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Stiles fought against the restraints with all that he had, but they were medical grade, designed to contain the person safely without giving them a hope of escape. Handcuffs he could have picked easily, but these were another matter entirely. As Deaton and Theo shoved him into the back of the car, he heard the high, pained howl that said they had taken Peter down, that Scott had finally managed to kill the wolf who had bitten him. Of course the sorry excuse for a true alpha had needed Deaton's magic and a gun full of wolfsbane bullets to do it. Fire raced through their bond, and Stiles screamed. Then a needle pricked his neck, and blackness enveloped him.
Hours later, Stiles woke up, seeing the familiar looking walls of Eichen House. He recognized that he was sedated — he couldn't seem to move his body no matter how hard he tried — but the pain in his chest was worse than he'd ever imagined.
It felt like someone had stabbed an iron bar right through him, then ripped it back out of him. Stiles prodded around the metaphysical edges of his shredded mate bond as best he could, despite the drugs in his system, but there was nothing left. Nothing but an aching hole in his chest.
"Don't worry, darling," Peter's voice echoed in his mind. "No grave can hold my body now."
Stiles wasn't sure if it was the truth, or one of the echoes this place was famous for, destined to drive him mad, but he prayed it was the former. Peter had always had tricks up his sleeve, and he'd come back from death once before. Stiles just had to hold on hope, and not let the echos drive him insane in the meantime.
Peter would come back. He'd come back, and he'd rescue Stiles from these restraints, and they'd run. And no one would ever dare to separate them again.