His Uncle Peter is lying on the ground in front of the charred remains of the Hale family home. Burned, in pain, near dead. Again.
Derek shakes his head, clears it with a rough motion. Just like the filthy mutt you are, Kate's voice sneers.
Kate's dead. Sprawled bloody in what used to be the guest living room. Throat torn out then dropped like a dirty rag. Eyes are cloudy and staring up at the ceiling she burnt six years earlier.
Derek feels some small sense of happiness curl in his chest now that the bitch is gone. (That's a lie. He hasn't felt happy since his family died in a fire while his girlfriend struck the match and laughed.)
Everyone is frozen, staring at the remains of the dreaded Alpha. Feral, bloodthirsty, psychopathic.
It's not his Uncle Peter. This is the Alpha, not Uncle Peter. Not Uncle Peter who missed class and later missed meetings so that he could come to all of Derek's basketball games. Not Uncle Peter who would laugh and cheer the loudest and who could talk anyone in and out of anything.
The Alpha's breathing is raspy in charcoal lungs. Red eyes fade to accusatory blue. It isn't anger in those eyes now; it isn't madness either. Cold and empty they stare up at Derek, the once beloved nephew.
Derek tells himself that his Uncle Peter died in the fire. (He isn't sure that's true.)