Angel, Ignited

by Hedwig221b

Summary:

He was a fool to tell himself he wasn’t thinking of Derek. How could the moon not think of its sun? How, when the light of it — the sight of him — made him yearn to live?

Stiles loved him before. Between their shared breath, upon their touch, after the tender words and giddy smiles, Stiles thought he knew what love was.

He was a fool.

This was love. This was how it felt.

Annihilative. Mournful.

Take all the air from his throat, he would still ask for Derek first.

Notes:

Have a look at the moodboard!

Chapter 1

Is our secret safe tonight?
And are we out of sight?
Or will our world come tumbling down?
Will they find our hiding place?
Is this our last embrace?
Or will the walls start caving in? ©

Stiles’ heart was beating out of his chest.

He tried his best not to look like a young boy standing here in the middle of the throne room and shuffling from foot to foot, yet all was futile under his father’s piercing gaze.

He had to stand his ground. He would fight, tooth and nail, for the slightest chance, for the mere possibility.

He would be strong for Derek.

“You want me…” said John Stilinski slowly with his eyebrow arched, “to let my only child — a noble lord who will inherit everything I happen to own — marry… a knight?”

“The Knight Commander,” Stiles insisted. “Whom, may I add, you praised highly at the award ceremony.”

“Child…”

“Was it not you who bragged about his courage?” Stiles was unable to stop himself, for the words like a hot metal boiled inside his blood. “Was he not the one to lead the army to victory? He is a respectable member of the court, and… and… Do you know how many offers for hire he rejected just to—”

“Stay by your side?”

“Yes!”

Both Stilinskis looked at each other, one thoughtful and another short of breath.

Stiles clenched his clammy palms that he held behind his back. He straightened his shoulders, sent a prayer to the skies, and breathed out. He was getting heated. It wasn’t proper nor would it in any way help the matters.

Stiles began again, looking straight into his father’s eyes. “You granted him treasures, a rank, a land.”

“My land,” his father noticed absently.

“Yes, for saving your life,” Stiles reminded hotly and shook his head. “I swear to you if only you let—”

“What do you suggest I do, child?” The Lord’s eyes narrowed. “Break your betrothal to the Martins? Should I want our house to enter another scandal? Do you have means for the consequences of that?”

Stiles clenched his jaw. “I do not, father.”

“Exactly. Besides, I have already arranged his marriage with Krasikev’s daughter.”

Everything in Stiles turned to stone.

Marriage?..

As the shock slowly quelled, the jealousy spurted in waves, filling his muscles with trembling fire.

Stiles clenched his jaw and lifted his chin. “Then do not wonder if she falls deathly ill all of a sudden,” he uttered.

His father’s wrinkled face darkened. Slowly, he rose from the throne and walked down the stairs, stopping mere steps before his son.

Lord Stilinski raised his hand and pointed a finger at Stiles. “I ordered you to quit it.”

“Quit what? Dark magic? You think, the enemy would be just as courtly?” Stiles bit out. “I am the only one who can protect this house from it. To hide from this knowledge, as dark as it is, is a death sentence.”

“Don’t you flash your eyes at me,” Lord Stilinski raised his voice.

“Don’t you tell me how to protect you.”

Breathing heavily, he stared right into his father’s blue eyes. Something pinched his soul at the sight of his tired old face, at the endless wrinkles and the perpetual worrying frown. He always looked like that ever since Stiles remembered himself.

At last, his father sighed. “You are your mother’s son.”

The words stabbed deeper than any sword ever could.

Some of the fight left Stiles at once — it couldn’t not, at the mention of his beloved mother, god rest her soul. He swallowed but didn’t lower his gaze, and watched as his father glanced out of the window, deep in thought.

“Even if there is love between you two,” he said, “it will be fleeting. It always is.”

“Nothing fleeting was between you and Mother.”

His father looked at him carefully. “Claudia and I married at the arrangement between our houses. It is a rare wonder that love came to us later. We spent years together, son.”

“As did we,” Stiles retorted, lifting his chin. “He was the one to teach me how to hold a sword and how to make an arrow go right through one’s forehead. We went through crusades and he stood by my side. I trust him, father.”

“You will forgive me for I do not,” the man threw back. “Knights…” he tsked. “They sing you serenades and swear to love until their deaths, yet bother maids at every corner.”

“Derek is an honorable man.”

His father stiffened and turned to look at him. His eyes narrowed. “Derek?”

“Sir Hale,” Stiles muttered, feeling his cheeks redden.

“How will my land prosper and widen were I to marry you to Sir Hale?” his father lifted an eyebrow. “All land he has is what I have given him. All connections he made are thanks to me.”

“That Martin c— girl would bleed us dry for she is but a spoiled brat,” said Stiles. “And Parrishes are soft-hearted which got them nearly destroyed in their last skirmish with Talbots.”

“I can find you another spouse,” Lord Stilinski said quickly.

“D— Sir Hale would conquer any land for me,” Stiles bristled fervently almost as a pleading. “A word from me and the moon will lie at my feet.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Yes.”

Lord Stilinski hummed. “Did not expect that from someone like him.”

Stiles waited with his heart drumming the marches against his ribs. He prayed for his father’s softness, for his parental love, yet something told him not to hope. This talk did not go as well as Stiles expected.

Could one blame him, though, for being blind with love?

At last, his father cleared his throat. “I shall not resign your betrothal.” Stiles felt like he had swallowed a block of heavy ice. “I fear it is your hot head and the flame of your feelings that are speaking to me.”

“This is a rejection, then.” Stiles’ throat went so tight it hurt to speak.

“A precaution, dear child,” his father admonished.

“And the deal with Krasikev?”

“It will remain as well.”

Stiles snarled, clenching his fists. “What can we do, Father, to prove ourselves? I laid it all in front of you how it is — my heart along his.”

“Hale is a Commander, you said?” said Lord Stilinski as if he himself did not grant that title to Derek. “Let us wait until he becomes The Knight Champion. I will think about it then.”

Stiles paled. “But… that would not be for several years…”

“Indeed,” his father smiled lightly. “Let us see how durable this love of his is.”

Several years of battles, of relentless proving of himself. Again. Years of them apart, with both being of age enough to be married.

The lack of air felt as merciless as his father’s caring words.

“I shall call him husband one day,” Stiles hissed through his tight throat. “It pains me that it is against your wishes but if that is how it should be… Be it so.”

He turned away and marched across the exquisite room, stepping right onto the sunlit floor. His pupils were not unlike two small suns themselves, burning and scorching.

He didn’t turn back not even when his father’s tired heavy voice reached his back.

“We shall think of our people first, son. Our whimsies will not cost them their homes or the food on their plates. I beg you to think with a cold mind of what should bring prosperity to our home.”

“I will,” snapped Stiles and slammed the door behind himself.

Everything from the innocuous sunlight and the childish wind to the greetings of the blushing maids made it their aim to annoy Stiles to his boiling point.

As he stormed through the halls of his home, his feet skidding on the polished floors, he couldn’t help but be swept under the overwhelming wave of helplessness.

His father thought of him as a child in a tantrum, as a naïve and stupid boy who was captured so easily by the sweet words. He thought Stiles didn’t think about it day and night, of what their union would bring to their house and what it would mercilessly take away.

Yes, Derek was a noble, the Knight Commander. He led the army, trained the other knights with an iron fist, and was highly respected for that. An excellent strategist, he was a requested guest at Lord Stilinski’s round tables at the hardest of times.

Valiant, dependable, prudent. Safe, caring, reserved.

Derek was simply everything.

His Derek. His.

Freezing in the middle of the hall, Stiles exhaled harshly and closed his eyes. He cupped his hands near his mouth and whispered gently into the space between them.

A moment later, a bright sprite — a hot sun-like sphere the size of a child’s fist — sprung into existence. Stiles threw it into the air and watched as it twirled in place, orienting itself, and then floated down the hall a couple of feet above his head.

Stiles followed it at a rapid pace.

Down and down the staircases, past the portraits of his ancestors, past the wide windows and the gorgeously decorated rooms. He ran with the golden dust falling behind him and dissipating into nothing — into the house, into the walls and floors so that the entire building was soaked in his magic — down and away from the luxury into the darker and simpler part of the house.

The floor was made of stone here as were the walls. The cold moistness of it, the earthy metallic smell — Stiles knew where Derek was now.

Bursting into the armory room, Stiles caught the sprite in his hands and squished it to dust. Breathing heavily, he looked up.

Derek was watching him.

The mere sight of him, broad-shouldered and tall, with his scowl and the hard-set jaw, settled the storm inside Stiles’ soul.

His throat started to burn.

“I take it, it didn’t go well.” Derek’s voice coated Stiles’ heart like honey.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He marched across the room, his steps echoing treacherously, and folded himself against Derek’s front. Grasping at the leather belt at Derek’s waist, Stiles buried his face in his lover’s neck and closed his eyes.

He breathed out shakily as the familiar hands wrapped around his back and stroked it, slow and careful.

“Breathe, angel.” A hot breath against his ear, a ticklish scratch of the short beard.

Stiles held on tighter.

“He dismissed it like it was nothing,” he said after a couple of minutes, his voice hoarse. “Like I confess my love every day for people.”

“Mm. I hope you don’t.”

Stiles huffed. Opening his eyes, he stared at the opposite wall full of hanging swords and daggers. The smell of Derek, of his leather doublet and the cotton of his shirt, of his body that maddened Stiles the longer he looked at it — everything was soothing.

“He told me you have to become the Knight Champion for him to even think about it.”

Derek hummed, sending vibrations through their chests. “Then I shall become the Champion.”

Stiles leaned away and stared at his face.

Every bit of it was lovely, from his sharp nose and cheekbones to the mesmerizing soft greenery of his eyes.

Stiles swallowed. Reverently, he reached to his face with his hand and caressed his knuckles against Derek’s cheek.

“It would take years,” he said. “Years, Derek.”

A shadow of a smile softened the tense line of Derek’s mouth. “Then we will spend them together. Every minute with you is precious. And you are talking about years…” he chuckled.

Stiles’ face heated worse than on the hot summer day. He lowered his gaze and it fell right on the open edge of Derek’s white undershirt where some of the chest hair peeked through. Unable to keep his hands away, he began fidgeting with a loose thread at his collar.

“I shall stay by your side,” Stiles promised fervently. “That Martin girl is smarter than her parents. She would never agree to the marriage for she despises me—”

“Not that smart, then.”

“— and I cannot stand her. But we have been corresponding and we have decided to establish a new merchant’s way in the South. Our gold, their fabrics, crops, and copper. We shall settle.”

“There’s something else, isn’t it?”

“Hmm?” Stiles lifted his absent gaze at the man’s face.

Derek inclined his head, his eyes studying. “What’s got your heart running, sparkle?”

Stiles snapped his mouth shut. He scratched the doublet at Derek’s chest and shook his head.

“It is—” he stumbled over words, knowing he couldn’t lie. “Do you know about your upcoming union with Krasikeva?”

Derek stiffened.

Stiles looked sharply at him, frowning. “You do?!” He tried to break out of his hold but he was no match to the knight.

“Stop it,” Derek grunted, grabbing his flailing hands at the wrists.

“Let go.”

“Never.”

Stiles huffed. “So, what, shall I hold your hand when you two share the marriage bed?”

“Angel…”

But Stiles was deaf to all rationale. He twisted and turned with sadness and jealousy churning his stomach and burning his chest. “I bet she is sweet and small and so beautiful, hmm? Is she? Does she kiss you like I do or better?”

Stiles gasped as his head was forced to the side. Rough fingers tugged on his hair, making him bare his throat. A split moment later, a set of teeth pressed against his furiously beating veins.

Derek joked sometimes that he was raised with wolves. He threatened to maul the throats of his enemies with his teeth and sometimes, a growl-like grunts would fall from his lips. While amused and a tiny bit weirded out, Stiles adored his little quirks and even found them exhilarating in the most sinful of senses.

He felt it now as well.

Stiles’ heart was hammering, yet he stood still. He didn’t dare breathe. Standing in the deathly trap that was the circle of Derek’s arms, he finally realized he had gone too far.

They stood like that for a couple of trembling moments. Derek’s breath was hot, his body pressed to Stiles even hotter, the grip of his hands on his waist, the surprisingly sharp prick of his nails against his head.

His teeth digging into Stiles’ skin.

At last, Derek let out a pleased murmur of a growl. The teeth disappeared and before the cold air could touch the wet skin, Derek kissed the spot on his neck, his tongue flicking.

He put his mouth against Stiles’ ear and murmured, low and intimate.

“Trust me, angel, your lips are the only ones to grace mine with their touch.” Stiles shuddered from his words, relaxing slowly in his arms. “You are the one destined to share my marriage bed. And if I fuck someone, it’s your moans I want to hear.”

A grin slipped onto Stiles’ lips all by itself. He lowered his hands on Derek’s biceps and leaned back just a bit to look him in his eyes, the beautiful mesmerizing hazel.

He couldn’t help but trace his cheekbones with the tips of his fingers. Every wrinkle on that face was lovely to him, every tiny scar.

With an amused huff, Derek pulled Stiles’ hands away and kissed his fingers. “Come here.”

He gathered Stiles in his arms and sealed their lips in a kiss.

Full of biting reassurance and hot shared desire, it made Stiles’ heart beat faster. Not from the jealousy this time — though it still had its bitter thorns buried inside him — but from the possessiveness of Derek’s hands sliding across his spine and the slickness of his tongue against Stiles’.

He could spend an eternity kissing Derek Hale and still be hungry for more.

“Come to my rooms tonight,” Stiles breathed into the sliver of space between them. Their lips kept touching and Derek couldn’t resist catching them. “Please.”

“Midnight?” Derek’s voice was hoarse and deep.

“No. Let us dine together. Father knows and I’ll be damned if he does anything about it. If someone asks, tell them a spoiled brat kidnapped you.”

Derek chuckled against his cheekbone. “If that is a prison, then lock me in for the remainder of my days.”

Stiles bit his lips that refused to stop widening in a smile. “Shall I wait for you, then?”

“Please, do. I’ll come right after the evening rounds. It won’t be long.”

“I shall charm the sun to set it faster.”

Stiles traced the edge of the wooden tray with the tip of his finger. Tangerine shadows of the fireplace danced like satyrs on the walls. The smell of hot oak saturated the air but here, on the bed, other scents interrupted its flow: aged cheese, pears, berries, the crispness of the freshly made bread, the golden potatoes, and the now cold meat. A lot of meat, because of Derek’s immense appetite.

Stiles sighed. He had long since gotten rid of the doublet and sat in a white undershirt and pants.

All ready, thought Stiles, and immediately his face heated up.

Perhaps, he was ready. He did not know. Sometimes the passion overwhelmed both of them and their hands traveled further than ever before. The gasps became more wanton, and the kisses deeper. Yet, other times Stiles couldn’t even handle Derek’s gaze and then a traitorous blush took over his face along with a pleased smile.

Derek made him squirm and smile, moan, and lose his breath. Derek became everything, his very world.

Perhaps, his father was right and he had lost his mind, for it inevitably turned to one particular knight all the time.

Stiles glanced at the darkness behind the window. Sighing, he snatched a raspberry off his plate and threw it into his mouth.

Make the kisses sweeter. Stiles let out a quiet groan and rubbed his face.

He should think of something else. For example, what to do with his father.

We shall think of people first, he said. His father wanted more land and more connections. Well, Stiles would give him that. He knew for a fact that Derek’s deceased family, god rest their souls, had allies in France, Scotland, and Ireland. Derek sometimes talked with a wistful note in his voice that he wanted to restore his legacy and the alliances between them. If he allowed, Stiles would stand by his side and travel far along with him.

The alliance with Martins — though in secret so far between Stiles and the young Marchioness — was well on its way. Young lord Parrish did not hide his attraction to Stiles and, while it must remain unreciprocated, Stiles was confident he would persuade Parrish to form a merchant alliance. Therefore, the South was under control.

Swept by the prospects of the future, Stiles stood up and began pacing on the carpet.

He would speak to his father the very next day. Mayhap, with Derek by his side so that he could explain his connections in the North. They had to rely heavily on the family ties but Stiles could see it work.

It was a prosperous union, his father could not be that blind to see it! And with the love between them — for it was love, yes, passionate and devoted — their house would flourish.

Stiles threw another glance at the window and frowned.

Derek was late.

Hmm. Maybe the knights decided to make a bigger rou—

Thunder. Crash. Roar.

Stiles froze as the floor shook beneath his feet. Dust rained from the ceiling, and the candelabra swayed. The glass trembled in the panes.

Wh—

He only managed to inhale before being slammed violently into the wall.

Stiles didn’t understand. Everything hurt. Lacerations stung his face, and something sharp tugged on his side.

He hissed and coughed. He tried to breathe but his mouth was instantly coated with dry dust.

He couldn’t hear anything besides the high-pitched buzzing in his ear, and a thunder somewhere far far away.

His left side began to burn.

Blinking, Stiles opened his eyes.

A fog of dust clung to every surface of his room. Or, rather, of what was left of it. His bed was a grotesque mess of foot-long thorns of broken wood. The clothes were strewn everywhere, the glass shards lay like a deadly mildew all over the floor.

There was no window. No Southern wall at all.

Horror took over.

“Papa,” Stiles breathed out.

Coughing more, he looked around himself. The power of the explosion had thrown him right to the entrance of his bedroom. The door hung from the screws, half-obliterated.

Heavily, he stood up and swayed in place at the sharp pain in his side. Hissing, he slapped a hand on his torso and as he looked down he saw it was painted red.

Fuck.

He lifted his shirt and was relieved to find only a deep cut with nothing sticking out. It’ll pass. He had his arms and legs intact, he had to get out.

Coughing more, he spat the dust on the dotted floor and ran out of the room.

The dagger that he held under his bed would be impossible to find, a waste of time. He had to get to the armory, or to one of the secret passages that held some weapons.

He had to find his father.

He couldn’t even think about Derek.

“Papa!” he screamed hoarsely as he ran down the hall to the East wing where his father’s chambers were. He kept stumbling over the boulders and destroyed pieces of furniture.

The glass was everywhere.

The screams.

The blood.

His hearing came back slowly, bringing ice-cold terror upon his soul. The rattling, the crackle of the fire, the clings of metal, screaming, hollering, yelling…

“Papa.”

Pressing himself into one of the corners near the staircase, Stiles cupped his palms and whispered. A dim sprite flickered into existence and then…

It disappeared.

Stiles stared at it with dread filling his heart.

He whispered harshly into his palms again.

The sprite lived for a couple of heartbeats.

“No.”

With tears clouding his vision and the screaming scratching his mind to pieces, Stiles cupped his trembling hands again and whispered for another name, another person—

The sprite sprang into action and flew past with lightning speed.

Stiles ran after it.

His magic led him through one of the oldest secret tunnels, the one no one ever used because of how narrow it was. Stiles clenched his jaw to prevent screams when his movements stretched his injured side but continued on. The sprite led him like a sailor’s star.

After the stuffy narrowness of the passage, the fresh air should’ve been a reprieve, yet it was soaked in the black smolder.

Outside was hell.

People were everywhere. Maids lay lifeless on the ground with their eyes wide and glassy. Guards yelled and their orders made a cacophony of terror. Coated in blue and black, nature either drowned its creatures in the unknown or blinded them with mercy.

Quickly, Stiles glanced around. The sprite had already disappeared — don’t think about it, don’t — but it led him out to the armory.

The inside was completely demolished and turned upside down. Stiles didn’t find a decent sword so upon seeing a small dagger, a bow, and a satchel of arrows, he grabbed them without a second thought.

He ran outside, trying to hide between the walls. Almost unthinkingly, he spread his palms over the arrows and whispered a deadly curse. As the golden dust settled over, Stiles notched one of them and slinked around the corner.

Soldiers, his among strangers. Blood, clangs of metal, a roaring of death. Stiles couldn’t see the insignia in the devastating darkness — and not that it mattered.

Clenching his teeth, Stiles lifted his bow, picked his aim, and shot.

Led by a curse, the arrow found its place in the eye socket of the invader.

One by one, the soldiers fell, struck by Stiles’ deadly aim.

He couldn’t help but count the dead. His heart lashed inside in hysterical devastation, yet his mind refused to comprehend what was happening.

Three things blared in his mind.

Siege.

Derek.

Papa.

No more arrows. Cursing, Stiles straightened his shoulders and extended one hand palm up calling the arrows back into his hand. Slowly — slower than he needed — they gouged out of their victims and floated towards him.

Stiles realized his mistake too late.

Someone let out a furious yell right behind him. Stiles turned and immediately ducked his head.

The sword swished right above it.

Quickly, Stiles threw the bow aside, took out his dagger, and swung it across the man’s stomach. The soldier, though heavier than him, sprung back from the blade and, with another furious yell lifted his sword once more.

Alas, Stiles was taught by the best.

Evading the blade, Stiles threw out his hand, this time aiming for the throat.

A second later, his hand was sprayed with warm blood.

Never assume, Stiles. Make sure they are dead.

With a growl of his own, Stiles threw himself at the fallen man and stabbed, stabbed, stabbed…

Covered in slimy blood, Stiles breathed out harshly and jumped to his feet, glaring at the mess that was left of the soldier’s face.

He was just about to turn when he felt a presence behind him. Without a second thought, he twirled around with his dagger aiming straight for—

A strong arm caught his wrist with the blade mere inches from the stomach.

“Always watch your back,” Derek grunted and let go.

“Derek.” Stiles’ voice trembled from relief.

Alive. Thank heavens, he was alive.

Covered in splatters of blood, Derek looked otherwise uninjured. With a tense scowl, he looked Stiles over. His gaze immediately zeroed in on the red patch on Stiles’ side.

“What—” he growled.

“A scratch,” Stiles interrupted before the man could spiral. “Who are they? What— DOWN!”

Both of them ducked. Derek slammed Stiles into the wall, covering him with his body. Wiling out of his hold, Stiles bent around the wall and threw his dagger, baring his teeth at the immediate gurgle.

“Fucker…” he muttered.

“It’s the Argents,” Derek growled.

Stiles arched his brows. “Th— the Archduke?!”

Derek nodded, his mouth a tense line. “I do not know what he wants, we never crossed him. Though he did have many allies. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. I gotta get you out of here.”

“I am not going without my father,” Stiles’ voice broke near the end, yet he stood with his chin high.

Derek snarled, grabbed his wrist, and tugged him after himself.

“Watch my back, I watch yours,” he bit out.

Oh, Stiles pissed him off so bad. However, Derek had long since learned that Stiles’ determination wasn’t something to be dismissed lightly. It was better to stick close to the spark rather than let him run away quietly.

Stiles charmed his weapons back into his hands, tucked the dagger into his belt, and notched another arrow.

Together, they got around the house to the front yard where the most vicious of the battle was taking place.

Despite spending a lot of time on journeys along with Derek, Stiles had never fought by his side before. And, perhaps he should have expected it but… He felt safe. Standing back to back, protecting Derek with the ferity that leaked from the knight’s soul into his, he lost himself in a macabre dance.

He knew Derek would never let anything happen to him. Like the grass was green and the sky was blue, Stiles could say with the same conviction that Derek would protect him.

And Stiles would do anything to protect him, too.

Slowly but surely they got through the battlefield that their once flourishing garden had turned into. Tugged by Derek’s firm hand, Stiles stepped over the corpses of those he knew and those he learned quickly to despise.

Suddenly, something akin to a boulder flew over their heads. Stiles yelped as strong hands wound around him and tugged him down.

But Derek made the mistake. He let Stiles face the house.

Without thinking, Stiles threw both of his hands out and pushed.

Energy ripped out of him at once and Stiles screamed. The pain was so immense he thought all the bones in his arms had broken apart.

With tears bursting out of his eyes, he watched as the boulder that floated mere feet away from the western wall of his house smashed to the ground instead with a deafening thunder.

“Stiles, no!” Derek shouted as he sprung to his shaking feet.

But Stiles couldn’t look away from the Eastern wing of his childhood home, covered in flames.

His father.

He was there.

“Cover me,” Stiles said in a trembling voice and pushed his hands skyward.

Vaguely, he heard Derek curse and shout: “Boyd, Reyes, to the sides…” but all his attention was now turned to the skies.

Within seconds, the once clear starry night sky began to mist up. Slithering clouds, dark and angry at the disturbance, churned above, crawling towards the center right above the house.

Stiles murmured, begged, ordered. His hands filled with pink and orange light that seemed to come from his very bones. The tips of his fingers burned so bright it hurt to look at it. However, Stiles’ gleaming eyes were centered on the spiral of thunderous clouds.

Lighting cut through the darkness. First, second, third, until the white strands of them formed an electric web.

Stiles was not aware of the battle going on around him, didn’t hear Derek’s roars and the clinging of his sword. Charming nature itself with his whisper, he clenched his hands into fists as if taking the reins, and wrenched them down.

The sky roared from the fury and exertion. Many lifted their heads, suddenly afraid.

And, when the heavy rain fell like a wall of hurricane onto the house, they screamed and scrambled back.

Drained and shaking, Stiles stood his ground. He watched as the jets of rain got to every crevice, every nook of the flaming building. No stone was left dry. Steam rose hissing violently only to be pummeled down with more water.

Finally, when the last burning coal was smothered and soaked, Stiles’ knees buckled. The noises came back all at once, the smells, the sight. He fell.

Someone caught him.

Arms that held him were sinewy yet gentle. A voice right next to his ear, worried but… proud.

“No more, angel. No more. You did what you could—”

“Derek.”

It was Boyd, Derek’s second in command. Both of them looked up at the knight but the man’s angry gaze was focused on something behind their backs.

It suddenly became very quiet for a battleground.

Derek quickly swiveled his head, and Stiles felt his chest vibrate though no sound escaped. He whined when Derek pulled both of them to their feet.

His head hurt. Something churned in his stomach, bitter and hot. He grabbed onto Derek’s shoulder and closed his eyes to stop the world from spinning.

He expelled too much power. He knew he would but that mattered little at the time. He’d do it again.

“Impressive.”

Derek’s body tensed so much that it resembled a marble statue. Stiles frowned and opened his eyes at the unfamiliar old voice.

The battle ceased. Strange soldiers parted almost without thinking.

Sat high on the silver-white stallion, was an old man. His armor was pristine, not a dot of blood or dirt marred the shining exterior.

And, though Stiles couldn’t see his face, he knew instantly who it was before him.

“What gave you the right,” Stiles’ voice shook from rage, “to enter my land, Argent?”

Gerard tsked. “Did not expect such disrespect from the son of Lord Stilinski. If he stood before me, I would demand you to be whipped. But, alas…” he smiled and spread his hands.

A fury, unlike anything Stiles felt before whirred like a pillar of fire inside him.

He bared his teeth. “You destroy my home, murder my people, and have the guts to demand respect?!”

“I serve nothing but justice,” the old man dismissed a bit colder. “After your father’s pitiful betrayal, I am in my right to demand your death.”

“We do not make deals with vultures.”

“Do you not?” Gerard arched his bushy silver brow. Unmounting with unusual grace for such an old body, he lifted his hand, and a soldier next to him in slightly less luxurious armor put a scroll in his hand. Without looking, Argent offered it to Stiles. “Let me open the truth for you, child.”

Stiles grabbed the scroll with a fiery force and unrolled it.

The moonlight was barely enough to distinguish the sharp cursive letters, yet with every word Stiles’ soul was filling with dread and disbelief.

“Is it not your father’s signature?” Argent drawled, clearly enjoying his distress.

Stiles didn’t answer. Couldn’t, even if he wanted to. The lodge in his throat grew hotter every second and his mind refused to comprehend what was written right in front of his eyes.

“I have no memory of this,” Stiles bit out at last, rolling the paper back.

“Forgive me but you must have been drinking your mother’s milk at the time,” Gerard smiled, reveling in the laughter that surrounded them. “Now, however, you are a grown young man.” His dark gaze traced down Stiles’ body. “It is foolish for you to deny your father’s wrongs. He signed the nonaggression treaty and now he broke it.”

“Your soldiers wreaked havoc on the innocent people of the Delgado. You sucked them dry. They begged for help and my father reacted as a decent ruler should.”

“The Delgados are on my land,” said Gerard. “Those are my people and Stilinski had no right to invade, no more than he had to murder my faithful soldiers. He took mine, I take his.”

“Why don’t you talk to me then, Gerard?”

Stiles’ heart jumped. His head swiveled along with others, his gaze freezing on a lone figure.

“Father,” he gasped.

Lord Stilinski had never looked worse.

Covered in soot and grime, wet to his bones, and with half of his head covered in gooey blood, the man limped through his army. The knights offered their hands for help yet the Lord dismissed them with a small shake of his head.

He walked up to his son’s side, glanced at him minutely, and turned his bloodied eyes to Gerard.

“What do you want?” he croaked.

Gerard smirked. “Like father, like son. I see. You have to pardon me, for I thought you were… dead.”

John Stilinski scowled. His jaw clenched. He looked like he was ready to sway at his feet but stood his ground from sheer sense of pride.

The ring around Stiles’ throat cinched tighter. If not for Derek, he would’ve fallen either from relief or exhaustion.

“Not yet,” Lord Stilinski muttered.

“What a pleasure,” said Gerard. “I was just wondering what were you thinking when you decided to send your army to my land.”

“It was at the request of the Lady.”

“Ah, dear Melissa. I heard you bonded well over your viduity.”

Stiles’ heart dropped. With his heart rate picking up again, Stiles looked at his father.

He refused to meet his son’s gaze.

“You nearly destroyed everything she had,” he bit out at last. His gaze could’ve burned Argent to ashes were it tangible.

“And you had no right to be there,” Gerard leaned forward, talking slowly as if to a madman. He straightened and they looked at each other for a few moments.

“I know,” said Lord Stilinski.

Stiles’ stomach plummeted. Murmurs spread around.

Derek tightened his hold.

“It brings me pain to say this,” Gerard shook his head, though his face glowed with poorly hidden gleefulness. “But it is now time for consequences.”

“What now? You are going to burn my land along with my people to the ground? Just like you did with hers?” spit out Lord Stilinski. He was trembling with rage.

Gerard hummed. “You know, my dear friend, I had a full intention of doing that. But then you could say I was…” he sighed and folded his hands in a praying gesture, “…enlightened.”

And then, to Stiles’ utter horror, Gerard looked at him.

“You are a spark, are you not?” he inquired. The smile on his thin lips held nothing close to sympathy.

Stiles swallowed. “I am.” For it was impossible to deny.

“So much power and so underutilized.” Gerard Argent shook his head in admonishment. Something hid behind his eyes, the unexplained joy that was so inappropriate here in the blood-soaked yard of a once peaceful home. At last, Gerard turned his gaze to his father, and Stiles felt like he could breathe again. “Some may call me harsh, or even… unjust, but I find myself to be capable of mercy.”

“Mercy?” his father narrowed his eyes.

“Indeed. Your land is prosperous, my friend. I see its treasures now. Why fight where we can form a union?”

No one dared to utter a word. Even Lord Stilinski was stunned.

Something devastating was crawling towards the forefront of Stiles’ mind, something that made it impossible to breathe fully.

Gerard Argent glowed with a smile. “Let us join our forces. Let us show the people, yours and mine, how forgiving leaders could be, how generous. All I ask for is the hand of your son. In exchange for the lives of your people, of course.”

No.

No, please.

Derek’s fingers dug into his uninjured side to the point of sharp pain. Stiles could feel his hands trembling.

He could barely breathe himself.

He turned to look at his father and met his gaze.

In an instant, Stiles knew his answer.

He turned away.

“You will leave my people alone.” His father’s voice was quiet and grave, like grief itself. “Take your dead… your injured… Leave my land in peace.”

“Your land, like your son, will remain yours,” Gerard inclined his head as if all of this was of great fun to him. “In the most natural sense. But it is rather weird for newlyweds to reside in their parent’s home, don’t you think? It is time for the birdling to leave its nest.”

The dread coated Stiles’ insides when he saw the old man offer his hand.

He stared at it, painfully aware that everyone else watched his every breath.

A thought, dark as this night, blistered inside his mind: what a pity it was that he was spared this night by the explosion.

His very soul was slowly covering itself in a thin coating of ice — a coffin for its inevitable crumble. His heart was long since nestled within the confines of Derek’s palms; now, more than ever, it longed to belong to its owner.

Derek still had his arms around him. Still holding tightly.

It was the last time he would feel those hands on his body.

Stiles wanted to disappear, dissipate.

This could not be happening to him.

“Take his hand, Stiles,” his father ordered in a deadly quiet.

When Stiles lifted his stinging blurred eyes upon the man, he refused to meet his gaze.

“Blood for blood, is it?” Stiles breathed through his tight throat.

His blood — and his body — for thousands of innocent residents of Beacon Hills.

His father was a caring ruler, at the end of the day.

“I shall not take your filthy hand,” Stiles spat at Gerard, though he wished his voice was more stable. “My father has already given you all of me.”

Gerard hummed and folded his hands on the handle of a sword at his waist. “What a spoiled brat you have, John. We’ll change that, do not worry. With a loving hand…” he sang dreamily and threw an annoyed glance at Derek. “Let go of him, young knight. The road will be long.”

But Derek stood frozen.

“Let go,” Stiles murmured above a breath.

“How can you ask that of me?”

Derek’s furious harsh whisper full of agony and desperation — at the very end, it was the very thing that broke him.

Hot stinging tears ran down Stiles’ pale cheeks. His bitten dry lips trembled. He squeezed his eyes and shook his head but the tears kept coming.

Stiles dug his nails into the back of Derek’s hands and tugged. “Let go.”

“Hale,” his father warned.

“Derek, I beg you.” Stiles tugged and tugged but Derek’s arms were like a vice. He couldn’t make himself look at the man for he would break, irreparably so.

But Derek only pressed him closer.

Stiles felt the heat of his body, heard the caress of his labored breath against his own ear. He heard everything Derek wasn’t saying.

A blade slid with a silky whisper out of the scabbard. Stiles gasped and stiffened as he felt the tip of it press under his chin.

“And now?” asked Gerard, his cold but amused gaze trained on Derek.

The hands disappeared from Stiles’ sides as if burned.

“See how easy?” Gerard smiled. The blade remained pressed to Stiles’ neck for a couple more breaths before Argent put it down.

Stiles inhaled sharply and swayed in place.

No one caught him this time.

He stood alone.

“My carriage is not that far from here,” Gerard said casually. With one last look at the deadly-pale Lord Stilinski and the silent statues of knights around him, he mounted his white stallion. “I believe there aren’t any belongings left of yours. Forgive me, dear boy. Or, should I say fiancé?” He whistled to his soldiers; the men began their retreat without any care for the corpses of their fellow brothers. “Walk with me, Stiles.”

Stiles clenched his fists. The cold night wind crawled inside his undershirt, almost telling him to hurry, and wiped the tears from his cheeks. Stiles swallowed, squeezed his eyes shut once more for a second, and took a step.

Then another.

And another.

He didn’t meet any gazes. He used to spar with them, and drink with them, share meals and evenings in the fields.

What did they think of him? Of his father’s decision and his own resignation? Were they thinking about what would happen to him, where he would spend his days, and whose bed he was going to warm at night?

Was Derek thinking all of that?

With his poor heart trashing in hysterics, he started to turn his head to look at him just one more time — to see his face, to seal it in his mind, to let his eyes say all his love…

“Ah-ah.”

Stiles flinched at an amused voice. He looked up and glared at Gerard’s pleased face.

“The faster you let go, the happier you will become in your new home,” he said in a fatherly voice. “Onward, little spark.”

Shivering from the wind, Stiles lowered his head and resumed his walk.

He did not turn.

A week of travel felt like an eternity in hell.

Archduke Argent was languid with his voyage. They stopped constantly in the towns where no one dared to ask for customs to pass through or rob them. Instead, they were met with grim faces of the commoners, tightly shut windows, and fake exclamations of friendly greetings from the nobles.

The Argents swept through lands like swarms of locusts, taking everything they could.

His soldiers did not deserve honorable titles of knighthood, for they disregarded every principle of it. The code of chivalry was forgotten and lay in the dust.

Stiles couldn’t help but realize how hard his Derek must have worked to discipline those under his power. Once given the power of the sword, some felt invincible and godly, yet Derek pinned them down to earth by their necks and drilled honor into their souls.

Gerard let “his boys” have fun.

The devastation and cruelty they left behind hollowed Stiles’ battered soul. It seemed there couldn’t have been any left after that night, yet it ached as every living thing did.

The constant jolting of the carriage, his magical exhaustion, and Gerard’s very presence left near-constant nausea nestled in his stomach. He couldn’t eat, and when he did it was in little portions. The cut on his left side was slowly turning into a pink line.

Gerard Argent talked to him regardless of his lack of response, of most mundane things. Mostly, he just observed Stiles. His dark gaze void of any evidence of a heart slithered up and down Stiles’ body like a vile touch. Stiles had nowhere to hide; he tucked the cape Gerard bought for him tighter around himself, pressed his whole body to the side of the carriage as far from the man as he could, and stared out of the window.

He thought a lot these days.

He found that he had nothing to forgive his father for. A ruler of such populated land as his, Lord Stilinski could not afford to sacrifice it for his only son. Too many lives. Elders, women, children. Stiles had been a witness of Argent’s raids for nothing more than seven days, yet he already wanted to keep them far from his home.

A father’s child was a small price for that.

He thought of his home and the destruction it suffered. The lives lost. The night blessed them with darkness for Stiles would have wept if he saw the blood-soaked ground.

Stiles thought of Derek.

The knight would mourn, he knew it. They meant a lot to each other. Derek would continue to live because he was stubborn and unyielding.

His Derek.

The thought of him brought hot tears to the back of his eyes but Stiles refused to let them spill.

He hoped Derek would find love again. Yes, it hurt to think of him with another, for it was an agony, a torture. It was a pulsating oozing wound upon his heart that would never heal but the one Stiles had to learn to live with.

He was blessed to call Derek his. To dream of him as a husband, to stand by his side, to hold his hand and kiss his lips.

Stiles hoped that when Derek tasted another’s lips he would remember him. When he would hold another’s body with his big arms, he would remember how Stiles’ body felt.

As for himself, Stiles knew he would think of Derek until the day he died.

In a ginormous castle full of polished silver and cold black stone, tall windows with sharp grills on the outside, with nothing but acrid cliffs and the icy wind of a raging ocean that covered his skin with salty film, among the petrified trembling servants and swell-headed guards all eerie in their identical shining armor with nothing but narrow slits for leering eyes, between the whispers and murmurs and stares, hiding in the darkest corner of his ostentatious room in unfamiliar clothes with a foreign crest, with his knees pressed to his chest and an unseeing gaze, his head spinning and nothing in his lungs, nothing, nothing, nothing…

“You have to breathe.”

Stiles pressed himself to the unforgiving wall and flexed his frozen fingers.

“I do not… know… what’s going… on…” he whispered through a tight throat.

The voice that answered him was unfamiliar and hollow. “You let the panic lead you. Breathe.”

The order, although clear, didn’t help. The voice, however, did.

Stiles struggled to remember where he was before, and why everything was so foreign. Why it was so cold when the sun should warm him, and why was there salt in the air?

A simple human voice — someone’s presence, whether it was dangerous or not — served like a slap of reality.

Bit by bit, Stiles tugged the strange air into his lungs. Tugged it, because it refused to flow freely down his cinched throat. His head hurt a lot, and his cheeks were wet and hot; slowly, he started to take in the sight in front of him.

At first, he thought himself mad for there was a living Greek statue in front of him. Angelic curls, slim toned body, eyes bigger than the sky dome and just as blue. A very beautiful man with a very closed-off expression. Just a touch of vague concern hid in that frown.

“Better?” he asked.

Stiles swallowed and nodded. The angel looked him over, frowned even more, and leaned to the side. A moment later, a cup of cold tea appeared in front of him.

The stranger took Stiles’ hands, folded them, and put the cup inside. “Go on.”

With wide eyes, Stiles took a sip. Licking his dry lips, he cleared his throat. “Who are you?”

“Isaac.”

Stiles waited a bit more but when the man just stared at him, turned back to his tea.

He didn’t hide as he looked Isaac over. The man was dressed in simple but nice clothes, though he didn’t look like a servant. A page? No, he was too old for that. And Argent’s grandchildren would have been dressed far more lavishly.

“Your eyes are glowing,” Isaac blurted out all of a sudden.

Stiles fought the urge to lower them. He traced the wave pattern on a porcelain cup and mumbled: “It happens sometimes. I am a spark.”

Isaac looked alarmed. “Does he know?”

“Who?” When Isaac lifted his brow, Stiles huffed. “Yes. That is why I am here, alive and with my head still attached.”

“My condolences.”

Salty like the air, Isaac was nevertheless a fresh breath of it. He was strange, yet oddly helpful. At least, so far.

Stiles doubted he would ever trust a living soul in this castle but at least Isaac differed from the terrified and the terrifying.

“Am I being summoned?” Stiles asked at last when the man took an empty cup from him. “Is that why you came here?”

“No. His Majesty wanted me to show you around. Then you are to be at the fitting.”

“Fitting…” Stiles muttered, getting up.

“Yes. The wedding is in three days, so you better not lose more weight. No one would have time to redo your gown.”

“Don’t…” Stiles licked his lips. “Can we not talk about…”

Isaac glanced at him. “… the wedding?”

“Yes.”

The man shrugged. “As you wish.” He led them out of the room, closing the heavy door behind them. He didn’t look at the guards. “What do you want to see first, your Highness?”

Stiles did not comment on the sudden pleasantries. “The library.”

“Will do.”

“And then his rooms,” he didn’t meet Isaac’s gaze, “and the secret passages.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles saw a pale shadow of a smile on the angelic face.

“You cannot run from me forever.”

Stiles hated that he flinched.

Gripping the yellow edges of the book, Stiles clenched his jaw and breathed out.

“I am not hungry,” he muttered, not looking up.

Measured steps echoed quietly between the tall bookcases. Despite the early hour, the library was shrouded in twilight so much so Stiles had to ask for a candle. Gerard’s presence only darkened his mood more.

The Archduke hummed. “Then why did you ask for a dinner to be brought up to your rooms yesterday?”

Stiles grit his teeth.

“I looked forward to breaking the fast with you, my dear boy,” said Gerard, coming closer. Stiles fought the urge to step away when he felt the slightest touch of his on his elbow. “Instead I find you here.”

The man looked up and examined the rows of books. Keeping his breath and fingers steady, Stiles licked his lips and shot a glance at the stack of books at his side.

“Interesting choice,” Gerard murmured, inclining his head a bit to read the titles. “Your strife for knowledge is admirable.”

Despite spending no more than two weeks with the man, Stiles already knew not to take anything he said for the truth. His compliments hid a veiled threat; he could not utter a simple “good morning” without a double meaning behind it.

What did he want?

“Thank you, your Majesty,” he tried to keep the poison out of his voice but wasn’t quite successful. Though Gerard did not look like he cared for he was smiling. “I found your collection quite… extensive. Could not find it in me to miss the opportunity.”

Thousands of books. Thousands. It only spoke of the Argents’ immense wealth — not just Gerard’s but the one that went down in generations. Stiles hadn’t even gone far enough to see the end of the labyrinth that was the Argents’ library.

He couldn’t let the astonishment take over, however. With his fists clenched and his eyes sharp, he went looking for one particular section and, upon finding it, stopped in his tracks.

“I thought you would know all of this, though,” said Gerard and took the book out of Stiles’ hands. Without taking notice of the page, he closed it and traced his thumb over the golden etched letters of the title. ““The Principles of Magic”? This should be a child’s tale after you slayed dozens of my soldiers with a simple whisper to your arrows.”

At last, Stiles looked at him.

His gaze was as cold as the ocean’s wind. It pierced through Stiles, chilling his bones and making his muscles stiff and unmoving. A single glance at this man told of the sheer amount of merciless power that he had.

It was worse, somehow, when Argent was smiling.

“My library back home would never compare to yours, milord,” said Stiles. “As for the subject of magic, one could say it was scarce. I am skilled but I would be a fool to say I have not missed anything important.”

Gerard arched his eyebrow. “You are saying that with all his gold, John could not bother to find more books for his own son?” he chuckled at Stiles’ tensed face. “Pardon me, I forget myself: indeed, he would rather spend his treasures on Melissa.”

Stiles could have retorted that it was Derek who presented him with magic books (for they were rare and random and Derek brought him everything he could get his hands on) but that would only support Gerard’s moronic claim.

He could not think about his words. He must not let Argent get to his heart for it was already bleeding from wounds.

“At least, those I had were not stolen or slathered in blood,” Stiles answered coldly.

Gerard narrowed his eyes, the dead smile still present on his lips. “I do ask nicely first. It is their choice to refuse me.”

Stiles’ heart beat faster as they looked at each other.

At last, Argent lowered “The Principles of Magic” on the stack of other books that Stiles had collected from the shelves. He folded his hands behind his back.

“If you want to, I can find you a teacher,” he murmured. “I can find books for you, on every subject. You just have to ask. Let this be my wedding present, dear boy.”

Your death would be the best present, thought Stiles and lifted his chin.

“I shall think about it,” he lied.

“Please, do. You and me have a lot to think about in regard to your magic. You do something for me, and I do something for you,” he inclined his head with a smile. “But first, you must replenish what you lost in the battle. I shall leave you to it, then. Besides, the thoughts of our wedding must be thrilling to you, dove, and I get the urge to calm your pounding heart with reading,” Gerard nodded fatherly, taking slow steps back. Stiles stood still. “Though I encourage you to join me for dinner. I shall tell the kitchens not to indulge your reclusion anymore, hmm? How about that?”

Stiles didn’t answer at first. His breathing was increasing in speed but he couldn’t possibly show it, show how much the mere thoughts of the upcoming marriage left him in a catatonic state of dread.

He cleared his throat. “Of course, milord.”

Gerard nodded. He walked agonizingly slowly towards the end of the row but stopped once he got there.

“You do not mind if I send for Isaac tonight, right?” he asked.

Stiles lifted a brow. “Why would I?”

“Ah, excellent. I was worried that you would be overcome by jealousy. Such an unnecessary feeling.” He shrugged. “You can borrow him, too, if you want. Just not tonight. He is quite a delectable company. Though, I recount you enjoy bigger ones.” He hummed and smiled once more. “I shall not hamper you with amorous thoughts anymore, pardon me. See you at dinner.”

With the last order, he turned the corner. His steps were so quiet it seemed he hadn’t left the library at all and remained hiding somewhere.

Stiles’ heart pounded, his throat burned. The blood spread the suffocating cold to every vein of his body.

His trembling hand landed on the edge of the bookshelf. Slowly, he sank to the floor, buried his fingers in his hair, and stared at the opposite wall with an unseeing gaze.

The guests started to arrive the next day.

Their luscious carriages with intricate ornaments, dames with stern dry glares, young ladies in gowns of silk and cotton so colorful and bright they stood out against the grim darkness of the Argent’s castle. Men, young and old, with chains of gems resting heavily on their chests, and coats with fur trimmings at the ends.

Far above the hospitality, Gerard sent his son Christopher to deal with the guests and locked himself in one of his cabinets, doing…

Stiles had little care of what he was doing. Not unlike his future spouse, he hid in his room.

With his head leaning against the window frame, he watched at the ant-like column of carriages slowly trailing in.

Sometimes, when the thought of the future weighed down on his shoulders too much, he lifted his glassy eyes to the horizon. Unfortunately, even nature did nothing to douse the icy flicker of dread for it was unfamiliar and foreign. He wanted lush pastures, the green and ochre waves of land instead of those of an anxious grey ocean.

He wanted to fall into his arms again.

Feel their strong grip, their tender caress. Smile at the tickle of the beard against his neck.

He wanted.

With his heart pounding, Stiles grabbed the edge of the drapes and closed them jerkily.

“You can ask for anything, dove.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Anything?”

Gerard shrugged. “Within a sensible amount, of course. And not for your release. You understand that.”

Stiles clenched his fists but didn’t lower his gaze. To do so would be a betrayal of himself. But, oh, he wanted to. The Argent’s eyes stripped him bare, they cut through his soul and dug deep and long to gouge every vulnerability they could.

Stiles lifted his chin. “Order my father not to come.”

And this… This made Gerard pause.

Quickly, he collected himself, took a sip of wine, and hummed.

“Why?” he asked.

“He does not need to see this.”

“And?”

Stiles scowled. “… and I do not need him to witness this.”

Gerard chuckled. Sitting like an emperor on his throne with his legs spread, he burned such vicious hatred into Stiles’ heart that it felt like a branding.

“I think,” started Gerard, pointing at him with his goblet, “that you are afraid. Of what he might imagine when we show our close ones our nuptial bed.”

Stiles felt the blood drain away from his face.

Gerard’s lips stretched in a shadow of a smile. “Ah, yes. Do you think he sleeps well knowing he had sold his only son to such a bastard like me?” he frowned in mockery.

Suddenly, he stood up. It was obvious he drank too much wine — he swayed in place before taking a slow step forward. He looked wilder somehow, scarier.

Tense like a string, Stiles clenched his jaw and stood his ground.

Finally, Gerard came to a wobbly stop in front of him. He stank of alcohol.

“He doesn’t know what he sold, dove,” he whispered. “You are magic itself. And I have you. All of you,” he waved his hand down Stiles’ body. “I shall care for you, little spark, and you will care for me.”

Stiles knew why Gerard wanted him. He knew. But this… deep-seated hunger in his voice trembling from its own vastness and greed was a lot to take in.

Hating himself, Stiles lowered his eyes, swallowing the bitter bile that crawled up his throat—

Suddenly, Gerard grabbed his face. His fingers dug into Stiles’ cheeks, forcing a gasp out of him.

“Look at me when I am talking to you, boy,” he said in a deadly quiet.

Stiles gagged at the fetor rolling in waves out of his mouth. He held his breath and for the first time ever, touched his future husband.

He gripped the venous wrist and tried to get Gerard’s hands off but they stuck to his skin.

The Archduke smiled.

His gaze dropped to Stiles’ lips.

A moment later, Gerard kissed them.

However, it wasn’t a kiss. It was his wine-stained thin slabs attacking Stiles, his putrid tongue slathering over Stiles’ tightly closed mouth.

In a fit of panic mixed with instinct, Stiles sent a jolt of scorching pain right into Gerard’s arm.

With a shout, the man staggered back. Stiles didn’t have time to take a breath or wipe his lips because, at the next moment, Gerard slapped him.

Gasping, Stiles took a step back and palmed his burning cheek. He watched, horrified, as Gerard glanced at his own palm with streaks of red on it and clenched it into a fist.

There were rings on his fingers. Stiles’ cheek must’ve been cut then.

“Do that again and I’ll cut your arm off,” said Gerard. His voice was disturbingly mundane. “You will never see your father again, I can promise you that. As for me, I shall unravel my present on our wedding night. Get out.”

“You look wonderful, your Majesty.”

Only moments later Stiles realized someone was talking to him. He blinked a couple of times and turned to look at Isaac.

The man’s gaze fell on a couple of small cuts on Stiles’ cheek, still reddened. “You fought him?”

Stiles swallowed and turned back to the window. The sun was covered in a web of thin clouds that for some reason hurried to the other side of the skyline. The ocean calmed down. The wind was strong.

“Yes,” he said in a hoarse unused voice.

Isaac hummed. Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, he walked up to Stiles and stopped a couple of steps to the side.

Stiles felt his gaze travel up and down his figure, and indeed there was something to look at — the magnificent work of the seamstresses who spent days and nights making him an outfit. A shirt of the softest silk the color of blood with puffed sleeves, a black leather surcoat that accentuated the broadness of his shoulders and fell down to his mid-thigh. The claspers, the cuffs, the thin delicate crown, and the stud earring were all gold — a tribute to his motherland degraded by the meager amount.

“Here,” Isaac muttered.

Stiles turned to glance at him, his neck stiff from tension, and in his hand saw a handkerchief with red cursive “D.M.” sewn into the corner.

Confused, Stiles touched his own cheek and was surprised to find his fingers glistening.

“Thank you, Isaac,” he croaked and took the offering.

Isaac lowered his gaze, then looked outside the window.

A wave took a run and slammed into a cliff with full force. From here, it was only a murmur.

“Try not to cry,” said Isaac, quiet as the wave. “He likes it when they cry.”

Stiles swallowed. He couldn’t meet his gaze, couldn’t even look at him.

“If you get him drunk, make sure he is not conscious. Otherwise, he will drag it out.”

“Isaac.”

“I do not know why I am telling you this,” the man jabbered. His jaw worked hard. He shook his head. “He has you now to torment...” He snapped his mouth shut.

Stiles sniffled and put the handkerchief back into Isaac’s shaking hand.

“What does it mean for you?” he inquired.

He should’ve known not to expect an answer. “In the morning, you will be inspected. The monks here are stubborn donkeys, do not even try to reason them or honey up. They will say it how it is. Be ready.”

“Are they not going to inspect him?” Stiles bit out.

“He is not the receiving end.”

“How would they know with me, though?”

Isaac broke out of his misery and sent him a disdained glance. “They have inspected hundreds of brides and grooms.”

Stiles’ heart plummeted. “The right of the first night?”

A grimness like nothing before took over Isaac’s angelic face. He swallowed a couple of times, then forced out a quiet: “Yes. So… they know the signs. Of him in particular.” He chewed his lip and glanced at Stiles. “Have you ever lain with—”

“No,” Stiles blurted. Well, at least now there was some color to his face. “I mean, not… not a proper consummation…”

“I see.”

They stayed silent for a couple of more minutes, standing close.

The ocean reveled in its childish joy.

“You had someone.”

Grief, sudden and encompassing, cruel and giant, slammed into his heart. Stiles turned away from Isaac, from the ocean, the window, the sun, the life itself, and closed his face with shaking hands.

His breathing was harsh and wet as he tried and failed to get some air.

It was full of aggravating salt.

Oh, Stiles was sick of it.

His stomach churned with pain, his throat tight and unforgiving. He would look like a mess at the altar.

Gerard would like it.

Derek couldn’t stand the sight of his tears.

Derek. His Derek.

Stiles needed him. Stiles loved him.

His face, his eyes, and his eyebrows, and stubble, the slope of his shoulders, his waist and hips, his lovely smile and… and…

They were always there, at the back of his mind. He was a fool to tell himself he wasn’t thinking of Derek. How could the moon not think of its sun? How, when the light of it — the sight of him — made him yearn to live?

Stiles loved him before. Between their shared breath, upon their touch, after the tender words and giddy smiles, Stiles thought he knew what love was.

He was a fool.

This was love. This was how it felt.

Annihilative. Mournful.

Take all the air from his throat, he would still ask for Derek first.

“I should have been his,” Stiles whispered harshly. “His.”

“Write to him.”

Stiles put a hand on his chest, trying to quell his heart, and looked at Isaac as if he had gone mad. “Argent would never—”

“Of course, he wouldn’t,” Isaac shrugged. “But just… Write. Write as if it is already in his hands.”

Stiles imagined Derek’s concentrated frown, the little wrinkle between his heavy brows. The way he would hold it in his hands.

“Go on,” Isaac nodded at the desk in the far corner of the room. “I shall be your guard.”

With his very soul trembling, Stiles walked up to his desk, snatched a paper from the stack, and dipped the quill into the inkpot.

“Love of mine,

I shall miss you for the rest of my days. I think of you as I breathe. My life is nothing but your absence.

I am a shell for you have all of me.

I wish for you to forget me yet I hope it never happens.

You are everything I have when I do not have you at all.

You are the sole master of my love.

I beg for your forgiveness yet I know I do not deserve your glance.

I love you.

Stiles”

He stared at the sharp lines.

Did he feel better? Lighter? Not at all. But then… at least he said it.

Something landed on the table with a hollow knock. It was Isaac; silently, he pushed a sooty burning lamp towards him.

Stiles understood it all.

He shouldn’t leave traces.

He ran his eyes over the letter for the last time, breathed out, and carried it over the flame.

It flickered and burst. The fire ate away every feeling of his that he had poured. As if they didn’t exist at all.

Perhaps, one day, he would disappear, too.

In the end, he felt too numb to cry.

No one objected, and he muttered “yes”.

Gerard pressed a dry kiss into the corner of his mouth.

It felt like a blessing and a warning at once.

His body lost all feeling.

The music had turned into a cacophony, the dancers — into chaos. The richness of the colorful silks became a motley unsightly mess.

Stiles didn’t drink. He didn’t feel the taste of food.

Everything was dreadful, most of all the passing time.

They had first and second courses, with the third steaming and glistening with oil on the lavish tables. A boar’s head with a wrinkled apple stared at the ceiling with dead eyes.

The room was saturated with the smell of food and wine, filled with laughter, talks, and gentle clinking of the utensils. Music played, encouraging the most cheerful to make time for a dance.

Gerard drank a lot. He didn’t seem as mad as a couple of days before; the Archduke sat on his throne and smiled warmly at the guests who brought presents to his feet.

It was those gifts that made his eyes glint the most. Colored fabrics: silks, velvet, cotton; jewelry and gems, heavy trunks full of gold, paintings, manuscripts…

One old man with a long beard brought a small fae in a jar. He had sworn up and down that she sang like a nightingale and glowed but upon shaking the jar, he had only painted it in smudges of red from the inside. The fae lay motionless.

When Gerard went to dance with another pretty lady, Stiles stole the jar. Quite a lot of glances were trained on him but Stiles found himself uncaring.

He put the jar on his lap and studied the poor creature.

It lay on the bottom of the jar, curled up on itself and breathing heavily. The wings were broken and its translucent skin was covered in bruises.

Stiles put both his palms against the bloodied glass and concentrated. The magic came out of him with a grunt and a bit of a sting. Stiles curled his lip in annoyance and pushed out more.

Small tendrils of golden light penetrated the thick glass and formed an intricate web to reach the creature. Slowly, it started to heal.

Stiles closed his eyes, breathed out, and relaxed into his throne. The glowing jar warmed his thighs. The magic trickled out of him, syrupy like honey.

“What a kind soul you are.”

Stiles flinched. Couldn’t help it. Opening his eyes, he found Gerard watching him, out of breath. In his lap, however, sat the same lady he was dancing with all evening.

She was pretty: black curls, big eyes, and a pinch of blush to her dimpled cheeks; a sky-blue dress clung to her narrow waist.

She smiled at Stiles. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

When Stiles didn’t answer, her smile dwindled. Confused, she glanced at Gerard.

“Ah, pardon me,” he laughed. His hand gripped the girl’s waist. “I have yet to introduce you. Dove, this is my granddaughter Allison.”

Fascinating.

Stiles was about to turn back to his jar when rough fingers caught his chin and swerved his head back. Gerard smiled at his scowl, caressed his jaw, and let go.

“It is improper to ignore the lady. Especially when this angel came all the way here to bless us with a present.”

Stiles glanced at her empty hands and hummed. She seemed to only carry her rosy blush on her cheeks and not even a goblet in her hand. What—

“What present?” Allison asked, a bit breathlessly.

Gerard’s hands slipped onto the girl’s bottom, making her smile dwindle even more. She reddened like a cherry and squirmed, but the Archduke held her tight.

“My dear angel, did your father not tell you?” Gerard’s frown was ruined by mockery. “Allison here will give us a child.”

Stiles’ stomach plummeted, as he suddenly felt cold.

Allison sat stiff, her blush giving way to pallor.

“Y-your Majesty?..”

“Tell me, angel, how do you think I shall have a child with a man? Hmm? Or is it just a wind in your head?”

“But I…” the girl stuttered. “I am betrothed already…”

Gerard took his wine from the table and took a gulp. A small red droplet fell on Allison’s lap.

“Do not worry, angel,” he nudged the girl’s cheek with a goblet ignoring her flinch. “An added dowry must close his eyes enough not to see that you were used.”

“But—”

Gerard’s forehead tensed. He grabbed her face not unlike he did with Stiles and shushed her. “You are more beautiful when your mouth is closed.”

Allison stared at him with horror and tears in her eyes. She trembled in his lap, her earlier tenderness of a granddaughter gone. She pursed her lips.

“That’s better,” Gerard murmured. “I have to admit I did not expect to meet Stiles. Alas! The marriage must always bring a child. My blood has to carry on.” He slid his palm on Allison’s lower stomach and kept it there, even when she grabbed it in panic. “And who is a better candidate than my own descendant?”

“You’re sick,” said Stiles. His dormant blood-crusted heart ached at the terror in the poor girl’s wide eyes.

Gerard turned his head to him. “What could be sick about wanting to hear the tapping of the little feet?”

The man had probably never hugged his children. Stiles could not decide whether it was good or bad. The sight of his hands on Allison was enough to make his stomach curl.

What a mad, mad man.

“She is going to hurl on you,” Stiles noticed, glancing back at his jar.

At last, the detestation took over, and Gerard, curling his lip, let go. Allison could not run away faster, her feet barely touching the floor.

“I did not know anyone could be so vile,” Stiles murmured, watching as the main doors opened again — another present must have been on the way.

He felt Gerard’s amused gaze on the side of his face like a splatter of foul dirt.

“Yet you married me.”

Stiles closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing against a tight throat. He gripped the warm jar closer to himself.

“Smile, husband,” Gerard ordered dryly.

With a heavy heart, Stiles opened his eyes.

Suddenly, those sitting closer to the doors stood up. The talking ceased for a moment, the music stopped, and only then, a breath later, murmurs started.

Regal guests stood up; some backed away from the tables to the walls, some drew their daggers lubberly, and glanced around searching for guards.

Gerard stiffened but recovered quickly.

He stood up, smiled, and spread his arms. “What a surprise, my friend.”

“Gerard,” the newcomer smiled back.

Stiles, however, could not tear his gaze away from the giant wolf on a leash next to him.

He didn’t know wolves could be so big — its head reached its master’s shoulders. Its fur was black as night, its fangs the size of Stiles’ hand, and its eyes, red like a fresh wound, did not shift away from Stiles.

Was this… a present?

“Deucalion.”

Stiles flinched from Gerard’s voice. Finally, he found the courage to shift his gaze to the wolf’s master and only then realized that the man was blind. His eyes that Stiles thought to be light blue were milky and unseeing; a dark-skinned woman that held his hand was leading him.

Stiles glanced at the wolf and back.

What fool trusts a wild wolf that much?

The animal was still looking at him; it didn’t move or wag its tail. Just… a cold eerie stare. It almost seemed like there was an intelligence to it.

Stiles knew he would be a fool not to respect a predator like that.

“What a placid pup you got there,” said Gerard.

“Impressive, eh?” Deucalion smiled. His accent was thick and foreign. “Do not worry, he does not bite much.”

“Really?”

“Sure. But, excuse me for the suddenness of my visitation: if a bird had not told me of your marriage, I would not have even known! What a happy occasion, by the way! Congratulations! May your happiness last this time.”

No one dared to even chuckle. Stiles glanced at Gerard and saw his jaw clench despite his smile.

“Believe me, I shall be a fool to let this one slip from my hands,” he dragged and gestured to Stiles despite the uselessness of the move. “He is an angel.”

“Indeed, I heard he shines bright.” Oh, he knew. “So I thought to myself that such a treasure as your spouse has to be guarded. And, pardon me, but as I recall your knights do not have much control over themselves. Young souls, young souls. Ah, but this beast will not let anyone near.”

“Not even me?” Gerard looked around with a smirk. A wave of chuckles rolled around.

“Well, he is a smart boy. Aren’t you?” Deucalion snatched the leash. The wolf bared his fangs at the tugging, annoyed. “He is. After the blessing of nuptials, he will know who belongs to whom.”

A humiliating blush spread across Stiles’ face. He grit his teeth. It stung his pride to look anyone in the eyes, for all he’d see would be the knowing smiles. Instead, he looked at the wolf again.

Their gazes met.

The wolf lowered his massive head and sniffed.

“Patience, pup. Would you like me to introduce you?” asked Deucalion. He turned his head slightly to Stiles’ direction — god knows how he learned it.

“I am sure my little dove is grateful enough,” Argent interrupted, falling back into his throne. “And I have yet to bed him, Deuc, have mercy on me.”

Another bout of laughter.

Burning from humiliation and unwilling to listen to the tales of the future, Stiles opened the jar with the sleeping fae if it were to wake up and wish to get out, put it on the table, and jumped to his feet.

The giggles died. Everyone watched him, whether it was with amusement or fear, and waited with bated breath for his next move.

“Come closer, Your Majesty, do not be afraid.”

Looking into the animal’s eyes, perhaps, was foolish, yet Stiles was captivated. With slow but firm steps, he neared the beast.

Stiles had never seen a wolf before. A weak sprout of curiosity burst inside his mind as both of them studied each other.

“How do I approach him?” he asked hoarsely, not looking away.

“You do not,” Deucalion answered with a weird smile. “He will.”

He let go of a leash.

It didn’t yet clang on the polished floor and already all crossbows were pointed at the wolf. The head of the guards shouted, echoed by the Archduke himself. Deucalion’s “Do not fret! Do not fire!” was lost in the tumult.

Stiles, however, stood frozen.

Praying for a quick death, he watched with his lungs stiff as the wolf shook his head, lifted his head, and let out a howl of tremendous power. The sound jumped from wall to wall. It deafened and pierced through everyone’s chest, ordering it to tremble.

When the wolf was done, no one was talking.

The claws clicked on the floor. The beast approached carefully as if he somehow knew how terrified Stiles felt. He watched Stiles’ face intensely, turning his head this way and that.

Then Stiles heard a whine. Small and soft, as if it hurt to see Stiles’ fear.

“He’s yours,” suddenly murmured Deucalion. “Go on.”

Stiles frowned in confusion. Didn’t he say not to move—

The wolf took a final step closer. Stiles gasped and closed his eyes.

A broad hot tongue licked his scraped cheek, forcing him to stagger.

“Hey,” Stiles croaked. He opened one eye and looked at the wolf, who was busy nuzzling at his chest with his head. “Oh…”

A round of relieved sighs and laughter trickled across the room, and then everyone applauded.

“Told you,” Deucalion muttered. The woman next to him smiled secretively.

The wolf rubbed his entire head on Stiles’ front, stuck his nose into his armpits and neck. While it was terrifying to have those teeth so close to his throat, Stiles couldn’t help but huff and relax a bit. He staggered back under the force of the wolf’s affections for it was a heavy beast and pushed his fingers into the wolf’s black thick mane scratching under the collar.

“Hey, big boy,” he murmured. The wolf pressed his whole front to Stiles’ chest and stuck his cold nose in Stiles’ neck. His breathing seemed weirdly shallow, but perhaps, he was still getting used to his scent.

“As endearing as this sight is,” Gerard’s irritated voice made everyone including the wolf stiffen, “let us not interrupt the festivity. The gift is exquisite, my friend, but it is time to put him back into the cage…”

Deucalion shrugged. “There is no cage. Just a leash. Marin?”

The woman beside him quickly went to his other side, picked up the end of the leather leash, and offered it to Stiles. When he took it, albeit reluctantly, she hurried to her previous place.

To hold such a gorgeous regal animal on a leash felt disrespectful. After all, if he went feral nothing would hold him back.

Stiles held it anyway. He licked his lips, rubbed the wolf’s neck in an attempt to quell his threatening rumble that appeared at Gerard’s voice, and turned to the guests.

“Feast!” he said loudly with a fake smile. “The night is young.” He then turned to Deucalion and murmured: “Dear Sir, could it be possible for you to gift me a few minutes of your time?”

Deucalion agreed and all three of them (the wolf was the fourth) went to sit in the furthest corner of the table. People scattered off instantly, giving them a wide berth, but that was quite useful.

“Sir—”

“Call me Deuc, young man.”

“Deuc. I wanted to ask about… the wolf.”

Deucalion smiled. He asked Marin to bring him wine and folded his hands on the table opposite Stiles. “Ah… of course.”

“Where did you find him?” Stiles started, running his hand over the wolf’s head. The beast was sitting next to him, if a little too close, almost leaning on Stiles’ legs with his head lying on his lap.

“It is the opposite,” said Deuc. “He came to me.”

Stiles threw him a puzzled glance and decided that the man must have been quite… weird.

“Oh… I just… How can he be so docile?” he wondered.

“Oh, no-no-no. He is quite capable of murdering everyone in this room. Do not believe otherwise. Why else would I gift it to you? Ah, thank you, Marin, dear…”

Stiles shifted his gaze to the wolf.

“He is still looking at me,” he murmured, staring back into the wolf’s red eyes. The animal was completely relaxed and blinked lazily, studying his face.

Stiles smiled a bit at him. The wolf huffed and caught his fingers with his teeth.

Stiles’ heart jumped and he froze but the wolf didn’t hurt him. He glanced at Stiles almost playfully, then released the hand and began licking it.

“I think he’s in love,” Deucalion laughed.

Stiles smiled back and scratched the wolf between his ears with his other hand. He let the wolf play with his fingers for it was a gentle game, almost unbelievably so.

“He would never hurt you,” Deuc added as if hearing his thoughts. He and Marin clinked their goblets together and sipped some wine.

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

Stiles arched his eyebrows but said nothing.

Deucalion continued as if all he was saying was complete truth and not a ramble of an unfortunate man. “Do not let them separate you. And if he leads you somewhere — follow.”

Stiles positively did not understand a thing. “I… shall try?”

“Good. Good.”

They sat together for close to an hour. Deucalion told him of his own country back in the North, of endless planes of snow and sharp peaks of the mountains. Marin was quiet and Stiles even got to feed the wolf from the plate the servants brought. The animal had probably not even felt the pitiful scraps yet licked his chops every time and gave Stiles the same amorous look.

Stiles didn’t drink.

Gerard did. A lot.

“He is not even conscious!”

“It is the law, your Majesty.”

“Would you rouse him up for me, hmm?” Stiles’ lip trembled in fury. “Go ahead, wake him. We shall see how long your head remains attached to your neck.”

The priest paled. His haggard cheeks trembled from cowardice. Both of them looked at Gerard — at his flabby body spilled over the rose-petal-covered nuptial bed. He vomited on the way to the bedroom and thus stank.

Stiles hoped he would die but that would be too lucky of a blessing.

“W-we can bring salts…” the priest babbled, turning back to him.

Stiles grit his teeth. “No.”

“But—”

“I shall try to wake him up,” Stiles lied. “If he does not, then so be it. We consummate the other night.”

The priest sniffed and pursed his lips. His displeasure was evident yet the fear of angering the Archduke gained the upper hand.

“Be it so,” he said with annoyance and threw a disdained glance at Stiles. His eyes slipped towards Stiles’ open undershirt, gauzy and light, then up again. “But tomorrow it must commence. If not, we shall supervise.”

Stiles’ face flushed with humiliation. He lifted his chin and glared at the priest.

“Your eyes are wandering too much, your Reverence,” he sang sweetly. “Do not give me a reason to gouge them out.”

He smiled and let his pupils spark golden.

The priest muttered something under his breath, crossed himself, and hurried out of the room. As he went out he threw a worried glance at the giant wolf that lay on the carpet but continued on his way.

Stiles jumped to the door and locked it. Closing his eyes, he listened to the sounds from the outside.

The priest’s shambling steps soon quieted. Somewhere very close, there was the soft clank of the metal — the guards were listening. Bastards. They would stay the whole night at the doors.

Breathing out, Stiles dragged himself to the velvet blue couch near the bookcase and fell onto it. He wrapped the silken red bathrobe tighter around himself, though that did not bring much warmth, and tossed the loose petals on the floor. His grim gaze fell onto the figure on the bed.

Stiles’ heart was thumping hard and quick.

He would be safe tonight. Just as Isaac told him. He managed to stave off the inevitable gruesome but not for long.

He closed his face with his hands and let out a shaky breath.

The fear burned his eyes from the inside. How long would he last? Gerard was a sick man, and he was clear in his desire.

And Stiles’ magic was at its lowest.

He had to perform an unfamiliar spell that required precise concentration and a huge amount of energy. Did he have it? No, not nearly enough. Will he try? Yes.

If only his anchor was here.

No, no, don’t you dare think about him.

Something licked his hands.

Stiles huffed. He smiled weakly and lowered his hands, staring at the blazing eyes of the wolf.

“Hey, big boy,” he whispered. The wolf nuzzled into his hand when Stiles scratched his furry cheek. “I am fine, I promise.”

The wolf huffed, and his hot breath fanned across Stiles’ face. He stepped closer and began licking Stiles’ cheek.

“I shall stop crying, I know,” Stiles murmured. “I have to be strong because he…”

The words choked him. He inhaled wetly and huffed a laugh when the wolf licked his tears away with a soft whine.

“… he would’ve wanted me to be strong,” Stiles sniffled. Longing for the smallest lick of sympathy, he tugged the wolf toward himself and circled his arms around his thick neck.

The animal seemed to recognize his distress and let the silly human take comfort in their embrace. He nuzzled back, licked Stiles’ neck, and whined gently.

Stiles exhaled deeply. “We shall go on a little adventure tonight, wolfie. After midnight. Would you mind being my company?” The wolf caught Stiles’ ear and quickly released it, licking it in apology. “No, you wouldn’t.”

He thought the wolf would refuse to walk through the tiny squeezes of the tunnels but he followed Stiles relentlessly.

As soon as they entered a library, Stiles shut the door, breathed out, and looked around. He could only see a couple of steps in front of himself with the light of the candle in his hand, and the rest of the room was pitch black.

Shrugging the useless robe further up his shoulders, Stiles turned to his companion.

“Well, let us go find— Wait, where are you— Wait!”

But the wolf had already disappeared into the darkness.

“Damn it,” Stiles hissed and ran after him. He couldn’t scream for he would attract the guards, couldn’t send a searching spell because he had to preserve his magic. “I do not have time to play! Where are you…”

Stiles heard his nails clicking on the cold stone floor but they echoed around. His head spun. He was surrounded by endless rows of books that dissolved into the darkness right in front of his eyes.

Suddenly, Stiles heard a rough yelp, and his heart plummeted.

“Wolfie…” he breathed out, spinning around. Which way was the right one? Where did the sound come from?

Stiles didn’t know. Worry grabbed him by the throat, and his heart trashed inside.

He only had this precious animal for less than a day, he couldn’t lose him this fast!

Oh, where was he…

Stiles ran to where he thought the wolf’s whine came from. He yelped as he stumbled into a dead end, and almost by a curse the candle fell out of his hands.

Stiles blinked, plunged into the darkness.

He was blind now.

Except…

Fuck.

His ears picked up the soft clicking of steps somewhere close.

Somewhere very close.

Oh, no. Was this a game? Was he lied to again? Betrayed? Was it a trick to trap him here to tear him to shreds?

Panicked, Stiles folded his hands and whispered into them. It felt like someone was pulling his veins out; he shuddered and groaned. The sprite came to life — a weak meager flicker — and Stiles quickly threw it in the air.

Breathing heavily, he blinked at the sudden light.

The sight in front of him stopped him dead in his tracks.

Curled on himself and shaking, the wolf was heaving breaths. His fur stood on its ends, his fangs bared in a snarl. A horrible crackle came from within the confines of his body that seemed to convulse in pain.

Aghast, Stiles wanted to throw himself to the wolf’s side when suddenly, the wolf’s spine broke and arched. He stood on his hind legs but the howl stayed choked inside his throat.

Right in front of Stiles’ wide eyes, the wolf’s body shrank. The spiky black fur rippled and was sucked into… white human skin.

The wolf was turning into a man.

Stiles backed away into the bookcase. He didn’t know whether to scream, run, or help this person, friend or foe—

At last, the man fell to his knees. He shivered one last time, breathing heavily, and lifted his head.

Stiles’ knees grew weak.

That sharp nose and the beard.

Those eyebrows.

Those eyes.

“Don’t be afraid,” the man pleaded.

“Derek,” Stiles breathed out.

He couldn’t believe his eyes.

A moment ago, it was… And then…

Derek.

“Angel, please.” Derek’s rough voice was full of hurt and desperation, his hands outstretched and shaking…

With a sob, Stiles threw himself into his arms and held on for dear life.

The arms that grabbed him were strong and painfully familiar. The naked sweaty body pressed close to him, sinewy, hairy, and big.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled the familiar smell.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispered harshly, breathing into Derek’s neck. “Tell me.”

A hand caressed his hair and trailed down his neck. “It is. I’m here, shh…”

“I can’t lose you again, I can’t, I won’t live through it this time—”

“I’m not going anywhere. Did you really think I’d let someone take you?” Derek rumbled into his ear, kissing his temple, his cheek, every bit of skin he could reach. “Let me look at you, sparkle, come on…”

Reluctantly, Stiles leaned away. Held by Derek’s arm around his waist, Stiles looked greedily at the dear face, almost as if seeing it for the first time. He reached with a trembling hand and swept the sticky hair away from his forehead.

Derek had never looked more stunning.

His eyes were red as well, which was ridiculous because Derek never cried. His smile shined, breathtaking with its beauty and quiet happiness.

“I hate it when you cry,” Derek murmured hoarsely and cupped Stiles’ cheeks, wiping his tears with his thumb. “Hi, baby.”

Stiles half-sobbed, half-laughed. “Hi.”

“I missed you.”

“I thought I would never see you again.”

Derek chuckled. “As if I would ever let you get away.”

Stiles couldn’t help it and, for the first time in weeks, truly smiled.

Derek’s eyes slipped to his lips. Something flickered in his gaze, painful and longing, before he grabbed Stiles’ chin and pulled him into a kiss.

The taste of Derek’s lips reminded Stiles of heaven. Somehow, he knew it without ever being there because Derek showed him.

Derek was everything — his angel, his Eden, his god, and his salvation. Derek was his curse and his poison, sweet and thus even more addictive. He was everything, and how could Stiles ever think life was possible without the sound of his breathing?

Stiles grabbed his shoulders and tugged on his hair. They tasted devastation on each other’s tongues and caressed it with longing, soothed it with the scalding love. Derek’s hands roamed everywhere and Stiles was shaking with the need to dissolve right into his chest.

Derek tore himself away from his lips and laughed when Stiles tried to catch them. He caught Stiles’ chin again and smiled at him.

“You’re glowing,” he said.

Stiles blinked the haze away and only then did he see the reflection on Derek’s tanned skin. His own was glowing indeed, a peachy tone of a fire behind the translucent flesh. His pupils were probably shining, too.

His spark had awakened.

Stiles smiled with just a touch of shyness. He licked his lips and raked his fingers through Derek’s tousled hair.

“And you’re a werewolf,” he laughed hysterically.

Derek’s smile dwindled. He blinked a couple of times and rubbed his hands on Stiles’ sides.

“Are you afraid?” he asked quietly.

“Afraid? No. Mad you didn’t tell me? Yes!” Stiles arched his eyebrows. “Do you not… trust me—”

Derek shook his head. “No,” he insisted with fervor. “I do. I had my reasons but—”

“What reasons?”

When Derek just stared at him with a comprehensive gaze, Stiles huffed and tugged on his hair. “What reasons, Derek?”

Derek clenched his jaw. His eyes railed the pulsating vein on Stiles’ neck.

“You would have dived into a research. About me, or wolves. I was worried about the things you would have found.”

Stiles couldn’t imagine a single thing that would’ve made him reject Derek. A werewolf, a vampire, a siren — Stiles would have loved him anyway.

“What things?” he asked with gentle firmness.

Derek’s hand fell onto his thigh, under the bathrobe, and lay on the warm skin.

“Wolves mate for life,” he said simply and lifted his gaze.

Stiles’ heart thundered. Derek’s words blared across his mind without really settling like a banshee’s call.

Derek’s sigh was heavy. “I did not want to hold you back with that knowledge. If you ever married another—”

“I did marry another,” Stiles reminded hotly.

Derek’s eyes flared red. Just like the wolf’s.

“If you chose to marry another,” Derek corrected through tight teeth, “I did not want you to know what it would do to me.”

“What?”

“You do not need to know.”

“Why?”

“Because I am not going to let you out of my sight anymore.”

Stiles observed him with irritation slowly giving way to tender warmth, and then — to desolation.

“I must remain married to him,” he said carefully knowing it would hurt Derek.

And… yes, he now pissed him off.

Derek squared his jaw and scowled. “Oh, really?”

Stiles rolled his eyes at the open jealousy in his voice. “Yes. It’s either me or thousands of people dying.”

“I’d choose you.”

“Derek.”

“For fuck’s sake, angel, you—” Derek squeezed his eyes in irritation and his hands flexed on Stiles’ sides. “You blame your father for softness, yet you remain your father’s son.”

Stiles smiled. He gave Derek’s wrinkled forehead a kiss and hugged him tight.

“I shall think of something,” he murmured.

“Let’s run away.”

“No.”

Derek growled.

“We have to be more creative than that,” Stiles tried to reason. He caught Derek’s earlobe with his teeth, then kissed it. Lord, he missed this man. “It’s either me or him, but someone must die.”

Stiles let out a muffled gasp as Derek pulled him away by his hair and bared his fangs right in his face. “You are not dying.”

Stiles felt his face flush. He had a hard time looking away from those teeth.

“Well, now I’m not.” As Derek got more grim, Stiles sighed. “The downside to living is being close to him.”

“I’ll snap both of his hands clean if he touches you.”

Stiles smiled. He squirmed out of Derek’s hold and pressed a calming kiss to Derek’s downturned lips. God, he had never felt this light. Nothing seemed impossible now.

“I have to make him think he claimed me,” Stiles muttered. “And I think I know how to do it, I just need to check one more time. He must settle once he thinks it’s done.”

The look Derek gave him made him feel stupid.

“It doesn’t work that way with you, angel,” the wolf grumbled.

“Then I shall get him drunk again.” Stiles pursed his nose and scratched through Derek’s beard. “Can we not talk about him, please? I’m sick of him. And you are… you are here.”

Derek’s eyes softened. His other hand landed on Stiles’ thigh and rubbed it.

“As you wish,” he said.

They looked at each other, both under a charm.

Stiles lowered his gaze first. He leaned his weight on Derek’s front and traced his fingers through his chest hair. The low fire that was present in his lower belly flamed more with their every shared breath.

He was painfully aware of Derek’s nudity: of the thickness of his thighs under his silk-covered ass, of his hot hands that kept touching every bit of Stiles’ body, of his defined abs and his strong bulging arms and of his dick, half-hard, between them.

Stiles licked his lips. He was as well aware of his own cock that refused to soften. And not like his gauzy undershirt hid much.

Stiles inclined his head and glanced at Derek, who was watching his every move with a half-lidded gaze.

“So,” Stiles hummed, “you said I’m your mate—”

His question was shut off with a kiss.

Stiles’ exasperated huff quickly turned into a gasp and then a moan of pleasure. It was stifled by Derek’s skillful lips, even more so when his hand slipped lower.

Stiles scratched his nails at Derek’s chest and bucked into his hold. It seemed so long since he had felt this scorching desire, this longing need to feel and to touch and…

Derek spit into his palm — a gesture that for some reason never failed to make Stiles blush — and wrapped it around Stiles’ cock once more. He rubbed it up and down, squeezing just right and not enough, teasing and tempting.

Stiles gasped into his mouth and closed his eyes. His shirt slipped down to his clavicle, and Derek immediately closed his mouth over his throat.

“Ahh…”

His lips, his lapping tongue, his teeth tugging at his skin. There were going to be marks tomorrow, of the late night’s passion — as there should be with him and Derek back together again.

Stiles flexed his hips, thrusting into Derek’s tight hold, and grasped at his shoulders. He couldn’t get enough of him and kissed his forehead, the quickly beating vein on his temple, the edge of his eyebrows.

He was reluctant to look into Derek’s eyes for he knew he wouldn’t last.

With a bit-off whimper and rapidly rising chest, Stiles squirmed into Derek’s lap. His hand traced down Derek’s delicious torso — and, oh, he wanted to repeat that path with his tongue — and took Derek’s thick cock.

“Stiles…”

“I missed you so m—mmhm…”

Derek had never been able to keep himself away from Stiles’ lips for long.

They kissed, delved deep, and caressed each other with lust they long yearned for. Both of them were too greedy to let the other’s gasp slide into the open air, to let the whimper go without tasting it.

They stroked each other, thrusting back and forth, sought pleasure in each other tenderness, and rejoiced in finding it.

Stiles came with a stuttered breath and glazed eyes. Derek looked at him like he was the epitome of love.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he rasped, his gaze sliding all over Stiles’ relaxed flushed face. It stopped on his bitten red open lips. “Just like that, angel…”

Mellowed out, Stiles didn’t even try to catch his breath. Instead, he wrapped his arm around Derek’s shoulders and his hand around Derek’s cock, sealed their lips together and twirled his hand.

There was no feeling more satisfying than taking Derek’s breath away.

Stiles tugged the skin back and swirled his thumb at the slit. He smiled at Derek’s punched-out groan and caught his lower lip.

“I changed my mind,” Derek breathed out. “You’re not an angel at all…”

Stiles grinned. “You’re right,” he kissed the words into Derek’s stubble. “I am the wolf’s mate.”

“Fuck.”

Derek’s nails dug into Stiles’ ass — another mark that Stiles would deify. He jerked Derek’s thick pulsating cock as he came in thick globes right on Stiles’ stomach. Perhaps, he was imagining it, or, maybe, it was all magic, but the sight of it fired something up inside him and soothed at the same time.

Stiles felt like he would actually lose his mind if he kissed Derek for too long.

They kissed because neither of them could resist. And why bother?

“I love you so fucking much,” Derek muttered into his lips, making Stiles immediately burst into a smile.

He felt like he could cry again but bit his lips just in case.

“I love you, too.” His voice trembled a bit. He breathed in sharply when he felt Derek’s hand on his lower stomach and looked down. “Oh… Is this going to be our thing?”

Derek watched moonstruck at the traces of his own cum that he smeared over Stiles’ stomach and pelvis. He didn’t answer right away, and when he did, his low voice made Stiles’ breath hitch:

“You’re mine,” he said with no trace of playfulness. “You get it? Mine. I’ll kill him if he touches you. Do what you gotta do, play your mind games for as long as you like, I do not care. I’d rather let a thousand people die than let you slip away from me again.”

Stiles’ heart pummeled against his ribs. “The same people you swore to protect?”

“I granted your father a favor by being his knight,” said Derek grimly. “Now my loyalty lies with you and you alone.”

The words echoed through Stiles’ mind. He licked his lips and combed his fingers through Derek’s sweaty hair. He tried to keep his breathing steady, well aware that the wolf was staring at him.

This power that Derek granted him so freely — over himself and his werewolf strength, over his willingness to kill… He gave it all to Stiles to twirl it between his slender fingers.

Just like that, huh?

Stiles would have to deal with Gerard faster than he expected. Argent didn’t like to be teased, and Derek would go feral if that man ever put a finger on him. And Gerard wouldn’t like that as well.

He couldn’t let the Archduke get to his knight. His wolf.

Stiles would die before he let any harm befall his beloved.

“Do you understand?” Derek asked quietly.

“Yes.”

Derek watched him closely for a couple of breaths, then leaned forward and placed a warning kiss on his lips.

“Good.”

Stiles woke up right as Derek laid him on the blue couch.

He squinted. The moonlight fell on the unmoving body of the Archduke. He still snored.

Stiles sighed, pursed his nose, and grabbed Derek’s hand, trying to pull his deadly glare away from Gerard.

“Stay with me,” he croaked and closed his eyes.

Derek’s hand slipped from his fingers. A gentle kiss was placed on Stiles’ forehead.

Stiles fell somewhere deep and unknown, down and down…

A heavy weight lay on his front. Absently, Stiles buried his hand into Derek’s fur.

It wasn’t long till sunrise but perhaps it was the first time Stiles knew he would greet it with a smile.

“…traces of it.”

“Where?”

“On his stomach, milord.”

Gerard inhaled sharply.

He was in the foulest of moods today as the wine made itself known. Pale and bloated, he sat at the table with his mouth tightly shut and his head resting on his hands.

“Then why,” he bit out, “do I not remember it?”

Interrupting their breakfast — Derek had eaten two partridges already — Stiles broke the rabbit’s foot with his hands and let the wolf eat it from his greasy hands. He didn’t even glance at his husband, as he uttered: “I bet you remember the wine, though.”

Gerard glared at him from under his brows.

Stiles tried as hard as he could to hide his cheer. Yes, life was grim and hope was far, but… he felt so light.

Derek was here.

Stiles pursed his lips to smother down a delighted smile.

Gerard bristled. “Are you going to drag that dog everywhere?”

“Not a dog,” Stiles muttered and spread his palm when Derek began to lick his fingers. “And, yes.”

The Archduke grit his teeth and grabbed his wine.

The festivities proceeded with much strain on Gerard’s part. Upon his healer’s persuasion, he agreed to go to the sunny outside and even led the hunting party with his son at the head of the procession.

Stiles blamed the headache and escaped to the library.

Derek, as expected, went with him, but so did Ennis — the brutish head of the guards with a snarly smile and a bald head. He was the one Isaac couldn’t look at for some reason, and Stiles was secretly glad that Derek was with him.

He could take Ennis in a fight with his agility and magic but he’d rather spend his precious resources on tonight.

Stiles’ heart was nagging the entire day. If not for Derek’s gentle nudges he would’ve stared at the yellowed spines of the books instead of reading.

“Sorry, sorry,” Stiles muttered each time, shook his head, and tried to keep his eyes open.

Stubborn, his mind kept coming back to the inevitable.

Oh, cursed night.

It was easier with Derek here, and somehow not. On one hand, his magic flourished again, and there should be enough of it to execute the spell. On the other… if something went wrong, he didn’t think he would be able to stop Derek from murdering the Archduke.

And, while, yes, the wolf was in his full right to do so, and Stiles would only rejoice at viduity, it wasn’t that easy.

Argent couldn’t die suddenly. Otherwise, it would raise obvious suspicions, and then all Stiles’ sacrifices would be for naught.

It would be his father’s head and the bodies of innocent beaconers.

It would be Derek.

Thus, the spell must work. They didn’t have the luxury of it not to. Everything relied on Stiles.

And then, even if it worked…

What would tomorrow bring?

“No.”

“Derek.”

“I am not leaving you with that mongrel alone,” Derek snarled in his face.

“And I am not going to let you witness,” Stiles lifted his chin.

Derek’s gleaming chest rose rapidly. The old brown breeches hung from his hips tantalizingly low, as he walked back and forth the tunnel.

Stiles watched him with his heart bleeding. He knew he was asking of impossible and unbearable things, yet it had to be done.

“Derek, please,” he begged.

The wolf stopped, pushed his fingers into his hair, and shut his gleaming red eyes. His nostrils widened in fury. He was shaking slightly.

“Do you even know what you ask of me?” he bit out.

Stiles rubbed his neck trying to loosen his tight throat. He glanced at the secret door that led to Gerard’s bedroom, then back at Derek. The Archduke was due to arrive any minute now.

“You think I don’t despise it, too?” Stiles’ voice trembled. “It kills me to— But if you’re there then I will think of you and not the spell. I have to do this alone.”

Derek looked at him with hatred Stiles knew wasn’t directed at him. Still, he lowered his eyes and rubbed his face, his breathing ratcheted.

“I shall wait for you here.”

Stiles quickly lifted his eyes to the wolf. The pain in his eyes was akin to agony, and he couldn’t hold himself back anymore.

Quietly, he went up to Derek and cupped his cheek. The muscles bulged under his palm. He slid his hand further until it was buried in Derek’s hair. “Thank you.”

Derek grabbed his hand and kissed the back of it, staring at him viciously. “If anything goes amiss, I will not hesitate.”

“I know.”

“I bet you thought this wouldn’t happen.”

Stiles lifted his eyes to the high ceiling shrouded in shadows and pressed his lips together until they hurt. Gerard’s lips slobbered over his neck, his hands digging into Stiles’ sides no matter how hard he tried to push him away.

“Wait,” he couldn’t even speak properly.

Gerard’s breath fanned against his cheek. “I’ve waited too long, dove.”

Stiles grit his teeth as the foul tongue slithered up his cheek. The bile rose inside his throat alongside desecrating dread and revulsion.

“Stop,” he gritted out, turned his head to the side, and dug his nails into the wrinkled spotted hands. It spoke of decades-long crusades that Gerard himself led to the fight because the man was strong despite his age. Almost at the same height, Stiles was left overpowered.

“It’s your first time, isn’t it?” smiled the Archduke and laughed at Stiles’ disgusted but red face. “I’ll show you, dove. I’ll teach you how to please me.”

All thoughts scrambled inside his head as the disgust and panic slowly took the lead.

Those hands — unfamiliar and unwelcome, they gripped too hard and not in the right places and too low, too deep into his clothes…

Stiles gasped as he felt Gerard rip away the threads on his breeches.

No. No, please, no.

He had to concentrate. He knew the spell, he had the… the magic…

In a fit of instinctual fear, he pushed Gerard roughly away.

He only saw a lightning-quick glint of fury in his mad dark eyes and in an instant, he fell to the ground.

His cheek flared in flames.

It wasn’t a slap this time, but a blow, stinging and hot.

Breathing heavily, he looked up and inhaled sharply at the sight.

Gerard stood above him, unfastening his pants. The white undershirt fell apart on his rapidly rising chest.

“On your knees,” he ordered coldly.

Stiles went cold from panic.

No.

“I said…” Gerard grabbed his chin roughly and dragged him upwards. “On. Your. Knees.”

Stiles hissed from pain and grasped at Gerard’s wrists. “Please.”

“I really should cut off your tongue but I have plans for it—”

“Please,” Stiles said louder. Focus. Focus! “I— I’ll do as you ask. Everything.”

“Everything?” Gerard smirked, his gaze on Stiles’ bleeding lip.

“Yes,” Stiles looked right into his eyes. “Just.. Can I kiss you first?”

The request felt so out of hand that it made Gerard stop in his tracks. Immediately, he narrowed his eyes. “Kiss me, dove?”

Stiles swallowed. “Yes. Please, I… I want my first time with you to be good. I just… need to get into it. Please.”

Gerard looked irritated. “Cut out this nonsense, boy. Open your pretty lips, come on…”

“Please!”

Stiles gasped as Gerard grabbed him by the hair and pulled him roughly to himself. “You want a kiss? I’ll fucking give you a—”

Right when Gerard lunged towards him, Stiles grabbed the sides of his head — touch, — looked him in the eyes — eye contact, — and leaned close to the mouth mere inch from him — breath.

And then he started whispering.

Ancient vile words slipped off his lips along with golden dust and into Gerard’s slack putrid mouth. Stiles saw the reflection of his own shining eyes in Gerard’s glassy ones.

His palms were sweaty, yet he gripped Argent’s head tighter, forcing it to be on the same level with him.

He couldn’t stop. Not even to gauge Gerard’s reaction on whether he thought Stiles was insane or the charms were really working. He didn’t have time, and the spell was long and complicated.

As he whispered, inhaling with quick desperation for the air, a thin ring of light began to form around Gerard’s head. It burst out of the center of Stiles’ palms, slowly crawled to the temples, and slipped into the wrinkles on the old man’s forehead. Watching the last inches of it struggle to connect was torture.

Stiles already felt the magic slipping from him.

The price of the power.

It wasn’t done, the curse like this. Too sacred of a thing was the human’s mind.

Yet there was nothing human left in Gerard Argent.

The band of light snapped its snares around the Archduke’s head.

Stiles stilled. Shaking and drowned in sweat, with all his body aching as if he ran for miles and miles, he stared at the slack mask of a face.

No reaction.

Slowly, Stiles stood up, like Gerard wanted, on his knees. He snatched the straw-stuffed velvet torso of a mannequin that he stole from the seamstress and hid under the bed, and put it into Gerard’s arms.

He let go.

The band stayed on.

Gerard blinked and shook his head. He smiled.

“Did it work for you, dove?”

Stiles paled.

It didn’t work. He wasn’t strong enough.

This was the end.

Gerard barked a laugh. “Guess I’ll leave you the tongue.” He grabbed the mannequin by its throat and tossed it on the bed.

And then, he smiled at it.

Stiles froze.

The band was still intact. In fact, small tendrils of light not unlike a web stretched from the band right to Stiles’ palms.

He watched without breathing as Gerard took out his cock, grabbed the covers that lay underneath the mannequin, and shoved them down. As one would shove clothes off another.

“I’ll show you how it’s done,” Gerard muttered and pushed his cock between the stuffed doll and the sheets. “Take it.”

He began thrusting his hips almost violently into the small space. His hands gripped the sides of the mannequin so hard that Stiles heard it rip.

The spell worked.

Stiles let out a quiet sob.

It worked.

Despite the head-spinning wave of relief, it was soon smothered by disgust and sheer horror at the scene. It was a curse in itself that Stiles couldn’t afford to look away or close his eyes.

The spell was taking too much magic out of him. And Gerard looked like he had only started.

The bed squeaked under his attack. The flabby skin on his arse jiggled with every move. It couldn’t have been nice or even remotely enjoyable to rub his penis on the straw-stuffed fabric of the doll, yet Gerard seemed to have the pleasure of his life.

Stiles really convinced the Archduke he was raping his new husband.

“You’re loose,” he grunted, pushing his hips into the bed in a punishing thrust. “Who had you? Ennis?”

Stiles forced himself to breathe slower. His throat was burning, and his eyes watered from the spark shining in it. His limbs grew mercilessly weaker.

He didn’t look away.

Suddenly, Gerard thrust brutishly one more time, then raised a fist, and punched the bed right where the mannequin’s head should’ve been.

“Fucking whore,” the old man spit out with an unseen amount of anger. “I knew you… mmm… lied to me.” He grabbed the “throat” and punched again. “You’re not even fighting. Shame. I love it when they fight.”

He put one leg on the bed and restarted his painful pace. The sweat rolled off his temples and hissed up in smoke upon contact with the magical band of the spell. Gerard was getting red, yet he smiled.

“Ngh… What do you think your father would think… if he saw you like this?... Oh, yeah…”

Stiles squeezed the tears out of his eyes. The magic pulled him apart. He wished to never hear that voice again, those insults, and vile words, and to never see that body again, so disgusting and merciless.

“I said, take it,” Gerard growled. He lay down on the mannequin, pressing it down to the bed with all his weight, and snapped his hips again and again and… “Good boy.”

It went on for an agonizingly long time. Each second felt infinite, every Gerard’s word like a stab to the gut.

Stiles’ head was killing him.

If he could, he would have vomited long ago, yet he sat where he was on the cold prickly carpet and shivered from the sweat covering his half-naked body.

Argent was the most atrocious living being Stiles had ever met.

It was long before Gerard finished. He rolled his hips for a long time after an orgasm and moaned into the bed. He didn’t let go of the doll and didn’t roll away.

At last, the snores started.

Stiles fell on his elbows with a heaving sob that he couldn’t quite hide. He hissed as the lightning web snapped back to the center of his palms and looked up sharply.

The band around Gerard’s head disappeared.

Stiles collapsed on the carpet. It seemed there wasn’t an ounce of strength or magic left in him. He was hollow.

Something shuffled at the far side of the room, something gritted against the floor. Barely heard steps hurried upon the floor.

Someone’s knees clicked right next to Stiles.

He flinched from the gentle touch of a trembling hand.

“Angel…”

Derek.

Stiles opened his eyes and looked up. God, he must have looked so pathetic, lying on this carpet like… like a fucking mannequin.

Derek looked devastated.

“Sweetheart, please…” he begged in a low whisper.

Stiles couldn’t take it anymore, for Derek’s pain was his pain, and he was in agony enough. He stretched his hands towards the wolf.

In an instant, Derek gathered him into his arms.

Stiles grabbed onto his chest and sobbed soundlessly into his neck, hiding from everything.

Derek’s arm shook around his back. He pressed Stiles impossibly close to his heated body and rumbled into his ear with a chipped edge to his voice.

“I’m here, Stiles, shh… I’ve got you. Do you hear me, love? You’re with me and no one else. No one will touch you.”

Stiles slipped a hand to Derek’s neck and breathed out at the madly beating pulse. He pressed his wet cheek to his hairy chest and exhaled. He was scared to close his stinging eyes.

Derek’s voice lay like a balm on his heart. He was a waterfall on a parched land, a gentle flame in the middle of the icy waves.

Slowly, Stiles’ tears became silent. Then, they stopped.

Stiles blinked haggardly at Derek’s soothing hand running from his hair to his neck.

“I don’t think I can do it again,” he rasped.

He felt Derek swallow. “You will not.”

Obeying Derek’s orders felt like the easiest thing he’d ever done. The words soothed, not degraded.

He could lay forever in Derek’s arms.

Yet, the snoring reminded him of the hell that was ahead.

“Derek?”

“Mm?”

“I’m—” Stiles choked. He was going to ask him. He had to. “In the morning, they are going to inspect me.”

Derek stiffened.

“They are going to look for signs.” Stiles’ voice was hoarse. “I need them to find them.”

“What are you saying?”

He knew what Stiles was saying. He couldn’t have been blunt enough.

He’d beg if he needed to but wouldn’t need more than one word to retract.

With a pained hiss, Stiles sat up.

Derek didn’t release him from his lap. His stare was a scorching little thing.

“I know we haven’t got this far,” Stiles whispered. He couldn’t look anywhere but in Derek’s worried eyes. “I don’t know if you even want to. But I… I can’t ask anyone else. I don’t want to.”

“Stiles…”

“And you already have all of me,” Stiles’ voice shook. “If you refuse, I understand, I’ll find a way to—”

Derek took Stiles’ face in his hands and soothed his pleadings with a kiss.

Soft. Gentle. Safe.

“Tell me you want it,” he whispered harshly with only a breath between them. “Tell me it’s not only because of—”

“No.” Stiles shook his head and blinked another stray tear out of his eye. “I’m asking because it’s you. It was always going to be you.”

“You want it.”

“Yes.”

Derek stroked his cheeks, his gaze reverent and heartbroken. He grabbed Stiles’ face and kissed him once more.

“We are not making love here, sparkle,” he tried to smile and got up on his feet, tugging Stiles after himself. “Let’s find something.”

Quickly, he tossed the soiled mannequin into the flames of the fireplace and came back to sweep Stiles off his unusually weak feet. Stiles had to close his eyes to stop the head from spinning.

“I know a place,” he murmured.

Notes:

© Muse - Resistance ^back