Gracie Hale, the youngest Hale
child, just wanted to finish her
sophomore year in peace. But
that all changes when Scott
McCall becomes a werewolf.
Disclaimer: Be aware of mature
language and violence.
( 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘭𝘧: 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦...
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˗ˏˋ⋆ H E A V E N L Y ⋆ˎˊ˗ ↳ 𝒙𝒙𝒙𝒊𝒗. 𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘭𝘧, 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘸𝘰
(𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔓𝔩𝔞𝔫)
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"SHH!"
Stiles reached above him, going for the cables wrapped around Erica's wrists. He ignored the muffle sounds of her protests chorusing with Boyd's and he shouldn't have. As soon as he touched the wires he was zapped, causing him to hiss and jump back.
"Ow!"
"They were trying to warn you," Gerard Argent slowly walked down the steps into whatever basement they were keeping him, Erica, and Boyd in. "It's electrified."
God, he hated this old man more than he had hated anyone ever. He was pretty sure the guy got his rocks off on torturing innocent people.
The Argent patriarch was completely messed up. Killing werewolves was one thing –– a very bad thing –– but killing innocent werewolves, especially teenagers, was a whole other level of cruel.
He couldn't believe that Allison had been swept up in all of it. He thought –– hell, they all thought –– she was better than that.
Stiles swallowed his nerves. "What are you doing with them?"
"At the moment, just keeping them comfortable," Gerard answered, casually leaning against the cement wall. "There's no point in torturing them, they won't give Derek up. The instinct to protect their alpha's too strong."
As if hanging two sixteen-year olds by the ceiling with live wires wasn't torture.
"Okay," he played it cool. "So, what are you doing with me? Because Scott can find me, all right? He knows my scent. It's pungent, it's more like a stench. He could find me even if I was buried at the bottom of a sewer covered in fecal matter and urine."
Gerard looked annoyed at his rambling.
"You have a knack for creating a vivid picture, Mr. Stilinski," he drawled, slowly walking toward him. "Let me paint one of my own...Scott McCall finds his best friend bloodied and beaten to a pulp."
Stiles stiffened, nervously eyeing the ten inches between him and Gerard.
"How does that sound?"
"I think I might prefer more of a still-life or landscape, you know?" Stiles couldn't help but be a smartass. When in fear, mouth your way out of it—that was his motto. "What—what are you, ninety? Look, I can probably kick your ass up and down this room."
