Countenance twisted in dismay, he balls up his hands at his sides and stamps down on the urge to reach out to her. Stiles isn’t sure the physical contact would be welcome.

“How does he own you?” he presses insistently, drawing closer. “Nancy, I want to help. There’s got to be a way to figure this out.”

Because Stiles knows enough about Stockholm Syndrome from his father’s cases. He knows the danger those boys are in, emotionally.