Chapter 8: Control Issues
The preserve at night is a different world.
Shadows stretch between the trees, and every sound feels amplified. My Haki picks up Derek's presence before I see him—cold and controlled, waiting in a clearing about a hundred yards in.
Scott is nervous. His hands won't stop shaking. Stiles is muttering under his breath, something about "this being a terrible idea" and "why do I always agree to terrible ideas."
I stay quiet. Watch.
Derek is holding a lacrosse stick when we arrive. He tosses it to Scott without preamble.
"Catch."
Scott fumbles it. The stick hits the ground.
"Again."
Derek throws another ball. Scott catches it this time, but barely.
"Your reflexes are better than a human's," Derek says. "But you're not using them. You're thinking too much. Stop thinking. React."
He throws another ball. Hard. Fast.
Scott dodges—instinctively. The ball whistles past his ear.
"Better."
Stiles and I watch from the edge of the clearing. Stiles is chewing his thumbnail, eyes darting between Scott and Derek like he's waiting for something to go wrong.
My Haki is extended, tracking Scott's emotional state. Fear. Frustration. Anger building underneath.
Derek keeps throwing. Faster. Harder.
Scott dodges the first three. The fourth catches him in the shoulder. He yelps, stumbling back.
"You're not fast enough," Derek says.
"I'm TRYING."
"Try harder."
Another ball. Scott dodges, but his movements are jerky. Uncoordinated.
"This is sadistic," Stiles mutters.
"It's effective," I say.
"How is this effective? He's just throwing things at Scott."
"He's forcing Scott to use his instincts. To stop overthinking."
Stiles doesn't look convinced, but he shuts up.
Derek throws three balls in quick succession. Scott dodges the first two. The third hits him square in the chest. He goes down hard, gasping.
"Get up."
"I can't—"
"GET UP."
Scott's hands curl into fists. His breathing changes—shorter, sharper. My Haki spikes.
Anger. Building fast.
"Derek, stop!" I shout.
Derek pauses, ball in hand. Looks at me. "Why?"
"Just stop."
He doesn't move. Neither does Scott. But I can feel it—the shift in Scott's emotional signature. The wolf pushing against the surface, clawing for control.
"Scott," I say quietly. "Eyes."
Scott looks at me. His eyes flash gold.
Stiles gasps. "Holy—"
Derek drops the ball. "Good instincts," he says to me. "You sensed the shift before it happened."
"Lucky guess."
"That wasn't luck."
I don't respond. Instead, I walk over to Scott, who's still on the ground, breathing hard. His eyes are brown again, but his hands are shaking.
"You okay?"
"I don't know if I can do this," he says quietly.
"You can."
"I keep losing control."
"Because Derek's teaching you control through pain. But that's not the only way."
Derek crosses his arms. "It's the fastest way."
"Maybe. But it's not the only way."
I sit down next to Scott. Stiles and Derek watch, silent.
"You're thinking about this wrong," I say. "Derek's trying to teach you to suppress the wolf. To fight it. But you're not a werewolf because you're angry. You're a werewolf who happens to feel anger. There's a difference."
"I don't understand."
"You need an anchor. Something that reminds you who you are. Something human."
Scott's quiet for a long moment. Then he looks toward the south—where Allison's neighborhood is.
"Allison," he says quietly.
"That'll work."
Derek grunts. "An emotional anchor is unstable. If he loses her—"
"He won't."
"You don't know that."
"And you don't know he will."
Derek glares at me, but he doesn't argue further. Instead, he picks up the lacrosse balls. "We're done for tonight. Tomorrow, same time."
He leaves without another word.
Stiles helps Scott to his feet. "You okay, dude?"
"Yeah. I think so."
We walk back to the Jeep in silence. My Haki is still buzzing—overstimulated from the emotional intensity of the training session. But Scott's signature has stabilized. The anger is gone, replaced by exhaustion and fragile hope.
Progress.
School the next day feels surreal.
Scott is at his locker, talking to Allison. She's laughing at something he said, and his face is lit up like she's the only thing in the world that matters.
My Haki picks up the edges of his emotions—infatuation so intense it's almost physical. This is the anchor. This is what's keeping him human.
Please let it be enough.
A car pulls up outside—sleek, expensive. Allison waves at Scott, grabs her bag, and heads toward the entrance.
A man gets out of the driver's seat.
Chris Argent.
My Haki screams.
Danger. Controlled. Calculated. A presence so tightly wound it feels like a coiled spring ready to snap.
He's tall, clean-cut, wearing a jacket that's just formal enough to be respectable. But underneath the polished exterior, there's something cold. Predatory.
He watches Scott through the windshield. Assessing. Cataloging. Like he's memorizing every detail.
Scott doesn't notice. He's too focused on Allison, who's introducing him to her father.
"Scott, this is my dad. Dad, this is Scott. He's in my English class."
Chris extends a hand. "Nice to meet you, Scott."
Scott shakes it, smiling nervously. "You too, sir."
Chris's grip lingers just a second too long. Then he lets go, turning to Allison. "Ready?"
"Yeah."
They leave. Scott waves, grinning like an idiot.
I grab his arm. "We need to talk."
"About what?"
"Her father."
"What about him?"
"He's dangerous."
Scott blinks. "What? No, he's not. He's just... protective."
"Scott—"
"You're paranoid, Adam."
"I'm really not."
"He's Allison's dad. He's fine."
I let go of his arm. My Haki is still screaming, but Scott's too distracted to listen. Too caught up in Allison to see the warning signs.
Chris Argent. Hunter.
The knowledge is fragmented, incomplete. But I know enough. Argent is dangerous. And he's watching Scott.
I pull out my phone and text Stiles.
Research Allison's family. Don't ask why.
Three seconds later:
Stiles: This is suspicious.
Everything is suspicious.
Stiles: Fair point.
That night, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling.
Twelve days until the full moon. Twelve days for Scott to learn control. Twelve days before everything spirals.
And now Chris Argent is in the picture.
My meta-knowledge whispers warnings I can't fully articulate. Hunters. The Argent family. Kate. Gerard. A legacy of violence wrapped in righteousness.
But I don't remember the details. Just the shape of the threat.
Not enough.
I close my eyes and try to focus. Try to remember. But the memories are fog—present but intangible.
All I know is this: Chris Argent is dangerous. And Scott just walked into his crosshairs.
I need to figure out how to protect him before it's too late.
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