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________________ c h a p t e r t h i r t y - t h r e e
"What are we doing?" Carson grunts as he drags Carson and Lydia very harshly to a house.
"We are gonna stand here. You are gonna do what you should have done last night," he points to the quiet frat house.
"No, I'm not killing anyone," she tries to pull back, only to get backed into a wall with his hand around her neck.
"You're gonna do whatever I say, because if you don't, well, you can say goodbye to Lydia," he lets her go, as she attempts to catch her breath, Lydia staring on in fear.
"Please don't make me do this," she cries.
"Just set a few fires, inflict serious pain on these guys and we can be on our way. I know you're hungry, I made sure you would be," he rolls his eyes.
"Carson, don't do it!" Lydia yells, making him turn his head, annoyed.
"I'll do it, just leave her alone," she tries to avert his attention.
"If he does anything, scream," she whispers to Lydia, walking up to the front yard.
"Why are you doing this? What do you need her for?" Lydia cries.
"Nobody causes more pain than an angry siren, Lydia. There's a reason Stiles was afraid of her."
"He's afraid of her?"
"Sometimes," he smirks, knowing Carson was still in earshot. Stiles wasn't afraid of Carson, he trusted her too much.
Meanwhile, Carson attempts to ignore the conversation she was hearing, or the pain in her chest at the fact that she brought fear to Stiles' heart, and knocks on the door. She looks at the puddle on the floor, directing the water over herself.
"Um, there's no par- Are you alright?" a blonde boy answers the door.
"My car broke down, and this truck drove past and drenched me with water, and these shoes are designer, and my dad is gonna kill me, and-" she pretends to cry, as he lets her inside.
"Alright, we'll get you some dry clothes, let's go to the living room," he directs her to the room of guys playing cards, while she tries to ignore the stench of lust coming off of every one of them.
"This is..."
"Cassandra."
"This is Cassandra, and you guys are gonna be nice while we call a cab," she takes note of the lighter on the table, the alcohol, and the fire poker.
"We'll give her the best treatment," one of them openly ogles her, and if it weren't for her fear of the nogitsune, she'd go right back outside. Instead, she sits on the couch, pulling her skirt as far down as possible, regretting her decision to wear it with every stare in the room.
