Chapter 2 – Alastor (Stiles) POV
The radio in my skull screamed louder than it ever had in the original Alastor's lifetime, a cacophony of static and swing music that barely drowned out the thunder of my own pulse. I drove into Charlie again, harder this time, watching her golden hair spill across my crimson pillows like spilled sunlight in a world that didn't deserve it. Her walls clenched around me in rhythmic spasms, hot and slick and so perfectly tight that my claws dug deeper into the soft flesh of her thighs despite myself. She came again—third time now—back arching so violently the bedframe cracked against the wall, a broken cry ripping from that pretty throat that sounded far too real to be pity.
Yet it had to be.
*Why else would the Princess of Hell look at me like that?* The thought snarled through my mind in a voice that was half broadcast static and half the panicked, sarcastic kid from Beacon Hills who had died screaming in a hail of alpha claws and dark magic. Stiles Stilinski had bled out on cold forest ground after the Alpha Pack war ended exactly as it was supposed to—Scott's pack safe, victory snatched from defeat, and then a final trap I hadn't calculated fast enough. One moment human, the next reborn slamming my fist against the hotel door wearing this deer-slaughtering smile. The soul chains that had once leashed the real Alastor were gone the instant I woke up inside him. Shattered. No Lilith, no deal makers, just pure unchecked power humming in my veins like lightning looking for a target. I was twenty-five percent stronger at minimum, static bursting at my fingertips, able to mimic any sound or voice with terrifying clarity. And all of it meant nothing if the only woman I had ever truly wanted in either life was only tolerating me.
"Smile wider, darling," I hissed, voice layered in that cheerful 1930s filter even as fury boiled beneath it. My antlers grew longer, casting branching shadows that pinned her wrists harder against the headboard. One of my new shadow tentacles—thicker than before, crackling with violet static—wrapped around her throat and squeezed just enough to make her gasp. "If this is the best performance the heir to Hell can manage, perhaps I should renegotiate our little contract."
She moaned again, loud and unrestrained, hips jerking up to meet every punishing thrust I gave her. Her body was drenched, arousal coating my cock and dripping onto the sheets with obscene wet sounds that the radio in my head turned into laugh-track applause. I could feel her fluttering, milking me, another orgasm building fast under the dual vibration of the tentacles circling her swollen clit. It looked like ecstasy. It sounded like ecstasy.
It had to be a lie.
Because if it wasn't, if she was actually enjoying the touch of a monster who had bargained his way into her bed, then the guilt tearing across her face was for someone else—probably that moth-winged girlfriend of hers. The thought made something ugly uncoil in my chest. I loved her. Not the polished, cannibalistic love the old Alastor might have faked, but the messy, ride-or-die obsession Stiles had always carried for the people he chose. Charlie Morningstar was my anchor in two lifetimes now. I would protect this hotel, redeem every worthless sinner on the planet if it made her smile, but the deal had been clear: anything I wanted. And what I wanted was her, completely, without the shadow of Vaggie or duty or pity.
I changed angles, slamming into the spot that made her eyes roll back, and felt her squirt around me in a sudden gush that soaked my coat. The power surge hit me unexpectedly—static bursting outward in green arcs that danced across her bare skin like living electricity. For a split second the radio filter glitched. My voice dropped into something rawer, younger. "Fuck, Charlie—"
Her response was immediate: another climax that had her screaming my name, body seizing so hard the tentacles had to hold her in place. The genuine pleasure on her face only fed the anger. *She's faking the depth of it,* I told myself, hips snapping forward with brutal precision. *Those tears are for the girlfriend. Those moans are theater.* I leaned down, sharp teeth grazing her collarbone, tasting salt and sunshine and the faint brimstone of royalty. My cock throbbed inside her, thicker than it should have been thanks to the power boost, stretching her beautifully with every drag.
A flash hit me then—unbidden, unwanted. The Alpha Pack's leader laughing as claws tore through my chest back in Beacon Hills. The spark inside me flaring one final time in a desperate mimicry of mountain ash and wolfsbane before everything went dark. Dying hurt. Being reborn inside this body while it was already knocking on her door had been disorienting as hell. But the freedom? No chains. No master. Just me—Stiles wearing the Radio Demon like a perfectly tailored suit—and the overwhelming need to make Charlie see I was worth more than a forced contract.
I snarled, the sound warping into distorted jazz horns, and flipped her over without pulling out. Now on her knees, face pressed into the pillows, I mounted her from behind with renewed fury. The new position let me go deeper, let me watch the way her ass rippled with every savage thrust. One hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back so I could see her expression in the vanity mirror across the room. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her eyes were glazed with pleasure, mouth open on constant desperate sounds.
"Enough of the act," I growled, static exploding around us and short-circuiting the nearby lamp into a miniature fireworks display. My free hand cracked against her backside hard enough to leave a glowing green print that faded slowly. "If you're going to lie there and pretend I disgust you, at least have the decency to stop creaming all over my cock like a bitch in heat."
She came again at the words—hard—walls clamping down so intensely I nearly followed her over the edge. The sensation was maddening. Her body was honest even if her guilt-ridden mind wasn't. I could feel the broken chains inside me like phantom limbs finally severed; power surged unchecked, making my thrusts erratic, stronger, the air itself warping with radio waves that replayed her own moans back to her in layered harmony.
I loved her. The realization hit harder than any orgasm. Loved her enough to burn Heaven and Hell if it kept her safe. Loved her enough that her fake reluctance cut deeper than any alpha claw ever had. So I fucked her through that fourth climax, then a fifth, pouring every ounce of frustration and devotion into each stroke while the static in my chest built toward something cataclysmic.
The night was far from over. The deal would be fulfilled until she either admitted the truth or I shattered from pretending I couldn't see how perfectly we fit. And somewhere beneath the smile and the static, Stiles Stilinski wondered how long a dead boy from Beacon Hills could keep wearing this demonic grin before the real feelings clawed their way out.
For now, I simply held her tighter, buried myself to the hilt, and let the radio play on.