Smart mouthed little shit.

Too smart for his own good, too smart for Peter's good.

He'd figured out the bond a hell of a lot sooner than he should've, and used it with more success than even some of the born wolves Peter had seen raised up. He hadn't expected any kind of retaliation when he began letting little snaps of anger and irritability out, when he relaxed his control just enough to send the emotion zipping down the thin, fragile thread growing between them. When the kid didn't react, smoothly ignored him like he might a petulant child Peter felt his resolve harden, and he'd started poking with a little more intent, jabbing at him on purpose, demanding some kind of reaction though he didn't know what or why.

Stupid.

Should've just ignored the kid – he didn't mean anything anyway so why had he even bothered?

He'd obviously been begging for attention, panting after it like some horned-up two year old, sniffing after his father's deputy and rolling around in his clothes, curling his tongue around cherry candy, all sickly-sweet and staining his lips red like blood, slutty little...

Oh and then he'd brought up the Argents, and if Peter hadn't wanted to kill him before he did now.

His sister was an idiot for thinking this would work, for thinking they could re-assimilate with Beacon Hills after everything that had happened. He hated her for that, for forgetting, for forgiving.

Under no circumstances would Peter trust the Argents, not after what they'd done, and be damned with whatever Stiles was stupid enough to think he could do, whatever friends he'd made with the littlest Argent girl. Peter would slaughter them all before he watched them destroy his family again, and if Talia was stupid enough to think he would wait this time she had another thing coming. She'd made him her left hand, her enforcer for a reason, and he wouldn't be kept back this time, a guard dog rendered impotent on the end of a chain.

At least his brother understood, his niece.

Calvin because of his own place in the pack, his place fighting beside Peter and because of Nicky.

Laura because of her fear, because of Seth and because of Derek.

You'd think that would be enough for Talia too, but there she was, sitting across from the Sheriff and working all the ins and outs of bringing Christopher Argent here, his daughter.

His only comfort was knowing that the war he and his daughter had started had claimed Gerard Argent's life, that Kate had met her end with Peter's claws in her throat. At the time it had been a poor consolation prize – Peter had been so crazed with pain and grief and anger he'd hardly gotten to enjoy the bitch's death. Only later, years later, when all the hurt had faded to a dull, constant ache could he truly appreciate it, did the phantom taste of her blood on the back of his tongue offer him solace when he woke up sweating and snarling from nightmares he only wished he couldn't remember.

And now Stiles, sneaky little bastard, coming here with Peter's bite on his skin, knowing exactly what it meant, what could happen...

He was smart, he'd proved that much.

He knew, he knew what he could do, what he could take, what he could force from Peter and no way in hell was he going to bow to that little shit, no matter what he wanted.

When his brother walked him out it took everything Peter had not to follow, not to stalk him out into the trees and take right back, his independence, his fucking autonomy, his right to make his own damn choices, but he did it. He sat and he listened and he glared at his sister with all the hate that bubbled in the pit of his belly, and he promised himself that he wouldn't do it again, that he wouldn't sacrifice himself and give up everything that was his for his sister's philanthropic ideals.

And the whole time, despite his anger and his insistence, he knew that he would.

He'd fight for his pack, die for his pack, kill for his pack...

He owed that much and more to some of them.

And anyway, things were different now.

He didn't have the same kinds of things to lose anymore... no matter what Stiles was after.

Christ he loved the way that kid's name sat on his tongue. Hissing S's rolling off his tongue like a snake's, spit with venom...

Oh it was stupid.

He wanted to hate him, he really did, but the soul bond was already doing its job and as much as he wanted to he couldn't.

A part of him too, the part that was still sane and not so bitter, not so burned by what had happened knew it wasn't really the kid's fault, knew that Calvin had been right when he said that Stiles hadn't asked to be soul-bonded either.

Hell, who would?

Sure there were people out there who had become fanatics when werewolves were revealed to the world, groupies that fetishized what they were, their simple nature, but Peter didn't think even they would be willing to put up with him.

And maybe Stiles hadn't asked for it but he'd still come here hadn't he? He'd broken the law, the written rules and the unspoken agreement, came trotting in here knowing exactly what he was hiding under his shirt and the risks he was taking.

If he'd just stayed out of the fucking Preserve they wouldn't have this problem.

Both of them would've gone on living in total ignorance of the other, never to meet, never to...

Well, it didn't matter.

It was too late for all that, thanks to him, and anyway, Peter was no pup. He could handle this, he could deal with one fragile little soul bond, one young, stupid kid who didn't know anything and had no idea who he was toying with, a couple bites of weak emotion...

Until suddenly it wasn't anymore, until it was sparking, flaring, fear spiking in his system and what the hell was Calvin doing out there?

Peter shoved back from the table and stalked out of the room without a word, left the meeting without permission or playing down to his sister, but she was more than used to that kind of thing by now, didn't even glance in his direction when he passed behind her and headed for the door. The Sheriff stammered, stuttered, lost his place in whatever little speech he'd been giving – Peter hadn't even been pretending to pay attention – but he didn't really care about that either. The man might be carrying his gun this time but he wasn't carrying anything stronger than standard nine millimeter bullets, and let's see him stop Peter with those.

He didn't follow though – stupid, no matter who he thought he was trusting with his son. Peter could take Calvin, he knew that, even if he was younger. Calvin knew it too, and since both of them were unwilling to really hurt the other, each for their own reasons, it had made their childhood fights an interesting spectacle. Still did as a matter of fact. Peter was always willing to take it a step farther, but never so far as to actually maim him – at least not yet. Thus far his aptitude for proving himself an ass seemed to know no bounds, and god help him if he dared to stand between Peter and his bonded.

Wait...

Peter snarled, let the screen door slam behind him as he stalked across the grass.

See, that right there was exactly what he was pissed about.

Fucking bond, already throwing him off, already making him feel.

Peter didn't like dealing with his own emotions, let alone someone else's.

But the fear was still crackling in him, fire burning through his veins and quickening his pace and then he was across the lawn and there was Luca, and oh Peter was going to kill him. He'd told that smarmy little shit to finish the briefs, to sit his ass down and do his fucking job because if Talia got on him again for Luca's crap Peter was going to break something – like maybe Luca's neck.

But no, there he was, in the middle of the damned valley for the entire pack to see, looming over Peter's bonded like anyone would be intimidated by his smug, skinny ass. To the kid's credit he didn't flinch, stood tall and defiant and something almost like pride tickled at Peter's senses but he shoved it brusquely away, until suddenly Luca lashed out with his claws unsheathed and Stiles didn't even flinch.

Peter did.

Fuck if he couldn't help it.

Panic surged in his throat hot and sour like bile and his heart kicked into overtime and for just a second he was actually afraid in his own right, not because of some second-hand emotion. If he could've moved fast enough he might've slaughtered the visiting envoy politics be damned. Could've done it, would've done it, and they couldn't even charge him with it because it would be completely within his rights to gut Luca where he stood.

Thank god for his brother, who'd rather be a lover but made a better fighter, who caught Luca's wrist and broke it before Peter could shout a threat...

He envied Calvin for that, just a little.

"Luca!"

Everyone jerked and paled at the sound of his voice, the violent anger that rang through in his snarl. Peter wasn't entirely sure exactly what happened next, what he said or what Luca said – all of it happened in a haze of red fury, the threat Luca had made, the implications the little fucker made by presuming to make a claim on the pack's behalf...

A snarl and a snap, a slightly more eloquent threat made by his brother sent him scurrying off again and Peter should have followed but something stuck his feet to the ground, some part of him desperate to know that the kids was ok, to talk to him as easily as his brother did, and a part of Stiles must've felt the same way because he tried, tried to talk to Peter but it was enough to break the spell and free him, free him from the fear and the control just enough that he could run from it.

XXX

He spent the next three days sulking, sulking and skulking and running around making as much trouble as he could. Perhaps it was childish but it made him feel better, and honestly that was all he was really looking for. He avoided Luca because Talia and Calvin would expect to find him with the Ohio pack's ambassador, because he was still champing at the bit for a fight and the scrawny little son of a bitch didn't stand a chance against him when he was really angry. He might have let Luca get in his licks before, when he was looking for a rolling, biting romp through the sheets, but those days had been coming to an end long before Stiles had showed up. The werewolf was quickly outstaying his welcome with everyone, not just Peter, and he wouldn't trust himself within twenty yards of the bastard without inflicting some serious injury.

So he kept to the woods, ran and climbed and hunted, wandered miles out into the preserve where he could shed his human skin and wear his pelt without worrying that he'd been seen, that he'd be caught. He lived as a wolf, feeding on small game and chasing buck for the hell of it, sleeping through the hottest part of the day and keeping cool down in the river, in the dim thickets that smelled of earth and loam and wildness. There he could be himself without the pressures of his position, could ignore the pull of his sister's demands and call of his responsibilities.

It was immature, a temporary solution but he didn't care – for three days he could forget about Stiles by getting out of his head, living by his wits and his instincts and the rules of fight or flight or feed.

Not that his instincts would let him forget.

More than once he caught himself at the edge of the border, stalking along the lines of the Preserve that looked out over the town of Beacon Hills, tasting the air and snarling to himself when he couldn't sense what he was looking for. Marking the boundary lines made him feel better, reinforcing the warning that kept others from encroaching on their territory, but it wasn't enough to settle him. He only slept after he'd run himself weary, until the tingling sense of anxiety and apprehension that lingered in his belly calmed.

Later he understood it better, knew that the low thrum of unease he felt was Stiles' unease, that he slept when Stiles slept, but at the time it didn't matter.

Eventually though his patience ran out and his self-disgust got to be a little more than he was willing to tolerate, so he shifted back to his human form and went stalking back home, scattering his pack mates left and right as they got the ever-loving-hell out of his way.

At least some of his packmates had a brain in their head.

He felt infinitely better after a shower, scrubbed down till he was pink and clean and had schluffed off enough of the scent of soil and pine and river water that he could focus, that his fur and his fangs and his claws didn't prickle at his skin and teeth and fingertips. Luca was nowhere to be found thank god, leaving the little two-bedroom he'd claimed at the end of the valley quiet and empty. Too empty actually; the fridge and the cupboards in particular. Throwing the windows open to air the place out – it had gone warm and stuffy and stale while he was away – Peter dragged on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and headed up to his sister's house to raid the kitchen, electricity tickling at the base of his spine.

He thought it was just the wolf clinging on, unwilling to let go just yet.

He didn't realize that wasn't it at all until he rounded through into the kitchen and came face to face with Stiles.

The kid jerked, went pale, immediately shut down on everything he was feeling, leaving Peter feeling abruptly cold and bereft. It was rather impressive actually – he'd only gotten a snap second's feel of surprise his appearance caused before there was nothing left. He was sitting at the dining table kitty-corner from Nicky, both of them turned toward Calvin who had his ass planted up on one of Talia's granite counter-tops. The dick must've known he was coming, would have heard him or scented him before he even entered the house but he'd clearly kept it to himself, whatever conversation the three had been having sharply cut off as he entered.

Flashing his eyes at his brother, he ignored the other two as he walked past the dining table, into the open kitchen where he dug through the cabinets for a bowl and a box of cereal, the fridge for a jug of milk.

"Hey Uncle Peter," Nicky greeted casually, and where normally Peter would've snarked at the kid, grabbed the nape of his neck to give him a rough, affectionate shake, this time he just grunted, jerked his chin in a nod of acknowledgment.

"Your pet sycophant's been making a nuisance of himself," Calvin said as he poured, a nasty little needle under his skin, an accusation, like Luca was Peter's fault.

"Fuck off Vinny," he rumbled flatly, shoving a huge bite of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in his mouth and clamping down hard on any desire he had to turn, to stare at the kid, to back him up into a corner and press his face to the curve of his throat and breathe him in, feel his heart start to rabbit as his scent flared with sharp, citrus-anxiety.

His brother just laughed.

"Where's Cora?" he demanded, but it was Nicky who answered, jerked a thumb back over his shoulder while Calvin snicker-snorted on the counter.

"Out front with Derek," he said.

Nodding, Peter headed for the front door, taking his bowl with him and shoving Calvin off his perch as he passed.