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“Where is he?” Stiles demands, venom dripping from his voice. He lets the violet of his magic bleed into his irises. His long fingers coil around the hunter's throat, constricting his windpipe and cutting off his breathing. “I won’t ask again.”
Stiles has been searching for Derek for four months now, blazing a path across the United States, desperately trying to find his mate, eliminating hunter after hunter that’s tried to stop him.
The single flickering light hanging from the ceiling dimly illuminates their surroundings—the peeling wallpaper and damp carpeted floors look like something out of a horror movie—and reveals a room at the end of the hall. The man points to it with a trembling finger, unable to say anything. In fact, the only sound made is when Stiles drops the hunter with a reverberating thud. The air inside is cold, causing Stiles to shiver, but he doesn’t let it detract from his focus.
Derek.
There’s no one else around, he knows this, but he still approaches the room cautiously, unsure of what he’s going to find inside. His worst fear is that Derek is dead—that the hunters had finally killed him after holding him hostage for so long—but he knows that’s not the case. His bond with his mate is still present. Next, and most likely, though, is that Derek has been tortured.
The room is dark, save for the light shining in from the hall behind him. “Please kill me...”
It’s a whisper in the dark and, for one moment, Stiles doesn’t recognize the hoarse, broken voice. His heart breaks as he realizes that the desperate plea comes from Derek.
The months of physical and psychological torture have clearly left their mark on his mate. Even still, relief washes over him. After months of searching, Stiles has finally found him—bruised and beaten, but alive. He takes one quick moment to assess Derek and his injuries before running over.
Derek is kneeling on the ground—ass on his heels, shoulders slumped, with heavy chains weighing his arms down at his sides and restraining him. His pants—the same pair he was wearing the last time Stiles saw him—are torn. He’s shirtless. His chest is covered in a sheen of dirt, sweat, and dried blood from cuts that have long since healed over.
In his haste to cross the room, Stiles practically throws himself at Derek before catching himself and approaching more gently. Instead, he crouches in front of Derek, arms outstretched as he reaches for him. Stiles's palms start glowing immediately, trying to take whatever pain his mate might be in. “I’m here, Derek. I’m here. I found you.”
“Stiles?” His name comes out in a broken cry, like Derek can’t believe it’s true, that Stiles is really there. Stiles’s heart shatters at the thought of what those hunters had put him through, what they’d done to his strong, fearless mate that left him this broken.
“Yeah, Der. It’s me,” he says, running his hands down Derek’s bloodied face. His thumbs caress Derek’s cheeks before he slides his hands down to Derek’s wrists. They’re raw and inflamed from the wolfsbane coating the chains. Stiles winces sympathetically, gripping the restraints tightly. His magic burns through him as he squeezes the metal until they pop beneath his palms, falling to the ground with a clank—freeing Derek from their confines. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here sooner. I’m here now and I’m never going to let anything happen to you ever again. You’re safe now. I promise”
There’s a clatter down the hall, drawing his attention away from his mate. “Stay quiet!” he urges, pulling away towards the door. “Everything’s gonna be okay, I’ve got this.”
Derek whimpers quietly and reaches out for him. Stiles’s heart aches at the idea of leaving Derek, but he has to get rid of the unknown threat before they can leave. He creeps closer to the door, crouching low even though the door’s open, to stay hidden. “I’m not leaving. I just have to—”
“Stiles!”
“Oh, thank God!” he cries out, hearing Jackson’s voice. Stiles immediately rises to his feet and looks out from the doorway to see his best friend running towards him. “What are you doing here?”
“Are you kidding? We’ve been tracking you since you left!” Jackson fists his hands in Stiles’s shirt and looks around him frantically. “Did you find him? Is he here?” Stiles can hear the strain in the beta’s voice at the absence of his alpha.
“Yeah.” Stiles turns, moving back to Derek’s side and leaning down to help him stand. “Wait!” he exclaims, looking back up at Jackson, brows furrowed in confusion. “You said ‘we’, but— Who else is here?”
“Everyone, man. Derek’s our alpha, Stiles. Of course, we’d come for him. You were just too fast. We could never catch up. Now, come on, the pack is waiting.” Stiles watches Jackson duck out of the room, his voice fading the further away he gets.
Holding Derek close, Stiles leads him out of the building where the rest of the pack waits. “Time to go home, big guy.”