Stella bolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat and tangled in her sheets. The lingering fragments of her nightmare clung to her like static—images of glowing eyes in the darkness, snapping jaws, and the unmistakable taste of blood on her tongue. Her heart pounded against her ribs, refusing to settle even after she realized she was safe in her own room. It had been weeks since the bite that changed her life, and yet her dreams only grew more vicious, more real.
Down the hallway, she could hear Scott stirring. He'd probably had the same kind of nightmare. They never talked about it outright—there was an unspoken pact between them, a mutual fear of acknowledging just how deep the Alpha's hold might be. But Stella was certain he knew the weight she carried. If anything, his constant looks of concern told her that much.
Morning routine was a blur of small talk and forced normalcy. By the time Stella reached Beacon Hills High, her nerves were frayed, but she plastered on a smile. She couldn't afford to let anyone see her slipping. Especially not Stiles, who had a knack for sensing when things weren't right. As soon as she spotted him bouncing toward her locker with that usual spark of mischief in his eyes, she braced herself.
"Morning, Stella," he said, launching into a rambling story about discovering a weird smell in the boys' locker room—"definitely not normal sweat," he insisted. She managed a laugh, though it came out hollow. Stiles, ever perceptive, paused mid-sentence. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just… rough night," Stella muttered, trying to sound casual. "Don't worry about it."
His mouth opened like he wanted to press further, but Scott jogged up, intercepting. "Coach wants me at practice early. Stiles, you coming?"
Stiles hesitated, glancing back at Stella. She sent him a quick nod, assuring him she was fine. Once they were gone, she leaned against her locker, exhaling in relief. Her laughter at Stiles's jokes had been forced, but she was grateful for the brief distraction. The dread of her nightmares lingered at the edges of her mind like a fog she couldn't quite disperse.
That afternoon, between classes, Scott cornered her in a quiet hallway. "Did you dream about it again?" he asked gently. When she averted her eyes, he sighed. "Stella, you know we have to keep training, right? The more terrified you get, the more it—he—can pull at you."
"I know," she murmured. "I'm just… I'm tired of being scared all the time. Every time I close my eyes, I see what I could become. What if one day I can't pull back? What if I—"
"You won't," Scott interrupted firmly. "We'll train harder. Derek's not exactly warm and fuzzy, but he wants us to survive. We'll do whatever it takes."
Stella nodded, swallowing the knot in her throat. She was tired—tired of half-truths, of secrets, of feeling like a monster in her own skin. But Scott's eyes held a spark of unwavering determination, one that somehow lessened the crushing weight inside her. If he believed in her, maybe she could believe in herself.
Later that evening, Stella stood at the edge of the preserve, staring into the thick line of trees where she knew Derek lurked. She clenched her fists, recalling the terror of last night's dream. If she had any hope of breaking the Alpha's hold, she'd have to face that terror head-on. Scott was right—fear was the Alpha's strongest weapon against her.
Stepping forward, she inhaled the sharp scent of pine and earth, letting it ground her. No more running, she told herself silently. If the Alpha wanted to consume her through nightmares and twisted illusions, she would fight back with every ounce of courage she could muster. Because if she didn't, those silent howls she heard in her nightmares would become her reality—and she refused to let that happen.