"No."

"Lydia—"

"No. Absolutely not. I'm not going in there in these shoes."

"I told you to wear boots."

"You didn't tell me to wear crappy ones."

"Lydia."

"No!"

"Fine." He takes no small amount of satisfaction from the stuttered little squeak she lets out when he picks her up. Partly, it's spite. Partly it's the way her breath hitches in her chest.

Mostly, though, it's the way her nails feel biting into the skin of his neck because that… that's good.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she hisses, heat rising off her skin where it's flushed with rage or embarrassment. Both, maybe.

"Contingency plan," he answers, shifting her weight. She isn't particularly heavy. He just likes the feel of her under his hands, the press of her hip against belly. The way her arm sits across his shoulder, soft and warm, like it was shaped to fit there.

"This is ridiculous. I'm not five."

"No? I'm fairly certain I know five year olds who can infer from the phrase, 'Dress warm and wear boots,' that they're going to be walking outdoors." Sullen silence is her only response so he goes on. "If you'd prefer to walk, say the word."

"I'd prefer not to be carried." By you, she doesn't say, but then, she doesn't have to. She knows he'll hear it anyway.

"Is it your proximity to me that you find distressing or your reaction to it?"

She blushes so hot it feels like a brand through his jacket. His grip on her tightens a little, reflexively and there's a heavy moment where he's keenly aware of how close her lips are to his, how if he just turned his head he could press them together, slot his mouth over hers and drop to his knees to put her against the ground…

If her skin is hot enough to brand how hot would that mouth be, bruised and spit slick on his cock?

It's as much to give himself a moment as it is to give her an out that he doesn't force an answer. It wouldn't serve anything to push her down into the leaves until she's pushing up against him.

Anything other than his lust, actually. If you can't be honest with yourself.

The bitterness is gone when she finally settles on, "You didn't say where we were going."

Peter stifles the urge to be a smart ass. With a little effort, he gentles his tone, although he can't hide the rasp behind it, when he answers, "You wanted to know about the cave."

"It's here?" Her eyes latch onto him with an almost predatory gleam, embarrassment and proximity apparently disregarded in the face of ambition. If he'd been charmed by her flush, he's incensed by her pale, ruthless glow and something inside him lights up with pride.

He won't even have to teach her priorities. She has them straight already.

Well. Save one. Soon, he reminds himself. Soon enough.

When he grins at her, she grins back. "You didn't really think the Argent's settled here to watch a small, well-established pack, did you?"

She shifts of her own volition, sitting a little higher in his grip, the muscles in her back a tense line under his hand. "Can't you go any faster?"

"All right," and the glee in his tone must set off the warning bells for her, because those little hands turn to claws against his back. With the practice half a dozen nieces and nephews afforded him, he drops her legs, slides his arm out from behind her and lets her own grip pull her around to his back. Those legs clamp onto his waist viciously, his hands clasping under her ass behind his back as he adds, "Hold on."

"Peter—!" If he were human, the pressure of her arms clutching at his neck would have choked him out. As it is, by the time they get close he's seeing a little gray in the corners of his vision but it's worth it for the way she's plastered herself against him. For the hot breath against the shell of his ear and the scent of her hair rubbed into his.

So quickly he can't suppress it, the memory of Julie half sobbing against his chest springs up and Peter hears himself murmuring, "I always did like a little pain," against the top of her head.

She'd slotted there effortlessly, perfectly. Like the gods had shaped her to him when she was made. That day she'd crushed his trachea when she pinned him against a tree and for a few agonizing minutes Peter had strongly suspected he was going to die. It was hard to imagine coming back from the gasping, hazy place where every breath was an agony. The pain itself isn't what he remembers, though. It's the way his body shook, every piece of him quivering in an effort to just breathe.

It had been Laura who did what needed to be done. Little Laura, fanged and furred, who cut open her palm and then clawed out his throat. Laura who saved him. Laura, whom he killed.

"I'm going to make you pay for that," Lydia hisses, wriggling against him ferociously.

"It's almost like you think that's going to make me want to put you down." He drops her anyway, because he's polite, and pretends he isn't half-hard in his jeans.

She looks away primly, tossing her hair. Haughty little thing. Makes him want to muss her up.

"It's in here?"

"That's right."

There's a hint of uncertainty in her eyes as she takes in the small space, the dark. He can see her start to take in the claustrophobic weight of the earth ahead. She knows what it feels like now, being buried. He gave her that.

He surprises himself when slides his hand under her hair against the nape of her neck. Surprises her, too, if the way she startles is any indication, but it's nothing compared to the white hot flash when she doesn't pull away.

He says, "Last chance," because he's a bit of a traditionalist and the devil always offers a final out.

His reward is the piece of her soul that looks back at him when she shakes her head, that pale throat swallowing down what might have been the words, "Take me home." And how beautiful she looks signing away her life.

She shivers a little at the way his fingers trail across her skin, confusion and fear and want warring as he traces the path from her shoulder to her hand, delicate fabric hiding softer skin, until he has her hand palm up between them. Her eyes on his face and her breath caught in that throat when he favors her with a smile.

Even better when she barks a laugh as he presses the flashlight into her grip. She glances up at him from under her lashes as she flicks it on, all deft fingers and mischief. "What do I owe you if I lose this?"

And that... well, he's not ashamed to admit that for a moment there, he loses his train of thought completely, images of skin and lips and tears swimming up from the depths of his dreams.

"Hold on to it," he manages, even as he sincerely hopes she doesn't.