Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hannah groans as she struggles with her unruly brown hair in the bathroom mirror, the locks refusing to cooperate. “Fuck it,” she says as she gathers her hair into a messy bun. Today would be just like any other day in the life of the young librarian, except that she is working the night shift for the first time. Unlike most libraries, Beacon University Library is open 24 hours a day, so the librarians take turns covering the overnight shifts. Hannah had tried to argue that no one would need a "special collections librarian" at 3 AM and that her skills would be better utilized during the day, but her concerns fell on deaf ears.

With a sigh, she opens the medicine cabinet and grabs one of the many prescription bottles inside. She never bothers to throw away the old bottles, even when they are empty, or when she inevitably switches to a different medication, since none of them really work for her. “Aripiprazole 10 mg,” she whispers to herself before swallowing the pill with water she cups to her mouth.

“You know, those pills are never going to get rid of me.” Hannah isn’t even surprised when she sees the reflection of Andrew standing behind her. His sunken black eyes stare back at her, void of emotion.

“You aren’t real, Andrew. Go away.”

Andrew cocks his head. The blood that trickles out of his ear as he does so is an unsettling reminder of a life violently cut short. Looking at his reflection one can almost imagine what he might have looked like when he was alive. His shoulder-length blond hair was probably quite attractive before it became matted with blood. His skin might have been sun-kissed instead of sickly grey, and his eyes a sparkling blue.

 “None of the other ones worked. What makes you think this one will?”

She doesn’t respond. She learned long ago that engaging the dead only makes them more persistent, while simultaneously making the living believe she is insane. Andrew is a frequent visitor. She often catches glimpses of him in the mirrors in her apartment. His form is always hauntingly contorted, a permanent distortion caused by the five-story fall that ended his life. She feels bad for Andrew. He was just a normal guy who witnessed some illegal dealings on his way home from work. The fall from the roof of the apartment complex wasn’t a suicide, but everyone believes it was.  

She walks past him, into her bedroom, and hastily grabs clothes out of her closet. “Andrew, do me a favor and lurk somewhere else while I get dressed.”

“No. When I was alive, I had a thing for the thick girls. Why miss out now?”

“Pervert,” she hisses as she puts on her typical attire: a grey pencil skirt and a crisp white blouse. She shoves her Windsor glasses onto her face and grabs her library badge before heading out the door.

***

The walk to the library is a short one, but she underestimated how unsettling it would be under the full moon. Her heels click on the pavement as she quickly walks to her destination, trying not to catch sight of any dead lurking in the shadows. As she turns the corner, she sees the library up ahead. Beneath the luminous glow of the full moon, the university library stands as a magnificent monument to time and knowledge. The towering edifice, constructed of weathered gray stone, looms against the night sky. A wide granite staircase leads up to massive wooden doors, embellished with ornate carvings and ironworks. Above the door, etched into the library’s facade, are the words ‘In Scientia Libertas Invenitur.’ In knowledge, we find freedom.

She pauses on the staircase when she hears branches snapping to her left. "Hello? Is someone there?" She squints, trying to peer into the darkness.

There is a low growl in response. Her heart starts beating wildly, but it isn’t until she sees the glowing red eyes that her feet are spurred into action. She takes the stairs two at a time and slams the heavy wooden doors behind her just as a howl pierces the night.

***

Hannah sits at her cluttered desk, sipping her third coffee of the night. The dimly lit room is filled with towering shelves, brimming with dusty tomes and ancient volumes, their spines cracked and faded. Tattered curtains hang limply over the tall, arched windows, filtering any moonlight that dares to enter, casting eerie shadows that dance across the worn wooden floor. A musty, slightly moldy scent permeates the air, mingled with the faint smell of old parchment and leather. Every sound is amplified in the silence—an unexpected rustle, the distant thud of a book falling, or the faintest echo of footsteps that seem to come from nowhere.  

She passes the time by sorting through books left out during the day. Surprisingly, she is interrupted by the squeaking of a door's hinge. She straightens up, thinking she might actually have a patron at 1 am. A cramming college student, maybe?

Then she sees him, and her shoulders slump before returning to her task. Great. Another dead guy.  The figure that approaches her desk is shaped by both resilience and tragedy. Once a man of striking features, his face is now a testament to survival, with patches of charred and discolored skin. The scars weave a complex pattern across his cheeks and jawline that distorts his features, yet there remains a hint of the charisma that once defined him.

Peter looms over her desk, waiting for her acknowledgment. It doesn’t come. She doesn’t even look up from her books. The scent that clings to her is reminiscent of ozone, old parchment, and something distinctly her. A medium. She could be useful, he muses. He leans against her desk, burnt skin stretching taunt as he does so. Her heart rate spikes, and the scent of her fear fills his nostrils.

“Ignoring the living is quite rude, don’t you think?”

Her eyes snap up to his in surprise, “You’re not dead…” A light blush colors her cheeks. “In my defense, it was an easy mistake.” Her gaze briefly flicks to some of the more grotesque scars.

His dark chuckle echoes in the vacant library. “I am very much alive…despite my appearances.”

“My condolences, Sir.” The words come out of her mouth before her filter has a chance to stop them,

His features immediately change from amusement to irritation. “I don’t need your pity, sweetheart. I need information.” He hands her a folded-up piece of paper. “I believe this image comes from a book in the Abernathy Collection. I need to see it. Now.”
          

“That particular special collection is restricted. You need special clea-“ He interrupts her by throwing down his library card with a grunt. The card is faded and worn, but it is distinctly one of the ‘VIP access’ cards only given to generous donors. She scans it and narrows her eyes at him as she compares him to the picture of the young man in his profile. “Peter Hale?”

“The one and only.”

“You haven’t checked anything out of this library in years. In fact, you have over 6 years' worth of late fees for not returning ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar.’”

“It was for my niece,” he growls. She is almost certain she saw his eyes glow for a moment.  “I will buy the library a new one. Now, are you going to take me to the book or not?”

She rises from her desk and straightens her pencil skirt. “Follow me, Sir.” She leads him through a maze of bookshelves towards a back room. Peter follows silently, his predatory gaze fixed on her as he notes every detail – her scent, her heartbeat, the way she nervously adjusts her glasses, and the stretch of the fabric over her curves. She is soft in all the places where she-wolves are firm. The wolf likes it, there is more for him to sink his teeth into.

 She stops in front of an unassuming door and scans her security badge to unlock it. “Wash your hands and dry them thoroughly.”

He raises his eyebrow at her command, but complies and joins her at the double sink. “Always so thorough with protocol?” He scrubs his hands more harshly than necessary.

“It is what keeps the books alive.”

He dries his hands with an excessive amount of paper towels. “Satisfied? Can we get on to the book now?”

“No, you still need gloves.” She hands him a pair of white cotton gloves. He sighs with irritation. His hands are still stiff from scarring, and he fumbles trying to put them on.

Her gaze softens when she notes his struggle. “Let me help you…”

Peter’s jaw clenches at the offer, pride warring with practicality. His hands tremble slightly as he tries to slide the gloves on. “I don’t need help.” Despite his words, he reluctantly extends his hands towards her.

“Of course, not,” her voice soft, “but it will be faster.”

 Peter tenses at her gentle touch, his breath catching slightly. The sensation of her fingers ghosting over his scarred skin sends a jolt through him he wasn’t expecting. “Careful. I bite.” The words come out rougher than intended.

“In that case, I will be mindful not to make any sudden movements.” She gives him a teasing smile.

His blue eyes track every movement of her hands as she carefully helps him put on the gloves. “You’re different from the others who have seen me… most girls your age would have run away screaming by now”

“I’m 24, and I have seen things worse than burn scars.” She quickly puts on her own gloves and leads him deeper into the special collection. This part of the library is in sharp contrast to the old-world charm throughout the rest of it. In here, it is modern with sharp edges, bright lights, and the air smells almost sterile due to careful climate control. The books are all locked away in glass cases designed to protect them from UV light. “The one you are looking for is back here. It is titled ‘Sacra Lunae Plenae.’ It was handwritten in the 1300s by a Jesuit Monk living in the northern corner of Scotland. I hope you can read Latin; otherwise, you might not have much use for it.” She carefully removes the old leather tome from its case, reverently supporting its spine as she lays it on a pillowed book cradle.

He moves to stand behind her at the cradle and reaches around to run a gloved finger along the edge of the book. She can feel his warm breath on her neck. “I’m fluent in several languages, sweetheart. Latin being one of them.” He turns a page gently. “Now that I see how extraordinary this piece is, I appreciate your concern for its preservation.”

She swallows thickly. His proximity is unsettling. “It’s how I got the job. I have a master’s degree in book conservation.”   

He hums in acknowledgment, gaze not drifting from the delicate pages.

“Be careful not to touch the illustrations. I will be sitting at my desk. Let me know when you are done so that I can put the book away. Don’t try to do it yourself.”

***

Peter watches her as she leaves the special collection. What an interesting creature. Peter had met mediums two times before. One of them was walking the streets with a shopping cart full of trash, and the other was working for one of those ridiculous 1-800-talk-to-gramma scams. This one, however, seemed to be somewhat functional. He can’t help but admire the girl. When he was a young man, he might have studied something similar, but his pack needed a lawyer, not a book curator.

Something is captivating about her that makes his wolf stir. She has an understated elegance that draws him in, her brown hair pulled back into a loose bun, a few rebellious strands framing her face. Her eyes sparkle with curiosity when she looks at him despite his monstrous appearance. The gentle smile she gave him while helping with the gloves somehow made the humiliating moment feel inviting. In another life, He can picture himself approaching her desk, entering into a conversation about favorite books or authors, laughing over shared interests.

As enticing as those thoughts are, tonight he can’t afford pretty distractions. In a few hours, he needs to be back in his hospital bed, playing the catatonic. The only good thing about being an invalid is that he has ample time to plan. With the help of his nurse, Jennifer, he has been able to identify many of the people involved in the fire. All of them owe a blood debt to the Hale’s and he intends to collect every one. Laura was unfortunate collateral. He wanted Jennifer to find him an alpha to kill; he didn’t expect her to lure in his niece. At the time, his wolf was still too feral to know the difference. The wolf didn’t recognize her as pack after her abandonment. All it saw was a threat. Jennifer is going to die for that once she ceases to be useful.

The plus side is that he is finally getting a jump start in his healing and his mind, though still far too feral to be completely trusted, is starting to knit back together. Now, he can work on his contingency plan. He is aware that there is a high likelihood that he could die while trying to achieve his goals. A pack of bitten betas can be unpredictable, and the Argents are formidable hunters. There's no way he would let even the grasp of death stand between him and his revenge. Six years of catatonia gave him ample time to think up a ritual that might do the trick, but there were still a few missing pieces. ‘Sacra Lunae Plenae’ reveals that the hunter’s moon might have the specific magical attributes needed to raise the dead. He hopes that if he dies, it will be by mid-October because otherwise, he will have to wait a full year before he can complete his plot. He might be too decomposed at that point.

One other piece that is missing is the mediator. He needs someone to perform the ritual after he dies, someone he can connect with and who has some sort of magical ability. Merideth had suggested biting a local teen with banshee ancestry. His eyes wander in the direction of Hannah’s desk. She could be perfect for the task, but how do I make a connection strong enough without turning or killing her? Mediums are not immune to the bite like banshees are. This would require more research another day.

***

Sitting at her desk, the librarian’s thoughts drift to Peter Hale. She finds herself pondering the intensity in his gaze. It was as if he saw beyond her role as a librarian. There’s a depth to him, she thinks. Yet, there is a hesitation in the air, a barrier constructed by trauma that both fascinated and intimidated her.

She catches glimpses of his thoughtful expressions as he contemplates the book, and it leaves her wondering about the unspoken connection that lingers between them. Does he feel it too? As she returns to her tasks, her heart flutters with the prospect of what could be, caught between trepidation and the promise of a connection that feels destined.  

Chapter Text

Over the next few days, Hannah does what librarians do best: she researches. She has plenty of time for it, working overnight. The first clue to unraveling Peter Hale is the information found in his library records. He was a generous donor both with money and precious books, which are still sitting in the collection. Curiously, his account isn’t filled with access requests to priceless specimens, but with children’s books. Someone in his life must have really liked ‘The Wolf Who Learned to be Good,’ because it was checked out multiple times over the years. Town records reveal he wasn’t married and didn’t have any children of his own. The books must have been for the niece he mentioned, or maybe a nephew.

The newspaper archives reveal a more grisly history. What starts out as occasional articles about charitable donations to the library ends in reports of the tragic Hale fire. The fire was suspected to be arson. Eleven lives were lost, including a few children. Peter was the only survivor and was reported to be comatose and likely to remain so for the rest of his life. There were two others of the family still reported to be alive, Laura and Derek. Neither was in the house at the time of the fire. I wonder where they are now?

There were a few follow-up articles to the fire. The sheriff’s department was never able to identify the culprits. Peter is also mentioned to continue to be comatose and a permanent resident of Beacon Crossings, a long-term care facility. She makes a mental note to look further into it later.

While putting books away in the non-fiction section, she notices yesterday’s newspaper sitting out on an otherwise empty desk. ‘Body Identified as Laura Hale.’ Poor Guy. As soon as he gets out of bed, one of his few remaining relatives is killed, she thinks. The article describes a press release from Sheriff Stellinski.

“Partial remains of Laura Hale were found in the preserve. There is evidence that it could be an animal attack, but the death remains suspicious, and the investigation is ongoing.”

***

“A romance book? You don’t look the type.” Hannah gives Peter her full attention this time he approaches her desk at 1am. It had been a number of days since she first met him and she was beginning to lose hope he would ever come back. She notices his scars are more healed than the last time. Her gaze doesn’t dwell on them too long, afraid he might catch her.

“I’m not, but you look like you could be.” Of course, she reads romance books; he can smell the sexual frustration on her. “I picked it up at a used bookstore. I thought you might like it.”

“Guilty as charged,” she takes the book from him and examines the cover. “A werewolf book? ‘His Human Luna,’ I haven’t read this one before.” She briefly flips through the pages.

“It centers around this werewolf alpha who has always adhered to the traditional expectations of his pack, but everything changes when he meets a human woman who somehow captures his attention.” Peter wonders if she will pick up on the hints he is leaving her. “Trashy romance books were my sister’s guilty pleasure.”

“Your sister and I have something in common,” she teases.

“Had.” The conversation takes a more serious turn with Peter’s statement.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she says quietly; her voice conveys genuine empathy.

“I didn’t come here just to talk about romance books. I need to see another book in the Abernathy Collection, ‘A Compendium of the Lycanthrope’.”

She raises an accusing eyebrow. “Fitting.” She leads him back to the same room as before. This time he surprisingly doesn’t need help with the gloves. She can’t help but feel a little disappointed at that. She was hoping for another chance to touch him.

She lays the book out for him and he immediately starts flipping through the pages, stopping on a section about courting and mate bonds.

“Mate bonds? I guess werewolf romances must have been popular in the 1800s as well,” she jokes. “Are you researching to write your own book or something?”

“Something more akin to a play.” His eyes glance from the page to meet hers, the unspoken connection palpable. “According to this, mate bonds were believed to transcend death. Tell me, sweetheart, do you believe in destined connections like the ones described in books?”

Peter doesn’t miss the skip in her heartbeat.

“I like to think so.” A blush creeps up to her cheeks.

Peter feels the urge to kiss her before she goes back to her desk, but he won’t. Not yet. 

What he finds in the pages of ‘A Compendium of the Lycanthrope’ is exactly the information he needed. The claiming bite of an alpha poses no risk of turning their chosen mate. Perfect. Now I just have to figure out how to convince her.

***

 It is almost midnight, and Peter is on yet another trip to the library. This time, it isn’t for research. He needs to figure out how to get Hannah to become his mate. He has never had need to court a woman before. He usually just lets his good looks do the work for him. He doesn’t have that anymore. His wolf insists he should present her with a buck, prove he can provide for her. Peter has to fight back the urge. No, that will just make a mess. No nests either.  

He could give her expensive gifts, but he doesn’t want to flash money at her. It might work, but he doesn’t want a mate who is with him for the money. There needs to be genuine emotion for the connection to be strong enough to perform the ritual. If not money, good looks, or gifts, how does he get the woman’s attention? Maybe I should start reading those stupid romance books.

Chapter Text

In the heart of the library, Peter sets up a chessboard on a sturdy wooden table, its surface polished but marred with age. This would not be just a game of chess—it is a dance of wit, charm, and seduction, and he intends to win in every sense. As Hannah approaches, the creak of the floorboards seems to echo into the stillness. her subtle scent of ozone and aged paper wraps around him. The dim lighting casts shadows over the chessboard as Peter leans back, a playful smile curling at the unscarred corner of his lips. Opposite him, the librarian sits and rests her chin on her hand, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Do you always bring your own chess set to a library?” she teases, “Or is that just a ploy to get the attention of unsuspecting librarians?”

“Oh, I assure you, it’s only the most captivating players who draw me in.” He moves a knight forward, a glint of intrigue in his eyes.

“Flattery will only get you so far, Peter,” she says as she moves forward a pawn. “You’ll need more than that to distract me from the board. I don’t play just to lose.”

“Ah, but losing can be more enlightening than winning,” he counters smoothly, leaning in a little closer. “I find the thrill of the chase rather exhilarating.”

She pauses, her fingers hovering over her next move, a smile playing on her lips. “Is that so? And here I thought you preferred checkmate over the chase. Perhaps I’ll have to make this game a little more interesting.”

Peter replies, locking her gaze, “What do you propose? A wager, perhaps? The loser must grant the winner a favor.”

“Be careful, Peter. You might find my favors far more than you bargained for.” She smirks as she moves a rook across the board, capturing his queen.

His heart races as the tension between them becomes more palpable. With a deft move, he slides a bishop into place and leans closer, “I’m counting on it.”

***

“Checkmate.” She sits up straighter, a triumphant smile plastered on her face.

Peter narrows his eyes as he realizes he has been outplayed. “Seems that way,” he admits as he leans back in his chair.  The minx distracted me.

“That means I get my favor.” She leans forward, and the way her eyes glint with mischief in the low light sends a shiver down Peter’s spine.

“And what would that be, sweetheart?” Peter asked, his tone is teasing, yet somehow curious. The library around them is stone still, as if the books themselves are holding their breath, waiting for her response.

She blushes, and there is a moment of silence before she whispers, “A kiss.”

Peter’s control snaps at her unexpected request. He assumed he would be the one to make the first move. He suddenly stands and pulls her to her feet. His hands frame her face with unexpected gentleness despite their rough appearance.

His lips crash against hers, the kiss filled with years of pent-up frustration. The scars on his body feel rough against her skin as she slips one under the back of his shirt. He groans into her mouth, one hand tangling in her hair, the other snaking around her waist. She is so lost in the kiss that she doesn’t notice they are moving until she feels her back pressed up against the hard edge of a bookshelf.

 When Peter’s wolf threatens to surface, he grips one of the shelves, his claws leaving deep gouges in the wood. He is the first to break the kiss, breathing heavily, his eyes screwed shut to keep her from seeing how they glow red with desire.

He rests his forehead on hers. “I shouldn’t want you like this, but I do.”

She traces his jawline with her thumb; the contrast between his rough scars and her smooth skin is stark. “We can't control what we want, so why not embrace it?"

***

Hannah starts paying more attention to the daily newspaper after the death of Laura Hale. As Peter’s visits to the library become more frequent, so do the disconcerting headlines. Animal attacks, a mountain lion at the high school, and the murder of a video store clerk. Most of the deaths have the hallmarks of predator attacks but are still considered suspicious. What kind of animal would break into a video store to kill someone?

 One morning, a name stands out in the headlines. ‘Derek Hale Implicated in Murders’, I guess his nephew is in town. The article goes on to explain that some teens were trapped inside the high school after hours. During that time, a janitor was brutally murdered and the school, as well as a jeep in the parking lot, sustained significant damage. One of the teens, a sophomore named Scott McCall, identified Derek Hale as the murderer. Why would they publish this based on the statement of one teenager, she wonders.  

It is the next sentence that leaves her stunned.

‘Peter Hale, the sole survivor of the Hale fire, is ruled out as a suspect because he remains a catatonic resident of Beacon Crossings.’

“WHAT?!?!?” Her words echo in the darkened library. I definitely need to look into this.

***

Hannah forgoes her usual daytime nap to make a trip to ‘Beacon Crossings’ to see for herself if her Peter is the same one who is catatonic in this facility. She creeps down the hallway just in time to see a handsome man, about her age, enter Peter’s room with a teenage boy. She takes a cautious glimpse into the room. That’s Peter all right. What game is he playing? She stays just out of sight on the other side of the door and listens in on the conversation between the two men.  

“Who is he?” the younger one asks quietly.

“My uncle-- Peter Hale.”

“Is he... like you? A Werewolf?” The younger boy sounds very cautious with his questioning.

“He was. Now, he's barely even human. Six years ago, my sister and I were at school, and our house caught fire. Eleven people were trapped inside. He was the only survivor.”

A werewolf? What are these people smoking? Werewolves are not real, she thinks to herself, despite the seeds of doubt beginning to take hold in her brain.

“So... what makes you so sure that they set the fire?”

“'Cause they're the only ones that knew about us!” The man is angry. If he gets any louder, he is going to attract the attention of the nurses.

“Well, then... they had a reason...”

“Like what? You tell me what justifies this. They say they'll only kill an adult, and only with absolute proof, but there were people in my family who were perfectly ordinary in that fire. This is what they do. And it's what Allison will do,” the man explains. Hannah slips out the way she came when she hears the clicking of the nurses’ heels coming down the hallway.

Peter? A werewolf? She starts connecting the dots. The books, cryptic hints, the accelerated healing, the howl she heard that night she first met him. If ghosts are real, why not werewolves?

Chapter Text

“This is different.” Andrew is watching her as she gets dressed in her apartment. She can see his contorted reflection in her standing mirror. Her apartment is messy, clothes strewn everywhere, and makeup scattered about on top of her dresser. A half-drunk mug of tea from yesterday sits on her bedside table.

“I have the night off, so I am going to make the best of it,” she says as she hastily puts her hair into a ponytail.

“Dressed like that?” The apparition raises one unsettling eyebrow. Hannah is wearing dirty sneakers, mismatched socks, skinny jeans, an oversized t-shirt, and a faded hoodie. Not what one would expect of a 24-year-old on a Friday night.

She rolls her eyes in response. “It is perfect for hiking in the preserve.”

“The preserve, at night, alone?” The apparition almost sounds concerned.

She ignores his question. “Andrew…I have a question for you,” she says, sounding a bit vulnerable. “How do I talk to spirits?.. I mean deliberately. Usually, they just come to me.”

Andrew seems to ponder this, shifting uncomfortably on one of his broken legs. “You could try asking?”

“Gee, what a great help you are. Why didn’t I think of that?” Her voice is flatly sarcastic.

“I am being serious, Hannah. Dead things seem to like you.” Andrew meant for this to be comforting, even though it is anything but.

***

 A feeling of unease settles on her as she ventures into the dark preserve. Though her instincts urge her to turn back, curiosity pulls her deeper. In nearly impenetrable darkness, her flashlight barely manages to illuminate the tangled roots and slick rocks in her path. Every rustle of leaves and creak of branches seems exaggerated.

 A chill breeze filters through the trees, carrying with it the distant echoes of anguished screams. As the charred remains of the Hale house come into view, dread and unease settle in her bones. This isn’t just a burned house, it’s a tomb.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Her voice is quiet and unsure.

The only response she gets is silence, and she feels incredibly stupid for trying.

“I’m a clairvoyant… I can talk to you if you want,” she says with a little more confidence.

Still, there is only silence.

“Alright, I didn’t come all this way for nothing. I don’t mean to disturb you, I just want to know what really happened. Who did this to you? Were you really werewolves?” She takes a hesitant step onto the porch, holding the splintered railing.

Everything seems to start all at once.

The house is engulfed in orange flames, smoke billowing into the sky. Desperate screams cry out for help, Glass shatters as windows are broken in a futile attempt at escape. Hazy silhouettes can be seen through the smoke and flame, struggling to find an exit amidst the chaos.

She stumbles further into the house and crashes onto the floor. There are shadows crawling under the smoke, panicked and confused. Are those the children? A child’s cry cuts through the roar of the flames. Time feels warped; each anguishing second she is forced to watch feels like an eternity.  Is this what Peter saw?

There is a growl behind her. When she looks over her shoulder, the doorway is filled with a massive black beast with glowing crimson eyes that seem to bore into her soul. The beast is real, and it is here for her.

A scream rips from her throat when the beast pounces onto her and sinks its razor-sharp teeth deep into the meat of her shoulder. Searing pain blinds her vision, and liquid heat flows through her veins. The beast’s jaws hold her firm through the pain, red blood dripping from its muzzle. Deep inside her, she starts to feel the pull of something stronger. It is as if some part of her is being rewritten to match his.

When he finally pulls back, the burning pain is replaced by a pulsing ache. The deeper sensation, strange and permanent, knits itself into her very being. There is no doubt, she belongs to him now.

Then everything goes black.

***

Peter, now in his human form, moves swiftly through the preserve with his unconscious mate cradled in his arms. The human mind isn’t designed to process something so profound as a mate bond. He isn’t worried though; he knows she will wake once the bond fully settles. The priority right now is to get his mate somewhere safe and comfortable to rest.

 As he navigates the underbrush, his mind races with thoughts, a storm beneath his calm façade. The newly formed mate bond is bewildering. It is not what the lore had promised - euphoric connection, enhanced instincts, shared strength. He had imagined such a bond would be a source of power. Instead, he feels a strange mix of vulnerability and protectiveness that leaves him unsettled. He had always envisioned being with someone formidable, who could match him in strength —a fellow werewolf. Instead, the circumstances lead him to someone fragile and beautifully human.

She is mine. I protect what is mine. The thought makes him feel a sense of responsibility and purpose. It also terrifies him. Instead of a source of strength, his mate could be a vulnerability.

Peter closes his eyes, biting back a wave of frustration. What if this bond proves detrimental? The thought gnaws at him. What if I made a mistake?

The steady heartbeat beneath her layers of clothing is strangely reassuring but also reminds him of the fragility of human life. He breathes deeply, and his heartbeat falls into sync with hers. He can feel the mate bond tugging at his chest, like an invisible thread that ties their fates together.

With each passing moment, he feels the tether between them getting stronger. Whatever had brought this situation upon him, in his heart, he knows that what had started out as mere infatuation has turned into something far deeper - something profound. The warmth of it feels like a lifeline, anchoring him in a way he didn’t think would be possible after the fire. Maybe this bond can be a source of strength after all.

Chapter Text

When Peter finally gets to her apartment, he gently sets his unconscious mate down in her bed, careful to avoid tripping over a pile of laundry left on the floor. He rubs the back of his neck as he takes in the chaos around him, feeling a mixture of amusement and exasperation. The scene is so different from the organized spaces he maintains.

October is just around the corner, and clearly the girl is passionate about halloween. Half-finished crafts were scattered across the dining table, and a dusting of orange and black confetti lay on the floor beneath it. Decorations are strewn everywhere—cheap streamers cling to the walls, plastic spiders dangle from the ceiling, and home-carved foam jack-o'-lanterns are set on various surfaces, their faces carved in cute yet uneven designs. Despite how jarring the space is, he can't deny the charm in it all.  It is surprisingly heartwarming to see these little glimpses of her vibrant personality.

Looking around, he feels a strange urge to help bring some order to the chaos, born from a foreign desire to care for his mate. While picking up a stray pumpkin, he ponders the implication of their bond, the need to reconcile the parts of him that are at odds with her. Perhaps it is this dissonance that will teach him a new strength — tolerance of differences and the acceptance of the beautiful imperfections of human life.

He knows he can't stay until she wakes. The hospital bed can't be left empty for long without someone taking notice. He abandons his attempts to create order in favor of writing a note to leave at her bedside.

Hannah,

I regret not being able to be here when you wake. Don’t doubt the reality of what happened last night. I promise to explain later.

Your mate,

Peter   

***

Hannah sits hunched at her desk in the library, the dim lamplight casting long shadows across stacks of leather-bound books. Outside the tall, arched windows, the wind rattles the ancient panes, carrying the scent of damp stone and fallen leaves. She traces her finger along the edge of a ledger, though her thoughts are far from overdue fines or catalog numbers.

The last few days have been nothing short of extraordinary.

The next time she saw Peter, all of his scars were gone. Well, at least the ones on the outside, anyway.

Peter had been true to his word. He explained everything, just as he promised. He told her of his lineage—a family of werewolves who protected Beacon Hills for centuries, only to be burned alive in their beds by the Argents. The fire left him scarred, both inside and out. During his six-year convalescence, he meticulously plotted revenge on everyone tied to that night.

He confessed to the recent killings, as well as impulsively turning a teenager into a beta against the boy’s will. Having witnessed the vision of the fire herself, she cannot bring herself to condemn him.

Is this the mate bond speaking, or is it me? she wonders.

Kate Argent—a truly vile creature who preyed upon his fifteen-year-old nephew for information about the pack—remains the target of his vengeance and has yet to be caught. This singular focus drives him, but he promised that once the blood debt is settled, all his attention will belong to their bond. The thought both unsettles and excites her: a man so dangerous, so untamed, yet capable of devotion beyond reckoning, belongs to her.

Occasionally, she catches herself questioning if the mate bond is even real, yet the relentless thrum beneath her skin answers before her mind can—pulling her, claiming her, reminding her with every heartbeat of the finality of the bond. Even in his absence, his presence lingers, a magnetic weight in her thoughts, her body, her very blood. It is both comforting and consuming, a bond that promises protection, passion, and peril in equal measure. She is his in ways that transcend choice, irrevocably, undeniably his.

***

Peter really has better things to do. A rebellious beta still needs breaking, blood debts linger unpaid, and Derek is nowhere to be found. Revenge waits for no man. Yet here he is, standing outside Fearhouse Manor—a gaudy carnival of fog machines, stuttering strobe lights, and teenagers in rubber masks pretending at horror. He’d been trailing the faint scent of minor prey through downtown Beacon Hills when he caught sight of something far more interesting: his mate, waiting in line, blissfully unaware.

The shrieks from inside grate on his sensitive ears, and the stench of the crowd—sweat, cheap perfume, fried food—turns his stomach. He masks his discomfort as he slips into line next to her.

“Really? A haunted house?” he drawls. “This is the best you could come up with on a Saturday night?”

“Peter!” she exclaims, startled but pleased, her smile breaking warm against the chill of the evening. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw you from the street,” he lies smoothly, “and couldn’t resist saying hello.” The reward is immediate: she slips her arm into his, her happiness making his wolf purr low in his chest.

“Why a haunted house? Bit immature for a woman like you. Most people outgrow these in their teens.”

“Nostalgia.” She doesn’t bristle at his criticism—something that makes him love her more. “My grandfather used to take me to one of these every October. Care to join me?”

He gives her an incredulous look. Surely she’s joking. But her playful nudge and teasing grin say otherwise. Despite his discomfort with the situation, something else stirs—an excitement he doesn’t expect. Deep down, he wants to please her.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” she teases. “What’s the worst that could happen? You turn into a wolf and bite the scare actors?”

“Only if they get too close,” he quips, more than half serious. He can’t promise his wolf won’t lash out at a perceived threat to his mate. “I’ll go with you… but only if you promise to scream my name when you’re terrified.” A wicked gleam lights his eyes.

She arches a brow. “That sounds vaguely perverted.”

“That’s because it is,” he says without shame, his voice dipping lower, rougher. “For a werewolf, the scent of fear stirs something primal. The trembling, the wide eyes, the ragged breaths—every trace of it fuels the hunt. And when it comes from you…” His smile is sharp. “It’s intoxicating.”

***

As they step through the entrance of Fearhouse Manor, the atmosphere shifts. Dim lights flicker overhead, casting long, twitching shadows. Plywood boards creak underfoot, and somewhere in the distance, a scream slices through the low drone of eerie music. The scent of dust and latex stings Peter’s nose, making him sneeze.

Hannah turns to him, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Are you sure you can handle this? I know you’ve got your werewolf strength and all, but these ghosts can be pretty scary!”

Peter smirks, his usual confidence flashing. “Please. I’ve faced rogue hunters and real supernatural threats. A few fake ghosts won’t even put a scratch on me.”

Just then, a ghastly figure leaps from behind a wall, blood-curdling scream included. Hannah yelps and instinctively clings to him. A deep, primal thrill surges through Peter. She’s never felt safer than when she’s with me, his wolf preens.

“Your screams are adorable,” he chuckles.

Hannah shakes off her fright, cheeks flushed. “Okay, that was a little startling. Admit it, that got to you too!”

“That? Didn’t faze me. Just doing my best to support you in your moment of need,” he teases, though a sharp edge of satisfaction glimmers in his eyes.

With every corner they turn, Hannah grows more unsettled—flinching at shifting shadows, her grip on him tightening with near-bruising force.

“That’s it, hold on tight,” he purrs, savoring the decadent edge of her fear. Its fragrance coils around him like smoke, and he thinks, almost hungrily, I don’t mind this one bit. In that moment, the world outside, with its hunts, debts, and dangers, doesn’t exist. There is only this—her heartbeat against his chest, her trust in his strength, and the intoxicating thrill of her fear.

Chapter Text

What most people don’t understand about mate bonds is that they don’t simply snap or tear away when a mate dies—that would suggest an untethering, something that could be endured. A bond is far more than fragile emotion; it is sinew, threading mind and body to the soul of another. The damage is more akin to the rending of flesh than the breaking of a heart. No, instead of a clean break, it is a rupture; violent, sudden, and sickening.

Hannah knew immediately that something had gone terribly wrong.

First, there was the shock of it. Hannah had been sitting at her kitchen table when she suddenly felt the air being sucked out of her lungs. Her senses faltered; her vision blurred, her ears rang, and the steady thrum of that something in the back of her mind turned deadly silent.

Next came the pain. It was sudden and stabbing, like a knife to the gut. For a moment, her world narrowed to that single point of agony. When the edge of it dulled, it left behind a hollow, relentless ache that settled deep into her bones. Something had happened to him.

So, she did what any reasonable person would do. She panicked.

****

Her phone shakes in her hand as she dials his number again. Straight to voicemail. She tries again. And again. Each unanswered call sends a fresh spike of panic through her chest, the silence on the other end breaking her a little more each time. She sends text after text—anything that might reach him. Her hands tremble so badly she can barely keep her grip. The hollow ache inside her constantly reminds her that something is terribly, irreversibly wrong.

She runs into the preserve, having gone there on instinct, heart hammering. As she stumbles through the underbrush, thorned branches whip at her arms and face, but she barely notices. Her fear drowns out everything else. She calls his name into the night until her voice is hoarse, but the forest swallows her cries.  Every snapped twig and rustle of leaves makes her whip around, desperate to see him step out from the darkness, to prove her wrong, to make this emptiness in her vanish. Her legs burn, lungs raw, but she pushes deeper into the preserve, towards the hale house.

She breaks through the tree line, breath ragged, only to stop dead at the sight before her—the charred remains of the Hale house, yellow crime scene tape crisscrossing the wreckage. Flashing red and blue lights wash over the blackened beams, casting shadows as investigators move with careful steps. Uniformed officers stand guard at the perimeter, their murmured voices and clipped radios a sharp contrast to the silence of the forest around them. Her heart clenches as she realizes she is too late— there is a body being taken from the house. She doesn’t stay long enough to see who it is. It doesn’t matter. She knows Peter is gone.

Hannah curls up on her couch, blankets wrapped around her. She is sick. Very sick.  Her body seems to know something is missing, and every part of her is screaming to have it back. She closes her eyes, but sleep has become impossible. It is like her body has forgotten how to rest.

Her heart pounds harder than it should, sweat breaks across her skin, and her stomach twists in knots. Sometimes it feels like she is burning from the inside, other times like she's freezing. The discomfort is relentless—headaches, trembling, nausea.

2 days later

Hannah’s body feels as though it’s shutting down piece by piece. This is no longer discomfort—it’s collapse. Violent tremors rattle through her, making it impossible to so much as hold a cup of water. Fever surges and crashes in dizzying waves, leaving her disoriented. Her heart stutters in erratic bursts, too fast, then too slow. Nausea coils deep in her stomach, wrenching her into dry heaves long after there’s nothing left to bring up.

Whenever she tries to stand, the room tilts violently, forcing her to sit or risk crashing down to the floor. That’s when the fear strikes her —not of pain, but of the terrifying possibility that her body may not recover.

She doesn’t know who called 911, maybe Andrew, but she isn’t surprised when she wakes to the sterile lights and sharp antiseptic air of Beacon Hospital.

***

Hannah drifts in and out of consciousness. Machines hum softly around her, a steady counterpoint to the erratic rhythm inside her chest. The tremors ease only under the weight of IV fluids and medication, leaving her exhausted but calmer. Each breath no longer feels like a battle, though her chest still aches with the hollow throb of absence.

The days pass in fragments—nurses checking her vitals, the quiet hiss of oxygen, the sting of needles when they replace an IV. Slowly, her body begins to remember how to function without tearing itself apart. The fevers break, leaving her damp and spent but no longer burning. Her heart steadies into something close to normal, though it still surges painfully when the emptiness presses too close.

***

Steam curls around her as Hannah steps into the shower; it’s the first she’s taken on her own since being admitted. It feels like a small victory—standing without help, steadying herself on the slick tile as water rushes over her. For a fleeting moment, she allows herself to relax, to feel almost human again.

But then the water shifts. The warmth against her skin suddenly feels scalding, burning instead of soothing. The hiss of the shower morphs into the roar of flames. When she blinks against the steam, the white tile walls ripple and darken into blackened wood. Panic claws at her chest, and she can almost hear voices screaming from within the fire.

A voice cuts through, a whisper pressed cold against her ear.

“Still in the ashes.”

His voice. Too close. Too wrong, dripping with something invasive. The sound of it freezes her in place, her pulse thundering louder than the roar of the flames.

I need to get the fuck out of this hospital. Now. She doesn’t even bother to put on clothes before running into the night.

***

            Hannah can’t put off work any longer, though at least they’ve spared her the night shift. The hum of patrons and the easy chatter of her coworkers offer a fragile kind of relief—a rhythm that dulls the raw throb of the bond’s damage. Surrounded by ordinary noise and motion, she can almost trick herself into believing she’s normal again. Almost.

She sits at her desk, fingers drumming absently across the keyboard, when something snags her attention—the familiar sweep of a leather jacket disappearing around a shelf. Her breath catches.

“Peter?”

She rises before she can think, chasing after the glimpse of him. The jacket flickers ahead of her, always just out of reach, leading her deeper into the library’s maze. She weaves through rows of shelves, past startled patrons and librarians who glance up as she hurries past, calling his name.

At last, he stops. He stands in the center of a private study, a small room off the main library floor. His back is turned to her. For a single heartbeat, she believes he’s really there. Then the air warps, and the room erupts in fire. Flames devour the walls, the shelves, the figure before her.

She staggers back, coughing on smoke that is only real to her. Peter finally turns to her. His skin is charred and peeling in sheets, cracking open to ooze blood that hisses as it meets the flames. His face is half-melted, a mask of blackened flesh stretched too tight. When his eyes find hers through the blaze, it’s like staring into something both human and hell-born.

“Still in the ashes,” he whispers.

Hannah screams.

***

The following evening:

Hannah stirs the pasta sauce, the smell of garlic and simmering tomatoes filling the small apartment. She glances over her shoulder. “Andrew… you’re here,” she says softly. She isn’t sure exactly when Andrew became more to her than just a frequent annoyance, but now, in the quiet of her kitchen, she is secretly grateful for him.

A faint shimmer in the corner of the kitchen coalesces into his form, translucent but solid enough to lean casually against the counter. “I wouldn’t miss dinner,” he says, voice low and teasing, though there’s an edge of concern in his tone.

“I’ve been… seeing things,” she admits, chopping a clove of garlic with a little more force than necessary. “Hallucinations, I think… or visions. Peter. Fire. He keeps saying, ‘Still in the ashes.’”

Andrew’s form flickers faintly in the kitchen light. “The visions are tied to your bond, Hannah. They’re not just memories—they’re echoes. They’ll haunt you until you understand what they want you to see.”

“Do you think maybe I should try to find Derek Hale?” she asks quietly, voice almost lost in the simmering pot. “Maybe he could answer some questions.”

Andrew tilts his head, watching her closely as she continues.

“He would be hard to find, though,” she sighs.

A faint ripple passes through his form, a subtle shimmer that makes the air feel colder. “I can help,” he says. “I can reach through the threads of the supernatural, track him in ways you can’t. If he’s out there, I can find him.”

Hannah swallows hard, the spoon clattering lightly against the pot. “You can really do that?”

“I can,” Andrew replies, voice calm but edged with certainty.

“I might just end up taking you up on that offer.” She turns off the pot and takes a sip of the sauce.

“I will expect something in return.” He smirks at her suggestively, though there is no seriousness in it.

Hannah freezes mid-stir. Her eyes widen. “The pasta!” she exclaims, slapping her forehead. “I… I completely forgot the pasta,” she grabs her coat from the hook by the door, muttering to herself as she pulls it on. “I’m going to the store. I’ll be right back.”

***

Hannah pushes her cart down the brightly lit aisle, the hum of fluorescent lights and the low murmur of other shoppers a fragile tether to reality. She rounds the corner toward the bakery section and suddenly freezes. The world flickers—the shelves warp, the lights flare—and she’s no longer in the grocery store.

Flames lick the walls, thick smoke curling around her, choking the familiar smells of bread and produce. Peter stands at the base of a staircase, body charred, eyes glinting through the blaze. The roar of fire drowns out all other sound, but she hears his voice as if it cuts through her mind directly:

“Still in the ashes.”

Her gaze follows him instinctively, and something small catches her eye. Stuck between two blackened beams on the stairs is a USB drive, half-hidden in the splintered wood, untouched by flame. She reaches toward it, but the world shifts again—the grocery store returns, lights buzzing softly above, her cart wheels squeaking against the tile.

I need to go back to that house. I need to find that USB drive.

***

Hannah steps carefully over the blackened beams and splintered wood of the Hale house ruins, her laptop tucked under her arm. Each footfall crunches against charred debris. She crouches near the base of the staircase, eyes scanning the wreckage until they settle on a small glint of metal wedged between the burnt wood. Her heart stutters. The USB drive. Carefully, she pries it loose, but as she does, a plank of wood breaks free, revealing a stash of other items -- mirrors and a pouch of fine powder.

Settling against a wall, she opens her laptop and plugs in the USB. The screen flickers to life. Password required. The phrase springs to her lips before she even thinks: “Still in the ashes.” She types it, and the documents unlock.

What she finds in the document is unmistakably instructions for some kind of ritual. It calls for the light of the Hunter’s Moon to hit a precise point, sacred words to be spoken, the spark of a Hale alpha, and—most crucially—a mediator connected to Peter. There are even detailed steps on using powder to incapacitate the alpha before bringing him to the ritual site. Hannah pores over the document again and again, but the more she reads, the more questions multiply in her mind.

What will happen if I actually do this ritual? What is the purpose of it?
Where could it even be performed?

The questions swirl in her head until her gaze drifts to the floor ahead of her. Something catches her eye—an inconsistency in the boards, a section that seems newer, as if it had been removed and replaced. There. The moonlight needs to strike there. She isn’t exactly sure how she knows it, but something about that spot resonates in her bones.

***

Hannah stands at the edge of the abandoned train depot, nerves thrumming like live wires beneath her skin. The skeletal structure rises out of the overgrown rail yard, shattered windows catching the silver light of the full moon. She knows Derek is inside—exactly where Andrew said he would be. She pauses, drawing a deep breath, weighing her courage against the risk. One wrong move, one misstep, and an alpha on the full moon could end her. Her chest tightens as she edges closer to the train car. She can hear them, low growls and snarls, the shouts of Derek trying to keep his pack in line under the full moon’s influence. Chains rattle, bodies struggle, and his voice cuts sharply through the chaos.

Derek steps out of the train car, muscles taut and senses still keyed to the chaos behind him. His betas struggle and growl, and his mind is so consumed with keeping them in line that he doesn’t sense her approach. Then he sees her—impossibly close. Confusion flickers across his features; she shouldn’t have been able to get this near without him noticing. His hesitation is all the opening she needs.

Before Derek can react, she tilts her wrist and blows a fine purple powder into his face. The scent hits him instantly, sharp and disorienting, and confusion clouds his mind. He blinks, sways, but can’t ground himself. His body goes limp as the powder takes hold, and he collapses silently to the gravel beneath her feet.

There is nothing the betas can do; in fact, their alpha’s struggle doesn't even register in their moon-addled brains. With tremendous effort, Hannah hauls Derek from the depot and shoves him into the back seat of her car.

That went far smoother than I expected, she thinks, adjusting her rearview mirror. Her hands tighten on the wheel as she readies herself to head towards the Hale house.

***

Hannah drags Derek across the dusted floor of the Hale house, her muscles screaming in protest under his weight. His body is limp, barely conscious.

 “Stop…who are…where..” he mumbles incoherently.

She is exhausted, but she doesn’t stop until she reaches the spot where she had noticed the inconsistent floorboards a couple of days before. With a grunt, she wedges the crowbar under the edges of the loose boards and pries them up. Soft, loose dirt lies beneath, recently disturbed. She drags Derek closer and carefully positions his wrist over it.

Hannah stands, wipes sweat from her brow, and moves to the mirrors she had set up beforehand. She adjusts their angles so that the silver light of the Hunter’s Moon reflects directly onto the center of the exposed dirt. Her voice shakes at first, then steadies as she recites the sacred words she had studied from the USB. Each syllable echoes in the hollow room.

The earth shifts beneath her, and then it splits open. A dead, clawed hand bursts from the soil, wrapping around Derek’s wrist. Claws bite deep, drawing blood. Derek’s eyes flare red for a brief, terrifying moment, and Hannah stumbles back in both awe and fear. Then the impossible happens: Peter, drawing on the power of the alpha spark and the hunter’s moon, rises from the dirt, his body whole, his chest heaving, eyes blazing blue with renewed life.

He drags himself fully out of the hole, dirt cascading from him. He finally stands, towering and alive. Hannah stares, her emotions a swirl of terror and disbelief. The room feels charged, the night itself holding its breath as Peter looks down at her, fully returned from the ashes.

The bond snaps back into place like fire leaping across dry kindling. It’s a fierce, painful rush, a tangle of heat and pressure. Every nerve hums with recognition, every heartbeat is in time with his, and the hollow ache that had haunted her is replaced by that familiar tether, connecting her soul with his.

She should be ecstatic, rushing into a fierce embrace—but a single thought stops her, slicing through, sharp and undeniable: Peter used me. He’s been using me all along. Rage and betrayal flood her, hot and bitter, and without a second glance, she turns and runs—something she should have done the moment they first met.

Behind her, Peter doesn’t move. He doesn’t follow.

***

2 Weeks Later.

            Peter isn’t known for seeking forgiveness, but there is an exception for everything. With the kanima matter resolved and his return to normalcy secured, he is finally free to go to her. The fallen leaves crunch under his Armani shoes as he climbs the granite stairs leading to the library. He knows she is here. He can feel her presence tugging at his chest through the bond. The journey through the library is fast, muscle memory leading him to the special collections. She, too, already knows he is coming. Despite her humanity, the bond tugs at her just as much.

             Peter turns a corner, and there she is, in the same place as always. Her desk is just as disorganized as when he last saw it, plus or minus a few papers. They make eye contact; her eyes are red and puffy beneath her glasses. The knowledge that her tears are probably due to him makes his heart ache. She looks away, focusing on her work as if she isn’t already aware that he is there specifically to see her.

“Hannah, please, we need to talk,” he says as he stands over her desk.

She looks back up at him, “I suppose we do.”  She gets up and straightens her pencil skirt with her hands. “Somewhere private?”

He gestures for her to go first. “Lead the way.”

She brings him to a small study on the second floor, complete with high-back leather chairs and afternoon sun shining through the arched windows. They take seats across from each other.

After a beat of silence, she starts. “I thought you ghosted me.”

“I did, literally.”

“You used me.”

“Yes… in a way.”

“I was so sick I thought I was dying. I was HOSPITALIZED, Peter! Do you have any idea what a cesspool Beacon Hospital is!?” She stands and begins pacing like a caged animal.

“I have an idea…” He remains seated, his voice carefully controlled so as not to escalate the situation.

“My co-workers still look at me with pity!…and you… You never stopped to think about how this whole scheme would affect me, did you? Did you know how sick it would make me? How broken? I thought you wanted me, wanted this bond, but you only wanted a mediator for the ritual. You lied to me!”

“No!” His eyes glow blue with indignation. “I never lied, withheld some things, but never lied. Not to you.” He looks away with an expression similar to shame. “I want to explain everything, if you will let me.”

The leather chair squeaks as she sits and gets comfortable for the explanation. If she were a different woman, she would send him away. She wouldn’t give him the chance to speak. Maybe even throw a book at him on his way out. “I won’t interrupt.”

He takes a steadying breath before he begins. “I knew there was a high likelihood that I would die trying to achieve my revenge. I couldn’t let that happen. I didn’t spend six years healing and ruminating just to fail. So, I made a contingency plan. Over the years of catatonia, I was able to think through every scrap of arcane knowledge I possessed to come up with the idea for the ritual.”

“If I weren’t so angry, I would probably be impressed.”

“You said you wouldn’t interrupt,” he teasingly reminds her.

“Sorry,” she sighs.

“When we first met, I was coming here, trying to put together the details of the hunter’s moon ritual. There were some key missing pieces. One of those pieces was the mediator of the ritual. I needed someone I could connect to after death, a banshee, a shaman, or a witch who could perform it. I had thought up a plan to bite a girl at the high school with banshee ancestry to forge a connection, but then I found you. You were, and are, more than any of those things.”

“I am a medium,” she grumbles resentfully.

“You are my mate.” His voice is soft and pleading. “I couldn’t just bite you and make you a beta. If you survived the bite, you might lose your abilities when you become a wolf. Through research, I discovered that a claiming bite wouldn’t turn you, and a mate bond is more than strong enough of a connection for the ritual.”

He pauses, giving her a chance to process. When she says nothing, he continues.

 “I am not a good man, Hannah. I have done terrible things, but what I feel for you is real. You are my mate. The only one I will ever have.” He reaches for her hand, and she lets him have it. Their skin tingles at the point of contact. “Our connection is primal, reaching parts of us so deep that it survived death.”

A silent tear runs down her cheek. He gets on his knees in front of her, holding both of her hands. “I’m in love with you, Hannah.” Something in the bond thrums to life with his confession, warming both of their chests. “Please, give us another chance.”

In response, she leans forward and kisses him desperately. Her fingers card through his hair as he wraps his arms around her to pull her closer. When the kiss finally breaks, her reply comes between panting breaths. “You better not die again.”

For the first time in years, Peter smiles.