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You see, there is a group of delinquents getting back for revenge on Sheriff Stilinski, by getting revenge means kidnapping his only son for ransom. Which is a stupid move since you don’t want to face an angry pack of werewolves that is so protective of their human member which is also not so human. And other things happened, anyways…
“Yo, here you go” the man said from the back seat before handing the image of Stiles to the man on the driver seat.
“This is your boy?”
“No, it’s your girl”
—
As the school bell rang, signaling the end of the day, Stiles shot up from his desk like a man on a mission. Bag slung over his shoulder, he fished his phone from his pocket and fired off a quick text to the group chat:
Groceries first, pack meeting after. DON’T start without me. Also, we’re out of Doritos. Again.
Satisfied, he stuffed the phone back in his pocket and bolted for the door, eager to avoid any interruptions. But, of course, fate—and his friends—had other plans.
“Stiles! Wait up! Where are you going? We have practice!”
Stiles froze, letting out a resigned sigh before turning around. Scott and Isaac were striding toward him, Scott looking curious and Isaac wearing his trademark smirk that always screamed trouble incoming.
“Dude,” Stiles said, brandishing his phone like a weapon, “I literally just texted the group. I’m grabbing groceries before the meeting. And don’t tell me—” He pointed accusingly at Scott. “—you forgot your phone again. ”
Scott rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish as ever. “It’s in my locker. I think.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Shocking. Truly groundbreaking stuff.”
“Let us come with you,” Isaac suggested, far too casually.
Stiles narrowed his eyes, suspicion immediately flaring. “Nope. Absolutely not. I remember what happened last time you two came grocery shopping with me. Arguing over which chips to buy? Getting us kicked out of the store? Yeah, not doing that again.”
Isaac smirked wider, clearly unrepentant. “It wasn’t that bad—”
“It was bad enough that I had to explain to the manager why my friends were practically growling at each other in the chip aisle,” Stiles snapped. “So no, you’re not coming.”
Isaac opened his mouth to argue again, but Stiles cut him off with a raised hand. “Nope! Nuh-uh. I’ll be quick, I’ll grab what we need, and then I’ll see you at the meeting. Alone. Bye! Adios! Sayonara!”
He turned on his heel and marched out of the school, determined to get to his jeep before anyone else could argue. Tossing his bag into the passenger seat, he started the engine and was about to pull out of the parking lot when— click.
The sound of the back door opening made him freeze. Slowly, he turned to look in the rearview mirror.
Sure enough, there they were. Scott, Isaac, along with Liam, and Theo, all crammed into the backseat. They looked like a bad sitcom cast, elbows and knees poking into each other as they tried to fit.
“Are you serious? ” Stiles groaned, glaring at them through the mirror.
“What?” Liam shrugged, clearly trying to play innocent.
“What?” Stiles mimicked in an exaggerated tone. “What are you all doing in my jeep? Didn’t I just say you’re not coming with me?”
Scott smiled innocently. “We thought you’d change your mind.”
Stiles raised an eyebrow, his suspicion deepening. Something was off here. Normally, Scott wasn’t this pushy about errands, and Theo—who was sitting smugly in the corner—definitely didn’t care about groceries.
But Stiles decided not to comment, instead opting for the direct approach. “Okay, I’m giving you one chance to get out. All of you. If you’re still here when I count to five, you’re not going to like what happens next. One—”
“Bye, dude!” Scott blurted, scrambling out of the jeep.
“Later, Mom! ” Isaac quipped as he followed, smirking as usual.
“See you, Stiles!” Liam said with an easy grin.
“Bye-bye, Stiles,” Theo added with a mock salute, moving with deliberate laziness as he exited.
Stiles watched them retreat, still suspicious. Something was up, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Shaking his head, he muttered, “Unbelievable,” and threw the jeep into gear. As he drove off, he shot a quick glance in the rearview mirror.
“If they’re planning something, they’d better not involve me,” he grumbled. “And I’m definitely not getting extra snacks for them this time.”
Liam’s voice echoed faintly from the distance: “YOU KNOW YOU WILL!”
“God, why am I always surrounded by idiots?” Stiles groaned, thumping his head lightly against the steering wheel as he drove towards another store.
Stiles reached the store and parked his jeep outside before heading inside. He patted the pocket of his jeans before fishing out a list from his back pocket. He took a basket just by the entrance before heading towards the aisle. Stiles busied himself from getting the list of groceries noticing someone is following him because of the tingling at his nape but he shoved it down. After he completed the list, Stiles headed for the counter waiting for the clerk to completely scan for his items. Stiles' eyes wandered around the store at the same time, his fingers tapping on the side of the counter. His eyes settled on the man who stood beside him and caught the man staring at him and the man quickly averted his eyes, weird.
“It’s $69.44” Stiles immediately turned his attention to the clerk before fishing out his wallet and giving Derek’s card. After paying and getting the plastic bags off the counter Stiles hauled the groceries and headed off outside towards the parking lot.
His life in Beacon Hills had taught him to stay alert, but this wasn’t his first rodeo with shady characters. Still, when two men grabbed him near the side alley by the parking lot, he cursed his bad luck.
Well that was the weird, fuck
The bag of groceries dropped to the ground, the sharp sound of glass breaking almost drowned by the heavy thud of a van door slamming shut. Before he could react, one of them pushed him roughly against the wall, sending a jolt of pain through his shoulder. The other moved quickly, wrapping a rope around his wrists before he could even try to fight back.
"Relax, kid," one of the men muttered as they dragged him into the van. "We don’t want to hurt you. Just a little insurance."
Stiles managed a glare, twisting against the rough hold. “Yeah, because kidnapping the Sheriff’s son is such a low-risk plan.”
The driver turned to look at him, smirking. “You’re worth enough that he won’t call for backup. It’ll be fine as long as you behave.”
“Oh, totally,” Stiles snapped. “This is all going to work out perfectly for you.”
They hit a sharp turn, and Stiles nearly lost his balance. He barely had time to adjust when something sharp cracked against the back of his head. His vision blurred instantly, his body stiffening as pain bloomed in his skull. He blinked rapidly, trying to stay conscious, but the world tilted, and before he could catch himself, he slumped forward, unconscious.
—
The tension in the air was unbearable as the pack scrambled into action. Stiles had been missing for over an hour and not answering his phone, and every moment without him felt like a razor’s edge slicing through Derek and Peter’s control. What should have been a simple day—Stiles finishing school, grabbing groceries on his way home—had turned into their worst nightmare.
“Scott, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, Malia, Cora—spread out,” Derek commanded, his voice shaking only slightly beneath his usual commanding tone. “Search outside the Preserve. He couldn’t have gone far.”
Peter’s voice cut through like silk over steel. “Lydia, Allison, contact Chris. Hunters, maybe. Danny, track his phone and give us a location now.”
The pack moved with purpose, each member driven by the unspoken understanding of what Stiles meant to them. For Derek and Peter, however, the weight of the situation was crushing. Stiles wasn’t just a pack; he was their mate—the one who somehow completed the jagged edges of their lives. They had barely started building something real with him, and the thought of losing him now felt like a wound they couldn’t heal from.
At the grocery store, Derek and Peter stood by Stiles’ Jeep, their senses on high alert. The scent of Stiles hung thick in the air, laced with pain, stress and fear. It was enough to make Derek’s hands curl into fists as he crouched to examine the area.
“His scent… ” Derek muttered, his jaw tight. “They were humans. Not hunters, though. Not yet.”
Peter stood still for a moment, his face deceptively calm as his sharp eyes swept over the parking lot. He glanced at Derek, something unspoken passing between them.
“We’re going to find him,” Peter said firmly, his voice low and private. “We’ve been through worse, haven’t we? But Stiles—he needs us to hold it together now.”
Derek gave a sharp nod, but his grip on the Jeep’s door tightened. “He’s not supposed to be alone, Peter. Not when we’re…” His voice faltered, raw with emotion he rarely let show.
“His mates,” Peter finished quietly, his tone carrying an unfamiliar softness. “Yes. And we’ll make sure he knows we’re here.”
Before they could say more, Liam and Theo darted off without waiting for orders, scanning the store’s perimeter. Peter turned and disappeared inside the store, interrogating employees with a sharpness that brooked no argument.
When the rest of the pack reconvened, Danny’s phone pinged. The signal led them out of town to an old gas station. The air was heavy with unease as they approached, following Stiles’ scent.
Inside, they found the aftermath of a struggle—four men unconscious on the ground, blood pooling beneath them. It was the kidnappers. Stiles’ scent was everywhere, a potent mixture of fear and desperation.
“He fought back,” Peter noted, a flicker of pride in his voice. But his sharp gaze scanned the room with growing dread. “And he’s gone.”
“Another group was here. They moved him,” Derek growled, his eyes glowing faintly as he caught another scent of wolfsbane layered over Stiles’. “Hunters. They were here, watching, waiting.”
“Why?” Malia asked, her frustration evident.
Derek didn’t answer but his expression was dark. “But these men aren’t hunters.” Eying the men on the ground, “They’re… something else. Different group, different motives.”
Peter’s lips twisted into a grim smile. “Then we’re dealing with opportunists.”
The trail led them to an industrial park on the outskirts of town. By now, the pack was running on instinct, their bond with Stiles guiding them. The scent of his fear was sharper here, clawing at their resolve.
—
Earlier from the gas station
When Stiles came to, he felt disoriented, a dull throb still pulsing through his head. He tried to shake it off, but his wrists were bound, the ropes cutting into his skin. The abandoned gas station loomed ahead, silent and oppressive.
The men dragged him out of the van with little care, and he barely registered the cold air or the screech of metal as they shoved him inside the derelict building. They forced him into a chair, the wood creaking under his weight as they tied him down.
One of them muttered, pulling out a recorder. Stiles blinked again, trying to clear the fog from his brain.
"Good, finally awake," the man said. His voice was gravelly, clipped. "Alright, the one behind you gonna take the gag off your mouth, don’t try to scream, when my boy here, Gillian, is gonna shoot you. By the way, I’m Jones, and the guy in the black suit is Carl."
Stiles barely registered their names before he heard the shuffle of footsteps approaching him. One man came into view—Mark—standing just behind him, the other two trailing.
“Yeah, uh you’re uh uh uh” Gillian stuttered while pointing the gun at Stiles just over the shoulder of the man named Jones.
“I think he gets the point,” Jones said, turning his head towards the highschooler and rolling his eyes in annoyance before batting Gillian’s hand away from his face. Before getting back his attention on the man behind Stiles.
Wow they’re dumb for someone who's supposed to be a kidnapper.
“Now, Mark.” the man named Mark behind Stiles removes the gag.
“Uhm, sorry about this but we really need it–” Carl said before he was cut off by Jones.
“Do you mind?” Jones said in annoyance. But Stiles cut them off before they will get into an argument.
Stiles blinked again, struggling to clear his head. Wait... isn’t this supposed to be a hostage situation? He thought, trying to make sense of the half-baked kidnappers. This is amateur hour. Then, something clicked in Stiles’ brain. He wasn’t new to being kidnapped. Hell, after his life in Beacon Hills, this was basically another Tuesday. But these four... they were definitely new in town. Probably rookies. Stiles was still training for his magic, and while he wasn't the most skilled, he had a few tricks up his sleeve. He could probably escape this mess before his pack even realised he was missing. After all, it only took a bit of concentration and—spazz!—and boom, he'd teleported himself right in front of the Hale House once before. He could do it again. He’d just have to time it right.
“That’s right.”said the man named Jones while nodding his head.
Huh? Did I mumbled something? Anyways..
“So what's up with you guys. Are you supposed to be the spice boys or somethin’.” Stiles said in full of sarcasm. Carl looked at Jones for a moment before walking back to the car as Gillian stepped forward hitting Jones in the process with a gun in his hand pointed at Stiles. Jones turned to Gillian and felt the man's irritation causing Gillian to back away slightly.
“You know, you know, you need t-to chill without being a witty shit.” Jones turned his attention back to Stiles.
“Mark, put the cuffs on him.” Jones continued. Mark immediately obeyed before returning to the car to help Carl with something.
“Well, I can't help it. I forgot to take my medication earlier. So– hey!”
"So, you guys must be new in town or something," Stiles interjected, trying to keep the tension light. "Because I've been through way worse than this."
“Pretty sure we are,” Jones grinned, then pulled a recorder from his pocket. The small, bulky device clicked on with a distinct noise, and he held it up in front of Stiles' face. "Alright, kid. Time to read this."
Stiles eyed the recorder suspiciously. "What is this, a live-streamed ransom message? You guys sure know how to make it official."
Jones looked at him completely irritated and Stiles just sighed there is no harm for that but why do they need to hit his head earlier so pretty damn hard and still hurts like a fucking bitch.
“Dad–” Stiles was interrupted when the highschooler Gillian surged more forward pointing the gun in his temple but Jones elbowed him back to back off a little.
And Stiles continued, “Dad, I’ve been abduct. I’m fine–”
“Abducted” Jones interrupted
Stiles looked at the man with annoyance, ”Well, it says abduct”
“Just say abducted” Jones said annoyed and jazzed his hand.
“I’ve been abducted. I’m fine right now but I may not be for lOrINg, if you don’t pay the son of 1 million doolers–”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Loring? The son of 1 million doolers? What the f–” Jones cut off before reading the note on his hand.
“That’s what it says” Stiles said cheerfully in sarcasm
“That’s long and the sum of 1 million dollars. You know what it means” argued the man.
“I don’t know what it means. You told me to read this, that’s what I’m doing”
“Say what it means, Okay!?”
“I may not be for LONG, if you don’t pay the SUM of 1 million DOLLARS, you will never see me alive again, these men mean businesses. Who wrote this?” Stiles snickered after. Jones turned away from Stiles getting pissed before shouting to his accomplice.
Jones' patience was wearing thin. "Carl!" he shouted, glaring at the recorder, as if it could answer for him.
Carl, already walking back to the car, shot Mark a glance. "Think he’s pissed about the note?"
“It says businesses, that’s what it says you told me to read the note. You never said to IMPROV it” Stiles rebutted
“Oh, iMpRoV, what are you Meryl fucking Streep. Okay, IMPROV the note.” Jones barked, his voice rising before pressing the record again.
“These sexually frustrated degenerate losers mean business,” Stiles continued.
“Don’t, don’t, don’t improv it. Don’t improv the note.” the man Jones turned to the highschooler
After a few tense moments, Jones grabbed the pen from Gillian’s hand, yanked him aside, and furiously scribbled something on the back of the note. When he was done, he tossed the pen aside and extended the note to Stiles, along with the recorder.
“Read” Jones said again after extending his arms towards Stiles with the note on his hand while Gillian continued to aim the gun on Stiles' head.
“Dad been kidnapped send 1 million or I’m dead”
“Perfect!”
—
Unbeknownst to the kidnappers, they weren’t alone. Hidden in the woods, a group of hunters had been watching, tracking Stiles for weeks. They had no interest in ransom money—they were after Stiles himself. As a human deeply entrenched in the werewolf pack, Stiles represented an opportunity: leverage.
The leader, a man with sharp blue eyes and an aura of cold efficiency, lowered his binoculars. “They’ve done the hard part for us. Now we just have to clean up.”
His companion, a younger hunter armed with a tranquiliser rifle, frowned. “We’re really taking the Sheriff’s kid? That’s going to bring the wolves down on us.”
The leader smirked. “Exactly. And when they come, we’ll be ready.”
The hunters waited until nightfall, their presence undetected by the four kidnappers inside the gas station. The kidnappers were too busy congratulating themselves on their clever plan not to notice the predators circling.
—
Stiles had spent the last hour twisting his wrists against the rope, but his captors had done a good job tying him up. His sarcastic quips had been met with silence after a while, the men ignoring him in favour of their phones and a deck of cards.
It wasn’t until he heard a faint rustling outside the building that his survival instincts flared. His heart raced, and he glanced toward the boarded-up windows. Something wasn’t right.
The door burst open.
Before the kidnappers could react, one of the hunters fired tranquiliser darts at the nearest man (Jones) and the other two (Mark and Carl), dropping on the ground instantly. The second kidnapper (Gillian) barely had time to reach for his gun before the other hunter slammed him against the wall, a knife pressed to his throat.
“Not a sound,” the hunter hissed. “Or I’ll make sure you never make another.”
Stiles froze, his mind racing. Hunters. Of course, it’s hunters. His luck just kept getting better.
The leader turned his attention to Stiles, his expression unreadable. “You’ve been causing quite the stir in this town, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, well,” Stiles muttered, his dry humour kicking in despite the fear curling in his stomach, “I like to keep busy.”
The hunter chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. “You’ve got guts. I’ll give you that. But I wonder how much loyalty your werewolf friends really have to a human like you.”
“What do you want?” Stiles demanded, his voice steadier than he felt. “Because if you think the pack’s going to let you get away with this—”
“We’re counting on that,” the leader interrupted smoothly. He motioned for his partner to untie Stiles, who immediately tried to twist away.
“Easy,” the hunter warned, pressing a knife to Stiles’ shoulder. “You’re coming with us. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Stiles gritted his teeth as they dragged him toward the door, his mind racing for a way out. The hunters weren’t amateurs—they moved with precision, every step calculated. As they hauled him toward a black SUV parked just outside the building, Stiles caught a glimpse of the kidnappers, Jones, Mark, and Carl, still unconscious on the floor, and the fourth one, slumped against the wall with a bloody nose.
Great. The bad guys just got replaced with worse guys
—
As the hunters loaded him into the SUV, Stiles finally saw an opportunity. One of them loosened his grip for a split second, distracted by the sound of movement in the trees. Without thinking, Stiles lashed out, slamming his shoulder into the hunter’s ribs and making a break for it.
He didn’t get far. The leader caught him by the back of his hoodie, yanking him off his feet and slamming him against the vehicle.
“You’re persistent,” the man said, his tone almost impressed. “But you’re not going anywhere.”
“Yeah?” Stiles wheezed, trying to catch his breath. “You sure about that?”
The sound of a wolf’s howl cut through the night, low and menacing. The leader stiffened, his grip tightening on Stiles.
“They’re here,” the younger hunter muttered, scanning the treeline nervously.
Stiles felt a surge of relief, his chest tightening with hope. “Told you,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You can’t outrun them.”
The leader’s expression hardened. “We’ll see about that.” The last words Stiles heard before he was knocked up unconscious.
Stiles gritted his teeth, blood still stinging from the earlier scuffle. The tightness in his chest was growing as the air around him thickened with tension. He kept his gaze locked on the hunter leader, the one who had given him the bruises and cuts on his face, the one who thought he could intimidate him into submission.
He took off his gaze from the leader before his eyes roamed around the place, just great they are in a different place, now, this feels more like a hostage shit. His thoughts flickered back to earlier that day, when he’d agreed to go on a simple grocery run. Scott, Isaac, Liam, and Theo had insisted on tagging along, their persistence palpable. At first, Stiles had thought they were just being overly protective—he'd gotten used to it. But something about their urgency had felt off. They were all too eager to make sure he wasn’t alone. As he reflected, Stiles quickly realised why: they’d picked up on the hunters. They hadn’t said anything outright, but the tension in the air had been enough of a warning. The hunters were after him again, and the pack had already sensed it, even before he did.
It hadn’t taken long for Stiles to piece things together. The hunters were back, the ones Chris kicked out last time, and this time, they weren’t playing by any rules. The ones who had captured him had no interest in justice or the code Chris Argent had helped to establish. This group was more dangerous, reckless. And Stiles? He was stuck in their grasp, hands tied, sitting in a room with nothing but his sharp wit to keep him from cracking under the pressure.
The thought of his four pups brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He regretted not insisting that they come with him, even if it was just to buy groceries. It felt stupid now. His mind kept circling back to the way they’d argued, the way they’d tried to shield him from the danger they all knew was coming. But now he was here, alone, and they were left behind—probably pacing in the woods, trying to track him down.
Stiles’ lips curled into a grim smile. If they thought for a second that they were going to get rid of him that easily, they had another thing coming.
“You’re just a pawn, kid,” the leader sneered, which broke Stiles in his own stupor, pacing in front of Stiles. “Nothing more than leverage. We’ll draw out your precious werewolves, and when they come running, we’ll put them down like the animals they are.”
Stiles glared up at him, defiance burning in his eyes. “You don’t know a damn thing about them.”
The leader smirked, leaning down to meet Stiles’ gaze. “Don’t I? We’ve been watching your pack. Those two alphas you’re so cozy with? They’re no different than the rest of their kind—violent, dangerous. It’s only a matter of time before they turn on you, too.”
Stiles laughed, the sound cutting through the tension in the room like a knife. “Wow. Did you rehearse that, or does this level of delusion come naturally? Because I’ve got news for you: they’re ten times better than you’ll ever be.”
The hunter’s smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered, his expression hardening. “You think this is some game? Killing werewolves isn’t just a job—it’s fun. Watching the light leave their eyes, hearing their snarls turn into whimpers… There’s nothing like it.”
Stiles felt a wave of nausea rise in his stomach, but he didn’t let it show. He leaned back in the chair, forcing a grin onto his face. “You’re so unhinged it’s almost funny. But let me guess—Chris Argent kicked you out of the cool kids’ club because you wouldn’t follow the code?”
The leader’s eyes darkened, and Stiles knew he’d hit a nerve.
“The code is for cowards,” the hunter hissed. “This is a war, and wars have casualties. You’ll see that soon enough.”
Stiles snorted. “Oh, I see it already. You’re not soldiers—you’re sad little men with an inferiority complex and a fetish for murder.”
That was all it took. The hunter lashed out, backhanding Stiles across the face. Pain exploded in his cheek, and he tasted blood as his lip split open. He coughed, feeling the bruise already forming, but when he looked up, his grin was still there, stained red.
“You done?” Stiles asked, his voice shaky but steady enough to make the hunter pause.
Before the leader could respond, a sound cut through the air—a long, mournful howl that sent a chill down Stiles’ spine. His heart leapt in his chest. He knew that sound anywhere.
Peter.
The howl was followed by another, deeper and more primal. Derek.
A grin spread across Stiles’ face despite the pain. He leaned back in his chair, his expression smug as the hunters exchanged uneasy glances.
“Uh-oh,” Stiles said, his voice mocking. “You hear that? That’s the sound of your worst nightmare coming for you.”
“Shut up,” the leader snapped, but Stiles didn’t miss the flicker of fear in his eyes.
“Oh, you’re scared,” Stiles continued, his confidence growing. “You thought you were the big bad wolves, huh? But let me tell you something about my alphas—they don’t lose . And when they get here, you’ll wish you never touched me.”
The hunters muttered among themselves, their earlier bravado cracking under the weight of the howls echoing through the night. Stiles leaned his head back, letting himself savour the moment. His mates were coming. And he had no doubt they’d tear this place apart to get to him.
—
The pack approached the warehouse in tense silence, their senses heightened. Stiles’ scent was strongest here, mingled with pain, blood, fear, and wolfsbane. From inside, they could hear the muffled sounds of movement—voices arguing, weapons being readied. And then, they heard Stiles.
“Go ahead,” Stiles’ voice rang out, defiant even through the pain. “Take your best shot. It’s not like this day could get any worse for you.”
Derek froze, his blood boiling at the sound of his mate’s voice, broken and strained but still fighting. Peter clenched his fists, his eyes glowing crimson in the darkness. They didn’t need to speak. In perfect sync, they led the charge, the pack busting through the warehouse doors with a thunderous crash.
Inside, the hunters whirled around in shock, but Derek and Peter stilled immediately. Stiles was still tied to the chair, slumped slightly to one side, his face a mess of bruises with a bump on his forehead. His lip was split, dried blood staining his chin, and a dark mark was blooming across his cheek. Peter’s calm facade shattered for the briefest moment, his fists clenching tightly. Derek, standing beside him, let out a low, guttural growl, his entire body trembling with restrained fury. Their red, glowing eyes burned into the leader of the hunters, who stood behind Stiles with a gun pressed to his head.
“Let him go,” Peter said, his voice calm but laced with a venom that made even the other hunters hesitate.
The leader smirked, tightening his grip on the gun. “You think you can walk in here and bark orders? One move, and he’s dead.”
Derek took a single step forward, his voice low and deadly. “You hurt him any more, and I will rip your throat out with my teeth.”
The pack spread out behind them, forming a wall of glowing eyes—gold and blue burning in the dim light. The hunters raised their weapons, but none could match the unyielding fury radiating from the alphas.
And then chaos erupted.
The betas launched themselves at the hunters, claws and fangs meeting the barrage of bullets. The warehouse echoed with the sound of snarls and shouts, gunfire and flesh tearing. Sparks flew as wolfsbane-laced bullets ricocheted off metal and walls.
As Stiles moved since the leader was distracted by his alphas, the rope that had bound him fell slack, forgotten on the ground as he used every ounce of his strength to twist his body against the restraints. His hands were raw from the struggle, but the rush of adrenaline was enough to push him through. In one fluid motion, he managed to free himself and leap toward the leader, moving with a surprising grace and speed. His heart pounded in his chest, but it was the instinct to protect that drove him forward.
The tension in the room was unbearable, both Peter and Derek on edge, their eyes flickering between Stiles and the leader. They’d been circling like wolves in the wild, waiting for a break, a weakness to exploit. But with every move Stiles made, the danger escalated, and the alphas’ patience wore thinner with each passing second.
The moment Stiles threw himself into the line of fire, both Peter and Derek’s focus sharpened, their instincts roaring to the surface. Their eyes blazed, and the tension between them snapped as they watched the gunfire erupt.
For a moment, time froze.
“Stiles!” Peter and Derek’s roar echoed through the warehouse, raw with pain and fury.
The shot hit Stiles square in the chest, and in that instant, something deep inside both alphas cracked. The control they'd fought to maintain shattered. Stiles gasped, his body jerking as the bullet hit him square in the chest and he fell sideways, but before his body could hit the ground, Peter was there, moving with the fluidity of a predator, catching Stiles before he could reach the ground. The force of the impact pushed Peter back slightly, but his grip was unyielding, pulling Stiles against him with the desperation of someone unwilling to lose everything.
Stiles’ breath was shallow, his eyes unfocused, but there was still a flicker of awareness in them. He could feel the warmth of Peter’s body, the reassuring weight of his presence as the alpha gently lowered him to the ground, cradling him close. The blood continued to seep through Stiles' shirt, the crimson staining Peter’s hands as he tried, helplessly, to apply pressure to the wound and seeping the pain, his forearm was black.
Peter’s eyes, usually so controlled, were wide with panic as he held Stiles against him. His thoughts were a jumble, his mind racing for a way to fix this, to heal him, but there was no time, no easy way out. Stiles had taken a bullet for him—and for Derek, too—and now, the weight of that sacrifice threatened to break him.
Derek, seeing the shift in Peter’s demeanour, immediately sprang into action. The alphas’ rage grew, the bond between them and Stiles flaring bright, a fire that could only be extinguished by vengeance.
Stiles was barely conscious now, his hand weakly pressing against Peter’s chest, trying to offer some comfort despite the pain. His voice was barely a whisper, but the words cut through the air, “I… I’m not done yet.”
Peter’s breath caught in his throat. There was no way Stiles could be serious, not with the blood pooling around him, staining everything.
But before Peter could respond, before he could say anything, the world shifted. The predators within him—within both of them—roared to life. Their mate had been hurt. Their mate had sacrificed himself for them. And no one would ever harm Stiles again.
Peter’s expression twisted into a snarl, a raw, primal rage flooding through him. Derek’s lips curled back in a furious growl, his muscles coiling as if to leap into action, but the sight of Stiles, from the bullet wound. It was the last straw. The bloodshed, the waiting, the helplessness—it all surged within them, and now, with Stiles bleeding, nothing would stop them.
Peter placed a gentle peck on Stiles' lips before carefully lowering Stiles to the ground, his focus never wavering, before he turned to fight alongside Derek. Together, they tore through the remaining threats. Derek was on the leader first, his strength a blur of motion as he ripped the gun from the man’s hands, his fury a force of nature. Peter was right behind him, his hands flashing with dangerous speed as he dispatched the rest of the men who’d dared to threaten his mate, leaving the leader a mere memory of his former self. The alphas moved as one, swift and lethal.. But all they could think of was Stiles. The pain in his chest, the life draining from him with every heartbeat. The alphas were already thinking ahead, planning their next move—the world had shifted, and their bond to Stiles was their priority, their everything.
The rest of the pack fought with renewed ferocity, their attacks vicious and unrelenting. No hunter escaped. Not one.
As the warehouse fell into silence, Derek and Peter rushed to Stiles’ side. He lay still, his breaths shallow, blood pooling beneath him.
“No, no, no,” Derek whispered, his hands trembling as he reached for Stiles cupping his face and Peter took his position same as before cradling Stiles on his chest. “Stiles, stay with us.”
Stiles’ eyes fluttered open, his gaze unfocused but locking onto them. “Hey,” he whispered, a weak smile tugging at his lips. “Told you… you’d find me.”
“Don’t talk,” Peter said, his tone harsh, but his hands were gentle as he cradled Stiles, “Just breathe.”
Derek pressed his forehead to Stiles’, his body trembling. “You’re going to be okay. You have to be.”
Unnoticed by the pack, a faint glow began to emanate from Stiles’ chest. His own magic, instinctive and untrained, pushed against the poison, slowly knitting the wound closed.
Peter’s sharp eyes caught it first, and he whispered in awe, “He’s healing.”
As Peter and Derek hovered over Stiles, the rest of the pack gathered around them, their faces a mixture of concern and fear. Jackson’s jaw was clenched, his hands balled into fists as he watched helplessly. Lydia stood just behind him, her eyes wide with shock, trying to steady her breath as she processed the scene before her.
Allison, her face pale but resolute, knelt beside Jackson, her fingers hovering over her bow as though it might somehow be useful in this moment of helplessness. Her gaze never left Stiles, her sharp instincts telling her the situation was dire.
Danny, standing slightly apart from the rest, swallowed hard, his eyes filled with a quiet kind of fear. He wasn’t trained for this world, but Stiles’ injuries and the desperate urgency in everyone’s movements shook him to the core. He clenched his hands at his sides, wishing there was something—anything—he could do.
Malia’s usual fierce demeanor was softened by worry, her gaze darting between Stiles and the others, her hands curling into claws as if she could somehow fight the air around them to protect him. Isaac, normally stoic, looked torn, his brows furrowed in deep concern as he shifted uneasily, unsure of what to do.
Cora, her eyes flashing with a protective fierceness, paced just outside the circle of the pack, her mind racing with the question of how to help. She’d seen a lot of battles, but seeing Stiles like this made her feel powerless.
Liam, ever the loyal protector, hovered near the back, his fists clenched as he tried to reign in the wolf inside him, not wanting to lose control. His eyes were locked on Stiles, his body trembling as though it could sense the danger in the air.
Theo, quiet and observant as always, stood near the edge of the group, his usually playful demeanor replaced by a rare seriousness. He could feel the tension, the fear, the way every one of them was strung tight. His gaze flicked over to Peter and Derek, who were desperately trying to keep Stiles alive, before settling back on Stiles himself, willing the healing magic to take hold.
Erica and Boyd, who had been staying near the outskirts of the pack, approached with urgency. Boyd’s face was a mask of concern as he moved quickly to Stiles’ side. He placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, his usually calm demeanor faltering in the face of their mate’s injury. “He’s going to be okay,” Boyd murmured, though there was no certainty in his voice—only hope.
Erica, her expression hard but filled with pain, crouched down next to Derek, her voice low but fierce. “He’s strong, Derek. He’s going to pull through.” Her fingers brushed lightly over Stiles’ arm, offering what little comfort she could.
Scott, visibly shaking, stood next to Malia, the weight of their leader's role pressing heavily on his shoulders. The pack had been through so much together, but seeing Stiles like this, broken and bleeding, was different. It shook him to his core.
As the faint glow from Stiles' chest intensified, shimmering softly like the first light of dawn breaking through the darkness, a collective breath seemed to hold across the group.
"Is it... is it his magic?" Jackson whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with disbelief.
Lydia, always perceptive, nodded slowly, her voice trembling as she spoke, "It's like nothing I've ever seen before. It's… it's magic, but it’s not like anything we’ve dealt with."
As the glow continued to spread, Stiles’ breathing steadied. His once pale face began to gain a hint of colour, his body slowly mending as his magic fought back against the poison that had nearly claimed him. Derek’s expression softened, but the intensity of his grip on Stiles’ face never wavered.
“You’re not losing him,” Derek growled low, as if trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. “Not this time.”
Peter’s lips curled into a faint, proud smile despite the fear still evident in his eyes. “You underestimated him. Again.”
Stiles’ smile flickered, weak but sincere. “Guess… I’m full of surprises,” he murmured, the faintest hint of his old humour breaking through the pain.
The pack, although still gripped by worry, allowed themselves a moment of relief, the soft glow in the warehouse a sign that maybe, just maybe, they could still pull through.
“We need to get him home,” Peter muttered, scooping Stiles into his arms as if he weighed nothing.
The pack left the warehouse in silence with Chris' arrival along with his fellow hunters to clean up the place, Peter carrying Stiles back to the safety of the Hale house. There, Derek and Peter refused to leave his side, tending to him with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the fury they had unleashed moments before.
Peter carefully wiped the blood from Stiles’ face, his hands steady despite the emotions roiling beneath the surface. Derek sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing through Stiles’ hair, grounding himself in the steady rhythm of his mate’s breathing.
When Stiles finally stirred, his lips curling into a faint smile, Peter and Derek exchanged a look of profound relief.
“You’re safe,” Derek whispered, his voice soft but firm. “We’ve got you.”
“And no one,” Peter added, his tone icy with promise, “will ever touch you again.”