A/N: Here's chapter 2! Thanks to everyone who has already responded to this story, either by liking or following or reviewing, it means a lot to me!

Stiles only realized that he had lost consciousness when he opened his eyes again. He was pretty sure he had a concussion, as his head was still pounding. Everything about his situation was still the same—he was tied to a chair, with a blindfold over his eyes.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps. Stiles stiffened in the chair, straining his ears. The footsteps continued at a steady pace for twelve steps, and then stopped. Then there was the sound of a light being switched on, and Stiles flinched.

"So, you are awake," said a voice, mockingly.

"Who- who are you? What's going on?" Stiles asked, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice.

The footsteps started up again, bringing the owner of the voice closer to where Stiles was being held. Before he had time to prepare himself, the blindfold was pulled off, and Stiles flinched again as the bright lights burned his eyes. He kept his eyes closed for a few seconds, trying to adjust to the light, and then finally opened them, seeing his captor for the first time.

The man standing in front of him looked to be in his mid-20s, with messy blonde hair and a scruffy beard. He was big, but not overly so. His arms were thick and muscled, making him look like a boxer. But what terrified Stiles most were his eyes. They were dark brown, and they showed no emotion.

Growing up with the sheriff as his dad, Stiles had seen a lot of crimes, a lot of criminals, and he had seen even more after getting sucked into the world of the supernatural. And if he had learned one thing, it was that eyes could tell you a lot. He had seen criminals who were clearly crazy, and their eyes glinted and were always moving. He had seen criminals who did things out of anger, and their eyes blazed with a primal fury. But the worst criminals, the men and women who committed the worst crimes, their eyes showed nothing.

And he was looking into eyes like that now.

The man smiled, and Stiles shivered. "Stay away from me," the teenager said, back pressed as far back into his chair as it would go. "I don't know who you are or what you want, but I don't have anything for you. My dad's the sheriff, okay? This was a mistake. Just let me go."

Stiles had tried to make his voice sound intimidating, but the man just laughed. "You're wrong in one thing, Stiles," he said, grinning. "You actually have something I want very much."

Stiles swallowed, wondering how the man knew his name. "What do you want?" he asked, and his voice shook.

"Scott," the man answered, as if the response was obvious.

"Scott?" Stiles repeated, sounding weak even to his own ears. "What do you need him for? Who are you?" He was getting desperate, and he knew it. If this guy wanted to hurt Scott, and was going to use him to do it… that was not okay.

The man just laughed. "My name is Blake, not that it will matter to you. And I need Scott because he can help me with a… problem I've been having."

Stiles stared at the man—Blake—blankly for a moment, not really getting it. He was still pressed into the chair, now terrified that Blake was crazy.

Blake sighed at the expression on Stiles' face. "I would ask you some questions, but I doubt you'd answer them… How about this. I'll tell you what I know, and you correct me if any of the information is wrong. Sound good?" he asked with an easy smile, as if everything he was doing was just a fun game to play.

Stiles swallowed, but nodded, knowing that cooperation was probably his best—and only—option.

"Good," Blake responded, pulling a stool from a corner of the room and sitting comfortably on it. "Let's start from the beginning then. Obviously, your friend Scott is a werewolf. So is Derek Hale. Malia is a shifter of some sort, I never quite figured out what exactly, Kira is some sort of kitsune, and Lydia is a banshee." He looked Stiles right in the eye, his expression coolly amused. "Sound right so far?"

Stiles could only stare in shock as his blood ran cold. How did Blake know so much about his friends? The only explanation was that he had been watching them, following them, for a long time. How he had escaped being detected by Scott and Derek, Stiles didn't even want to know.

Caught in his own dark thoughts, Stiles didn't even realize that he hadn't given Blake an answer. Until he suddenly stepped forward, all traces of amusement wiped from his face. Before Stiles had time to process what was going on, Blake had pulled a switchblade from somewhere and had the point held directly in front of Stiles' left eye.

"I asked you a question," Blake growled, his face dark.

Stiles swallowed, frozen in fear. If Blake's hand shook, or if Stiles moved his head at all, the blade would likely pierce his eye.

After a moment, in which Stiles didn't even dare to breathe, Blake drew the switchblade back and settled back onto his stool. "I need you to understand the situation here, Stiles," Blake stated easily, the intensity from his earlier expression gone. "There is nothing you can do. Scott will come, and he will do what I want, or you will die. It's quite simple, really."

Stiles took a deep breath. He was still terrified, especially from that glimpse into what Blake was willing to do, but he needed to understand what was really going on. "Okay, fine. I get it. I cooperate, and Scott cooperates, and you don't go all evil-villain and kill me." Blake was smirking, but he didn't look like he was going to get into any stabbing, so Stiles ploughed on. "You obviously know a lot about us, which is freaky, but whatever. I just have one question—what do you need Scott for?"

"Well, if my information is correct, Scott is not just a werewolf. He's a true alpha." Blake raised an eyebrow at Stiles and asked, "Is that true?"

Even though Stiles didn't want to give up information on Scott, he nodded, figuring that if Blake already knew this much, it wouldn't hurt to nod. Plus, he really didn't want to lose an eye.

Blake grinned. "Glad you decided to cooperate, Stiles. But yes, there is a specific reason that I need a true alpha at the moment. It's a bit of a long story, so make yourself comfortable."

Stiles just raised an eyebrow, looking the ropes around his arms and legs, but finally just shrugged and figured that it wouldn't hurt to learn why Blake needed Scott so badly.

...

Two Months Earlier

"Come on, Blake! Just because you're ten years older than me doesn't mean that you can't have fun!"

"Eleven, actually," Blake responded with a grin, and the girl standing next to him laughed.

"Seriously though," she responded after a moment, "let's go explore. The woods are gorgeous this time of year!"

Blake rolled his eyes but finally smiled and said, "Alright. Let's go explore."

An hour later, and Blake was starting to regret his decision to follow his sister into the woods. "Hey, Izzy," he said, a few paces behind her, "maybe we should head back."

"Oh come on, Blake," she responded, turning around with a smirk. "When did you get so lame? We used to have so much fun together!"

Blake just shook his head. "Yeah, when you were nine and I was twenty. But that was eight years ago, and your idea of fun has changed a bit over the years."

"Come on," she begged, "just a little farther. We'll be back home before it gets dark, I promise."

Blake sighed. He had never been able to resist his little sister's charms. "Alright," he agreed, "just a little farther."

'Just a little farther,' Blake soon realized, meant walking for another hour and watching the sun sink below the horizon. His sister kept getting farther ahead of him, and he was starting to worry. "Izzy!" he shouted, looking around the darkening woods. "Izzy! We gotta head back!"

There was a rustling in the bushes to his left, and Blake whipped around. "Izzy? That you?" he said, squinting into the darkness. "Come on, no more games. Time to go home."

The rustling started again, this time moving away from him. Blake relaxed, guessing that it was a bunny or something, when the air was pierced with a loud scream.

"ISABEL!" Blake shouted, running in the direction of the scream. "ISABEL!"

…

Stiles stared at Blake, trembling slightly, as the man finished his story. He already had a pretty good idea of what had happened to Blake's sister, remembering the rogue alpha they had dealt with around the same time.

"When I found her," Blake continued, "she was bleeding. There was a bite mark on her arm, like an animal had attacked her. I brought her home, treated the wound myself." He turned to face Stiles, staring at him as if the incident was his fault. "The next day, the bite had disappeared."

Stiles swallowed. Blake was showing more emotion now than he had in their entire time together. "So… she's okay?" he asked, cautious.

Blake practically growled, moving closer, and Stiles flinched back. "No, she's not okay!" Blake shouted, moving so he was almost directly in front of Stiles' face. "Two weeks later was the full moon. She tried to kill me! I had to lock her up!" Blake was quickly losing control, but there was nothing Stiles could do. "Do you know what that's like?!" Blake was practically screaming now.

"Yes," Stiles answered, quietly, remembering those first few full moons with Scott.

That seemed to snap Blake out of his anger, and he took a step back, almost chuckling. "Yes," he said, sitting back on his stool, "I suppose you would. Scott tried to kill you a couple times, didn't he?"

Stiles just nodded, still wary. Blake's emotions, he had learned, could change at any time.

"Well, then you understand," Blake continued, leaning forward suddenly. "I need to save her."

"Okay," Stiles answered, pressed against the back of the chair again, "I get that. But why do you need Scott? There's no cure for… werewolf-ism."

Blake chuckled, leaning back, and Stiles allowed himself to relax a little. "I'm guessing you and Scott did some research after you learned what had happened to him?" Blake asked, eyebrow raised.

"Yeah," Stiles nodded, "mostly me. I didn't find anything."

"Well then you didn't look deep enough," Blake responded, eyes gleaming, and Stiles decided that he didn't want to know what Blake had found. But Blake was lost in his own thoughts now, not paying Stiles any attention, and he explained what he had found while Stiles could only watch and listen in growing fear and horror.

Scott was not allowed to participate in Blake's plan. Stiles would have to make sure of that.

…

Scott felt sick. After the call from Blake, he had returned to the Stilinski house, told the sheriff to call him with any updates, and then sprinted home, fighting to stay calm.

Someone had taken Stiles. To get to him.

Scott had already decided that he would do whatever he needed to do to get Stiles back. If that meant going to Blake by himself, fine. If that meant getting injured himself, fine. Failure was not an option. And if Stiles didn't want Scott to give himself up, well, he'd get over it. Once they were both back home, safe.

But for now, there was nothing Scott could do. So he paced around his empty house, scenarios running through his head of what could be happening to Stiles, each worse than the last.

Stiles chained to a pole, slumped on the ground, bleeding from his head.

Stiles tied to a chair, eyes closed, covered in cuts and bruises.

Stiles in a dark basement, lying on the floor in a pool of blood.

Scott physically shook himself, trying to get rid of the images. He could do this. Stiles was fine. Blake wouldn't hurt Stiles—he would know that Scott wouldn't cooperate if Stiles was in serious danger. As long as Scott cooperated, Stiles would be fine.

Stiles had to be fine.