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Lydia is the first one to notice.
It was after prom. Lydia had gone stag in a beautiful violet gown that no one noticed. Scott had taken Kira, of course, and Stiles went with Malia. She spent the remainder of the night drinking watered down punch in the corner, ripping up streamers with her newly polished fingers and hoping it would be over soon.
Lydia steeled herself as she sat in the uncomfortable chair, reminding herself that this was a special night, and she couldn’t just ditch. Stiles was going to UCLA, Kira and Scott to Berkeley, and Malia to Beacon Hills Community College. Lydia was going to Stanford. She wasn’t excited, exactly. More relieved. She was sick of werewolves and banshees and kitsunes and kanimas, and a normal college experience was what she wanted. What she needed.
When the songs got quicker, faster, Stiles came out from the crowd and dragged her behind the gym bleachers. It was dimmer, but she could still make out his profile. His eyes were dark as he pulled her close and crushed his lips against her. His lips were cold, and he smelled like rust and flowers-like Malia. It was enough to make Lydia pull away.
“What are you doing?” She whispered.
He didn’t reply, his hands inching up her thigh, pushing layers of tulle aside.
“Stiles-”
“Shhh,” He murmured. “Wouldn’t want anyone to hear us, Lyds.” Her breath hitched as his cold, clammy hand went closer to the waistband of her underwear, his eyes flat and dark. Predatorial, really. He pressed his lips to hers again, hot and biting, his teeth banging against hers.
The song ended, and he pulled away, drawing his hands from her. Wiping lipstick smears from his chin, he gave her a sweet smile, before going to join Malia in the center of the dance floor. Lydia watched from the shadowy slits under the bleachers, and saw him kiss her and laugh.
Parrish came over that night and fucked her into oblivion. Lydia’s mother was out-like always, and she wasn’t there to here Lydia scream. He left scratch marks and hickies on her skin, and when they had finished, he kissed her so tenderly it almost annoyed Lydia. He left soon after, and she lay in the sheets, naked and alone. She must have fallen asleep.
It seemed only moments later when she found herself back in the gym, wearing the same dress from the night, her hair perfectly coiffed, like before. It was empty and there was no music, her heels clicking on the wooden floors.
Stiles stood in the center of the floor.
“Stiles?” she asked.
His eyes dark and shadowed, a cool smile on his lips. Her heart hammered in her chest. This situation was far too familiar.
"I never got my dance with you tonight, Lydia." He outstretched his hands. She didn't reach for them. "You look like a dancer. Like a ballerina, you know?"
“I don't dance."
"A little waltz won't hurt you," He's walking towards her now, slow, languid. "Maybe a tango."
"You must be kidding me," Lydia laughs in disbelief. "If you think I want to dance with you."
“Oh, banshee-girl. You’re smarter than this.” He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and the way he walked was too poised, too careful, for Stiles. “You should know I don’t make jokes.”
“You must be quite boring then.” Lydia tries to keep her voice steady.
He laughs, and it’s the worst laugh she’s ever heard. It sounds like Stiles, but it isn’t, because it’s cold and mocking and wrong. It sends chills down her spine.
"You aren't Stiles." She says, and it's hard to breath.
He cocks his head as he keeps walking. "Wrong. I am Stiles-just more."
"More what?"
"More everything. Better everything" He grins wolfishly. "Better taste, or at least I'd like to think. Malia is cute, I'll give her that. But I find you much more fascinating."
"I'm flattered," Lydia spits. "Now, I'd stay here and banter, but I have matters to attend to."
"Like what? We're all alone, Lydia. There is no where to go," He's getting closer. Lydia steps back.
“It's funny because the last time, he was screaming like you wouldn’t believe, you know? And this time-“ He touches his temple with a faux concerned look, and then releases his finger with a laugh. “It’s just dead air in here.”
“The last time?” Lydia swallows, cocking her head just like him, refusing to let him know that she’s scared. Lydia Martin isn’t scared of anything, not Stiles.
“You know,” He’s in front of her now, his eyes boring into her. “The last time I visited. Don’t you remember?”
“Of course.” She tilts her chin at him. "How could I forget?" How could have she forgotten. She’s faced him before, had him press his cold lips to her ear as he shoved her against the iron bars. "And just like last time, he'll be set free."
"Stiles is stronger than you think, Lydia. Darker. You might not realize but try to consider the fact that he's enjoying this right now," His gaze drifts from her lips to her breasts to her thighs and her mouth goes dry. Stiles revered her as a goddess. His touches were whisper life, soft, kind. This creature looks at her as nothing more than common prey. "He likes that you're scared."
"Was it you, earlier?" Lydia asked.
"Was it me about to fuck you?" He says, the words harsh and guttural. Lydia's cheeks reddens. "It's a secret."
"I won't play your games."
"I don't remember asking you to play."
"You didn't need to request."
He laughs, and his fingers skitter to her cheeks, stroking her skin. For a moment, she's desperate to lean into his touch. "Clever girl." She pulls away, and he pulls her back, ragged fingernails digging into her wrist.
“If you touch me again, I’ll scream,” she says.
“Is that a promise?” He whispers and crushes his mouth against her, almost biting her, his fingers clenching tight in the fabric of her skirt. She can feel the darkness seeping from him. It made her almost sick. She bites his tongue and watched him reel back, blood in his mouth.
He wipes his bloody chin off and gives her a dangerous smile. “You’re breaking the rules of the game, Lydia”
“Sweetie,” her voice is trembling, but she gives him a look that would send anyone else to their knees. She arches her eyebrows, pouting her lips, lacing her words with verbal poison. “I can handle myself.” It’s a classic Lydia Martin look, but he seemed un-frightened, amused.
“That, I don’t believe.” He pulls her in for another hot, biting kiss, pulling her close. He slides his hand up her thigh, his fingers cold and clammy, but Lydia can’t pull away. His other hand is tangling in her hair, pulling her closer and closer until all she can see is him. The amber eyes she used to find warm, familiar and flat and empty. The moles on his neck and cheek remind her less of places where she used to kiss him, and more like warning signs.
And then he lets her go. She falls on the ground, her knees hitting the floor hard. Her lips feel bruised, and he’s standing above her.
“What do you want?” She asks, fixing her crooked dress straps with ruddy cheeks. He chuckles.
“What I’ve always wanted, Lydia. Chaos.”
He turns and walks away, leisurely, and he doesn’t look back, slamming the gym doors behind him.
Lydia wakes up sweaty and tangled in her sheets. Outside the sky is gray and filled with storm clouds. She smooths back her mussed strawberry blonde hair, breathing hard, and feels her wrist throbbing. Purple and blue bruises decorate her wrist like a bracelet, and she can still feel his hot breath on her skin.