The boy was dirty. Very dirty. Most likely from the trap he’d been found in, the leg snare Derek figured, even though Peter hadn’t mentioned what type of trap it was. Mud dried and flaked off in patches on his left forearm, caked into the front of his sleeveless rough-hewn tunic and threadbare pants, up from his bare feet all the way to his knees, a dark streak painting the right side of his neck and continuing up into his clumsily cut brown hair - clearly he’d done it himself with a knife and perhaps no reflective surface, though judging by his appearance, a pond or puddle could have done just fine for him. Derek realized a lot of the spots he assumed to be mud were actually moles that dotted all along the boy’s skin.
Derek watched as the boy studied him back in silence, sitting with his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He stared hard at the crescent-shaped insignia picked out in silver and green sewn onto the dark gray fabric over Derek’s heart, a slight frown wrinkling his brow. The boy had to know about the Hales if he was part of the Argent pack.