Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started like any normal afternoon.

Stiles and Isabelle were walking the trail behind the Preserve, not far from their favorite clearing. Stiles had insisted on taking the long way around because he "needed to stretch his legs", really, he just wanted time alone with his sister, free from Hale glares and pack training schedules.

"Did you know Peter tried to get Derek to download Duolingo?" Stiles asked, sipping from a thermos he’d packed with coffee. “He claimed Spanish would ‘help Derek emote better’ because it's a romance language.”

Isabelle snorted, eyes flicking toward her brother, one brow arched. “Is that Peter’s subtle way of saying Derek grunts too much?”

“I think Peter wants Derek to roleplay as a telenovela villain so he doesn’t have to do all the dramatic monologues alone.”

Isabelle giggled, pushing her long blonde hair off her face as they walked. “If Peter tries to seduce me in a cape again, I’m burning his wardrobe.”

It was the last light moment they’d share for days.

They didn’t hear them coming.

Isabelle’s nose twitched half a second before scents she didn’t recognize, too many, then pain exploded behind her eyes. A sharp sting at her neck, then blackness bleeding into the edges of her vision. Wolf’s bane. Strong. Weaponized.

Stiles yelled her name, too late.

She fell to her knees, world spinning violently, and saw Stiles swinging the thermos like a club. One of the attackers, dressed in black, masked, scent-muddled took a hit to the temple and stumbled back, swearing.

Then Stiles was tackled.

Isabelle tried to lunge, but her muscles seized. Something cold locked around her wrists. Silver. She screamed as her skin hissed and smoked.

“Izzy!” Stiles shouted, his voice breaking into a crack of panic. He was being dragged, kicking, one eye already starting to swell from a punch.

Isabelle fought, teeth bared, until the second dart hit her thigh.

She woke up in chains.

Cool cement pressed against her cheek. Her limbs felt like lead, and her wrists pulsed in agonizing rhythm with the silver cuffs biting into her skin. The wolf’s bane coursed through her, making her lungs ache and her head pound.

She forced her eyes open.

A dimly lit cell. Concrete walls. No windows. The air was stale and reeked of blood, mildew, and damp.

Stiles sat slouched against the wall opposite her, lip split, one eye swollen. His hands were bound behind his back with zipties. Blood crusted his temple. But his expression was...dry. Irritated.

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. You missed the continental breakfast. It was mostly threats and someone called me a ‘puny little shit stain,’ which, frankly, I’m taking as a compliment.”

Isabelle groaned, trying to sit up. “Where...?”

“Don’t know. Somewhere underground. I counted thirteen steps down from the hallway outside, assuming the boot to the head didn’t mess up my math.” He tried to shift but winced. “You okay?”

“Silver,” she rasped, shaking the cuffs. “Wolf’s bane. Can’t shift. Burns like a bitch.”

“Yeah, I gathered that from the sizzling bacon smell you’ve got going.”

Despite herself, Isabelle gave a weak laugh and then winced as her chest pulled tight.

Stiles immediately frowned. “You’re really not okay.”

“I’ll live,” she whispered, though her skin felt like fire. “Peter’s going to murder them. Slowly.”

“Derek’s gonna break their legs, then re-break them just to make a point,” Stiles agreed, eyes glinting. “I give it forty-eight hours, max.”

It wasn’t long before one of their captors visited.

He wore a half-mask, black and red and stood with the arrogance of someone who believed in their own invincibility. Two others flanked him, guns holstered but in easy reach.

“Well,” the masked one said, voice smooth, almost amused. “This is the legendary Stilinski duo. One alpha bitch in silver, one smart-mouthed human. I expected more.”

Isabelle didn’t move. Her posture was relaxed, almost casual until you looked at her eyes.

“Enjoy your power trip while you can,” she said coldly. “It won’t last.”

The man chuckled. “Oh, but it already has. You see... no one is going to find you. Not in time.”

Stiles smirked. “Oh my god, did you rehearse that line in front of a mirror? Be honest. You practiced that, didn’t you?”

The man’s smile twisted.

“I mean, I’d give it a seven out of ten,” Stiles continued. “Points for dramatic delivery, but honestly? Bit cliché. You wanna spice it up, maybe throw in a Shakespeare quote. Or some Biblical imagery. You guys love that whole ‘wrath of God’ shtick.”

The man backhanded him.

Stiles grunted, head snapping sideways.

Isabelle’s growl filled the room, a raw, feral sound but the silver kept her from lunging.

The man crouched in front of her. “You’ll watch him die first,” he promised, “and then we’ll see how mouthy you are.”

Isabelle met his eyes with cool hatred. “You should’ve killed us on the trail.”

Two Hours Later — Hale House

Peter Hale was pacing.

Not in his usual controlled, catlike way but with the sharp energy of a predator sensing the den was under attack.

“They were supposed to check in an hour ago,” Derek said tightly, staring at the screen on his phone. Stiles’ location had blinked out completely. Isabelle’s was flickering like a strobe light. Interference, Peter guessed. Maybe deliberate.

“Stiles probably just let his phone die,” Lydia said, trying to sound calm.

But Peter wasn’t buying it.

“No,” he murmured. “No, something’s wrong.”

He grabbed his coat.

“Where are you going?” Scott asked.

Peter didn’t answer. He just gave Derek a look, and Derek, bless his mated instincts, stood immediately, already pulling on his jacket.

Peter’s voice was a growl. “They’re not late. They’re gone.”

Back in the Cell

Isabelle was trembling. Not from fear but from fever.

Wolf’s bane was cruel that way. It didn’t just suppress, it poisoned. Her vision swam, her tongue felt like sandpaper, and her bones ached with a deep, gnawing throb.

Stiles pressed his shoulder against hers. “Hey,” he murmured, “you stay with me, okay?”

She blinked at him. “You’re bleeding.”

He shrugged. “So are you. We’re a real mess, huh?”

“Peter’s gonna lose his mind.”

Stiles gave a weak laugh. “Oh yeah. Derek too. He’s probably already punched a tree in half.”

“Do you think...?” she hesitated. “Do you think they’ll find us?”

Stiles hesitated just a little too long. Then forced a grin. “Please. Peter’s probably already skinned someone for info. Derek’s definitely growling at inanimate objects.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Someone is gonna make them pay,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just gotta stay alive long enough to witness it.”

Later That Night — The Preserve

Peter crouched beside a torn branch and inhaled.

There, faint, but familiar. Blood. And not just anyone’s.

“Isabelle,” he hissed, hands clenching into fists. “She bled here.”

Derek swore. “There’s wolf’s bane residue on the dart.” He held it up with a grim expression. “She was taken down. Probably fast.”

“Where’s Stiles?”

Peter didn’t answer right away. Then he looked up, eyes glowing blue.

“We find them,” he said, voice razor sharp. “And we paint the ground with their captors’ blood.”

Derek nodded. “Agreed.”

The woods were quiet.

But that wouldn’t last.

Chapter Text

The moon hung low over the Preserve, casting long shadows that twitched with every breath of wind.

Derek moved like a ghost, silent, purposeful, his nose flaring as he tracked the fading scent trail. Peter, by contrast, prowled just behind him with a presence that burned through the dark like wildfire. His rage was a living thing. Every step he took was tight with restraint, every muscle screaming to run, to tear, to kill, to find her.

They didn’t speak much. There was nothing to say that hadn't already been understood in the moment they realized their mates were gone.

Peter crouched by a patch of disturbed earth and sniffed. “Blood,” he murmured. “Not enough to kill. She was wounded. Dragged.” His voice dropped an octave. “They used wolf’s bane. That’s why the scent flickers.”

Derek said nothing, jaw clenched tight. But Peter saw it, the tremor in his hands, the fire in his eyes. Stiles was his and someone had taken him.

Peter stood slowly. “They’re trying to mask the trail.”

“They left too many mistakes,” Derek growled.

Peter’s eyes glinted. “And we’ll make them pay for every one.”

The trail broke in two about a mile deeper into the Preserve.

Literally.

One path carried Isabelle’s and Stiles’ scent, laced with adrenaline and fear. The other, barely perceptible reeked of smoke, burned rubber, and something chemical.

“They split it,” Peter murmured. “They made it look like they doubled back and burned the bodies.”

Derek narrowed his eyes. “We follow the real one.”

But they didn't get far.

Because twenty yards ahead, lying in a ditch, was something.

Peter tensed first. Derek rushed forward—

And stopped. A body.

It was clothed in Stiles’ hoodie. Same color. Same smell. Drenched in blood. The limbs were arranged like a corpse thrown away in haste, but it was wrong. Too short. Wrong build.

Derek stepped forward.

Peter’s hand flew out, stopping him. “Trap.”

They circled. Peter grabbed a branch and poked at the body then flipped it.

A mannequin.

Soaked in blood. Pig’s blood. Human hair glued to the head. Stiles’ actual hoodie, torn and spattered. One of Isabelle’s earrings pinned to its sleeve.

Derek swayed for a second, barely holding back a roar.

Peter stepped back, fists shaking.

“They’re trying to rattle us,” Peter muttered, voice barely above a growl. “They want to buy time. Send us on a false trail.”

Derek didn’t move for a moment.

Then he snapped.

He punched the tree beside him, bark splintering off in chunks. His roar echoed through the Preserve. “Stiles!”

Peter didn’t flinch.

Instead, he turned, cold and precise now, and sniffed the wind.

“Someone’s nearby,” he murmured. “Watching.”

They found him ten minutes later.

A man in his early thirties, reeking of sweat and fear, crouched in the brush with a rifle. He didn’t fire in time.

Peter blurred forward and slammed the man into a tree. The gun clattered uselessly to the dirt. The hunter, because that’s what he was, no question, sputtered and tried to fight, but Peter was in no mood for mercy.

“Where are they?” he hissed, claws pressed against the man’s neck.

“I—I don’t—”

Peter shoved his claws into the hunter’s side and ripped upwards. The man screamed, blood spilling between Peter’s fingers.

“Wrong fucking answer.”

Peter didn’t question again. He didn’t need answers anymore.

Instead, he twisted the man’s body, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him down spine-first onto a tree root. With one sickening crunch, bone shattered. Peter crouched over him, breathing heavily, eyes wild.

Then he grinned.

“Tell me, do you know what the spinal cord looks like when it’s still pulsing?”

The man’s eyes widened in horror.

Peter’s claws sank into the base of the neck and, with sickening efficiency, ripped the spine out from his back. Blood sprayed. The man gargled something and went still.

Peter stood, holding the slick length of bone and tendon.

He looked at Derek. “One down.”

Derek didn’t blink. “Let’s find the others.”

Meanwhile, In the Cell

Stiles was starting to fade.

Not completely. But the hunger gnawed. The thirst was worse. His mouth felt dry as cotton. His vision blurred whenever he shifted himself too much.

Isabelle wasn’t doing much better.

Her skin was pale and waxy, a sheen of sweat glistening over her face. The silver cuffs were seared into her flesh, skin blackened and blistered. She barely had the energy to growl anymore.

But they were still them.

“Remind me,” Stiles rasped, “to write Dad an apology note for every time I said the Hales were being overprotective.”

Isabelle coughed out a laugh. “I used to think it was annoying. Now I’m counting on it.”

Stiles looked over at her. “How bad?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly, “I’m burning from the inside out. I can’t shift it out. Can’t heal. Feels like I’ve been dipped in acid.”

“Peter’s gonna eviscerate them.”

She smiled faintly. “Derek too. Especially if he finds out they hit you.”

“Which they did,” Stiles said casually, trying to keep the tone light. “Twice. Once for being a smart-ass. Once for quoting Hamilton. Which, frankly, is cultural treason.”

She let her head rest on his shoulder again.

“They’re coming,” she whispered. “They have to be.”

Stiles nodded, but his fingers twitched in restrained panic.

Because it had been... what, a day and a half? Two?

Too long.

They weren’t healing. They were getting weaker. And Isabelle, his strong, feral, dominant sister was shaking.

Back in the Woods

Peter crouched over a pile of ash.

“Another false camp. They’re buying time.”

Derek was pacing now, hands twitching with barely repressed fury.

Peter stood slowly. “This isn’t random. These aren’t amateur mercs or bored hunters.”

“No,” Derek agreed. “They’re coordinated. They know how to suppress a werewolf. How to hide their scent. How to manipulate our instincts.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Traffickers,” he murmured. “The black market ones. Rogues. Maybe ex-hunters. Take supernatural creatures and sell them to the highest bidder. Fight rings. Experiments. Or just trophies.”

Derek’s eyes flared red.

“Then we don’t ask questions,” he said. “We just start killing.”

Peter smirked sadistically. “I thought you’d never say it.”

They found another man by nightfall. This one tried to run. Peter let him. Then he chased.

The man made it thirty yards before Peter caught him by the ankle and ripped him off the ground. He slammed the man into the dirt, climbed on top of him, and began carving symbols into his chest with a single claw.

“What—what are you—” the man wheezed.

Peter didn’t answer.

He sliced through muscle and bone with the same slow, meticulous control he might use to write calligraphy. It wasn’t efficient. It was personal.

When he was done, the man was barely alive, just long enough for Peter to whisper, “Where’s my wife?”

The man sobbed, “Underground. Bunker. Northeast—old water treatment plant—please—”

Peter slit his throat.

Then he looked at Derek, covered in blood, eyes burning like twin suns.

“They’re northeast,” he said. “Let’s burn the world to get there.”

In the Cell, Later

Isabelle had passed out.

Stiles wasn’t sure when. He only noticed when her head slipped off his shoulder and hit the wall with a dull thunk.

“Izzy?” he whispered, trying to lean toward her. His zip-tied wrists dug into his back.

She didn’t respond.

His throat clenched.

“Izzy. Come on. Not fair if you get to sleep through this.”

Still nothing. He heard footsteps. The door creaked open.

The same masked man as before stepped in, two goons behind him.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “how are our guests today?”

“One star,” Stiles rasped. “Would not recommend.”

The man looked at Isabelle, then turned to Stiles. “She’s fading.”

“She’s stubborn,” Stiles corrected. “Also smarter than you.”

The man walked forward and crouched down. “Still mouthing off? Impressive.”

“You should be worried. I’m the normal one.”

The man chuckled. “You’re just a human.”

Stiles smirked. “And Peter Hale is a creature of habit. You took his wife. You’re already dead.”

The man stood and backhanded him again.

This time Stiles didn’t recover as fast. He slumped over, blinking, cheek swelling.

Chapter Text

Time passed like molasses in a nightmare. Slow, sticky, and impossible to measure.

Isabelle had stopped sweating hours ago. Now her skin was clammy and cold, mottled with streaks of silver-burns that refused to heal. The cuffs had seared grooves into her wrists, raw and bleeding. Her muscles trembled even when she wasn’t moving, and her breath rasped in her chest like sandpaper dragged through broken glass.

Stiles wasn’t doing much better.

He was bruised from hip to shoulder. There was a purplish imprint of a boot across his ribs where one of the guards had kicked him for trying to trip him on the way back from their once-a-day bathroom visit. Stiles had made a joke about the guy’s breath and woken up spitting blood.

He was almost sure one rib was cracked. Maybe broken.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was how quiet Isabelle had gotten.

She wasn’t sleeping. She wasn’t healing. She was suffering. And there was nothing he could do except keep talking. Keep joking. Keep her mind from slipping under completely.

He leaned against her now, trying to keep them both upright. She was a furnace, trembling and unresponsive.

“Hey,” he whispered hoarsely. “You still in there?”

Her lips twitched faintly. Barely.

“Good. Because I am not dragging your ass out of here solo. No offense, but you're heavy and have a hell of a lot of pride.”

A rasp of breath that almost passed for a laugh.

Stiles grinned faintly. “There’s my twin.”

They didn’t know what day it was anymore.

The lights stayed on all the time. Sometimes there were footsteps above. Sometimes screaming.

Once, Isabelle thought she heard Peter’s name. She’d tried to stand, tried to scream but the silver just laughed at her with every nerve ending.

Her world spun, flickered, blurred.

And through it all—Stiles.

Sarcastic, irritating, stupid, wonderful Stiles. Her twin.

He didn’t let her fade. Not even when his own hands started to shake. Not even when his voice cracked from thirst.

He just kept going.

It was on day five—maybe six—when the man in the red-and-black mask returned.

He looked smug.

They looked like ghosts.

“Still alive,” he said. “Impressive. I admit, I underestimated your tolerance for pain.”

Stiles lifted his head, just barely. “Yeah well, I underestimate your fashion sense, but here we are.”

The man grinned. “Still mouthing off. You should’ve learned by now that earns you pain.”

“I collect pain like you collect daddy issues,” Stiles croaked.

The guard behind the man moved forward.

Stiles kept his gaze fixed on the leader. “Go on. Hit me. See what happens.”

The guard struck. A punch to the face. Then another. Stiles slumped forward, blood running from his nose.

“STILES!”

Isabelle jerked forward so violently that her silver cuffs flared with smoke. She screamed, a raw, animal sound, fangs dropping from instinct. But she couldn’t move far. Couldn’t even stand.

The leader crouched beside her.

“You can’t save him,” he whispered.

Isabelle raised her chin, blood in her teeth. “My husband will find us. And when he does, there won’t be enough of you left to identify.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Big talk.”

“I know Peter Hale,” she said, voice shaking with hate. “And I know what he’ll do to you.”

The man laughed and stood. “You keep dreaming, sweetheart. No one’s coming.”

Stiles came to a few minutes later. Isabelle’s hand was clutching his, her claws unsheathed but trembling.

“God, you’re ugly,” he groaned, blinking one swollen eye open. “Why do you look like roadkill that lost a fight with an exhaust pipe?”

“Silver’s apparently not my color,” Isabelle whispered, voice faint. “And you’ve got a new face dent.”

“Nice. Maybe I’ll get it framed.”

They leaned against each other again, two broken pieces of a much stronger whole.

“You think they’re close?” she murmured.

Stiles was quiet for a long time.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “Yeah. They’re close.”

He didn’t mention the taste of blood in his mouth. Or the blackness edging his vision.

Somewhere in a Warehouse Outside Beacon Hills

Peter’s claws were elbow-deep in a man’s abdomen.

The rogue had lasted longer than expected. Sliced tendons, a broken jaw, dislocated shoulder. Peter had kept him alive through sheer will and knowledge of human anatomy.

Now, as he twisted a loop of intestine between his fingers, Peter leaned in close.

“Last chance,” he murmured sweetly. “Where are they?”

The man screamed. “I don’t—fuck—please!”

Peter sighed and dipped two claws into the open wound. “Not the answer I was looking for.”

He slid the claws upward and outward. The man’s body twitched and folded in on itself, blood pouring onto the floor in rhythmic splashes.

Behind him, Derek stood over another man, his claws stained and eyes glowing red. This one was younger. Shaking. Crying.

“Please,” he whimpered. “I didn’t sign up for this. I just needed the money...”

Derek grabbed his throat. “Where are they?”

“I—I don’t—just knew we were taking wolves—someone said Hale’s mates—I didn’t know what that ment!!”

Derek’s grip tightened. “Where?”

“Old plant,” the man gasped. “Water treatment, edge of the Preserve. Underground. North line, near mile marker twelve.”

Peter looked up, his eyes shining blue. Derek broke the man’s neck.

Later That Night

The facility was exactly where the rogue said it would be.

Run-down. Overgrown. Half-collapsed.

But the scent was strong now. Overwhelming.

Stiles. Isabelle. Pain. Blood. Fear.

Peter inhaled deeply and bared his teeth.

“She's here.”

Derek nodded. “Let’s end this.”

Peter smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.

In the Cell

Isabelle was barely conscious now.

Her head lolled forward, and her breaths came in shallow, rattling wheezes.

Stiles held onto her. He didn’t care about the tears tracking through the grime on his cheeks. Didn’t care that his own body was screaming.

“You don’t get to quit,” he murmured. “You hear me? You don’t get to leave me.”

She stirred weakly. “I’m not...going anywhere.”

His heart cracked, but he kept smiling. “Good. Because I am way too tired to carry your stubborn werewolf ass out of here by myself.”

“Peter will,” she whispered, barely audible. “He’ll come.”

And this time, it wasn’t just hope.

Because from somewhere above them, in the far distance, something roared.

Stiles looked up, eyes wide. He knew that sound. So did Isabelle.

They both started to giggle, soft, broken, triumphant.

Because no matter how bad it got—

They weren’t alone anymore...

Chapter Text

The water treatment plant stood like a corpse at the edge of the Preserve—rotting, forgotten, and still somehow watchful.

Peter and Derek stood at the threshold, the wind whipping dust through the rusted pipes and open vents. The building loomed before them, overgrown and surrounded by silence.

“They’re here,” Peter murmured.

Derek said nothing, just clenched his fists and stepped inside.

The entrance hallway was lined with old metal doors, rusted shut and caked in mildew. Every echo bounced like a gunshot. Peter moved ahead, sharp and alert, every nerve wired to a single point of focus:

Isabelle.

He could feel her pain like a song in the back of his mind. Her blood was in the air. Old, but potent. His rage, once wild, had frozen into something colder than death.

Derek found the first tripwire.

“Trap,” he said grimly. “C4. Wired through the frame.”

Peter ducked and sniffed the air. “Clever,” he muttered. “They wanted to slow us down.”

“Or trap us inside.”

Derek traced the line, found the trigger, and disabled it in seconds.

But it was the first of many.

They spent an hour navigating narrow hallways, dead ends, false doors. Then came the smoke bombs, non-lethal, just disorienting and then another, larger charge that brought down an entire stairwell. The building shook as stone and dust rained down.

“This isn’t a holding site,” Peter said, fangs bared. “It’s a diversion.”

“Then where the hell are they?” Derek growled.

Peter didn’t answer.

He stalked into a small chamber at the base of the western wing and stopped.

There was a man inside. Tied to a chair. Alive.

“You,” Peter hissed.

The man looked up, bloody and defiant. “You’re too late,” he spat.

Peter didn’t blink.

He moved forward and shoved his claws into the man’s thigh.

The scream was muffled by the sound of Derek smashing open another door down the hall.

Peter crouched in front of the man, staring into his eyes.

“Where,” he asked softly, “is my wife?”

The man sneered. “She’s already dead.”

Peter tilted his head and drove his claws into the man’s chest.

He didn’t kill him. Not yet. He carved into him. Letter by letter. The man thrashed. Screamed. Peter pinned him harder and sliced deeper.

When he stepped back, the words “WHERE IS MY WIFE?” were etched in blood across the man’s torso, ribs cracked and bleeding through.

The man died moments later. Peter stood there, breathing hard. Then Derek called out.

“Peter. In here.”

It was a small room. Dusty. Quiet.

Inside were Stiles’ things.

Another hoodie. Bloodied. Torn.

His phone. Smashed.

A worn spiral notebook covered in scribbled notes and half-finished to-do lists. One corner of the page read, “Tell Derek I love him in case this goes FUBAR.”

Derek stared at it like he’d been punched.

Peter moved to the wall, where Isabelle’s shirt was hanging. Her favorite long-sleeved one, the one she wore when she didn’t want to bother with jackets.

It was singed. And stained with blood. Peter touched the edge of the sleeve, then turned to Derek.

“This is staged.”

“What?”

“They want us to think they died here.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “But they didn’t.”

“No,” Peter growled. “Because if Isabelle were dead... I’d know.”

Underground—The Cell

Hope came and went like tides.

A sound above. A footstep. A dull thud. For a moment, Isabelle’s eyes had flared, weak golden fire lighting her sunken face.

But it died again. And the door didn’t open. Just another guard shift.

Stiles exhaled shakily, squeezing her hand. “Just a little longer,” he murmured. “They’re coming.”

She didn’t respond. Her eyes fluttered, unfocused, fever-glazed. Her skin was gray. The silver cuffs were caked with dried blood and necrotic tissue.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Come on, Izzy.”

She mumbled something he couldn’t hear. A name, maybe. Or a plea. Stiles choked on a sob and bit his lip to keep it silent.

“They’ll come,” he said, for both of them now. “Peter and Derek—they’ll come.”

He believed it. He had to.

Didn’t he?

A voice broke the silence.

One of the guards. The leader, the one with the mask crouched beside their cell door, watching them through the bars.

“You know, you two are a disappointment,” he drawled.

Stiles raised his head slowly. “Yeah, well, we’re also a kidnap-us-become-dead special. Maybe rethink your life choices.”

The man chuckled. “They’re not coming.”

Stiles didn’t respond.

“They would’ve found you by now. But they didn’t. Maybe they’re smarter than you think. Maybe they finally realized how much trouble you two are.”

Stiles looked down at Isabelle. She didn’t move. The man leaned in. “Maybe they decided you weren’t worth saving.”

And for the first time—

Stiles didn’t have a comeback.

Aboveground

Peter paced the room like a caged beast.

Then he stopped.

“There’s another scent here.”

Derek turned, eyes sharp. “Where?”

“Below.”

Peter crouched by the floor, tilted his head and smiled.

“There’s a draft.”

“Hidden access?”

“Exactly.”

It took five minutes to find the hatch.

Camouflaged in the corner, covered with moss and earth, locked beneath a metal grate. Derek ripped it free with a growl.

A tunnel yawned below them. Darkness. Cold. Blood. And the scent—

Peter inhaled and staggered.

“Belleza.”

“Mischief.”

They didn’t wait. They jumped down and began the descent. This time? There were no more traps. Just a quiet, steady pull of blood and bond, drawing them closer to what had been stolen.

Chapter Text

The corridor echoed with the sound of death approaching.

Peter Hale moved like a force of nature—silent, precise, eyes glowing a blazing blue that didn’t flicker. His claws were out, coated with blood. Beside him, Derek was feral calm—muscles tight, eyes molten red, his heartbeat pounding with lethal rhythm.

They hadn’t spoken in ten minutes. They didn’t need to. Because they could smell them now.

Their mates.

Blood. Pain. Silver. Wolf’s bane. Fear.

And beneath it all, love, clinging like threads that had refused to snap.

The first guard stumbled into the wrong hallway.

Peter didn’t slow. He seized the man by the shoulder, snapped the humerus just to hear it crack, then shoved his claws through his back and out his chest.

“Please—!” the man choked.

Peter tilted his head. “Oh, no. You don’t get to beg.”

He twisted. The man collapsed with a wet gurgle. Derek was already ahead, tearing open locked doors, one after the other, smashing reinforced steel like it was tin foil.

Two more came from the left—a man and woman in tactical gear, raising weapons.

Peter blurred between them. The woman got a claw across the face, severing her jaw. The man, he got worse.

Peter pinned him to the wall, claws sinking into his abdomen. “Where’s my wife?” he hissed.

The man spat in his face. Peter smiled. “Uh-uh-uh.”

He ripped the man in half.

They were close now.

The last hallway before the cells. Peter could hear Isabelle’s heartbeat—erratic, weak.

Derek froze. “They have Stiles.”

Peter followed his gaze.

One of the captors, bigger, trembling had his arm wrapped around Stiles’ throat, gun to his temple.

Stiles looked barely conscious, his lips blue, his body trembling in pain.

The captor screamed, “I’ll kill him! Don’t take another step!”

Peter didn’t move. But Derek—

Derek vanished in a blink.

He reappeared in front of the man and snapped his neck with a single jerk.

The body crumpled. Stiles would’ve followed if Derek hadn’t caught him, cradling him tight.

Stiles coughed weakly. “Took you… long enough…”

Derek pressed their foreheads together with a small grin.

Stiles gave a faint smirk.

Peter tore open the final door.

Silver exploded in his senses, so strong it made his knees buckle. But he didn’t stop.

Inside—

Isabelle.

She was crumpled in the corner, cuffed to the wall, wrists burned raw, dried blood crusting her temple. Her chest barely rose.

A man crouched near her.

He looked up when Peter entered.

“You’re too—” the man started. Peter moved.

He slammed the man into the far wall. Hard enough to splinter concrete. The man whimpered, “Bitch fought like—”

Peter ripped out his tongue.

Then crushed his skull under his boot.

He didn’t look back.

Peter dropped to his knees beside Isabelle, hands hovering before he touched her.

She blinked slowly. Her eyes didn’t quite focus but they recognized him.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You’re still the prettiest thing I’ve seen all week.”

Isabelle’s lips cracked into a faint smile.

“Apparently you haven’t looked in a mirror.”

Peter laughed. Choked on it.

He brushed a kiss to her forehead, then tore the cuffs apart with shaking hands, ignoring the pain.

She screamed—her skin fused with the silver, and Peter growled low, furious at what they’d done.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you,” he whispered.

Derek scooped Stiles into his arms like he was glass.

Stiles’ eyes fluttered. “Where’s Izzy…?”

“Peter’s got her,” Derek said. “We’re taking you both home.”

“…home sounds good.”

Peter stood, Isabelle in his arms, her head tucked into his neck.

As he passed the bodies on the floor—some twitching, dying, others already still—he whispered, “She’ll never remember your names. But I’ll make sure your families do.”

One man moaned. Peter stepped on his throat.

Outside, the wind had changed.

The sun was rising.

Peter climbed out of the hatch first, Isabelle clutched close, her fevered skin soaking his shirt.

Derek followed, holding Stiles tight, whispering steady reassurances as Stiles groaned from the motion.

Neither of them spoke until the bunker was behind them.

Then Peter looked over, eyes still blazing.

“Burn it down?” he asked.

Derek nodded. “Every inch.”

Peter pulled a match from his coat pocket.

He’d brought it just for this.

They watched the fire consume the ground behind them.

Peter pressed a kiss to Isabelle’s temple.

Derek clutched Stiles tighter.

And as the screams of the dying faded into ash—

They turned their backs on it all.

And walked toward home.

Chapter Text

Three weeks after the rescue, the Hale house smelled like soup, antiseptic, and suppressed alpha rage.

And cookies. Lots of cookies.

Isabelle had commandeered the oven yesterday in a stubborn fit of post-trauma autonomy. Peter had tried to object, gently, reasonably (really!) but she had snapped, "If I can be chained up in a silver-drenched hellhole for a week and still live, I can sure as hell make snickerdoodles." He hadn't argued after that. He just leaned against the counter and murmured something obscene about licking frosting off her fingers. She’d blushed so hard she nearly dropped the tray.

Now, she was curled on the couch, wrapped in a soft black hoodie that did not belong to her, Peter’s, of course and covered in at least two blankets. Her legs were draped across Peter’s lap while he gently massaged the lingering ache in her ankles, the burns nearly healed but still tender.

Across the room, Stiles was lying dramatically on the other couch, one arm thrown over his face like he was auditioning for a Regency-era fainting scene. Derek sat beside him, clearly seconds away from throttling him out of love.

“You’re being a baby,” Derek grumbled, though his fingers never stopped tracing small circles into the back of Stiles’ hand.

“I was tortured, Derek,” Stiles intoned. “You can’t possibly understand the emotional trauma of peeing in a bucket while someone named Reginald watches you.”

“It wasn’t Reginald,” Isabelle offered helpfully from across the room. “It was Riker.”

“Oh, right.” Stiles squinted at the ceiling. “Yeah, no, I remember now. Reginald was the guy with the teeth. I still have nightmares about that smile.”

Peter, still rubbing slow, deliberate circles against Isabelle’s ankle, said idly, “Riker screamed your name when he died.”

Stiles tilted his head slightly to look at Peter. “Seriously?”

Peter nodded with a smug smile. “I may have twisted a few things first. Made it poetic. ‘Say hello to Reginald in hell,’ or something along those lines.”

Isabelle smacked his shoulder. “Peter.”

“What? I thought you liked it when I got creative.” He leaned closer, voice low and husky. “Darling, you should’ve seen how artful I was with the entrails. A little flourish here, a flourish there—”

“Peter.”

He smiled, entirely unrepentant, then leaned forward and whispered something obscene into her ear. Isabelle blinked rapidly, flushed deeper, and smacked him with a pillow.

“You’re the worst.”

“And yet you married me,” he purred.

Stiles made gagging noises. “If you two start dry-humping in front of me, I will have Derek rip out my eyes.”

Derek sighed. “You’d still complain. Blindly.”

“Blind complaints are my specialty. You know that.”

Peter gave a content sigh and leaned back. “It’s good to be home.”

Isabelle let her head fall against his shoulder. “It really is.”

They were safe.

Really safe.

No more false leads. No more bunkers. No more doors locked from the outside. Just home.

The days since the rescue had been a slow rebuild. Isabelle's silver burns had taken time, though werewolf healing was a blessing. Stiles' broken rib had been worse. Human healing took longer, but between Melissa’s care and Derek's obsessive hovering, he was down to just soreness and dramatics.

Scott had checked in daily. Lydia brought tea and books and left without asking too many questions. Melissa made them all food. Their dad hugged them and literally didn't let go until the Hales peeled him off as the twins were groaning, "ow ow ow." Chris Argent had shown up once—face grim, offering intel. 

It was Lydia who brought the answer.

She sat across from them all one evening, her eyes sharper than usual.

“There’s a faction,” she began, flipping open a red notebook. “Rogue hunters. Some ex-Calaveras, some ex-Gerard loyalists. Off-grid, spread thin, but obsessed with collecting and selling supernatural beings. Black market auctions.”

Stiles made a disgusted sound. “Like Pokémon cards but worse.”

“They don’t target just anyone,” Lydia went on. “They pick people who have value either for research, blood harvesting, breeding programs—”

Peter’s growl interrupted her.

“—or as leverage,” Lydia added, giving him a look. “You two weren’t the product. You were the bait.”

That made the room go silent. Lydia glanced between them. “Isabelle and Stiles are valuable in their own right, but their real worth, to this group, was the people they’re connected to.”

“Peter and Derek,” Isabelle said quietly.

“Yes,” Lydia confirmed. “They wanted you to come. They wanted you angry. Either to capture you too, or to use you to send a message.”

Peter snorted. “The only message they got was through the gaping hole in their commander's chest.”

“Yeah,” Lydia said dryly. “About that. There’s a power vacuum now. And we’re not sure who’ll try to fill it.”

Derek looked at her sharply. “So it’s not over.”

“It’s quieter. For now.”

Later that night, once Lydia had gone and Stiles had fallen asleep snoring on Derek’s chest, Peter carried Isabelle upstairs. Not because she couldn’t walk — she could, stubbornly but because he’d insisted. And she'd secretly liked it.

He set her down gently on their bed, then joined her, tugging the blankets over them both. He wrapped around her, his hand drifting down to her hip.

“I hate that I didn’t find you sooner,” he murmured.

“You did find me.”

Peter’s throat worked. “But not fast enough. They hurt you.”

She turned in his arms. “Peter. You tore through walls for me.”

“I would have torn through worlds.”

Her hand cupped his cheek. “I know.”

He kissed her softly, lingering. When he pulled back, his voice dropped into a husky purr. “Also, I have so many ideas for what I want to do to you now that you’re healing.”

“Oh my Gods,” she groaned, burying her face in his chest. “I swear to Lupa—”

“Starting with you, that chair, and some of the softer restraints—”

“Peter!”

He smirked, smug and satisfied, and buried his nose in her hair.

Across the hall, Derek woke to Stiles whispering, “Are we gonna die young and beautiful, or old and cranky?”

Derek opened one eye. “Stiles, it’s two in the morning.”

“Yeah, but I was thinking—”

“You always are.”

Stiles elbowed him. “I meant… about us. We’re okay, right? You’re not gonna go off on a guilt spiral because I got kidnapped?”

Derek blinked slowly. Stiles shrugged. “I know you. You’ll internalize the trauma, growl a lot, go off into the woods and do pull-ups in the rain while brooding.”

Derek gave him a flat look. “That’s… surprisingly specific.”

Stiles grinned. “Look, all I’m saying is: I’m okay. You’re okay. You’re hot. I’m hot. We’ll figure it out.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“But a lovable one.”

Derek leaned in and kissed him, slow and sure. “Yes you are.”

Stiles closed his eyes. “If anyone tries to take me again, you have my full permission to burn down the continent.”

“Good. I was planning on it.”

By the next full moon, Isabelle was running again, circling the preserve with Peter, her skin gleaming with sweat, but her stride strong.

Stiles had taken to perching on a log during those runs, sipping coffee, occasionally shouting, “Faster, you majestic wolves!”

Derek sat beside him every time, pretending not to be amused.

The bunker had been turned to ash. The trauma had not vanished—but it no longer owned them.

Isabelle slept in Peter’s arms without nightmares. Stiles laughed more loudly than he had in months. Derek didn’t let him out of sight for months. Peter flirted with Isabelle in the grocery store until she knocked over a display of mangoes out of sheer embarrassment.

They were healing. They were safe. The Stilinskis belonged to the Hales and Lupa have mercy if anyone forgot that again...