It's been hours since Derek decided to return back to his cabin in the woods, only to find Peter sitting on a cut off tree stump near the dropped firewood.
Derek pauses, eyes narrowing on the familiar form. "What are you doing here?"
Peter stands, turning around to face his nephew. "Can't an uncle check in on his favorite nephew? Make sure he haven't gotten himself killed again?"
"It's unlike you. What brings you out here?" Derek repeated his question.
Peter shrugs nonchalantly, a small smile toying at the corners of his mouth. "Can't a man take a moonlit stroll through the woods without raising suspicion?"
He steps closer, hands resting casually in his jackets pockets.
"Was Stiles and Scott bothering you again? Their scents are all over these woods." Peter changed the subject.
Derek scoffs, arms crossing.
"They're always bothering me. Can't seem to go a day without getting into some kind of trouble these days."
"Wait. How do you know what their scents smell like?"
"Oh, come on Derek. Who knows not? But I seem to sense another scent, completely unfamiliar. You seeing someone?" Peter confirmed.
Derek stiffens slightly. "I'm not 'seeing' anyone, Peter. And if I was, it wouldn't be any of your business."
He turns away, starting towards his cabin.
"Avoiding the question, I see. Who is she or had you given up on the fair beauties of life and are now finding yourself admiring the other side of the track?" Peter asked with an arched brow.
Derek stops in his tracks. Slowly turns back to face Peter, eyes flashing with irritation—maybe even a hint of something darker. "You always were good at pretending you care. But don't flatter yourself. I don't need your commentary on who I do or don't admire."
He takes a step closer, voice low and dangerous now. "And that scent? It's none of your concern." Derek remains quiet for a beat. "She's off-limits. To everyone."
Peter's smirk widens—slow, knowing.
"'Off-limits,' is it? Funny word choice, nephew... Almost sounds like there's already something worth protecting."
He circles slightly, like a wolf testing the air. "But these woods have ears—and secrets never stay buried for long in Beacon Hills."
Derek growls softly under his breath—the first real sign he's losing control. "Then keep your damn nose out of my business before you lose more than just a lung this time."
Peter lifted his hands in surrender. "No need to get all defensive, Nephew. We're all friends here."
Derek clenches his jaw—muscles taut and coiled like he's ready to pounce. But he manages to rein in his temper with obvious difficulty. "Somehow, I doubt that."
He pushes past Peter, shoulders rigid. "Now if you're done with your little spying escapade, I have better things to do than entertain family drama."
He vanishes into his cabin.
Peter on his heels. "Once other creatures of the dark get a whiff of her, you will have to bring forth more than just your claws." He voiced the bitter truth.
Derek pauses, his back still to Peter. His fingers grip the door handle tightly, knuckles white with tension. "You don't think I know that?" He mutters through clenched teeth.
"Her scent is like no other human I've ever met." Derek said softly under his breath, but Peter's werewolf hearing caught hold of it.
Peter raises an eyebrow, sensing a crack in Derek's armor. He takes a slow step forward, careful not to trigger the already-volatile alpha. "You almost sound… impressed." He notes the way Derek's grip on the handle tightens.
Derek lets go of the handle, and said sounding even more volatile as he threw his head against the door. "God dammit.... I want to mate with her!" At the moment Derek didn't care just how much he spilled.
Peter lets out a low whistle, arms crossing as he sizes Derek up. "Mate. Now that's a strong word. And coming from you, that's one hell of a statement..."
He waits a beat, letting the weight of the moment settle. Then, a slow smirk curls his lips. "You have it bad, huh, pup?"
Derek looks at Peter from over his shoulder, eyes big and golden.
Peter stares back, not even flinching under the full force of Derek's alpha-glare. In fact he seems almost... amused. He leans back casually into the door frame and crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow at Derek. "I suppose I could give you some advice."
"I don't need your advice, I can handle this situation all on my own." Derek scoffed.
Peter rolls his eyes. "Oh, sure you can. That's why you look so calm and collected right now." He gives Derek a once-over—noting the way the alpha's still bristling with tension. "And why you're on the verge of shifting just talking about this girl. But hey, you're doing great."
"I've already shifted and howled my frustrations to the moon. I'm handling it!" Derek spat giving off the opposite feeling.
Peter smirks, stepping forward with a slow, deliberate pace—like he's savoring the moment. "Howling into the void doesn't count as handling it, nephew. That's just emotional venting with better acoustics."
He stops just inches away, voice dropping to something quieter. Almost sympathetic—if Peter were capable of that. "You don't get to pretend this is about control. You're not fighting your instincts because you don't want her. You're fighting them because you do. And deep down? You know what she is." Beat. "Or rather—what she might become."
"Who is she anyways? And since when does off limits count for you too?" Peter voiced twin questions.
Derek exhales sharply through his nose, jaw clenching so tight it looks like it might crack. For a moment, he doesn't answer—just stares into the dark trees beyond Peter's shoulder as if the shadows hold an escape.
Then, voice low and rough: "She's... Stiles' stepsister."
Peter blinks. Then bursts into laughter—sharp, rich, and utterly unrepentant. "Oh no. No no no… You've got to be kidding me." He wipes a mock tear from his eye. "The one boy in this town who talks more than necessary—and you want to mate with his family?"
Derek growls, eyes flashing fully gold now. "Say another word about Stiles and I will rip your tongue out myself."
Peter sobers instantly—but only because he knows exactly how fast Derek can move when pushed. "Alright, alright… touchy subject. But still—" He leans in again, voice laced with dark amusement: Since when do you, of all people—the guy who once burned down an entire pack just for looking at him wrong—care about 'off-limits'?"
Derek turns away, shoulders rigid. "Because for once… it's not just about what I want." He pauses. "It's about what she deserves. And what this town will do to her if they smell even a hint of my mark on her skin."
"Is the oh so famous Derek Hale turning soft?" Peter asked in a mock tone.
"Soft? No. Just...responsible. A word you seem to be unfamiliar with." He shoots Peter a sharp warning look. "I'm not letting another person I care about get hurt because of the choices I make."
The bitter irony hangs heavy in the air. Then he adds in a mutter: "At least one of us should have evolved past feral."
"Fine!" Peter took a deep breath, before asking the number one question. "What about what she wants?"
Derek freezes—caught off-balance by the genuine question.
...What she wants.
Those words echo through his mind, like a dagger to the heart. He turns slowly back towards Peter, jaw tense as he forces the words back through his teeth.
"What she wants doesn't matter, Peter. It's what's best for her that does."
"So you're telling me that next time she crosses your path, that you'd be strong enough to resist?" Came Peter's follow up question.
Derek stares at Peter, silence stretching between them like a taut wire ready to snap. The wind stirs the trees above, casting shifting shadows across his face.
Then—quietly, voice barely more than a growl—
"No. I wouldn't resist."
His eyes flash gold again, not from anger this time—but something deeper. Raw. Unfiltered.
"I don't want to resist. Every part of me screams to pull her close when she's near. To claim her before someone else does. To bury my scent into her skin so deep that even the wind remembers it."
He turns away sharply, fists clenched at his sides.
"But I should. Because she doesn't know what she's walking into... and Beacon Hills doesn't care if someone 'wants' something when blood is already in the air.
Peter watches him with an unreadable expression—part amusement, part real concern.
"So you're fighting yourself… for her?"
Derek says nothing. But his silence is answer enough.
And in that moment? Peter realizes:
The great Derek Hale isn't losing control…
He's already lost it completely.
Even Peter had heard about this before, how the mere scent or eye contact or touch of a random human could rival a Werewolf alpha's control, but he never thought he'd witness it first hand.
Derek stands with his back to him—shoulders rigid, hands still clenched in fists. The air seems to thrum around them, charged with a million unspoken words.
"She's... different."
He hesitates, weighing how much to reveal. Peter already knows too much. But what's one more layer of truth now?
"I've never encountered a scent like hers—not even close. It's like she's got something on the inside that just calls out to me like nothing else ever has."
Silence.
"And it's killing me to fight it."
All of the pieces are slowly falling into place. "She's rivaling your alpha control."
Derek looks at him sharply, "I have control."
The words come out a little too quickly. Too defensively.
"There's just... something about her scent that makes it harder to focus. Like it cuts through the noise of the world, going straight to my nerves. Or like I can feel it in my blood."
He clenches his jaw again. Shaking his head, like he can't believe he's sharing this aloud. "It's like she's a part of me already."
"Anima cantat," Peter said. Giving his nephew's situation a name.
Derek's head snaps up, eyes narrowing on Peter. "What did you just say?"
"It's an old Latin saying: Anima cantat." Peter started but stopped as soon as he saw recognition drew on his face.
"Meaning?"
He hesitates, part of him already knowing the answer.
"It means..." Peter took a deep intake of air before concluding. "... the soul sings."
Derek blinks at him, like someone just sucker punched him. He reels for a moment, trying to process the words—and the weight they carry.
"The soul sings."
He says it quietly, like he can't quite believe the words in his mouth.
"As in a… soul mate? B... But, I'm a born werewolf. We don't have soul mates..."
Peter chuckles softly—but not mockingly this time. For once, his tone holds something close to wisdom. "Oh, Derek… That's where you're wrong. Born wolves or turned—it doesn't matter. The old blood remembers. Some alphas, the rare ones… they don't just inherit strength from their bloodline."
He steps closer, voice dropping low—like he's sharing a secret passed through centuries.
"They inherit the pull of fate. And when that call comes? It doesn't whisper. It screams. Through scent. Touch. Eye contact."
Silence.
"You think this is just lust? This need clawing at your chest every time she's near? That's not instinct alone—that's something deeper than any curse or power we carry as werewolves. That's Anima Cantat."
"Your soul isn't just drawn to her… It already knows her. And trust me—it won't be ignored for long."
Derek swallowed hardly. It almost felt like his chest is tightening, as the image of her popped into his mind. Reminiscing about her scent, her touch, her eyes and even the feeling of her breath against his chin. The memory so intense that it momentarily turned his golden eyes molten.
The air around Derek shifts—thickens. A low, involuntary growl rumbles in his chest as the image of her floods his mind again: Aria's dark eyes locked with his, defiant and soft all at once, her breath warm against his skin like a promise he doesn't deserve.
His claws flex at his sides—unintentional. The scent of pine and damp earth mixes with something else now… something electric.
Peter watches him carefully—not mocking anymore. He sees it clearly now: the war within an alpha who's spent years building walls only to have them shattered by a single glance from someone he never saw coming.
"You can fight it… for a while." Peter says quietly. "But eventually? You'll either break under the weight of resisting... or you'll risk everything by giving in."
Derek closes his eyes—as if trying to shut her out, lock her away behind steel and shadow.
"And what happens when I do? When I stop fighting? Because if she's truly mine—if my soul sings for her—then what happens when this town tears into that truth? When Stiles finds out? When Scott remembers every reason he was never supposed to trust me?"
He opens his eyes again—and they burn gold with raw vulnerability. "She deserves more than bloodshed and secrets."
"And yet… I'd still destroy the world just to keep her safe."
"That's not something that I can help you with, use your instincts." Peter placed a hand on Derek's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Just be careful, once this whiff pollutes the air, her life will be put on the line."
The weight of Peter's words hangs heavy in the humid air as Derek absorbs the full meaning behind them. If anyone senses how strong the connection between him and Aria is—sees what's brewing between them? She'll become a target. A weakness in his defenses.
The implications hit him like a freight train—and with it, a surge of fiercely protective anger.
"You think I don't know that?"
He grinds out, shrugging off Peter's hand with a growl. "I see the risks better than anyone."
"I know you do, but I need you to understand the risks and not just see them," Peter said owlishly.
Derek looks at him, jaw clenched tight.
"I do know the risks. I'm just not sure if I care anymore. Because the more time passes, the stronger this pull feels. She's under my skin, buried deep in my blood—the way she laughs, the sound of her breath, how she looks at me with those dark eyes… I can't shake it."
He clenches his fists, struggling to keep his voice steady
"I can't stop thinking about her."
The confession feels sharp, raw.
"And it's scaring me shitless..." Derek claims rawly.
For a long moment, silence falls—broken only by the whisper of wind through the trees. Even Peter, with all his usual sarcasm and provocation, has nothing to say.
Because Derek Hale doesn't admit fear.
Not like this.
Not raw. Not real.
He leans back against the cabin wall, head tipping up toward the moon as if asking it for answers. His breath comes uneven—almost shaky beneath that hardened exterior.
"I've spent years locking everything away. Cutting off every connection so I wouldn't feel weak... so no one could use what I love against me again. Now look at me? One look from her—one damn conversation in the dark—and I'm unraveling like I never had control at all."
His voice drops to a whisper:
"It's not just that she might be mine... it's that I already am hers. And if something happens to her because of me…" Derek sighs heavily.
"I won't survive it twice."
The last look she gave him as those two: Scott and Stiles, dragged her away from him, clung to Derek's mind like a parasite. Her eyes pleated him to come to her aid, but he just stood there doing nothing but stare.
Derek closes his eyes—as if trying to shake the memory away.
"She was begging for my help. I saw it in her eyes. She was screaming for me without even making a sound... and I still just stood there like I had weights tied to my feet."
"Let's just pretend that I know exactly what you're talking about," Peter shook his head in mock laughter.
Derek's eyes snap open—golden, furious—and in one swift motion, he slams Peter against the cabin wall, forearm pressing hard into his throat.
"Enough." His voice is a guttural growl—low and trembling with barely contained rage.
"You don't get to mock this. You don't get to pretend you understand what it feels like to look into someone's eyes and feel your entire existence shift on its axis."
Peter doesn't fight back. Doesn't even flinch. Just watches him—with something almost like pity.
"I didn't say I didn't understand. I just said I wouldn't help you drown in your own misery." He reaches up slowly, peeling Derek's arm away—not by force, but because Derek lets him.
"But if you're going to save her… if you really want her safe… You'll have to stop hiding in the shadows. And that? That scares you more than any enemy ever could."
"No need for that or worrying about these damn shadows," Derek said as he pulls a hand through his hair. "Noah Stilinski would never approve to it!"
Derek's voice cracks just slightly on the name—because it isn't just fear of disapproval he carries.
It's guilt.
He paces a few uneven steps, hands raking through his hair again like he can claw the thoughts out of his skull.
"Noah… He trusts me. Not fully, never has—but enough. And Stiles?" He lets out a hollow laugh.
"Stiles would lose his damn mind. His father's wife? Her daughter? That's not just crossing a line—he'd say I'm setting it on fire and dancing in the ashes."
Pauses.
"And maybe he'd be right."
Peter watches him—quiet for once—and then says softly: "You're not asking permission anymore, are you? You've already chosen her."
Derek stops pacing. Doesn't answer. But the way his chest tightens at the thought—the way his wolf stirs deep inside, restless and certain—Says more than words ever could.