A/N: Warning for torture in this chapter. Nothing especially graphic, but it is there. Again, send me a PM if you're concerned!

Blake watched Scott climb up the stairs, and as soon as he was gone, the man turned to Stiles with a smirk on his face. With no warning, he drove his fist into Stiles' stomach.

Stiles let out a gasp, curling into himself at the contact. "Why the hell did you do that?" he exclaimed, staring up at Blake in shock.

Blake just pulled his fist back and punched Stiles again in the stomach, and then again, and then again. Stiles was gasping for breath, and the smile had slipped from Blake's face. "Wait, please," Stiles gasped, "Why are you doing this?

"Come on, Stiles," Blake spat in response, "I thought you were the smart one. You're the incentive in this deal. And I don't know about you, but I don't think Scott looked convinced."

Stiles shook his head frantically. "No, trust me, he was convinced. I promise."

Blake just laughed and punched him in the face.

Stiles' head snapped to the side at the force of the contact, and he saw stars for a moment. When he was able to orient himself, Blake was smiling at him. "Look," Stiles said, desperate, "I'm only 17. Isn't that how old your sister is?"

When Blake's smile turned into a glare, Stiles realized that he might have made a mistake. "Don't talk about her," Blake growled, and there was no longer any humor in his words. "I need to do this to make sure Scott cooperates," he added, "but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it too."

Blake drew his arm back. "No no no, please," Stiles protested, but Blake didn't listen.

His fist connected with Stiles' face again, and then again, and then his stomach, and then his arms, and then his face…

Stiles could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness, and after an especially hard hit to the face, he welcomed the darkness gladly.

…

After leaving the house, Scott ran home, trying desperately to stay in control. He couldn't believe that he had almost completely wolfed out. He knew that he never wanted to see Stiles hurt, but he honestly didn't think that it would affect him this badly.

Scott was grateful that Blake had allowed him to talk to Derek, and he would, but he didn't think he was prepared to talk about what he had seen.

Not yet.

So Scott went home, hands clenched the entire way, the image of Blake punching Stiles never leaving his mind.

It was only six o'clock, but Scott was completely worn out. He had 24 hours until he had to go back to Blake and give him an answer. As soon as he got home, Scott collapsed into bed. "I'll talk to Derek in the morning," he mumbled to himself, and then he was out.

…

Stiles groaned, slowly opening his eyes. His body ached all over from Blake using him as a punching bag earlier, but he was okay. Nothing was broken; he was just covered in bruises. It hurt like a bitch, but he would be fine.

But then he heard the door open, and as Blake stomped down the stairs, Stiles realized that he might have spoken too soon.

The man was obviously pissed. He was walking with purpose and confidence, and his face was dark. His hair was messy, his clothes were wrinkled, and it looked like he hadn't slept in days.

And he was holding his switchblade.

Stiles swallowed in fear as Blake walked straight toward him, holding the blade like he was going to use it, not just threaten with it.

"Isabel is dead," Blake growled when he arrived in front of Stiles.

The blood drained from Stiles' face. He knew that Blake's sister was the only thing keeping him from going crazy, and if she was dead… "How?" Stiles asked, voice weak with fear.

"She hung herself, left a note for me saying that she couldn't be a monster." Blake leaned in closer and shouted, "It's your fault! If Scott had cooperated I could have saved her! It's your fault!"

On the last word, Blake took his switchblade and stabbed it into Stiles' bicep, pulling it out again in the same motion.

Stiles was so shocked, he couldn't even scream. He could just stare at his own arm, where blood was dripping down toward his elbow. He looked back up at Blake, eyes wide, and was terrified to see that the man was grinning now.

"You deserve this," Blake said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You killed my sister."

"Please," Stiles begged, and now the shock was wearing off and god, his arm hurt, "Please, you don't have to do this."

In response, Blake dragged the blade down Stiles' other arm, making a long, shallow cut from his elbow to his wrist.

Stiles winced, but he kept himself from crying out. He refused to give Blake the satisfaction.

The smile slipped off Blake's face at the lack of response, and Stiles started to worry that he had made a mistake. Blake started to cut more, on both his arms, but still Stiles refused to respond. His face growing darker, Blake sliced Stiles' chest right through his t-shirt. Stiles groaned, but clenched his teeth together to keep from screaming.

"Scream," Blake hissed, slicing Stiles' chest again and again and again.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking from them, and shook his head. But the blood loss, combined with his earlier injuries, was starting to get to him, and he was afraid that he was going to pass out soon.

"I'm going to kill you," Blake growled, "but not now. I'm going to wait until Scott gets here. And then I'm going to kill you both."

"Please," Stiles gasped, eyes opening, trying one last time to make Blake understand.

But Blake just raised his blade, grinned, and drove the point into Stiles' left thigh.

Finally, covered in bruises, bleeding from his chest, arms, and legs, vision going dark, Stiles screamed.

…

Scott woke up with a start, unsure why he was suddenly wide awake. He looked at the clock and saw that it was already ten o'clock, meaning he had slept for almost 16 hours.

Jumping out of bed and stretching, Scott decided that he might as well go to Derek's place right away. The older werewolf was probably awake, and Scott didn't want to wait any longer than he had to.

Pulling on some clothes, Scott was out the door and running to Derek's loft within minutes, arriving at the door minutes later.

"Derek!" he shouted, banging on the door. "Derek, I need your help!"

The door was pushed open, revealing a very annoyed looking Derek Hale. For a moment, he looked like he had when Scott had first met him—dark, brooding, uncaring. But then Derek seemed to realize that something was wrong, and his expression softened slightly. "Scott," he said slowly, taking in Scott's messy hair, messy clothes, and frantic eyes. He raised an eyebrow and asked, "What's going on?"

"It's Stiles," Scott panted. "He was kidnapped by a slightly psychopathic guy who wants to sacrifice me in order to save his little sister from turning into a werewolf."

The eyebrow rose higher, and Derek stepped back, inviting Scott in. "Well, that certainly sounds like a problem," Derek responded. "Want to give me a little more information than that?"

Scott took a deep breath and nodded, following Derek into the room. "Right. Well it started on Friday night, when Stiles called me and…"

Suddenly Scott felt a sharp pain in his left leg. He gasped, grabbing his thigh where it felt like he had just been shot or stabbed.

"Scott?" Derek asked, stepping closer with worry written all over his face.

Almost as quickly as it had come, the pain faded. Scott moved his hands, staring at his leg. There was nothing there. No wound, no blood, no knife, no bullet, nothing. He looked up at Derek, eyes wide. "I… I could've sworn I just got stabbed in the leg."

Derek's face was dark, as if he knew exactly what had just happened. "An alpha," he said cautiously, "is sometimes able to feel the pain that a member of his pack is feeling."

Suddenly, Scott remembered the day, months ago, when he had brought Malia out of her coyote form. He had felt a sudden pain in his foot, seemingly for no reason, and had only learned later that Isaac had gotten his foot caught in a trap at the same time Scott had felt the pain.

Scott felt faint. "Stiles is in my pack," he whispered, looking at Derek, terrified that he was right.

"I'm sorry, Scott," Derek responded quietly, looking sympathetic.

"No," Scott said, eyes hardening. "No, he may be hurt, but it's not over. He's not dead." He glared at Derek as if looking for the older werewolf to challenge him. "I would know if he was dead."

Derek almost smiled. "Well then," he responded, eyes glowing blue, "Let's go save him."

...

Stiles was drifting. Everything hurt- his arms, his face, his chest, his leg. It felt like a fire was ripping through his body, tearing him apart from the inside. The pain was all that existed.

Then there was a voice. The voice was harsh, cold, and made the pain even worse. Stiles couldn't make out what was being said, but he didn't need to. He knew that no one was going to help him, no one was going to make the pain go away. It was just him, the pain, and that cold voice.

He couldn't open his eyes, couldn't hear, couldn't think of anything except for the pain.

And a name. A name that was his only hope, the only thing that he could hang onto, the only thing that kept him fighting through the pain.

Scott.

…

Scott wanted to leave Derek's loft and go to Stiles immediately, but Derek made him stop. They needed a plan. They couldn't run in blindly or it would end even worse for Stiles.

"You go in first," Derek said, "pretend that you've made your decision. Stiles might be there, and it might look bad, but you need to stay calm."

Scott swallowed. "What if he's snapped and tries to kill us both though?" he asked, already hating the plan.

Derek smiled tightly. "I'll be right outside. If talking to him doesn't work, and it probably won't, just howl. Once I come in, your job will be to save Stiles. I'll handle Blake. Sound good?"

It didn't, but Scott nodded anyway. He could tell what Derek was doing- by making Scott in charge of Stiles, he was making sure that Scott wouldn't get out of control. If he was in charge of his best friend's life, he would be careful.

Suddenly Scott thought of something. "If Blake has snapped, how will you… What will you do with him?" he asked, dreading the answer.

Derek's face grew dark. "If he's hurt part of your… our pack, I'll do what needs to be done."

"Derek…" Scott started, not liking the sound of that at all.

Derek cut him off before he could finish. "We should go, Scott," he said harshly. "From the sounds of it, we should get there sooner rather than later."

"Alright," Scott responded, still not completely happy with the plan, "let's run."

…

"Stiles."

It was that cold voice again, but now Stiles could understand the words piercing through the fog.

"Stiles. Time to open your eyes."

He didn't want to open his eyes. The pain had faded a little, and he was afraid that if he woke up fully, it would come back.

"Stiles!"

Stiles flinched as the voice became a shout. He didn't want to wake up, didn't want to come back to reality, didn't want to come back to the pain.

"I know you're awake, Stiles. Open your eyes."

He kept them shut, trying to hold onto the fog for just a little longer. Just a little…

But then there was new pain, on his previously uninjured leg, and Stiles opened his eyes with a gasp. Just like that, all the pain and all the memories came roaring back. He could feel everything- the bruises on his face, stomach and arms. The cuts on his arms and chest. The stab wounds on his arm and leg. And the new pain on his other leg, a deep cut in his thigh.

And Blake was standing there, knife bloodied, smiling down at him. "Ah, Stiles," he said, "I was beginning to worry that I had overdone it and killed you too soon."

Stiles couldn't speak. He knew that he was dying. He felt weak from the blood loss, and he could hardly keep his eyes open. Death, over the years, had become normal to him, but he still never considered it happening to him. And he was terrified, not just for himself, but for Scott. Stiles knew that even if Scott survived the day, he wouldn't be able to live with himself if Stiles died. He was still recovering from Allison, and if he lost Stiles too…

"Scotty will be here soon," Blake continued, and Stiles blinked, trying to focus. "He'll probably want to kill me when he sees you, but don't worry. I'll kill him first. Then, after you watch your best friend die, I'll kill you too."

"Please," Stiles managed, his voice quiet and weak, "not Scott."

Blake laughed. "I should have known. Trying to beg for his life, but not your own?"

"Please," Stiles gasped again, and it felt like he was using up all of his air.

"Save your breath," Blake scoffed. "You can't convince me of anything. And if Scott brings Derek Hale with him, well. Even better. But I'm assuming he'll be alone, since right now he still thinks that you are perfectly healthy. He won't be prepared for anything when he comes in the door, I promise you that."

Stiles knew that Blake was right. Scott would have no reason to expect violence- he was probably planning on giving himself up peacefully and saving Stiles without any bloodshed.

"Eyes open!" Blake shouted suddenly, and Stiles blinked, unaware that he had even closed them.

"Can't," Stiles mumbled, his eyes slipping closed again. The pain was starting to fade, and when the darkness came, Stiles welcomed it gladly.

A/N: If you've read any of my other stories, you'll know that I am not completely opposed to killing major characters... Will Stiles survive this time? Next chapter will be posted soon!