“That’s not my blood.”

Your voice sounds foreign, as if you’re hearing it from a distance. The metallic smell hangs heavy in the air, mixed with damp earth and something sweet you can’t quite put your finger on. Your hands are trembling. Red all the way to your wrists. They were warm. Now they’re sticky.

Stiles is standing a few steps away from you. Too quiet. His gaze flickers from your face to your hands and back again, as if he’s trying to piece together a puzzle he doesn’t like.

