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Summary
Stiles blinks hard. He can’t argue that he’s not quite all there, a little woozier than he would like, but he’s done more difficult things a lot worse off. The wolf didn’t know shit and Stiles sure as hell didn’t need him. He huffs out a little laugh into his own chest, leaning back against the armrest and chin dropped to his sternum, head lolling slightly. His eyelids are heavier than they were a minute ago. “What makes you think I wouldn’t use the opportunity to gut you? I hunt werewolves for sport, and so does everyone I have left.”
A careful claw tilts his chin up and it takes Stiles’ eyes a second to bring the face in front of him into stark relief. “You can barely keep your eyes open,” the wolf says softly, “I don’t think you have the upper hand now, human.”