❛ And all at once, you're all
I want, I'll never let you go
King of my heart . ❜
༄ ‧₊˚ ★
↳ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝟏 :
"𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝖾𝗌"
(( Stiles Stilinski X Fem!OC...
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season 4 episode: 9, continuing
BLAKE ༄ ‧₊˚ ★
"A thousand," Brunski says, his voice casual but full of arrogance.
"A thousand dollars?" Stiles snaps. "To use one little key to open up one little file room? Are you out of your mind?"
"He is out of his mind," I mutter under my breath, glaring at Brunski.
Brunski leans back, unfazed. "When you get the keys, you make the price."
Stiles narrows his eyes. "You actually think we have that kind of money?"
Brunski smirks, a cruel glint in his eyes. "I know you don't. If you did, daddy sheriff would've paid the bill by now," The comment lands like a punch, and I see Stiles' face fall. "That's why I'm talking to her." Brunski adds, nodding toward Lydia with a sly grin.
Lydia sighs, pulling out her wallet with a reluctant look. "I've got 500," she says, tossing the money onto the table with a hint of disgust.
Brunski doesn't miss a beat, sauntering over to stop his tape player. He pulls out a tape, something about it making my skin crawl. I glance at Lydia and Stiles, both of them eyeing the tape too, recognition flickering in their expressions. Something isn't right.
Brunski sniffs the money before sliding it into his pocket, all while we're still trying to figure out why that tape looks so familiar. He dangles the keys in front of us with a smirk, like he's enjoying this way too much. "Follow me," he orders, spinning on his heel and strolling out of the room, the keys jingling in his hand like a taunt.
Brunski leads us down a narrow hallway into a dimly lit file room. He swings the door open and gestures inside. "Good?" he says.
"Yeah, we can help ourselves," Stiles replies.
"Lydia, the list," I remind her.
She reaches into her bag and hands me the folded piece of paper. I unfold it, my eyes scanning the names. My heart skips a beat, and I feel the blood drain from my face. "Lydia... why is there another name on here?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, trying to process what I'm seeing.
Lydia frowns, clearly confused. "I didn't write anything,"
I turn the list toward her, pointing at the name that stands out. "This is your handwriting."
"Why would I add another name?" she asks, her confusion deepening.
