Derek Hale had been drifting in and out of a restless sleep, haunted by memories of the past that never truly left him. Paige’s face, her laughter, her scream—all of it replayed in his mind like a broken record. It had been years since her death, but the pain felt as raw as it did when he was sixteen. Now at twenty-three, Derek had perfected the art of emotional detachment. He had built walls so high that no one could climb them, and his bed was occupied by women whose names he barely remembered. It was easier that way. No attachments, no pain. Just a hollow existence where he could pretend he was untouchable.
The night was silent, the kind of stillness that wrapped around the loft like a suffocating blanket. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the old clock on the wall, its hands moving in time with Derek's shallow breathing. He had just started to drift off again when a scream shattered the silence—a scream that sliced through the night like a knife, raw and filled with terror.
Derek's eyes snapped open, his heart hammering in his chest. He knew that voice. Stiles.
Without a second thought, Derek was out of bed and rushing to the door, his senses honing in on the direction of the scream. The scent of blood hit him like a punch to the gut, sharp and metallic, carried on the wind. It was coming from the woods—Stiles was in the woods.
Derek’s pulse quickened, fear clawing at his insides as he bolted out of the loft and into the cool night air. The moon hung low in the sky, casting eerie shadows through the dense trees as Derek pushed himself to run faster. The scent of blood grew stronger, mingled with something else—something feral, familiar. A wolf.
His heart dropped as he followed the scent trail, weaving through the trees with the precision of a predator on the hunt. Branches snapped underfoot, and leaves crunched as he charged forward, the urgency growing with every step. Derek had always been able to find Stiles; it was as if the younger boy’s very essence called out to him, a beacon in the darkness.
He burst into a small clearing and stopped dead in his tracks. The sight before him made his blood run cold. Stiles was lying on the ground, crumpled like a discarded rag doll. His skin was pale, his face twisted in pain as blood pooled around him, soaking into the earth. The source of the blood was a vicious bite mark on his arm, the wound deep and ragged, leaking life with every passing second.
“Stiles!” Derek’s voice was a growl, a mix of anger and fear as he dropped to his knees beside him. He could see the bite clearly now, the unmistakable mark of a wolf. But it wasn’t just any wolf—it was a rogue, someone who had gone feral.
Stiles’ eyes fluttered open at the sound of Derek’s voice, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. His eyes were glassy with pain and shock, the usual spark of mischief nowhere to be found.
“D-Derek…” Stiles’ voice was a whisper, strained and weak. His hand twitched, as if trying to reach out, but he didn’t have the strength.
“I’m here,” Derek said, his voice rough, the fear clawing at his chest threatening to choke him. He pressed his hand against the bite, trying to stem the flow of blood, but it was too much. The wound was too severe. “I’m going to get you to Deaton. Just hang on.”
With no time to lose, Derek carefully but swiftly scooped Stiles into his arms. Stiles let out a pained groan, his head lolling against Derek’s chest, but he didn’t resist. He couldn’t. The boy was fading fast, his breaths becoming more labored with each passing second.
Derek ran, the weight of Stiles in his arms a constant reminder of how fragile he was, how close he was to losing him. The loft, the woods, everything blurred as Derek pushed himself to go faster, his muscles burning from the effort. But the pain in his body was nothing compared to the agony in his heart. He had failed once before, with Paige, and he couldn’t—wouldn’t—fail again. Not with Stiles.
