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There was a lot of things that Deucalion Blackwood was capable of enduring, or even ignoring. He had very little care for others, even for those he considered to be a part of his pack he could only extend so much sympathy. He had his limits on how long he was even willing to feign interest in things before he’d simply up and leave. If fools were to suffer, then let them do so.
But of course, most rules have an exception.
You were someone he would not stand to see hurt, taken advantage of, or belittled. Not as long as he was there to protect you, to ensure that there would be a hand to stay any such abuse you werre to receive. As long as his name was The Demon Wolf, nothing would touch you - and those who did would meet a gruesome fate.
So when you headed into that god forsaken preserve with the teenagers to go exploring, looking for a new threat that had emerged - because of course it had - he was on edge. He made a point to not help them unless asked, because first of all why should he and second of all they should be able to learn how to succeed without assistance. If they needed his help, they were free to ask for it. His phone was always kept on loud when you were out with them anyway. There was no world in which he’d risk missing a call from you, or about you.
He didn’t get a call last night, but when he saw you the following day, he knew something had happened anyway. Something you weren’t talking about.
He was no stranger to that of course, you weren’t the most open person when it came to talking about things that were bothering you. You were so sure, no matter how many times he’d told you other wise, that you weren’t worth burdening him with your issues. Deucalion was determined to teach you otherwise, he’d tell you the same thing time and time again until it had truly sunk in that you could never burden him, that there was nobody more worth his time and attention than you. There was nobody else he would be willing to give anywhere close to this amount of attention to, this much devotion. That truly was the only word that could describe the way he felt about you - devotion. The same way that a priest may devote themselves to their God.
He devised a plan.
You knew he was up to something when he invited you over to his apartment for dinner that evening, insisting that he’d order something from your favourite restaurant. The two of you rarely ordered from there because he didn’t like it all that much, there was places you both enjoyed that you would frequent. You got your favourite when he was up to something. Deucalion didn’t mind being a little obvious. If anything, it was probably a good idea - it allowed you to brace yourself, to be ready for the idea that something was coming.
You ate while watching the show you were currently obsessed with, curled up against his side and basking in the warmth his body provided. When you winced and shuffled from discomfort, Deucalion didn't hesitate before his hand was on you, gently massaging the pain away without hesitation, as if it were simply second nature to care for you. He'd made it so, not that he'd admit that. He reached for you with as much ease as be breathed air.
After that came the bath he drew for you, slipping into the tub behind you so he'd be able to wash and gently massage your body to soothe any further aches, and help you relax. Never once did his hands wander, they didn't even seem tempted to do so, far more focused on ensuring he could see the way tension faded from your muscles, the way you drifted further beneath the water's surface and into his chest, trusting him to hold you and keep you safe.
By the time he'd dried you and carried you to bed, wrapping you up in his arms beneath the sheets to enjoy their freshness and his embrace, you'd almost forgotten that you were being tricked. Lulled into a false sense of security.
“What happened yesterday, darling?” He finally asked, and you weren't sure you'd ever heaved a deeper sigh.
It took some time to explain, but Deucalion was a patient man.
You'd followed the teens into the preserve, as you so often did. Generally, threats went for the ‘wolves so you were mostly safe as a human. But not this time. The bad of the week had been a witch, and she was known for a particular kind of magic.
When you stepped into the range of the spell, left carved into the trodden earth, it created an illusion. The illusion was someone from your past, a figure from your life that you hated, or believed hated you. Then, it would bring up your every insecurity, past and present, and berate you. For the mentally well? The spell was easily dismissed. But not you.
You'd experienced a lot in your life so far, and someone else had needed to help you escape the spell's grip. It was fine, you'd insisted it was, because you were grown now and it'd been a long time since you were the person experiencing that daily.
Deucalion? He just nodded, and pulled you closer.
“I've got you now. Rest.” He murmured against the top of your head. With his heartbeat steady beneath your ear and his fingers tracing over your back, it wasn't difficult to fall asleep.
You should've known, you supposed, that it wouldn't be the end of the issue.
You had work the next day, and Deucalion had seen you off as he always did when you spent the night. You'd thought nothing of it at the time, because why would you?
On your break, you got a call from Scott. They'd found the witch, finally, in an abandoned cabin near the Beacon Hills border deep in the preserve. Except.. she was already dead. Now that, nobody had been expecting. He said it seemed like a Werewolf had gotten to her, but nobody was claiming the kill. That was what made understanding dawn on you. Scott hadn’t spoken to Deucalion yet, but you were already positive that it was him. That he was the one that had killed the witch. He’d heard everything about the day in the preserve, of course he would want to do something about it.
The bell chimed over the door, and before you could call out the standard greeting, you found the man in question standing there.
“That was Scott, I presume?” Deucalion asked, though you were sure he’d heard the call long before he’d reached the door thanks to his enhanced senses.
“The witch is dead.” You replied, just to see if he’d be honest, if he’d accept the weight of what he’d done.
“Of course she is. There is a price to pay for harming what is mine.” He said with a simple slight tilt of his head, as if to replace a shrug. His cane swung idly as he crossed the store towards you, more to keep up appearances than to actually help him navigate the space.
“Deucalion, you didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did, dear.” He replied, and his tone told you that there was no space to argue with him here.
When his arms wrapped around you, it wasn’t a surprise. His embrace was sure and comforting, designed to steady you and assure you that all was well. He would always ensure that you were well. He couldn’t truly erase the ghosts from your past, but he could slay all reminders of them without even a moment’s hesitation.
“One of these days, Scott is going to make you leave Beacon Hills.” You muttered, even if you weren’t as sure about that now as you would’ve been six months ago. The kid was changing, if only slowly.
“I don’t care for Beacon Hills. Home is where you are, whether it is here, in the deepest ocean or hottest desert, you are my home. Let him do as he pleases, but I will go where you lead, my dear.”