Chapter Text
‘I don’t see what the big deal is,’ Stiles said.
He checked the stack of notes the night shift had left, and gritted his teeth at the incomprehensible mess that was Greenberg’s handwriting.
Annabel, at his side, just sighed romantically. This was not a new development; Annabel sighed romantically about soldiers just about every day.
It should have been annoying, but she and Stiles both volunteered at the Palace Infirmary for Injured Troops, and honestly, Annabel’s approach went down a treat with the patients. Annabel thought they were all wonderful .
They enthusiastically returned the sentiment.
While everyone was gushing, Stiles sanitised wounds and set broken bones.
Stiles was not as popular as Annabel.
‘The big deal,’ Annabel gushed, ‘is that the Halean Wolf Pack is coming here! To the City!’
Stiles had heard this all before. The war had only been officially over for a few days, but in the previous weeks, there’d been a steady trickle of troops coming through the infirmary doors as their commanding officers were summoned to court.
The commanding officers, usually noblemen who’d barely seen battle, would receive honours and adulation.
The soldiers would come to Stiles and Annabel to have their hastily patched-up injuries seen to by a proper healer, with spellbooks and herbs and not just a splintered emergency-wand and a dream.
Stiles had seen more than one soldier whose wound was no longer deadly, but was now disfiguring. Or who could walk and fight, but was too traumatised to sleep through the night.
He’d listened to Annabel wax poetic, in the last few weeks, about the Dorian Cavalry, the Saffronian Sorcerer Army and the Gylian Hog-Mounted Raiders.
Those last had required a bath before they could be allowed into the infirmary. People here were sick enough already.
Mostly, Stiles ignored the hype. Any injured soldier needed treatment; he didn’t particularly care what grand deeds had gotten them all messed up.
‘C’mon, Sire, the Hale Pack! The Daring Duke and his packmates saved the citizens of Fritha from invasion! They assassinated two General Argents in their sleep! Last week they fought in the Battle of Brishen and the Duke of Hale himself refused to leave the children’s home during the retreat. They held the line single-handed, against orders, and turned the tide.’
Stiles… had actually heard about that.
It had been hard not to.
The idiot had basically won them the war. The Argents accepted defeat twelve hours after their unsuccessful attempt to hold the invaded city of Brishen.
‘Unless they need me, I don’t have time to join in their parade,’ Stiles snapped, then immediately felt bad at Annabel’s suddenly sad face.
Yes, Annabel’s hero worship could get annoying, but she - like the Hales - was a werewolf, and there were still plenty of people who treated werewolves as dangerous criminals unfit for mixed society.
She actually had a perfect right to feel reflected glory in the success of Hale and his pack.
He patted her on the shoulder. ‘That doesn’t mean you can’t join the parade. Or the general throng of admirers they’ll have going on, whatever. I’ve got this under control, Bel - why don’t you head down? I can hold the fort here.’
Annabel looked at him like he was made of birthday cake.
‘But… your highness… ’
Stiles flinched.
He could sometimes go whole days, in the infirmary, without being reminded that technically , Annabel was less of a nurse and more of… his bodyguard.
Because he was the youngest scion of the house of Beacon, and the only omega child.
‘Bel, no one here knows who I am. And no one here would ever hurt me.’
‘I’m sorry, Sire, I can’t just leave you. I know you’re strong, and everything, but you’re still an omega, and people can be… well.’
She didn’t need to say it.
Stiles understood the need for Annabel to stay by his side even as the injustice of it rankled. Stiles was a young, un-bonded omega.
Even if he wasn't royalty, he would never have been allowed to just wander about on his own. Stiles could hold his own in a fight, but everyone had heard stories, both in wartime and peace.
What if you were outnumbered, his oldest brother, Scott, had said, desperate, as he tried to convince Stiles to follow the rules and keep Annabel, an alpha and a werewolf, by his side. What if they drugged you?
So. Annabel stayed, and Stiles got to experience more freedom that he had any right to expect. His brother, the King of Beacon, loved him and wanted him to be happy.
Stiles was allowed to work in the infirmary. He was allowed to go out into the City, albeit with an armed escort. He was allowed to choose who, and if , he mated, a luxury few omegas were afforded, even amongst commoners.
Stiles huffed and Annabel beamed at him, knowing his resolve was gone. Together, they did their rounds, and Annabel kept up a near-constant stream of chatter.
Their patients, it transpired, were excited at the arrival of the Halean Wolf Pack, too.
Stiles had never heard anyone speak of wolves with such affection and pride.
Annabel was glowing, and Stiles’ slightly sour mood rapidly improved through a combination of her joy and his own focus in his work.
He barely noticed when, a few hours into his work day, Annabel stiffened and stared at two newcomers standing in the doorway.
The infirmary was a converted hall of worship, with high gabled ceilings and nothing but beds between where Stiles worked on his patient and the newcomers.
Stiles glanced up. He was able to make out two tall, strongly built men with ragged, long hair and beards and tattered uniforms, one leaning heavily on the other.
‘They’re wolves ,’ Annabel hissed.
Stiles looked at her, then went back to re-dressing the wound of the Hog-Mounted Raider below him.
‘You said we were expecting them,’ he reminded her absently.
‘Yes, but…’ She crouched down beside the Raider’s bed and hid her mouth with her hand, whispering sharply at Stiles. ‘Sire, I haven’t really… I haven’t ever met another wolf.’
Stiles blinked down at her. ‘Never?’
‘I was orphaned before I can remember by hunters on the Argent border,’ Annabel said all in a rush.
Stiles felt a wave of compassion and the familiar twinge that said: well done, Stiles, you’re an asshole .
Because he’d been working with Annabel for nearly three years and he never knew that.
He finished up with the Raider and smiled down at him. ‘You’ll be up and about tomorrow, Lieutenant Kayen.’
He grabbed Annabel by the elbow and helped her to her feet. ‘Bel, I might not know much about wolves, but I do know that you should be on your feet when you meet them.’
The two soldiers drew closer, and one of them - the one able to stand unaided - let out a low, strange whimper.
Stiles looked at him. He had wild, matted black hair and a matching beard. His eyes were a strange gold-green and his pupils were dilated, his nostrils flared, and he looked like he’d seen a ghost.
His companion was fair-haired, though no less of a mess. There was clearly something badly wrong with his leg, and when Stiles took a breath, he caught a collection of very faint, very strange scents beneath the general battlefield-and-travel grime both men wore.
‘Cap?’ The fair-haired soldier said to the other. ‘Are you alright?’
The scents were baffling. Stiles breathed deep and the black-haired solider’s gaze dropped to his lips, his eyes still wide and horrified.
The dark-haired man was an alpha. That was abundantly clear - beneath the filth, his natural scent was soft and dark and might have been nice, but it was truly difficult to tell.
What was interesting was his companion. The younger, fair-haired wolf was an omega.
Stiles was certain, despite what seemed like a fairly expensive, good-quality scent-masking charm.
One of Stiles’ natural magicks was the ability to see - or smell - straight through glamours. His mother had described it, once, as an ability to root out bullshit.
Stiles had never heard of an omega soldier. He tried to collect himself and gestured at a spare bed down the hall.
‘Cap?’ the omega seemed increasingly distressed, so Stiles gave a small noise of frustration, stepped forward, and without preamble took him from the alpha. ‘Um… hi?’
Stiles snorted. ‘Hi. I’m Stiles, I’ll be your healer today. Let’s leave tall, dark and freaking-out to collect himself, shall we?’ To Annabel, he said: ‘Keep an eye on him, Bel. If he hyperventilates, put him on a spare bed and check him over.’
For some reason, this seemed to spur the alpha into action. He hurried down the infirmary to catch up with Stiles and the omega, and took back the latter’s weight, helping him down onto an empty bed.
‘Lieutenant Isaac de Lahey,’ the omega - Isaac - said by way of introduction, ‘of the Halean wolves.’
Stiles nodded and without preamble set to cutting away Isaac’s trousers.
‘Hey! Hey, healer, those are my best pants!’
‘They stink,’ Stiles said, simply. ‘You’ll thank me in the morning.’
Beneath the fabric, Isaac’s leg was mangled. The flesh was ripped from thigh to calf, with obvious filth caught in the wound and making it fester. As a wolf, Isaac healed fast, but fast wasn’t always good , and Stiles drew on his power to assess the damage.
The silent alpha let out a small hiss of surprise when Stiles’ eyes flooded black and his power made the air around him shimmer like a mirage.
Stiles ignored him and ran his hands without preamble along the flesh of Isaac’s leg.
There was infection, dirt, and his femur had fused back together poorly, recently, though probably not in the same incident that caused the flesh wound.
When Stiles spoke, his voice carried the ethereal echo of his power. Isaac paled.
‘This will hurt. Your companion will need to hold you down.’
‘Captain?’ Isaac looked beseechingly at the alpha. ‘Cap, we don’t need to do this. I’m healing fine, I told you, I-’
The alpha went to the head of the bed, growled, and with shocking strength pushed Isaac down to the mattress by his shoulders.
‘Listen to the healer,’ the alpha managed.
His voice was strange. When Stiles glanced up, he saw it was because the alpha’s jaw was distorted with fangs.
‘No need to get all… lupine,’ Stiles said lightly. ‘Ready, gentlemen?’
‘Yes,’ the alpha said, even as Isaac managed: ‘no?’
Isaac screamed as Stiles’ magick rushed through him, but the work was fast, and it only took a moment.
When it was done, Stiles was shaking and spent, and the bone was reset. The flesh had been torn open again and a run of Stiles’ hand, along with some whispered words, cleaned it, ready to heal again.
Stiles tried to keep his hands steady as he reached for a roll of fabric to bandage the soldier. His power was gone, and he hadn’t realised how much work it would be, because he felt like he hadn’t in years - overspent and exhausted. Apparently working with lycanthrope bone and blood was more challenging - he filed that information away for future use.
The alpha’s hand shot out and snagged the bandage. Stiles glared at him, and the alpha’s ears blushed dark red.
‘I can bandage him. You should…’
‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ Stiles snapped.
‘I just… your hands are shaking…’
Stiles almost felt bad. The dark-haired wolf looked thoroughly thrown off balance, and he was sucking in deep breaths through his nose, his own hands in tight white-knuckle fists.
Almost. Because Stiles had a lifetime of overbearing alphas, and years’ experience of soldiers, and he took shit from neither.
‘You can order Lieutenant Isaac around because he’s your subordinate, but I am not. I am neither your inferior nor your omega.’
Stiles held out his hand, which by sheer force of bloody-mindedness he kept steady.
The alpha dropped the bandage into his hand.
On the bed, Isaac - panting - said, ‘oh, my gods.’
He was… laughing.
‘Shut up,’ the alpha growled.
Isaac laughed harder.
‘Correction,’ Stiles said, ‘apparently your subordinate omegas don’t listen to you, either.’
That shut Isaac up. Both soldiers stared at Stiles like he’d grown horns.
‘I don’t give a good gods-damn about your secondary gender,’ Stiles clarified, and set to work wrapping Isaac’s leg, ‘but you need to be more forthcoming with your healers. Omega biology is different - the tincture I’m going to make you drink, for example, has a different effect on alphas.’
Isaac swallowed, hard, and nodded. He glanced desperately at the alpha, whose gaze was - somewhat unsettlingly - still absolutely focused on Stiles.
‘Whose are you?’ the alpha asked around teeth he couldn’t seem to pull back.
Which, huh. Interesting. Stiles had only ever seen Annabel drop her canines like that at dinner time. Maybe it was the coppery smell of Isaac’s blood?
Stiles ignored him in favour of wrapping the leg, and the alpha drew a little bit closer.
‘Hey, big guy, no offense but you smell like a battleground right now. Give me a little room to work.’
The alpha shot backwards like he’d been slapped.
‘He wants to know if you’re mated,’ Isaac said, something like glee in his tone.
The alpha growled but didn’t correct him. Stiles didn’t look up from his work.
‘I’m my own,’ Stiles stated.
‘Hear that, Cap? He’s his own .’
Stiles pulled tight on the bandage and Isaac cried out in pain.
He only felt a little bad.
Annabel appeared by Isaac’s side, her eyes wide and sympathetic. ‘Oh, you poor, brave thing,’ she said.
Isaac looked up at her, startled, but it only took a moment for a half-smile to form.
Annabel had that effect on people.
‘Sire,’ she said, to Stiles, and both of the male wolves looked at Stiles with surprise at the title, ‘could I perhaps… the cookie jar?’
Stiles saw a few nearby patients perk up at that. He rolled his eyes.
‘Get a nurse to give Lieutenant Isaac a good scrubbing on your way to get it, then,’ he said. Annabel happily rushed off.
‘Sire?’ Isaac asked.
‘Yes?’
Isaac didn’t seem to know where to go from there. Stiles certainly wasn’t going to volunteer any further information.
‘The alpha she-wolf, is she… what is she?’
‘She’s my friend and colleague.’ Not a lie, but the dark-haired wolf frowned like he could sense the half-truth in Stiles’ heartbeat. ‘You’ll play nice with her if you want to survive the night, wolf-of-Hale, she’s a fan-favourite around here.’
Isaac nodded, swallowed, then pointed at the dark-haired man. ‘His ribs are all messed up.’
Stiles raised an eyebrow at the alpha, who looked absolutely murderous. ‘It’s nothing,’ he gritted out.
‘I’ve heard that before,’ Stiles said. ‘Shirt off.’
‘I don’t-’
‘Shirt. Off.’
The alpha seemed to deflate, and all at once, Stiles noticed the deep, dark bags under his eyes, the strain evident in his posture.
Stiles stepped close, and when the alpha froze like a frightened rabbit, he sighed and helped the bigger man off with his shirt and into a seated position on the free bed by Isaac’s side.
‘I’m sorry,’ the alpha said, so softly Stiles wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t been right by the alpha’s head, trying to get the shirt off without jostling hurt ribs. ‘For the smell.’
Stiles… thawed, a little.
‘It’s ok,’ he said, honestly. ‘I’ve handled much worse. You’ll have time enough to wash the war off your skin.’
Presented with the alpha’s bare chest, Stiles struggled to swallow down a sigh of appreciation. He was broad-shouldered with slim hips and strong, corded muscle, his chest covered in black hair, his belly flat and strong.
The alpha was objectively beautiful. His green eyes watched Stiles as the healer hovered, one hand just above the raised ridges of his ribs.
Stiles sucked it up and pressed his hand to the skin, which was shockingly hot and soft as silk. His other palm rested on the other side, and he gathered his power.
‘Don’t… don’t exhaust yourself,’ the alpha said. ‘Like with Isaac. It’s not…’
Stiles ignored him. He was experienced with pushing through the fatigue that came with healing magicks, and besides, the alpha’s skin was like a lodestone - Stiles felt his power shimmering beneath his skin, ready to leap from his hands into the alpha’s blood.
He dove in, his eyes drifting shut as the power coursed through him.
Seven broken ribs had fused, three of them badly. He was impressed the alpha had been able to walk, let alone support Isaac’s weight.
With both hands on the alpha’s torso, Stiles let his power give a sharp pull and an immediate push, shattering and re-forming the ribs. It was a risk - there was a reason he’d asked the alpha to restrain his friend.
But his hypothesis was correct. The alpha didn’t move, nor did he make a sound as Stiles ripped apart his bones and reset them.
When Stiles opened his eyes, the alpha’s own eyes glowed red and a bead of sweat was on his brow, but he hadn’t flinched. Stiles gave him an exhausted smile.
‘Brave man,’ he said, and felt the alpha’s chest puff out beneath his hands.
Stiles stood. ‘You don’t need to stay the night, but Lieutenant Isaac will. I suggest you go get some rest, big guy.’
With that, he walked away, and felt the alpha’s gaze on his back the whole way.
The rest of his shift went by uneventfully. Apparently tall-dark-and-brooding and Isaac were the only two Halean Wolves who’d sustained injuries their natural healing couldn’t manage, because the infirmary stayed quiet and half-empty.
The war was over, Stiles reminded himself. There would be fewer and fewer injured soldiers needing care. Soon, Stiles would return to life at court, fending off advances from alphas who saw him as nothing more than an advantageous match.
He felt it like a slap in the face. Over dinner, he mostly ignored Scott as he waxed lyrical about the Duke of Hale and the Halean wolves in general.
‘Their hand-to-hand combat is completely unique,’ Scott said enthusiastically. ‘Father never said… I’m not sure he knew! They’re so isolated, up there in Hale, we know so little about their culture, even though they’re Beaconians. Lord Derek said he would teach me!’
‘That’s nice, Scotty,’ Stiles said absently, flicking through a book on surgical spells. ‘I met a couple today - they’re definitely built like fighters.’
A few days passed, and with each, more and more soldiers left the infirmary. Soon, the few left didn’t need Stiles to exhaust himself with spellcasting - they just needed time to heal.
‘Why don’t we go into the town?’ Annabel suggested. ‘They’re setting up the homecoming festival for the troops, and you can shop for fresh herbs.’
Stiles knew he’d been in a funk since their interaction with the Halean wolves, and knew that Annabel understood why.
Stiles was happy the war was over. He truly was. It had been horrific, and he’d seen for himself the impact it had on the soldiers, and on the ordinary people.
He just… didn’t want to go back to the way things were. To dancing and pretending to be interested in dull alphas who wanted Stiles for a trophy.
Stiles was a scholar. He was smart, powerful, and yes - an omega.
If Stiles ever mated, it would be to an alpha who saw those traits as desirable in and of themselves, not just the eccentricities afforded a high-born innocent.
Stiles firmly didn’t believe such a person existed. So, he was a confirmed spinster going through the interminable rigmarole of courtly life, unable to insult the boors who sought his hand because of politics .
‘Herbs,’ Stiles agreed. ‘Sure, Bel. Let’s do it.’
‘And the twins,’ Annabel added quickly.
Stiles rolled his eyes. ‘The twins’ was what the two of them called the duo of ever-changing guards who silently - but undeniably effectively - acted as their armed escorts in public.
‘Fine. C’mon, I’m going stir-crazy.’
They made their way down to the merchant district in a discrete carriage, Stiles staring out the window and jiggling his leg with excess energy, Annabel keeping up a non-stop ode to her new favourite subject: Isaac, of Halean wolf fame.
They pulled up out back of Stiles’ favourite herbalist, and near a half-built street market setting up for the fair. It was busy, with people rushing back and forth.
Stiles took a deep breath in, gathering his power close. Together, he and Annabel progressed through the herbalist, the bookshop, the crystal-merchant and, finally, found themselves in the chaos of Black Lane, where the magick-market was booming.
‘Stay with the twins, ok, Sire? I just want to…’ Annabel trailed off, gesturing weakly at her favourite fortune-teller.
Stiles rolled his eyes, but dutifully waved at the familiar face of Hestia The Wise and gestured to his guards to follow him through the market. Annabel would be able to find him by scent when she was ready.
Stiles was inspecting some dried meadow-berries when someone shoved past him, with a sneering: ‘watch yourself, pretty boy.’
‘Wash yourself, asshole,’ Stiles shot back, unconcerned, but then a hand closed around his upper arm and he went stiff with shock.
There was a scent, all around him, that was at once familiar and absolutely unique. Soft and dark and deep, like petrichor and crushed wildflower, and absolutely alpha.
He knew, in the pit of his stomach, that it was the alpha wolf who had brought in Isaac. Stiles had been inside of the alpha’s skin, inside of his bones - Stiles knew his scent.
But apparently the alpha had taken a bath, and Stiles fought the humiliating urge to bare his neck and whine, because the scent, unmasked by filth and trauma, was beautiful . Stiles had never known anything quite like it.
‘What are you doing here.’
It wasn’t phrased like a question. The alpha was against Stiles’ back, and it was too crowded to turn, so Stiles allowed himself a moment of weakness and took a deep breath of that scent.
‘Shopping.’
‘Don’t... healer, you should not be here alone.’
‘I’m not.’ Stiles turned to face the alpha, and gestured at the guards, who stood to attention, their focus on the alpha as a potential threat. ‘They’re with me.’
The alpha’s pretty eyes took them in, and he scowled. ‘Royal guards?’
‘Royal healer,’ Stiles said. He was shooting for easy-breesy , but by the way the alpha’s gaze snapped to his, the revelation was more dramatic than he’d hoped. ‘Mieczyslaw, Prince Omegan of Beacon.’
‘You said your name was Stiles.’
‘Would you want to go by Mieczyslaw ?’
There was a long, tense pause. All around them, the crowd moved in a wave, and Stiles was incredibly aware of the alpha’s strong hand on his arm and the dark shadows still on the older man’s face.
The alpha had washed and combed his hair and beard, but both were still too long, and he still looked exhausted and hungry.
‘This is where you tell me your name,’ Stiles prompted.
The alpha took a long, deep breath through his nose. His eyes fluttered shut, and he seemed to relax a fraction. He looked suddenly so tired Stiles was concerned he might keel over and smoosh Stiles under his admittedly very fine bulk.
‘Derek, Duke of Hale.’
Stiles swallowed, hard. ‘Of orphan-rescuing fame. The Daring Duke.’
The Duke scowled, but didn’t correct him. Instead, he took another deep, steadying breath and said: ‘are you done shopping.’
Stiles considered the contents of his basket and, after a beat, nodded.
‘May I walk you to your carriage,’ the Duke asked, though again, he didn’t phrase it as a question, and his teeth were gritted.
Stiles immediately bristled. ‘Look, Lord Hale, you are not my alpha.’ The Duke recoiled at that, though he did not drop his grip, as though afraid Stiles would be swept away by the crowds. ‘I have guards. Three, total, if the other one hurries the hell up. I don’t need an escort.’
The silence between them was long and strange, though the market moved all around them. Finally, Lord Hale seemed to deflate.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I just… omega, I can’t… please. Let me see that you’re safe. Please.’
Please . A tiny word and said without shame. Derek de Hale, hero of Beacon, begging an omega to let him be sure he was safe.
‘Fine,’ Stiles managed, after a long, strange silence where the Duke kept his head tilted low, his neck bared in a parody of submissiveness, the lines of his strong body tense. ‘Whatever. One extra guard. Join the fun.’
Lord Hale finally dropped his grip on Stiles’ arm, his breath releasing in a sigh of… relief. He fell into step beside Stiles when Stiles set off, the Duke’s hands making a sort of aborted gesture towards Stiles’ basket.
Stiles rolled his eyes and handed it over. Lord Hale looked like death - Stiles could afford to be patient with ridiculous acts of chivalry.
Annabel joined them at the end of the market, and the sight of the Duke had her eyes widening and her jaw clicking shut.
‘Bel, this is Derek, Lord Hale. Lord Hale, this is my bodyguard, Dame Annabel de Personne.’
Annabel turned bright red, her eyes darting to Stiles for confirmation, who shrugged.
‘Dame Annabel,’ Lord Hale said solemnly. ‘It is good to see a young wolf in a position of such honour.’
Annabel looked like she was about to swoon, so Stiles cut them both off by simply walking away. His entourage scrambled to keep up.
‘Lord Hale, how is your Lieutenant?’ he asked over his shoulder, only to find that the Duke had caught up in surprising time and was looming .
‘He’s well,’ the alpha said. ‘He has barely scarred, and he is able to walk.’
‘And yourself?’
Lord Hale looked momentarily confused, then pressed one hand to his side. ‘No pain whatsoever. You didn’t have to-’
‘You were in pain. I healed you. Don’t be ungrateful, Lord Hale.’
The Duke’s ears pinkened. Stiles thought he was quite ridiculously handsome.
If he ever tidied his hair and beard, he would likely cause a riot at court.
They fell into an easy silence for a few minutes. When the carriage came into sight, Stiles glanced over at the alpha wolf.
‘When was the last time you slept?’
Lord Hale blinked at him, then glared, but said nothing. Stiles powered on.
‘Because I know soldiers, Lord Hale. I know the look on your face.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I could bring you a potion, if you’d like. Sleep, without dreams.’
At that word - dreams - the Duke went white as a sheet. ‘How did you-’
‘I don’t think the war is over for you, Lord Hale. Not yet. I could help you, if you’d let me.’
‘I’m fine.’
Stiles threw up his hands and took back his basket, ignoring the strange look on Hale’s face.
‘Of course you are. Big, strong alpha - why would you ever admit you need help?’ Stiles managed a sunny smile. ‘Thank you for your escort, my lord. Perhaps next time you’ll save your chivalry for those who need it, as I save my breath for those willing to hear me.’
Annabel made a noise like a shocked squirrel, and Stiles climbed into his carriage without waiting for a hand to help him up. Like other male omegas at court, he wore a collection of ridiculous fabrics in place of the practical breeches-and-shirt uniform of the infirmary, which he’d grown far too used to of late.
One long, heavy length of sky blue silk wrapped his waist from ankle to hips, then was arranged diagonally across his shoulder and torso, leaving his chest mostly exposed. A long chain with a heavy gold pendant rested over his heart and bounced when he moved, and over the whole ludicrous ensemble, a gossamer-thin shawl covered him and partly obscured his body.
Stiles was convinced the whole get up was designed to be at once alluring and impractical. It prevented him from spreading his legs very far, which also meant it was hard to climb up into a carriage.
He fumbled, losing one stupid silk slipper as he half-tripped on his hem, and landed on the carriage seat.
In an instant, Lord Hale was in the carriage door, slipper in hand. Stiles huffed, rolled his eyes, and stuck out his bare foot.
There was a long, strange moment of silence in which Stiles realised he could have just asked to be handed the stupid slipper, and then one huge, insanely warm hand was completely enveloping his ankle and the slipper was sliding back on, and then Lord Hale was gone as if he’d never been.
Annabel’s silence only lasted halfway up the road, before she let out an excited, strangled scream and commenced a monologue about Lord Hale’s every wartime achievement until they arrived back at court. Stiles just stared out the window and half-listened.
The way that the Duke had said omega . It hadn’t been with standard-issue condescension - the alpha had been terrified for Stiles’ safety. What had he seen, in war, that made him so desperate to protect an omega he clearly didn’t even like?
He didn’t see Lord Hale again for a few days. Life at court was beginning to return to normal, now that most surviving courtiers had returned from war and spring had bloomed, which meant that Stiles’ responsibilities increased in number and urgency. His sister-in-law, the Queen, was in the final stages of her confinement and expecting her child any day now, so Stiles was the acting regent to his brother, tasked with greasing the domestic wheels of a palace with the population of a small town.
He also had a small but vocal new crop of admiring alphas driving him absolutely batshit insane.
Not one of them listened when he spoke. He hoped that his abysmal dancing would put at least a few of them off at the first ball of the season, but he knew better than to assume.
So, when he had free time, he mostly just avoided them. His preferred location for this task was the old Queen’s library, in the little used south-west wing of the keep.
It was technically accessible by any of the hundred or so courtiers who kept residence in the palace during the season, but no one ever seemed to go there but Stiles. He had a favourite couch, with his favourite blanket, all set up. He organised his own collection of books and his to-read pile in stacks on the floor.
He loved it there.
Apparently, he wasn’t the only one.
Derek de Hale looked very young when he slept. His brow unfurrowed, his expression relaxed, he lay slumped back with Stiles’ blanket held to his face, as if he had been inspecting it closely when he’d been hit firmly over the head. One of Stiles’ books lay on his lap, with one of the Duke’s fingers holding the spot.
He snored, very gently, like a snuffling pig.
Stiles was fond of pigs. Quietly, he walked across the library, picked up a book, and settled on the floor by Lord Hale’s knees, leaning back on the settee.
They sat in companionable silence until the sky outside the library window bled with a red, violent sunset. Instead of lighting a lamp or candle, Stiles closed his book and watched the sky change colour, feeling tremendously peaceful - Derek was like a furnace, and resting near him more than made up for the lack of blanket.
An aborted, choked snore was Stiles’ only sign that Derek was awake. He felt the larger man sit up straight and go very still.
‘Your Highness,’ Derek said, his voice rough with sleep.
‘Your Grace,’ Stiles acknowledged.
‘Where-’
‘You’re in the Queen’s Library. You found my reading nook, it seems.’
Silence, for a moment, then: ‘How long-’
‘Oh, at least a few hours. You were asleep when I found you.’
‘And you just… stayed?’
‘As I said. You’re in my favourite spot. Now shush, and look .’
The sky burnt . The view of the sunset from Stiles’ settee was always good, but tonight, it was spectacular, and Stiles gave a happy sort of noise. He leant his head back, and tilted it towards Lord Hale’s knee, enjoying the warmth.
‘It looks like a Halean sky,’ the alpha said, softly.
Stiles looked up at him. He had to tilt his head back, exposing his throat, and he saw in the half-dark the Duke’s eyes linger on his neck, his exposed collar.
Stiles fought the urge to shiver.
‘We’re at high altitude, in the keep. The forests are below us. You can see for miles, across the sea and inland, to the plains.’
This was more than the Duke had ever said in Stiles’ presence, all at once. Stiles smiled at him, lazily, and saw the alpha’s hands clench in the blanket.
‘I’ve not been… myself, of late,’ Lord Hale managed. ‘I don’t think I’ve made a very good impression on you.’
Stiles hummed . ‘Brishen was barely a month ago, Lord Hale. Give yourself a break.’
At that, the alpha relaxed a fraction. When Stiles looked up at him, he had one hand tangled in his wild black hair, his gaze still riveted on Stiles’ throat.
‘I’m broken,’ he said, matter-of-fact. ‘I can’t… you’re right, your Highness. I can’t sleep, I can’t…’
Stiles tilted his face until his nose pressed against the rock-firm flesh of the Duke’s thigh.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that when we are here, I shall be Stiles. Not your highness . And as for sleep, you only just woke up.’
He immediately wanted to snatch the words back. What on earth possessed him to act so familiar? Just because the warrior alpha looked soft and rumpled from sleep?
‘Stiles,’ the alpha repeated.
‘Derek,’ Stiles said, unable to keep a teasing note from his voice. ‘You are not broken.’
‘You can’t know that.’
Stiles shrugged and looked back at the sky, now sliding into dark blues and purples.
‘I see truth. I saw that your friend was an omega, didn’t I?’
Derek didn’t say anything, but Stiles felt his tension.
He was waiting for an answer. Waiting, whether he would admit it or not, for the healer to say something to make it better .
Stiles had seen that, in his patients. In the warriors who had survived the southern swamps, the archers who had been forced to the frontline in the early days of the eastern front.
Healer , their eyes said, tell me I will be happy again someday .
‘So, here is a truth, Derek de Hale, hero of Beacon: you are not the man you were before. But you are not broken. You are being re-moulded.’ Stiles took a deep breath. ‘It’ll hurt like hell. But in the end, the pain will fade. You’re going to be ok.’
‘You… you are like no one else I’ve ever known.’ Derek sounded almost frustrated, and he sighed. ‘You have no idea what you do to me, my prince.’
Stiles’ traitorous heart thudded painfully against his ribs. He hoped helplessly that Derek could not hear it.
‘Some of my patients say that an omega’s scent helps them,’ he heard himself say. ‘You should keep the blanket. It might help you sleep.’
Derek gave a little laugh. It sounded almost hysterical, but it was a laugh , and Stiles relished the sound.
‘Thank you, Stiles.’
Stiles stood, brushed imaginary dust from himself, and tried to re-arrange the scarlet shawl that had fallen off of his shoulders.
He managed to drop it, exposing his bare chest. He’d forgotten that he still had faint traces of henna on his belly from Lady Ysolt’s engagement party until he felt the softest touch against the pattern’s swirls on his skin.
He froze. Derek did, too, for a moment - he seemed to have moved without thinking. In an instant, he’d snatched his hand back, and the alpha was on his feet. The movement made Stiles rock backwards, and he almost tumbled over.
Derek caught him with a growl and set him back on his feet.
His touch bunt .
‘You’re so clumsy,’ Derek said.
‘You knocked me over!’
Even in the low light, Derek’s ears were pink.
He smelled like dry earth after the rain. Stiles had always loved that scent. They stood, at an impasse, for a long moment, and then the alpha dropped him, and without another word was gone.
With the blanket.
Stiles stared at the place where he'd been, then threw his hands up and set to tidying his stacks of books.
Derek had, apparently, been reading Meadowsweet Manor , a truly ridiculous romantic drama set in the plains of the north west, not so very far from Hale.
It was Stiles’ favourite book. Maybe he’d seen how dog-earred it was and assumed the reader had good taste?
When Stiles returned the next evening, Meadowsweet had been ever-so-subtly moved. Derek had apparently been back.
Stiles read his own book for a bit, then carefully left Meadowsweet and its sequel next to each other on the sofa.
Both were gone the next day. Derek had borrowed them, he was sure.
Stiles responded by leaving a gift of a small bottle of sleeping tonic, along with instructions, and a few leftover cookies from the infirmary.
Annabel made the best cookies.
Stiles had no idea what possessed him to expend so much energy on the alpha. He was attracted to him, certainly, but Stiles had been attracted to myriad people before and never felt any urge to act like such an idiot.
He knew that Derek was responsible for his wolf pack, and for all Halean citizens. Soon, he’d be forced into courtly life - there was no way out of it, particularly as Hale, like all duchies, needed a nursery full of heirs to be secure.
The truth was that Stiles felt sorry for him. He’d never admit it, certainly not to Derek himself. But Stiles was a healer, and he had seen a deep wound in the Duke.
He set about healing it, without magick or potions. He prescribed acts of kindness, and even as he didn’t see Derek about the palace, he saw evidence that his gifts were accepted.
He didn’t see Derek, but in the meantime, he suddenly couldn’t be free of wolves.
First, the day after the altercation in the library, was Isaac de Lahey.
Isaac appeared at Stiles’ elbow while he was in the stables, checking on his favourite farm-cat, Fat Cat.
‘That’s a fat cat!’ Isaac exclaimed cheerfully.
Stiles about jumped out of his skin. Fat Cat probably would have, too, if she wasn’t huge, and therefore didn’t care to move.
‘She’s pregnant,’ Stiles managed.
‘Awww! Kittens!’
Stiles squinted at the Lieutenant. ‘Isaac, can I help you?’
‘No, thank you - just wanted to check in. Are you here alone?’
His tone was overly cheerful. Stiles narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘Well, there are soldiers about, and you’re… an omega?’
Stiles glared at him. ‘ You’re an omega, Isaac.’
Isaac turned bright red and hissed: ‘shut up!’ Then, he blanched. ‘Oh, my gods - Your Highness, I didn’t-’
‘It’s alright.’ Stiles petted Fat Cat one last time and straightened up. ‘Did Lord Hale tell you to look out for me?’
Isaac immediately looked guilty. ‘Kind of? But also, you smell…’
He trailed off, helpless, his eyes pleading.
Stiles sighed. ‘I smell?’
‘Yousmellgood,’ Isaac said in a rush. ‘Can I help you with anything?’
Stiles blinked. He wanted to inspect that closer, but then Annabel returned from her brief mission to collect cream from the dairy, and she and Isaac were staring at each other, both of them red-faced.
‘My brave Lieutenant,’ she breathed. ‘How are you healing?’
The two of them shadowed Stiles through his morning routine. Around lunchtime, Isaac was greeted by a tall, dark-skinned beta man he introduced as Boyd.
Isaac left to fetch them all some lunch, and Boyd stayed, quiet and oddly soothing in his presence. He was surprisingly useful in Stiles’ workshop, knowing plenty of ingredients by sight and happily taking any task he was assigned, sitting reading a little book when he wasn’t needed.
Stiles liked Boyd. If the wolf ever had an interest in herbology, Stiles would be willing to teach him, which was… unusual. Stiles generally hated people other than Annabel hanging around his work.
The next day, Isaac found Stiles in the infirmary, and introduced him to a stunning blonde beta woman named Erica.
Erica seemed to lack the boundaries of her packmates. She merrily chatted to Stiles, Annabel, their patients and anyone who drifted into their orbit all day long. She rubbed her cheek against Stiles’, wrapped an arm around his waist, and generally exhibited all the respect for personal boundaries of a housecat.
The day after that, Isaac was nowhere to be seen, but two terrifyingly lovely beta woman who smelled faintly of Derek showed up outside the King’s chambers and gave the briefest of greetings - their names given as Cora and Malia respectively - before proceeding to shadow Stiles through a full day in the life of an acting-regent.
They followed him through the kitchens, the servants’ quarters, a budget meeting with the treasury and, finally, to a formal dinner, where they stood against the wall and glared daggers at Stiles’ suitors.
They were astonishingly successful at driving away unwanted attention. At the end of the night, each of them wrapped him in a surprising hug, their cheeks rubbing against his, and gave him smiles that lit up their pretty faces and made them look very young and slightly less scary.
Annabel was, at first, made deeply nervous by all the new wolves, but she quickly relaxed. Her heroes happily answered her myriad questions, and on the final day, Malia even gave her a quick hug, nipping gently at her throat.
‘They accept me,’ Annabel breathed. ‘Do you think… Sire, I could be pack .’
‘You’d have to win over their alpha.’
‘Could you ask him?’
‘Bel, what makes you think he’d listen to me?’
She shot him a look. ‘Sire, he… do you really not know? Why do you think the pack has been following us all week?’
‘Because he told them to keep an eye on me? He has some weird thing about violence against omegas, Bel, and he thinks I’m just the sort of idiot to fall headlong into danger.’
‘Well,’ Annabel snorted, ‘he’s not alone in that. Just… if you get a chance, could you ask him? I think I’d like Hale. It’s supposed to be so pretty there.’
Stiles’ stomach turned at the idea of losing her. They’d been companions for years.
But he wanted her to be happy, and he nodded, before returning his focus to the report of troops disbanding in the west.
A foot servant knocked on the door and Stiles looked up, exasperated - he had enough trouble focusing as it was, without these distractions.
‘Your Highness, the Duke of Doria is in the main courtyard and begs your… attention.’
Stiles blinked. ‘My attention?’
‘Yes, sire.’
Stiles considered. ‘It’s Liesel, isn’t it? You helped me move those chairs in the Queen’s chambers a few weeks ago.’
Liesel seemed surprised to be recognised, but nodded. Stiles took a deep breath. ‘Liesel, I have no intention of answering a summons from an idiot like Lord Doria without good reason. Can you please tell me what this is about?’
Liesel coloured prettily, the faint scent of discomfited omega in the air as she shuffled from foot to foot.
‘It’s a courting gift, sire. A big one. He… I think he wants everyone to see.’
Stiles dropped his head to the table, pounded it against the wood three times, then sprung to his feet. ‘Annabel, with me. Liesel, thank you, sweetling. You’ve been a great help.’
He stormed to the main palace doors, and waited patiently for a footman to open them. Annabel, at his side, was watching him nervously.
The Duke of Doria was famously beautiful, fabulously wealthy, and desperately charming.
He was also a lowlife cad with all the intelligence of a shoe.
As evidenced by his choice of courting gift.
A courting gift, if accepted, was the first stage of a formal engagement. It ought to be thoughtful, heartfelt. A sign that you knew your mate, that you were compatible.
It was not supposed to be - Stiles did a quick head-count - twelve identical white Dorian stallions.
Each horse was held by a Dorian Cavalryman. Stiles recognised some of them from his infirmary - one of them, a sweet-faced beta woman, gave a weak little wave.
At their head, Lord Doria stood, holding the bridle of a particularly mean-looking animal, beaming at the audience that had formed.
Stiles stood at the top of the stairs, looking out over the courtyard, waiting for quiet. In the crowd he saw the Halean wolves, all of them oddly sweaty and in various states of undress - had this spectacle interrupted some kind of training session?
This theory was confirmed when, from the direction of the barracks, Scott and Derek appeared. Both were shirtless - Derek spectacularly so - and covered in sweat and dust.
Scott was so filthy the people around him didn’t seem to recognise their King.
Stiles smiled at him. Scott loved it when that happened.
Lord Doria apparently thought the smile was for him.
‘My prince! My sweet omega, I have brought you a courting gift of the finest steeds Doria has to offer. They will bear you to your new home, just as you will bear the heirs of our fair duchy!’
Ew . Stiles saw Scott wrinkle his nose in distaste, and felt a sudden, deep love for his brother.
If Stiles’ brother - if his king - had been a different man, Stiles would have felt compelled to accept this bullshit proposal. On paper, Doria was an ideal mate: a perfect, advantageous match.
His gaze fell on Derek. He was glorious in the afternoon sun, his skin glistening. His expression was hard to discern - so much gods-damned hair - but he was clearly listening intently.
‘Why horses?’ Stiles asked. The courtyard went very quiet.
Lord Doria opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. ‘You love horses!’
‘I love my horse,’ Stiles snapped.
His horse was an asshole. Stiles was obsessed with her.
‘I-... Doria…’
‘Doria is indeed beautiful. These animals are indeed magnificent. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding a mate, my lord. I regret it cannot be me.’
Doria’s expression clouded even as his face flushed dark red. He dropped the reigns in his grip and took a step forward, up the stairs.
‘My prince-’
‘This conversation is over, Lord Doria,’ Stiles said.
The Duke climbed the stairs, his expression dark. At Stiles’ side, Annabel stiffened, ready to defend him.
‘You do not wish to humiliate me in public,’ he said, low.
‘You humiliated yourself with this display,’ Stiles shot back. ‘You sought to bully me into accepting, by being so public and so brash. I will not be bullied, my lord.’
‘You won’t get a better offer,’ Doria hissed, close enough now that the crowd was clearly getting uncomfortable.
Stiles was beloved - he knew this without vanity, because the feeling was mutual. Stiles’ mother had been a darling of the people, and Stiles had fought to live up to her legacy.
Lord Doria… had soldiers who were beloved. The man himself wasn’t well known at court - his mother had passed the title to him during the war - and if he attempted to do anything to Stiles, he’d regret it.
A very large, very shirtless man was suddenly at Stiles’ side.
Or, slightly in front of him. Directly between Stiles and Lord Doria.
Stiles peered around Lord Hale’s body at Doria.
‘You’ll still your tongue if you wish to keep it, Doria,’ Derek said.
Lord Doria looked momentarily taken aback, and then sneered. ‘I don’t take orders from dogs, Hale. Look at you - you’re an animal. Do you fancy yourself enamoured with this little omega? He needs someone who can teach him manners, not a half-savage man from the back end of nowhere.’
Stiles sighed, stepped around Derek, and spoke words of power, gathering his magick around him. Then, he cast a spell.
Lord Doria recognised his mistake just as his voice went silent. He gasped, one hand reaching for Stiles, for mercy or revenge Stiles would never know because Annabel dragged him backwards.
‘When you’re ready to bloody apologise to us both you can write it down , asshole!’ Stiles yelled, as Scott arrived at his and Annabel’s side and got both of them indoors.
The courtyard, beyond the doors, exploded into applause.
‘Did you have to humiliate him like that? Scott asked, panting.
‘You didn’t hear what he said to me. To Derek.’
Scott raised an eyebrow. ‘ Lord Hale ,’ he said, deliberately, ‘can hold his own.’
He can’t , Stiles wanted to yell. He’s gentle on the inside. He’s still healing .
Instead, he snapped: ‘Doria is a child. He needs to learn some fucking decorum.’
‘Doria controls resources Beacon needs, Stiles. I can strongarm him if he tries to withhold them over this, but I really would rather I don’t have to.’
‘You’re his king. Pull rank if you have to. I outrank him, Scott, omega or not, and he insulted me in public. I have every right to defend myself, and my position in this court. I am his prince .’
Scott opened his mouth, then shut it with a clack and a sigh. The doors opened again, and Derek ducked in, along with Erica and Malia.
Malia handed the Duke a shirt, which he pulled absently over his head. It did little for Stiles’ sanity.
‘You muted him!’ Erica said with glee. ‘I think I love you, Highness.’
Stiles pulled a face at her, and she laughed, quickly crossing to his side and rubbing her cheek against his. Stiles glanced at Derek’s face - he looked hilariously surprised by his packmate’s behaviour.
‘Are you alright, though?’ Malia asked. ‘That looked… uncomfortable.’
‘I’m fine. It… happens.’
‘That happens?’ Derek echoed, horrified. ‘Alphas… do that to you?’
‘Well, not that, exactly. But the general theme is the same. “Here you go, now act grateful that I deigned to ask” sort of thing.’
Derek growled, low, in the back of his throat. Stiles found it… oddly comforting.
‘It’s ok, big guy. Thanks for coming to my rescue and everything, but I can take care of myself.’
Malia looked like all her Yuletides had arrived at once. She grinned at the alpha.
‘ Big guy ?’ she repeated.
‘Shut up,’ Derek said, off-hand and without malice.
Scott made a sad little noise. ‘If Lord Doria doesn’t apologise within a seven-night, you need to reverse that spell, Stiles.’
‘Sure, Scotty.’ Stiles met Malia’s gaze and shook his head, mouthing: no freaking way .
‘Stiles, I can still see you! Urgh, I don’t have time for this. You all live your drama, I have a mate to see to.’
Scott stormed off. Stiles yelled after him: ‘give my love to Kira!’
He stood, with the four wolves, in silence for a moment, and then Malia was at his side, nudging Erica away and wrapping Stiles in her arms, scenting him enthusiastically. Erica, for her part, simply turned her affections on Annabel.
Derek watched all this with astonishment.
‘Your wolves have been all over me, all week,’ Stiles said. ‘Could you please tell them that I’m perfectly safe with just Annabel? I don’t need a wolfpack escort everywhere I go, generous as it was for you to send them after me.’
‘Derek didn’t send us,’ Malia said in a purr against Stiles’ neck. He awkwardly patted her back, and she chuffed happily.
‘Isaac said you’d let us stay, if we came to visit.’
‘Well, of course, but-’
‘Are they really bothering you?’ Derek asked.
He said it like it was important. Like he needed an answer, desperately.
‘Not really? I mostly didn’t like having more bodyguards, but if they’re just sort of… hanging out, it’s not that big a deal.’
Derek gave him a tiny smile. ‘They’ll grow on you, my prince. I promise. Malia, Erica - please just… reign it in?’
Erica snickered, and even Malia seemed amused, pulling away from Stiles long enough to gently butt her head against Annabel’s, who was clearly delighted.
The wolves gathered, but before they left, Derek hung back.
‘I’m sorry that happened to you,’ he said.
Stiles laughed. ‘It’s truly fine, my lord. I’m sorry he said those things to you. Not a word of them was true.’
Derek hesitated, then said, firmly: ‘Derek. Not my lord .’ A pause, then: ‘you love your horse?’
Stiles’ smile grew. ‘She’s the worst. You’d like her.’
‘We could go riding.’
Stiles blinked at the alpha, surprised, and saw Derek’s ears go that fascinating shade of pink.
‘If you don’t want to, I-’
‘When?’
Derek’s smile was like sunshine. ‘Tomorrow? After breakfast?’
Stiles could think of ten things he was supposed to do in that window, and not one of them felt important at all in comparison.
‘Absolutely. I want to hear all your Meadowsweet theories.’
Derek’s ears flushed darker. Stiles wanted to bite them.
‘Tomorrow, then.’ Before Stiles could react, the Duke of Hale had grabbed his hand and pressed an awkward, dry kiss to his knuckles. ‘Farewell, my prince.’
In a heartbeat, Stiles and Annabel were alone in the hall.
‘Sire,’ she said, ‘your life is exhausting.’
It was a sentiment she repeated the next day, as she sat on the foot of his bed, kindly averting her eyes as he pulled on breeches beneath his riding robes. He would be damned if he had to ride side-saddle in front of an actual war hero.
‘Exhausting,’ she sighed. ‘Sire, this is the third outfit you’ve tried on. What does it matter what you wear?’
Stiles glared at her. ‘I want to look nice.’
‘He thought you looked nice in your infirmary uniform. He won’t care , sire.’
Stiles felt his face flush. He wasn’t certain at what point Annabel had realised that he was… interested in the Duke.
He just knew it was both a relief to have a confidant and annoying as hell.
He pulled the long end of the skirt over his shoulder and secured it at the opposite hip with a brooch. The colour was a vivid green, shot through with gold thread.
Stiles glared down at it, realising he’d picked it thinking of the Duke’s stupid eyes.
‘You don’t have time to change again,’ Annabel said quickly. ‘He won’t notice.’
Stiles sighed. ‘Is he courting me, Bel?’
She laughed. ‘He asked you to ride with him, and kissed you.’
‘On the hand . I kiss old people on the hand .’
Annabel snickered. ‘Sire, he was so dumbfounded the first time he caught your scent I thought he was going to faint.’
Stiles thought back to that first day, in the infirmary. Derek’s expression, his blown pupils…
‘Is scent… is it important to wolves?’
Annabel’s smile turned sly. ‘Ah, sire. That’s a good question.’
‘Bel…’ Stiles shook his head and sighed. ‘Isaac wears a scent-masking charm.’
His friend went very still. ‘He… what?’
‘He’s an omega. My guess is that he didn’t want to let his packmates go to war without him, so he’s been masquerading as a beta.’ He shot her a look. ‘So, if scent means something to wolves, what does that mean to you?’
Her expression turned to something he’d never seen on her before. Serious, covetous. ‘It means he’s mine .’ She stood. ‘C’mon, sire. We’ve both got males to claim.’
Claim . That word echoed through Stiles’ head as they made their way down through the palace to the stables.
He imagined, in a way he’d rarely allowed himself to before, the act of claiming. The final stage of the mating ritual, when his alpha would take him to their chambers and…
In his head, before, it had always been a passive act, without much to recommend it to him. He didn’t want to lie back while some male rutted atop him, victorious.
He let himself imagine, for a brief, heart-pounding moment, staking his own claim on his alpha. Making them shiver, helpless, beneath him.
He knew whose strong, corded throat he was imagining beneath his teeth, whose strong hands held his hips.
When he finally caught sight of the Duke, he fell over.
It all happened humiliatingly fast. They rounded the corner of the keep, Stiles saw Lord Hale, and then he was tripping, landing in the dirt with a thud .
Derek was at his side so fast Stiles’ head spun, and he tried to focus on organising the ridiculous fabric of his ensemble, because he felt his face burning and he couldn’t look at Derek’s stupid face.
The Duke had finally been to a barber. And Stiles had been absolutely right: that was a riot-causing face.
His hair had been cut short and lay, thick and ink-black against his head. His beard was gone, leaving a faint shadow in its place, and even his stupid, beautiful, expressive eyebrows had been tidied up by some kind soul with an appreciation for sculpture.
‘Stiles,’ the Duke gasped, ‘gods, are you alright?’
‘I’m fine, just… embarrassed.’
Derek gathered him up like he weighed nothing, and wow , that was… a lot.
Once he got Stiles vertical, Derek’s hands stayed on his waist, his eyes roaming Stiles’ face as if checking for damage.
Gods, he smelled good.
‘You shaved,’ Stiles managed.
Derek smiled and rubbed one hand self-consciously along his jaw. ‘I realised I looked like a mountain-man.’
‘It wasn’t a bad look.’
Derek’s eyes flashed. ‘Is this better?’
‘Well. Don’t get a big head, but you literally knocked me off my feet, so…’
Derek’s smile looked out of practice. It was like the sun.
Stiles couldn’t wait to make him do it again.
Derek’s eyes dropped to Stiles’ throat, and his nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. Stiles thought of the other wolves, and how they greeted him, and before he had a chance to second-guess the impulse, he breached the small gap between them and rubbed his cheek lightly against Derek’s.
Derek whimpered. That was the only word Stiles could use to describe the sound the wolf made - it wasn’t entirely human. Derek’s hands tightened on his waist, and then he was pulled against a very warm, very hard torso, and Derek’s face was buried in his neck.
It… wasn’t a kiss. It was somehow less than a kiss and far more.
Derek breathed against Stiles’ neck, breaking him out in goosebumps, and held him like he was both very delicate and absolutely vital.
Without thinking, Stiles raised his own hands. One, he pressed to Derek’s side, to the ribs he’d healed so recently.
The other, he stroked over the newly shorn hair at the base of Derek’s skull. It was strangely soft.
Annabel cleared her throat. ‘Your Grace,’ she said to Derek, sternly, ‘if you scent him any harder, humans will be able to smell you on him.’
Derek grumbled - Stiles felt it in his toes - but dutifully pulled away and took a staggering step backwards.
Stiles wanted to cry at the loss.
‘Are you here to chaperone?’ Derek asked, his voice a little rough. He coughed, then added: ‘I asked Isaac to join us in that capacity.’
Annabel perked right up. ‘Is he here?’
‘He’s readying the horses.’ Derek shot Stiles a look. ‘When you said your horse is the worst…’
‘Oh, I meant it.’ Stiles grinned. ‘Bel, could you go help our Lieutenant, please?’
She scurried off, Stiles’ honour apparently forgotten. Derek chivalrously offered Stiles his arm - although it might have been a preventative strategy to keep him from falling again - and they followed.
Derek cleared his throat. ‘I like the stable cat.’
‘Fat Cat,’ Stiles said. ‘She’s due any day now, but if I’m honest, she was fat before, too. She’s everyone’s favourite, so everyone sneaks her scraps.’
‘Will you keep one of the kittens?’
Stiles considered the question. ‘I’d like to, but it’s hard to keep a cat in the palace. There’s so much going on, all the time - I’d be worried it would run away and get hurt.’
Derek got a strange expression. ‘Hale Hall is smaller,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’d think it’s hopelessly provincial.’
Stiles hummed thoughtfully. ‘I hate the palace.’
Derek actually laughed at that, shooting Stiles a small, private smile. ‘Really?’
‘Court life in general, to be honest. A small stronghold sounds much more my speed - I could learn all the staff’s names, for a start. I always feel so rude when I don’t know the person serving me.’
In the stables, the horses were ready, and Isaac and Annabel led them out, both of them already mounted.
Derek lifted Stiles into the saddle with ease. His hands lingered at his waist, and then he mounted his own steed, and they set off for the royal park.
Isaac and Annabel quickly fell behind. Derek glanced back at them, then urged his mount to Stiles’ side.
‘Your wolf likes mine,’ he said, and Stiles chuckled.
‘She’d like him more if he would let me lift that spell,’ he replied. ‘How did you even manage that?’
‘Our old emissary, Deaton, performed it. Isaac couldn’t bear to be left behind while we fought for Beacon. We did it to protect him - soldiers, away from home, can be… badly behaved.’
Derek’s expression went dark. Again, Stiles wondered what kind of violence he’d seen. In general, violence against birth-givers - female betas and both male and female omegas - was considered the lowest act, the most unconscionable.
In war, though, things… happened. Stiles failed to suppress a shiver, and Derek nudged his leg with his own.
‘Why did he want to fight?’
Derek was quiet for a moment, then said: ‘his father arranged for him to be mated young. His mate was… cruel. He managed to send a letter to my sister, Laura, and she fetched him home.’
Stiles felt sick. ‘Is he still mated?’
‘He’s a widower.’ A pause, then: ‘Laura made sure of that. Does that… shock you?’
Stiles stared at his knuckles, white on the reigns. Most alphas would have spared him the truth, and he knew Derek was leaving out the gory details, but he still was strangely grateful for Derek’s decision not to sugar-coat it.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ he said. ‘I’m glad Isaac had someone to fight for him.’
Derek’s smile was small and humourless. ‘Laura was always like that. She wanted to lead Hale into battle, when the war began, but my mother and I talked her out of it. She was the alpha-heir, she had to stay home, and Cora and I took our pack to war. We thought it would be safer. For Hale. For our family.
‘Then the Argents decided that Hale was a strategic stronghold, and they… they killed my parents, and Laura, and made themselves at home in their beds.’
Stiles knew how that ended. Annabel had told him the story, of the pack’s daring return home, of the Argent assassinations and the reclamation of Hale. It had been brave, and foolish, and, as he now understood, utterly justified.
‘Cora’s your sister,’ Stiles said, because he didn’t know what else to say. ‘I thought she might be. Those cheekbones.’
Derek breathed out a sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Stiles, I… I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I wanted today to be… good.’
Stiles reached over and prodded the alpha gently in the ribs, making him start, then smile.
‘Hey, don’t do that. I wanted to get to know you, that’s what we’re doing. I’m having a great time.’ They rode in silence for a beat, but it didn’t feel awkward - there was a warm companionship to it. ‘Would you… I’d like to know about Laura. If you’d like to talk about her.’
For a horrible second, Stiles thought he’d overstepped, then Derek sighed again and ran a hand through his hair.
‘My pack never mentions her. They don’t want to upset me, but… I miss her. It hurts to think of her, but it’s a good kind of hurt.’
And then he was talking. Haltingly, in his own, succinct style. Stiles had to trust his horse not to crash into anything because he needed his whole attention focused on Derek’s eyebrows, which seemed to him to communicate the wolf’s deepest emotions.
Like angry, psychic little caterpillars.
Derek told Stiles about Hale. About his love for the land, his connection to it, and how he and his sisters had explored every inch of their duchy on foot and on horseback. He described Laura - bossy, strong-willed and charming - and their mother, who was formidable and taciturn but so, so loving. His father, his omega parent, had been silly, gentle, and sharp as a whip.
‘Hale needs an omega like that,’ Derek said, with a brief glance at Stiles. ‘Someone who understands economics and social systems. My father began the work of modernising Hale, of changing our social structure to support wolves and other beings alike, but he died long before his work was done.’
Stiles felt butterflies and tried, desperately, to tamp down his excitement, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.
‘My father loved children,’ Derek continued. ‘He opened schools and children’s homes. Places built like wolf packs - little communities, with only a few more children than adults, so the orphans would have a sense of family.’
‘That’s why, in Brishen…’
Derek smiled ruefully. ‘That’s one reason, I suppose. At the time I was running on zero sleep and pure adrenaline. All I know is that for some reason, when I realised the troops weren’t coming back for those children, I just… snapped. I should have died there. I was ready to die. People paint me as some kind of hero for it, it wasn’t strategic, I didn’t think I could save them. I just… I wasn’t going to let them die alone.’
Stiles reached between their two mounts and took Derek’s hand. He threaded their fingers together - it was awkward, with the shifting bodies of the horses, but he didn’t mind.
‘I like the sound of your dad,’ he said, trying to keep his tone even.
‘He would have loved you,’ Derek said, suddenly, emphatically. When Stiles glanced over, his face was bright red. ‘They all would. Cora loves you. And Malia - she’s my cousin, did I tell you that?’
‘That’s... ‘ Stiles breathed. ‘Thank you.’
He hoped his sincerity shone through. By the look on Derek’s face, it did.
‘Sire!’ Annabel called out. Stiles turned in the saddle to see that she and Isaac had been joined by a royal-liveried guard. ‘Sire, it’s the Queen.’
Stiles blanched, dropped Derek’s hand, and urged his horse back to her side. He was there in seconds. ‘Is she alright?’
‘Yes, sire,’ the guard said. ‘But the baby is coming, and she’s asking for you.’
Derek joined them. ‘Go,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ Stiles replied. ‘I really have had a good time. Are you going to be at the ball?’
Derek hesitated, then Isaac elbowed him in the ribs, and he flushed before saying: ‘yes, if you will.’
‘Good.’ Stiles smiled at him. ‘Save me a dance?’
And he turned and urged his mount into a wild canter back towards the palace, a huge, idiotic grin on his face.