Malia wakes with a start, her heart hammering in her chest, a patchwork of nightmares flashing across the back of her eyes. Her ears ring with her father's agonized screams. She tries to sit up but she's weighted down by something. Blinking blearily in the half-light, she finds herself wrapped up in warmth with the heady smell of Stiles all around her.

She shifts under the blankets, rolling onto her side, toward the warm lump in the blankets. His face is pressed into the mattress as he sleeps, with one of his arms thrown over a pillow, and the other curled possessively around her. His unruly brown hair sticking up in all directions. Something warm and sappy, something she's only ever associated with him, swells in her chest.

Then her heart lurches as she remembers her deal. Her eyes dart to the digital clock on the microwave. She'd lost two hours. She's running out of time she needs to get all the way across town to the warehouse before its too late.

Stiles is breathing heavily so she carefully tries to slip out from beneath his arm. But just as she starts to move away, he shifts in his sleep, muttering nonsense into the mattress and tightening his hold on her, in protest.

Malia shushes him, carding her fingers through his soft brown hair, her nails lightly grazing his scalp. Stiles makes a low contented noise in the back of his throat, as he snuggles further into the mattress, his thumb sweeping sleepily along the skin of her waist. After a few minutes of the soft, soothing drag of her nails across his scalp, he's dead to the world. Certain that he's asleep, she nuzzles into his hair and kisses the crown of his head, softly. Then swallowing down the tightness in her throat, she carefully shifts out from under his arm and slips out of bed.

Malia gathers her things and dresses soundlessly as possible, as she carefully monitors his heart-rate. There's something bitter and metallic in her mouth as she turns to go. Tears prickling in the corner of her eyes, she gets about half-way to the window when she stops and turns around.

With a sniff she reaches up and unclasps her necklace, and pulls the chain off her neck, and feels the weight of it in her palm. It's just a tarnished old Saint Jude's medal, but it's the only thing she has left of her mother. Even though Malia doesn't like the constricting feel of jewelry, she's worn it every day since her dad had given it to her. She turns the metal over and runs her finger over the inscription. Saint Jude Pray for Us. Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes and hopeless cases.

She gently lays the necklace across the pillow near his arm. She gently runs her hand through his hair, one last time. Take care of him for me Mom.

As she pulls away she spots a picture on his nightstand, that she hadn't noticed before. It's a shot of all them, the whole pack around the fire-pit in her backyard. Liam and Mason looked to be fighting over a single lawn chair because the picture caught them mid-shove. Kira was sitting sideways in Scott's lap, smiling giddily, with her cheek pressed against Lydia's. Scott had his free arm wrapped around Stiles' shoulders. Malia was crouched near the fire a look of delight in her eyes as she roasted a marshmallow. While Stiles was crowded behind her, a goofy look of panic in his eyes, as he obviously was trying to reel in her roasting stick and blow out the flaming marshmallow.

A watery smile tugs at her lips, "I never would've had any of this," she sniffs, her eyes darting to where Stiles slept. "I never would've even woken up, if it wasn't for you." She whispers, honestly.

Rubbing the back of her hand over her eyes, she turns away. A breeze rolls through the curtains of the open window, and sifts through the papers on his desk. A white and light blue plaid shirt hangs off the back of his chair. It's sleeves fluttering in the wind, kicking up the rich and heady scent of him. Snagging it off the back of the chair, she slips her arms into the sleeves and wraps herself up in it, tucking her face in the collar for a second. It'll give her strength to take a piece of him with her when she goes to face her demons.

She doesn't look back as she slips out his window and climbs down the fire escape, she won't let herself.

The warehouse reeks of rust, motor-oil and filth and though she is no coward, Malia's heart is beating frantically again. She curls her nails into the soft cuffs of Stiles' sleeves and takes a steadying breath, and pounds on the metal door. Lights flutter, humming with electricity and rusty cables whine in protest as the warehouse door wheels upward. She steps inside stiffly, her skin crawling and all of her instincts screaming in protest. The floor is rough and uneven, with scraps of metal strewn about, and puddles of mirky water. The ceiling has gaping holes, and there are several crows nested the rafters, their beady eyes watching her.

As she edges her way around a rusted out old truck, her nose twitches with a familiar smell and she stops in her tracks, gasping. Her dad is strung up by his arms, his legs dangling, his face bloodied and pale.

"Dad," she gasps and moves toward him. He lifts his head his eyes lighting with recognition, then panic. He shakes his head at her in warning, and he tries to yell something through his gag. Malia freezes and raises her hands slowly, sensing Corrine's presence behind her.

"I came alone," she says sharply to the vile creature as she slinks out of the shadows, coming up behind her.

Corrine laughs in her throat, "If you didn't he'd already be dead."

Her dad thrashes his head wildly, and manages to loose the gag from his mouth, spitting the fabric from his lips he shouts desperately.

"RUN MALIA! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"

Malia raises her chin ignoring the desert wolf and looks into her dad's pleading eyes. "It's O.K. Daddy," she says bravely. "It's all gonna be O.K."

Corrine strikes her hard in the back of the head with something blunt, and her vision swims. She topples to her knees and then everything fades to blackness.

Stiles shifts under the warm heap of blankets, his arm reaching out to pull Malia closer. He lifts his head, blinking in confusion when he finds his bed empty. He squints around the room, finding nothing reassuring. He drags himself to the side of the bed and his heart sinks when he sees her clothes are gone from the floor. He flicks on the lamp switch and runs a hand down his face. A low miserable feeling settles in his chest, as he reaches down and starts pulling on his clothes. He grits his teeth, and tugs on his shoes a little too forcefully, as anger creeps up on him.

"To hell with this," He growls, "I'm gonna find that stubborn werecoyote, I'm gonna drag her ass back here and she's gonna to talk to me."

He grabs his keys off the nightstand and ducks down to switch off the light when he sees a glint of something on the bed. He cocks his head to the side and kneels onto the bed. Finding a necklace shimmering between the pillows. Pinching it between his thumb and forefinger he lifts it up to inspect it.

A queazy feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. "She never takes it off," he mutters to himself. Suddenly all of the little things that had been off about her, all her little tells started to fall into place. She told me she loved me. "Why the hell would she do that?" He wonders, aloud. I never thought she'd say something like that unless she was—AH HELL—NO!NO!NO!

Stiles dives for his cellphone, and falls off the edge of the bed. Hitting the speed dial he leaps to his feet and rubs at the back of his neck.

"C'mon—c'mon pick up," he orders, as his heart slams against his ribcage.

The call connects, "Stiles?"

"Scott! Please, tell me you know where Malia is and what she's doing?"