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Even sitting next to her, ramrod straight in his very own seat, Peter Hale manages to encroach on her space. He's too smooth, too sleek to loom, but he still seems to suck all the air away from her. Just like Scott, just like Derek, he puts off heat, and it washes over her arms in waves.
Stiles can't help flicking glances over at him, under the pretense of checking her mirrors. She doesn't really expect him to wolf out and kill her while she's driving, but she gets the feeling that writing off the possibility will only make it more likely.
"Left here. Into the parking garage, level three," he says, in a voice that was clearly not made for shouting. Stiles can barely hear him over the engine's growl; she hopes the noise hurts his sensitive werewolf ears.
She makes the left, gets into the parking garage, and then goes to level three, then downshifts until the car is in neutral when Peter points at a dark gray sedan. She pulls up the emergency brake and half-stumbles out of the Jeep.
Peter is around the Jeep quickly, too quickly for her to gain enough distance. He grabs her by the necklace she's wearing — chunky and gold, a perfect counterpoint to the sleek line of her vest and slacks — and drags her toward the sedan.
"Whose car is this?"
Peter pulls keys from his pocket, releases her necklace, and steps toward the trunk. He answers as he unlocks it. "It belonged to my nurse."
"What happened to creepy Renfield nur—oh my god." The smell hits first, but Peter doesn't seem to notice it. Stiles stares at Creepy Nurse Renfield's glassy eyes while Peter retrieves a laptop case, keeps staring until he slams the trunk shut.
He pulls a mifi out of the bag first, tosses it to her. She catches it and stares, then watches as he pulls the laptop out. He unfolds it and sets it atop the car.
"A Mac guy," Stiles drawls, forcing her voice to stay even. "Does that go for all werewolves, or just a personal thing?"
Peter just looks at her, then grabs her by the necklace and reels her in. He pushes her flush against the sedan, then blocks her in by pressing his hips against her.
She tries to keep her voice from trembling as she asks, "What happens after you find Derek?"
Peter leans in, his fingers still buried in the gap between chunky choker collar and her actual throat, and rasps right into her ear: "Don't think, Stiles. Type."
She types, heading to the site Scott chose to track his phone. Why he couldn't have done something secure, like only use the inbuilt Android tracking feature, Stiles doesn't know. She stops at the login page. It's bare save for two text boxes — Peter will see it's a dead end.
"You're gonna kill people, aren't you? I, if I do this, you have to promise to leave Scotty out of it."
"Wolves hunt in packs, Stiles," he says, and his lips actually graze the outer shell of her ear, making her shiver, "because their preferred prey is too big, too fast to bring down alone. I need Derek and Scott. I need both of them. The caribou must die, and the meat will be shared."
Never mind that whoever the hell Peter's next target is does not actually have antlers or live in freaking Alaska, she does not like this shared meat idea.
She also doesn't like that when Peter lets go of her neck, he lets his hands drop to her waist, begins twisting his fingers in the fabric of her burgundy tuxedo vest and the white camisole beneath it.
"Scott won't help you. Derek — Derek won't either."
"Oh, Scott will. I might spare Allison if he does. And you'll help me find him," Peter's breath is hot against the back of her neck, "because I might spare Scott. And my nephew will help me, not only because family comes first, but because his cooperation might spare you."
The hands in her shirt clench and jerk, and suddenly the camisole comes loose from her slacks.
"Wh-what?"
"Your flirtation with that luscious little redhead — your interest in her — will be such a disappointment to Derek. He might even hate it more than your attachment to dear Scott McCall. Your best friend, whom you know so well you even have his username and password."
Stiles swallows. "I don't have them."
Peter leans into her just a little more, pressing her hard into the sedan, and buries his nose right where her throat meets her shoulder. He takes in a deep breath and says, "I think you do. Care to try lying to me again?"
"You're not going to kill me. Not yet."
"No," he agrees, and the utter alien serenity in his voice makes her shudder even more than where he's got his nose. "I won't. Not yet."
So Stiles types. Allison and Allison. Never let it be said Scott doesn't have a one-track mind.
"Still want him in your pack?" She asks, when Peter voices his disbelief.
Peter makes a disgruntled noise, before saying, "Under the house. Clever, clever little creatures. Keys, Stiles?"
"Huh?" Very intelligent, she knows, but she's still trying to figure out why the hell the Argents would keep Derek Hale captive under his own home. Because it's isolated? Is it secure? Are they just that fucking evil?
"Give me your keys."
She shakes her head. "Why do you need them? You've got a car."
Peter reaches into the pocket of her slacks — his fingers are warm against her thigh, even through the fabric — and pulls out her keys. He dangles them in front of her face, then crushes them.
"One last thing," he says. "I'm not some abomination, Stiles. I'm not going to take without giving a little, too."
"You turn into a giant monster with red eyes and fangs, and because you want some kind of trade, I'm supposed to think you're not evil?" How she manages to push out the words without her voice trembling, she doesn't know. Somewhere in the privacy of her own head, she's shaking like a leaf in a strong wind, and probably screaming, too.
"I like you, Stiles." He dips his head again, drops her ruined keys on the ground. She hears them chime as they fall, hears them hit the concrete. And then he's saying, into the junction of her throat and shoulder, "Since you've helped me, I'm going to give you something in return. Do you want the bite?"
"Do I what?"
He inhales through his nose, long and loud and deep. He's silent a moment, as if savoring the smell of her skin. Then he says, "Do you want the bite, Stiles? If it doesn't kill you — and it could — you'll become like us."
"Why?" She whispers.
"That first night in the woods, it could've easily been you. I need a new pack, and you spend so much of your life scared. You'd never have to be afraid again." Slowly, carefully, he begins to slide her camisole and vest up. "And Derek might actually be satisfied to have you as a fellow beta. He and Scott are never going to get along, but women in a pack can smooth tempers."
"Not worsen them?" She squeaks, because she is seeing nine different kinds of down sides and she really, really wants to be able to pull her shirt the hell back down without him ripping her throat out.
"Yes or no, Stiles," Peter says, and his breath is warm against her side.
Her entire body jerks in revulsion. "I don't wanna be like you."
He chuckles against her. "Do you know what I heard just then? Your heart beating slightly faster over the words I don't want." He presses his mouth to her skin, and she bites back a burbling scream as the mouth closes, teeth hard against her but not piercing, everything hot and wet and he starts to suck.
"You may believe that you're telling me the truth," Peter says, very calmly, as he straightens, "but you're lying to yourself. Goodbye, Stiles."
He's perfectly calm as he packs away the laptop and gets into the driver's side of the sedan. Stiles skitters away, takes shelter by the Jeep, and presses her fingertips to the slick purple mark he left on her side.