The chemical classroom smelled like bleach and fear.
They had run without thinking, without planning, doors slamming behind them in a chaotic rhythm until Scott had shoved them inside and kicked the door shut, dragging a stool across the floor and wedging it under the handle like that thin piece of metal could possibly stop something that had torn through steel and bone. Scarlett leaned back against one of the lab counters, one hand pressed subtly against her abdomen beneath her jacket, and stared at the pathetic barricade.
Yeah, this is surely going to work, she thought dryly, even as another pulse of pain flared through her stomach and forced her jaw to lock tight.
Stiles hadn't let go of her once during the run. He had half dragged, half supported her through the corridors, never asking questions, never slowing down, just keeping her upright with stubborn insistence. Even now he kept close, one arm hovering near her back as if he expected her to fold at any second, the other hand braced on Scott's shoulder when the boy crept toward the door.
They fell into silence, the suffocating kind. The one that they all know should not be broken if they wanted to stay safe. But was it really like that?
Somewhere outside, footsteps echoed along the hallway—slow, deliberate, unhurried.
Scarlett felt it before she heard it properly.
He's right there.
Her senses sharpened despite the pain. She could almost map the space beyond the door: the lockers lining the hall, the faint draft from the stairwell, the outline of something massive moving just outside their thin wooden barrier. Peter was there. She could feel him like a pressure change in the air, like a storm hovering just out of sight.
Stiles pulled her closer without even looking at her, instinctive and protective, his body angling slightly in front of hers. With his free hand he tightened his grip on Scott's shoulder as Scott leaned closer to the door, holding his breath.
Lydia covered her mouth with trembling fingers. Allison squeezed her eyes shut as if not seeing would make it less real.
Peter paused outside.
Scarlett's pulse hammered in her ears. Surely he could hear them. Four human heartbeats and one wolf. Surely he could smell them. Her blood and their fear.
But then, unexpectedly, the footsteps shifted. Peter had moved on.
Scarlett frowned in confusion. He could not have realized that they were hiding there. That was not possible.
But he did.
The sound receded down the corridor with maddening calm, claws scraping faintly against tile before fading altogether.
No one breathed for a full five seconds after that.
Then Scott turned slowly, swallowing hard. "Jackson, how many people can fit in your car?"
Jackson blinked at him like the question had come from another planet. "Five. If someone squeezes on someone's lap."
"Five?" Allison snapped quietly. "I barely fit in the back."
"There's my bike," Scarlett said, her voice lower than usual, still standing too close to Stiles for comfort. The effort to speak evenly cost her.
Stiles glanced down at her immediately, eyes scanning her face before she could hide the strain. "Are you sure you can drive right now?" he asked softly, already knowing the answer. He exhaled sharply before she could even respond. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. There's no getting out without drawing attention."
Scott's gaze darted around the room before landing on a door near the board. "What about this?"
Stiles guided Scarlett toward one of the lab benches so she could lean against it without looking like she was collapsing, then followed Scott to the smaller door. Scott tested the handle. "This leads to the roof."
"And what will we do from there?" Scarlett asked, teeth clenched against another surge of pain. "We jump down?"
"No," Scott said quickly. "We can go down the fire escape to the parking lot in, like, seconds."
Stiles shook his head immediately. "That's a deadbolt."
Scott's breathing grew sharper, thoughts racing visibly behind his eyes. Then something clicked. "The janitor has a key."
Scarlett straightened slightly at that, ignoring the protest from her wound. "You mean his body has it," Stiles corrected flatly.
Scott didn't deny it.
"Do you know where he is?" Scarlett asked quietly as she pushed off the table getting closer to them, lowering her voice even more so the others didn't hear what they were saying.
"I can find him by scent, by blood" Scott said, as if he was trying to convince himself, "And I can get the key."
Stiles stared at him like he had just volunteered to walk into a firing squad. "Well, gee, that sounds like an incredibly terrible idea. What else you got?" His tone was sharp, but the fear beneath it was obvious.
Scott didn't hesitate. "I'm getting the key."
He moved past Stiles toward the door before anyone could argue further.
Stiles froze, eyes widening, then turned toward Scarlett in disbelief.
She met his look, still fighting to stay upright, pain burning through her abdomen and hunger coiling tighter with every passing second.
This is going to end badly, she thought.
"I should go with him." The words left Scarlett before she could stop them. She wasn't even sure she believed in the plan, but she believed even less in Scott handling Peter alone. If the Alpha was anywhere near the janitor's body—and he would be—Scott wouldn't stand a chance.
Stiles' head snapped toward her immediately. "Are you kidding?" His voice stayed low, but the disbelief in it was sharp. "You can barely stand. You're not going anywhere—and he shouldn't go either."
She opened her mouth to argue, but movement near the door cut her off. Allison had stepped closer to Scott, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her expression sharper now, less confused and more angry. "Are you serious?" she demanded.
Scott didn't waver. "Well, it's the best plan."
Scarlett and Stiles moved toward them, though Scarlett had to brace herself on the edge of a lab table to stay upright, her fingers dragging along the smooth surface as another spike of pain twisted through her abdomen. Scott kept going, voice tight but determined. "Someone has to get the key if we want to get out of here."
"You can't go out there unarmed," Allison shot back.
For a second there was silence. Then Scott reached for something near the board and pulled down the long aluminum pointer teachers used during lectures—the ridiculous one with the plastic hand at the end, the extended index finger permanently frozen mid-point.
Scarlett stared at it.
For a moment she honestly thought he was joking.
The plastic hand wobbled slightly as he lifted it, gripping the shaft like it was a spear.
The room went very still.
Even Jackson blinked.
Scarlett could not believe what she was seeing. It would have been funny if it wasn't so tragic. "Yeah," she said dryly, teeth clenched as another pulse of pain flared through her stomach, "that will definitely make the difference."
Scott's jaw tightened. "Well, it's better than nothing." He looked at each of them in turn, searching for agreement, for support, for something.
"Sure…" Scarlett muttered flatly.
"There's gotta be something else," Stiles said, desperately trying to find a solution to help his friend.
"There is," Lydia said suddenly.
Every head turned toward her.
She was staring at the teacher's supply cabinet near the desk, eyes sharp in a way that did not match the trembling she'd shown minutes earlier.
"What are we gonna do?" Stiles asked, his voice full of sarcasm. "Throw acid on him?"
"No," Lydia replied calmly. "Like a fire bomb."
Scarlett looked at her, genuinely confused. Lydia's voice didn't shake now. It was steady. Certain. "In there," she continued, nodding toward the cabinet, "there's everything you need to make a self-igniting Molotov cocktail."
Stiles blinked. "A self-igniting?"
Lydia repeated it more slowly, as if speaking to children. "Molotov. Cocktail."
Scarlett stared at her.
Wasn't she supposed to be stupid? Dramatic? Concerned with lip gloss and lacrosse captains?
What was that? Where did that came from?
The others were looking at Lydia the same way—confusion tangled with reluctant admiration.
"What?" Lydia asked defensively. "I read it somewhere."
"Hell of a memory you have," Scarlett said, pushing herself away from the group and walking toward another table. The truth was that she needed to move. The pain was getting excruciating and she hoped to feel it less by moving, but it didn't seemed to work how she wished. And she also felt her body asking for blood to get the healing process to be faster. She really was getting hungrier by the minute.
Behind her she heard the sharp crack of glass shattering as someone broke open the cabinet. But she didn't turn. Her shaky hands moved to open her leather jacket, holding in a hiss as she zipped down. A breath left her lips as she saw ther white shirt soaked in her blood, but when she painfully pulled up the shirt, she noticed that the blood was no red anymore. It was black.
"Great…" she muttered under her breath, lowering the fabric back into place before anyone could see.
Scarlett let the fabric of her shirt fall back into place as if nothing had happened and turned slowly toward the others, schooling her expression into something neutral. No one seemed to have noticed. Or at least no one commented. Stiles' gaze, however, lingered on her for half a second too long before he forced himself to look away and shift his focus to Lydia.
Lydia stood over the teacher's desk like she belonged there, sleeves pushed up slightly, fingers moving with quick, deliberate precision. She read labels that Scarlett didn't even bother trying to pronounce, combining liquids with unsettling confidence. There was no hesitation in her movements, no second-guessing. She handled the glassware carefully but efficiently, as if she had rehearsed this in her head a hundred times.
Does she really prefer people thinking she's stupid? Scarlett wondered, not quite catching the reason behind it.
It didn't take long. Within minutes, Lydia handed the makeshift chemical cocktail to Scott.
And that was when Allison snapped.
"No, no. This is insane. You can't do this. You cannot go out there."
Her voice cracked, panic rising visibly in her chest.
"We can't stay here waiting for Stiles' dad to check his messages," Scott shot back, gripping the bottle tighter.
"You could die!" Allison nearly shouted. "Don't you get that? He's killed three people."
Scarlett watched her carefully.
There was no calculation in Allison's fear. No controlled assessment of threat. Just raw emotion.
If she were truly raised a hunter, she would have more steel in her spine right now, Scarlett thought. More cold-blooded focus. This didn't look like someone trained to face monsters. It looked like someone terrified of losing her boyfriend. A human boyfriend.
"And we're next," Scott replied. "Somebody has to do something."
He stepped toward the door.
Allison moved in front of him, blocking his path. "Scott, just stop."
She grabbed his arm, her voice softening, breaking. "Do you remember… do you remember when you told me you know whether or not I was lying? That I had a tell?"
For reasons she couldn't fully explain, Scarlett glanced at Stiles instead of watching Scott's reaction. Stiles was staring at the floor, jaw tight, shoulders tense.
"So do you," Allison continued, her voice trembling. "You are a horrible liar. And you've been lying all night."
Scott opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
What could he possibly say, now that she knew that he was lying in her face? There was something he could do now to make her change her mind?
"Just… just please. Don't go," Allison whispered, tears spilling freely now. "Please don't leave us. Please."
For a moment, Scott hesitated. His grip on the bottle loosened slightly. His shoulders dropped just a fraction.
Scarlett could see the war on his face. And for one fragile second, it almost looked like he might stay. But then, even with pain in his face, he moved anyway.
"Lock it behind me," he said, already stepping toward the door, but Allison grabbed him again and pulled him into a desperate kiss.
Scarlett's eyes shifted back to Stiles as it happened. He didn't react outwardly, but something flickered across his expression—worry, frustration, maybe helplessness. She couldn't tell.
All that was having almost an effect on her. She felt... sad to see Scott going through that.
Why? She asked herself, but she could not deny it even if she wanted to.
Then Scott pulled away and with a last look at Allison, he slipped out into the hallway before anyone could argue further, closing the door behind him.
Allison stood there, crying. And Scarlett observed her almost as if she was studying her reaction. She was suffering so much...
Stiles exhaled slowly, then moved forward and slid the stool back into place beneath the handle, reinforcing the barricade in tense silence.
"What should we do now?" Lydia asked quietly, her voice smaller than Scarlett had ever heard it, and Stiles shoved his hands into his jacket pockets as if he could physically hold himself still that way.
"We wait," he said with a short nod. "And we keep quiet. We don't want to get any attention to us."
Everyone seemed to accept that because there was nothing else to accept; they gathered near the door, perching on lab stools and the edge of a desk, close enough to react if something broke through, while Scarlett remained on the opposite side of the room, deliberately distant, her back near the windows, the space between her and them feeling safer than proximity. Four human heartbeats, all pounding harder than before, the rhythm layering over her senses until it became almost oppressive; perhaps she should have gone with Scott after all, even just to escape this suffocating orchestra of blood and fear. And through all of it, Stiles kept looking at her often enough that she felt it.
"I don't get this," Allison whispered after a moment, her voice unsteady. "I don't get why he's out there, why he left us. And I can't… I can't stop my hands from shaking."
Her fingers trembled visibly, the movement small but relentless, and before anyone else reacted Jackson stepped closer and took her hands in his, his tone unexpectedly soft.
"It's okay," he murmured, leaning toward her in a way Scarlett had never once seen him lean toward Lydia.
The gesture didn't go unnoticed; Lydia's eyes flickered to their joined hands, Stiles glanced up briefly, and Scarlett felt a sharp, almost bitter amusement cut through her pain.
Jackson, of all people, capable of gentleness now? He kept whispering reassurances to Allison, telling her it would be fine, that they would get out, that Scott would be back, and Scarlett almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. He was such an idiot.
Another spasm tore through her abdomen.
This one was different.
Her breath vanished mid-inhale. Her knees buckled before she could grab the table. The room tilted violently and she hit the floor harder than she intended, the impact jarring up her spine. A strangled sound escaped her before she could swallow it back.
She was already on her knees, one hand pressed to the tiles, the other clutching her stomach as if she could physically hold herself together.
Stiles was there a second later.
"What—Scarlett—" He dropped beside her, catching her shoulders before she pitched forward completely.
Allison shot to her feet. "What is it?"
"What the hell is wrong with you, Black?!" Jackson demanded, the fear in his voice sharpening into anger.
Stiles shot them a quick look and saw what they didn't—the faint glint of fangs at the edge of her mouth. "It's alright! I got her," he said quickly, angling his body to shield her from the others. "Come with me."
He didn't wait for permission. He hooked an arm under hers and helped her up carefully, but she barely managed it; her legs trembled violently as he half-supported her weight toward a lab bench. He eased her down, turning her so her back faced the others, kneeling himself right before her.
Her breathing was uneven now, shoulders trembling as she tried to force control back into her limbs.
"Now," he said quietly, his voice losing its edge and settling into something steadier, "can you stop lying and let me see what you're hiding there?"
She shook her head immediately, stubborn even through the pain, but her hands were shaking too much to make it convincing.
"We've got time, Scarlett," he pressed, softer but unyielding. "And I can be very stubborn."
She let out a thin breath that almost turned into a laugh knowing that he would never let it go and, after a moment of hesitation, she unzipped her jacket. Stiles' eyes widened at the sight of the dark stain soaking through her shirt, but when she lifted the fabric to reveal the wound beneath, the reaction deepened into something close to horror.
"Yeah, I know," she muttered, lowering the shirt again.
"Was it the Alpha? Was it him?"
She nodded once. Then, absurdly, she laughed under her breath. "From your face you must've read what a bite of an Alpha does to things like me. Don't worry. He used his claws. I'm going to be fine."
"Your blood is black," Stiles said, his voice tightening. "Prove me wrong, but it doesn't look very healthy to me."
"My body is trying to heal itself." She insisted.
"Trying? Not succeeding?"
The scent of him drifted closer as he leaned in, warm and alive and far too tempting, and her fangs pressed painfully against her gums again. It wasn't just hunger now; it was instinct sharpened by pain. She could hear his pulse, steady and stubborn, and for a split second the urge to lean forward and sink her teeth into him was so strong it frightened her.
"It takes more time if I don't eat," she admitted quietly. "Which is why you have to stay away from me. And you have to keep all of them away."
He looked at her as if she was crazy, "You're kidding."
"Stiles," she breathed, her voice fraying at the edges, "I'm in pain, and I can't control myself when I'm in so much pain. And I can feel your blood and—" The impulse surged again, sharp and dangerous. "You should really step away."
But he shook his head, if anything leaning closer, ""I'm not going anywhere."
"Stiles…"
"Scar," he said, softer now, using a nickname without thinking, as his eyes looked straight into hers, "you're not going to hurt me."
For some reason she as if something clanched inside her chest, and her mind, for some damn reason, showed the image of him all bloody laying scared in that fucking parking lot.
"You have no idea what I am capable of." She said feeling like some tears of blood could really roll down her cheeks. So she forced herself to look away.
But he moved, so that he could catch her gaze.
"Yes, I do." His expression didn't waver, his tone ever so gentle. "Lay on me and just focus on recovering."
Before she could protest again, he sat down beside her and gently pulled her toward him, guiding her head against his shoulder, one arm coming around her carefully to avoid the wound. She stiffened at first, every instinct screaming at the proximity, at the warmth, at the steady thud of his heart against her side, but then something unexpected happened. The scent that had moments ago sharpened her hunger shifted in her perception; it became grounding instead of provoking, steady instead of intoxicating. Her breathing, which had been shallow and erratic, began to slow. The pain did not disappear, but it dulled at the edges, as if her body had found something to anchor itself to.
She hadn't expected that.
Instead of amplifying the frenzy, his closeness seemed to quiet it, the rhythm of his heartbeat smoothing the chaos inside her, and though she didn't fully understand why, she allowed herself, cautiously, to relax against him just a fraction more.
After a moment, they heard soft footsteps approach, and Allison's voice came low and careful as she knelt beside them.
"Scarlett, how's it going?" The gentleness in her tone caught Scarlett off guard; she wasn't used to being spoken to like that, not here, not in this kind of situation, but before she could even decide what to answer, Stiles intervened without hesitation.
"Before meeting you, she had hurt herself," he said smoothly, and Scarlett turned her head slightly to look at him, something like gratitude flickering through her eyes.
"She didn't say anything because she didn't want to be a burden."
Allison shook her head softly. "You shouldn't have."
"Yeah," Stiles agreed with a small nod, tightening his arm around Scarlett just a little, "that's what I said."
"Jackson…" Lydia's voice cut in, drawing all their attention toward the teacher's desk where the ingredients still lay scattered. "You handed me the sulfuric acid, right?"
Everyone instinctively looked at the bottles, then back at Jackson as Lydia continued, her voice tense but controlled.
"It has to be sulfuric acid. It won't ignite if it's not."
Scarlett glanced toward Stiles and saw the faint frown forming between his brows as he studied the label on the table. Lydia had sounded sure before. Now she sounded uncertain.
Jackson snapped, irritation flashing across his face. "I gave you exactly what you asked for, didn't I?"
"Yeah," Lydia replied quickly, almost placating. "I'm sure you did."
Scarlett barely had the strength to focus on the exchange; pain throbbed relentlessly through her abdomen, and Stiles' scent filled her senses in a way that both steadied and distracted her.
Still, she couldn't stop the dark thought curling in her mind—Jackson could speak gently to Allison, but not to Lydia. He really was worse than Scarlett herself. But then she looked back at Stiles, and the seriousness in his expression, the way his eyes lingered on the acid bottle, made her wonder if Lydia's doubt wasn't misplaced.
The roar came without warning.
It ripped through the hallway outside, a guttural, Alpha sound that vibrated through bone and tile and marrow alike. It hit Scarlett like a physical blow. Her wound ignited, pain flaring white-hot, and a broken cry tore from her throat. But she wasn't the only one screaming. Jackson let out a strangled, uncontrollable shout, doubling over as if something inside him had been yanked tight.
Stiles held Scarlett firmly against him, one arm braced around her shoulders as Allison and Lydia rushed to Jackson's side. Scarlett could feel it—feel the call buried inside the roar. It wasn't just sound. It was command. It clawed at something ancient inside her, something feral and vicious, and suddenly the urge flooded her so violently she nearly gasped.
Kill them.
The thought didn't feel like hers.
Tear them apart.
Her fangs slid down fully, her muscles tensing as a brutal hunger surged up alongside the pain. The room shifted in her perception; five fragile throats, five pulses, five warm bodies. She wanted to see blood. She wanted to feel bone break under her hands. The instinct to attack was overwhelming, primal, intoxicating.
And then—
Stiles.
His scent. His heartbeat steady, close and real. And somehow the rage just... faltered.
The command pulling at her began to unravel, thread by thread, as if it couldn't anchor itself in her while she was touching him. The heat inside her chest cooled slowly, the murderous clarity dulling into confusion. The need to lunge dissolved into a trembling weakness, and her fangs retracted with a faint ache.
She inhaled shakily as she looked at him with wide eyes.
"Stiles…" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He tightened his arms around her instantly, unaware of the magnitude of what he was doing. "I'm here. I got you. I got you." His hand pressed gently against her back, grounding, anchoring.
She held onto him, not just physically but mentally, clinging to the steady rhythm of his heart until the Alpha's call receded entirely and her own thoughts returned to her. That was what Peter had wanted. He had been calling them. Calling his pack. Calling her and calling Scott.
Stiles loosened his hold just enough to look over her shoulder toward Jackson, who was now on the floor, clutching the back of his neck. Allison and Lydia were trying to pull him up, but he shoved Lydia's hands away. "I'm fine. Like seriously, I'm okay."
He didn't look okay.
Scarlett and Stiles got up and stepped closer to the others, she slower because of the pain, her eyes narrowing. "Yeah," she said quietly, studying him. "Exactly like me."
Stiles shot her a look, observing her for a moment, before focusing back on Jackson. "What's on the back of your neck?" He reached instinctively, but Jackson slapped his hand away.
"Hey," Scarlett muttered as she moved nearer, voice sharp despite the weakness in her body. "Back off, sunshine."
Jackson glared at her but he didn't argued back. He seemed distracted, his mind racing somewhere else entirely.
"Jackson—" Lydia began, but he cut her off with a frustrated shout. "I said I'm fine!"
Lydia didn't back down. "It's been there for days. He won't tell me what happened."
"As if you actually care," Jackson snapped, and Lydia's expression fell.
Scarlett's mind raced. Why did Jackson answered to Peter's call. Had he bite him as well? That didn't make any sense. But she was sure that he had reacted because of the roar calling his pack. He wanted for her to kill. He wanted Scott to kill. But kill who?
Then she looked around the room. The answer was so clear and just in front of her the whole time. Even in her condition a human was nothing to her. She could have killed them all if she wanted. And Scott...
God, Scott...
Where was Scott?
"Fuck…" She grabbed Stiles' arm, pulling him a few steps away, swaying slightly but forcing herself upright. "Stiles, we can't stay here."
He frowned at her immediately. "What?"
Her eyes grew larger. She shouldn't have known anything. For what Stiles knew, she was not liked at all to the Alpha. How could she expalin how she knew what he had planned to do? What probably Scott was now coming to do.
"I—I don't like it in here," she said instead, the words almost clumsy for the very first time in front of him. "We should move."
The frown on his face only deepened, "What are you talking about? We have to wait for Scott." Then he studied her face more closely. "Scarlett, what is it?"
Before she could respond, a violent crash echoed from the hallway. Something splintered against the door. Allison bolted toward it, panic flooding her voice as she called Scott's name. She tried the handle but it wouldn't budge, it didn't matter how much she tired.
"What is he doing?" Lydia asked, confusion mixing with fear as Allison continued pulling desperately at the handle calling over and over for Scott.
He locked us in, Scarlett thought instinctively. But then realization hit her.
No, he locked himself out.
"Stop," Lydia suddenly hissed, her head tilting slightly as if she were trying to catch something the others couldn't yet hear. "Do you hear that?"
The room froze.
Even Scarlett held her breath.
At first it was only a vibration—something low and distant, almost indistinguishable from the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Then it sharpened, spliting into separate strands of sound.
Sirens, but not one; several.
The wail cut through the night air outside, growing louder by the second, echoing faintly against the school walls before swelling into something undeniable. The sound slid under Scarlett's skin differently than Peter's roar had; it didn't command, didn't tear—it intruded. Bright. Human. Chaotic.
They moved toward the windows almost instinctively, shoes scraping softly against tile, fear redirecting into something dangerously close to hope. Scarlett followed more slowly, one hand still gripping the edge of a lab table for balance, her body protesting every step.
Through the glass, the parking lot was no longer empty.
Red and blue lights strobed violently against the asphalt, flashing across the brick façade of the school, slicing through the darkness in frantic pulses. Patrol cars screeched to a stop at crooked angles, doors flying open before the vehicles had fully settled. Officers spilled out, weapons drawn, shouting to one another, beams of flashlights cutting sharp white arcs across the entrance.
The sudden flood of authority shifted the air completely. Peter's presence seemed to evaporate under the blaze of human noise and gunmetal.
They were found and escorted out quickly, ushered through the corridors under a shield of uniforms. Scarlett walked slower than the others, her body stiff, careful not to let her weakness show too clearly. The flashing lights outside painted everyone in alternating red and blue, turning faces ghostly and hollow.
Sheriff Stilinski spotted his son almost immediately.
"Stiles!"
The relief in his voice cracked through the chaos. He crossed the distance in seconds and pulled Stiles into a tight embrace, one hand cradling the back of his head like he had when he was a kid. Stiles stiffened at first—embarrassed, maybe—but then hugged him back just as tightly.
"I'm okay," Stiles said quickly, but his voice wasn't as steady as he wanted it to be.
The sheriff pulled back just enough to scan him, checking for injuries, then his gaze shifted.
It landed on Scarlett.
She was standing slightly apart, shoulders squared, but it was obvious to anyone really looking that she wasn't fully stable.
"You alright?" he asked her, concern replacing authority. "Ambulances are already here."
"I'm fine," she replied evenly, managing a polite half-smile despite the cold sweat on her skin.
But she wasn't fine.
And she knew the real problem wasn't the wound anymore—it was the ambulance.
Paramedics would check vitals.
She didn't have any.
They were guided toward the ambulances parked near the entrance. Scott stood just inside the doorway, surrounded briefly by officers, but he looked like himself.
They were separated into different groups for evaluation. Stiles stayed near Scott and his father, answering rapid-fire questions in a jumble of sarcasm and truth.
Scarlett was directed toward one of the ambulances.
The paramedic who approached her was young, tired-looking, clipboard in hand. "Ma'am, can you sit here for me?"
She obeyed without resistance, lowering herself carefully onto the edge of the ambulance step.
He crouched slightly in front of her. "Where are you hurt?"
"Just twisted my ankle," she answered smoothly.
"Alright, let's take a look."
He reached for her foot first.
She stopped him gently.
"Actually," she said softly, lifting her chin so her eyes caught his, locking him in place. She held his gaze steady, calm, unwavering. The world narrowed into that small pocket of eye contact.
Her voice shifted—lower, measured, deliberate.
"You'll take a look and close the wound quickly. Then you'll report that I only had a sprained ankle. And you'll forget about the wound."
His pupils dilated.
His shoulders relaxed.
"Yes," he replied quietly.
He climbed into the ambulance and gestured for her to follow. She did, heart—or the space where one should be—heavy with the effort of remaining composed.
He lifted her shirt without question.
There was no reaction to the blackened blood. No shock.
He simply began working.
The needle pierced her skin, pulling torn flesh together with brisk, efficient stitches. It wasn't careful work. It wasn't gentle. She had told him to be quick, and he was quick. The thread pulled tight. The metal tools clinked. Her jaw clenched as each stitch bit into still-sensitive tissue.
She forced herself to breathe evenly.
If she was right, closing the wound would make her healing work faster. And once at home she would have drink some blood. In some days she should be fine once again. She hoped.
When he finished, he wiped the area down quickly and applied a basic dressing—too basic for what it had been, but enough to disguise it under fabric. He stepped back, blinking once as the command dissolved from his mind.
"Looks like a minor ankle sprain," he said automatically, jotting something on his clipboard. "You're good to go."
She slid off the ambulance step carefully, pulling her jacket back into place.
The night air hit her face again, cooler now, steadier. And as she did she spotted Stiles making her way towards her. He approached quickly once he noticed her standing and once he was close he scanned her face like he had memorized every flicker of strain.
"Hey," he said quietly. "How are you?"
Scarlett lifted the edge of her shirt just enough to reveal the fresh bandage wrapped tight around her abdomen, the white gauze stark against her pale skin. "A vampire that needed medication," she said lightly, one eyebrow lifting despite the exhaustion still sitting in her bones. "Can you believe it?"
Stiles leaned in a little to look at the dressing, his expression shifting from concern to cautious relief when he saw it had at least been closed. "How did you handle the check?" he asked quietly, glancing toward the ambulance as if the paramedic might suddenly remember something.
"Oh…" she exhaled, buying herself a second, then shrugged with practiced ease. "There's… something I can do to humans. With the right concentration, I can tell them what to focus on. What to see. What to ignore."
He nodded slowly. "Glamour, is it not?"
She frowned faintly at him. "If you know what it is, why did you ask?"
He looked at her for a moment, then slipped his hands into his jacket pockets, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. "I didn't know if you could actually use it. From what I've read, it's not exactly beginner level."
She studied him, surprised despite herself, then nodded once. "It takes focus."
He seemed satisfied with that, but there was something else in him—something tighter than simple post-adrenaline tension. She could see it in the way his jaw flexed slightly, the way he kept shifting his weight.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice lowering.
He inhaled slowly before answering. "I talked to Scott." He hesitated, eyes flicking briefly toward where his father stood speaking with officers. "He told me the Alpha made him turn."
Scarlett held his gaze, careful to keep her expression steady.
"Apparently," Stiles continued, voice quieter now, "he wanted him to kill us. And he would have done it."
"Oh my God…" she murmured, forcing the shock into her tone. A small part of her tightened with guilt, but it was the only reaction she could safely give. "Is Scott alright?"
Stiles shrugged, but it wasn't casual. It was worried. "He could be better."
She nodded slowly. "And you?"
A breath left him that wasn't quite a laugh. "I could also be better."
For a moment they just looked at each other, the chaos of flashing lights and distant radio chatter fading into something quieter between them.
"Stiles…" she said softly, her voice more fragile than she intended. "I'm so sorry for not doing much in there."
His eyes widened immediately. "Are you kidding?" The disbelief in his tone was genuine. "The reason you're here is because you sensed my fear. And I'm sorry you got hurt because of me."
She shook her head, meeting his eyes without hesitation. "It's not your fault." And that part was honest. "I'm just glad you're safe."
The words lingered between them, heavier than they sounded. They were standing close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough that the memory of his heartbeat steadying her still lingered in her skin.
"All of you," she added softly, almost as an afterthought.
"Thanks," he said, nodding once, eyes still on hers. "For tonight."
A small smile curved her mouth. "You're staying with Scott?"
He exhaled and nodded. "Probably. Dad and I will bring him home." Then he looked at her more carefully. "Do you need a ride?"
"My bike is safe," she replied automatically, glancing toward where it stood undamaged under the flashing lights.
He stared at her.
She gasped faintly as realization dawned. "Oh. That was mean."
"My Jeep," he said dryly, "is currently a modern art installation."
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, though the corner of her mouth twitched.
"I'll try to find it in my heart to forgive you for that," he replied gravely, and they both ended up laughing under their breath, the sound small but real after everything.
He tilted his head slightly. "You'll be able to ride home?"
"I'll try," she said, though she wasn't entirely sure.
Without thinking too much about it, she reached up and let her fingers brush lightly against his cheek. The contact was gentle, deliberate. She looked at him for a long moment, genuinely relieved that he was standing there intact, untouched by Peter's claws, untouched by Scott's forced transformation, untouched by her.
"Goodnight, Stiles."
"Goodnight," he answered softly.
Her thumb moved slightly against his cheek, just once, before she let her hand fall and stepped past him.
"Scarlett."
His voice stopped her mid-step.
She turned back. They were still close, closer than either of them pretended.
"How did you know we weren't safe in the classroom?"
For a split second, her breath caught.
She hadn't expected that.
Her mind raced through possible answers, measuring them against his expression. He wasn't accusing. He was curious. But curiosity could become something sharper if she handled it wrong.
"I don't know," she said carefully, keeping her face relaxed. "We're supposed to be enemies, right? Maybe my senses just… sparked."
It was a lie, but a clean one.
He studied her for a moment longer than was comfortable. Then something in his expression softened.
"I'm sorry if I—"
"Stiles," she interrupted gently. She didn't want him apologizing. "It was all a mess in there. Really."
He gave her a small, accepting nod.
She smiled once more, then leaned in and pressed a light kiss against his cheek. "Thank you for helping me tonight."
He looked at her with something warm and unguarded. "I'm glad I could."
And with that, she turned and walked toward her motorcycle, the flashing lights fading behind her as the night settled into something quieter.
The ride home felt endless.
Every vibration of the engine pulled at the fresh stitches beneath her jacket, the skin around them tight and swollen, and twice she had to pull over on the side of the road, boots pressed against the asphalt while she leaned over the handlebars and waited for the sharp, blinding stabs of pain to recede. The night air was cold enough to sting her lungs, but it didn't cool the anger simmering under her skin. By the time she finally turned onto her street, the sky was pitch black and the town had gone quiet in that hollow, fragile way it only did after midnight.
She needed blood. She needed to get more energy.
When she finally arrived at her house, Scarlett killed the engine, climbed off the bike slowly, and walked to the front door with controlled movements. The porch was dark and the house looked untouched.
But the moment she slid the key into the lock, her body went rigid.
Someone was inside and she didn't need to guess who it was, she knew his scent all too well.
Her jaw tightened as she opened the door.
"Get the fuck out," she said immediately, not even looking toward the living room.
"Don't be angry at me, moonlight," Peter's voice floated from the shadows, smooth and indulgent.
She stepped fully inside and shut the door behind her with deliberate force. He was leaning against the back of the couch, sleeves rolled, posture relaxed as if he belonged there.
"I thought you needed to eat," he added lightly, lifting his wrist toward her with a smirk.
"I don't want anything from you." She moved past him into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed one of the thermoses.
"Come on, my darling."
She spun around so fast the pull in her abdomen made her vision flicker. "You've scratched me, motherfucker!"
Peter laughed softly, there was no sign of apologies in his voice. "I knew you were strong enough to take it. And you should thank me."
"Thank you?" Her voice trembled with contained fury. "How so?"
"Your performance is far more convincing if the Alpha attacks you."
She crossed her arms, ignoring the sting under her bandages. "You've got the same excuse for Derek?"
He shrugged unbothered. The casualness of it made something in her chest twist violently. "You're such a liar." She hissed, making his expression shift in a sharper one. "I know why you wanted to do." She kept saying, "And because of that you needed me and Derek out of the game."
"Oh..." he said almost threatening before he pushed himself up from the sofa. "Is that why you're so angry?"
"You wanted Scott to kill all his friends!" She shot back as she observed him moving towards her.
"I needed him not to hold back." The amusement dropped from his voice now, replaced by something colder. "My power grows with the pack, and I will never have him fully until I remove the interference."
Interference... she thought bitterly.
"Was Laura an interference too?" The word left her and she had no intention to stop them. For the first time, he looked genuinely caught off guard. His eyes grew slightly bigger, but then he tried to hide it with a small smile.
"Scarlett--"
Her throat burned. "You lied to me!"
"I told you what mattered."
"You told me the hunters killed her, and I was so stupid that I actually believed you!" She exclaimed, needing some space from him. Winching for her wond when she moved.
"Laura would never have done what needed to be done." His voice was hard as he spoke. "She inherited this position, but we both know that she would have never moved against the Argent. Tell me I'm wrong!" Scarlett looked away at these words. She knew she couldn't.
Laura and Derek were like Talia—measured, reluctant, unwilling to cross certain lines even when revenge demanded it. Talia had never hunted humans the way the Argents hunted wolves. She had never answered fire with fire. And maybe if she had Kate Argent would have never killed all their family.
But even so...
"Family comes first," Scarlett said looking Peter straight in the eyes. "We were supposed to do all this for them."
"Oh, come on, Scarlett!" He exclaimed, but she didn't held back.
"You could have looked for me," she said, her hands trembling, "You could have come to me and we could have hunted Kate Argent down and we could have killed her together. Why become an Alpha?" Peter let out a breath, looking away.
"I needed all the power possible," at his answer she let out a dry sad chuckle, her fingers pushing her own hair back.
"This is crazy, Peter," she said tensly, "This is fucking crazy."
"You think I don't regreat it?" he said softly as he moved towards her, bus Scarlett moved away.
"No..." That made him clanch his jaw tightly, before a cold laugh left his lips.
"You're exactly like me, my darling, and don't try to deny it," Scarlett's eyes widened at his affirmation.
"I didn't hurt our family!" She protested.
"No, but you hurt innocents." Scarlett's breath got stuck as he spoke. "What is his name? Stiles, isn't it?" His gaze locked onto hers and her stomach dropped.
"Do you remember," Peter continued with a gentle tone, that hurted with each word, "how you planned it? How you calculated every detail so you could make him drink his blood? So that he could trust you. So that you could control him."
The image of that night flashed back in her mind. Her throat tightened, as she felt her eyes sting for the tears already forming. Her breath laboured as she heard again those screams.
"You would have done worse if it was needed," Peter finished quietly.
"Leave him out of this," she shot with rage. His eyes widened slightly, mixed feelings showing in his gaze.
"You're falling for your own lies," he said softly as if he could not believing what he was seeing. "Do you think he would care about you if he knew the real you?"
The words hit with surgical precision. But she didn't answer. She knew that he was speaking the truth, Stiles knew just a version of her. What she wanted to show him. And she didn't want for him to know more. She didn't want for him to hate her.
"But I know who you really are," Peter continued, almost reverent now, lifting her face so that tey could look at each other. "And you are spectacular. Powerful. Dangerous. You stop at nothing to get what you want. And I adore you for it." She let out a little shakey breath.
She knew that he had always accepted even the worse part of her. He had never judged her for who she had become. She knew that. He had thought her how to be proud and not feeling guilty of her new nature. But lately she had became to judge her own action. She was well aware that she would have done anything to kill the Argents. She would have killed everyone on her path for that. But now she had not being able to kill even one of the man that ruined her family. She had felt dread at the thought of something happening to a human. And somehow she didn't regreat it.
She still remembered how good she had felt to not letting hunger and anger take over her that night, when Stiles had his arms wrapped around her. She had felt something that she had not felt since when she was alive. Warmth... and peace.
"We'll finish this with Kate Argent," she said finally, forcing the words through clenched teeth. "And then I don't want to see you again."
Peter's eyes widened, real surprise flashing this time. "You don't mean that."
"Leave now, Peter."
They stared at each other for a long, suspended moment, the air between them thick with everything unspoken—shared blood, shared secrets, shared sins.
He searched her face, as if trying to determine whether this was another performance.
Then, slowly, he straightened.
"Moonlight," he murmured, almost fondly. "You'll come back to me."
She didn't respond.
He held her gaze a second longer, then turned and walked toward the door. The lock clicked behind him, and the house fell silent.
Scarlett stood there for a few seconds, unmoving.
Then her knees gave out.
She sank to the kitchen floor without grace, back hitting the cabinet, one hand flying instinctively to her stomach as another wave of pain tore through her. A broken sound escaped her—half sob, half curse—and this time she didn't try to swallow it down.
Tears blurred her vision fast and hot, sliding down her cheeks before she could stop them. She pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth to muffle the sound, but her shoulders were already shaking.
The house remained silent as she cried on the floor, the anger and the pain and the shame finally too much to hold together.