𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐒𝐎𝐎𝐍, derek hale ✓

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘

┏━━━━⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆━━━━┓

JUST GETTING STARTED

DEUCALION'S MESSAGE WAS CLEAR: HE WAS GOING TO KILL HANNAH.

From her place beside the woman's hospital bed, Emerson knew a decision needed to be made; though, she didn't know if she could bring herself to do anything.

The doctor responsible for administering Hannah's care told the younger girl that her aunt slipped into a coma, and the chances of her waking up was slim to none due to the minimal brain activity they were seeing. She was pale, almost ghostly so, and sometimes Emerson couldn't even see the rise and fall of her chest.

She'd never make it out alive without some sort of intervention— some sort of supernatural intervention.

There was an instant solution that came to mind, one that involved Emerson giving her guardian the bite, but Deucalion was a precise man. It wouldn't matter if she could turn Hannah and ship her away, subjecting her to a life on the run, because if Emerson didn't join him, he would make sure Hannah died in some way or another.

Werewolf or not, Hannah would die.

Part of her so desperately wanted to accept his offer just so the Prescott woman could live. In truth, had Hannah not welcomed the girl into her home, this all could've been avoided from the very beginning. The weight of the consequence was sitting on Emerson's shoulders uncomfortably.

Then again, if she so easily conceded and joined his ranks, all she had endured would be for nothing. The lives lost would be for nothing, the constant running would be for nothing. She wouldn't give up that easily, but this was Hannah.

Sitting in that damn hospital room, with subtle beeps coming from the machine hooked up to the deputy, Emerson thought she was losing her mind. Her hands were buried in her scalp, eyes trained on the woman who looked like she was asleep.

She was on high alert, hadn't slept in well over a day, and when visiting hours were over, she retreated to that damn subway station until it was fine for her to come back. She hadn't been back at the house in ages, and the only interactions she had outside of hospital staff were with Scott and Stiles just the day before.

Emerson would bite her tongue at that later, when an unknown scent had snuck up on her. The person who the scent belonged to stepped in the doorway, and had she been up to shape, she would've noticed the footsteps from down the hall.

"You are one very hard person to find."

Emerson's head snapped towards the figure, one she thought she'd just hallucinated due to the aura of nonchalance he radiated.

"Peter?"

That was invitation enough for the man to step inside the room, eyes glancing around as though he was taking in his surroundings to catalogue for later. Perhaps her confusion bled onto her face, because he was quick to offer up an explanation.

"My nephew has asked me to keep an eye on you," he offered as a response, and Emerson felt her stomach tumble a little at the mention of the man she hadn't seen in days. "You smell like death."

Her teeth barred on their own. "It's a hospital," she snapped, eyes focusing back onto the woman on the bed, "death kind of clings to fabric."

"Touché," he mumbled begrudgingly. He dared to sit in the empty seat beside her, though she was thankful he at least pulled it away so they were so close. His nose nonetheless crinkled up. "But seriously, have you not showered?"