Wild Creatures

Part 3

"You have until Scott and Allison's wedding next spring," Gerard hisses in Stiles' ear, his breath hot and rank. "Bring me those abominations weaknesses or Scott might find it difficult to finish his vows."

Stiles keeps his face neutral, his fists unclenched. A maid appears in the doorway, Stiles' wedding attire in her hands. Gerard notes the corset, his lip curling.

"Enjoy your wedding night," he jeers, striding from the room.

Stiles looks to the window, the light of the setting sun warming his face.

---

Stiles' etiquette tutor is a banshee. Silver eyed and auburn haired, she glides into the room, only the sound of her forest green skirts making any noise. She regards Stiles with the same interest one might give to a worn writhing in dirt.

"This is your bride," she says, reaching forward to grip Stiles chin, gold nails digging into his skin. She tilts his head from side to side, looking for something, though Stiles isn't sure what. He resents being grabbed but doesn't want to argue with a death omen, especially one with such sharp teeth. "I guess I can work with this."

"You'll have to," Peter replies, straightening the cuff of his shirt. "Stiles, be good for Lydia. Lydia, don't break him, physically or emotionally."

"No promises," Lydia says, letting go of Stiles chin. He takes a step back, folding his arms over his chest. He feels exposed, like a butterfly, fragile and frantic, caught beneath glass as someone lowers a pin into his thorax.

Peter collects some papers from his desk, giving Stiles a small and not exactly reassuring smile on his way out. Stiles watches the closing door, wondering if he's fast enough to slip through but then it shuts completely with a soft click.

"Well," Lydia says, bringing her hands together, 'let's begin."

She moves around him slowly. It's unnerving, how Stiles can't hear footsteps, how effortlessly she moves. Stiles doesn't turn his head, stares straight ahead, counting in his head. Breathe in, one two, breathe out, three four. It's a trick he's been doing since infancy. Rage is only useful if it's controlled, revenge is sweeter when you have all the information and don't get caught.

Lydia stops in front of him. She's at least a foot shorter than him yet makes Stiles feels like he's cowering beneath her. He might have put it down to a banshee's reputation, the sickening feeling in the stomach any man would feel when confronted with his own mortality, but Stiles thinks this is all Lydia. She wants him weak at the knees, agreeable to her suggestions. He is mortal; a feeble, breakable thing that she will mold into something worthy of her king, worthy of her kingdom.

"Your posture is terrible."

Stiles laughs, he can't help himself. Lydia looks taken aback, if only for a moment. Her face smooths itself out into cool disinterest. Stiles straightens his spine, lifting his left arm up and bending it at the elbow. He places his right hand on the top of his elbow, pushing gently and listening for the telltale pop of his shoulder blade. He repeats the gesture with his right arm before letting his arms hang down, rolling his shoulders back.

"Better?"