by his pale face and tight muscle in his jaw and neck. “I’ll explain on the way to your home. Erica, Kira, you go ahead of us.” Erica didn’t need to reaffirm the order. She jerked her head to the side and Kira followed her. Erica’s heart clenched in her chest and Kira still wiped clumsily at her eyes. The halls were bustling, people wondering about the power outage, the police were out in full force, and maintenance men from the electric company were calling in. They walked past all of it, drove through it, until they sat on the Sheriff’s porch. All the houses on the street were dark, though Erica could hear people inside, searching for flashlights, candles, anything. Erica texted Boyd and then it was just a matter of waiting even though she had the keys to every house in Beacon Hills. “Who would do this?” Kira breathed deep, her eyes back to their deep brown color. “Who would… who would dare take Stiles, then send pictures to Peter to provoke him?”“A hunter.” Erica ground her teeth together. “It’s just a matter of which one. And once we find that out…” Vengeance would rain upon them, relentless and unending until their last breath. Boyd arrived just as the Sheriff's cruiser pulled in. Boyd had two thermoses, coffee for Erica and tea for Kira. The Sheriff and Peter stepped out, the Sheriff’s keys jangling in his hand. Erica noticed that he stared at them more openly, like he was double-checking their features. Peter hadn’t touched him once, not since they got out of the car. The moment the door closed behind them, the Sheriff sighed, his shoulders shuddering. “He might have run away.” Noah wrung his hands. Erica didn’t have to turn to know that they were all alarmed, desperately waiting for him to continue, to have something make sense. “I… when you were elected,” he turned, his eyes weary but stern as Noah squared his shoulders and jaw. “I started investigating you and your office, with my son’s help.” The inside of Erica’s mouth felt like dry clay, heavy and earthy. Kira shifted, uncomfortable, and Boyd growled low in in his throat. Peter was silent, his eyes bright red and his cheeks flushed. “I’ve stopped the investigation, but I never… I never knew how to tell him. That I…” Noah pressed his fingers against his eyes and the smell of salt filled the foyer. “I believed that your way was better. That you were really doing everything for the betterment of Beacon Hills.” Peter reached for him but quickly drew his hand back. He cleared his throat. “We’ll find him.” Noah took his hands away from his tear-stained eyes. “He wrote everything down. It would be in his notebooks, under his bed.” Peter snapped his fingers and Erica, Boyd, and Kira were already on the move, up the stairs, down the hall, to Stiles’s room. Erica pushed open the door and froze at the intense smell of misery. Boyd covered his nose and Kira swallowed as Erica moved forward, tugging the small rug off of the floorboards. Noah and Peter made their way up the stairs, talking softly as Erica, Boyd, and Kira uncovered thick piles of notebooks. All of it written in code, some code that Erica recognized, math classes assigned to each of their cars when they’d be on lookout. Boyd breathed, flipping through notebooks as Kira and Erica lifted the rest of them out. “Jesus.” Observations, notes, reminders jotted down into margins, most of it on code but some… some were not and those small details were enough to show that Stiles took to investigation like a duck to water. Peter inhaled sharply when he stepped into Stiles’s room, his nostrils flaring. “Oh my.” The Sheriff’s heartbeat increased, his breaths coming in a bit shorter as Erica reached the third pile of notebooks, noticeably shorter than the other two piles. “What is it?” “Stiles has… been unhappy for quite some time.” Peter moved to Stiles’s bed and the wrinkles in his face deepend considerably when he pulled his pillow into his hands, running his fingers over the fabric. “He cries into this pillow, more often than not.” Erica ignored the sound of Noah’s heart breaking and swallowed down the sense of failure that bled over from her Alpha. She took the notebook on the very bottom of the third pile and flipped it open.
I know who burned your house down.
The words were a cold slap in the face. Erica jerked back, the notebook falling from her hands. Erica suffocated under the scents of misery that had been fermenting for months, months of tears dripping onto pages, onto sheets, months of waking up breathless with screams lodged in a boy’s throat. Months of having to continue the work his father abandoned… and now Erica knew that Stiles hadn’t been alone. Peter picked up the notebook, his breath leaving him in a long woosh. Stiles had lost his most trusted confidant. So he went looking for another, someone who wouldn’t give up, someone who shared his drive for truth. Downstairs, someone knocked four times on the Sheriff’s door. ::::The day Erica Reyes got out of prison, the sun was shining and her wedding ring was back on her finger. Birds chirped and Erica was free. She could breathe again, out in the sun, and as the wind blew the scent of flowers through her hair, she ran forward into her husband’s arms. He hugged her tight, his heart beating against hers, and kept kept whispering I love you and I’m so proud of you against her cheek. She was twenty years old, and life was only going to get harder, finding a job was going to be difficult, but at that moment, with the sun on her back and flowers in the air, all she wanted was to go home and make love to her husband. She kissed him, slipping her tongue alongside his easily, her heart soaring in delight when she heard Boyd’s affectionate hum. He stumbled back until his legs hit their car. Erica wanted to lose herself in him, to pull more desperate sounds from him but… A man was laying down in the back of their car. “Don’t react.” Boyd must have felt her tense, must have smelled her alarm. “That’s him. He wanted… he wants to talk to us once we’re home.” Peter Hale. The man who came offering impossible wishes with a smile. The man who had hedged his bets and gave Boyd gifts hoping that it would persuade his wife to do him a favor… and she did. One bad thing… with the promise of great rewards in return. Erica slid from Boyd’s arm and held her things in her lap on the passenger’s side of the car. As Boyd pulled out of the prison’s parking lot, Peter Hale sat up smoothly, like he was made of mercury. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Erica.” She remembered how his grey-blue eyes met hers through the rearview mirror, electric and focused. “Likewise.”Erica and Boyd lived in a trailer on the east side of Beacon Hills, their driveway nothing more than a dirt patch with some weeds growing along the steps. If Peter had any reservations about stepping inside their home, he didn’t show it as he effortlessly made himself at home. He didn’t turn up his nose at the chipped cups, the old, hand-knitted blankets that had more holes than fabric. Peter kept looking at her, like she was something more than an exhausted ex-con who needed a long shower and an even longer nap. Her hair was frizzy, her fingers twitched, and she still had that long scar that ran down her temple. Boyd was behind her, his hands drawing circles on her hips, but Peter was right there in front of her. When he gently ran his fingers over her palms, she flinched. “You think that I’m going to back out of my deal.” Erica’s hands shook when he refused to let go. “Why is that?” Erica rolled her eyes even though she knew that just how frightened she was. “Most people don’t exactly keep their promises.” Peter’s lips pulled back into a smile, and she watched as his teeth elongated into elegant fangs. “I believe you’ll come to learn, Erica,” he brought up her hand for a chaste kiss, “that I’m not like most people.” She’d killed Kate Argent in the showers, brutally but with finality, with no hope of her ever drawing another breath. In return, Peter had promised to give her the same gift as her husband which would cure her epilepsy. Not only that, but he would take a life for her. Mitchell Lahey. He would die by Peter’s hands. Not right away, but he promised that it would happen. And as she turned around, her hands shaking as she unbuttoned her shirt, she believed him. Peter gently touched her back, chasing the goosebumps that sprang up on her skin. The first bite would be his, to give her lycanthropy. Then Boyd would lick the wound, and she would finally understand what it meant to be a part of a Pack. His fangs were quick, a sharp sting on the back of her right shoulder. The moment his teeth left her, she felt it, an immediate reworking of her body structure. It was was hellish, fiery, and the single most painful experience of her entire life—Yet it was over in moment, from one breath to the next. She vaguely felt Peter’s hands spin her, so her back was to her husband. Boyd licked over the wound, and Erica felt him in a way she never had before. Her understanding of her husband was elevated, where she could feel how much he loved her, and she could feel his response to just how much she loved him. She made a guttural noise in her throat, turning to slide their lips together, needing to be close. It was a feedback loop of pleasure, of exploring this new bond, this new way of knowing Boyd. He heard Peter’s low voice, a promise that he’d be back tomorrow, after they got used to each other as Packmates. Yes, Alpha, her husband replied right as he clawed through Erica’s bra. Tomorrow would bring a new purpose. Tomorrow Peter would reveal his grand plan to make Beacon Hills a safe haven, free of hunters and any equally nefarious characters. Peter was going to be the mayor. Peter was going to change everything. But that was tomorrow, Erica thought in a breathless haze as Boyd bit into her inner thigh and groaned. Tomorrow everything will be different. It was true. Everything was different. It took hard work and the willingness to evade traditional rules, but they did it. Every piece fell into place, and finally Beacon Hills was what they had wanted it to be. Improvements would only get easier. The knocking was like a mocking drum, shaking the Sheriff’s door on its hinges. Erica stood in front of it, Peter, Boyd, Kira, and the Sheriff behind her. She yanked the door open and dragged Gloria Spairow inside. The older woman’s eyes were wide, red-rimmed and raw from tears. The moment she saw that Peter Hale was already at the Sheriff’s side, she went limp, like an animal in a predator’s jaws moments before death. She dropped her gaze to the floor, her shoulders jumping in quick tics. Peter’s rage only served to feed Erica’s. Erica held her to the door and Gloria shuddered. “Stiles is missing.”“No shit.” Erica growled. The Sheriff sighed. “Erica…” “No, fuck her. She’s the adult who’s been hanging around a fourteen-year-old boy.” Gloria shoved Erica, the motion so startling that Erica actually let herself be moved back. “He had nowhere else to go. He couldn’t rely on his father so he came to me!” Her hands immediately withdrew from Erica but her shoulders remained squared even as fresh tears fell. Peter’s rage withdrew from its aim at Gloria and sat back on its heels, growling, burning, waiting for a target. Peter spoke and his voice never wavered despite the cascading emotions that Erica and Boyd could feel. “I’m aware that the Sheriff was investigating me and stopped. Am I right in the assumption that Stiles continued, with you as his new partner?” Gloria’s wrinkled hands clenched into fits as she nodded. “When and where did you last see him?” Erica had to hand it to Gloria, the old crow could quickly shift gears when it counted. She approached them without hesitation, showing them the map of the bus routes. She’d dropped Stiles off at the bus station and watched him get on his bus at eight-thirty in the morning. His ride would take two hours, and he was set to meet her at a diner at noon, in one of the neighboring Pack’s districts. He never showed, and didn’t respond to any of her texts or calls. “The plan was if… on the doubtful occasion that something happened, and we fell out of touch with each other, would be that one of us would come back here,” Gloria wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “And tell you,” she nodded toward the Sheriff, “everything.” Gloria blinked and seemed to take in their haggard appearance. “It’s not that late. How did you know anything was wrong?”“These were dropped off at my office, approximately forty minutes ago.” Peter held out the large, yellow envelope. Kira made a soft sound in the back of her throat while the Sheriff’s heartbeat spiked. Gloria’s fingers slipped inside the paper as Peter’s teeth creaked in his jaw. “There was no note.” Boyd was already calling the bus company as Gloria’s eyes widened a split second before she recoiled, the enveloped slipping from her fingers. Erica ducked forward to catch it as Gloria ran to the kitchen. The Sheriff was frozen, watching as Peter softly directed Kira to call the hospital, to get two EMTs on standby and ready to move at their command. Gloria vomited in the sink. Boyd drew in a breath when the woman on the other line helpfully replied that one of their buses broke down in Isleton. “Argent.” Peter growled as Gloria stumbled back into the room, pressing a dishtowel to her lips. “It’s Gerard Argent. Kira, you should have his information. That’s where we’re going.” “Wait.” Gloria held up her hand, not flinching when Peter whirled around to face her, his shoulders tense. “How do you know that? Isleton was the one place where you didn’t hold regular meetings with people from there. It was our dead zone. How can you be certain you know where Stiles is?”Kira was on the phone with the paramedics and giving them an address as Boyd rolled up his sleeves. Erica let her anger harden and condense. The Sheriff kept his voice low, asking Kira how long the drive would take. Peter stalked close to Gloria, a slight tremor in his hands as his voice lowered, his patience paper-thin.“Gloria,” Erica watched the journalist’s eyes widen at Peter’s unnatural timber, “If you want to help, then you’ll see things that are unexplainable, that I won’t have the time to explain for a while, though I will give them to you. If you want to help, you’ll stop your investigation and stay in Beacon Hills because you’re a great journalist and losing you would be a detriment, it really would.” Peter’s eyes bled red and Gloria’s breath froze in her lungs, her heart racing. “Or you can get out of my town and never come back, no questions asked.” The Sheriff wheezed something that sounded like Peter’s name. Gloria, though frightened, never tried to increase the distance between her and Alpha Hale. She took two deep breaths, one for her long investigation against Peter, and another to allow for its departure. “I’m not leaving him behind.” Peter allowed himself a grim smile with a full set of fangs on display. “Very well. Let’s go.” ::::The night of Peter Hale’s first electoral victory was spent in Erica and Boyd’s trailer. While Peter had a quiet celebration with his family, Erica, Boyd, and Kira drank champagne on the back porch. Erica and Boyd couldn’t get drunk, but whatever Kira was, she could get drunk. She laughed and cheered with an over-the-top mock surprise when the results were announced. Erica and Boyd could hardly breathe and when they all went inside, they were a mess of breathless laughter mixed with the confidence of victory. “Want to hear something really funny?” Kira sat on their small kitchen counter, drinking champagne straight from the bottle. All Peter had told them about Kira was that she was from New York, she wasn’t human, and she was caught up on their grand plan for Beacon Hills. There were moments when Kira would hesitate, over something benign like checkout at the grocery store, or going to the spring concert put on by the high school. She’d get this look on her face, like she was witnessing something arcane, magical. Where did you come from? Erica wanted to ask. Did you ever go outside?Boyd snorted. “Sure.”Kira wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Peter won. Like, he won fair-and-square.” Kira grinned. “It was a close race, he just pulled ahead. It’s not the sixty-five percent lead we made. But still. He won.” Once she was done with the final bottle, Erica and Boyd had her drink as much water as she could stand before tucking her into bed. Erica brushed out Kira’s hair while Boyd kicked off his shoes. As Erica got dressed in comfy pajamas, she wondered what Kira was. She didn’t feel the bonds of their Pack like Erica and Boyd did, but there was no question that she was Pack. When Boyd climbed into bed, Erica after him, the mattress dipped and Kira snuggled closer to them. What are you, Erica wondered as she pulled the blankets over them, what kind of creature marvels at the mundane and never allows themselves to ask for touch?Kira was an odd person. Erica grudgingly admitted that of course such an odd person would be attracted to other wildly odd things like Finstock. For all her eccentricities, she was never out of place in Beacon Hills. Erica quickly abandoned her question of What are you, and settled for, You are Pack. No rain fell when they arrived at Gerard Argent’s driveway. Peter had the paramedics wait, two trusted EMTs who also volunteered at the first rehabilitation clinic in downtown. Gloria and the Sheriff were at the hospital, waiting after Peter had left with a “I promise, I will bring Stiles back to you.”“Wait here.” Erica shook the paramedics hands. “When we come back, we will have a young man with us who is going to need medical attention.” “You got it, Erica.” The younger one, Matthew, nodded with his partner. “You can count on us.” She smiled. “I know, boys.” Then it was time to move, meeting Peter, Boyd, and Kira out of sight of the ambulance. Silently in the woods, and Kira sent out the first warning shot that knocked out their power. Peter breathed deep in the treeline, watching as the house exploded into chaos. Eight men left the building, all armed with semi-automatic weapons. Erica felt What are you push at her lips as Kira watched the hunters, her irises lightening to a stark white. Erica’s tongue buzzed in her mouth, and the porch door opened. Stiles stumbled out onto the porch. He was in his underwear, his body cut, bruised, and bleeding. He stared out blindly in the dark night. Peter broke out into a run, Erica and Boyd followed as eight streaks of lightning bolted down, hitting every man who’d left the house. Erica watched as the light helped Stiles see them, and he stepped off the porch right as Gerard opened the door behind him. The old man was bleeding from the head, some teeth had fallen from his mouth, but he was alive. The screams of the men hadn’t faded before electricity gathered in the air once again. Peter’s rage bubbled over, white-hot and eternal once he laid eyes on Gerard. All three of them lost themselves to the promise of blood, to the screams promised to them. They roared as one, as Pack, just as Kira brought down eight more lightning strikes. Erica expected a golden victory, where they rescued the Sheriff’s son and vanquished Gerard Argent. She didn’t expect Stiles to shriek the moment she touched him, to claw at her face desperately even when she shushed him, trying to calm him down. You’re okay, Stiles, you’re going to be okay. He was wild, manic, his eyes wide as he struggled to get away, twisting in her arms. She smelled the sharp scent of urine and his voice rose to an ear-splitting crescendo— when he suddenly went slack. Erica grunted, not expecting the sudden dead-weight in her arms. Stiles’s eyes were open, but unseeing, his breaths shallow. “He’s going into shock.” Boyd took Stiles from her arms. Peter knocked Gerard to the ground easily, holding him down with his foot on his chest as he looked at his two Betas. “I’ll get him to the ambulance.” Erica nodded, her ears still ringing from Stiles’s scream. “Yeah. Okay. Don’t wait up.” The rage’s roar lessened to a long, moaning aria. Peter’s cool balm of relief at seeing Stiles safe and breathing was a momentary reprieve before he turned back to the gurgling Gerard. Erica joined him, holding the man down as Peter knelt beside him. Far away, at the start of the driveway, Kira, Boyd, Stiles, and the EMTs were speeding back towards Beacon Hills. The farther they got away, the calmer Peter became until he as back to a steady heartbeat, a smooth smile gracing his face. “Gerard,” Peter purred with a level of control that Erica believed to be unreachable, “it’s good to see you.” Erica’s stomach churned at the sound of Gerard’s blood squishing out between his teeth as he mustered the strength to spit in Peter’s face. Her Alpha didn’t blink at the hot streak of crimson-stained saliva that pelted his cheek. Instead, he used his one hand to brace himself on Gerard’s chest as he reached into the hunter’s mouth and grabbed his tongue. “When people find your body,” Peter gripped the muscle tight in his claws, “they’ll fear a God they didn’t know they believed in.” Peter Hale had a way of delivering on his promises. Gerard thrashed, his screams collapsing into wet wails. Peter pull-pull-pulled until the muscle snapped, sending a hot spray of red across Erica’s face. ::::“You sure you’re alright closing up?” Annie leaned in Erica’s office. Erica glanced up and saw the time, wincing. Annie’s smile widened, still hesitant like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be happy. “I don’t mind staying late.” “Nah.” Erica waved Annie off. “You were such a trooper last night. Get some sleep, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Here,” Erica stood, stretching. “I’ll wait with you for the bus.” Annie had really come around, growing from the frail, hallowed husk of an addict into a rosy-cheeked young woman. She was still a little thin, so thin that Erica just wanted to keep feeding her until she was round. She had to settle for bringing in extra baked goods and sandwiches every so often. As soon as she got on the bus back to her apartment, Erica went back inside the rehab center, locking it up piece by piece. She sang under her breath and twirled as she slid the lock into the front door and twisted it. All the way home she smelled roses and every crunch of gravel under her tires were operatic symphonies. When she opened the door to her trailer, she felt as though she was on stage, bright lights shining down on her as the last burst of the final song echoed in the rafters. Mitchell Lahey was dead. Erica had to remind herself, sternly, that it was not appropriate to laugh when the Sheriff had come in to her office that afternoon. She had to swallow the grin that she longed to wear. Finally, she wanted to sing, finally that asshole got what he deserves. Peter Hale was already in her trailer when she flicked on the flights. His grin matched hers and he caught her when she threw herself into a hug. She heard Boyd pull in the driveway. When he came in, she heard the smile in his voice. “I just heard. It was you?”Peter scoffed, still holding onto Erica. “Of course it was fucking me. I made you a promise, didn’t I?” Erica laughed and kept laughing until she could hardly breathe. Peter made it sound easy, like it was an everyday occurance for someone to deliver on their promises. Peter easily navigated the complexities of government, but also didn’t mind simplifying deals down to the bare basics. Erica took a life for Peter, so he returned the favor. But it was more than that. It wasn’t just Mitchell Lahey. It was enhanced senses, strength, and not having to worry about epilepsy. It was feeling bonded to her husband in a way she never imagined. It was having a group of people closer than family. She had to do one hard thing, and the rewards never stopped. It had always been worth it. The smell of fire clung to Erica’s hair. Her skin was rubbed raw from washing herself, cold water still coming out of the hose attached to the side of the barn. There were nine bodies total left behind, and Peter had stripped the interior of the house. He had the camera, bloody plastic sheeting, and the rope in the trunk. To make sure everything was wiped clean, he doused the house in gasoline. Boyd kept them updated via text as they finished with Gerard.
He’s in shock
Some ribs are definitely broken, most bruised, maybe nose too
So far he’s stable, driving as fast as we can
At hospital
That was when the messages stopped.“Keep breathing,” Peter rolled down the windows of the car, both of them in fresh clothes. Erica leaned her head out of the window, letting the cold air chase away the sticky sweat the broke out over her entire body. “Just keep breathing, Erica.”Peter felt frayed along the edges, the wrinkles in his face suddenly more pronounced, like he’d taken a knife and cut deeper into them. His shoulders were curled inward as he drove, his hair undone. This didn’t feel like Mitchell Lahey at all. It felt like Erica was bleeding on the curb and shrieking for someone to notice, for someone to do something, only to never be heard. They found Stiles. They found him, they extracted him, and he was at the hospital. It should have been a victory. This should never have happened in the first place. Peter didn’t need to say it. The sentiment weighed heavily in the car. The color only returned to Peter’s face the moment they passed the sign with the cheerful script that read: Welcome to Beacon Hills. They were safe, where Druids had wards set up, where they knew every resident, every visitor, where they had the most control. By the time they got to the hospital, the doctors had left. Stiles was unconscious in intensive care, a few nurses remained in his room. They gently turned Stiles over, replacing bandages on his back. Boyd, Kira, Gloria, and Noah were outside, watching through the open door. Peter wasn’t greeted with cheers and thunderous applause. He walked in to the beat of a single heart monitor, the murmur from nurses, and Noah’s labored wheezing. The air was heavy and stung of salt. Kira was sallow, her hair sticky with sweat and dirt. The stench of bile clung to her clothes. She pushed her hair out of her face, her fingers trembling. “He’s stable.” When her eyes lifted to meet Peter’s gaze, Erica heard his heart tremor in his chest. “I’m going to go now.” She slipped out of the room, and with a glance, Erica jerked her head to the side, a silent go check on her, I’ll meet you at home. With a discreet nod, Boyd left shortly after. The Sheriff’s jaw cracked with tension as he gripped his knees tight. He only took his eyes off his son when the nurses pulled the bandages back to reveal red gashes dashed across sickening bruises. “Noah—” The Sheriff shook his head, once, but curt enough for Peter’s jaw to slam shut so fast that his teeth groaned with the impact. Gloria wrung her hands, her bracelets jingling as the nurses finished. They checked Stiles over, gently, and then slowly removed the oxygen mask from his nose. His heartbeat increased for four beats, barely noticeable, but then returned to the previous rhythm. Erica wasn’t sure if Peter noticed through the growing sense of miserable unease, of being uprooted and just floating, waiting to land. The nurses wheeled their cart of tools out. Peter shivered at the sight of blood-stained bandages, and the Sheriff stood at their murmured you may see him now, he’s asleep. As the nurses wheeled the cart away, Erica saw that there was a light, barely-there smear of blood on the corner. The Sheriff stepped into Stiles’s room, closing the door firmly behind him as Peter exhaled like he’d been punched. Gloria crossed her arms tight across her stomach, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, as Erica kept staring at the cart. A scalpel was missing.