Stiles brush with death at the hands of the malevolent Darach, Jennifer, leaves him teetering on the edge of the supernatural abyss. Salvation comes with a price: the bite. Now, thrust into the tumultuous life of a werewolf, Stiles must come to grip...
I could've seen the workout as punishment for last night or a distraction, but there was no room for complaints. Derek's defined muscles flexed through his shirt as he pushed back against Scott's feeble attempts at overpowering him. Despite Scott ending up on his ass yet again, there was a slight improvement.
"You're next, Stiles," Derek beckoned, not even breaking a sweat.
Peeling myself off the curb, where I had been more than just an innocent spectator, I noticed Derek was still as cool as ever.
While Scott dusted himself off and took my spot on the curb, Derek signaled me to approach with a classic fighter's pose.
"Let's see what you've got," he challenged, fists at the ready.
With a sigh, I mirrored his stance, my gloves creaking as I clenched my hands.
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"Go, Stiles!" Malia cheered from among the echoes of the desolate underpass we'd chosen for privacy and safety.
Fortunately,, my dad imparted some wisdom after a fight with a school bully during my second year in junior high. I suppressed the burgeoning sorrow at the thought of him. Images tried to surge forth: his still form on the cold, sterile table, his features bearing an all-too-familiar mark mirroring mine.
"Stiles!"
The urgency in the call snapped my attention into sharp focus as a fist loomed mere inches from my face. With an agile duck and a nimble twist of my body, I rolled off the ground and repositioned myself to square off against Derek, fists ready once more.
Derek wheeled around, his defensive stance loosening.
"You're not here with me. I need you present and focused."
"I dodged the punch. Isn't that enough?" I retorted, my arms falling to my sides in defiance.
A steely rigidity claimed my spine as Derek closed the distance between us, his voice lowered to a hushed intensity, "Listen, if you're not up to this—"
"I'm good," I cut in, stripping my voice of any telltale emotion.
He looked like he wanted to say more but let it slide with a nod, signaling me to try again.
The spar with Derek extended for a grueling half-hour, both of us left heaving for breath, our skin sheened with sweat. I felt a thrill churn in my belly when Derek stripped off his shirt, exposing the sculpted muscles beneath. I noticed a brief, knowing smirk cross his face as he caught me looking, but it vanished as soon as he redirected his attention to Scott and Malia.
"Let's switch to tag team," Derek commanded, jabbing a thumb in my direction.
