“What happened? Where are you? What’s that sound?”
Derek jumped, having momentarily forgotten Scott was on the phone with him because Stiles had started moving. He’d stalked over to the other side of the cave, still eying Derek warily and growling, then settled protectively over a mass of clothes, leaves and animal innards. It was probably where he was sleeping.
Lovely. No wonder he smelled like death.
“Stiles,” Derek said, answering Scott’s question. Or, one of them, at least.
“Stiles? What do you—Stiles is making that noise?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“How fast do you think you can make it to the south lot of the Preserve?”
Not wanting to think on it too much, Stiles took a step forward and passed his hand between the bars, moving the bleeding side closer to Derek’s mouth.
“Not too close, he bites.”
Stiles snatched his hand away just as Derek had been about to lick at it. The snarl he got in response was not comforting.
“He what?” Stiles asked nervously, turning to Deaton.
The man looked a little amused. “Don’t worry, only if he doesn’t like you.”
“Well, he probably hates me, now!” Stiles insisted, turning back to Derek.