"Hello?"
"Pass him over," Scarlett said, feeling her leg bounce up and down in nervousness, the movement sharp and irregular against the wooden floor.
"Who?" That fucking nurse was really able to get on her nerves.
"Pass him over to the phone, now!" She yelled at the phone, voice tight, stretched too thin. But the woman only giggled.
"He's not here, I'm sorry."
Scarlett frowned at her words, the sound of that fake politeness crawling under her skin.
"What the fuck does it mean?" she asked, confused and angry all at once.
"I'm sorry, you'll have to call back tomorrow," Jennifer's voice came with artificial sweetness, and she wasted no time hanging up on her.
She lowered the phone slowly, her fingers trembling with a rage that had nowhere to go. The sun had just disappeared behind the horizon and the moonlight filtered through the curtains in thin, pale stripes, too calm for what was building inside her. Her mind had been a mess since Derek had left that morining, and now this—Peter unavailable, unreachable, conveniently absent—made something coil tighter in her chest.
Derek had shown up at sunrise, eyes sharp and sleepless, jaw set like stone. He had not bothered with small talk.
"The Alpha attacked Scott," he had said.
Scarlett had felt something twist in her stomach at that, confusion taking over her. "What?"
"He's alive." Derek's voice had been tight. "But the Alpha left a message."
A message... she didn't even have to fake her clulessness, she had no fucking idea what Derek was talking about.
"He draw a spiral on his car," Derek said gravely, and Scarlett's eyes widened at those words. "
"You know what it means," Derek kept saying said, as she took an involuntary step back.
"This doesn't make any sense…" the whisper slipped out before she could stop it.
"He's doing it for revenge!" Derek had exclaimed, something almost frantic beneath his anger. "Do you know something?"
Her eyes shot towards him, hoping that he had not noticed her flinch in that way. Was he suspecting her now?
"Why should I know something?" she asked.
"Who would hate the Argents so much?" he had demanded, his blood was pumping like crazy. "Just one of us!"
Fuck, he was connecting the points. Why would Peter do something like that? He knew that Derek was always around Scott. Did he really believed him so stupid?
But she had to keep her cover. He could not connect her to the Alpha. She could not be connected to him.
"So you mean I can be the Alpha now?" she asked sarcastically, keeping her eyes wide.
The fact that he shook his head made her almost relax. He didn't linked them. "Don't be stupid—"
"You don't be stupid!" she had snapped, barely keeping her voice under control. "What are you implying?"
"I have to find him," Derek had said, his voice lowering, almost shaking. "He killed Laura."
Again...
"Derek..."
"I know that you don't believe it," he had cut in. "But I know she wasn't lying. He took the power from her and now he wants revenge." This time, her anger flared real. She could not believe it.
"How can you think that one of us did it?" she had shot back, making a step towards him. "Is it more plausible for you that someone else survived and killed Laura?" He had looked away, and she had pressed harder. "This is bullshit, and you know it!" She felt her voice tremble, but she didn't stop it. What happened to Laura was another of the endless path of pain that "They attacked her… and… and probably this is another fucking Alpha that hates the Argents. Would that sound so crazy?"
Derek's jaw hardened, but he really seemed to believe what Kate had told him, "You won't help me?"
Scarlett let out a unbelieved chuckle. How could he even think of asking her that?
"I won't follow something that Kate Argent said," she almost vowed taking a step back from him. "You do as you wish."
But now, standing alone in her house with the phone still warm in her hand, the words felt thinner than they had that morning.
Revenge.
He had carved the symbol for Scott to see.
Why would he do that? Now Derek was starting to realize that the Alpha wasn't some random beast passing through town.
That kind of revenge could not come from nowhere.
Scarlett began pacing, boots heavy against the wooden floor. Peter had told her all that she had to know about what had happened. Hunters ambushing Laura. Hunters leaving her barely alive. Peter finishing it because she had asked him to, because she had been dying anyway, because it was mercy and necessity and power all tangled together. He had looked at her with that steady, burning gaze and said, "They took her from us. They burned our home. They will pay.""
Peter had told her that. And Peter had never lied to her. Never...
Her steps slowed.
Derek's voice echoed again in her mind. He took the power from her.
Peter had taken Laura's power. That part was true. He had told her that much. But the way Derek had said it—like it had been theft instead of inheritance, murder instead of mercy—had left a splinter lodged somewhere under her ribs.
No, this is bullshit, she pressed her palms against her temples, as if she could physically shove the doubt back into place.
Peter would never have killed Laura in cold blood. He would never have destroyed his own blood for power. He hated the Argents. He wanted revenge. That was the reason. That was what they were doing. That was why she had gotten back.
What didn't make sense was the Alpha attacking Scott so openly, drawing symbols, escalating the war before they were ready. Derek wasn't supposed to connect the dots. Derek wasn't supposed to start asking who among them hated the Argents enough.
Derek wasn't supposed to look at her.
Her leg began bouncing again as she dropped back onto the couch, staring at the phone like she could will it to ring. Why was Peter not at the hospital? Why was he suddenly unreachable? He had always found a way to contact her.
"Fuck," she muttered under her breath.
If Derek kept digging, he would get closer. And if he got closer, he would start to see things. Patterns. Movements. The way the Alpha chose his victims. The way vengeance guided his claws.
And she didn't know what terrified her more: that Derek might be right, or that the truth about her might be discovered.
She rose abruptly and crossed the room again, restless energy burning under her skin. She had wanted revenge for eight years. She had repeated that desire like a prayer. Kill the Argents. Make them suffer. Make them feel what it was like to lose everything in fire.
So why did it feel so strange now? Why wasn't she feeling so proud at the thought of finally coming clean?
The question barely had time to settle before something inside her snapped tight, like a wire pulled too hard. It wasn't a thought. It wasn't even an emotion at first. It was physical. A violent, hollow drop low in her stomach, as if the ground beneath her had disappeared. Her breath caught. Her fingers curled into the fabric of the couch. And then it came — not her rage, or her doubt, not even her spiraling paranoia about Peter — but something sharp and raw and utterly foreign in its intensity.
This was messy. Chaotic. Breathless. It slammed into her chest and radiated outward, fast and erratic, like a pulse that didn't belong to her body.
"Stiles…" The name slipped out before she could stop it.
She knew his nerves, his embarrassment, his frustration, and even his quicksilver panic that usually dissolved into sarcasm within seconds. But this — this was different. It was deeper, suffocating, edged with something primal. He was terrified. Not startled. Not stressed. Terrified.
She had felt it only once in her life with such intensity.
Her legs were already moving before her mind caught up. She didn't remember crossing the room, didn't remember grabbing her jacket, didn't remember locking the door. The air outside hit her face cold and sharp, but it did nothing to steady the violent tremor running through her limbs. It was like that night at the hospital — that invisible thread tugging at her ribs, pulling her in a direction she didn't consciously choose. Only this time it wasn't a thread. It was a rope, taut and urgent, dragging her forward.
What the fuck is happening?
Her hands shook as she mounted the motorcycle, and she knew that it was fear.
Her own. And his. The engine roared to life beneath her, the vibration grounding and useless at the same time, she was just filled with the urge to be fast.
The closer she got, the stronger it became. His heartbeat — no, not literally, but it felt like that — fast, uneven, spiking. There was movement. Running. Something heavy. Something wrong. Her chest tightened painfully as if her own lungs couldn't keep up with what she was sensing.
The school came into view, looming dark against the night sky, windows black and empty, the building reduced to a silent skeleton under the moonlight. The parking lot was deserted. Too deserted. The kind of empty that felt staged. Her engine cut off, and the sudden quiet rang in her ears.
Then she saw it.
The blue Jeep.
Parked crookedly near the entrance.
Her boots hit the asphalt before she consciously decided to dismount. "Stiles!" she called out, her voice slicing through the stillness, but it was swallowed whole by the empty lot.
She moved closer, each step heavier than the last, and then she saw the hood.
Her breath left her in a sharp, disbelieving exhale.
The metal was torn open like paper. Ripped. A jagged hole punctured straight through the hood, edges peeled back violently, paint scratched and curled, the internal components exposed. Something was missing from inside and it had been yanked out. Torn free with enough force to shred reinforced steel.
Her mind didn't need long to calculate that. Those were claws.
The cold realization settled in her spine with brutal clarity.
Peter, she thought with dread as she looked at the open door of the school.
The doors shut behind her with a dull metallic thud that echoed far longer than it should have. The hallway beyond was swallowed in shadows, the fluorescent lights reduced to a few flickering panels that hummed weakly overhead. Lockers stretched endlessly in both directions, their metal surfaces catching slivers of moonlight that filtered through the high windows. Everything felt suspended.
Her boots made almost no sound against the tile, but in the silence even the smallest movement seemed amplified. The air was colder inside. Stale. Tinged faintly with sweat and fear and something sharper underneath — something feral.
"Stiles?" she called out, her voice cutting through the corridor but coming back to her thinner, distorted. But there was no answer.
The pull in her chest grew stronger the deeper she moved inside. What if the fear that she was feeling was not his, but all hers? What if she wasn't feeling him anymore? Did that mean that Peter had already found him? Did he already hurt him?
"Stiles!" she called again, more urgently this time, turning the corner toward the main stairwell. But again she didn't hears the sound that she was searching for. Instead there was another noise. Something was getting closer, with heavy steps, followed by a slow scrape, like claws dragging lightly against metal. Scarlett's fear turned into anger, as she turned sharply toward the sound. But there was nothing there.
"So you want to play, fucker?" She yelled with rage, but nothing…
The hallway stretched ahead of her, long and suffocatingly empty, lockers lining both sides like silent witnesses. The darkness making the shadows look deeper than they should have been. Her nostrils flared instinctively. She could smell him.
"I know you're here," she said again looking around. "Where are they?"
A shadow moved at the edge of her vision. She spun, but she didn't see him. Just lockers and darkness, but he was there. She could feel him. Predator awareness meeting predator awareness. The air felt thicker with every step.
Another sound. Behind her this time. Her body reacted before her mind did, spinning and stepping back at once, fangs sliding down automatically. And this time she saw him, coming out from the shadows. His body was huge, red eyes shining in the dark, and his fangs bared to her.
"You think this is funny?" She said as he got closer, growling at her dangerously, but she didn't back away. "Where are they?" Peter roared in her face and that made her smirk, her fangs touching her lower lips.
She moved first.
In a blur of speed she lunged forward, faster than a human eye could have followed, her body slamming into him with enough force to dent the locker doors behind. The impact echoed like an explosion. He barely staggered before swinging a massive arm toward her head. She ducked instinctively, claws grazing her hair as she twisted and drove her elbow into his ribs. The sound that left him was more irritated than hurt.
She knew that he was stronger. But she was faster.
Scarlett spun, kicking hard into his knee. Bone cracked—not breaking, but straining—and he stumbled half a step before retaliating by grabbing her throat and throwing her across the corridor. She hit the opposite wall shoulder-first, plaster cracking under the impact, dust raining down around her.
Pain flared—but it barely registered. She was on her feet again in less than a second.
"Where are they?" she snapped, charging him again.
He met her head-on this time. Their bodies collided mid-hallway, claws slashing, teeth snapping. She caught his wrist before his claws could reach her face, twisting violently until something popped out of place. He roared, wrenching free, and slammed his forehead into hers. The crack rang through her skull and for half a second her vision fractured into white. Then suddenly she felt it: a tearing heat across her abdomen.
She stopped looking down at her belly; her shirt was slashed, three long scratched went from side to side. She could see her blood leaking out, deep red against her pale skin. He had used his claws on her…
Scarlett had just the time to look up at Peter, before the heat turned into something else. Something violent and wrong. It spread beneath her skin like fire finding oxygen. The sound tore out of her throat before she could stop it, a raw, animal scream that echoed through the empty school. Her knees gave out. She collapsed forward onto the tile, hands instinctively pressing against her stomach as if she could push the damage back inside. But then another shot of pain went through her.
It spread from the wound outward in violent waves, like something alive had been poured beneath her skin and was now clawing its way through muscle and bone. Scarlett had known pain before—broken ribs, bullets, blades, fire—but this was different. This wasn't injury. This was far worse.
Her vision blurred. The edges of the hallway darkened. Every nerve felt exposed. Every inch of her burned. She had never felt something like this. But that wasn't the only pain she was feeling.
He did this… she thought, her hands trembling from the pain.
Disbelief flickered across her face even as her fingers dug harder into her abdomen, as if pressure alone could undo what had happened. Then another tremor went through her body. And she cried again, letting herself to lay on the floor for some time.
But then she felt something. It was a faint sound, a drumming sound. And the more she focused on that, the more she felt like a little warm feeling formed inside herself. It felt familiar, and for some reason she felt like moving her body just a little. As she did the pain shot again, making her yelp, but she tried to stay focused on that drumming sound.
But then she felt something else; the fear… It flooded back into her chest, sharp and panicked and desperate, tugging at her like a hook lodged under her ribs. Stronger than before.
Stiles…
She could still feel him, he was still alive. Scarlett's jaw clenched. She tried to push herself up and nearly collapsed again as another wave of burning tore through her abdomen. A strangled sound escaped her.
"Come on…" she hissed at herself, teeth grinding.
Her hand shot out blindly until it found the wall. She clawed at it, nails scraping against paint, using it to drag herself upright inch by inch. Her legs trembled violently beneath her. For a terrifying second she thought they wouldn't hold, but they did. Barely.
It felt like I took her forever, but she managed to stand.
Her hand moved instinctively back to her stomach and the contact sent a violent spike of pain through her entire body. She screamed again, fangs snapping down as the agony ripped through her spine. Her back arched involuntarily. Every muscle seized.
Her free hand flew to her mouth, trembling, pressing against her lips as if she could physically shove the sound back inside. She forced herself to breathe. Forced the scream down. Forced to control it. She had to keep going, she could not let Peter to find them before her.
Her fingers shook as she pulled her jacket closed, the fabric sticking slightly where blood had begun to soak through. She zipped it up with clumsy, jerking movements, swallowing another cry as the pressure made the wound flare hotter.
"Stiles," she called out, voice hoarse, but yet again there was no answer. The silence made her let out a shaky breath, but then she forced herself to make a step holding the cries that she really would want to scream out. But she couldn't and she did all she could to make another step. Maybe she was going crazy, but the more she walked the more she thought she could really make it.
Or maybe not…
Her shoulder brushed the lockers for balance. The metal felt freezing against her overheated skin. She kept moving anyway, dragging herself down the corridor, boots leaving faint smears behind her.
"Stiles!" she shouted again, louder this time, even as her voice broke.
Scarlett staggered forward, one hand sliding along the wall to keep herself upright. Her vision swam every few seconds, black creeping at the edges, but she forced it back with sheer stubbornness. The burn in her abdomen hadn't lessened; if anything it had spread, a slow, merciless heat threading through her veins. She could feel her body trying to heal and failing to understand what it was healing from.
The hallway opened into the main corridor near the gym. The air shifted—cooler, heavier. She could smell chlorine, it meant she was near the pool.
She pushed through the double doors toward the pool area, the hinges groaning loudly in the silence. The humid air hit her face immediately, thick and warm, fogging her senses for a second. But what got her attention was the frame walking next to the pool. But it was not who she hoped to see.
"Allison?" She said doing all she could to keep her posture as up as possible. The girl turned to her, and on her forehead appeared a confused frown.
"Scarlett, what are you doing here?" She asked walking closer, while Scarlett made a little step back. She could feel her blood and her fangs were desperately trying to get out at the smell. She needed blood. "Are you here with Scott?"
Scarlett was too focused on forcing to keep her fangs inside, so she didn't answer. But Allison only seemed to get more confused. "Scarlett, what is going on?" Scarlett took a breath, trying to not let the pain in her abdomen that had flared again.
"Are you okay?" Allison asked, but before one of them could say anything else, her phone rang echoing in the empty room, making it sound even louder than it actually was.
"Hey," Allison said at the phone, "I can't seem to find them, but I found Scarlett." Scarlett's eyes moved to Allison's neck as she talked, and her fangs faught harder to pop out. She could eat her, she could kill her. She needed blood, and she was an Argent.
She had listened to nothing of what Allison was saying, but she saw her hunging up. But just as she did so, another call came through. The sound made Scarlett jump a little, but that moviment almost made her yelp in pain.
"Stiles?" Allison's voice made her turn, her eyes widened as she made a few steps to get closer. Was he alright? Was he hurt? Only now Scarlett had realized that she had left her phone at home.
"I'm in the school, looking for you, Scott," Allison said, in her tone it was clear to hear that she was bothered. "Why aren't you at my place?"
Scarlett suddenly remembered that Peter had disappeared after he had wounded her. She tried to keep her pain at bay, she had to focus on the smell. But her thirst for blood made it impossible. Her body wanted blood to heal.
"On the first floor," Allison confused, "The swimming pools?" The frown on her forehead only grew deeper. "Okay, okay, I'm coming." She said in hurry, hunging up.
"Where are they?" Scarlett asked hurgently, the wound on her abdomen was pulsing, but she could not let it show.
"Scott said to meet them in the lobby," Allison explained as they started to walk towards the corridors. Scarlett tried to forget about the excruciating pain that she was feeling to keep up with the girl's steps.
"I really don't understand what is going on with him?" Allison said bothered as they walked, "Is this kind of a joke?"
"What?" Scarlett asked, biting back an hiss.
"The message, Scarlett," Allison answered, "Did they send it to you too?" Scarlett looked at her confused. What message was she talking about? Did Scott send her a message? While he had been hunted by Peter? That didn't make any sense. He would protect Allison from breaking a nail, he would never put her in danger like that. And they were... She could feel Peter's eyes on them, even if she didn't know from where.
She suddenly hissed, her hand finding the locker. The contact made that metallic noise that echoed in the corridors.
"Scarlett?" Allison said turning to her and getting closer, "Are you alright?" The blood again, her hurge to heal her body from an Alpha's scratch was getting into her. But she could not attack her... She had to find Stiles, before Peter did.
"I'm fine," she answered, making some distance from her and Allison. And stratening her posture, trying to ignore her skin stratching on her belly "Let's go."