Chapter Twenty-One
The sound of Stiles's scream brought Derek around with a roar that surged through his veins. He was fighting to get to his feet before he even knew where he was, arms straining against the chains until they dug brutally into his flesh and blood ran down his clenched fists.
He was dimly aware of Scott struggling beside him, the flash of fang and crimson out of the corner of his eye snarling with rage.
"Derek, nice of you to join the party." Peter turned with Stiles's wrist still in his grasp. Stiles was sheet white, his eyes wide and glassy as his breath came shallow and far too rapid.
It took Derek several agonizing seconds before he could regain control enough to speak. "You have us. Let him go. He's not a part of this anymore. You made sure of that."
Peter sighed theatrically, releasing Stiles so that the boy fell to his knees, cradling one arm close to his chest.
"If you'd come around a little earlier you'd have heard that I need Stiles," Peter paused, the glint in his eye letting the double meaning sink in, "Just as much as you."
"You're already an Alpha—what more could you possibly want?" Derek fought to keep his eyes on Peter, to keep the focus on him instead of on Stiles, who was swaying precariously.
"Only you would be so naive to think you could ever have enough power. But I'm not going over this again—I don't need you to understand. I just need you to participate. Scott can fill you in, if he so desires." With a dismissive shrug Peter pulled off the now-ruined pair of gloves and made his way back to the coffee table.
"Stiles," Scott hissed. "Stiles, are you okay?"
"I…" Stiles's throat worked convulsively, and when he looked up at Scott it took a couple seconds for his eyes to focus. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm… yeah."
"Stop fighting him," Derek ordered, heart hammering in his chest as he tried to catch up with their situation. His uncle would kill him and Scott, he was sure. But an Alpha needed Betas, which meant that Jackson—if he was still alive—and Isaac, whose heartbeat Derek could still hear, had a chance of surviving this. And so did Stiles. He knew Peter had a... soft spot, where Stiles was concerned. If Stiles cooperated, there was still hope that Peter wouldn't kill him. "Do what he wants."
Stiles's gaze swung to Derek's at that, a glimmer of his usual snark visible in the amber of his eyes. "You don't want me doing that."
"Yes, I do. What I don't want is for him to kill you, and he will, if you give him a reason."
"Derek," Scott was shaking his head. "You don't know what Peter wants from—"
"It doesn't matter," Derek cut him off. "Stiles, please, just do what you have to to get of here alive."
"Sorry, Derek," and there was steel in Stiles's voice now, a rippling curl of anger. "You're done making decisions for me."
"Stiles."
But Stiles ignored him and rose unsteadily to his feet.
"Scott," Derek turned to his fellow Alpha. "Do something."
"Sorry, man," Scott shrugged as much as he was able. "I'm with Stiles on this one."
"You know I'm still in the room, right?" Peter commented blithely from behind them. "I can hear you. Not that it matters, I'm almost done."
Almost done what? Derek growled in frustration and threw his weight against the chains again, but they did exactly what they were intended to do and held him in place. Between Peter's elaborate attack and the earlier fight with Marcus, he'd faced off with two Alphas in one night, and his body was weak and exhausted. He didn't have the strength to break the chains.
"Stop." Peter came back into Derek's line of sight with black gloves on his hands, carrying a wooden bowl. "Or I'll break another bone."
Derek dropped back onto his heels, breath heaving with exertion. He couldn't quit testing his bonds completely, couldn't just watch whatever was about to happen, but he could hide what he was doing from Peter. He let his arms fall to his sides, but gathered the slack of the chain at his wrists and continued to tug closer to the bolt. He couldn't break the chain but he might be able to rip the bolt from the floor.
Peter crossed the loft and knelt on the floor beside Isaac. The sharp scent of fear, already permeating the space, spiked along with Isaac's heart rate. Derek couldn't see what Peter did, but his ears filled with the sound of liquid spattering, accompanied by Isaac's thick, choked moan.
When Peter rose to his feet and returned to where Scott and Derek were bound, Derek could see the surface of the bowl gleam with the viscous ruby colour of fresh blood. A chill settled over Derek's skin despite the warmth of the room. His instinctive conviction that Stiles should play along with Peter's game all but evaporated.
What exactly did Peter need Stiles for?
Stiles rested his back against one of the large wooden pillars and concentrated on the firm press of the column along his spine. He was dangerously close to sliding back down to the floor, the vicious pulse of pain in his arm making his legs weak and his stomach queasy, but he would not spend another second on his knees in front of Peter. He'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.
He wasn't sure what his plan was, though. Through the lashes of his half-lidded eyes he could see Derek watching him while Scott tracked Peter's movements with his head. The intensity of Derek's gaze was an almost physical force on Stiles's skin and he closed his eyes, not wanting to bear the weight of it. Stiles was the only one of them able to move, and he was going to get them out of this. He was. Something would come to him—what, he wasn't sure, but it would. It always did.
"Alright, Stiles, you're up." There was a quirk to Peter's lips, a private joke dancing in his eyes when Stiles looked up to find Peter standing in front of him.
Derek began to growl, low and steady.
Peter stripped off his second pair of gloves, tucking them into the pocket of his pants. He brought a hand up to Stiles's throat again, grip firm but not bruising. Stiles curled his lips up in a sneer but said nothing, tension running through his body while his mind whirled, trying to figure out what Peter was doing and how Stiles could somehow twist that to his advantage.
Peter trailed his other hand down Stiles's stomach, fingers dipping under the waistband of his jeans to brush against his skin before they pulled out and continued down to cup Stiles through his jeans. Peter made a noise of disappointment, his lips pursing in a frown. "I don't recall you needing much more than this," his fingers tightened a fraction around Stiles's throat, "Last time."
"Last time," Stiles said through gritted teeth, "You didn't break my fucking arm."
"No need to be so melodramatic." Peter pulled back with a roll of his eyes. "It's only your wrist. But I suppose you do make a fair point." He brought his hand back to Stiles's waist and slid it up under Stiles's shirt, fingers splayed wide over Stiles's stomach. There was a moment where nothing happened, but then Peter's hands tensed against Stiles's skin and with a dizzying sensation of tugging black lines crawled up Peter's arms as the pain from Stiles's injuries faded.
The relief was so extreme that Stiles's legs finally gave out. When Peter stepped away, Stiles slid down the pillar to the floor, careful to catch himself at the last second with his good arm. Just because his left no longer hurt didn't mean it wasn't still broken, and he didn't want to risk injuring it further.
When Peter returned, he held a clear glass bottle, the liquid inside clinging thickly to the bottle's wall. Stiles watched apprehensively as Peter eased out the cork, his fingers dipping inside the neck to sweep along the glass. When he pulled them out they glistened in the flickering light. Stiles jerked back, knocking his head against the wood as Peter brought his fingers up to Stiles's lips, tracing the oil over his mouth until Stiles's lips were coated.
The scent of it was overwhelming, even to Stiles's human senses, and he parted his lips without thinking, hoping to draw in breath from his mouth not his nose. Peter seemed to take this as an invitation though because just as his fingers had dipped into the bottle they were in Stiles's mouth and the musky sandalwood coated his tongue. Stiles gagged, both arms coming up to push Peter away.
"Need I remind you what the price of refusal is?" Peter's voice was hard again, like it had been before he broke Stiles's arm, and he cut his gaze away from Stiles to look deliberately at Isaac.
Stiles's hands dropped.
"There's a good boy." Peter smirked as Derek's growl took on a desperate, vicious edge, apparently well past words. "Don't worry, Derek, this part won't hurt him." The hand that wasn't covered in oil closed around Stiles's hip and jerked Stiles across the hardwood so that he was no longer propped up against the pillar but lying prone with one of Peter's knees between his legs.
Peter made quick work of Stiles's jeans and within seconds they were pushed down past his hips, Peter's hand reaching into Stiles's underwear to pull out his cock before he gave it one long, firm stroke with his oiled fingers. Stiles jerked under Peter, bile rising in his throat as Peter continued to touch him, adding more of the heavily scented oil until his fist moved smooth over Stiles's flesh.
Stiles closed his eyes, turning his head to the side and trying to ignore the way his body was reacting to Peter's ministrations. He knew Derek was watching, could tell from the screech of the chains that Derek had given up any pretence of passivity.
"Stop it, Peter!" Scott was demanding, indignation and disgust colouring his voice.
Hearing Scott made Stiles want to curl up in humiliation and he twisted under Peter's grip. Peter chuckled, his fingers moving faster as he slid up Stiles's body. Gripping Stiles's chin, he forced Stiles to face him and pressed his mouth to Stiles's, smearing the oil over both of their lips and thrusting his tongue against Stiles's.
Stiles's grunt of protest was muffled by Peter's mouth, even as tears of mortification slid out from under his closed eyes. Peter was rutting against Stiles's thigh now and Stiles could feel him hard through the fabric between them. Peter's tongue in his mouth was hot and invasive and Stiles made a split-second decision that he figured he'd probably come to regret but like fuck he was going to take this lying down. Like fuck he was going to let Peter take this from him and use it to take Scott and Derek as well.
The next push of Peter's tongue between his lips, Stiles's teeth snapped down. Blood flooded his mouth, hot and metallic, and then Peter was jerking back and Stiles could feel the piece of him that he'd left behind. Shock and pain had Peter reeling and Stiles used it—shoved Peter so that he toppled sideways, upending the bottle of oil and crashing into the barrier of mountain ash that surrounded Scott.
Stiles scrambled to his feet, spat out a mouthful of blood and severed tongue as he hauled his pants back over his waist and ran. Behind him he could hear Scott roar and Peter's answering, inhuman snarl.
Stiles skidded through the puddle of Isaac's blood and grabbed the handle of his wooden bat, turning back in time to see Peter stagger to his feet, blood running freely down his chin. Stiles felt a cold thrill run through him at the sight and he hefted the bat up, waiting for Peter to come after him.
Peter didn't. He reached up and touched a hand to his mouth, fingertips wet with blood and oil as pulled them away before wiping them slowly on the fabric of his shirt. Stiles's breath was loud and ragged in his ears, panting with adrenaline as he waited, tense, for Peter to retaliate.
"Come on," Stiles bit out after the silence had stretched. "What are you waiting for?"
Peter's eyes were level with Stiles's, the vibrant Alpha-red fading back into that pale, cold blue. Stiles swallowed, his mouth dry and throbs of pain beginning to shoot up his wrist, the skin dark and swollen from the damage underneath. Eyes still on Stiles, movements calm and easy, Peter reached behind him and withdrew a gun.
Stiles tightened his grip around the bat.
"Peter," Derek's voice was deadly soft. "Don't."
Peter ignored his nephew and raised the weapon, but it wasn't Stiles he pointed it at—taking a deliberate step backwards so he stood beside Derek, as close to the circle of mountain ash as he could get, he levelled the gun at Derek's head.
"I don't need both Alphas, Stiles."
Panic was a clawed thing in Stiles's chest, a wordless shriek in his ears, and it took him a minute to realize that the sound was only in his head. "You—you wouldn't." Even to him, his voice sounded uncertain.
"I would. With pleasure, at this point. I'm tired of playing games with you. So unless you'd care to offer something equally as pleasurable as killing Derek…"
And there was nothing Stiles wouldn't do to see the gun taken away from Derek's head. Nothing. He knew, then, had the first glimmer of understanding of what Derek might have felt when he decided to lie to Stiles, and to convince his friends to lie, in a stupid attempt to keep him safe. Because Stiles would tell any number of lies, would tell them so convincingly and so earnestly that not even a werewolf would be able to tell the difference, if there was any chance they would keep Derek from being chained and defenceless with gun to his head. He'd lie and steal and cheat and kill if that was what it would take to keep Derek safe. He'd do this—do what Peter asked—if it would buy Derek even five more minutes of being not-dead because Stiles didn't know if he could survive the alternative. Was pretty sure he didn't want to. Despite everything.
Without a word Stiles let the bat fall to his side and drop from his fingers. It rolled away, back towards Isaac, and Stiles didn't bother to watch it to see where it wound up. He was done fighting.
"No." Derek strained against the manacles, his eyes wild as Stiles sank to his knees in front of Peter. "Stiles, no. Not for me." Stiles didn't look at Derek, dropped his gaze to the floor between Peter's feet and remained motionless as Peter reached down to run his fingers through Stiles's hair.
Peter hummed appreciatively in the back of his throat. He caught a handful of Stiles's hair and twisted slowly until Stiles whimpered—not bothering to try and muffle the sound because he knew it was what Peter wanted to hear.
"Are you going to be a good boy for me, Stiles?" He dragged Stiles's head back until Stiles was looking up at him. "Answer me."
"Yes."
Beside Peter, Derek made a broken noise.
"I'll do what you want. Whatever you want." Stiles swallowed, not missing the way Peter's eyes flared with heat as he watched Stiles's throat work. "Just… promise me you'll let him go. Please, Peter. Just let them go."
Peter hooked a thumb into Stiles's mouth, dragging it open and watching with hooded eyes as Stiles forced himself to stay pliant under Peter's touch. "Prove it."
Stiles refused to let himself hesitate, just closed his mouth around Peter's thumb and sucked. He could hear Scott snarl furiously, the rings of the chain squealing against each other as his best friend struggled to break out of the bonds that held him. Derek was silent though, soundless and frozen out of the corner of Stiles's eye.
Stiles blocked it out, let his ears fill with a mindless buzzing, let his eyes unfocus, and retreated to a quiet corner of his mind so that when his hands reached up for the buckle of Peter's belt it was like he was watching someone else. A stranger's fingers fumbling with the leather, left hand clumsy and uncooperative. Even the pain was dulled.
"Fuck this."
Isaac's voice snapped Stiles back to reality, his head turning towards the werewolf before he realized what was happening. Isaac reached out, stretching as far as he could with the bar running through his torso, and as his fingertips wrapped around the base of the bat he shoved it as hard as he could towards Stiles, mouth open in a wordless cry of agony as the rowan wood burned against his skin.
Propelled by Isaac's inhuman strength, the bat skidded across the floor and past Stiles, crashing into several of the thick white candles and sending them rolling across the floor. One of them landed in the slick of spilled oil and fire exploded across the hardwood.
Stiles flailed back, scrambling up onto his feet as the flames snaked towards him. He wasn't quite fast enough, and the fire licked up the leg of his jeans. Yelping he batted at it with his hands to snuff it out.
Palms red, but otherwise unharmed, he finally glanced up to see Peter striding, roaring with fury, across the room to where Isaac knelt defenceless and sneering. Peter was going to kill the werewolf—of that Stiles had no doubt.
He moved without thinking, fingers reaching for the bat and crossing the room in Peter's wake. Peter was too focused on Isaac, too intent on his next act of violence, and he didn't hear Stiles approach until it was too late.
Peter was just turning towards him when Stiles swung with all his might, the bat connecting to the side of Peter's head with a sickening crunch that sent Peter flying across the room into the wall. Stiles followed, lips pressed tight into a thin line, and he didn't bother to wait for Peter to regain consciousness. He brought the bat down again and again and again until his eyelashes were tacky with spattered blood and Peter's head was an obliterated ruin, brain matter and bone gleaming wetly against the floor of the loft. He couldn't stop. Not even when his arms began to ache with the strain and he wasn't doing anything but slamming the bat into the unforgiving hardwood with the impact ringing through his bones.
"Stiles!"
When he finally looked up, chest heaving, face wet with sweat and blood and tears, it was to see Derek yelling at him through a wall of fire. The flames had spread across nearly half of the loft, the oil acting as an accelerant and the dry wood of the floor and the supports doing the rest. Stiles could feel smoke hot against his skin and rough in his lungs, and he blinked, shocked that he hadn't noticed it earlier.
"Stiles," Derek shouted again, and Stiles's eyes snapped back to Derek's face. "You need to get the keys from Peter's pocket."
The keys. There was a moment where Stiles just stared, completely uncomprehending, at the body sprawled out in front of him before his brain kicked back into gear and he bent down to shove his hands into Peter's pockets. He could feel Peter's skin through the fabric of his pants and the warmth of it was chilling. He half expected Peter to roll over, to struggle to his feet.
But Peter—Peter's body—remained motionless and when Stiles's fingers closed around a key ring he jerked his hand out and moved in a stumbling run across the room before he could think too hard about what he'd just done.
He darted past the hungry flames, the heat of them overwhelming, and now that he was on the other side he could see how close they were to Scott and Derek. Scott nodded frantically at Stiles for the keys in his hands and Stiles tossed them to the Alpha, dropping to his knees so he could break the circle of ash around Scott.
"Stiles," Derek's voice was strained, and when Stiles looked up as Scott's chains fell to the floor he saw Derek rigid with tension, every muscle in his body taut as he pulled uselessly at the cuffs.
Scott stepped out of the circle, pressed the keys into Stiles's hand, and ran over to Isaac.
Stiles crawled over to Derek, breaking the line of ash as he crossed it and fumbling with the keys as he tried to fit them into the lock. Derek wasn't looking at Stiles, his eyes were fixed on the dancing flames and his breath coming in ragged pants of fear as he yanked desperately at the chains. The metal was slick with Derek's blood and Stiles hands were shaking so hard he couldn't get the key in, not with Derek pulling the chains out of his grip every time Stiles thought he had a grasp on them.
"Derek, calm down! I need you to stay still. I need you to stop pulling," Stiles begged, but Derek was panicked past listening and tugged harder until Stiles could see the white of bone through the torn flesh around his wrists. "Derek!"
He finally reached out, dropping the keys between his knees and grabbing both of Derek's hands in his. He squeezed, hard, ignoring the nauseating throb of pain from his broken wrist, until he could feel the small bones of Derek's hands scrape together and Derek finally ripped his eyes away from the fire and looked down at Stiles.
"I will get you out," Stiles promised. "I've got you, and I will get you out. Do you understand?"
Derek's gaze flicked back to the fire and Stiles squeezed again, ruthless, until Derek's eyes were back on his. "I've got you. Okay?"
Derek nodded, nostrils flaring as he fought to slow his breathing, and the muscles in his arms went still.
"Good. You're doing great." Stiles released Derek's hands and grabbed for the keys, fitting them easily into the padlocks now that they'd stopped moving. The second the manacles fell from Derek's wrists the Alpha was on his feet, grabbing for Stiles and hauling him up. He moved so fast that Stiles barely had time to register being on his feet before Derek was yanking him, moving with superhuman speed until they were pressed back against the far wall with as much distance between them and the fire as possible in the loft.
"God, Stiles, I—" Derek's voice broke hoarsely and he cupped Stiles's face in both hands, pressing Stiles back into the wall and shielding him from the fire that crept ever closer.
"It's okay. We're okay." Stiles could hear the tears in his voice, the soreness in his throat having as much to do with them as the smoke. Derek's head dropped, forehead pressing against Stiles's, and Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek's waist and just held on as Derek shuddered helplessly against him. "We're okay."