Scarlett had not turned on any lights. The house remained dim, washed in the thin silver glow of the moon filtering through the window beside her couch, shadows stretching long across the floor like accusing fingers. After Stiles had deleted the video, the air between them had shifted, but enough to leave something unsaid lingering in every glance. She knew why. And that was the problem.
It had never been difficult to stand near him before; she had liked the proximity, the teasing, the way his heartbeat sped up when she leaned too close. But now it felt different. And she could not wrap her head around it.
Derek's words echoed in her mind with infuriating persistence. Anchor. As if she were a werewolf losing control. As if she could be steadied by something — by someone. It was absurd. She was not a creature who needed grounding. She was hunger wrapped in skin and memory. And yet she hardly recognized herself.
She had not killed that man. One of the men she had dreamed about tearing apart for six years. She was avoiding Peter and
then there was Stiles. His scent had been everywhere. Distracting. Calming. Confusing.
She dragged a hand over her face and let out a humorless breath. She could not believe she had almost kissed him. Not leaned in with the intention of taking him to bed or sinking her teeth into his throat because his blood smelled warm and rich and alive. She had leaned in because she wanted to.
The thought made her stomach twist.
Was it the bond? It had to be the bond. There had to be something supernatural warping her reactions, bending her instincts out of shape. Otherwise, why? She had never questioned herself like this. Never doubted her own motives. She could not talk to Peter about it — she would not. The idea of him knowing she was unsure about Stiles, that she felt anything other than strategic calculation, made her jaw tighten. Peter admired her control, her cruelty when necessary, her ability to lie without blinking.
She had not even realized how long she had been standing there until darkness fully settled outside, thick and complete. The night had come without her noticing. She turned toward the thermos on the kitchen counter, the metallic surface catching a sliver of moonlight. Her stomach felt tight, coiled shut. That was new. Hunger had never retreated from her before. She had never struggled to feed. Humans were food. Peter had told her that from the beginning. And he had been right. They were fragile and temporary and warm.
So why couldn't she think of Stiles that way?
It had bothered her to see him so worried, pacing in his room, carrying the weight of things that were not meant for him. It had bothered her that she could do nothing without risking everything.
"What do you care?" she muttered aloud, anger snapping through her voice as if she could scare the weakness away. "You're being stupid." The word echoed in the quiet room. She forced herself to move, to reclaim something familiar, something instinctual. She walked toward the thermos, fingers extending to grasp it.
And then she froze.
The sensation came without warning — sharp and disorienting. Not hunger. Not rage. Panic. A sudden tightening in her chest, as if invisible fingers had wrapped around her lungs. Her hands trembled slightly before she even registered they were moving. Fear slid down her spine like cold water.
Why am I scared?
It wasn't her fear. It didn't feel like hers. It felt external and yet inside her at the same time, like an echo vibrating through bone. A hollow pressure formed in the pit of her stomach, growing, pulling, stretching into something urgent.
She turned toward the door before she consciously decided to move.
"Stiles…" The name left her lips in a whisper.
She was already walking — no, striding — toward the entrance before she understood what she was doing. The door opened under her hand, cool night air rushing against her skin. She stepped outside, heartbeat nonexistent yet mind racing, and crossed the distance to her motorcycle in seconds. Her movements were automatic, driven by something deeper than thought. The engine roared to life beneath her, the vibration grounding and useless at the same time.
This is insane, she told herself, even as she pulled away from the curb.
She wasn't choosing a direction. She wasn't thinking through options. She wasn't asking where he might be. There was simply a pull — subtle but undeniable — like a thread tied somewhere inside her chest tugging forward. It wasn't loud. It wasn't commanding. It was instinctive. Subconscious. A current beneath the surface dragging her along.
The bond.
It had to be the bond.
But she had never felt it like this before.
The streets blurred past her, wind whipping through her hair as she leaned into turns without hesitation. Questions flickered and died in the space of seconds. What could have happened? Why would he be afraid? She had left him at home. He had been fine. He had been frustrated, angry even, but safe.
Safe.
The word splintered under the pressure in her chest.
She tried to rationalize it — maybe she was imagining it, maybe her mind was projecting guilt, maybe she was overreacting. But the pull sharpened every time she doubted it, like resistance only tightened the string.
She slowed only when the buildings around her shifted, becoming more sterile, more familiar in an entirely different way. The fluorescent glow of a sign cut through the night ahead.
Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital.
Her bike rolled to a stop almost without her realizing she had eased off the throttle. The engine idled beneath her for a second before she shut it off completely. The night seemed quieter here. Heavier.
Her eyes fixed on the hospital entrance.
Why am I here? She asked herself confused. But the pull was not more there. It seemed like to be... the right place?
Scarlett barely registered the sliding doors as they opened automatically in front of her. The sterile scent of disinfectant and polished floors did nothing to cover what she had felt pulling her there. She spotted him immediately — sitting forward in one of the stiff plastic chairs, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were pale. His foot was bouncing uncontrollably against the tile.
"Stiles!"
He looked up sharply, eyes wide, as if her voice had cut through something thick and suffocating.
"Scarlett? What are you doing here?"
She stopped a few steps away from him, still trying to catch up with her own body. Her eyes looked at him up and down, closely, but she didn't see any injury, or blood. And strangely she felt relieved.
"I've felt…" She hesitated, then steadied herself. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah… yeah. It's not me." He swallowed, running a hand through his hair. "My— my dad."
Scarlett frowned in confusion,
"What happened?"
"He got hit by a car. At school." The words came out rushed, tangled in adrenaline. "I'm still waiting for him to finish the check-up."
Scarlett moved without thinking and sat beside him. Close enough to feel the tremor still lingering in him. "Have you been able to see him?"
"Yeah. Briefly. Just before." He nodded quickly, as if convincing himself. "He said he's fine, but he could have a concussion. Or something broken. They're still running tests."
Scarlett reached out and took his hand in hers, ""Let's wait for the doctors before panicking," she said quietly, realizing how warm his skin really was.
His eyes moved to their hands, before looking up. His leg still bounching a little. "Am I stressing you out, right?" He asked, worry attached to his tone. "My panic is stressing you out?"
She almost smiled, but she didn't let go of his hand. "Sometimes… But I think I can let it slide right now."
He let out a small breath at that, something between a huff and a broken laugh. They stayed like that for a moment — the hospital lights too bright, the air too cold, his heartbeat still uneven but steadier than before.
"You're here for the bond," he said after a moment. Then a little frown appeared on his face, "But how did you know I was here?"
Scarlett looked away from him, letting out a little breath. "I don't know," she hated to admitt it. There were many things Peter had never taught her... not even Thalia. "I just... I just did," she pushed her hair back, with a nervous chuckle. "I just followed-- shit. I don't even know what I'm saying." She shook her head as she looked down.
That was pathetic. All that situation was pathetic.
Then he spoke again, his tone soft, almost like a caress. "That's what you mean before?" Scarlett turned at his words. "You said that this thing between you and me is messing you up."
His eyes searched her face. He was warm, kind, he really seemed to care about what he was asking. "What's going on?"
Scarlett felt almost shy under that gaze, but she tried not to show it, "You don't have to worry about that."
"No, I know-- It's just…" He shifted toward her, shoulders tense. "I think it involves me too. I'd just like to know what's happening."
He wasn't asking for himself. She was almost sure of that, and for some reason that same feeling of guilt came back. It was bitter and unconfortable, and she didn't like it, but she couldn't push it aside.
"I don't even know, Stiles." She was surprised by her own honesty, but she didn't feel like lying. "There are things that I thought… that I didn't feel, rr worry about for years." She inhaled slowly. "Being a vampire is easier than being human."
"What do you mean?" He asked softly.
"Strong feelings." Scarlett answered, "Rage. Anger. Pleasure. Vengeance. Violence." Her voice was steady, almost clinical. "That's what keeps us going. We are creatures of base instincts. Animalistic." She paused. "But what I've been feeling since…" her words died in her throath when they met eyes, and she thought back at him on the street covered in blood. "It's just confusing."
"And it's my fault?" His tone wasn't defensive. It was uncertain.
"I still don't know." She shook her head slightly. "But if a focused vampire is dangerous, an unfocused one is... worst. That's what Talia used to tell me."
He seemed to think closely at what she had been telling, "Yeah…" He nodded slowly. "I understand. I guess." There was a short silence before he added, almost hesitant, "Can I ask you something?"
She nodded.
"The other day. When you didn't attack Derek." He cleared his throat. "He was wounded badly and from what I've read, vampires go crazy over werewolf blood."
If Scarlett's heart was still beating in her chest, it would have surely lost a beat. According to Derek it was because Stiles was her Anchor, and that thought terrorized her. But she tried her best to keep her face as relaxed as possible.
"What do you want to know?" she asked carefully.
"How did you stop it?" Stiles kept asking, "Just with focus?"
She didn't answer immediately. The memory of Derek's wound, the scent of blood — and Stiles' scent cutting through it — flashed through her mind. "I'm still not sure," she admitted. "But… Talia used to tell us that we were all humans, or at least we were once. And that part apparently never really leaves you." Scarlett remembered how Talia wished for all of them to be as close as human as possible. Peter didn't agree that much with his sister.
"So you can calm yourself like that? Keeping your humanity close?" he asked curiously, "How do you do it?"
"I don't know, Stiles," she said once again, feeling a bit confused. "I don't... She always told that it should be something, someone who keep remind you of that part."
He turned fully toward her. "Who keeps you in control..." he seemed to think about it for a moment.
"That's what she said..." she really felt strange talking about those stuff. It was too much and too confusing, she wanted to go back. Go back to the person she was before coming back to Beacon Hills. She wanted to things to be easy again.
Then suddenly the warmth around her hand got stronger, and only now she realized that they were still holding hands, and that Stiles was now holding hers closer.
"I'll make some researches," he assured her, "You don't have to worry about it."
Her gaze locked with his. "Why are you so sweet with me?" she asked quietly, observing how he shrugged his shoulders, with a kind smile.
"Shouldn't I be?"
The question hit harder than she expected. That small pang of guilt tightened in her chest, flashes of Peter attacking him came back in her mind. An idea that had been all hers...
Before one of them could say something else though, the examination room door opened and Mr. Stilinki exited with a bandage around his arm.
"Here I am." He said. His eyes finding his son immediately.
Stiles let go of her hand to stand up. "Here you are," he said quickly, stepping toward his father. "Is everything alright?"
"Nothing too major," the Sheriff replied, flexing his wrist carefully. "Got it twisted a little. But everything else is fine."
Stiles nodded, relief breaking through him in a visible wave before he wrapped his arms around his dad. Scarlett watched him closely — the way his shoulders finally dropped, the way his eyes shimmered faintly with unshed tears.
Scarlett stood up herself, crossing her arms over her chest as she watched them embrace. She now could feel how Stiles' worry was slowly disappearing, and for some reason her lips turned up into a little smile.
"Oh, Scarlett…" the Sheriff added, noticing her. The girl raised her hand in a silent greeting.
"Yeah," Stiles said, clearing his throat as he let go of his father to turn to look at her with a sweet smile. "I needed some company and… Scarlett came running."
The Sheriff looked at her with warm gratitude. "Oh, you shouldn't have."
"Don't mention it, Mr. Stilinski," she said calmly. "What's important is that you're alright."
"I am." He assured, "I just need some sleep."
"Let's go then," Stiles said, already guiding him gently toward the exit.
Scarlett followed them silently, all those storm of different feeling still hunting her badly. There was too much confusion and she had to find a way to solve it.
They stepped outside together. The Sheriff headed toward the car wishing her goodnight and Scarlett said her goodbyes giving a last look at Stiles, before making her way to her bike. But then she heard Stiles calling for her and when she turned she saw him running to her.
"Hey," he said, slightly out of breath. "I wanted to… thank you. For coming. Really."
Scarlett nodded, crossing her arms over her chest, "Don't mention it. I'm glad your dad is fine."
"Yeah... me too," he nodded, hands sliding into his pockets awkwardly. "Will you come to school tomorrow?"
Scarlett inhaled slowly. She could have, but... "I don't know." She said with a shrug of her shoulders. "I still feel…"
"Strange?" he offered gently. And Scarlett found herself nodding.
"And it's not…" She put a strand of her hair behind her ear. "I prefer not being around people when I feel like this."
"No--I get it. It makes sense," He said nodding his head before hesitating for a moment. "Can... Can I call you tomorrow?"
Her lips turned up into another smile, "Sure," she nodded and he let out a little embarassed but happy chuckle. He was going back to his usual goofy self.
She stepped closer, lifting a hand almost without thinking, her fingers brushing gently against his cheek. His skin was warm beneath her touch.
"I'm glad you're alright," Scarlett said in a whisper, realizing just after what she had said, and she was quick to take her hand back. "And your dad. I'm happy he's fine."
"Yeah, me-- me too," He swallowed but nodded, not sure of what he had to do for a second, but with a last smile he stepped back toward the car. Scarlett observed him until he was inside, and waited until she saw his blue jeep taking the road.
What is wrong with me? She thought looking down at her cold hand and how Stiles' warmth still lingered on her fingers. Her lips turned up again in a little smile.
I must be really crazy.
Then she suddenly seemed to remember where she was. In that hospital there was Peter, who was still faking his coma. And for some reason she felt nervous, but with a last look at the building, Scarlett put her helmett on and went back to her house.
Scarlett didn't remember most of the ride home.
The road blurred beneath her wheels, streetlights passing like distant stars, her mind too tangled to focus on anything but the echo of Stiles' voice, the warmth of his skin under her hand, the way he had leaned into her touch without even realizing it. She hated that memory. Hated how easily it slipped into her thoughts. Hated how much it mattered.
By the time she parked in front of her house, the night had grown thick and quiet.
She took off her helmet slowly, shaking her head once as if that could scatter the thoughts away.
She walked up the steps and unlocked the door, already reaching for the light switch—
and stopped.
The scent hit her first.
Sharp. Familiar. Wild.
Werewolf.
But not the one she would have expected.
"Hello, Derek." Her lips curved into a tired smirk as she closed the door behind her. "It must be nice," she muttered, dropping her keys on the table, "not to need an invitation."
She turned to flick on the light and, when she could see him clearly, a frown appeared on her face as she noticed he wasn't wearing a shirt.
"Sweetie, I'm flattered," she said, taking off her leather jacket, "but I'm really not interested."
He rolled his eyes. "I got attacked this afternoon." Scarlett frowned, confused. "Kate Argent came to my house, with two other hunters."
The name alone made something dark settle in her stomach.
"Did you fight?" she asked, her fingers gripping her arms, her nails almost scratching her own skin.
"Just enough to give her time to play with me," he answered, shaking his head. "She wanted to talk." He almost let out a chuckle.
"About what?" Scarlett asked darkly.
Derek took a breath. "She wanted to know who the Alpha is. And when she understood that I didn't know anything, she said something else."
Scarlett didn't say anything as she waited for Derek to continue.
"She said they didn't kill Laura."
Scarlett's eyes widened.
"Liars!" she exclaimed in anger. The Argents did nothing but lie. What? Next thing she would say she wasn't behind the fire at their house?
Peter had told her they had attacked Laura, that they had mortally wounded her. And Kate Argent kept lying.
"She wasn't lying, Scarlett," Derek said gravely. "I heard her heartbeat."
The vampire let out a short, humorless chuckle.
"Like you've never been wrong about her before."
Derek's eyes widened at her words, and Scarlett bit her lip, turning away. It wasn't like she truly believed that. She had always found it difficult not to blame Derek for trusting Kate Argent, but she knew what she had said must have hurt him.
"You can't trust her," Scarlett insisted.
"I don't trust her," Derek answered sharply. "But I figured you should know."
Scarlett's leg bounced slightly. That was absurd. That woman could lie better than Scarlett herself. She must have been used to it—if her heart didn't give her away. Not that it was difficult to believe, after what she had done.
"Did she ever see you?" Derek asked again, making her frown.
"The bitch?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Derek simply waited for her to continue. "No. I try to keep myself away from that house as much as possible."
"That's a good choice," Derek replied. "She won't hold back from killing us."
Scarlett observed the werewolf in front of her.
"I wish she'd try," she said, not hiding her anger.
Derek took a breath. "She's dangerous, Scarlett."
So am I, she thought, feeling her fangs threatening to slide out, but she did everything she could to keep them at bay.
Silence settled between them, heavy but not hostile. Scarlett turned away first, walking toward the kitchen, needing movement. Her mind was already racing. She wanted to kill Kate Argent. She wanted to see her lifeless body on the ground, fear frozen in her eyes. Then maybe everything would finally feel even. Then maybe all that anger would finally find peace.
Suddenly, a text made her pull her phone from the pocket of her jeans.
Stiles.
"Thanks for today. It meant a lot."
Scarlett let out a small breath as her thumb lightly brushed over Stiles' name. For some reason, she wished he were there with her.
To do what? What could he even do? she scolded herself, slipping the phone back into her jeans.
Then she opened her wardrobe to take a blanket and went back to Derek, tossing it at him. His werewolf senses made him turn and catch it with a slight frown.
"You take the couch," she said shortly. "There's nothing in the fridge—unless you want to try pig blood."
His nose wrinkled immediately. "That's disgusting."
I know what you mean, she thought.