Chapter 5: The Chase
The Jeep’s engine screamed in protest as Stiles slammed the gearshift into third, the tires losing traction for a heart-stopping second on the wet asphalt before grabbing hold. Rain streaked across the windshield in chaotic, hypnotizing patterns, blurring the world into a smear of neon and shadow. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his breath coming in sharp, ragged pants.
In the rearview mirror, the Camaro’s headlights were unblinking, predatory eyes. They filled the entire mirror, Derek’s silhouette a dark, unmoving shape behind the glare. He was riding Stiles’s bumper, close enough that if Stiles tapped the brakes, they’d fuse together in a shriek of metal and glass.
“Just go away, you asshole!” Stiles yelled into the empty cab, his voice cracking. He took a hard, reckless left, cutting through a deserted gas station parking lot, spraying a curtain of water from a deep puddle. The Jeep shuddered, but held the turn. The Camaro followed with an effortless, terrifying grace, its powerful engine a low growl that vibrated through the Jeep’s floorboards.
He was driving on pure, incandescent adrenaline. The feel of Derek’s hands on him, the possessive grip, the guttural sound of his voice—it was all burned into his nervous system. It wasn’t just anger. It was a confusing, terrifying cocktail of humiliation and a sharp, unwelcome thrill. That raw declaration—Because he’s not me—echoed in his head, a taunt and a promise he couldn’t decipher.
Another turn, this one sharper, onto a narrow service road that cut up towards the preserve. The trees closed in, the streetlights becoming fewer and farther between. The rain fell harder here, a drumming cacophony on the Jeep’s roof. He risked another glance in the mirror. The Camaro was still there, a phantom from his nightmares and his… something else. Something he refused to name.
Suddenly, the Camaro surged forward, pulling alongside him on the narrow, two-lane road. Stiles’s heart leapt into his throat. He could see Derek’s profile, stern and focused, illuminated by the dashboard lights. Derek gestured sharply, pointing ahead to a wide, gravel pull-off overlooking the dark expanse of the Beacon Hills Preserve.
“Fuck you!” Stiles shouted, though he knew Derek couldn’t hear him. He pressed the accelerator harder, but the Jeep was no match for the Camaro’s power. Derek eased ahead, then cut in front of him, forcing Stiles to swerve onto the gravel, the Jeep skidding to a jarring halt just feet from the tree line.
The engine died with a choked sputter. Silence, except for the relentless hammering of the rain and the frantic thumping of his own heart. He sat there, gripping the wheel, watching as Derek got out of the Camaro. The werewolf didn’t slam the door. He closed it with a quiet, definitive click that was somehow more threatening than any violence.
Stiles fumbled for the door handle, his body trembling with spent adrenaline and fresh fear. He stumbled out into the downpour, the cold rain instantly soaking through his thin club clothes. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he screamed, his voice raw. “You could have killed us!”
Derek stopped a few feet away, the rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead, dripping down the severe lines of his face. His leather jacket was soaked, clinging to his broad shoulders. He didn’t look angry anymore. He looked… consumed. His eyes glowed that faint, dangerous red in the gloom.
“You ran,” Derek said, his voice low and rough, carrying easily over the rain.
“Yeah, no shit! You drag me out of a club, growl at me, say some cryptic, insane bullshit, and then chase me through the fucking rain! What did you expect?” Stiles shoved his wet hair back from his face, his chest heaving. “What do you want from me, Derek? Just say it! Because I am so fucking tired of this!”
Derek took a step forward. Then another. The space between them evaporated. The scent of wet leather, rain, and that wild, electric musk was overwhelming. “You know what I want.”
“I don’t! I really, really don’t!” Stiles’s voice broke on the lie. He took a step back, his heels hitting the side of the Jeep. He was trapped. “You had Braeden. You don’t get to… to veto who I dance with. You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“This isn’t about her.” Derek was right in front of him now, his body a wall of heat against the chilling rain. His gaze was locked on Stiles’s mouth. “It’s about you. In that club. Letting him touch you. Smelling like… that.”
“Like what?” Stiles challenged, his bravado a thin shield. “Like I was having a good time? Like for five minutes I wasn’t thinking about kanimas or nogitsunes or any of the other fucked-up shit that haunts my every waking moment? Is that a crime?”
“Yes.” The word was a whisper, a confession. Derek’s hand came up, not to grab, but to hover beside Stiles’s face, his fingers trembling slightly. “When it’s with him… when it’s not with me… it feels like one.”
The air left Stiles’s lungs in a rush. All the fight drained out of him, leaving behind a dizzying, terrifying vulnerability. He looked up into Derek’s face, into the storm of conflict in those red-tinged eyes, and finally, finally let himself see it. The want. The raw, desperate, repressed need that had nothing to do with being an Alpha and everything to do with being a man.
“Derek…” he whispered, his protest dying before it was fully born.
That was all the invitation Derek needed.
He closed the final inch, his hand cupping the back of Stiles’s neck, his mouth crashing down on Stiles’s. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming. A hungry, desperate devouring. Derek’s tongue plunged into his mouth, hot and demanding, and Stiles gasped, his hands flying up to clutch at Derek’s soaked jacket. The taste of him was dark and wild, like black coffee and a coming storm. Stiles kissed him back, a surge of pure, unthinking need overwhelming every doubt, every fear. His fingers tangled in Derek’s wet hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until he was dizzy with it.