That was an important night. Peter had found another one of those bastards — a man working as a shop assistant in a place where customers could rent DVDs. Peter had called her eagerly; he wanted her to go with him. And that was why they were both standing on the roof of the shop, waiting for the only customer inside to leave.
But Scarlett wasn't feeling the sweet thrill she usually felt whenever she thought she could kill one of the people who had burned the Hale house. Her mind was elsewhere.
Stiles can't be my anchor, she thought nervously. I don't have an anchor.
That didn't make any sense. An anchor was supposed to be the reason why werewolves didn't lose control. There was usually some kind of connection between them and their anchor. But the only connection she had with Stiles was the bond. Nothing else.
The bond doesn't make you angry when someone threatens him, Derek had said that too. But he was crazy — she had just reacted. She was a person with a short temper. That was all it was. It had nothing to do with Stiles. Or with the thought of him being hurt.
She had seen him hurt before… and yet, this time, the image of him bleeding flashed behind her eyes, and her stomach twisted before she could stop it.
"You're distracted tonight, moonlight," Peter's voice pulled her back from her thoughts. She still hadn't told him what Derek had said. And Scarlett wasn't even sure why. She had always told Peter everything. He had been the first person she'd ever trusted completely. But not this time. She didn't want him to know that Stiles could be her anchor.
"Maybe I shouldn't be here," she said, letting out a breath. Her words made Peter frown as he turned toward her.
"What are you talking about?" he asked, studying her. "No one is more bloodthirsty than you."
Scarlett crossed her arms over her chest. She was — of course she was — but they had to be smart about it.
"Derek is tracking you down," she said. "I can fool Scott, but he's a different story."
Peter's eyes sharpened as he looked at her, and she didn't know why, but she felt pressure building under his gaze.
"You're a good liar," Peter said from beside her. He didn't believe her — she knew him well enough to see that.
"Thanks," was all she managed to reply.
"Therefore, I'm sure you'll manage," he said, his eyes glowing red as he noticed one of the customers leaving the shop.
Scarlett found herself hoping they wouldn't leave so soon. The wish startled her, and she immediately scolded herself.
You're here for vengeance, she told herself, hating how confused she felt about everything. She had dreamed of this day for eight years — of killing all those who had murdered her family. She never used to care if Derek found out. So why was she hesitating now?
A vibration in her pocket made her look down. She reached for her phone, freezing when she saw Stiles' name flashing on the screen.
"Hey," she said, her voice as light as she could manage, while her eyes met Peter's.
"Hey," Stiles' voice came through the line, warm and unguarded. "So, I'm literally watching my dad order three cheeseburgers right now. Question — do vampires eat stuff like that? Or are you all, like, blood-only menu?"
Scarlett blinked, caught off guard. Her lips curved just a little as she took a few steps toward the edge. "Depends," she said, playing along. "I can handle the burger. The ketchup might be a problem."
"How so?"
"Too sweet now," she said, lowering her tone without meaning to. "Last time I tried it, it was so gross it slipped from my fingers. I had to throw away my white shirt."
There was a beat of silence, then his laugh filled her ear — bright, genuine.
"God, I'm picturing you at a diner covered in ketchup and it's—wait, that sounded weird, didn't it?"
Scarlett couldn't help it. The laugh that escaped her was quiet but real, and she hated that she noticed how good it felt. "Yeah. A little."
The sound of her own laughter lingered in her ears longer than it should have.
It was strange — she had always been good at pretending calm, but that hadn't been pretending. For a second, the world around her stopped pressing so hard.
And then the air shifted again.
She didn't have to look to know Peter was watching her. She could feel it — the subtle change in the rhythm of his breathing, the way his presence stretched and filled the space around her like smoke.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
He took a few slow steps closer instead, his boots scraping lightly against the roof's edge as he circled, almost soundless.
"You still there?" Stiles' voice made her blink, forcing her to gather her composure — in both her body and her voice.
"Yes, sorry," she said quickly, thinking of an excuse. "I—I was checking the tub."
She could almost picture him blushing on the other end. "I've got the worst timing."
But his words made her shake her head. "Not true," she said softly. "Just… I have to go now."
"Right," he said after a pause, his tone softer. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"
Scarlett hesitated, the silence between them stretching just a little too long. "Sure," she finally said, her tone faintly warmer. "Goodnight, Stiles."
"'Night, Scarlett."
She didn't move for a moment after the line went dead. The quiet on the rooftop pressed in around her again — colder this time.
She put the phone back in her pocket, keeping her face blank as she turned.
Peter was watching her.
"What?" she asked, a little too defensively.
"You're such a good liar, my love," he said, his eyes fixed on her, lips curved in a smile — but Scarlett wasn't sure it was meant as a compliment. Suddenly she felt nervous. Was he angry? Suspicious?
Suspicious of what? There was nothing to be suspicious about… and yet Scarlett felt a pang of fear, regretting having answered Stiles' call in front of Peter.
Below them, the shop door opened — the last customer stepping out.
Scarlett turned her head just as Peter's eyes glowed red again.
"Showtime," he said. And before she could speak, he was gone.
Peter dropped from the roof first, his shape melting into the dark, the monstrous curve of his spine outlined by the flickering streetlights. The sound of his landing was heavy and final — a dull crack that vibrated through the asphalt. Scarlett followed a heartbeat later, hitting the ground without a sound. The small DVD rental shop loomed in front of them, the windows reflecting nothing but the red neon sign that buzzed faintly in the silence. Inside, the clerk was still shelving movies, humming to himself, unaware that death had already arrived.
Scarlett stood beside Peter, staring through the glass, her jaw tight and her fangs out.
It should have felt good — this was another one of the people who had burned her family alive, another debt to collect, another piece of the past she could erase. But instead of the sweet rush of vengeance, all she felt was the weight of confusion pressing in on her chest.
Peter's head tilted toward her, the distorted remnants of his voice echoing through the creature's throat.
"You're hesitating," he said — it came out more like a growl, his red eyes glaring at her.
He stared a moment longer, then, with a guttural snarl, pushed the door open. The bell above it chimed once before being silenced by the sharp scrape of claws across the floor. Scarlett followed, slower, closing the door behind her.
The smell inside was thick — old plastic, cleaning products, and the faint electric buzz of televisions playing movie trailers on a loop. It all blended into something sterile, almost absurd. And yet beneath it, there it was: the warm metallic pulse of blood. Her body responded before her mind could; her muscles tightened, her fangs ached beneath her lips, and the familiar hunger flickered to life.
The man turned, startled by the sound of footsteps.
"Good evenin—" he began, but the words never finished. Scarlett was already in front of him, her hand slamming against his chest as she shoved him back into the counter. Cases of movies tumbled to the floor, clattering around them.
Peter moved behind her, a silent, looming shadow, his red eyes glowing in the dark.
Scarlett's fingers dug into the man's jacket. She could smell his fear now — thick and sharp, mixed with the faint scent of blood where her nails had broken skin. It should have been easy. One movement, one instant, and it would be over.
Her jaw clenched; she could almost feel the hot rush of life under his skin, the sound of his heartbeat pounding against her palm.
But then — an image flashed in her head, bright and warm: Stiles' laugh, the sound still echoing faintly from their call just minutes ago. She could see his stupid grin, the way his eyes lit up when he was about to say something sarcastic. The memory came so suddenly that it shattered her focus.
Her grip faltered. Her stomach twisted.
Peter growled, impatient, but Scarlett didn't move. The scent of blood turned from enticing to nauseating. The man looked at her with wide, pleading eyes.
Why am I not moving? she screamed inside, hating how heavy her whole body felt.
Peter moved before she could react. His Alpha form lunged forward — a blur of claws and muscle — slamming into the man with inhuman strength. The impact made the shelves shudder, glass cracking under the force. Scarlett stepped back, frozen. She didn't watch the killing blow, but she heard it — the wet sound of tearing flesh, the choking gasp that followed, then silence.
When it was over, Peter stood in the middle of the aisle, chest heaving, the body collapsed at his feet. Blood soaked into the cheap linoleum, gleaming under the fluorescent light. He turned toward her, eyes blazing red.
"What were you doing?" he said, his Alpha's voice almost making her tremble as he circled her.
Scarlett met his gaze. "He's dead now," she said flatly, trying to sound detached, but her voice trembled just enough to betray her.
He was about to growl back when the sound of an engine made her turn. Her body went still. A red car parked just outside the shop. She recognized it instantly — Lydia's.
Her stomach dropped. She couldn't let Lydia see her there. Not with the body. Not after she had told Stiles she was at home.
Panic flooded through her. She turned to Peter, who was still standing over the corpse, his chest rising and falling in slow, satisfied breaths.
"We need to go," she said, her voice breaking. "Now."
Peter's head turned toward the window, his gaze narrowing as the golden headlights cut through the glass. A low, guttural sound rose from his chest — not quite a word, more an instinctive growl of amusement.
"Peter!" she hissed, but he didn't move. His red eyes were fixed on the shadow approaching the shop door.
I'm out of here, she thought. And as fast as she could, she ran out the back door.
She couldn't be seen by Lydia — not there. Her cover would be blown, and she couldn't allow that.
Because we still have to kill the Argents, she kept telling herself as she ran into the woods. The moon hung above her, silver and cold, and she kept running and running. She looked around, afraid Derek might be lurking in the shadows — and if he saw her, he'd ask questions. The same questions he'd tell Scott. Or Stiles…
She stumbled on a root and fell hard to the ground. "Fuck!" she cursed, getting up again. What the hell is wrong with me?
She was tense, angry, sad, confused — everything at once.
She hoped those were all Stiles' feelings. But somehow, she knew she was lying to herself. They were hers. And that only made her worry more.
Why was she feeling so much? Why couldn't she control herself?
I'm pathetic, just like when I was alive, she scolded herself.
She had hated her life back then. She had hated everything. Becoming a vampire — finding Peter — had finally made her stop feeling. It had been all fun and power. But now…
He is your anchor.
Derek's words echoed inside her head like a curse.
"I don't need a fucking anchor," she said to herself as she reached her apartment door. Scarlett opened it angrily and slammed it shut behind her. She went straight to the fireplace, lighting it with a match.
I'm here for vengeance, she thought, stripping off her clothes one by one as she stared into the flames. She'd been stupid not to kill that bastard in the shop — one of the ones who had murdered the only family she ever had. Then she threw the clothes into the fire.
No one has to know I was there, she thought. I need more time.
She couldn't risk being caught before killing every single Argent. No one could know.
She went into the bathroom, turning on the shower to scrub the wolf's scent off her skin. It had to be gone.
I need more time.
As she scrubbed her pale skin hard, she noticed a few drops of blood on the shower floor. Scarlett looked down quickly, but there was no sign of a wound — and then she remembered.
Her hand moved to her cheek, and her fingers touched the thick liquid running from her eyes.
Vampires' tears were blood.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" she whispered, quickly splashing water to erase every trace from her face. She could hardly recognize herself. The last time she had cried was the night of the massacre. She hadn't shed a tear since.
After finishing her shower, she noticed her phone buzzing. She looked at it — not too close — and saw a few missed calls and a message. All from the same person.
Stiles.
She didn't open it. She didn't read anything. For the first time in a while, Scarlett was tired of making up lies.
So she turned toward her bed, and still wet from the shower, she covered herself and forced her body into what she hoped would be a deep, empty sleep.