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Peter prowled through the dense foliage of the preserve, his burden slung over his shoulder like a macabre trophy. His thoughts churned with bitter resentment. Another name has been crossed off his list; another threat eliminated.
Yet more still remained.
He had long since decided to take it upon himself to rid the world of hunters, those who had taken so much from him. Yeah, he had taken care of those that had torn his family apart and broken his sanity, but now it’s no longer about revenge. It’s about preventing more harm to his fractured family.
Despite what some might believe, Peter did still care about his family. Thank you very much. He just showed it in different ways than what many might consider socially acceptable.
Born a werewolf from an ancient family line, he had long since embraced the predator within, honing his skills, his senses, his strength in order to become the ultimate hunter of hunters. He’s determined to flip their twisted code back on them. Peter will be the one who hunts those who hunt him.
But he had to do it quietly. Subtly.
He had to pretend to play the way a certain “true alpha” decided he should. An alpha who, as far as Peter was concerned, still had yet to earn his rank. They’ve been at war for over three years, yet the whelp still insisted on being a watered down version, a damned insult even, to the name werewolf.
Even with the ongoing threat of Monroe and Gerard training and arming yet another wave of hunters, that bitten pup still stood in Peter’s way with his naïve belief in peace and forgiveness, and repeated misguided attempts at diplomacy.
Peter scoffed at the idea of “killing them with kindness.” No, kindness was a luxury they could ill afford when it came to hunters. Peter had seen too much, suffered too greatly, to show mercy to his enemies.
So, he operated in the shadows, striking swiftly and silently, leaving no trace of his handiwork behind. He had to keep it quiet, to avoid drawing the attention of Scott and his merry band of followers he claimed as a pack.
Peter navigated the rugged terrain with practiced ease, his senses attuned to every shuffle and whisper of the forest around him. With each step, he could hear the soft crunch of leaves underfoot, the rhythmic beat of neighboring animals’ hearts, and the subtle rustle of something moving against the dirt. Amongst the loamy aroma, there was a distinct hint of some kind of animal nearby, mixed with the crisp bite of ozone, and underneath, a faint, somewhat familiar spicy scent.
He had long since veered off the well trodden paths and onto a lesser known trail that wound it’s way deeper in the wilderness. This particular route was rarely used by humans, let alone law enforcement, and was perfect for his purposes.
As Peter neared his destination, the air, thick with the rich aroma of damp earth, mingled more and more with the faint perfume of the delicate flower that could be found in the clearing up ahead. Its petals, like stars arranged in a graceful dance, seemed to mimic the constellations above. Peter had chosen this particular place because even if someone did happen to suspect him of what he was doing, the endangered status of these pretty little plants ensured that no government official would disturb the area.
Yet as he got closer, the rhythmic sounds of digging reached his ears, interrupting the otherwise tranquil night.
Peter froze before tilting his head to sniff with all the grace of the predator he was. His senses sharpened, honing in on the disturbance.
The scents and sounds began to click together in his mind. That scent from earlier. It was unmistakably familiar, yet the ratios of this particular combination of scents were so drastically different from what he was accustomed to that it actually threw him off.
That didn’t happen often.
Peter had previously noticed that the scents of one Stiles Stilinski had shifted ever since his possession by the Nogitsune. The subtle hints of ozone and fox had blended with Stiles’ natural human scent, hiding, almost imperceptibly, under the spicy cologne he used. Peter had initially dismissed the change as a side effect of Stiles’ body being so deeply infused with the dark spirit that had once consumed him. The scents were so faint, he thought that they were merely traces of the supernatural residue left behind.
Now, however, those scents were strong and distinct; almost as if Stiles had ceased making an effort to conceal his more supernatural aroma. The way the scents of fresh ozone and musky fox combined with that uniquely spicy undertone was unequivocal. It was as if Stiles had finally embraced the fusion of human and supernatural within himself.
Peter’s lips curled into a sly smirk. Yes, he knew that smell well. It may be a bit different, but it was just as…delicious, if not even more appetizing, than before.
The digging sounds stopped as Stiles popped his head over the edge of the hole, eyes widening as he took in Peter standing just beyond the edge of the clearing, hidden in shadows that no mere human had any business seeing into.
Oh, yeah. Stiles isn’t nearly as human as he pretends to be, Peter mused to himself before stepping forward, the moonlight revealing him.
“Stiles? What the hell are you doing here?” Peter’s voice cut through the silence of the night, his package slipping from his shoulder to the ground with a soft thud.
He watched as the boy–
No, not a boy. This was a man in front of him now.
The tall, lean man climbed out of the hole with a fluidity and poise that defied expectations for one Stiles Stilinski. With each passing year, Stiles seemed to grow taller, a fact that Peter couldn’t ignore as he now practically towered over the werewolf by a couple of inches.
Peter drank in the sight of him, admiring the long legs that carried Stiles towards him with newfound confidence and the long, slender fingers that could be both dexterous and deadly. Peter’s mind wandered to how those fingers might feel tracing patterns on his skin, how those legs might feel wrapped around him. The scent of Stiles, now laced with the unmistakable essence of the supernatural, only served to heighten Peter’s longing.
The young man’s large amber eyes, which always delighted him when lighting turned them almost beta gold, met Peter’s with a mix of surprise and challenge. His upturned nose and bowed lips, features Peter found infuriatingly adorable, seemed to invite closer inspection.
“Gardening,” Stiles replied almost nonchalantly, gesturing vaguely at the thick patch of blooming flowers. “The way the sun hits this area seems to be great for the soil.”
Sitting mere feet from Stiles was an almost perfect patch of the fragile flowers populating the clearing, dirt and roots included, and half a foot thick. It was almost like a flowery version of grass sod one could find at a hardware store. Stiles had expertly skimmed it from the area he had planned his hole to be before placing it to the side and digging in its place. Peter couldn’t help but be impressed.
Stiles had been grappling with his ever darkening impulses ever since the Nogitsune.
While Stiles had always battled with having darker, more obsessive, tendencies than his peers, it just became stronger now that he knew .
Stiles now knew exactly how it felt to feel the life drain out of someone at his own hands. He knew the precise amount of force needed to break a neck, where to place his hands. The best way to kill someone fast for when time was of the essence, and the best way to savor the thrill of the kill. Make it last. Make it absolute agony.
He knew how to make them suffer.
The visceral reaction, the rush, the adrenaline–it all became disturbingly familiar.
It started innocuously enough.
Stiles found himself having violent thoughts to mild inconveniences: the driver that cut him off in traffic, the elderly lady at the grocery store who took the last of the particular heart healthy cereal that his dad actually like, the teacher that felt the need to embarrass him in front of the whole class, the criminals who threatened his dad within Stiles’ earshot.
The thoughts were just flashes of violence at first, but they grew stronger, more persistent, until he started to worry.
Then, it happened.
Donovan
Stiles killed Donovan.
It really was an accident. Stiles hadn’t intended on killing him. But he did want to.
From the moment the chimera first threatened his dad, Stiles wanted to hurt him. When Donovan had attacked him outside the library, Stiles fought with his instincts trying to tell him that this was his chance. It would be in self defense, no one would be able to fault him. Stiles did suspect it was a possibility that Donovan would get injured when Stiles pulled that pin. He didn’t actually think it would kill him though.
But it did.
In a beautifully bloody way.
The rush Stiles felt as he watched the blood seep from Donovan’s body was electrifying. This was the confirmation Stiles needed that he could in fact still successfully kill even without being possessed. That confirmation both relieved and absolutely terrified him.
Stiles now knew that he really could protect those he cared about in a way that was final. Mostly final. This town was weird.
When the guilt of what he’s done and the fear of what he’s capable of inevitably popped up in those early years, the knowledge that he’s doing this to protect his family, his pack, made him feel better.
He, Stiles, kept them safe.
However, Stiles also knew that the others didn’t understand. They didn’t get that sometimes someone had to get their hands a little bloody to help keep the peace, so Stiles did what he needed to do while doing it in secret. His goal was to protect them, and sometimes that meant protecting them mentally and emotionally by keeping the harsher things he’s done a secret.
Now, Stiles stood in the preserve, shovel in hand, digging a hole deep enough to conceal his latest act of protection lying behind him. His heart pounded with the now familiar rush of adrenaline and fear. He had initially found this place on one of the sheriff’s station’s maps of specially protected areas of the preserve and had chosen this spot for its seclusion and the protection offered by the endangered plants growing here. No one would dig here, not without facing severe repercussions.
Stiles' knowledge of police trails and their habits helped him avoid detection. He had spent enough time with his dad and at the station to know which paths the officers were likely to use and which areas they tended to avoid. This part of the preserve being off limits to them made it the perfect spot.
As he dug, Stiles couldn’t help but reflect on how much had changed in the time since he accepted his whole self.
Unbelievably, in college, Stiles had delved into the practice of meditation. A couple of friends from his statistics class swore it had helped with their stress and mental states.
Figuring it was worth a try, Stiles went into it as he does everything, full steam ahead. It was during these quiet moments of introspection that Stiles first began to unlock latent knowledge that the Nogitsune had imprinted within him from their shared mental space.
Stiles had discovered more about the spark of power Deaton had once talked about, more like mentioned, than Stiles could ever imagine the mysterious vet ever volunteering.
His spark hummed within him, a steady pulse of energy that flowed through his veins, giving him knowledge of the energies that flowed through the earth that connect everyone and everything.
It was this heightened intuition that allowed him to sense the presence of another nearby.
Peter raised his eyebrows in that uniquely Hale manner, exuding judgement and condescension, as he walked closer to the hole Stiles now stood next to. His eyes flicked to the suspiciously wrapped bag slouched nearby.
“I see you’ve found some…organic fertilizer,” Peter deadpanned.
With a casual air, Peter hefted his own burden over into view, “You know, these pests have been quite the nuisance. Mind if I add my contribution to your gardening project? No sense in wasting a perfectly good…hole.”
Stiles, feeling a wave of relief wash over him, nodded quickly. “Be my guest. The more, the merrier.”
“Indeed,” Peter replied with a salacious grin.