I

Peter remembers the agony of fire scorching up his side, the feeling of his flesh bubbling even as it tried to heal; it was repetitive, cruel, and it was driving him half insane. The pain wasn't even the worst part, he reserved that title for the screams torn out of his family as they died around him.

Fire sears through him, through his veins as his vision turns a bright, vivid red and familiar ties snapped like twine. He writhes on the basement floor, the concrete scratching at his bare skin as his clothes turn to ash. Beside him, his wife goes still and her back thumps to the ground for a final time.

Peter can feel his teeth lengthening as the Change overtakes him, fur sprouting and claws spearing into the cement as his back bows in agony. Far away and muffled is the sound of husky laughter, the huntress that started the blaze enjoying her work from a safe distance outside. Peter knows what that means, the fact that his ears can pick up the noise, but he refuses to think of his sister as dead just yet. Talia is strong, his Alpha, she has to survive even if no one else does.

Some point after one of the support beams collapses on top of him, Peter remembers the stories his great-grandmother used to tell him. He'd been small and she'd been the Alpha at the time, they would curl up near the lake in the woods and she would tell him stories of Fae beings. One in particular had been her favorite, a tale from ancient times in Poland—a fairy tale and prophecy all rolled into one.

(Sometimes, if you close your eyes and wish hard enough, he'll come to you.
how will i know it's him, nan?
You'll know him by his ink black hair and burnt gold eyes that glow in his terrible rages. He has a sharp tongue and magic that comes in bursts around fingertips the color of moonlight. You must not summon him unless you have no other choice, Pup, creatures like him always expect a heady price in the end)

Peter craves revenge for what's happening to his pack.

He squeezes his eyes closed, teeth bared in a snarl, and Peter wishes.

When he opens them again, the space around him is dark and his body is suspended in the air and he thinks—hopes—that he's died. He stares around him, resigned to the blankness of the afterlife if it means the screams are gone with the pain. He releases a sigh, just a quiet whisper of air that forms into a pale vapor.

It's cold here, but cold is so much better than searing heat that burns and tears and destroys.

"Who are you?" The voice catches him off guard and his gaze snaps in the direction it came from, crimson instead of an icy blue. "Why does a 'wolf summon me?" There's a flash in the darkness, like a lighter shade of black against the impenetrable void.

"Revenge." Peter's voice is little more than a croak, vocal chords strained from screaming for what feels like hours.

"That's all anyone ever wants." There's a brush of soft fur against Peter's face, but it's gone just as quickly. "What makes you so special?"

"Nothing, I'm sure. But I'll pay whatever price you demand. I'll give you anything."

"What if I want the soul of your firstborn?" Peter freezes and then there's laughter, dark and rolling like a thunderclap. "Relax, 'wolf, the souls of children are hardly interesting. Besides, you have that particular scent of loss that means your firstborn has already passed. What was its name?"

"Jackson." It leaves his lips on a sob and the tears he manages to shed float upwards in cloudy droplets. "His name was Jackson and he was just murdered by hunters along with the rest of my pack." There's silence and Peter is beginning to think that the stranger has left until he feels the swish-flick of a tail against one of his hands.

"You want revenge on those hunters?" It's not a question even if it's phrased like one, more statement of fact that's long been acknowledged. "I'll help you."

"What's your price in return?" A sharp claw runs along his cheek, the tip of it skimming under one of his eyes. Peter doesn't flinch away from the sting, it heals fast enough and it's nothing compared to what he'd felt just minutes ago. Or maybe it was hours. Time means nothing when you're immersed in torment and thrust into this other realm.

"This I'll do for free. Hunters killed my mother and I take a special sort of glee in watching the life leave their eyes. You need to wake up, 'wolf. Open those pretty red eyes for me."

Peter's eyes flicker open
(again? or maybe he never had them open to begin with)
and he takes in the glittering stars far above his head. It's a different sort of darkness than before, not clogged with smoke or unreality. He sucks in deep breaths of clean air and the burn eases in his chest.

"What's your name? I can't exactly call you 'wolf for however long this takes." Peter's gaze flicks to the voice from that other place, taking in hair that's just long enough to hang over the being's forehead and the predatory curve of his smile. And his great-grandmother's words come to him again.

Ink dark hair and bright honey eyes that can turn burnt gold in a second of rage, a sharp tongue and magic sparking at fingertips the color of moonlight, a creature of myth to be feared and worshiped. Peter never expected to find all of that encompassed in the skinny frame of a teenaged boy, but stranger things have most certainly happened.

"Peter Hale," he rasps out. "What's yours?" The smile grows wider, too many teeth that are too sharp to be human. Peter can appreciate it, the sharp points of the creature's nails even as they turn dull and intelligence that brightens his stare. The creature tilts its head to the side, a vulpine gesture of curiosity.

"Stiles Stilinski."

II

Peter remembers Christmas nights that he used to scoff at even if the sight of his children happily tearing into presents made him feel like the happiest man on earth. Jackson and Malia and Scott used their claws to rip the silk wrapping paper and that was probably the part they loved the best. Next to them was Laura, older and the heir apparent to the Hale fortune and so calmly unwrapping her presents one by one.

There would be garlands of bright gold and red twining around the bannisters and a wreathe hung over the mantel. Talia's kids run rampant, the pups digging into the desserts that have been piled on a table by loyal servants—humans mostly, but a couple are Betas.

After presents was a hunt, the 'wolves set loose in the expansive woods that surrounded their house. Peter would shift as well as he could, in charge of keeping the pups safe and crowded for the first two hours before his brother-in-law took over and Peter could go find some small woodland creature to sink teeth and claws into.

He wouldn't return to the mansion until the sun was cresting on the horizon, copper heavy on his tongue and all but his trousers missing. Jackson, Cora, and Derek would be passed out on the sofa, but his baby girl would be bright-eyed as she ran over and jumped into his arms.

Peter lived for that moment, the unparalleled joy in Malia's brown eyes (her mother's eyes, her brother's eyes) as she grins up at him. She was only four, unable to make even a Beta shift, but there were faint ridges over her brows and a golden gleam to her beautiful eyes. She would demand a fairy tale from him and he would take her to that lake hidden deep in the woods, surrounded by lush trees and greenery, and they would sit on a log that Peter's great-grandmother had dragged over when Peter was small.

They would sit there for hours afterwards, even after Malia's heartbeat slowed with sleep and her head rested against his shoulder. He would run careful fingers through her hair, the intricate braiding undone by then anyway with a few dead leaves caught up in the thick mass of it. He would carry her back up to the house by noon and he'd settle her in the large bed Peter and Melissa shared before heading downstairs by the siren call of cooking meat.

The day after Christmas is for recovery, lazing around with no worries to gnaw at them and still moon high from the night before. Peter would take Scott into the woods to look at the small creatures as they went about their business, his son watching with wide eyes as a small bunny disappeared into its burrow while Peter's gaze strayed towards the flash of dark fur as a fox ran into the trees.

That afternoon, he'd take Jackson into town to visit with the other children and let him put on his human guise that he loves so much. Jackson is his firstborn, the one Peter fought to keep alive the first year after his birth, so Jackson could get away with most everything even if it means roughhousing (and sharing his first kiss years down the road, though peter swore to never tell) with a human boy named Danny.

The evenings were reserved for Malia. He'd take her up onto the roof to look at the stars and the moon and Peter would tell her an old Polish story-turned-prophecy of a creature with moon-bright skin and long fingers capable of granting wishes after a price has been taken. He told her about wishes and sparks of magic.

Jackson was only thirteen when he died, Scott was eleven, and Malia was seven.

And Peter wishes.

III

"How old are you?"

"Older than you."

"But you look like a teenager."

"Magic."

IV

The first hunter to be killed is a man named Garrison Myers, a lord that's gambled most of his fortune away and is suddenly rubbing elbows with the finest people in Beacon Hills. The man never expects it when Peter shows up uninvited to the man's stately new home least of all when Peter's eyes flash the same red as the man's blood when it hits the cream wall in an arterial spray. For the first time in years, Peter savors the taste of warm blood as he sucks it off his claws.

Myers is half-dead on the floor, mouth opened in a scream that he can't quite force out past the blood spewing from his lips. It's a good look on him and Peter's wolf can always appreciate a bared throat when it's offered up to him. He doesn't sink his teeth in, though, just watches as Myers's body gives one last shudder before collapsing completely.

(his wife goes still and her back thumps to the ground for a final time)

Stiles comes out of the parlor, a glass of liquor in hand and curiosity turning honey eyes to whisky. He holds the glass out to Peter, but his eyes don't leave the body. He almost looks…. Disappointed?

"You could have dragged that out a little." Yes, disappointed. Peter's used to having that sort of look sent his way.

(he was never the favorite child, never strong enough or fast enough for his mother's liking)

"I'll make the next one suffer a little more," Peter says, and neither of them mention the promise in his voice. Stiles watches him for a moment until Peter finally takes the glass and downs it in one gulp, not even wincing as it goes down. It's brandy of some kind, expensive, missing the touch of Wolfsbane that would allow him to lose his sobriety.

"I could have poisoned that."

"You could have. You won't."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because you still have need of me." The curiosity never seems to leave Stiles, gaze bright as starlight and the color of flames that warm and destroy. A weaker person could fall in love with those eyes, but Peter isn't weak anymore. Peter's strong now, he can feel his newfound power pulsing in his veins as he flexes his hand.

It's still covered in blood when Stiles takes it, admiring the color before producing a handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and wiping the tacky substance off. Peter lets him, soaking in the creature's touch like it can cure the aching in his chest. He used to be touched all the time, Werewolves are tactile, but it's been so long since he felt a kind hand against his own.

Stiles doesn't do touching or personal space, which are really two things that shouldn't go together so well. There were nights in the beginning when he would wake to find Stiles perched on the edge of his bed watching him sleep with his head tilted in observation, but there was no hand reaching out to brush a stray hair off Peter's forehead or even the slightest brush of shoulders when they walked together.

Stiles doesn't do touches and Peter is beginning to crave it.

His touch doesn't linger, hands returning to his sides once the blood is gone and the handkerchief has been tossed away. Peter feels a surge of anger at the loss and throws the glass across the room, watching as it shatters and glittering shards sprinkle across the rug like diamonds.

(he'd bought melissa a diamond engagement ring when they were seventeen, but it's in the family mausoleum with the rest of his family now)

"Burn the house down," Peter commands, though his voice never rises over a murmur. "I don't want to chance the murdering bastard coming back." He turns and walks out as Stiles summons a small blaze that catches on all the wooden end tables Myers has lining the wall of his entrance hall. He can't look back, can't chance the bad memories that parade through his mind whenever he sees dancing flames.

He goes to a park three miles away and stares up at the crescent moon and the stars.

V

It takes nearly three and a half years to get the family mansion rebuilt to Peter's ridiculously high standards, everything restored from the faulty stove in the kitchen to the squeaky floorboard up in the attic that Peter used to hate. He even went and found a family of mice to set up in the spare bedroom on the second floor in memory of Scott and his fondness for animals of any kind.

(he brought home an injured fox one day. its foot had been caught in a trap and scott's eyes widened and shined with tears until not even talia could refuse him)

Stiles thinks it's all silly, the lengths mortal men go to in order to have a structured life. "It's downright irresponsible," he says one night, nimble fingers picking apart a lifeless bunny. "Your lifespan is so short, yet you prefer to stay in one place instead of travel."

"Not all mortals can afford to travel." Stiles sends him a disbelieving look, like currency is something he's never dealt with before. And who knows? Maybe Stiles gets things for free in that other realm, the one beyond the veil where everything is dark and still. "Believe me, you'll be happy to have a roof that doesn't leak once Winter arrives."

Peter spends hours drawing up the blueprints for the house, supervises the work crew personally in case they tried to skip over any details. The days are long and the work is hard, but Peter finds himself rejuvenated whenever he looks at the sketches of what's to come.

He'll have his home back soon. He'll build a pack. He'll have his revenge. He keeps the words repeating in his head as he lies awake at night, trying his best to control his shift. Stiles never mentions the gouges in the blankets, just quietly asks a servant employed by the hotel to bring up fresh linen.

When the house is actually finished and Peter can run his hand over the smooth mahogany of the winding staircase, the emptiness in his chest eases somewhat. Stiles comes to stand next to him, hands in the pockets of his greatcoat with the brass buttons along the front gleaming in muted sunlight.

"Not bad," Stiles admits, taking in the grandeur that would intimidate most people. But Stiles isn't most people, he's a Demon with no concept of what time is appropriate to sing an old song in a language Peter doesn't know.

Still, he takes the victories where he can find them these days.

VI

The next hunter to die is found strung up by his ankles from a light post outside the police station, bled dry and covered in claw marks. It had taken him hours to die and his home is ashes by the time the fire crew make it there.

Surprisingly, there isn't an investigation and Peter puts it down to Stiles's magic until the police chief shows up at their hotel room with a grim set to his mouth and amusement in his eyes. Peter tenses, sure he's about to be arrested, only to have the chief march straight past him to embrace Stiles in a tight hug that's actually returned.

"Hey, Pops," Stiles mumbles into the man's neck.

"I take it this is your work."

"I might have had some help." They pull apart and the chief turns shrewd blue eyes to Peter, raking them up and down from the sleep-mussed hair to the bare toes peeking out from under his sleep pants. The chief takes a step forward and extends his hand, his grip firm and confident when he shakes Peter's hand.

"John Stilinski," the officer introduces.

"Peter Hale," the 'wolf copies. He keeps his head up like he was taught as a child, not showing any weakness despite the gnarled scars that cover most of his right side all the way up to his hairline. He'd asked Stiles if he could heal them, somewhere near the beginning of this whole ordeal, but the Demon had shaken his head and walked off into the woods.

"Those men, the two who've been murdered and had their houses burned down, were they hunters?"

"Yes." There's no point in lying, not when the chief so obviously knows about the supernatural.

"They're the ones that burned your family." Peter winces at the reminder, phantom pain lancing through him like a lightening strike. John doesn't apologize or look at him in pity, he just nods like that's all the confirmation he needs. "I'll make sure these murders stay buried. Just take care of each other."

"You don't think I deserve to hang for my crimes?" John gives him a long look, searching and seeming to find something that makes his gaze soften. Still no pity, just a bone deep understanding.

"Hunters don't deserve their lives." And he walks out after one last glance in Stiles's direction, the door closing softly behind him. Peter doesn't ask about the elusive mother, the one who might have died just a few days ago from how fresh the pain is in the Demon's posture.

But Peter wonders.

VII

"You don't sleep?"

"No."

"And you don't eat or drink?"

"Only if I have to look human."

VIII

Peter wakes one night and finds Stiles curled up in the window seat across the room, head titled back against a glass pane as he looks at the sky. It's too cloudy to see the stars even with Werewolf vision, but Stiles is enraptured by something all the same. He's all soft lines like this, suddenly looking far too young to be helping Peter murder grown adults.

"What are you looking at?"

"You don't see it?" Peter's brows furrow and he climbs out of the bed, goosebumps breaking out over his arms and bare chest from the cold. The fire's gone out, he'll have to hire a servant to tend to it. Outside, all Peter can see is faint wisps of cloud that are just thick enough to hide the moon from him. It's not full yet, but nearly, maybe another week.

"See what?"

"The Wild Hunt." Peter's heard of them, more old stories his nan would tell him by that lake in the woods. Faeries that run through the sky on an indefinite quest to claim the souls of humans close to death, recruiting them to the hunt or just devouring them. Next to the Demon, the Wild Hunt was Nan's favorite topic.

"You're just hearing the wind, Stiles." Stiles quirks his lips in a smile that's not quite a smile, whiskey-dark eyes turning over to him instead of the clouds. There's a knowledge in that gaze, heavy with all sorts of implications. He knows far more about the Hunt than Peter ever will, that's what that stare means.

(the fair folk are tricksters, pup, and they have lifetimes of knowledge to create those tricks)

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, 'wolf." Stiles crosses the room and gets a fire going using only a snap of his fingers, curling up in front of it with his chin resting atop his knees. All the softness has gone out of him, the fire throws harsh shadows against the smooth plains of his face.

Peter lets the discussion drop and goes back to his bed, a massive thing for only one person, but he's a creature of comfort above all else. The two heavy comforters he has draped over him serve the purpose of keeping him warm and tricking his subconscious into thinking he's not alone.

He dreams that night—the wind howling like wild horses and pale pink lips that curl up in mimicry of a smile.

IX

Peter's come to appreciate the way it feels to tear a throat out, lapping up the blood as it pulses in rapid spurts from the wound. The man's name is Unger, he is thirty-four years old and half-dead from opium. Peter's just doing him a favor at this point, murder saves his immortal soul.

He laughs, the sound almost too loud in the quiet house. Stiles glances over at him but says nothing, just continues to browse Unger's impressive collection of drugs. They're laid out neatly on the dining room table, a vase of dead flowers just a few feet away and a glass of fine brandy soaking into the pristine table cloth.

Unger gives one more twitch and goes still at Peter's feet, eyes still wide from the surprise. Across the table, Stiles sets down a small vial of laudanum and wipes his hand on his pants leg. His gaze flicks up and seems to take in Peter's face for the first time, the crimson drenching Peter's chin and the ridges set above nonexistent eyebrows.

"Blood looks good on you."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment," Peter asks, the words coming out slurred around his fangs. Stiles gives him that mysterious not-smile, tucking gloved hands back into the pockets of his greatcoat and walking out.

Peter's gonna take that as a compliment.

X

Stiles sings when he thinks Peter is asleep.

XI

The first servant they hire is a Kitsune, full of bubbling energy and laughter that can even make Peter smile on occasion. Kira Yukimura is all the best parts of her parents, but Peter can see the darkness in her, the way her brown eyes flash orange in the quieter moments when she remembers.

Kira is seventeen years old, barely surviving the fire four years ago when her mother pushed her through an open window before hunters stormed inside. Inside her is the same fire that keeps Peter going, the drive for revenge and blood on her hands. He lets her take Reddick apart piece by piece and she looks like a goddess come to earth, divine in her wrath.

They spread Reddick out over a series of weeks, drawing in more hunters with each limb uncovered but the one they want isn't showing a sign of interest. Stiles and Kira have taken to coming up with strategies in the library, bonding over their shared interest in magic that Peter can't understand since, by nature, Werewolves can't wield it.

They find their second servant completely by accident, a young Omega whose Alpha had died, cut in half in the woods with his blood still tacky on the boy's face when Peter runs across him. His clothing hangs limply off his frame and he's covered in grime that's at least a month old, but his eyes glow blue and his mate is crouching just behind him with eyes dark as pitch.

It takes time, but Kira manages to draw information out of their new guests until Peter is satisfied. Liam takes on the role of gardener, the repetitive work helping him with his anger and control issues while Mason dives into research on hunter families in the area. Peter leaves him to it, content with the pack bonds slowly growing between all of them.

The emptiness in his chest eases.

XII

Unsurprisingly, it's Mason that discovers exactly which Argent set Peter's house on fire. The surprise comes five minutes later when he and Stiles come racing down the hallway, pushing and shoving and trying to be the one to tell Peter the news first. The Chimera wins after hooking his foot around Stiles's ankle and sending the Demon face first over the stair railing.

The indignant squawk is the most human sound Peter's ever heard Stiles make.

XIII

Peter remembers the bond he shared with Melissa, that unwavering loyalty that was seared into his instincts. He remembers how possessive he got when she was pregnant with his pups and how fiercely he'd fought to keep her alive when the hunters raided their home. He'd thought that was the most intense emotion he'd ever feel for a person.

Then he woke up one night to the sound of a muffled whimper, pained. He's out of bed and rushing downstairs before he even knows what's happening, finding Stiles kneeling in the entryway with a skinny man standing over him, an amulet swinging in one shaking hand. Stiles has always been pale, but this is downright ashen, his eyes almost blank and his breaths coming out in sharp gasps.

Peter bares his fangs and lets a reverberating growl echo through his home. In just moments, his Betas are at his back and shifted. The man wavers, but he holds firm and doesn't bolt like most humans would in his place. His jaw tightens and he chants something in Latin and then Stiles's back is arching and a pained scream is torn from his throat.

"Come any closer and I'll banish him back to hell," the man says, voice cracking near the end as tears make his green eyes shine. Derek had green eyes, but Kate Argent plucked them right out of his head and left him for dead outside the mansion just one day before the fire. Peter's eyes flash and he can feel the Change coming over him, but he shoves it back for now.

"Do him anymore harm and I'll feed you your own heart." Peter's voice is steady, low and calm and holding the promise of violence. That skinny little snake will not be leaving this house alive. "Who are you?"

"That's none of your business."

"Why are you here?"

"Clearing a debt." He's sweating, it's soaking into the plain clothes he wears. Peter remembers him, a professor that's always hated the Hales for what they have. He gave Derek bad marks in school simply because the boy was loved by anyone he encountered.

"You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do! She said I'd stay alive if I got rid of your pet Demon!" Harris swallows so hard it's almost as though he's trying to take the words back, eyes going wide. They're sunken and have dark bruises underneath them, like he's had quite a few sleepless nights lately. Don't worry, Harris, you'll sleep for eternity when I'm through with you.

Peter lets the red bleed back into his eyes, taking on that soft tone that makes people feel all warm and safe. Talia used to say he could charm snakes right out of their skins with that tone, a gift that not a lot of 'wolves inherit. "You don't have to do this, Adrian. She can't get you here."

"That's not…. I can't—"

"Just stop the spell, Adrian. We can all walk away from this." The stiff posture relaxes inch by inch, eyes beginning to cloud over as the amulet falls from lax fingers. Almost there, just one more nudge. "No one ever need know." The spell shatters like glass, Stiles sucking in deep gulps of air as Harris drops to his knees and bares his throat in submission.

Peter catches Stiles as he falls sideways, only vaguely registering when his Betas go in for the kill. Harris doesn't even get a chance to scream before Mason is coiling a thick cloud of blackness around his throat and squeezing. The Demon is staring up at Peter with something akin to shock.

"Are you okay?"

"Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Save me." The answer is on the tip of Peter's tongue, but he swallows it down and just gives Stiles a shrug in response, helping him to stand up. They don't talk on the way up the stairs and Stiles doesn't fuss when Peter dresses him in a pair of sleep pants that hang low on his hips. Stiles sleeps deeply that night, regaining strength as Peter keeps watch. Inside him, his wolf is howling one word over and over again.

Mate.

XIV

Pod pierzyną czarnej nocy
W blasku srebrnych gwiazd
Gwiżdże swoje kołysanki
Rozśpiewany wiatr.

XV

The day Kate Argent comes into Beacon Hills is the same day that the newly rebuilt Hale Pack finds out that Stiles is afraid of spiders. They find out because they hear a shriek and then a blast of magic destroys a large portion of the dining room table, taking out Peter's bacon along with it.

"Uh, Stiles…?"

"We're not speaking of this," Stiles grouses, setting back to work on his eggs.

"But," Peter tries again, pointing at the jagged area that used to be his breakfast.

"Nope." And he stuffs his mouth full just to drive the point home. Peter lets it drop and leans back in his seat with a frown, ignoring the way his stomach growls. When Stiles is sure no one is going to say anything, he scoots his chair closer and offers up the plate of food he doesn't actually have to eat. It's become habit since Kira moved back in, eating just to be part of the routine.

"You're actually going to share your food? Last time I tried to take a piece of your toast, you almost bit my fingers."

"You all need your strength." Peter cocks his head to the side, blue eyes searching brown until realization dawns on him. Stiles nods in confirmation, then turns to face the Betas to explain the silent conversation. "Argent is back. She came in by coach just twenty minutes ago according to a Reaper friend of mine." His brows scrunch up and he gets that not-smile again. "Finstock wasn't exactly pleased to be dragged away from his bed when I gave a call."

"We'll hunt her down in a week. I want the Betas to have more training first."

"I want to play with her while you do that. She took something from me, so I think I'll take something from her." Peter dips his head in a nod, remembering those early days when he'd overhear Stiles talking in Polish to someone that isn't alive anymore, saying his mother's name like a prayer to bring her back. He never got an answer in return.

"Her family has a home in the middle of town," Mason informs him. "It's right next to the library and the window that leads into the parlor doesn't close properly since someone broke the lock two days ago." There's a gleam in the teenager's eyes that makes pride fill Peter's chest.

"I'll be sure to check in on that. We wouldn't want anyone to break in and harm Miss Argent, after all."

XVI

It's close to one in the morning, the time when rational people are all asleep in their beds. Peter's laying on his back and staring up at the silk canopy over his head when he hears floorboards creaking under someone's foot. Stiles appears by his bed a moment later, pale skin seeming to glow in the moonlight flooding the room.

"Can't sleep," he asks, reaching out slender fingers and stopping just short of grazing the stubble along Peter's jaw. Peter aches to rub his face against that hand, scent mark Stiles until pale skin is a delicious red from beard burn.

"Too many thoughts in my head." Stiles nods and sits next to him, still within touching distance. His fingers twitch, then they cup Peter's face and he's leaning down and his lips are almost pressed to Peter's, but then the bedroom door is flying open and Stiles falls backwards with a squeak of surprise.

The Betas don't even seem to realize what they interrupted, all three of them piling up next to Peter and snuggling under the covers until they're all touching in some way or another. A puppy pile, a newly regular occurrence that Peter can't find himself denying. Stiles rises from where he'd fallen, brushing off his clothes with a frown making his plush lips twist downwards.

Peter holds out a hand, an invitation for him to join, but Stiles shakes his head and returns to the window seat. The wind's howling outside, but Peter knows without having to check that the trees are motionless. The Wild Hunt is sweeping through the clouds, circling like they have for the past three nights.

(they sense these things, scotty, when a war is brewing. They claim the souls of sinners because they're the easiest to steal)

Stiles stares up at the Hunt with wide eyes and hope and Peter wonders if his mother used to ride with the Fair Folk.

They pass the rest of the night like this, the pups curled up around him like they're afraid to be left behind, Peter watching Stiles, and Stiles watching the sky. There's no talking, just the sound of the Hunt and the soft snores that escape past Kira's lips. Peter lets a content hum rumble through his chest, soothing the pups as they relax further against him.

Stiles leaves the room when daylight starts creeping in from the east, faint rays of it illuminating the bedroom in gold. An hour later, Peter can smell breakfast cooking and the pups begin to stir against him. Liam is the first one to wake up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and twitching his nose as he sniffs the air.

"Is Stiles cooking venison?"

"And ham," Mason says, the words slurred from where his face is still pressed against Peter's chest. "And the last of the sausage." Kira's the next to wake up, wiping the drool off her chin as she gets out of bed. She doesn't say anything, just shuffling out of the room and not even noticing the way her nightgown has slipped off one shoulder to reveal tan skin.

Once the other two have gone back to their room, Peter gets up and dresses for the day in his finest clothes. They're his funeral clothes, black and stiff and smelling faintly of mothballs. He thinks they're appropriate since the day won't end without him or Kate Argent dead. In the kitchen, he can hear Stiles quoting Shakespeare as he starts in on making pancakes.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.

XVII

There's a conversation while the Betas are frolicking in the woods, far enough away to keep them from eavesdropping. Stiles's eyes blaze and the simple conversation turns into an argument of epic proportions, but Peter comes out the victor all the same.

XVIII

It's dark when they manage to draw Kate out into the woods, the Betas limping and sore but still strong. They're snarling and growling and Peter's so proud to have them at his side. They circle the huntress, lashing out randomly to keep her on her toes and dodging her own attacks with the ease of practice.

Stiles is nearby, eyes glowing a burnt gold as he uses his magic to throw Kate to the ground. She hits hard enough to drive the air out of her lungs and Peter can her the faint snick of a bone breaking.

Kate's teeth are bared in a snarl of pain, almost animalistic as she draws something out of her jacket. Peter's moving on instinct, shoving Liam out of the way just as the bottle collides with his back, soaking funeral clothes in whiskey. Mason charges at her and slams his fist against her cheek, shattering the bone and knocking out most of the teeth on the right side of her head.

Argent howls in pain, but she's still moving and Peter meets her halfway, fully shifted. This is a fight he's been expecting for six years now and he'll be damned if he doesn't draw some blood. They collide in a mass of tearing claws and growls, Peter knocking her to the ground and sinking his fangs into the meat of her shoulder. He wants her to suffer the way his family did, he wants her to burn.

He barely even notices the knife she plunges into his side, crimson eyes moving to the Demon panting a few feet away. Stiles looks hesitant, fingers curling around something in the pocket of his waistcoat. It's a vivid red against the black of his clothes, a conscious choice to match his Alpha's eyes. Peter dips his head in a nod and Stiles pulls the object out slowly.

Stiles tosses the lit match onto the ground right next to Peter and Kate, the flame catching on Peter's soaked clothes and settling into a wild blaze that Stiles's magic encourages. The pain catches Peter off guard, but he keeps his teeth locked into Kate so she can't escape the fire that's ravaged Peter's life.

Somewhere outside of the flames, the Betas are snarling and snapping and sobbing, trying their best to reach Peter. The fire grows hotter, blistering Kate's skin until Peter can see the white of bone in her forehead. She's still alive, eyes rolling wildly in her head.

Peter waits, ignoring the pain licking up his back until the rapid thump of her heartbeat begins to stutter. That's when he releases her, plunging a clawed hand into her chest and ripping out her heart, throwing it to Stiles before the fire can reach it. He watches as Stiles bends down to pick it up, gold eyes meeting red and his lips quirking up in that familiar mockery of a smile. There are tears on his cheeks, glinting like diamonds in the soft moonlight.

Above them, the wind grows louder and Peter can almost hear the hoofbeats as a green, ghostly hand reaches down to snatch Kate's soul out of her body, searching around in the hole in her chest and plucking a wisp of dull light. Peter watches with wide-eyed fascination as the Wild Hunt circles the group once and then takes off back into the sky, whipping their horses and driving them far away from Beacon Hills.

And Peter howls.

XIX

"Forget it, I'm not doing that to you."

"Then do it for Claudia. Why should that Argent bitch get to live when our loved ones have been decimated by her family for the simple reason of being born something other than human?"

"How will I explain it to the pups?"

"You're clever, Stiles. I'm sure you'll figure something out."

XX

Peter remembers the agony of fire scorching up his side, the feeling of his flesh bubbling even as it tried to heal; it was repetitive, cruel, and it was driving him half insane. He's able to handle it this time, knowing his Betas will heal and find a new Alpha, maybe even the Talbot boy that Stiles seemed fond of whenever they traveled into town.

When he opens his eyes again he's back in the darkness, floating and serene and cool. It's like being suspended in water, though he wishes he could feel the waves moving him to and fro. Just one last time, this one last thing.

"You didn't summon me." The voice doesn't surprise him this time and Peter's eyes can pick out the form sitting near his feet. It's a black fox instead of a teenager, black fur soft where it brushes against Peter's ankle.

"I didn't need to. My revenge is done."

"Maybe I wanted my payment." Peter arches a brow, watching as the black fox sidles up near his face.

(a small bunny disappeared into its burrow while Peter's gaze strayed towards the flash of dark fur as a fox ran into the trees.
the fox's foot had been caught in a trap and scott's eyes widened and shined with tears)

The fox's face is right up next to Peter's, close enough that even the darkness can't obscure the eyes that are as familiar to him as breathing. Honey through sunlight, burnt gold, whiskey, Stiles.

"Come back to us," Stiles asks, breath cold against Peter's cheek. "Let that be your payment to me, 'wolf. Stay alive for your pack and for me." The realization is slow to set in, that the softness hasn't gone away with the moonlight and Stiles is looking at him with almost adoration in his eyes.

Mate.

Mine.

Peter heaves a dramatic sigh and reaches out to comb his fingers through soft fur. "Well, I suppose I will since you asked so nicely." Stiles laughs, nuzzling against his cheek as the darkness slowly begins to break apart like clouds. "So, what did you tell the pack about why you set their Alpha on fire?"

"That you told me to do it."

"And when they didn't believe you?"

"Ran for my life."

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see." Stiles shifts and takes Peter's hand, dragging him upright so that they can walk side by side. It feels nice, holding hands, the touch-starved part of Peter yearning for more. He wants to take Stiles somewhere quiet and then take him apart, finding out which places makes him moan and which ones make him scream. He's so consumed by his thoughts that he never quite notices when ink black gives way to a small beach surrounded by greenery.

The Betas are sitting on a couple of logs dragged up to the lake and Peter has a vivid flashback of three other children sitting like that, pushing and shoving playfully. When it fades back to his Betas, that ache in his chest almost disappears. He has pack again, family and a mate, Peter can relax.

Peter moves on.