Lydia sits in front of her mirror, frozen.
Not like a deer caught in headlights, Peter muses; because Lydia Martin has never been, nor will ever be, a helpless deer (not even the sacrificial roe). More like a wolf pausing when it's prey looks around. There is an amusing irony in him being prey.
Ever so gently he pulls her hair back, savoring the feel of it running through his fingers. He can see her pulse thump-thump like clockwork, a taste of things to come courtesy of her fugue state. She will be fearless and unshakable, and he cannot wait to see her in full glory. Reaching the end of her hair his hands move to her shoulders. She's dressed for sleep and he revels in bare skin. For a moment their eyes meet in the mirror and he smiles.
Derek is a fool for wanting her dead. Peter doesn't understand how his poor nephew can't tell what lies sleeping in her. But Peter does, and he's more than willing to nurture that seed and coerce it into growth. His hands trail down her arms, pausing for a moment to stroke the inner skin of her elbows, before moving to her own hands. For a moment the only sound is the clatter of her brush on the floor. "Soon Lydia, my little moon. And when it happens," his smile turns toothy. "well let's just say I wouldn't want to be your parents, or Jackson. . .or anyone else who you think has done you wrong."
Peter is sure he himself is on that list. But if he suffers, at least it means he's alive.
He bows down and kisses the juncture of her throat and shoulder. Spring will be here soon.
Lydia blinks and wonders how she dropped her brush. Or why she tastes flowers.
When sleep comes it brings dreams.
A woman in gold and green sits on a throne in a field of sunflowers and lily of the valley surrounded by children. And then she is the woman and she realizes it's not a field, but a clearing in a forest. She can see clearly to the other end and lurking at the edge is the blue-eyed boy who gave her wolf's bane, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy. She beckons and he approaches.
He pulls her from the throne and the children are gone and the ground is now littered with scabious and tuberose. The petals feel silky-soft on her bare skin and her breath hitches as they caress her.
He kisses her like she is water and he'll die without her. But he is still too gentle. With strength she didn't know she had their positions reverse and. . .yes. She bites him so hard he bleeds, and it's like candy.
Lydia takes all he gives and then takes everything else, caring little for his resistance. Until there's nothing left but a skeleton. She takes the skull and cuddles it to her breast. Curled around it she falls asleep on a bed of hollyhock.
She rules and will not be denied.
It begins at midnight.
Her screams of pain are loud enough to wake her parents, and apparently a neighbor or two. He can hear her parents pounding on the door, attempting to get in, but the same Power that is changing Lydia is keeping everyone else out. The Power lets him remain; but it won't let him touch her, to help her through the pain. She must suffer her change alone.
Twelve hours pass.
The screams have faded into tiny whimpers, the only sound her ruined throat can manage. Her body is sweat covered, hair and clothes clinging for dear life. Hazel-green eyes glassily staring at the ceiling. Her parents have given up; the police came and went, even Stiles and Scott stopped by, a regular pack reunion that. And he is trapped, kneeling at the foot of her bed.
He inhales and smells sex and flowers.
Somehow Lydia begins screaming again. Things get worse.
Another twelve hours.
Peter stopped watching a few hours ago and stares at the carpet instead. There is no sound but silence.
Just faintly he can still smell sex and flowers, but mostly his nose is filled with blood, piss, shit, vomit, and blood.
The sound of movement breaks the silence and his head shoots up.
Lydia is naked and his eyes are at the level of her sex. His eyes move up across her glowing skin, past perfect breasts, to her face. Her lips are the color of blood and slightly parted, as if caught by surprise. And her eyes, her eyes are Spring and he is drowning in them.
She leans down and he finds himself caged by strawberry-blonde curls.
She kisses him and all he knows is pleasurepain.
Peter Hale takes his first breath in six months. When she pulls away he glances at his hands. Recoils when he sees them red and crackling, not seventeen-year-old-boy or fourty-two-year-old-man, but dead-and-dying-Alpha.
Lydia Martin sees the question in his eyes and grabs his chin, the sound of skin cracking is like ice, forcing him to look at her. "You presumed to know me. This is your punishment until you learn humility."
She climbs off the bed and walks to the door. It opens and she walks out, uncaring of her nakedness. Halfway down the hall she turns to look at him. "Are you coming my wolfhound?"
He tries to stand, but falls flat instead. Derek's eyes have hints of red and Peter realizes he's loosing. Bone shatters. Oh, that's right. So he crawls towards her on hands and knees.
She is his Moon, his Goddess, there is no choice but obedience.