REAPING INNOCENCE ◦ STILINSKI [3]

xxix.

He took another step and another until he was standing right in front of her. Carter grabbed his chin and pulled his face to hers and kissed him hard. He reciprocated. It was as if he were a starving man who'd finally found sustenance in her mouth. They kissed, and he closed his eyes and forgot about the growling coyote.

All of a sudden, he felt a sharp pain on his neck, as if he were being stabbed. He called out, but Carter was still kissing him. But no, not kissing, biting, sucking the blood from beneath his skin. Stiles' eyes flew open, and he saw Carter's eyes, wild and black, her face ghostly white with shadows casting over it. He wrenched his head back, but the pain was unrelenting, and he couldn't scream, couldn't fight, could only see that the sun had faded into the moon, and could only feel the blood leaving his body, and desire and beat and anger and terror all welling up inside him. If this was what death felt like, then he wanted it. He wanted it, and that was when he flung his arms around Carter, giving himself to her.

Then the coyote launched herself across the space, causing Stiles to stumble back away from Carter, fangs aiming for the jugular.

"No!" Stiles screamed, wrenching upright out of his bed.

His sudden movement caused the headphones to pull the iPod off the bedside table, and it clattered to the carpeted floor. The light was still on, and he was sitting fully dressed on the bed, with his shoes on. He glanced, disoriented, at the clock on his dresser. It was six-thirty in the morning.

Stiles groaned, fell back, and rolled over onto his face, kicking off his sneakers. He was too uncomfortable to get anywhere near sleep, though. He rolled back over and unbuttoned his flannel, yanking it off awkwardly as he tried to stay horizontal. He pulled the pillow back over his eyes.

It was all no use, of course. His subconscious had dredged up exactly the images he'd been trying so desperately to avoid. He was going to have to face them now. And those images flashed through his mind like quickly flipping the pages on a notepad, revealing a story. There was so much pain in those images; he groaned, rubbing his injured shoulder. But that wasn't what caused this throbbing panic in his chest that drained all the energy from his body. That wasn't why he felt as if he were falling even when he sat as still as he could get.

What caused the panic was that he remembered.

He remembered everything now.

That night—the same night he killed Donovan. Carter came to visit him, helped him take off his bloody clothes until...until her fingernails dug into the wound on his shoulder. He felt a pulsing pain on the same shoulder that seemed to keep time with the ticking clock. He remembered watching as Carter brought her hand up to her mouth, his blood on her lips. The terror as her lips drew back, her teeth sparkling. His heart pounding as though he were dying and being born all at the same time. The awful pain, the black eyes. He glanced around wildly.

Stiles sat up, and his head spun for a minute as the blood flowed downward. He swung his legs out of bed and tried to step out, only to find himself tangled in the sheets. He needed to see Carter, but he was more than happy to put if off as long as possible. He pulled himself out of the sheets and headed into the bathroom.

The shower didn't last nearly as long as he hoped it would, though. With a towel fastened around his hips, he went back into his room. He couldn't tell if his father was asleep, or if he had already left. He went to look out his window, and the Sheriff's car was gone. Must've caught a lead in the case.

Stiles dressed slowly in his most comfy sweats and then made his bed—something he never did. He couldn't put it off any longer. Hearing his stomach growl, he decided to go get himself a bowl of cereal.