Stiles had to become a vampire in order to save his life. Now, the question is - does he remain that way, or will he turn into a werewolf? Either way, he'll never be fully human again. Further complicating the issue is his mysterious partial immunit...
Dad knows I'm only pretending to be dead to the world when he says goodbye to me every morning. But he's okay with that. It's part of the unspoken rules of this particular ritual of ours, I guess.
Hunter, on the other hand, is a born rule-breaker.
Not to mention a heartbreaker.
Just ask Danny. He'd been seeing the new werelynx in town for a week or so after his arrival, but their relationship, mostly cultivated online, had deteriorated pretty quickly. Turns out, Hunter had been moving too fast for Danny, wanting too much too soon, and Danny was too vanilla for Hunter. A terrible combo by any stretch of the imagination, wouldn't you say?
Not long after that breakup happened, he stole away from Derek's loft (where he's been staying with Skylar) in the dead of night and found his way into my bed, the crafty SOB. All we did was sleep in each other's arms, but when I woke up the next morning, I found my phone blowing up with texts from Dad: "Enjoyed yourself last night, Stiles?" "Were you careful, at least?" "And I don't just mean vampire-werewolf-whatever infections, you know."
I mean, no way was he sending those in all seriousness. At least he didn't try to get all manly-bro on me and tell me "Congratulations" or some shit. Maybe his sheriff's sense clued him in to the fact that I was still a virgin. Still am, in fact, as of today. Hunter, it seems, has learned from his mistakes. He's not rushing to pop my cherry anytime soon. Although I think he's concerned I'm more fragile than I really am. After all, I've recently changed species and come out of the closet - that should be enough life stress for any fifteen-going-on-sixteen dude, am I right?
I won't lie, though. Hunter coming into my room, folding me into his arms and gently purring into my ear? I could do that every night. And every day, too.
Today's no exception. He comes in not long after Dad leaves - I swear, he must've been waiting for him to drive off to work - and cuddles me from behind, placing his tall, slender form between me and the sun.
"Did I tell you how much I like your new hairstyle?" he asks. I've noticed that, over time, he's been shifting his accent from English to American. I think he's been trying to copy my accent, but he's not very good at it. Points for trying, though, only because it's Hunter.
"Not much of a style," I say. "I just haven't cut it since before I was bitten." I chuckle to myself. "Long before."
"Seriously." He totally morphs into an obnoxious Valley Girl on that word, but I'll forgive him because he's starting to play with my hair. Maybe it's the feline in him, but he really likes playing with anything remotely resembling a ball of yarn. "Seriously," he says, this time in a less exaggerated accent. More Buffy than Valley Girl, but still not me, if that's what he's going for. "You should keep growing it, Stiles," he says. "No offense, but your old buzz-cut made you look gawky. You're cuter than that. Show it."
"How's this?" I say. "I'll keep growing my hair out if you stop trying to hide your accent. You're cuter than that."
He breathes a theatrical sigh of relief, then switches with ludicrous precision to his natural voice, English accent and all. "Who was it who said 'Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery?'"
"Shit, I dunno. Oscar Wilde?"
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