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Derek's car sped down the lonely stretch of road, the cracked window whistling against the air. His hands were tight on the wheel, blood still drying on his knuckles. The cut along his ribs burned with every breath, but the pain grounded him. It reminded him he was alive. It reminded him of his mistake.
He should have left the Argents alone. Watching them was one thing, but engaging them—letting them provoke him—was exactly the kind of reckless choice that drew bloodshed closer. He could already hear Laura's voice in his head, calm but sharp: You're playing right into their hands, Derek. Do you want to start a war?
His jaw tightened. He didn't want a war. But he didn't want to run, either. Not again.
The image of the young hunter's sneer replayed in his mind, the venom in his words—funny, your family wasn't so mighty that night.
That one had cut deeper than any blade.
The ghosts of his family still clung to Derek. Their smells, their voices. His mother's voice—gone in an instant. He had tried to bury those memories, but all it took was a single insult to rip them wide open.
He pulled the car onto a deserted side road and killed the engine. Silence pressed in. Derek leaned back against the seat, pressing his hand against his bleeding side. The wound was shallow, already knitting together, but it left him weary.
He hated this cycle between the two families. And every time, blood spilled on both sides until the ground itself seemed poisoned with it.
Laura wanted peace. She believed it was still possible, that the Hales could coexist with the Argents without more graves being dug. Derek wanted to believe her. But today had proven otherwise. The hunters were still watching, still waiting, still carrying silver and wolfsbane like they were gearing up for war.
And now, because he'd lost his temper, because he'd snapped, they had more reason than ever to treat him like a threat.
His hands trembled as he rested them on the steering wheel. Not from fear—but from frustration. He was tired of being outnumbered. Tired of being provoked. Tired of carrying the weight of a family name that was spoken only in past tense.
For a long moment, he stared at the trees lining the roadside, dark shadows against the light. His reflection in the cracked window looked like a stranger—eyes haunted, jaw set like stone.
Derek exhaled slowly. He couldn't undo today. The damage was done. But he could make a choice moving forward.
Either heed Laura's warning—or keep following this path that had already destroyed too much of his family.
He closed his eyes, gripping the wheel again. For now, he would drive home. Clean the wounds. Pretend he was fine. But deep down, Derek knew this wasn't over.
The Argents had given him a warning. He had answered it.
And when two sides trade warnings in blood, the storm always comes next.
Lunch had settled into something of a routine—something I didn't think I'd ever say about this school. Same table, same three people. Me, Malia, and Isaac.
It was strange, but in a good way. Strange because our conversations weren't about full moons, claws, or hunters for once. Instead, it was Isaac complaining about the lacrosse coach, Malia rolling her eyes at half the people in the cafeteria, and me trying not to laugh at either of them.
"Coach still won't put me on the field," Isaac groaned, stabbing at his mashed potatoes. "Bench. Every single time. I'm starting to think he just doesn't like my face."
"Can't blame him," Malia deadpanned.
Isaac narrowed his eyes. "Wow. Brutal."
I almost choked on my sandwich, trying to stifle a laugh. The two of them had gotten good at this back-and-forth, Isaac throwing lines, Malia smacking them down. But underneath it, there was comfort. Familiarity. The kind you only got when people started becoming real friends, not just people who shared secrets about the moon.
For a while, it felt normal. No worries about the next problem creeping out of the shadows. Just lunch. Just teenagers being teenagers.
Erica. Sitting alone, two tables away. A tray with barely touched food. Head down, shoulders hunched like she wanted to disappear into the plastic chair. The cafeteria noise rolled right past her.
I frowned, putting down my drink.
Malia followed my gaze. "The sick girl?" she asked quietly, though not unkindly.
I nodded. Then, without overthinking it, I raised my voice just enough. "Hey, Erica. Come sit with us."
Isaac blinked, surprised. Malia tilted her head but didn't object.
Erica looked up, startled, like she wasn't sure I was actually talking to her. After a pause, she stood, picked up her tray, and walked over.
The moment she sat down, the tension I expected didn't come. Instead, something else happened.
Erica smiled faintly when Isaac cracked another joke about the coach. She laughed—actually laughed—when Malia made a cutting remark about half the cheerleaders. And when I asked if she was okay after gym, she rolled her eyes and said, "I've had worse."
It wasn't forced. It wasn't awkward. It just… fit.
The four of us ate, talked, teased each other. Erica blended in like she'd been sitting with us all along.
For the first time in a long while, I looked around at the table and felt something I hadn't expected to feel here in Beacon Hills.
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