When Lacey woke up hours later, she had no idea where she was or what time it was. She shifted in bed, attempting to locate her phone, and felt someone's arm draped over her—Stiles.

It all came back to her. They were at the Glen Capri, in her dingy motel room. She had just lost her virginity. A smile crept onto her face as she remembered bits and pieces of what had happened just hours before.

However, as she became more aware of her surroundings, she knew something was very wrong. Her nose caught the harsh, metallic smell of blood. Her eyes scanned the room in confused terror; blood splattered the opposite wall and when her eyes traveled down, she saw that the all her blankets and sheets were soaked in it.

It was then that she realized how quiet it was—her heartbeat and breathing were the only sounds in the room. Premonitory tears stung her eyes as she looked down at Stiles, laying facedown beside her, unmoving. In what felt like slow-motion, she reached over and put a hand on Stiles' shoulder.

"Stiles?" she rasped out in a whisper. She gave him a tentative shake. "Stiles?"

Steeling herself, she pried Stiles' shoulder off the bed and rolled him over. His eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling, his mouth slightly open. His throat had been torn out. Lacey's eyes traveled down to his naked chest, which was covered in deep, crimson gashes.

"No, no," Lacey said, shaking her head. This didn't make any sense. She had been right there next to him. "No, no, no…" Her words became choked sobs as she looked down at his lifeless face. "Stiles…"

She jumped out of bed and hurried to his side. "Stiles," she said again, this time more loudly. She shook him by the shoulders. "Stiles, come on," she pleaded, tasting warm saline tears. "Stiles!" she shouted, taking his face in her hands. Lacey fell to her knees beside the bed, pressing her forehead to his, shaking with shocked sobs.

Then she felt it—someone was in the room with them. Why hadn't she sensed it before?

She stood up, acutely aware that she was still naked. When she caught the scent, her whole body tensed.

"That's right, Lacey," came a high, cold voice from the dark bathroom. "I'm here." Kali slunk out of the bathroom, red eyes glowing.

"How…how did you…?" Lacey shook with rage and grief, rooted to the spot as Kali approached.

"How?" Kali repeated. She glanced down at Stiles' corpse. "That part was easy."

"I mean, I don't remember—"

"You don't remember?" Kali demanded. She clucked her tongue, feigning pity. "You mean you don't remember hearing me walk down the hall? You don't remember me picking the lock? You don't remember me walking into the room undetected, digging my claws into his chest, and pulling him away from you?"

Lacey refused to answer, not trusting herself to speak.

"Of course you don't remember those things, Lacey," Kali told her. "You were in the heat of the moment. You don't remember because you never heard me walking down the hall or picking the lock. You didn't know I was here until I was ripping out your boyfriend's throat."

"No," Lacey said firmly. "I would've heard…"

"Face it, Lacey," Kali taunted. "You let your guard down, and Stiles paid the price."

Fresh, hot tears filled Lacey's eyes as she forced herself to look at Stiles' body.

"His blood is on your hands," Kali's voice sounded far away.

"So I guess you're going to kill me now," Lacey said while she gazed down at Stiles, her voice emotionless.

"Oh no," Kali told her. "That would be too easy."

"What then?" Lacey asked hollowly.

She listened as Kali's footsteps retreated, pausing in the doorway. "You're going to do it," she told her, backing out of the doorway and closing the door with a dull thud.

As soon as she had gone, all of Lacey's anger and sadness came bubbling to the surface. She let out a strangled scream, letting herself crumple onto the bed next to Stiles. She curled up in the fetal position, resting her head on his dormant chest, feeling his cold blood seep into her hair as she sobbed.

She had no idea how long she lay there but, eventually, she wrenched herself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, suddenly feeling that she couldn't stay in the room any longer.

The moment she flicked on the fluorescent lights in the tiny bathroom, she felt the overwhelming urge to vomit. She wretched over the toilet until nothing else came up. When she stood to flush the toilet, she looked down at her hand on the silver handle—it was covered in blood.

His blood is on your hands.

She frantically looked at her other hand, turning it over and over in front of her face. Dry, rust-colored blood cracked and flaked away as she moved. She rushed over to the mirror, gripping the sink with both blood-soaked hands. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her gaze to the mirror. Her naked reflection screamed back at her, covered from head to toe in Stiles' blood.

His blood is on your hands.

She stumbled backward, her arms outstretched, grasping blindly for the shower knob as her tears blurred her vision. Somehow finding the knob, she cranked it full blast. She didn't care that it would take five minutes for it to heat up—she jumped in, the cold water stinging her skin.

Lacey raked at her body, determined to scrape every bit of blood from it. She scrubbed and scrubbed, watching as the water went from bright scarlet to pale pink and, finally, ran clear.

Lacey stepped out of the shower and went straight to the mirror. She let go a sigh of relief as a clean reflection stared back at her. She reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear and was nearly screamed again when she saw that her hand was still very much covered in blood. Trying not to panic, she held both hands out in front of her. Both were still a deep red, as if the shower had done nothing.

His blood is on your hands.

Lacey began to cry again, hastily turning the sink on. She held her hands under the water, wringing them together in an attempt to rid them of blood. The water ran crimson, giving her hope that it was working. However, no matter how murky the water was, it didn't seem that her hands were getting any less red.

She continued to scrub and scrape, staring absentmindedly up at herself in the mirror. She froze in horror.

"No, no, no," she whimpered as blood came seeping from her hairline and down her face. She felt it dripping down her back. Her hands went instinctually to her eyes, trying to wipe the blood out of the way. Seeing them in the mirror only reminded Lacey that washing them was no use.

His blood is on your hands.

"NO!" she screamed, striking wildly at the mirror.

Her fist made contact, shattering the glass. Now her own blood intermingled with Stiles' as shards of glass embedded themselves in her hand.

Lacey looked down and noticed a triangular piece of jagged glass resting near the drain of the sink.

"You're going to do it," Kali had said.

Without thinking about what she was doing, Lacey grasped the piece of glass in her hand, bringing it to her wrist. Her heartbeat hammered in her ears as she stared down at the delicate veins just beneath her skin. She closed her eyes to steady herself.

"Lacey?" she thought she heard Stiles' voice, but it was a million miles away. "Lacey?"

Her eyes sprang open, fixated on her wrist and the weapon that would kill her.

"Lacey?" She could faintly sense that the door was being thrown open.

"LACEY!" She heard Stiles' voice scream—probably the same way he had screamed for her to save his life.

Suddenly, something was flashing in her face. She lifted her arm to shield her eyes, dropping the shard of glass. It clattered to the floor, shattering on impact.

It was only then that she realized what she had been doing. She jumped back from where she had dropped the piece of mirror, as if to separate herself from the fact that she had just attempted suicide.

As the flare extinguished, Lacey saw that Stiles was standing with her in the bathroom. His eyes were wide and all the color had drained from his handsome face. He still held the flare in his good hand, angling it at her face.

"Stiles…what…?" Lacey shook her head, which was foggy, to say the least. "What happened to me?" she asked, all at once realizing that whatever had just happened hadn't been real at all.

Stiles found his voice. "This hotel is cursed, or something. It's been affecting all the werewolves."

Lacey's eyes stung for what felt like the millionth time that evening. "Did they all try to…?" She couldn't bring herself to say it.

"Yeah, they did," Stiles told her, his voice weak. "Isaac and Ethan, anyway. Allison and Lydia went to help Boyd…and I came to check on you."

"Thank you," she squeaked, tears beginning to fall.

Lacey couldn't take her eyes off of him. He was alive. He was alive and that was all that mattered. She let out a loud sob and went to him.

Stiles wrapped her in his arms and held her like she had never been held before. She burrowed her face into his neck and his strong arms held her while she cried.

"Lace, you're shivering," he said gently, "and you're soaked."

"Sorry," she sniffed, stepping out of their embrace as she realized she was probably getting him wet.

"No, don't be sorry," he told her. "I didn't mean it that way. I just…what did you do?"

"I took a shower," she admitted.

"In ice cold water?" Stiles asked.

She shrugged, "I guess so."

"Fully clothed?"

"I thought I was naked," she explained. "I thought I was naked the whole time, but…I guess I wasn't."

"Why would you have been naked?"

"Because we—" she stopped herself just in time. He met her eyes, and she wondered if he could know what she had nearly said. It had all seemed so real.

"Why did you shower?" he continued.

"Because I needed to scrub the blood off," she told him. She couldn't find the strength to lie.

"What blood?" Stiles questioned. "That blood?" He gestured toward the hand she had used to break the mirror, which she hadn't realized until now was very much injured.

"Your blood," she said quietly. She looked at the floor. When she looked back up, Stiles was nodding, processing.

"We can talk about it tomorrow once we're out of this God forsaken place," he assured her. Then, seeing the look on her face: "Or never?"

She smiled weakly.

"Here," Stiles said, grabbing a towel from the towel rack. He held it open for her and she walked into his arms again, letting him towel off her hair and what he could of the rest of her. "Right now, all that matters is that you're safe." He wrapped her in the towel and pulled her into him. She let her head rest on his chest.

Face it, Lacey. You let your guard down and Stiles paid the price.

A shiver ran through her entire body.

"You still cold?" Stiles asked.

"Kinda," Lacey answered, trying not to let her fear get the best of her.

Stiles began unzipping his jacket and slipping it off. "Take off your wet shirt and put this on," he offered.

"Thanks," Lacey said, accepting his jacket. She was freezing, after all. Without even thinking, she began taking off her shirt.

"Whoa," Stiles said, averting his eyes. "How about a warning next time?"

"Oh, come on—" She remembered again that whatever had happened between them wasn't real. "I mean, yeah… sorry."

She went to zip up the jacket and winced as she moved her damaged hand. "I guess whatever curse they put on this place prevents me from healing, too."

"I got it," Stiles offered, stepping closer and taking up the zipper. She tried to look at anything but him as he zipped her up, suddenly self-conscious. He zipped it almost up to her chin, and then gazed down at her, half-smiling.

"Thanks…again," she told him.

"Again, I'm just glad I got here in time and that you're safe."

"Can we get out of here?" Lacey asked, realizing she needed to be as far from that room as possible.

"Yeah," Stiles consented. "We should get to the bus. I know there's a first aid kit in there somewhere."