Derek Hale only feels mildly guilty about stalking the most beautiful, accident-prone, lovely Submissive in the whole fucking world.
18+, Sterek, Dom/sub AU, Dom Derek Hale, Sub Stiles Stilinski, Stalking, Light Angst. No hippity dippity in this chapter but I promise they’ll bang in the next installment 🫡
Here’s Part 1 in case you missed it.
“I’m going to have him.” Derek said it aloud, even though he was alone.
Stiles moved gracefully, but not carefully. He glided his way through the downtown streets, like he was walking on air, barely evading hazards, sometimes causing hazards. It was erotic.
Like a literal creep, he watched the lovely, lively Submissive amble down the midnight street without a care in the world. Well, that’s not true. To most people, it’d seem Stiles was a carefree wild chid—whimsical, quirky, funny.
With watchful eyes, he’d learned to read the boy’s signs.
He had a lot of tells, actually. But there were three that stuck out:
Biting. He’d chew on stuff, anything really. Bubblegum, his knuckle, his sleeve, his lip, his bus pass.
Pacing. Not pacing back and forth per se. But the pace of his stride. When he was stressed, he walked with his whole body—moving at least twice as fast as the people around him. And he stayed in constant motion, practically vibrating in his shoes while waiting at cross walks. He couldn’t stand still. It was tiring to watch. Derek couldn’t imagine how tiring it must be to live it.
But the biggest tell—the loudest silent cry for help Derek had ever seen—were his beautiful, restless hands, reaching for something to hold. His left hand clenched and unclenched. His right hand fidgeted with whatever it could reach. The hem of his shirt. A pencil. The open air. While he walked, his hands swung back and forth like they were hoping to latch onto something, someone.
Last week, Stiles went to the cinema by himself. Empty seats on either side of him. The sweet boy rested his left hand on the arm rest, palms extended up. Derek knew. Stiles was daydreaming. In his mind, someone was holding his hand, on a date, at the movies. His hand stayed there the whole time. It was heartbreaking.
Derek wanted to join him. Sit next to him, pull him into his lap, hold both of his hands, and squeeze him tight while they watched the stupid movie together. But the Dominant stayed in his corner, watching from afar, palming his own crotch—like a creep.
Derek Hale had spent the last several years of his life celibate somewhat by choice and mostly by biology. As an Apex Dominant, he was supposed to burn hot. Mathematically speaking, his pheromones were potent enough to drop a roomful of Submissives to their knees. Like the small percentage of Dominants in his category, he was built to claim and conquer. To collect pretty, pliant Subs who smelled like need and looked up at him with wide, wanton eyes.
Most Doms at his level had claimed at least one Sub by age thirty. Many had two or three Submissive mates. Derek had zero. He’d never marked, claimed, or even cared about a Submissive.
No interest. No drive. No knot-swelling when a fertile Sub walked past, no growl rising in his throat at the thought of bending someone over and—
For the most part, his body functioned appropriately for an Apex Dominant. He rarely got sick, his body healed itself rather quickly, his hearing caught whispers from the across the room. But the fire that was supposed to sustain his dominance and carry forward his bloodline…nothing.
Doctors called it essence dormancy. Rare. Frustrating. Probably psychological. Peter called it tragic and offered to introduce him to a club full of Eager Subs who’d be happy to stoke his flames.
Derek told Peter to fuck off and kept running alone at dawn, kept lifting weights until his muscles screamed, and kept ignoring the emptiness in his gut.
Derek was cutting through an alley behind a coffee shop he never went to, avoiding the crowds that made his senses itch. A scent hit him like a fist: sharp citrus, warm honey, undercut with something frantic and electric, like lightning. Submissive. Unclaimed. High need. His cock went rock-hard for the first time in...he couldn’t remember.
Derek studied the lanky figure in a red hoodie weaving through pedestrians, one hand open and reaching like he was searching for something invisible. The boy—man?—was talking to himself, gesturing wildly, completely oblivious to the delivery bike screaming toward him.
Derek moved before he thought. Grabbed the back of the hoodie, yanked the kid sideways onto the sidewalk. The bike swerved, horn blaring. The boy stumbled into Derek’s chest, startled brown eyes wide.
“Ohmigosh, ohmigosh—thanks,” he gasped, then immediately tried to pull away.
Derek didn’t let go. Couldn’t. The scent was stronger up close—sweet, chaotic, needy—and underneath it, the faint tang of old fear, settled deep into his body.
The boy laughed awkwardly, poking Derek’s fist gripping his hoodie in a vice.
Derek released him. Watched him disappear into the crowd. Felt the absence heavy.
That night he dreamed of slender wrists in his grip, of that open hand curling around his fingers, of pressing the boy against a wall and inhaling his scent. He woke hard, aching, and for the first time in nearly a decade, wrapped a hand around himself and came with a bitten-off growl, picturing wide eyes and a trembling mouth.
After that, there was no going back.
He learned the boy’s name the second week: Stiles Stillinski. Stiles who worked irregular hours at a tech-repair shop on 7th, who took the wrong bus twice in three days, who stepped into fresh concrete outside a bakery and cursed so colorfully Derek almost laughed from his rooftop vantage point. Stiles who walked with his hand open, fingers loose, reaching for something imaginary.
Derek told himself he was just watching. Protecting. A high-essence Dom had territorial instincts. Possessive, perhaps patriarchal.
If a Sub—if Stiles—was this accident-prone, someone had to intervene before the city killed him.
Peter found out somehow. Cornered him at the family loft one evening, smirking.
“You’re stalking a Submissive.”
“Same difference.” Peter poured bourbon. “You’ve never so much as glanced at the ones throwing themselves at you. Now you’re playing guardian angel to a hyperactive twink who can’t cross the street without supervision. Just grab his hand, shove it down your pants, and be done with it. Claim him. Knot him. Build the harem you were born for.”
Derek’s jaw tightened. “I’m not claiming anyone.”
Peter laughed. “You already have, nephew. You just haven’t told him yet.”
The image stuck. Stiles’ long fingers wrapped around Derek’s cock, eyes glazed, mouth open in that same startled gasp from the bike incident. Derek hated how much it aroused him. Hated more that he didn’t stop picturing it.
Within a few weeks, he memorized Stiles’ routines: coffee at 7:42 a.m. on Tuesdays, four-hour library marathons on Thursdays, nearly walking into traffic on most days. Derek intervened twice from a distance—nudged a car horn to snap Stiles out of a daydream, moved a construction barrier six inches so Stiles wouldn’t trip over it. Small things. Unnoticed.
He told himself he was being a gentleman. Planning the perfect approach. A casual meeting. A handshake. Words like I’ve seen you around instead of I’ve watched you almost die seven times this month.
Then the sinkhole opened.
Downtown, midday. Construction crew on lunch, barriers half-assed. Stiles drifted toward it like he was sleepwalking. Derek was half a block away. The ground gave. Stiles teetered. Derek’s control snapped.
He moved faster than humanly possible—even for an Apex Dom. His pheromones flared bright, warn anyone nearby to stay away.
His hand shot out and clamped around Stiles’ wrist like strong, steady, hot iron. .
Stiles hung suspended for a heartbeat, staring down into the dark, reeking pit.
“Be careful,” Derek said, voice rougher than he intended.
Stiles blinked up at him. Recognition flickered—maybe from their first encounter…maybe from the signals Derek had been projecting through his pheromones, maybe just fondness.
Whatever it was that caused Stiles Stillinski’s face to brighten and soften at the same time…Derek was grateful.
Derek didn’t let go of his hand. He couldn’t.
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