Devil of Wolves

Chapter Seven (Killers Like Me)

Peter casually lighting this dumpster fire.

All mistakes are my own. Sorry if this chapter sucks. I tried, I promise. 

Enjoy :)

^^^^^^^^^^

Peter stood there dressed in a dark suit, his hands stuffed in his pockets as his gaze traces over Stiles form.

His piercing blue eyes moved from the tape on his hands to the redness in his eyes. Stiles figures Peter could probably put together what happened here so he didn't bother to dignify a response as the man stares momentarily.

"My nephew is a very obtuse man," Peter says suddenly as he steps onto the mats. Stiles watches him like a hawk, waiting to strike. "You've noticed, no doubt?"

Stiles refuses to answer. Instead, he stares the man down angrily, hoping Peter got the message that his presence was very much not welcome.

Which he doesn't -of course.

Peter continues undeterred. "I must apologize then..."

"For what?" Stiles demands, his defenses going up immediately at Peter's almost remorseful tone.

Peter steps closer but Stiles holds his ground. His body yells at him to run but he doesn't really feel like moving. His body felt achy and tired. He felt empty; drained.

An uncomfortable prickling feeling rides up his body and he can't help but think back to the accident in the break room a few days ago with the man in front of him, smirking the same as he did then.

He keeps ending up in these situations and it's an annoying sense of déjà vu.

Peter was less than a foot away and Stiles has yet to move or do anything. He wanted to push Peter back just to see if he could stand toe to toe with the man and not flinch.

But Peter's entire form radiated predator much like Derek's, thinking he could just intimidate Stiles like that?

Fuck him, it was kind of working.

Peter grins as he answers Stiles' earlier question. "Someone as special as you should be cared for and treasured. Unfortunately, Derek and I have very...differing opinions about that."

The words treasure and special coming out of Peter's mouth, regarding him, are as creepy as they are off-putting.

Peter speaks like he already has him trapped and Stiles can't find it in himself to say otherwise. Peter is playing the game well and Stiles can't help but be intrigued.

"Because I'm fragile?" He shoots back, arms crossed defensively.

"Quite the contrary, dear boy," Peter jests. "You are very much the opposite."

He closes the distance to the point where Stiles can smell his disgusting cologne. It burns his nose as much as Peter's closeness pisses him off.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Peter studies him again for a moment, seemingly stumped by Stiles' question.

"Well I can't quite test my theory here," he alludes to and holds out his hand in front of Stiles, waiting for him to take it.

Stiles narrows his eyes and looks at the offending item. He didn't trust the man; he'd be foolish to. Every instinct in him was screaming that this man was dangerous, from his confident prowl to his self-assured smile that never seemed to go away.

And, yet, despite the obvious facts and reasons not to, Stiles couldn't find it in himself to give a shit at the moment. He didn't really feel anything other than apprehension.