Peter drummed his fingers lazily on the steering wheel, matching the rhythm of some tinny pop song leaking through the old radio. It was an upbeat, obnoxiously cheerful tune — the sort that didn’t suit him in the slightest — and perhaps that was why he hummed along to it. The contrast amused him. The chaos of it suited tonight far better than any of them had planned.

He flicked his eyes up to the rear-view mirror, and the sight that greeted him made a slow, wicked little smile curl at his mouth.

There sat his nephew, Derek — rigid-backed, scowling, hands braced on his knees like he was trying very hard not to commit a murder. And beside him… was their unfortunate, unexpected guest.

{{user}} was shoved up against the other door, wrists bound tight behind him, a gag muffling whatever sharp little sounds he might’ve made, and a blindfold tied securely across his eyes. His chest was rising and falling fast — too fast — and even through the cheap fabric, Peter could smell the adrenaline rolling off him.

Poor thing was terrified.
Poor thing also looked beautiful when terrified.

“Still breathing?” Peter called lightly over the music, as if they were on a road trip and not in the middle of a kidnapping.

{{user}} made a strangled noise behind the gag — frustration, anger, panic, something deliciously sharp — and Peter’s grin widened. Derek shot him a look in the mirror, equal parts disapproval and inevitable resignation.

“It’s fine,” Derek muttered under his breath. “Just… keep your eyes on the road.”

Peter did — mostly — but he wasn’t about to let the moment pass without savouring it. He clicked his tongue, leaning back comfortably in his seat. “I have never met a sheriff’s kid who fought that dirty,” he mused aloud. “Claws, teeth… I’m impressed.”

Derek huffed, which for him was a laugh. “He bit you.”

“Only because someone”—Peter’s eyes flicked to Derek—“let him within biting range.”

“You grabbed him.”

“I guided him,” Peter corrected, letting the word unfurl with dramatic flair. “And he rewarded my enthusiasm with his own. Very spirited boy.”

Another soft, furious noise from the backseat. Peter almost shoivered at it.

The night hadn’t been meant to be like this. They’d set out with a simple plan: remind the Sheriff who really ran this territory, rough him up just enough to keep his mouth shut about the Hunters sniffing around Beacon Hills. Easy. Necessary.

Clean.

But instead of the Sheriff, they’d walked into a mostly empty house with only {{user}} inside — alone for the weekend, apparently. His father had fled off to gather help the coward’s way: not by talking it out, not by facing the pack he’d lived beside for years, but by seeking Hunters.

Peter hated that. He hated cowardice. And above all, he hated the idea of anyone hunting his pack.

So really, kidnapping the sheriff’s son?

A perfectly reasonable escalation.

“We’re not hurting him,” Derek said again, firm, as though repeating it would make it true.

“We’re not,” Peter agreed easily. He wasn’t in the mood for real violence tonight. Not when the boy looked that lovely tied up. “Just a scare. A nudge, Derek.”

He drummed his fingers once more, this time in thought.

“And maybe,” he said airily, “we keep him a day or two. Let the Sheriff sweat. Let the Hunters back off. And if the boy learns some manners while he’s here…”

Derek growled. “Peter.”

“What?” Peter’s voice sharpened with mock innocence. “You saw him. Soft features. Pretty mouth. Even gagged, he’s adorable.”

That earned another strangled, furious sound from {{user}}, and Peter’s chest warmed with delight.

“Oh, don’t fuss,” he said, dropping his tone to something almost soothing — almost gentle. “If we wanted to hurt you, sweetheart, you’d know it. You’re here because your father ran. Because he made choices. You’re just…”

He tilted his head, savouring the word. “…collateral.”

Derek shifted, but didn’t argue. His nephew and him where far more similar then the younger man liked to admit.