Chapter Text
BEACON COMMUNITY COLLEGE
Stiles shoved her phone into her pocket as she crossed the parking lot, muttering under her breath about professors who thought assigning three essays at once was “totally reasonable.” She reached the Jeep, keys in hand, only to stop short.
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
Drawn across the driver’s side door, stark and wet and unmistakably red, was the Hale triskele. Underneath it, a second symbol, curling and intricate like a signature she didn’t recognize, glistened in the moonlight.
Blood.
“Jesus Christ!” Stiles yelped, stumbling back a step. “Nope. Absolutely not. This is a crime scene now.”
“Don’t be overdramatic,” came a smooth voice from the shadows.
She spun around. Peter Hale stood a few feet away, hands casually at his side, except one of them was smeared with blood. The sight made her stomach twist.
“What the hell, Peter?” Stiles demanded, gesturing wildly toward the Jeep. “You can’t just… what even is this?”
He tilted his head, unbothered. “A declaration of intent.”
Her brain tripped over the words. “A what now?”
“An initiation,” Peter said simply, stepping closer. “A traditional mark of courtship. I am choosing you, Stiles.”
Her mouth fell open. “You… wait, back up. Choosing me? Peter, that is blood, not romance! It’s gross!”
“My wolf disagrees,” Peter said mildly. “It’s a statement. A promise. I will court you properly, publicly, as is custom. Whether you’re ready to accept it or not.”
Stiles stared at him, hands thrown up in disbelief. “Oh my God, you’re serious. You’re actually serious. This is—this is insane!”
He smiled faintly. “You can rage at me all you like, but it won’t change what I’ve already chosen.”
“I already told you! You can’t just decide for me!” Her face was red with anger.
Peter’s gaze softened, just barely. “I can decide for me. And I have.”
They stared at each other across the hood of the Jeep, crackling with tension. Stiles’ mind whirled, trying to find the right words, something to shut him down, something to make this stop before her life got even messier. But Peter just stood there, calm, infuriatingly certain.
“This isn’t over,” she snapped as she hopped up into her Jeep and slammed the door.
“No,” he agreed smoothly. “It’s just beginning.”
THE STILINSKI HOUSE
Stiles was done.
Done with werewolves, done with their stupid courtship rituals, and so done with Peter Hale.
Except, of course, she wasn’t. Because he wouldn’t let her be.
It started small. A cup of coffee left on her porch before class. Fine, whatever. She poured it out in the driveway.
The next day, there were two coffees and a sticky note that read:
blockquote>You poured the first one out.
This one has extra caramel. Don’t waste it.
And damn it, she hadn’t wasted it.
Then there was the bed situation.
She’d come home after a long day at BCC to find her room transformed: her sheets pulled into a perfect, cozy nest in the middle of her mattress, pillows fluffed, blankets layered just right. Fairy lights twinkled along her headboard like some Pinterest fever dream. It was warm and soft and smelled faintly like him.
In it was a note.
Traditionally, this would be our nest.
I restrained myself (you’re welcome).
For now, it’s just yours — safe, warm, and smelling of me so you don’t forget who made it.
—P
She had stood there for a good ten minutes, glaring at it, before finally crawling inside and… okay, fine, maybe sleeping better than she had in weeks.
But the worst was the rabbit.
She was already running late for her biology II class when she found it laid out like some macabre centerpiece on the hood of her Jeep, blood dried neatly on the fur. A note was tucked under the wiper.
Full moon instinct.
Accept my offering.
It means you are provided for.
She’d gagged, thrown it away, and sent him a three-paragraph text about how this was not medieval times, and she didn’t need proof of his hunting ability.
She could see that he was replying, and she was committed to ignoring it.
But ignoring Peter Hale was like ignoring gravity. You could try, but eventually you were going to trip and land face-first in the dirt.
***
BEACON COMMUNITY COLLEGE LIBRARY
“So let me get this straight,” Erica said, lounging across from Stiles at one of the library tables, her chin propped on her hand. “He’s nesting your bed, buying you coffee, and leaving you dead animals?”
“Yes!” Stiles threw her hands in the air, almost knocking over her notebook. “This is full-on wolfy courtship, Erica. Next thing you know, he’s going to show up with a dowry and try to trade me for goats.”
Erica snorted loud enough to earn a shush from the next table. “Honestly? Sounds kind of romantic. You know, in a creeperwolf way.”
“It is not romantic!” Stiles hissed, jabbing a finger at her. “It’s manipulative. It’s Peter Hale trying to trick me into thinking he’s nice!”
Erica frowned thoughtfully. “He hasn’t… tried to force anything, though, right? Like, no pressure?”
Stiles groaned and dropped her face into her hands. “That’s the worst part! He hasn’t done anything pushy. He’s just… there. All the time. Being nice. Being helpful. Doing this weird wolfy courtship thing that makes my hindbrain go, ‘oh, that’s actually kind of sweet,’ which is exactly what he wants, and I hate that it’s working!”
Erica’s grin turned sly. “So what you’re really saying is… you’re into it.”
“I am saying I am being emotionally manipulated by a sociopath,” Stiles said through gritted teeth, “and I need you to talk me down before I do something stupid. Like—like start looking forward to the next little note he leaves me.”
Erica leaned back in her chair, smirk widening. “Too late. You’re already looking forward to it.”
Stiles laid her head on her arms and groaned.
Erica watched her for a second, then tilted her head, expression softening just a little. “So tell me this,” she said casually, “if you hate him so much, why haven’t you locked your window yet?”
Stiles froze, her face still buried in her sleeve. When she finally peeked out, her expression was stubborn, but there was a faint, traitorous flush creeping up her neck.
“Because,” she said, with a little too much force, “locking my window would be dramatic and childish and I am neither of those things.”
Erica arched a brow.
“And also…” Stiles mumbled, sinking lower in her chair, “because maybe I like… knowing he’s there. Sometimes. Just a little.”
Erica’s smirk turned downright wicked. “Thought so.”
Stiles looked back down at her notes, trying to focus, but her pen hovered uselessly above the page. She wasn’t going to admit, not even to herself, that the idea of locking him out felt worse than the idea of letting him in.
PETER’S POV
Peter sat on a bench outside the library, looking at his phone, pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping. (Not that anyone would believe him if he denied it.)
Stiles’ voice carried easily from inside, all frustration and flailing hand gestures he didn’t need to see to picture. He could practically smell her emotions: the sharp edge of her irritation, the bitter tang of embarrassment, and beneath it all, the reluctant warmth of something dangerously close to acceptance.
She was angry.
But not about him.
Not really.
Peter smiled to himself, slow and predatory. His wolf was pleased. This was working. Every snarky comment, every slammed door, every half-hearted glare was proof she was thinking about him.
He could live with anger.
Anger was engagement.
Anger meant she cared enough to fight him.
He rose gracefully to his feet, already planning. His next patrol would take him past her house. He’d leave a bouquet of wolfsbane and moonflowers, laying it across her keyboard where she couldn’t miss it. He would probably freshen up her nest while he was there, too.
This is stupid, his rational mind offered.
This is working, his wolf countered.
Peter smirked. His wolf was right.