Chapter Text
The crossbow bolt pierced Derek's shoulder just underneath the hinge of the clavicle. The head went through him and thudded into the tree behind. He was pinned, the fletching sticking out of his chest. He snarled.
He had been tracking the mysterious alpha around town and out into the woods. The track was days old—it would have been too dangerous to follow fresh. Imagine if he came across the alpha, toe to toe? But it had turned out to be dangerous in the woods in any case. Hunters were drawn out by the supposed animal killing: the surgically dismembered wolf that had been, in reality, his sister. She'd been killed by another werewolf. It was nearing sunset and a group of hunters was clearing the woods, looking for the culprit or for any werewolf to punish.
The wound was too high to have injured his lung; he could still breathe and run. He snapped the fletched end of the shaft and levered himself off of it with a suppressed grunt. He ran. He covered twenty feet before another bolt grazed his arm, then a third struck his lower leg. The leg collapsed under him on the next step. He tumbled end over end through the leaf litter, scrambled up and collapsed again. The pain was sharp and intense, but worse than the pain was the certainty that the hunters were closing in on him.
This bolt had entered the back of his lower calf, destroying his Achilles tendon. It had gone through and through, exiting obliquely through the adjacent muscle. He was crippled. His enhanced body could heal in a matter of days, but right this second he couldn't run, not even walk, away from the hunters.
A cool wind rose, chasing away the remnants of the lukewarm September day.
The hunters jogged up, fanning in a circle around Derek. They kept far enough back to be out of range of a sudden lunge. Between them, they carried handguns, rifles, tasers, and crossbows. He could smell wolfsbane on them, and excitement.
"What do we have here?" one of the hunters said. It was Chris Argent.
His parents had taught him to keep his head low during the full moon, to watch out for the Argents. Chris Argent would leave you be if you didn't break their code, but if you did lose control, if you did hurt someone, then he would lead the hunters' posse himself. To teenage Derek, he had been the bogeyman.
Derek pushed himself to sit, struggling not to move the injured leg, bracing himself with the arm opposite his shoulder wound.
"Derek Hale," Chris said, casually reloading his crossbow. "It's been a while."
He had an equine yet predatory look: lean and strong, a long face and deep, narrow eyes. He wore a short utility jacket and jeans with a low-slung holster on his thigh.
He approached and stood over Derek. "You're the one who's been killing 'animals' out in the preserve? Stalking people in town? I thought better of you."
"That wasn't me," Derek ground out. "I'm looking for him, the same as you. He killed my sister."
"Is that who that was?" Chris squatted next to him. Crow's feet lined his eyes, the result of years of squinting in the sun while out hunting werewolves. He rested the crossbow on his thighs easily, as if he didn't notice the bolt under tension was pointed at Derek's chest. "Why did you run?"
"Why do you think?" Derek retorted, his voice catching at a sudden stab of pain. He indicated his state of affairs with a sweeping gaze. Blood was soaking his punctured tee shirt, staining the black fabric into a rusty maroon. A thick clot of black ichor proved the crossbow bolts were poisoned with wolfsbane.
A smile pulled at Chris's lips, turning into a smirk and then fading. "I guess you couldn't be the killer. If you'd done it, you would be an alpha now." He leaned in and lowered his voice. "You smell good as an omega."
Derek locked eyes with Chris with a scintilla of defiance. He received enough threatening overtures from werewolves; he didn't need any from a human. Especially not now, when he hadn't even finished burying—he avoided the rest of the thought.
Chris reached with his left hand and pulled a leaf from Derek's hair, the crossbow leveled all the while. A chill set into his stomach. The only reason a human was so comfortable while in reach of his claws and teeth, wounds and predicament aside, was that he was wholly ready to pull the trigger if he needed to.
"What do you know about this other werewolf?" Chris said.
Cooperate, Derek told himself. The Argents only targeted problem werewolves; they would see he hadn't done anything wrong. If anything, they were on the same side. "Nothing... He's an alpha with a full shift. He's been in and out of town. I don't know what he wants."
Chris nodded. "Have you been with him?"
"What?"
"Have you been with him, as an omega?"
"No! No, I didn't fuck my sister's murderer." His fingers clenched, piercing the dirt.
"Prolonged proximity of an alpha will trigger a heat response in an omega," Chris said dryly. His eyes flicked to watch the movement of Derek's hands.
Derek didn't know where this was going, but he didn't like it. His shoulder throbbed and his lower calf was on fire. He forced his hands to relax. "So?"
"You're going into heat."
"Like hell I am!"
Chris put his left hand under Derek's chin and pushed upward. Derek's breath came faster. Acutely aware of the crossbow, he allowed his throat to be exposed, his defiance ebbing into dread. Chris leaned in even further, putting his nose to the artery under the corner of his jaw. He whispered: "Yes, you are."
A tingling shiver flooded down Derek's spine.
Evolution had provided omegas with a way to avoid being squeezed out of pack territories, to draw powerful protectors toward them. Close and repeated contact between alpha and omega would incite the omega's estrus, as could physical and mental distress.
Fuck, he thought, a seed of panic sprouting in him. He didn't feel the strong, animalistic instinct a werewolf alpha would draw out of him, but he felt his body's response to the human alpha: a titillation despite his injuries. Chris was right. What had happened? Had the tangential crossing of the mysterious alpha's tracks over the course of the last few weeks done it, despite no direct contact? Had Chris pushed him over the edge?
Chris pulled back to give Derek an appraising look from his pupils to his throat, to blood-soaked shoulder, and down the rest. He released his chin.
"I'll tell you what. Let me get you patched up. Those points had Nordic Blue on them; I have the antidote. I'll get you through your heat." He trailed off for a moment as if distracted by the thought. "We'll put you on ice for a few days, make sure you're not on the wrong side of this rogue alpha business. If you're telling the truth, then you'll be free to go—as long as you leave town. I'll buy you a bus ticket anywhere you want to go."
"And what if I say 'no?'"
"You want to be left like this with that alpha around?"
Derek's mind spun. He wasn't prepared for a heat. He didn't know any nearby packs, not anymore—maybe if he dug through his old contacts—how would he even drag himself out of the woods and back to his rental car?
Chris interrupted his thoughts. "You're coming with us regardless. Whether you want the antidote and company for your heat is up to you." He stood, backing up a pace, and gestured to one of his men.
There was thudding click and then a pinpoint, hot, and penetrating pain sprouted from Derek's thigh. He jerked, then pulled a red-tufted, silver-tipped dart from his leg.
"Just a tranquilizer," Chris said. Derek treated him to a glower. The muscles holding him sitting weakened. He lowered himself to the ground. Overhead, the leaf-green canopy and slate gray sky swirled together. He lost consciousness.