AN: Last chapter of season 2 - Enjoy! x
The cold tile beneath Jamie's feet grounded her, but just barely.
She sat on the bench, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, her nails pressing into her skin so hard it hurt. But the pain was good. It kept her from spiralling. Kept her from giving in to the storm building inside her chest, the one screaming that everything was falling apart.
She exhaled sharply, trying to steady herself.
Scott was across the room, tearing through Stiles' locker.
The metal door had been ripped open, jagged edges bent where Scott's claws had done their damage. He was digging through Stiles' things with frantic desperation, searching for anything that he and Isaac could use to track him.
Jamie closed her eyes for a second, inhaling deeply through her nose. Keep it together.
She felt someone sit beside her.
She didn't have to look to know who it was.
Isaac leaned back against the lockers, stretching out his long legs, his head tilted up toward the ceiling. He didn't say anything at first. Didn't look at her. Just let the silence settle between them, heavy and uncertain.
"Sorry about Jackson."
Jamie's jaw tightened.
Isaac sighed, running a hand through his curls. "I know there was something between you two."
Jamie's hands curled tighter in her lap.
There was nothing to say.
Because it didn't matter what there was between her and Jackson—not now. Not when he was lying on a stretcher somewhere, his blood staining the grass of the lacrosse field.
Not when Stiles was missing, and everything else was crumbling around her.
Isaac exhaled through his nose. "You know… I've always wondered what would've happened if I went to the formal with you."
Jamie stiffened slightly, caught off guard by the shift in conversation.
Isaac kept his eyes on the ceiling, his voice quiet. "If I'd just told my dad to go fuck himself. If I'd picked you up that night, taken you to the stupid dance, and… I don't know. Had a normal night."
Jamie swallowed hard.
Isaac huffed a soft, humourless laugh. "I wonder if things would've been different. If I still would've said yes to Derek. If I still would've ended up here, like this." He gestured vaguely at himself, at the room, at everything. "Maybe we could've just been… normal."
Jamie let out a breath, shaking her head. "Isaac, I hate to break it to you, but I don't think either of us were ever going to be normal."
Isaac laughed, but it was light, covering something heavier.
Jamie didn't push.
Because in a different life, maybe things would have been different. Maybe Isaac would've taken her to the dance, and they would've laughed, and danced, and gone home that night with nothing but stupid teenage memories.
Maybe he wouldn't have been turned.
Maybe she wouldn't be sitting here now, with blood under her fingernails and fear in her throat.
But that wasn't their life.
Instead, they sat in a locker room that smelled like sweat and metal and desperation, waiting for the next disaster to hit.
And Jamie didn't know if there was a way out of it anymore.
As Isaac leaned his head back against the lockers, staring up at the ceiling, his nose scrunched slightly.
"You're smoking again," he muttered. It wasn't a question.
Jamie tensed for half a second before forcing herself to relax. She shrugged, glancing away. "So?"
Isaac turned his head slightly, giving her a look. "I can tell," he said like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Thought you were trying to quit."
Jamie just exhaled sharply, still not meeting his gaze. "Better than the alternative."
Isaac tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "You mean better than the crippling anxiety or the overwhelming sense of impending doom?" he asked dryly.
Jamie snorted, rolling her eyes at him. "Take your pick."
Isaac huffed out a small laugh, but there wasn't any real humour in it. They both knew it wasn't really a joke.
For a moment, they just sat there, the weight of everything pressing in. The chaos outside, the uncertainty, the fact that everything was falling apart.
Isaac sighed. "I get it, you know."
Jamie finally looked at him, eyebrows raised.
He shrugged. "When things feel like they're out of control, you do whatever you can to take some back."
Jamie stared at him for a second, something unreadable in her expression. Then she scoffed, shaking her head. "You're getting all deep on me, Lahey. It's weird."
Isaac smirked. "I have layers."
Jamie snorted again, but the tension didn't completely fade. It never did. They fell into silence again, before Scott finished pulling items from Stiles' locker, throwing a shoe at Isaac which he caught with ease.
Then, the quiet in the locker room shattered with the creak of the door.
Jamie's head snapped up.
Derek stepped inside first, his broad frame tense, his eyes sharp as they swept over the room. But it wasn't him that made the air suddenly feel like it had been sucked from her lungs.
It was Peter.
Jamie went rigid, her breath catching in her throat.
No—no, that's not possible.
Peter Hale was dead.
She had seen his body burned to ash. Had felt the relief settle in her chest when she knew he was gone.
And yet, here he was.
Standing in front of her like some ghost pulled straight from her nightmares. The tension in the room was immediate, crackling in the air like a coming storm.
Scott and Isaac froze, their eyes widening in shock. Even Scott, who had faced down far worse, looked like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.
"What the hell—" Scott started, his voice low, wary.
Peter smiled. "Ah, reactions like this never get old." His voice was smooth, self-satisfied, his blue eyes sharp as they swept over the room.
Jamie flinched when his gaze landed on her. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he could smell the fear rolling off her, like he enjoyed it.
Her chest tightened.
She tore her eyes away from him, looking at Derek instead.
Say something, she silently pleaded. Explain this.
But Derek didn't look at her.
He had gone rigid when he saw her, something flickering in his expression—something strained. His eyes lingered on her for a fraction of a second, his jaw tightening. But then he looked away, his attention snapping back to Scott.
Jamie's stomach twisted.
Scott stepped forward, his voice sharp. "How the hell is he alive?"
Derek exhaled, shifting uncomfortably, but it was Peter who answered.
"Resurrection, my dear Scott," Peter said easily, moving deeper into the room. "A little messy, a little painful, but nothing I couldn't handle."
Jamie barely registered the rest of the conversation.
Her breathing was too shallow, her palms damp with sweat.
She knew that all four werewolves in the room could feel it—her tension, her fear. It was suffocating, pressing against the walls of the locker room like an invisible weight.
Peter tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was something interesting.
Derek shifted slightly, his body moving just a fraction, like he wanted to step in between them.
Jamie's hands clenched into fists.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe, forcing herself to keep her eyes on Derek, on Scott, on anything but Peter.
Because if she looked at him for too long, she might start to remember.
The darkness.
The blood.
The fear.
And she wasn't sure if she could handle that.
The conversation continued around her, voices drifting in and out like they were coming from underwater.
Scott was saying something about Jackson. Derek was responding, his voice low and clipped. Isaac threw in a comment. But none of it registered.
Because Jamie couldn't look away from him.
Peter's sharp, knowing gaze was locked onto her, amusement flickering at the edges of his expression, like he could taste her fear—like he liked it.
Jamie wanted to move, wanted to look away, but she couldn't.
Her heart was pounding against her ribs, her palms clammy. She felt like she was standing in the middle of a room filling with smoke—like if she breathed too deep, she'd choke.
Peter tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening.
Derek noticed.
Jamie saw the way his eyes flicked between them, the tension in his shoulders tightening. His expression darkened as he shot Peter a warning look, but he didn't say anything.
Jamie barely felt her legs trembling, but she knew they were.
Knees locked. Stay upright.
The conversation wrapped up.
Scott sighed and turned toward the door, running a hand through his hair as he left the locker room, Isaac close behind.
Derek followed, but hesitated for a split second before stepping out.
Peter didn't move.
Jamie's breath hitched.
She was alone with him now.
She felt frozen in place, every nerve in her body screaming at her to run, but she couldn't seem to make herself move.
Peter took a slow step closer, his eyes never leaving hers.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he mused, his voice smooth, light.
Jamie swallowed hard, but said nothing.
Peter hummed, stuffing his hands in his pockets, like he was just making polite conversation. "I have to say, I wasn't expecting this reaction. A little shocked? Sure. But this?" His lips curled at the edges. "You're terrified of me, aren't you?"
Jamie's fingers twitched at her sides. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stand her ground, but her throat was dry, her pulse hammering in her ears.
Peter took another step.
She flinched.
He smiled.
"You know, Derek never told me much about you," he said, tilting his head, studying her like she was something interesting. "But I always got the impression you were... stronger than this."
Jamie's fingers curled into fists.
Peter's smile widened, like he saw right through her, like he knew exactly what buttons to press.
"You are strong, aren't you?" he continued, voice lilting, teasing. "Smart. Fierce. Loyal." His eyes darkened slightly. "But you're scared of me."
Jamie gritted her teeth. "I'm not," she lied, her voice hoarse.
Peter chuckled, low and amused. "Oh, you are. And do you know why?"
Jamie didn't answer.
Peter stepped in close—too close—forcing her back until she hit the lockers with a dull thud.
She sucked in a sharp breath, her whole body going rigid.
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to something just above a whisper. "Because you remember what I did."
Jamie felt something ice-cold slither down her spine.
"You remember that night," Peter murmured, his voice like silk. "You remember the blood. The fear. The way my claws ripped through your shirt—through your flesh—without hesitation." His eyes drifted down to her side like he could see the scars though the fabric.
Jamie's stomach twisted violently.
His smirk never wavered.
"Tell me, Jamie..." His fingers ghosted along the locker beside her, his breath warm against her skin. "What scares you more? The fact that I did it?" His gaze dropped slightly, his voice darkening. "Or the fact that Derek still lets me stand beside him?"
Jamie's breath shuddered out of her.
She hated that he was right.
She hated that those were the exact thoughts clawing through her mind, the ones she couldn't shake.
Peter pulled back just slightly, his smirk still in place.
"Think about that," he murmured, then turned and strolled toward the door like he hadn't just carved open her worst fears and laid them bare.
Jamie let out a shaky breath, pressing a trembling hand to the locker behind her as the door clicked shut.
She was alone again.
But her fear still sat heavy in her chest.
The old Hale House was quiet, filled with the eerie stillness of a place long abandoned. Dust clung to every surface, the scent of decay and ash woven into the very walls. The air felt heavy, thick with something unspoken.
Jamie stood in the centre of it, arms crossed tightly over her chest as Scott and Isaac exchanged a look.
"We should check the hospital," Scott said. "If Jackson's evolving, his body might already be changing."
Isaac nodded, and Jamie felt a flicker of unease. They were leaving.
Scott hesitated, glancing at her. "Jamie, maybe you should—"
"I'm fine," she cut in quickly. She didn't need them fussing over her. Not now.
Scott's expression was sceptical, but he didn't argue. "We'll be back soon." He shot a look toward Peter before following Isaac out the door.
Jamie's stomach twisted.
Now it was just her, Derek, and Peter.
Peter stood off to the side, hands in his pockets, watching her with something too close to amusement. His presence felt suffocating, his gaze too sharp.
Derek exhaled heavily, like even being in her presence was infuriating to him. "I have to make a call."
Jamie's head snapped toward him. No. No, no, no.
She grabbed his arm before she could stop herself. "You're seriously leaving me alone with this psycho?"
Peter chuckled, the sound sending a chill down her spine. "I prefer the term 'charming sociopath.'"
Jamie ignored him, her grip on Derek's sleeve tightening. "Derek."
Derek sighed, expression unreadable as he looked down at her. "Go wait in the car then."
Jamie grit her teeth. "Not happening."
"Jamie." His voice was firm, edged with something close to frustration. "Wait here, or wait in the car."
She clenched her jaw, glancing at Peter, who was still watching her with that infuriating smirk.
"You're such an asshole," she muttered, shoving past Derek and storming out the door.
The night air was cold as she yanked open the car door and slid into the back seat.
She sat stiffly, arms crossed, hating the tension that coiled in her chest. Hating how cold Derek had been, how easily he brushed her off.
She stared at the cracked leather of the seat in front of her, exhaling sharply.
She hated this. All of this.
The drive to the Beacon Hills Warehouse District was suffocatingly silent.
Jamie sat in the back seat, arms crossed tightly over her chest, eyes fixed on the passing streetlights as they flickered through the car windows. The tension in the car was unbearable—Derek was unreadable, his grip on the steering wheel tight, his jaw clenched. Peter, on the other hand, seemed as relaxed as ever, his fingers drumming absently against his knee. The contrast between the two was enough to make Jamie's skin crawl.
She hated this. Hated the tension between her and Derek. Hated Peter's smug presence, the way he seemed amused by it all.
The warehouse district was quiet when they arrived, eerily so. Derek parked the car near the entrance, killing the engine in one smooth motion. He was out in an instant, already stalking toward the building where Scott and Isaac were waiting with Jackson's body.
Jamie went to follow, but before she could take a step, a hand shot out, wrapping around her wrist.
"Not yet, princess."
The words were a low, almost teasing murmur against her ear, and her entire body went rigid.
Jamie whirled around, trying to jerk her arm away, but Peter's grip was like iron. He pulled her back into the shadows beside the warehouse, just out of sight.
"In there is no place for you," Peter murmured, his tone dripping with mock concern.
Jamie glared at him, her pulse hammering. "Get your hands off me."
Peter chuckled but released her, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Relax, I'm just looking out for you." He tilted his head slightly, studying her with that same infuriating smirk. "You don't want to be in the middle of that mess."
Jamie clenched her fists, her gaze flickering toward the entrance of the warehouse. Through the gap in the rusted metal door, she could see Chris Argent standing there, his face unreadable as he looked down at the black body bag laid out on the ground.
Jamie's breath caught.
Jackson.
Derek, Scott, and Isaac stood nearby as the body bag was unzipped, revealing Jackson's unmoving form. He was deathly pale, his features slack, his body still. Jamie felt something twist painfully in her chest, but before she could move, Peter's hand found her wrist again, stilling her.
"Just watch," he murmured, his voice eerily patient.
Jamie wanted to shove him away, to storm into that warehouse and do something, but she stayed frozen, pulse racing as she watched.
Then, suddenly—
Jackson moved.
Jamie barely had time to process it before his eyes snapped open, glowing that eerie, piercing blue. His body lurched up violently, claws slashing through the air—
Straight into Derek's side.
Jamie gasped. "Derek—"
She instinctively tried to rush forward, but Peter's grip tightened, yanking her back.
"Ah, ah," he scolded, voice smooth, unbothered. "Let's not be reckless."
Jamie's heart slammed against her ribs as she watched Derek stumble back, blood seeping through his shirt. Scott and Isaac moved instantly, but Jackson was already up, his movements sharp, unnatural.
The warehouse exploded into chaos.
Gerard stepped forward from the shadows, his expression twisted in triumph. "Perfect," he murmured.
Jamie felt sick.
She knew—knew—this was coming, but watching it unfold was something else entirely. She pressed a hand to her stomach, struggling to breathe, struggling to think.
But Peter was waiting.
He stood beside her, completely still, his gaze sharp and calculating as he watched the scene play out like a spectator at a play.
Jamie gritted her teeth, voice tight. "You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?"
Peter smirked. "Of course."
She turned on him, fury burning through the fear. "And you just let it?"
Peter tsked, tilting his head. "Jamie, Jamie, Jamie… some things need to happen." He nodded toward the warehouse. "We're witnessing a masterpiece unfold. And you don't ruin a masterpiece before the final stroke of the brush."
Jamie wanted to scream at him, but her voice caught in her throat.
Because inside that warehouse, the final stroke was about to be painted in blood.
Jamie was shaking.
Not from the cold—she barely felt that. It was the helplessness, the way she was forced to stand on the sidelines while everything spiralled out of control inside the warehouse.
Peter's grip on her wrist was gone now, but his presence still lingered, suffocating and smug. He stood beside her like they were watching some kind of performance, his posture relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat as he observed the chaos unfolding in front of them.
Jamie clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms.
Inside, Derek was bleeding.
Scott and Isaac were fighting to stop Jackson—fighting Gerard.
And she was out here, waiting. For what?
She turned on Peter, her voice shaking. "Are you just going to stand here and do nothing?"
Peter's eyes flicked lazily toward her, unbothered. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
Jamie's jaw clenched. "People are dying in there."
Peter exhaled, shaking his head. "No one important."
She almost hit him. The only thing stopping her was the fact that she knew he'd enjoy it.
Instead, she turned back toward the warehouse, watching through the cracked opening in the rusted metal door.
Gerard was standing tall, triumphant, while Jackson—no, the Kanima—stood before him, claws slick with Derek's blood.
Scott and Isaac were moving, circling, trying to figure out a way to stop him.
Chris Argent stood tensely off to the side, rifle in hand, but he hadn't moved.
Jamie's breath came fast, her hands shaking as she pressed herself further into the shadows.
"What—" Her voice wavered. "What are they waiting for?"
Peter hummed, tilting his head. "For the real game to begin."
Jamie turned toward him sharply. "Are you just standing out here because you're too afraid to get your hands dirty?" she challenged with more confidence than she felt.
"Oh, you know I'm not afraid of that," he said menacingly. "Besides, you and I have something important to discuss."
Jamie tried to hold her ground, but her legs were shaking. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to get out before it was too late. But Peter was too close to her now, and running wouldn't change anything.
Not when his voice was already slithering into her head, unearthing memories she had buried deep.
"Do you ever think about that night?" Peter asked.
Jamie's breath hitched.
That night.
She knew exactly what he meant.
The alley. The blood. The sheer, suffocating terror.
The moment her entire life shattered.
She felt it again—the way his claws tore through her skin, the burning agony that had consumed her body, the helplessness that had drowned her.
Jamie clenched her jaw, forcing herself to breathe. "Why are you bringing this up?" she asked, her voice tight.
Peter's smirk widened, but his eyes were watching her like he was enjoying this. The fear. The tension. The way her hands curled into fists to keep from shaking.
"I wonder," he murmured. "Did you ever ask yourself why? Why I chose you?"
Jamie flinched. She had. So many times.
She had replayed that night over and over in her head, dissecting it, searching for an answer that never came. Why her? She hadn't known anything about werewolves back then. She hadn't been a threat. So why had he attacked?
Peter took another step forward, his voice almost wistful.
"I barely knew what I was doing," he admitted. "I was running on instincts, mostly. But even in that state—half-mad, driven by hunger and rage—I could still sense something about you."
Jamie's stomach dropped.
Peter smiled, like he was reliving the moment. Like he was proud of it.
"There was something... different about you," he continued. "Something raw. Something waiting to be shaped."
Jamie shook her head, taking a step back, but Peter only followed.
"I wasn't just attacking you, Jamie," he said softly. "I was marking you."
A chill ran through her entire body.
Marking.
Her breath hitched as something inside her shattered all over again.
Peter leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was telling her a secret. "You weren't ready that night," he murmured. "You were just... a girl. But I could feel it—what you could become." He sighed. "Too bad I wasn't an Alpha yet. I would have made you something great."
Jamie couldn't move. Couldn't think.
He regretted not turning her.
She had spent months trying to rebuild herself after what he had done to her. After he had made her weak. Made her vulnerable. Made her fall apart. And now he was saying—what? That it wasn't just some random attack? That he had wanted something more from her?
Her breathing grew unsteady.
Peter studied her reaction, his lips curving into something pleased, something dangerous. "I left my mark anyway," he mused. "And look at you now. You followed the path, didn't you?" He grinned. "Maybe you were always meant for this."
Jamie's vision swam. She was going to be sick.
This wasn't happening. This wasn't real.
Flashes of that night burned in her mind—blood, pain, darkness—his claws ripping into her, his eyes glowing, the sound of her own screams.
She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn't move.
She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but her voice was gone.
Peter tilted his head. "You should thank me," he murmured. "After all, I set you on this path, didn't I?"
Jamie let out a shaky breath, her hands trembling at her sides. She hated him.
But before she could say anything, the sound of footsteps echoed inside the warehouse.
Allison.
She stepped into the light, bow in hand, her expression unreadable as she took her place beside Gerard.
Jamie's stomach twisted.
She knew Allison was angry. She knew she was grieving. That she had lost herself in her mother's death, in her grandfather's influence—but this…
This wasn't her.
"Allison," Scott said, his voice careful.
She didn't respond.
Jamie could barely breathe.
Peter chuckled beside her. "Ah, the young Argent heiress, embracing her birthright."
Jamie shot him a glare. "Shut up."
He smirked but didn't say anything else.
Inside, Scott took a slow step forward. "You don't have to do this."
Gerard cut in before she could answer. "She wants to." His voice was smooth, confident. "Don't you, Allison?"
Allison lifted her chin slightly. Her hands didn't shake as she notched an arrow.
Scott's face fell.
Jamie felt sick.
Then—movement.
Scott barely had time to react before Allison lost her arrow.
It flew through the air—
Straight at him.
Jamie gasped, stepping forward instinctively, but Peter grabbed her arm, holding her back.
"Not yet, princess," he murmured.
Jamie's head snapped toward him, eyes blazing. "Let go of me."
Peter just smirked. "You'll want to see how this plays out."
And Jamie didn't—she didn't—but her body wouldn't move, her legs frozen to the ground as the nightmare unfolded in front of her.
The arrow was inches away from Scott's chest when—
He caught it.
Jamie's breath hitched, her hands gripping her jacket as she watched Scott's fingers close around the shaft of the arrow, stopping it just before it could pierce him.
The entire warehouse went still.
Allison's eyes widened slightly, just for a second, before she forced her expression back into something cold and unreadable.
Jamie could see it—the flicker of hesitation, the fracture in her resolve.
But Gerard was already stepping forward, resting a hand on Allison's shoulder. "Again."
Scott's jaw clenched.
Jamie felt Peter's gaze on her, as if he could feel her heartbeat hammering through her chest.
"Oh, this is getting good," he murmured.
Jamie ignored him, eyes locked on Scott as he slowly lowered the arrow, his expression calm—too calm.
Then, his voice rang out, steady and clear.
"I'm not going to fight you, Allison."
Something in Allison's face cracked.
Jamie saw it—the way her fingers trembled slightly against the bowstring.
Then Jackson moved.
With terrifying speed, the Kanima lunged toward Isaac.
Isaac barely had time to react before Jackson's claws ripped across his chest, sending him flying backward.
Jamie gasped.
Isaac hit the ground with a painful thud, coughing as he tried to push himself up.
Scott was moving in an instant, stepping between them. "Stop!"
But Jackson wasn't listening.
He was fully under Gerard's control.
Jamie felt a rush of panic—Isaac was injured, Scott was outnumbered, and Derek was still bleeding on the ground.
And Peter—
She turned toward him sharply. "If you're just going to stand here, then why the hell are you even here?"
Peter let out a slow sigh, his expression almost bored. "Patience, princess."
Jamie clenched her fists. Screw patience.
Jamie barely registered what was happening anymore—her body was moving on instinct, her pulse a frantic drum in her ears.
She twisted out of Peter's grip, lunging toward the warehouse doors, but before she could take a step, he was there, shoving her back so hard she slammed into the brick wall behind them.
Jamie gasped, pain jolting up her spine, but Peter didn't let her go. His hands pinned her in place, one gripping her arm, the other pressed flat against the wall beside her head, caging her in.
"Are you insane?" he hissed, eyes flashing. "Running in there unarmed? You may as well gift wrap yourself for Gerard and Jackson."
Jamie struggled, pushing at his chest, but he didn't budge.
"Get off me."
Peter sighed, tilting his head, his expression frustratingly calm. "I get it. You want to play the hero. Very noble of you." His grip on her tightened just slightly. "But you're not going to accomplish anything except getting yourself killed."
Jamie glared up at him, her breath coming fast. "I can help—"
"No, you can't," Peter cut her off, voice sharp. "And you know that."
Jamie opened her mouth to argue, but something about the way he looked at her—the almost pitying glint in his eyes—made her falter.
Peter smiled like he could sense it. "There it is." He dropped his voice to something softer, something almost gentle, as he leaned in slightly. "You want to believe you matter in this fight. But deep down, you're not so sure, are you?"
Jamie's stomach twisted.
"Look at them in there," Peter murmured, his voice almost coaxing. "Scott. Derek. Isaac. They all have their roles to play, their importance in this little war. But you?" His grip loosened slightly, as if he was giving her space to think. "Where do you fit in, Jamie?"
Jamie's chest felt tight, something dark curling in the back of her mind.
Peter's eyes flickered with something unreadable. "I know what it's like," he continued, his voice like silk. "To be on the outside. To want to matter. To need to prove something."
Jamie clenched her jaw.
"But running in there now?" He exhaled dramatically. "It won't make you important. It'll just make you dead."
Jamie swallowed hard.
Peter watched her, his expression unreadable but entirely calculating, like he was letting her thoughts do all the work for him. Letting her mind fill in the blanks he so carefully laid out.
She hated him for it.
But before she could say anything, the sharp screech of tires tore through the night air.
Jamie's head snapped up just in time to see the headlights of Stiles' jeep cutting through the darkness, barrelling toward the warehouse.
Her pulse jumped.
Peter sighed. "Oh, fantastic. Another human throwing themselves into the slaughter."
Jamie used his moment of distraction to rip free of his grasp, shoving him back as she sprinted toward the warehouse doors.
She didn't look back.
As soon as she ran inside, her steps faltered.
Right there, in the middle of the chaos, Lydia stood with Jackson, her small hands cradling his bloodied face.
And Jackson—Jackson was soft in her arms. His body slack, his expression almost human again as he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Jamie stopped in her tracks.
A hand grabbed her arm, and she turned to see Stiles beside her. He wasn't looking at her, his eyes were locked on the scene in front of them, but his grip was steady, keeping her from moving forward.
Jamie wasn't sure if it was to hold her back—or to ground her.
She barely breathed as she watched Jackson and Lydia, her heart pounding in her chest.
She had known—for a long time now—that whatever she had with Jackson had ended a long time ago.
But seeing this—seeing the way he melted in Lydia's arms, the way he looked at her like she was his salvation—made Jamie feel like something inside her had cracked open.
Her throat felt tight.
She had never had that with him.
She had never had that with anyone.
Jamie wrenched her gaze away, blinking rapidly as she stared at the floor, forcing herself to breathe past the tightness in her chest.
Stiles' hand shifted slightly, and Jamie startled when she realized he was now holding her hand.
She looked up at him, but he still wasn't looking at her, just watching Jackson and Lydia with something sad in his eyes.
He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.
Then—movement.
Before anyone could react, Derek and Peter lunged.
Jackson barely had time to register what was happening before both werewolves plunged their claws into him from both sides.
Jamie's breath caught in her throat.
Jackson gasped, his back arching, his mouth falling open in a silent scream—
And then—
His body changed.
The Kanima scales melted away, his claws retracted, his glowing yellow eyes flickering—
Until he was human again.
Or rather—
Werewolf.
Jamie watched, heart pounding, as Jackson slumped forward, into Lydia's arms.
It was over.
The Kanima was gone.
For a long moment, everything was still.
Then Jackson's eyes blinked open—now glowing a soft, blue—and he exhaled a shaky breath.
Jamie let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
But despite everything—the victory, the relief, the knowledge that Jackson had survived—Jamie still couldn't shake the feeling of something hollow settling in her chest.
AN: Hope you liked that chapter - let me know what you thought x
Up next: the chaos of the Kanima is over, but something more sinister is lurking around the corner...