The road was almost empty, long stretches of dark asphalt slipping beneath the headlights as Stiles drove slower than usual. Not cautious exactly—just thinking. The trees on either side blurred into black walls, and the moon hung low enough to feel close.
Scarlett sat angled slightly toward him, one knee turned in his direction, her shoulder brushing the door. She could feel the tension radiating off him in soft, restless pulses. He kept tightening and loosening his grip on the steering wheel, jaw working like he was chewing on words.
"He's worse tonight," he said finally, eyes still fixed ahead. "I mean… I know full moon equals claws and drama and general wolf chaos, but this is different."
Scarlett watched the way his brows pulled together. "He lost his anchor."
Stiles glanced at her briefly, then back to the road. "Yeah, I know..."
Silence stretched for a moment. The engine hummed between them.
"So that's it? That's all it takes?" he asked, quieter now. "You break up with your girlfriend and suddenly you're one snarl away from mauling people?"
She tilted her head slightly, studying his profile. "It's not that simple. But yes. It makes a difference." Scarlett held his gaze for a second when he turned then she kept going.
"An anchor isn't logic, you know that. It's… a feeling. Something that reminds you who you are when instinct tries to overwrite you." She paused, eyes drifting briefly to the trees. "It makes you more human." Scarlett's lips curved slightly. "It changes things. Choices that feel obvious when you're drowning in instinct suddenly don't. Violence doesn't feel like the only answer anymore."
He absorbed that in silence. The headlights caught his face for a moment, and she could see the way his thoughts were moving quickly behind his eyes.
"Do you…" He hesitated, then glanced at her again. "Did you ever have one?"
The question landed between them heavier than he probably intended. And Scarlett didn't answer immediately. She watched the trees instead, the way shadows shifted between trunks.
She exhaled slowly. "I've felt… different lately. For a while now." Her fingers brushed lightly against her own wrist, an unconscious movement, then she turned to him. "But the night at the school—that's when I knew."
Stiles' hand stilled on the steering wheel. He turned his head fully this time, eyes widening as understanding dawned all at once. "You mean—"
She met his gaze. "Yes."
His eyes went impossibly wider. "Really?"
Scarlett rolled hers faintly, though there was warmth under it. "Don't look at me like that. It's new for me too. I didn't even know we could have one." She held his stare, unflinching. "But that night… you calmed my hunger."
His breath hitched.
"I would have killed them," she continued, quieter now. "Probably all of them. I was that close. And then you were there." A faint, almost self-mocking smile touched her mouth. "And suddenly it didn't feel necessary anymore."
He stared at her like she'd just said something impossible.
"So," she added, turning her gaze back to the road, "it's important we find Scott before he hurts someone. Because that could really happen."
Stiles nodded slowly, still processing. "Yeah. Alright."
A flash of red and blue light cut through the trees ahead of them.
An ambulance was parked crooked near the edge of the woods, a patrol car beside it, officers and paramedics moving quickly under the glare of rotating lights. A stretcher emerged from between the trees.
"No, no, no," Stiles breathed.
He pulled over so abruptly the tires crunched against gravel. He was out of the car before it had fully stopped.
"Stiles!" Scarlett called, already moving after him.
He was pale, eyes wide, scanning every uniform in sight. "Dad?" His voice cracked. Another squad car rolled in, doors slamming. He grabbed the shoulder of the nearest officer and spun him around. "Dad?"
It wasn't him.
Scarlett circled the car and reached him just as his breathing started to spiral. "Has anyone seen my—has anyone seen my dad?" he demanded, voice rising.
She stepped in front of him and caught his face between her hands, forcing him to focus. "Stiles."
"Where's my dad?" His eyes were wild, panic flooding every sense she had.
She could feel it—sharp, blinding, suffocating. "Look at me," she whispered, steady despite the storm under his skin.
The stretcher rolled closer. He turned instinctively, taking half a step forward like he was about to rip the sheet away—but he froze when he saw the hand that hung from beneath it.
Burned. Blackened.
Then a familiar voice cut through the noise. "Stiles? What are you doing here?"
They both turned.
The Sheriff stood a few feet away, alive, upright and confused.
Stiles didn't answer. He just crossed the distance and wrapped his arms around him, holding on tight.
Scarlett felt the relief hit him like a wave breaking. It was so intense it almost made her chest ache. A small smile curved her lips as she watched them, and when the Sheriff's eyes lifted to meet hers over his son's shoulder, she gave him a small nod.
"What are you two doing here?" he asked once they pulled apart.
Stiles opened his mouth. "We… umm… we—"
"We were on a date, Mr. Stilinski," Scarlett stepped forward smoothly, positioning herself at Stiles' side. Their arms brushed as they glanced at each other.
"Oh really?" the Sheriff asked, almost impressed.
Stiles grinned faintly before glancing back at the body under the sheet. "What happened?"
"That poor guy was found in a fire bin," the Sheriff replied grimly. "He was thrown in there."
"Into the fire bin?" Stiles echoed, horrified.
Scarlett barely heard the rest. Something tugged at the back of her senses—subtle, wrong. The woods behind the emergency vehicles seemed deeper somehow. Thicker. She found herself turning slowly, scanning the treeline. It felt like something was watching. Was it Scott? She wasn't sure. Was it Peter?
She didn't even notice she had taken a few steps away until Stiles' fingers brushed her arm gently.
"Scar." His voice softened. She turned back to him. "Hey, is everything alright?"
"Yeah…" she said, though her eyes flicked once more toward the dark. "It just felt like—" She shook her head slightly. "It doesn't matter. Are you okay?"
He exhaled, embarrassed. "Yeah. Sorry I freaked out."
She shook her head, her hand found his as if to reassure him that she really didn't mind. Then his fingers closed around hers, she smiled at him. "I'm glad he is okay."
But then his phone rang, making them both jump. Stiles cursed under his breath as he took out his phone but as he read the name his eyes grew larger and he answered immediately.
"Hello? Eve. What— Really?" Relief flooded his voice. "Oh great. Is he safe? Under control?"
Scarlett watched his shoulders relax as he listened.
"They found him and brought him home," he told her once he hung up.
"Well," she said softly, stepping closer with a teasing tilt to her lips, "we can finally call it a night then. Even so… there's been part of this night I've really enjoyed."
His expression shifted instantly and a goofy, embarassed smile appeared on his lips, "Yeah. Definitely."
They were close enough to feel each other's breath again, memory of the earlier kiss flickering between them. Scarlett had really liked how his lips had felt on hers.
"Can you bring me back to my bike?" she asked.
He nodded, and after telling his father he'd be home in thirty minutes, they climbed back into the car.
The drive back toward Scott's house felt slower this time, though Stiles wasn't driving any differently. The tension had shifted; it no longer pulsed sharply in the air, but it hadn't disappeared either. The moon was higher now, silver and cold, casting long shadows across the quiet residential streets. Houses slipped past them in orderly rows, porch lights glowing softly, windows dark and unaware of the chaos threading through the town.
Stiles pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, and for a second neither of them moved. The McCall house stood quiet beneath the pale wash of moonlight, the curtains drawn, the porch light still on like someone had left it that way out of habit rather than need.
"Will you go in?" Scarlett asked, watching him instead of the house.
He kept his eyes on the front door. "I don't know," he admitted, the words coming slower now, less reactive and more thoughtful.
She tilted her head as she observed his features, "I hope you're not still angry at him."
He let out a breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. "I should be," he said. "But I'm almost grateful he went all lunatic like that."
She raised her eyebrows quite enjoying what he was saying.
He glanced at her and found her closer than he expected, her expression softer now, the tension from earlier replaced by something warmer and steadier. The world outside the car felt distant and muted, like the night had pulled a curtain around them.
They leaned toward each other at the same time, their foreheads almost brushing before their lips met again. The kiss was slower than the others, like they really wanted to enjoyed that moment.
When they pulled back, they didn't separate immediately.
"Does that mean—" he started, brain clearly sprinting ahead of him. "Does that mean we're dating? Do you… date?"
She watched the way his eyes searched hers, hopeful and nervous all at once. "Do you want to date me?" she asked lightly, though there was something sincere under the tease.
"God, yes," he answered without hesitation.
She laughed softly, the sound warm in the small space, and kissed him again—quick, sweet, then another, softer peck that lingered just a little longer.
His phone vibrating in his pocket made him groan and drop his forehead briefly against hers. "It's my dad. He wants to make sure I'm going home."
A smirk appeared on her face, "Oh," she teased, "So he thinks you're that kind of guy."
"I'm not!" he protested immediately. "I'm a gentleman. Totally."
She giggles pecking his lips one more time, "Relax. I'm fine with both."
He froze inside the car, eyes widening as his brain tried to catch up. "You mean—"
She smiled, opening the door and stepping out into the cool night air. "Goodnight, Stiles."
He's gaze went on her, he was still amusigly confused, but a goofy smile appeared on his face. "Goodnight."
She watched him drive away, the Jeep's taillights shrinking at the end of the street until they disappeared completely. Only then did she let herself smile fully, covering her mouth with her hand as a quiet laugh escaped her. For a moment, standing alone in the moonlight, she felt almost light.
She drew in a steady breath and turned toward her motorcycle parked near the curb.
The night had settled again, calm and still, the distant hum of the town barely audible. She slid her helmet on and swung her leg over the bike, hands steady on the handlebars.
And then it came back; that same subtle prickle at the base of her spine. Like something brushing lightly against her senses from somewhere unseen.
She stilled, listening.
The street was empty. The houses silent. But the feeling inside her lingered.
She knew she had felt it before.
The engine roared beneath her as she pulled away from the curb, the vibration steady between her legs, the cool night air slicing past her jacket. The road opened in front of her in long, empty stretches, streetlights thinning as she left the residential blocks behind.
She glanced in the rearview mirror.
Nothing.
Just darkness and the faint glow of distant streetlamps.
She turned her gaze forward again, jaw tightening slightly beneath the helmet. The wind rushed louder in her ears as she accelerated, the forest edging closer on either side of the road.
She checked the mirror again.
Here you are, she thought.
This time she saw them; two shapes emerging from the dark bend behind her—cars, moving fast.
So you've found me, she said to herself. She knew that they could realize what she was, she had just not pictured to be like this when they did.
Well, there was nothing she could do about it now. She had already faced hunters before.
She twisted the throttle without hesitation. The bike surged forward, engine whining sharply as the trees blurred into streaks of shadow. The road curved and she leaned with it, body fluid and controlled, but the cars matched her perfectly, closing the distance like predators who already knew where their prey would turn.
She swerved abruptly onto a narrower side road, gravel spitting beneath her tires as she cut toward the forest access path she knew too well. The first car followed instantly. The second veered wide before correcting and slipping in behind it.
She pushed harder, the bike jolting as asphalt gave way to uneven dirt, branches slapping against her arms as she tore down the narrow path into the woods. The forest swallowed the sound differently here, muffling the engines, turning everything raw and immediate.
A crack split the air.
For half a second she didn't understand what she was hearing.
Then fire tore through her left shoulder—high, just below the collarbone.
The impact was violent and sudden, her body jerking backward as pain exploded down her arm. She lost balance instantly. The bike fishtailed, tires skidding uselessly over loose earth before it tipped sideways.
She rolled on impact, twisting her body so she landed on her right shoulder instead of the wounded one. The world spun in dirt and branches, but she pushed herself up and started running.
She tore into the trees, sprinting through the dark with preternatural speed, boots barely touching the ground. Behind her she heard doors slam. Voices. Then footsteps.
They were coming on foot.
Another bolt whistled past her ear and embedded into a tree trunk ahead.
She veered sharply left, breath steady despite the pain radiating from her shoulder. Blood soaked into her sleeve, warm and slick.
She ducked behind a thick oak tree for half a second—just long enough.
Her hand shot to the shaft protruding from her shoulder.
It was an arrow.
Of course it was.
She snapped the shaft short with a sharp movement and gritted her teeth as she yanked the rest free in one brutal motion. The pain was blinding, white-hot, but she didn't scream. The wound began closing almost instantly, flesh knitting together slowly.
If it had hit lower—if it had been a few inches down, it would have pierced her heart.
She didn't let herself think about it and she ran again.
Branches clawed at her hair and jacket as she moved deeper into the woods, senses flaring wide, picking up heartbeats scattered behind her. At least three. No—four.
And then—
She hit something solid.
Or someone.
The collision was violent enough to knock her backward. She stumbled, regained her footing, and looked up. Her eyes glared in anger as she saw Kate Argent standing in front of her.
Blonde hair pulled back, bow crossbow lowered, a handgun gleaming in her other hand. Her smile was almost pleased.
"Well, well," Kate said smoothly, eyes dragging over Scarlett's bleeding shoulder. "You're harder to drop than most."
Scarlett didn't hesitate.
She lunged, her fangs showing.
They collided again, but this time intentionally. Scarlett slammed into her with enough force to drive them both into a tree. Kate recovered fast—faster than most humans ever could—and drove her knee upward, catching Scarlett in the ribs. The impact hurt more than it should have.
"So you didn't became ash in that fire," Kate told her.
Scarlett responded by grabbing Kate's wrist and twisting hard. The gun fired into the air as it slipped from her hand, disappearing somewhere in the underbrush.
"You had to come and get me, bitch!" Scarlett said and Kate chuckled.
A wooden stick in her other hand. The point end aimed at her heart so Scarlett had to moved back just enough to dodge her attack, and then
Scarlett grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the trunk behind her. The bark cracked under the force.
Kate's breath hitched—but she laughed.
"Still angry, little corpse?" Kate murmured, eyes gleaming.
Scarlett tightened her grip. "I've dreamt for this moment for so long," she was ready to bite her down when a gunshot rang out from somewhere behind them.
Another arrow struck the tree inches from Scarlett's head.
"Kate!" a voice shouted from the dark.
More hunters.
Scarlett's eyes flicked toward the movement just long enough.
Kate used it. She moved the wooden stick and Scarlett gasped as she blocked her attack with her forearm, but then Kate moved her other hand and the sharp pain on a blade hitting Scarlett her in the ribs made the vampire scream, throwing the woman away from her, so that she could take the knife out.
But as she turned to attack Kate again, footsteps were closing in. Flashlights flickered between trees.
She could kill Kate now. She could suck her dry like she deserved. But she wouldn't leave alive afterward. And at the thought of dying a pair of big honey brown eyes flashed in her mind
Kate stepped back, retrieving another weapon from her belt, breathing slightly heavier now.
"You're alone, sweetie," she called after her, voice smooth and cruel.
Scarlett bared her teeth, but she turned and vanished into the deeper woods just as more hunters broke through the tree line, weapons raised.
Gunshots and arrows echoed behind her as she didn't stop running.
The forest swallowed her again, shadows folding around her as her wounds sealed slowly, anger burning hotter than the pain.
I had her! She thought with a groan of fury.
The thought tore through her like a splinter she couldn't pull out, sharp and relentless, catching on every breath as she ran, as if her body could outpace the frustration burning behind her ribs. Scarlett moved through the trees without slowing, feet barely making sound against the damp earth, the forest a blur of black trunks and whipping branches, but the anger stayed locked to her spine like a second shadow.
Kate had been right there. Close enough that Scarlett had felt the vibration of her pulse under her palm, had tasted the heat of her breath, had imagined what it would have been like to finally do it, to finally take back something that had been ripped from her and scorched into ash. If she'd been alone, truly alone, she would've ended it. She would have broken Kate open and left nothing behind but quiet.
Scarlett bared her teeth as she vaulted a fallen trunk, shoulder still throbbing from where the arrow had struck, ribs still singing with the echo of that blade. Her body was healing, knitting together slowly, stubbornly, but the pain lingered in stubborn streaks, enough to remind her that she wasn't untouchable.
She didn't stop until the trees thinned and the road reappeared, until the quiet shape of her house rose out of the darkness like a promise she wasn't sure she believed in. Only then did she slow, breath steady but chest tight, senses stretched wide as she scanned the street for headlights that didn't belong.
She slipped inside and locked the door, then locked it again even though it was already locked, fingers moving too fast, too tense, like the extra motion could seal the fear out with the deadbolt. She moved through the rooms the way she would clear a battlefield, checking windows, pulling curtains, making sure every latch was shut, every entry point secured, because the memory of those hunters breaking through the tree line still clung to her skin, and she could still hear the snap of branches behind her, the hiss of something slicing the air too close to her face.
When she finished, she stood in the middle of her living room and stared at the walls, suddenly aware of how thin they were, how ridiculous it was that humans could call themselves safe from a vampire.
They get to come home and be untouchable, she thought, pacing, footsteps silent on the floor. They get to hide in their houses and pretend the world can't reach them in here. And I—what? I'm supposed to sit behind locked windows and hope the people who want me dead won't burst in?
The bitter laugh that rose in her throat didn't make it out.
Her hand drifted to her shoulder, fingers pressing lightly where the wound had been. The skin was already closing, smoothening itself into something nearly whole, but her sleeve was still sticky with dried blood, the fabric stiff where it had soaked through. She could change. She could shower. She could pretend this night was over.
She didn't.
Instead she paced, again and again, the same path from the window to the kitchen to the door and back, listening for tires on gravel, for footsteps on the porch, for the slightest change in the night's rhythm. Her senses kept snagging on harmless things—the creak of cooling pipes, a tree branch scraping lightly against glass, the distant bark of a dog—and every time, her body tensed as if it was about to happen again.
At some point she found herself staring at her phone.
Peter.
She could call Peter...
It would have been so easy, once. He would have answered. He would have laughed that smooth, cold laugh and told her she should have finished it, that she should have torn Kate apart before the others got there, that mercy was a weakness and hesitation was death. He would have been pleased she had gotten close enough to put her hands on the throat of the woman who had burned their world down.
And she hated that a part of her still craved that. His praises.
She picked up the phone.
Her thumb hovered over his contact.
Then she threw it onto the couch hard enough that it bounced once and landed crooked between the cushions.
No. She told herself.
She wasn't ready to hear his voice, not when she'd failed. Not when the victory had been in her hands and she'd had to run because she wasn't alone and they would have killed her. Because somewhere in the back of her mind there had been a pair of wide brown eyes and a boy's warm hands and the memory of a kiss that had felt like something she didn't want to leave behind.
She stood still for a moment after that, breathing through her nose, jaw clenched.
I should have been stronger.
The thought wasn't gentle. It was a blade turned inward, sharp with shame.
The rest of the night passed in fragments. Scarlett didn't sleep—not even for a minute—because sleep felt like surrender, and she wasn't willing to be caught with her guard down. She sat on the edge of the couch with the lights off and listened to the house breathe around her, then walked the perimeter again, then stood by the window watching the street until her eyes began to burn from not blinking enough. The moon moved across the sky. The darkness softened at the edges. The hours dragged.
When she finally checked the clock and saw it was almost eight.
She was still here. Still alive and still furious.
Then Scarlett turned her gaze, noticing the phone laying where she'd thrown it hours ago. But this time, when she picked it up, her hand didn't hesitate over Peter's name. She scrolled past it and stopped on another contact.
Stiles.
For a second she just stared, as if her own choice surprised her. She hadn't planned to call him. She hadn't planned to need him. She wasn't even sure what she would say. But the house felt too small and her nerves felt too raw, and somewhere underneath the anger there was a loneliness she refused to name.
She hit call before she could change her mind.
It rang twice. Three times.
Then a voice, thick with sleep, mumbled into her ear. "Hello?"
Her chest tightened. She hadn't expected the sound of him to undo her like that.
"Shit," she said immediately, the word slipping out with a quiet edge of guilt. "Sorry. You were sleeping."
There was a pause, and she could hear him shift, the soft rustle of fabric and the faint creak of a bed. When he spoke again, his voice was clearer, still sleepy but already more present.
"Scarlett," he said, softer. "Hey." Another pause. "Is everything alright?"
The question hit harder than it should have. It was too simple, too genuine, asked without any suspicion, without any demand for explanation. It made something in her throat tighten unexpectedly.
She swallowed, staring at the dark smudge of dried blood on her sleeve, at the way the fabric was torn near her shoulder. Her anger was still there, still simmering, but it didn't feel as steady now. It felt like it was cracking.
"Can I ask you a favor?" she said, voice carefully controlled.
"Sure," he replied immediately, no hesitation at all. "What is it?"
She exhaled slowly, fingers threading through her hair in a restless motion, tugging once as if she could pull the tension out by the roots. "I… I need a ride."
There was silence for a moment and then he spoke, gently as ever, "Okay, sure."
She closed her eyes. She hadn't realized how much she needed him to say that.
"Scarlett what's going on?" he asked her again.
She took a breath, "Can I… Can I explain later?" she said, quieter.
"Yeah," he said, and there was something grounding in the steadiness of his tone, something that made the air in her chest loosen just a fraction. "Of course. I'll be there in twenty, okay?"
Her lips parted as if she wanted to argue, to tell him not to rush, not to bother, not to—anything, really, that would make her feel less like she was leaning on him.
But the truth was she wanted him here.
"Yeah," she breathed. "Yeah, sure."
"Scar," he said, and there was a softness to it that stopped her hand from ending the call. "Just—" He hesitated, like he was trying to find the right words through the fog of sleep and worry. "Just tell me if you're alright."
Her eyes stung. It was ridiculous, why she felt the need to cry. But she forced herself not to.
"I'm alright," she said, and even if it wasn't entirely true, she meant it in the only way she could. She was alive. "I'll see you later."
"Okay," he murmured. "Okay. See you soon."
She ended the call and stared at the blank screen in her hand.
It was strange—because she could remember, so clearly, the moment she'd turned away from Kate and run, and it hadn't been because she was afraid of dying. It hadn't been because she lacked the strength. It had been something else, something softer and more complicated, something that had felt like a hand closing around the back of her heart and pulling her away from the edge.
And she didn't know what to do with the fact that she couldn't find it in herself to be angry at him for that.
She sat down slowly on the couch, phone still in her palm, and stared at the front door as if she could will time forward.
I should have been stronger, she thought again.
She heard the Jeep before she saw it.
For half a second she just stood there, watching through the narrow slit between the curtains as Stiles stepped out of the driver's side, hoodie thrown on in a rush, movements already quick and alert.
Relief didn't come gently. It hit low in her stomach and loosened something she hadn't realized she'd been bracing all night.
She didn't wait for him to reach the door. The last thing she wanted was for him to stand under her porch longer than necessary. If the hunters had tracked her once, she wasn't giving them a second chance.
She slipped outside and closed the door softly behind her.
"Hey," he said the moment he saw her, crossing the short distance between them in three quick steps.
He didn't hesitate. His hands came up automatically, settling on her arms just above her elbows.
"Are you alright?" He asked scanning her face.
She held his gaze for a second before answering. "I had a rough night."
His brows pulled together instantly. "What?" His grip tightened slightly without him noticing. "What happened?"
She glanced once down the quiet street, senses stretching automatically toward the shadows. She felt like she was becoming paranoid.
"Let's talk in the car."
That worried him more.
He searched her face like he was trying to read the part she wasn't saying out loud, but he nodded and followed her without arguing. They slid into the Jeep, doors shutting with a heavy, insulated thud.
"So?" he asked as soon as the doors closed, turning fully toward her, his body angled in her direction.
She drew in a breath, steady but not effortless. "When you left, I was on Crescent Ridge," she began, eyes drifting briefly to the windshield as if replaying it. "A couple of cars started following me."
His expression shifted immediately.
"They were the hunters," she finished quietly.
"Oh my God, Scarlett." The words came out almost under his breath, like he didn't have enough air for them.
"I'm alright," she said quickly, and there was a trace of insistence in it, like she needed him to believe that part first. "Nothing happened."
He stared at her, tilting his head to the side, clearly not believing her, "Did you fight with them?"
She hesitated and that was enough to make him exhale through his nose. "That doesn't sound like nothing happened, Scarlett."
She looked down for a second, jaw tightening faintly. "Yeah, I know." A small shrug followed, controlled. "Don't worry about it. Us creatures… we know these things can happen."
"That doesn't make it better at all," he shot back immediately, leaning closer, frustration threading through the worry now. "Did they follow you here?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "I don't think so. If they had, they would've attacked."
He ran a hand through his buzz hair, pacing in his seat like he needed to move but couldn't. "We need to talk about this with Scott."
She let out a short breath that almost resembled a laugh, but it wasn't amused. "And what is he going to do? Tell Allison to ask her father to please not hunt me at night?"
"Your sarcasm is unnecessary," he said, though the edge in his voice wasn't anger. She could feel that he was scared.
"I know." She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. "But really. I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine at all."
That landed.
Because it was true.
She looked down at her hands, at the faint tear in her sleeve she hadn't bothered to change, and for a second the composed mask slipped just slightly. The exhaustion was there. The adrenaline crash. The anger she hadn't burned through yet.
He noticed.
And this time it was his hand that reached for hers.
He didn't make a big gesture out of it. He just slid his fingers over hers, warm and steady, and laced them together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She turned her head toward him at that, and the faintest smile curved her lips.
"Where did you want me to take you?" he asked more gently now.
"I need to get my bike."
He frowned instinctively and glanced toward her yard through the windshield, only now registering the absence.
"I left it in the woods when I ran." She explained.
He stared at her for a full second.
"You and Scott are going to make me die of a heart attack one day," he muttered, but there was no bite in it—just exasperated affection.
She watched him with that small, quiet smile still hovering at the corner of her mouth as he turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, headlights cutting across the empty street again.
As they pulled away, his hand didn't immediately leave hers; it stayed there on the console between them like a quiet decision, warm fingers loosely threaded with hers while the Jeep rolled through stretches of the streets.
Scarlett watched the way the light painted Stiles' profile in soft shadows—his brows still slightly drawn, the muscles in his jaw working whenever he thought too hard—and she let herself breathe in time with the steady rhythm of the engine, telling herself the night was over even if her body didn't fully believe it yet.
They found the access path more by memory than by signs, Stiles turning off the main road with a cautious ease that didn't match the way his thoughts were clearly still sprinting, and the tires crunched over gravel as the woods closed in around them.
Scarlett felt her senses sharpen on instinct, as she told him where to go just by instinct.
"There," she said quietly, and Stiles slowed immediately.
The bike lay on its side a few yards off the path, half-hidden by ferns and broken branches, the metal scuffed and the rear mirror snapped at an awkward angle. Scarlett climbed out before the Jeep fully stopped, boots sinking into soft earth, and for a second she just stood over it, staring like she expected it to dissolve into smoke the way everything good eventually did.
Stiles came around the front of the Jeep and stopped beside her, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets as he took it in. "Okay," he muttered, equal parts relief and disbelief. "It's… not, like, a flaming wreck. That's… that's a win."
Scarlett's lips twitched despite herself, and she crouched, fingers running over the handlebars and the dented tank, checking damage.
The bike smelled like dirt and her own dried blood and sap from where it had skidded, but when she tested the throttle and the brakes there was resistance, it was still functional.
"It'll run," she said.
"Good," Stiles exhaled, and only then did she realize he'd been holding his breath. He stepped closer as she lifted it upright with a smooth, practiced motion, and his hand hovered near her elbow like he wanted to help but didn't want to insult her by assuming she needed it. She noticed anyway.
A few meters deeper into the brush, the helmet sat near a fallen branch, glossy black with a scrape along one side. Scarlett retrieved it, turning it in her hands as if checking for cracks, then tucked it against her hip and glanced back at Stiles. He was watching her with that quiet intensity. She could feel how worried he was.
His phone buzzed in his pocket before she could say anything, and she observed him as he pulled it out. "It's Scott."
Scarlett watched his expression shift as he answered, voice automatically softening into something careful and familiar. "Scott? Hey—" A pause, his eyes lifting to Scarlett as if to include her in whatever was being said on the other end. "Yeah-- No. I'm with Scarlett. We're… we're out, what's going on?" Another pause, longer this time. "Okay, okay— Your house?" He said with a nod. "Yeah. We'll be there in ten."
He ended the call and looked at Scarlett as she got closer to him. "He wants to see us," he said. "He and Evelyn. He said it's… important."
Scarlett nodded once, "Alright," she said, sliding the helmet under her arm and swinging her leg over the bike. The engine coughed on the first attempt, then caught, vibrating alive beneath her, and for a second she just sat there, hands on the grips.
When she looked up again, Stiles was already climbing back into the Jeep, glancing at her as if he was making sure she'd really follow.
"I'll be right behind you," she said.
"I know," he replied, and something about the certainty in his tone made her smile at him.
By the time they turned into Scott's driveway, the house looked deceptively normal again, like it hadn't been the center of panic and snarls and broken restraints only hours before. Stiles parked and climbed out first, waiting until Scarlett killed the bike and removed her helmet.
They didn't have to knock twice.
Scott opened the door almost immediately, and the moment Scarlett saw him she registered the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes flicked too quickly between their faces like he was measuring reactions, as if he was checking for anger.
"Hey," he said, voice careful. "I… I'm really sorry. About yesterday. About… all of it." His gaze landed on Stiles first. Then he looked at Scarlett, and she felt the faintest spike of nervousness, she really hoped he would not and never talk about why he kissed her, about that connection he spoke about.
"Don't think about that anymore," she said smoothly, like she was brushing dust off a table, and she watched the relief flash briefly across his face. Puppy brown eye looking at her content. Then she turned her head slightly toward Stiles, letting the corner of her shoulder brush his.
"I'm not mad," she added, voice lighter. "Are you mad?"
Stiles blinked like he hadn't expected the question to be handed to him that gently, and his mouth twisted as if he was fighting between honesty and instinctive sarcasm. "No," he said finally, and it came out slower than his usual rapid-fire reflex. "It doesn't… set right with me. Like, at all. But—" he glanced at Scott, "I think I can forgive you."
Scott's shoulders eased visibly, like his body had been braced for a blow and hadn't gotten one.
And then Scott looked between them again—really looked this time—and something clicked so hard in his expression it was almost comical. His eyes widened, not with fear but with startled comprehension, and the next thing Scarlett knew he was grinning like an idiot.
"Dude," Scott blurted, half-laughing in disbelief.
Stiles' ears went red instantly. "Oh my God," he muttered, mortified, and Scarlett rolled her eyes with a faint, helpless smile that she didn't even try to hide.
Boys.
"Oh, you two are here," Evelyn's voice floated from the kitchen before any of them could sink further into the awkwardness, with that strange brighteness she usually carried.
She appeared in the doorway holding a coffee pot. "Coffee?"
Scarlett's gaze flicked to it, then to Evelyn. "There's sugar in it?" she asked.
Evelyn shook her head. "No."
"Then give me a big one, please," Scarlett said with complete seriousness.
They gathered around the dining table. Evelyn set a mug in front of Scarlett, dark coffee steaming, and Scarlett wrapped her fingers around it even though the heat felt too hot against her cold skin.
Scott sat down last, shoulders still tense despite his apology, eyes shifting between them.
"Last night," he started, voice quiet, "I talked to Derek." He swallowed, then pushed through. "I asked him about a cure. If there's one."
Stiles straightened immediately, like the word cure had yanked him upright by a string. "And there's one?" he asked, eyes widening.
Scott nodded, but he didn't look happy about it.
"He said there is," Scott confirmed. "But… it's not easy."
Scarlett frowned, she had never knew about a cure.
"According to Derek," Scott continued, "the only way for a werewolf who got the bite to… get cured, is to kill the Alpha who bit him."
For a second the room felt too small, the ceiling too low.
Scarlett's fingers tightened around the mug, and she forced her face into calm even as something cold slid down her spine.
Peter.
"And what did you say?" Scarlett asked, voice controlled, almost too even.
Stiles didn't wait for Scott to answer, because of course he didn't. "He said yes, of course," Stiles cut in, turning toward Scott like he couldn't believe the question even needed to be asked. "Please tell me you said yes."
Scott's gaze dropped. "I just want a normal life," he said quietly, and the words didn't sound dramatic coming from him—they sounded tired. "I don't want to wake up and wonder if I'm going to hurt someone. I don't want to be… this."
Scarlett leaned back in her chair slightly, keeping her tone steady even as her mind flashed through images she didn't want—Peter had always been there for her. "Scott," she said, carefully, "that's an Alpha. He's stronger and faster than you ever could be."
"Derek said he'll help me," Scott insisted, grasping for it like it was a lifeline.
Scarlett's eyes narrowed just slightly. "Derek isn't an Alpha either," she said, and when Stiles' head turned toward her with a confused frown, she forced to softened the edge of her voice. "What I mean is—it's not an easy task for two betas. Especially if you're part of the Alpha's pack."
Evelyn leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around her own mug.
"I'm trying to do research," she said, earnest and a little frustrated. "But I'm more of a book kind of girl, and I'm useless with the internet." She looked directly at Stiles. "I'll need your help."
Stiles blinked, grateful for a task,
"Sure. No problem. In finding what?"
"PDFs," Evelyn said, dead serious. "Old. Very old books."
Stiles stared. "Old books will help us with the Alpha?"
Evelyn's mouth quirked, "Old books can help us with a lot of things," she replied.
"Cryptic," Stiles muttered, then nodded like he'd just been sold a very questionable product and was choosing optimism anyway. "But alright. Sold."
Scarlett kept her expression composed, but inside her the tension stayed coiled, sharp and heavy. She couldn't stop seeing Peter's face. She had hated him for Laura. She had hated him for lying. And yet the thought of him dead—truly dead—still clawed something complicated in her chest, like grief twisted with rage.
"Scarlett?" Scott's voice snapped her focus back. He was watching her, worried now. "Are you alright?"
She nodded quickly, too quickly, and Stiles' hand found hers under the table like it belonged there. His fingers curled around hers with a gentle certainty that steadied something in her, even as her mind stayed loud.
"She had a rough night," Stiles said, and his voice was calm but edged with protective anger as he looked at Scott. "Scott. The hunters tried to kill her tonight."
Scott's eyes widened. "Oh my God," he breathed. "Allison's father."
"Probably," Scarlett said, swallowing the bitter taste that rose with the name. "I fought with her aunt before her… minions showed up."
Scott blinked. "You know her aunt?"
Scarlett's throat tightened for the briefest second. If she knew Kate... but she could not let them know.
She forced her face into something neutral, something that didn't invite more questions. "I… I've seen her with Allison once," she lied smoothly, and the lie sat heavy on her tongue like it always did now, heavier than it used to.
Evelyn's eyes sharpened. "If they know you're a vampire, you're in danger, Scarlett."
"Yeah," Scarlett said quietly. "I know."
Stiles' grip on her hand tightened. "So what do we do?" he asked, and he sounded like he was trying not to let the panic win. "You hide. You should hide. Staying low profile, no school—"
"I won't hide," Scarlett said immediately, and she felt Stiles turn toward her like he was ready to argue, but she didn't let him. "
Stiles," she said, gentler, "right now the school is probably the safest place for me."
He frowned. "How so?"
"Hunters don't want normal people to know about creatures," she explained, voice steady. "If I'm around big crowds, they won't turn me into dust in front of them."
Stiles' mouth twisted. "I don't like this image."
"That makes two of us," Scarlett murmured, and she squeezed his hand, grounding him and herself at the same time. "Don't worry about me. I can handle a few hunters."
He didn't look convinced, not even a little, but he exhaled and let the fight go—barely. "Where's Derek?" she asked.
Scott and Evelyn both shook their heads.
"No idea," Evelyn said. "He's in hiding. Told me he won't stay in one place for too long."
"He'll show up again," Scott added, trying to sound confident. "We'll wait for him to tell us where the Alpha is."
Scarlett nodded like that made sense, like it was a plan she could accept, but inside her the tension didn't ease. It tightened.
The conversation drifted after that, circling strategies and worry and Evelyn's vague mentions of research, Stiles already launching into a rapid monologue about where to find scanned archives and how he could "totally, one hundred percent, illegally pirate academic journals if necessary," but Scarlett heard it only in pieces. Her mind kept snagging on one sentence, one inevitable truth.
Kill the Alpha who bit you.
Peter.
For a brief, dangerous second she imagined calling him, warning him, because she knew deep down that it didn't matter what would happen, they would always share something between them.
But then she saw another image just as clearly: Stiles' face, the softness in his eyes when he'd said her name, the warmth of his hand in hers, the way his voice had cracked when he thought his father was dead. If Scarlett warned Peter, and Peter decided the easiest way to remove threats was to remove Stiles, then Scarlett would never forgive herself.
So she stayed quiet.
She kept her hand in Stiles', felt the steadiness of his fingers, and let the lie settle into her bones: that she could hold all of this together long enough to reach Kate first, to end the person who had burned her family, to force the Alpha to vanish back into whatever shadows he crawled out of, and to close this story before it swallowed the boy she'd accidentally started needing.
By the time they finally stood to leave, Scarlett's smile still looked real enough to fool them, but the ache in her chest was sharp and private, and as she followed Stiles back toward the door with her helmet tucked under her arm, she couldn't stop thinking the same thing over and over like a prayer she didn't believe in.
She had to hurry.