Jaxen McCall: The Apex Predator

Chapter 3: An Alpha's Arrangement

The hospital room air, usually sterile and cold, seemed to crackle with the aftermath of Jaxen and Malia's kiss. Malia's fingers, still laced with his, trembled, but not from fear. It was a tremor of something new, something raw and electric. Jaxen, for his part, felt a surprising anchor settle in his chest. He, The Apex Predator, who'd commanded packs and decimated rivals, found himself profoundly, undeniably captivated by this wild girl. This wasn't the fleeting interest of a playboy; this was a fundamental shift.

"So," Malia whispered, her voice still a little hoarse, but gaining strength. "You're… really strong."

Jaxen gave a soft, confident chuckle. "Strong enough. And you, little coyote, have a power in you that's just waiting to be understood." He squeezed her hand. "We'll work on it."

Their moment was, predictably, interrupted. Scott and Stiles burst in, looking like they'd just run a marathon. Melissa McCall, Scott's mom, a nurse at the hospital, followed behind them, looking utterly bewildered.

"Jaxen, dude, what was that?" Stiles blurted, eyes wide. "Derek Hale looked like he'd seen a ghost! Actually, no, he looked like he'd seen you."

"He has," Jaxen said, his gaze still on Malia. "Now, what's the plan for Malia? She can't exactly go home without clothes or a story."

Melissa stepped forward, her expression softening as she looked at Malia. "We've got some clothes for her, honey. And we'll call her father, Mr. Tate. The Sheriff is already talking to him. We just need to figure out what to tell him."

Malia flinched at the mention of her father. "He… he'll be angry."

Jaxen turned his full attention to Melissa, his confident demeanor radiating through the room. "No, he won't. Not if he understands. And he will. Sheriff Stilinski can tell him she was disoriented, ran off into the woods after the crash, suffered from amnesia. That's a good start." He glanced at Stiles. "Right, Stiles? You're good at making up stories that sound believable but are absolutely insane."

Stiles beamed. "My specialty! Especially when the Sheriff's looking for an easy out!"

Melissa hesitated. "Amnesia? For eight years?"

"It happens," Jaxen stated, his tone brooking no argument. "The trauma of the crash. The solitude. It's plausible. And it's better than the truth, for now." He looked at Malia. "You okay with that?"

Malia nodded slowly. "I… guess so. Just no more woods. Not yet."

"No more woods," Jaxen promised, his eyes locking with hers, a silent, powerful vow. "Not unless I'm with you."

Later, as Malia, now dressed in a borrowed hospital gown and some oversized sweats, was preparing to leave with her somewhat bewildered father (who was clearly overwhelmed by the "amnesia" story), Jaxen stepped in front of Mr. Tate.

"Mr. Tate," Jaxen began, his voice calm, persuasive, with just a hint of the underlying Alpha authority. "Malia's been through a lot. She needs time to adjust. To remember."

Mr. Tate, a burly, grief-stricken man, nodded. "I know. It's… a miracle. We never gave up hope."

"She can't be alone right now," Jaxen continued, his gaze firm. "And I understand some things about her unique situation that others might not." He paused, letting that sink in, then delivered the bombshell with characteristic confidence. "She'll be staying with me."

A stunned silence fell over the hallway. Scott choked on air. Stiles's jaw literally dropped. Mr. Tate blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I've got a place," Jaxen stated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "She needs a safe, understanding environment. Someone who can help her through… this." He gestured vaguely at the concept of being a werecoyote. "She's already comfortable with me. It's for her own good."

Mr. Tate looked from his traumatized daughter, who was suddenly clinging to Jaxen's arm like a lifeline, to the impossibly confident young man before him. He saw the strength, the unwavering certainty in Jaxen's eyes. And in Malia's gaze, he saw a quiet trust he hadn't seen in years. It was illogical, insane, but…

"He's very strong, Dad," Malia mumbled, burying her face into Jaxen's side.

Jaxen smirked, a flash of his old cocky charm. "And very protective. I assure you, Mr. Tate, she'll be perfectly safe. And well taken care of." He looked at Malia with a possessive tenderness that left no room for doubt.

Against all common sense, and swayed by the sheer force of Jaxen's presence and Malia's surprising comfort, Mr. Tate found himself nodding slowly. "Alright. But... you call me every day. And she needs to see a specialist."

"Absolutely," Jaxen agreed, a triumphant glint in his eye. He gave a charming nod to the bewildered Sheriff Stilinski, who just shook his head.

"This is going to be a long week," the Sheriff muttered.

Jaxen's place was a modern, minimalist loft apartment above a renovated storefront in Beacon Hills' burgeoning downtown. Not exactly a mansion, but spacious, with huge windows looking out onto the surprisingly quiet street. It smelled faintly of leather and something citrusy. His black bike stood proudly in the corner of the living room, a work of art.

Malia walked through it like a curious, wary animal, touching the smooth surfaces, sniffing the air. "It's… not a forest."

"No," Jaxen agreed, pouring them both a glass of water. "But it's safe. And it has a shower. And a bed." He handed her a glass. "You can tell me anything. No judgment. No expectations. Just… you."

Malia took the water, her eyes searching his. "You're… really serious about this?"

"Serious?" Jaxen's smile was genuine, utterly disarming. "Malia, I spent years fighting for nothing, just the next conquest, the next thrill. Then I saw you. You're a hurricane. A beautiful, dangerous, incredible hurricane. And for the first time in a long time, I want to stand in the middle of it."

He stepped closer, the air between them thickening, charged with raw, undeniable attraction. His presence was overwhelming, pulling her in. Malia, for her part, met his gaze with a fierce, untamed hunger. There was no pretense, no games. Just primal recognition.

"I don't know human things," Malia confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "But I know what I want."

"Good," Jaxen murmured, his hand already on her waist, pulling her flush against his hard body. "Because I know what I want too."

His lips found hers again, a deeper, more consuming kiss than before. It was a claiming, a promise, an explosion of pent-up desire from years of solitude and animal instinct finding its match. His hands roamed, powerful and possessive, igniting fires she hadn't known existed. Malia responded with an uninhibited ferocity that thrilled him to his core. She was wild, untamed, and absolutely hers. The apartment seemed to vibrate with their combined energy, a silent testament to the raw, passionate beginning of their unconventional love story.

Later, tangled in sheets that smelled vaguely of expensive detergent and Jaxen, Malia traced the lines of his sculpted abs. "You killed Alphas?" she asked, a hint of awe in her voice.

"Fifty of them," Jaxen confirmed, his arm around her, pulling her closer. "And their entire packs. It's how I got this far." He kissed her forehead. "It's also why no one else here will ever hurt you. Not a single soul."

"Good," she mumbled, snuggling deeper into his side, already feeling an unprecedented sense of security and belonging.

The next morning, the "amnesia" story was already circulating. Scott and Stiles showed up at Jaxen's loft, looking like they hadn't slept.

"Dude, you just took Malia home?" Stiles asked, throwing his hands up. "Her dad just... let you? You're like, a stranger he literally just met!"

"I have a certain persuasive charm," Jaxen said, already making coffee. Malia, still in his large shirt, was curled up on the couch, watching morning cartoons with a fascination that was both endearing and slightly unsettling. "And I promised her safety."

Scott just shook his head. "Okay, so you're the Alpha now. The... Apex Predator. What does that even mean for us? For Beacon Hills?"

Jaxen leaned against the counter, a confident, almost casual authority in his stance. "It means fewer problems. Or at least, fewer problems that last very long." He took a sip of his coffee. "You still lead your little pack, Scott. Your empathy is... useful. Stiles is good at research. I'm good at... dealing with things. Permanently." He shrugged. "We're a team. Just a very, very unevenly powered team."

Stiles suddenly snapped his fingers. "Wait! If you're Jaxen McCall, Scott's twin, and you're an Alpha, why didn't you turn Scott? Why Peter Hale?"

Jaxen's eyes hardened for a brief moment, a flicker of a darker past. "Because I wasn't here. And even if I was, I don't turn people lightly. It's a curse as much as a gift. Scott got his bite from an idiot who deserved to die. Speaking of which, where is this Peter Hale? I have a feeling we need to have a little chat about proper Alpha decorum."

A chill went down Scott and Stiles's spines. They'd dealt with Peter Hale's monstrousness for months. Jaxen spoke about him like a minor inconvenience. They knew, without a doubt, that Beacon Hills was about to get a whole lot more interesting, and a whole lot more dangerous, now that The Apex Predator had truly returned. And with Malia by his side, he wasn't going anywhere.