The Hellhound's Mate

Angie's Return - Part 7

(A/N: Hi guys! Thanks so much for 700,000 reads! I hope you enjoy Part 7 of Angie's return, I was going to end it here but decided to do the rest of season 3A so you've got more chapters coming after this. This chapter was previously uploaded in the original story but I've extended it. Hope you enjoy it and thanks again!)

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The metal rope wound tight around her wrists, ankles, and waist, biting into her skin every time she moved. Her clothes were torn, stained with dirt and dried blood; her arms were streaked red from fighting the restraints. She was running on fumes—exhausted, starved, half-feral—but the stubborn fire in her eyes still hadn't gone out. She had no idea how long she'd been hanging here, days maybe weeks. Deucalion would know that she was missing by now.

Her head hung low, hair falling in tangled knots over her face, when the sound of footsteps echoed down the concrete hallway. The scent of food—grease, onions, salt—hit her before the voice did.

Stiles stepped into the room wearing jeans, a soft blue T-shirt, and a flannel that hung open over it. He looked painfully human in the sterile, echoing space. In his hand, a paper plate. On it, a burger.

Angie's muscles tensed immediately, instincts overriding everything else. The smell made her snarl. She tugged at the chains, metal scraping against metal, the sound sharp enough to make Stiles flinch. But he didn't back away.

He crouched, setting the plate carefully on the ground a few feet in front of her. "You can have it," he said quietly, his voice steady but soft.

She froze. The sound of that voice—his voice—hit her like a blow she didn't expect, despite having heard it before. Something deep in her chest twisted, a spark of memory she didn't recognise.

"You can have it," he repeated, "as soon as I have my sister back."

Her head snapped up, eyes flashing red. "For the last time," she growled, her voice raw, "I'm not your sister! The Sheriff may be my father, but I don't remember you."

The words were sharp enough to draw blood—but Stiles didn't even flinch. If anything, they seemed to steel him further.

"That's only because the Alphas—because Deucalion—took your memories of me away," he said firmly, stepping closer. "He took your memories of all of us away."

"Why?" Her voice broke, hoarse and exhausted. "Why do you need me to remember?"

He looked at her then—really looked—and for a moment, he wasn't the sarcastic, fast-talking kid everyone underestimated. He was just a brother who had been waiting too long to bring his sister home.

"Because you're my sister," he said quietly. "You are my sister, Evangeline."

Her head jerked up again. That name. That name hurt. Her gaze locked with his, and for the first time, she noticed it—the same eyes. The same shade of warm brown flecked with gold.

"How do you know that name?" she whispered, voice trembling. "How do you know my name?"

"The same way you know mine," he said. "What is it, Angie? What's my name?"

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. 

Stiles could see it in her—the names, the thoughts, the fragments circling like sharks in murky water. He took a step closer. "What's my name? What's my name, Evangeline? Tell me my name."

Her breathing quickened. Her body trembled as her claws scraped against the metal, the scent of her own blood thick in the air.

He said it again, firmer this time. "What's my name?"