His struggle halted the moment he saw those black tendrils. He'd had experience drawing pain, but he wasn't in pain. Not physically. And it was by no means making him feel better. If anything, it was making things worse. Before he could resume his struggle. Before he could figure out what was going on, Stiles dropped that on him. Simple words that were as painful as a knife to his chest.

"I don't need them," he lied. As if to prove it he shifted, trying to slam his shoulder into the other's chest. Hoping to dislodge that iron grip on his wrist. So he could run as far away as possible.