The rain pours outside as I sit in the drainage ditch, soaked to the bone and shivering. My fight with John echoes in my head—"Maybe I have! At least I'm not the sad old drunk who'll do anything to replace the kid he lost!" The words were meant to hurt, but they've left me feeling hollow instead.

A splash of footsteps approaches through the downpour. I don't look up, expecting another unwanted confrontation with the universe. Instead, a heavy coat drops over my shoulders, and strong arms lift me effortlessly from the muck.

I stiffen, ready to fight, but the familiar scent of pine and rain and something uniquely Derek Hale stops me cold. His jaw is set, eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and something I can't quite place as he carries me toward his Camaro.

"You're an idiot," he growls, but his grip on me is surprisingly gentle.

The rain continues to fall, but his body heat seeps through my clothes, a warmth I haven't felt in centuries. As he sets me down on the passenger seat and slams the door shut, I'm acutely aware of how close we are in the confined space. The scent of his skin, the sound of his breathing, the way his eyes linger on my lips—everything conspires to make my dead heart feel like it might start beating again.

And then there's the hunger. The primal, aching need that his werewolf scent awakens in me. He smells like life and blood and something forbidden. Something I shouldn't want but crave more than anything.

He turns the key in the ignition, and the engine roars to life. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The tension in the car is thick enough to cut with a knife—or my fangs, if I'm not careful.