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“It is done, then. Tomorrow, at dawn.”
Peter swirled the cognac and drank it with a final, triumphal gulp. The empty goblet clinked against the wooden table. The fire reflection licked the glass, chasing the liquor. Peter’s gaze flickered onto the figure slouching in the red velvet chair opposite him. "Can you at least pretend to be excited?”
Derek’s dull, unfocused gaze was stuck on the flames in the fireplace. His thick black eyebrows joined in the middle of his forehead by a deep wrinkle.
He did not answer.
Peter sighed. “One does not lead the rebellion looking like someone had pissed in their cup this morning.”
“I shall lead it just fine.”
"Mm." Peter's finger traced the glass rim in a delicate swipe. His claw caught on the glass, making it twang. "You know, he may forgive you—”
“Shut it.”
“— in, say, a couple of years.”
“Peter.”
“Besides, by then you might simply stop caring.”
Derek’s eyes flashed red. Peter chuckled and leaned back in his armchair.
“Easy, nephew,” he drawled. “Save your anger for tomorrow.”
A shadow ran over Derek’s already dismal face. The whites of his eyes were interspersed with red strings — evidence of several sleepless nights. Tomorrow, at last, everything would begin. Years of careful, strategic work, decades of simmering revenge.
Tomorrow.
Another glass settled heavily on the table. Derek stood up.
“Remember, Peter,” he muttered, “I take him.”
Peter’s lips twitched in a smile. He spread his hands. “So you have said.”
“If any of your men even think—”
“They are your men…”
“— I shall bury them with the rest.”
“Your word is law,” Peter gestured theatrically, “alpha.”
Derek bared his teeth with no real threat to it. He shrugged on the coat, fastened his cuffs, then took the last swig of the cognac and marched toward the door.
Peter clinked his nails against the glass. "Paying him a visit?" he asked, and, when Derek did not reply, tutted, "Even I did not think you were that cruel."
“Watch it,” Derek threw over his shoulder.
“Mm. Last fuck for good luck?”
The wolf’s snarl thundered across the hall. The door slammed shut, groaning on its hinges.
Peter tsked, smiling.
*
“Derek! I didn’t expect you— mmm…”
Rough hands took Stiles’ face. Hungry lips descended upon his, not taking but devouring. A gasp of surprise dissipated in the hum of pleasure, sweet like everything about this kiss despite its roughness. No matter the passion, Derek always made it sweet.
Stiles smiled into his lips. His hands settled on Derek’s chest, picking up the minuscule rain droplets left on the coat. Under the layers of clothes, the man’s heart thundered against Stiles’ palms in an eager welcome. Bit by bit, as the kiss went on, as Derek’s tongue delved deep into the readily opened mouth, the alpha’s hands lowered on Stiles’ waist. They weren’t cold despite the rain, though their possessive, assured touch sent him shivering; they went down, around his ass that Derek worshipped so much, then down his thighs and—
"Ah!" Stiles' laughter was instantly caught by Derek's lips. The alpha wrapped Stiles' legs around his own waist and held him under his buttocks as if he weighed nothing, which… yes, for an alpha of his stature, Stiles probably did.
Stiles’ white, linen nightgown rucked up, exposing his thighs and long legs. And to think that he was blushing once at his nakedness… Though Derek loved to see him flushed, countless nights together had gotten rid of that shyness, at least within the safety of Stiles’ bedroom. It was this very alpha that taught him how it felt to truly be desired.
They fell onto the soft, unmade bed. The book that Stiles was reading jumped, slid down onto the floor, and lay there forgotten. The alpha rested his weight on top of Stiles, grinding softly into him, making his thighs spread so ridiculously easy.
Stiles hummed into the kiss. His palms lay against Derek’s neck, soothing, calming. He pinched the hairs on the back of the alpha’s head, tugging on them ever so slightly. Slowly, but surely, it worked.
Their lips parted, soft and wet. Stiles’ lips puffed up from the love that Derek gave so freely, his face undoubtedly splotchy-red from the alpha’s beard. No matter how hard Stiles whined about it, Derek never failed to look smug at the sight of him all red and marked.
They gazed at each other, coming down from the first burst of passion — first, but certainly not last of the night, Stiles could already tell.
“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.
Derek stared at him for a while, then swallowed and shook his head. His gaze was heavy with more than just passion, and that weight settled upon Stiles’ heart like snow above the ground.
The omega traced the shadows under Derek’s eyes with his fingerpad, caressed his cheek, then cupped the alpha’s face, stroking his thumbs across the skin. Something strangely terse was in Derek’s eyes lately, and he couldn’t figure out what it was. Derek refused to budge.
“Just wanted to see you," said Derek, his voice somber and unfit for such a tender start of the night. It was tight, like it so rarely was; Stiles had only ever heard it when they were alone, sometimes after the lovemaking when Derek's soul softened enough to let his tongue loose.
“You saw me yesterday,” Stiles smiled lightly, scratching the alpha’s beard with streaks of grey that drove him mad with lust sometimes. “I’m getting better with my bow.”
Derek’s lips twitched. “Not so much with Roscoe.”
Stiles rolled his eyes and snorted unattractively, in a way his mentors would have reprimanded him for. “That old mare… I swear she keeps living just for those morning apples.”
“If you keep sneaking them in the evenings, she might get confused.”
“Let her. I know a better ride.”
“Do you?”
Stiles’ lips stretched in a mischievous smile. Derek kissed him again as if he could not keep himself still. This time, it was softer, more languid, with hunger ebbing on the horizon. They could lie like this for hours. Lost in each other, lost to the world. Just the two of them.
They parted. With a deep exhale, Derek lay down between his spread legs, pinning Stiles to the bed, though the latter did not complain. The alpha buried his face in soft skin between Stiles’ neck and shoulder and inhaled. Still greedy, then.
Stiles smiled. Softly rubbing the back of Derek’s head, he leaned his cheek on the alpha’s temple and closed his eyes.
“I spoke with father today,” he said carefully. “Tried to talk him out of that deal, the one with wolfsbane arrowtips, but—”
“Don’t. I have no desire to talk about that. Not tonight.”
Stiles’ mouth shut at the alpha’s mutter. He bit his lip.
“Want me to tell you about my day instead?” he tried. Interrogating Derek about his gloom was pointless — Stiles learned it the hard way. General Reyes, the commander of his father’s army, did not like to talk about his ventures or what he had seen during his voyages. Nothing good, that is. And nothing that should concern omegas. I’d rather you be untouched by it, he always said. Not you and not your soul.
The general was lucky that Stiles liked to indulge him.
Derek hummed, prompting him to talk. Sometimes, it seemed that only Derek could handle — and welcome, for that matter — his incessant talking. Well, Derek and his father, but the latter had learned to drown out Stiles' babble as the background noise and rarely, if ever, bothered to actually listen. Derek, however, did. Once in a while, Stiles went on a tangent for minutes on end without taking a breath, only to come out on the other end with a completely different topic without knowing what led him there, but at the end of that road, Derek always managed to ask the right questions. He listened — and, oh, how little it took for Stiles to melt.
Thus, Stiles talked. His neck vibrated against Derek’s lips, his life thrumming under the alpha’s touch. He spoke about his lessons, which were hopefully coming to an end as his nineteen’s birthday neared; his old mare and the depleting apple reserves; the new set of bow and arrows that came from the Argents as a gift and how he preferred the one Derek had made for him with his own hands; he whined about teachers and their tedious books, complained how writing for so long made his finger joints ache, and told about the series of toad explosions as the result of his potion experiments.
All this time, Derek's hands traveled down, unhurried and languid, caught the hem of his nightshirt, and crawled under. They stroked Stiles' thighs, higher and higher, to places where only a lover could reach.
Heat simmered in Stiles’ lower stomach. He knew the room ought to be stinking of his pheromones, of his lust and desire, but then again, none of that should surprise Derek. He was the cause of it, and he knew it. More than that, he reveled in it.
“Want to taste you.”
Stiles bit down a smirk. “All yours.”
After a quick, gratuitous kiss, Derek slid down and kneeled on the carpet. Strong hands caught his thighs and tugged him roughly to the edge, spreading and forcing them apart. Stiles shivered from the cold room air for just a moment before—
“Ah!”
Stiles closed his eyes. His hand flew into Derek’s hair and gripped it. The alpha never minded — sometimes, Stiles thought he might not even feel it, really.
Hot tongue lapped over his sopping wet folds, parting them gently. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head to the side, gasping into the sheets. His squirming did him no good — the alpha held him down as a hungry wolf holds onto a juicy, bloody bone.
“Derek…”
Soft, slick, insistent. Derek’s tongue slid over the lips and inside in gentle waves that left Stiles gasping. The tip of the tongue flicked against the clit and swirled around it — a breath away from the pressure the omega craved. The wet sounds of gentle lapping were a quiet thunder against Stiles’ ears, so filthy they were, so loud in the dead of the night. It seemed the whole castle might hear his labored breath.
Derek hummed, pleased at his reaction. The hum sent vibrations through Stiles' flesh; he clamped his thighs around the alpha’s head and arched into his mouth, into the pleasure, into heaven. It only spurred Derek’s efforts. His beard rubbed all over Stiles’ skin, leaving it pink and red, and oh, tomorrow was going to be hell… Derek would kiss it better, though, in the morning.
The alpha pressed more insistently into him, deeper. His skillful tongue knew every inch of Stiles at this point, every cadence of his moans. The alpha sucked on the clit, gliding back and forth and all over…
“Please…” panted Stiles, clenching his walls. The slick dripped down his folds and into the sheets. “Derek, ple— ah…”
The alpha caught his searching hand. Stiles held onto it as Derek’s tongue swirled, and lapped, and pressed, deep and soft, pushing and sliding, and…
Stiles bit down a pathetic mewl, arching and shaking apart in Derek’s unforgiving hold. The alpha kept massaging his clit, even as it pulsed, even as Stiles’ juices coated and soaked into his messy beard. His tongue gently soothed the plump, puffy folds; when it caught against the sensitive clit, Stiles jerked, hissing, and nearly came again at the warm chuckle wafting over his wet flesh.
“Look at the mess you’ve made,” Derek murmured, his voice hoarse and low. His hand rubbed up and down Stiles’ thighs. The omega’s legs hung uselessly over his shoulders. “All for me.”
“Because of you,” corrected Stiles in a muffled, tired voice.
Derek’s smile pressed into Stiles’ inner thighs. “Guilty as charged.”
“I sentence you, General Reyes, to a life by my side. No parole.”
With his arm over his eyes, Stiles could not see Derek’s face, so when nothing but silence followed, his heart stuttered. Stiles lowered his hand as nonchalantly as he could and glanced at the alpha now standing on his knees on the edge of the bed.
He could not discern Derek's gaze, so unnecessarily complicated it was. What was he thinking about? Their statuses? Stiles' future suitors? His own life, riddled with tragedies and war — a life where there was no place for an omega like Stiles?
Derek shrugged out of his coat — lord, he had not even taken it off — then his doublet, then his shirt. Stiles' gaze immediately dipped down the alpha's hairy, sculpted chest, down his strong, thick torso, and past the happy trail. As if reading his thoughts, the alpha unfastened his belt — it clinked so loudly that Stiles' face heated — and lowered his trousers. Without any shame or shyness, Derek palmed his engorged cock, tugging on it carelessly. His gaze did not leave Stiles’ body, its intensity akin to a physical touch.
Stiles shifted in place as his cheeks warmed up.
“Are you going to just look, or?..” he spread his legs a little.
He bit down a laugh at how quickly Derek's gaze flew down and up.
“The sight of you is enough,” said the alpha, stroking his cock in lazy, leisurable moves. Stiles' mouth salivated at the sight. He licked his lips. "No, not even that. Sometimes, all I have to do is imagine."
“Do you imagine me often?”
“Yes.”
Stiles couldn’t help it and snorted at the instantaneous answer. Groaning, he closed his flaming face with his hands. The bed dipped under him as the alpha drew nearer. Taking his wrists, Derek pulled them away, then up, and pinned them on the bed above Stiles’ head.
Stiles gazed at Derek from down up, and his young heart fluttered at the sight. Lord, if only Derek knew what thoughts were filling his head, how sweet they were, he'd pull his own teeth, or they'd rot. Sometimes, the omega could not believe what such a hardened general, this… strong, weathered alpha saw in him, a soft-skinned, home-raised, young omega prince. The jewel of the crown, they called him, and thought him softer than clay.
But so far, only Derek's touch got him malleable.
“I always think of you when I shouldn’t.” Derek lowered his weight, settling his leaking cock between Stiles’ folds. The omega bit his lower lip to stifle a gasp. “You ruin me.”
“Retaliate, then.”
Derek's chuckle coated Stiles' cheeks. The alpha's sharp nose nudged the tip of Stiles'. He smelled like slick, hot, and musky, and Stiles' lips parted all by themselves in foretaste.
The alpha did not make him wait long, always eager to please. That, or he just liked to indulge.
Stiles’ face grew redder as he tasted himself, the slightly sweet tang on Derek’s tongue. He parted his legs, lifting his shins over Derek’s thighs, and got so lost in the kiss he almost missed it when Derek entered him.
Stiles inhaled sharply. It never got easier.
“Breathe, kitten.” Stiles obeyed. “That’s it…”
The alpha pushed in, catching Stiles’ gasp with his lips. The omega’s slickened folds parted easily with a soft, wet sound, letting the walls mold around the hard, insistent cock. Stiles flexed his fingers, wishing to hold onto something, even a sheet, but Derek gripped his wrists like a vice.
Aided and softened somewhat by the orgasm, his hole stretched over the alpha’s cock as it sank deeper and deeper without stopping, until finally, Derek’s hips connected with Stiles’. The omega breathed out harshly, all at once, his chest rising and falling. He did not even remember holding his breath.
Gentle lips on his flushed cheek, against his closed eyes.
“You should know it by now that it all fits fine,” murmured Derek. “See?” He put his other palm on Stiles’ lower stomach, right over his womb, and rocked his hips. Stiles whimpered. “Even I can feel it. All in.”
“Mm…”
“You did so good, baby… Just relax now.”
The rocking was slow at first, gentle, like Derek's kisses. Just small, circling thrusts as the alpha let him adjust to his thickness and length. And, damn it, Stiles knew that omegas could take alpha's cocks, they were designed to do it by nature itself, but even for him, it sometimes felt too much. Not that it stopped Derek, of course. He slowed down but never pulled out — he knew that the only thing Stiles needed was time for an alpha as big as him.
“Derek…”
“Shh.”
Stiles’ inner walls clenched around the length, clung to it as it moved. He was stretched impossibly wide, so wide he hardly believed he could handle it sometimes. He still remembered that first time when Derek took his fingers down and made him feel around it…
The sounds got slicker. Derek’s breathing grew heavier. The smell of his sweat hit Stiles’ nostrils, driving him insane. The thrusts grew longer now, more insistent as the alpha pulled further back before pushing back in. Back and forth, back and… Like a dance, always that damn dance, their first ball where Stiles already knew that Derek would have him spread like this.
There was hunger in Derek’s eyes then, just as it was there now.
“Uh, uh, uh…”
Derek released his wrists and straightened, changing the angle on his way. Stiles whined and gripped the sheets. He opened his eyes just a sliver, drinking in the sight: the general’s hands holding his legs at the knees, spreading them apart, his hips working in and out. His thick, pulsing cock slid in easily now with Stiles all used to the length, so incredibly soft and dripping wet.
Derek looked beautiful while making love.
Stiles' eyes closed at the gentle and rhythmic slaps of skin against skin. His mouth was parched from his heavy breathing. The noises left him, filthy and breathless, without any conscious input from him. It was hot, so very hot in this room, in his own bed, and he couldn’t get away, he would never get…
“Mmm!.. Ah-uh-uh…”
Derek didn’t talk. He was at the point of no return then.
His cock thickened, it seemed with every second. The alpha was fucking him now, in a steady, unforgiving rhythm, not letting him catch a breath. His cock pressed deep into Stiles’ womb, again, and again, and again, making him want…
Stiles bit his lip to stop the begging, turned his head to the side, and closed his eyes.
His body jostled against the sweat-soaked sheets, riding up and up. It seemed Derek didn’t intend to turn him this time.
Want to see your angelic face, as he often said. It’s what he was thinking right now, Stiles knew it without even asking.
Derek's hands flexed on his thighs. Bruises would be there tomorrow, in the shape of his fingertips. More for Stiles to cherish and trace them as he bathed. Derek tended to leave him all marked up before another one of his ventures. Oh, please, don't let it be that he leaves tomorrow…
“Ah!” Stiles yelped as Derek suddenly lowered. The alpha hitched Stiles’ legs high, setting them over his own shoulders, which left the omega nearly folded in half. “Derek!”
But Derek did not answer. Short, deep growls left his lungs as he strained and fucked the omega without abandon. After all, he taught Stiles to handle it. He taught his omega everything, how to take, yield, and soften at the breath of a touch.
The cock drove into Stiles harder and harder, all but slamming between his abused lips. The alpha’s heavy balls slapped against his cunt, promising a release. It wasn’t the syrupy slow beginning, nor the sweet rhythm — it was hard now, it left Stiles trembling and the alpha hungry for more. All Stiles knew was the alpha’s body, his weight on him and in him, so blissfully heavy and fucking him deeply…
His legs shook, held by Derek’s hands. The alpha seemed enormous in size and magnitude as he lay on top of Stiles. Overwhelming, all-encompassing. His.
“Please…” Stiles panted, his voice thin and barely there. “Please, Derek… I need you to take… m-me… Fill me…”
Derek fell onto him, driving his cock inside in quick and hard pulses. He was shaking, too.
Stiles’ arms fell around Derek’s shoulders. The muscles, drenched in sweat, clenched under his palms.
“Alpha,” breathed out Stiles, reverent, and then Derek was done.
With a loud groan, he snapped his hips once, twice, then buried his thickened, pulsing cock in Stiles’ hole. Thick and hot come flooded Stiles’ insides, filling him deep, right where he needed it.
The alpha lay on him, tight as a string as he came. He kept gyrating his hips, chasing the orgasm as he fucked into Stiles again and again, stopping just enough for another wave of cum to spurt inside. The omega pushed his fingers into Derek’s sweaty hair, stroking through them, shushing the man on top of him.
Not for the first time, he wondered what it would be like to spend his heat with Derek Reyes. To give the complete care of his body and mind into the hands of the alpha he trusts so implicitly.
Stiles did not remember his heats, as the omegas rarely did. Its only dark and cruel purpose was to breed, and apparently, nature found it merciful to make the omegas forget. He was a little rag doll, a sobbing, blubbering mess with spread legs and no ability to consent. Whoever gets him would get him in full, not to mention the high risk of acquiring an heir. And Stiles' womb was a priceless thing.
No one was allowed near him for three days. No one. His father closed his eyes, however much it pained him, on his General entertaining his son, but the heats were one thing he did not budge on. No free breeding of the royal blood, it seemed.
However, Derek found a way to participate. At Stiles' first heat, the General took it upon himself to set the guards around the perimeter and guard the omega himself. Like Stiles, he had not slept for those three excruciating days, listening to Stiles' quiet sobs and him scratching the walls until his fingertips melted into raw meat. It was Derek who first opened that chamber, sullen and with bloodshot eyes, took him into his arms, and carried him upstairs. For another week, Stiles was on bed rest. Derek guarded him day and night.
Father hated it. The court murmured behind his back. The other guards and knights shifted their glances away and saved their talks for the nights in their quarters.
But as long as Stiles’ weak, shaking hand grasped onto Derek’s fingers, nothing could make the alpha leave.
And so Stiles closed his eyes and let himself dream.
Derek would take care of him. He’d keep him close, clean, fed, and satiated. The alpha would hold him, kiss him, and make love to him. Maybe then, Stiles would stop wailing. With Derek by his side, Stiles would not have to deal with nightmares of someone breaking in and taking his world and self away. With Derek by his side…
Stiles shifted in place, gently clenching his walls around Derek’s pulsating cock. The alpha let Stiles’ legs fall to his sides, but didn’t let them go — just held them in place, close to himself. Derek’s face was buried in Stiles’ damp neck, his lips against Stiles’ wildly beating veins.
At times like these, Stiles knew what happiness was — a heavy weight on top of him and Derek’s scent in his blood and lungs.
"Don't pull out," murmured Stiles hoarsely with his eyes closed. "And if I fall asleep, make love to me till I am awake."
“Your wish, my command.”
*
Derek left him in the morning.
The alpha was quiet as he dressed. The noise did little to wake Stiles up — instead, it was the sudden lack of warmth at his back. Opening his bleary eyes, Stiles squinted at the dark figure sitting at the edge of the bed, barely visible in the budding light of dawn.
Stiles hummed and closed his eyes, settling back onto the pillows. The room smelled like sex and a long night. Sweet ache ovetook Stiles' body. If he lay still, he would not even feel the soreness. He just had to… lay… still…
His eyelashes fluttered at the soft caress upon his cheek, though he was too sleepy to open his eyes.
“Stiles?”
“Mm?”
A click of the throat. His thumb, rubbing Stiles’ skin.
“I love you.”
The omega’s lips twitched just a touch. He hummed, rubbing his face into the pillow, halfway to sleep.
Suddenly, Derek grabbed his chin in a firm grip and lifted his head off the bed.
“Hey,” complained Stiles, scrunching his nose.
“I love you. Tell me you know that.”
“’Course, I know,” Stiles yawned. He tried to twist out of the alpha’s hold, but Derek held him strong. Annoyed, he tore open his eyes and glared at the alpha looming over him. “What is it?” he whined.
A veil of shadow shrouded Derek’s face. In the absence of lighting, Stiles could only see his ear and the side of his cheek. “I love you. Swear to me you won’t forget.”
“Why would I?” Stiles questioned, perplexed. He let out a small ‘oof’ as Derek suddenly kissed him, too hard for such a soft morning, but before Stiles could react and give in, the alpha’s fingers slipped from his face.
“Just making sure,” muttered Derek in a strange voice. Stiles scrunched his nose again, struggling to form his thoughts. “I shall see you later.”
“Mm.”
Derek sat still for several long breaths. Stiles was nearly asleep again, quietened by his alpha's presence, when the man suddenly leaned over, buried his face in Stiles' neck, and took a deep lungful of such greed that it made Stiles frown through unconsciousness. The alpha pressed a hard, open-mouthed kiss at the base of his neck and all but tore himself from the bed, leaving Stiles thoroughly confused.
It wasn’t enough to rouse him, nor to send the alarm bells ringing in his mind. The alpha kept waking him throughout the night, being touchier and clingier than usual, with his hands traveling all over Stiles' body. The omega thought to blame it on the full moon, yet it was just a young crescent in the sky.
Perhaps something happened between Derek and his father. Another terse talk behind closed doors? The topic? Stiles, of course.
Why did no one bother to ask for his opinion? Which he had! In fact, he had planned it all years ago. They just had to… listen…
*
The screaming was the worst part. Screaming meant people had not yet succumbed to death, nor had they been saved by some merciful soul. Those were the screams not of people but animals in a trap, chewing off their limbs. Stiles had never heard them scream like that. His own throat hurt, an inch from giving in and joining the cacophony.
His dirty, soot-stained nightgown clung to his legs like a second skin, restricting his run. His bare feet, bleeding from the cuts, felt no pain, so insignificant it was to Stiles in that moment.
Pain.
Siege.
Stiles ran.
Derek would never let them pass through. And if they got in, then…
He pushed down a sob that threatened to tear his ribs apart. Breathing hurt his side, slicing into it like a knife. He ran through the halls he knew since childhood, now lying in ruins and sprinkled with glass shards and shreds of curtains.
Sweat clung to his temples and neck, now filthily exposed. Once, he would’ve caused a scandal running around the castle in his light nightgown, his neck bared for all to smell and see, but now… Now there was barely anyone.
“Papa,” Stiles whispered hoarsely.
Where was he? Did he escape? Ran? Was he lying under the rubble, suffocating?
Stiles turned the corner and immediately fell over the boulders. A cannonball had smashed through this side of the castle. Everything was covered in dust that had yet to settle. Coughing, Stiles pushed himself up on shaking, slippery hands and saw someone sticking out their hand on the other side of the ruins.
“Hold on!” Stiles coughed, throwing himself to the side. He climbed over the boulder and smacked onto the floor right beside the hand. “I’m here…”
He pushed off the stones from the person lying underneath, revealing their pale, dust-covered face, took the hand in his, and tugged. He must have underestimated his strength, because he fell with a yelp, still clutching the hand.
Stiles looked down. He did not understand what he saw at first. Was this a giant, torn doll? A mannequin? A statue that broke off at the torso?
He stared and stared. And then, he screamed.
The blood sprang into his veins, and a second later, he was on his feet again, running. Hot, salty tears flew down his cheeks, blinding him during these precious moments that he did not have. In his mind, the sight of a dismembered torso pulsed with horror. What if it stuck like that forever?
Some screams stopped only to get picked up by other, not-so-lucky people. Somewhere, the fire crackled. A huge crash sent him cowering and screaming as the ground shook under his feet.
“Derek,” he called as the sobbing, hysterical breaths burst out of him, singeing his lungs. “Derek…”
Outside, the wolves howled in victory.
With shuddering chest, Stiles shut his mouth, swallowed harshly, picked himself up, and ran again. Quickly, he realized that he should not have stopped, for the pain became sharper. He winced as he hobbled over the glass-riddled floor over to the grand staircase. The giant arch of a front entrance let in the violent gusts of cold, winter wind. In the clouds of dust and smoke, people ran out and in. What side were they on? Were they looking for him or his father? To kill or to save?
Another explosion sent him toppling over. His feet slipped down the stairs as he covered his head and ears, squeezing his eyes shut. A yell forced itself out of his throat, scratching it to shreds.
A breath. Another. Somehow, he was still alive.
The second pause stiffened his legs. He should not have rested at all, shouldn’t have stopped, and now the pain sharpened, slicing his flesh. He’d be lucky not to lose his legs after all of this. If he survives at all…
Gritting his teeth to keep from screaming, Stiles pushed himself to his feet. The exit was near. There, the sun shined through and the snow, the blessed, soot-covered snow…
“He’s here!”
Everything in Stiles went ice cold.
Looking sharply down, he saw two men standing side by side, breathing harshly, their swords drawn. Their eyes shined pure gold.
Werewolves.
He should have fucking known. Of course, those were wolves, damn it, Stiles told his father they’d despise him for siding with Argents, and now…
Carefully and slowly, as if the castle wasn’t crumbling around them, the two wolves ascended the main grand stairs, crowding Stiles in. What were they waiting for? He could not run from wolves even in full health, and now with his feet sliced open, he was but a toy to tear apart…
Suddenly, someone burst through the front entrance, coughing from the smoke. A sob broke free from Stiles’ throat, and his traitorous body nearly crumbled.
“Derek!”
The man looked up, his face drawn and covered in splatters of blood. Was that a breath of relief Stiles saw? Derek's eyes flashed up and down Stiles' body as he flew up the stairs, no sword and no shield in sight. Was he insane to go into the battle with his bare hands? Or did he lose them?
“Wolves!” Stiles’ warning yell fell short.
He stared, confused, as the wolves did not even blink at Derek’s presence and continued to draw on him. Perhaps, they did not know who it was before them — the General of the Stilinski’s army, the one who remained undefeated for nearly a decade—
Derek stopped a few steps down from Stiles, his jaw clenched, and his eyes burning. He raised his hands.
“Stiles…”
“They are wolves, Derek, wolves!”
“I know.”
“They—” Stiles choked and focused his gaze on the alpha. “W-what?”
Amidst the rubble, the groaning building, the wailing, and the scent of burning metal, Derek looked calm.
The alpha ascended one step, closer to Stiles.
“My love, listen to me—”
“What is going on?” Stiles’ throat dried.
“I said, listen.”
The omega’s mouth clamped shut, his lips trembling. The muscles in Derek’s jaw bulged as if he struggled to stay still.
“I am taking you hostage.”
Stiles’ chest stilled. His lips parted. He went completely stiff, watching Derek’s lips move, but the words made no sense. The wolves had yet to grace him with a glance, all their golden, predatory focus on Stiles.
“Derek…” he murmured hoarsely, shaking his head. “What…”
“I am not going to hurt you.” Derek’s voice went hard as steel. He spread his arms as if showing the lack of armor. “But you are coming with me. It is an order. Do you understand me?”
Stiles shifted his gaze from his mouth to his eyes and flinched back.
They were red. Burgundy, like the blood splatters marring his face.
And just like that, everything became clear.
Stiles clamped a shaking palm around his mouth, pushing down a sob. At that moment, the castle could crumble down on him, and he wouldn't have it in him to stand up. What good of a doll he was, with his strings cut.
“Alpha Hale, we have to leave,” one man muttered, glancing around. His eyes squinted at something in the distance — something only a wolf could see or sniff. “They’re close.”
But Derek acted like he did not hear. He advanced slowly, as if Stiles was a rabid animal, as if the omega was about to pounce and not…not…
Alpha Hale.
Hale.
Peter and Derek Hale, the last surviving members of the Hale family, courtesy of Argents, the wolves of the North who have been rebuilding their pack for the last two decades. Their wolves were now in hundreds, if not thousands. Vicious, merciless, feral. No wonder no one won a battle against Derek, then.
Derek.
He was so close now. So familiar was his warmth, so dear to Stiles’ soul that it couldn’t settle in his brain, this thought of…
Derek wrapped his hands around Stiles' thighs and waist and lifted him.
“Hold onto me, love.”
Stiles' hands gripped Derek's doublet at his shoulders before his brain had caught up to what he was doing. He swayed as Derek lifted him, towering over the alpha's head now, and nearly folded over his shoulder. Derek's hands that just this night were holding his thighs apart, now gripped them close. Making sure he wouldn't run.
Hostage.
The castle crumbled as they ran, the wolves and the omega. His entire life, his memories, his loved ones were crumbling after just one siege under the leadership of a traitor.
Was his father even alive? Or was it his blood on Derek's face? Had the alpha killed someone he had fought with shoulder to shoulder before?
No, if they took him, then they wanted to barter something. And no Argent would go into a battle for an omega, even if this omega was an ally. Was his father alive then? At least, Derek must have thought that if he… if he took Stiles.
Or, it was all for naught, and he was watching his father’s grave fold onto itself.
The cold air burst across his skin, making him shrivel. It stung his wet, pallid cheeks, though it helped to numb his injured feet.
The wolves ran quickly, enough to make Stiles’ head spin. His stomach twisted at the sight of his castle engulfed in flames and riddled with holes, the east side crumbling harder with each second. The ground underneath was littered with bodies, alive and dead. Stiles could not discern their faces. Perhaps, it was for the best.
And wailing, wailing, wailing…
At last, they stopped at the edge of the forest. Derek lowered him onto a sturdy wooden sleigh lined with thick layers of greyish-white fur; the reins lay in the snow, awaiting the horses, which were nowhere in sight. The alpha kneeled onto the sleigh and took Stiles’ face in his overly warm hands. They burned his cheeks worse than the cold.
“We are going North,” said Derek. “Raeken and Lahey would lead the carriage. I'll stay right behind you, alright?"
Stiles stared at him, silent.
“Stiles?” Derek frowned. His eyes snuck over the omega’s face before his lips twitched in the beginning of a strange smile. "Won't talk to me? Alright. I understand."
"He must be in shock," said one wolf with big blue eyes. "Look, he is shaking."
“He is shaking because he’s cold,” sneered the other wolf with his head inclined. “Cover him, perhaps.”
Derek dropped Stiles’ face and straightened. “Perhaps, I should gouge out your eyes instead, how about that, Raeken?” he snarled, and, without waiting for a reply, snatched a long piece of fur from the bottom of the sleigh. The alpha quickly covered Stiles, tucking the fur under his injured feet and over his body, then frowned more, took another piece, and swaddled it around Stiles’ shoulders.
“We will treat your wounds when we reach North,” said Derek. “I will not let anything happen to you, do you hear me?”
Stiles met the wolf’s gaze from under his eyebrows. His mouth stayed firmly shut.
Derek sighed, stood up, and commanded the wolves to shift.
*
Stiles half-expected to be shoved into a commoner's holding cell at the Hale's residence, but Derek carried him all the way up to the highest tower, through the spiral staircase, and into a small but comfortable chamber. The windows with crisscrossed metal bars overlooked the tall, snowy mountains. It was warm inside due to a brightly lit fireplace. As Derek lowered him onto the bed in the middle of the room, Stiles found it warm from the heating stones.
It seemed that no one had doubted the success of his capture.
“I shall order to draw you a bath," grunted Derek, kneeling at the bed. Without asking, he took Stiles' bare ankles and propped the omega's heel on his thigh, carefully thumbing around the lacerations and bruises. He frowned the more he studied the damage. "Isaac, call for—" he stopped as he looked up. The alpha followed the omega's silent gaze over his shoulder and curled his lip at the wolf — Raeken, Derek called him — standing by the door among others.
“Leave,” he barked, not even bothering to get up from the floor.
Raeken startled. His eyes flickered away from the omega onto his alpha’s face, but then immediately fell to the floor. His shoulders rounded.
“Yes, alpha,” he muttered with his neck bared, turned on his heels, and left.
Derek surveyed the rest of his wolves and the maids cowering in the corner, ready to scurry but hesitant to move.
“Isaac, get Alan here,” he repeated grimly, turning back to the bed.
“Yes, alpha.”
“Immediately.”
“Understood, Your Highness.”
“Send us a dinner for two. And make a bath in the en-suite.”
“I will eat alone.”
Everyone quietened. Derek’s head lifted sharply, a hint of red in his eyes. Calmly, he watched Stiles’ face for a few moments before muttering a small, “Leave us.”
It wasn't silent when they left. The wind rattled the windows, the sap burst and crackled in the fireplace, sending sparks onto the glowing stones underneath. The maids and guards murmured as they descended the stairs, though Stiles could not hear what they were saying. Perhaps it was for the best that he did not.
Derek’s thumb stroked Stiles’ ankle, though his hand encircled it like a shackle. They stared at each other, silent, and while Stiles looked at Derek, all he saw was a wolf.
Calculated, strong, fearless. The way his body was always just a touch warmer than Stiles', the way he could stare at the omega, unblinking, and find him in the ballroom full of people. The way Derek picked him up, like he weighed nothing at all, the way he ran without losing a breath, or fought without a scratch on him.
It was incredible how much of a fool Stiles was.
“You can hate me all you want,” said Derek at last, so quiet and hard was his voice that Stiles strained to hear it. “I will still take care of—”
“Can you stop?”
Derek straightened at the sound of Stiles’ voice, however hoarse it was. “Stop what?”
Stiles’ throat tightened so much it hurt to talk.
“Pretending.”
“I am not pretending.”
“You…” Stiles choked. “You’ve destroyed everything. You have slaughtered—”
“Stiles.”
“—my people. My father is probably lying d-dead somewhere. Do not dare say that you care about me. Allow me dignity. Stop lying. There is no point to it anymore, you’ve got me.”
Derek’s face did not change, yet his gaze grew heavier.
“You think I can do that to you?” he asked softly.
“I do not know what you can do. I don’t know you.”
“Don’t say that.” Derek’s grip tightened.
“Was this your plan all along?” Stiles’ voice shook. “Spy on the closest thing you have to the Argents? And, oh, why not fool around with the royal omega while you’re there, huh?”
“Stop it.”
“It is quite convenient to have a high-class whore in the castle, since he spreads his legs so quickly and so often, and tells you everything he heard in his father’s court. God, you’ve got me good…” Stiles let out a wet laugh.
“That’s not how—” Derek let out a low growl and suddenly stood up. Stiles went still, glancing at him sharply; the wolf towered above him, clenching and unclenching his fists, a crazed look in his red eyes. His smile was that of a madman. “You want to know? Right now?” Stiles lifted his chin. “Be it your way, kitten.”
He marched to the old wooden trunk sitting against the wall beside the fireplace and opened it. "We cannot let the Argents live. That was the goal. Still is. Your father had been eyeing them for years despite what they’ve done.”
“Trade.”
“Hm?”
“It was about trade,” muttered Stiles. “We weren’t strong enough to side with you, and it was mutually beneficial to establish a trade so they wouldn’t slay us as well.”
Derek pulled out a dagger and put it on the floor next to his knee. Stiles narrowed his eyes.
“You had the best armor,” continued Derek. “And your army was big and more than capable of fighting the Argents, just not under that idiot Harris’ leadership.”
“You thought once you’d show my father its true strength, he’d side with you?”
“Yes. We did not have the numbers then, not the ones we have now. I do not need your father’s army anymore. And when your father went along with that war treaty…” Derek took out some clothes from the trunk, shut it with a loud clang, picked up the dagger, and rose to his full height. The shadows of his massive frame danced on the cold, stone wall. He looked at Stiles. “He did not meet our expectations. And now the Argents have your army.” A bitter smile flickered on his lips. “My army.”
They fell quiet. Derek walked to the bed and dropped the dagger and a change of clothes onto the covers. Upon looking closer, Stiles recognized his own clothes and, to his surprise, his mother's shawl that had gone missing several months back. He'd been devastated to learn of its loss.
The omega stroked the cashmere wool in soft chestnut color. His eyes fell onto the dagger in a white leather sheath. Stiles looked up and startled as he met Derek’s piercing gaze. The wolf had been watching him the entire time.
“I was on your side,” said Stiles, his voice on the verge of breaking.
“I know.”
“The Argents are unreliable. I told him they would betray us at the first inconvenience, but he did not listen. He did not believe me.”
Derek shook his head. “You are an omega, Stiles. He would have never listened to you.”
Stiles clenched his jaw and lowered his eyes. His chest constricted, squeezing every last drop of blood out of his lacerated heart.
“I never expected you,” said Derek suddenly, quiet and contemplative. He opened his lips, then shut them quickly. His face darkened. He glanced at Stiles, his eyes traveling over the omega’s body, then marched to the door and opened it.
“What’s taking so long?” The change in his voice was drastic and left Stiles’ skin crawling from the cold. He tensed as four people entered the chamber: Lahey, two maids carrying the dinner platters, and a bald, dark-skinned man with a goatee and a chest under his armpit.
“The way up, Alpha Hale.” The bald man’s voice was strangely melodic and detached. “You may have been away for too long, since you forget that I reside in dungeons.”
Derek, however, watched the maids closely as they arranged the plates on the small table beside the window. The girls, sensing his wolfish stare, tensed and hurried to finish their job, then curtsied and all but ran out of the room. The alpha’s narrowed gaze followed them, though Stiles did not know what he expected of the poor things — shoot him with arrows? In the corner, Lahey shifted from foot to foot. His golden gaze kept flickering onto Stiles, before he seemed to catch himself and pulled his eyes away. They kept returning, as if he could not help himself. The man paled when he caught Derek's hard glare, locked his jaw, and, with a small "Alpha," and a nod, exited after the girls.
“Your Highness?”
Stiles startled at the man’s voice. Instantly, Derek’s eyes zeroed in on the newcomer; he marched toward the bed and kneeled beside Stiles as he did before.
“Take a look at these, Alan,” ordered Derek grimly, lifting Stiles’ bare foot by his heel. “Does this need sutures?”
Stiles’ stomach turned at those words. The man frowned and kneeled next to Derek, placing his chest next to him and opening it.
He hummed. His hands hovered over the Stiles’ bloodied feet.
“May I?” the man asked.
“Yes,” answered Derek.
Alan's hands were cold. Not a wolf, then. A mage? A healer? He carefully inspected Stiles' feet and, after another explicit permission from Derek, studied Stiles' calves, where most of the bruising was.
“Any pain?” he asked.
Stiles blinked, then frowned. “Uh, no.”
Where was the pain? He felt it at the stairs, but none on the way here or now, in the chamber. He thought the cold numbed it, but now the warmth should have been enough to make his feet pulse with pain. Yet, he felt nothing. But with the loss of feeling…
“Seems the alpha took care of it, then,” said the man. Seeing the confusion mixed with panic on Stiles' face, he explained, “I assume you know little of wolves, which is expected since they are not keen on sharing about their nature. The wolves can take pain by touch.”
“The damage is still there,” grunted Derek.
Alan sighed. He rummaged around the chest and took out a clear vial with a yellowish gel inside. “Once we clean your wounds, Your Highness, I will put on this healing ointment and wrap your feet. We will change the wrappings and reapply the ointment twice a day, in the morning and in the evening. The bruises are not serious; they shall fade on their own, though I do have an oil…"
“We’ll take it.”
“As you wish, alpha.”
Together, they made quick work of Stiles' feet. The omega watched as the alpha copied the doctor’s movements and followed his quiet instructions as they treated the wounds, and wondered why Derek was not giving up his farce. What else did he want from him? More intel? Did he think of Stiles as a foolish omega with cotton for brains, just like his father did?
Then again, the only person he had ever trusted with his body and heart had kidnapped him after sieging his home. Maybe the alphas were right.
It did not matter, in the end, did it?
Stiles had already given everything to this man.
Alan left with a promise to return in the morning. Derek inspected Stiles’ feet once more before lifting them onto the bed. The ease with which Derek handled his body made Stiles’ skin crawl in a way it never did before. He hated it. He hated Derek for doing this to them and to him.
“I am not hungry,” he said when Derek went for the platters. “And I do not want to dine with you.”
The alpha, however, ignored him. He gathered a plate with now cold potatoes, carrots, and meat, and sat on the bed right beside the omega. He did not seem to mind when Stiles pointedly shifted away; only a bitter smile tugged on the corners of his lips.
Derek spoke, his voice quiet and unrelenting. His words sliced Stiles’ soul worse than the glass. “You are my prisoner. You are mine. You shall do whatever I want you to do. If I want you to eat, you will eat. If I want you to bathe, you will obey. The alpha’s word is law here, angel. And right now I want you to eat, rest, and heal.”
They stared at one another.
“Why are you doing this to me?” asked Stiles, his voice trembling. His fists clenched.
But Derek only smiled. “You promised me to remember why.” When the omega did not reply, he nodded at the fork resting on the edge of the plate. “Take it.”
It was devastating how easy it was to obey the one he considered his alpha. His hand jerked before he thought about complying. Maybe that's why Derek chose him.
Stiles picked up the fork.
“Eat.”
Stiles pierced the potato and put it in his mouth. It tasted like ash.
*
Burning. Sharp, jagged pain.
Stiles’ eyelashes fluttered against his flushed cheeks. His forehead creased. A wisp of a whimper left his half-parted, dry lips.
The deep ache of every cut and bruise sank into his flesh — a silent torture.
Then, a rough hand over his sweaty neck. Something about it was painfully familiar, perhaps, the confidence of that touch.
The pain ebbed. Further and further away.
Stiles breathed out without waking. The hand lingered for a long time before withdrawing.
*
“What did you call me?”
“Alpha Hale.”
“I think we are long past the niceties, angel."
With his back ramrod straight and his eyes firmly on the breakfast platter, Stiles sawed off a piece of the omelet and delicately put it in his mouth. Derek’s gaze scalded his face, yet the omega refused to look up.
"For all I know, we might as well have met yesterday," he said. “You’ve made my home a massive grave and took me hostage. Shall that be all, Alpha Hale?”
He stilled when Derek leaned into his space, his hands on either side of his legs stretched on the bed.
“I know you inside and out,” his voice was a quiet, tender growl.
“Sadly, cannot say the same.”
Derek tore himself off and began pacing, his hands in his hair. Despite yesterday's success, the shadows under his eyes had not lifted. His beard somehow grew even more unkempt; he looked every part of the feared North King, the Wolf of Snows.
Stiles clenched his knife and fork to keep his fingers from trembling. He tasted nothing of his food, its weight all but a swamp slime on his tongue. From the corner of his eye, he saw Derek turn his back on him and took the chance to study him.
The large frame of the alpha’s shoulders stood starkly against the white window; those were the same shoulders, the same posture of a man who, after their coupling, stood naked before the windows of Stiles’ bedroom. Stiles knew exhaustion when he saw it — knew exactly how it weighed down those shoulders.
The omega swallowed and set down his fork. His eyes fell to his lap.
When Derek spoke, his voice was but a quiet thunder — a lightning, hidden in soft clouds. "Remember when you first called me by my name?" Stiles closed his eyes, yet there was no escape. "You were so soft…" he trailed off, lost in thought, then glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were red. "I have not been with anyone but you since that night.”
“Must be nice, then, to be free, at last.”
“The dagger to my guts would have been nicer.”
“You are not wounded. Do not pretend to be. It doesn’t suit a wolf.”
Derek shook his head. His hands slid off the windowsill, lifeless. The alpha turned and walked to the bed, hovering at the end of it with his head inclined. There was nowhere to run from those suffocating eyes.
“I can hear your heart, you know?” muttered Derek. “Its every shudder is here," he tapped his ear, "day and night. I can smell it bleeding."
“It’s the blood on your hands that you smell.”
“My,” a new voice drawled, too close and sudden, “he does have a sharp tongue.”
Both pairs of eyes swept toward the entrance, onto the man standing there with his arms crossed over his stomach. His sharp blue eyes sparkled, trained on Stiles; his hair and goatee were the color of dry wheat, his clothes in deep royal red delicately stitched.
Straightening, Stiles caught the movement in the corner of his eye, then found Derek standing in front of the bed, shielding him from the view.
“Peter.”
"Nephew," the king inclined his head with a small smile. His eyes flicked to Stiles. "Ah, your Grace, I am afraid I could not wait any longer. The thought of you is much too tempting. Pardon me if I do not take your hand, as my nephew would certainly bite my arm off."
Stiles’ gaze shifted from him to Derek and back. “Your Grace,” he bit out.
“What are you here?” grunted Derek.
“You know, Derek told us of your beauty, but he must be a horrendous storyteller, because…” Ignoring his nephew, King Peter spread his hands, gesturing at Stiles. "Even swept in grief, you stun me. You look a lot like your late mother, though I was but a young boy when I last saw her."
Stiles blinked at him. The familiarity between King Peter and his mother should have been obvious, and yet, it felt like a refreshing slap in the face. She died not long after the fire that took away the Hales, so the only guests Stiles remembered were the Argents, who started visiting soon after that. Perhaps it was then that Stiles' father saw the chance and joined the stronger side. Only a fool would have chosen the decimated wolves.
Who knew it would only take two to rebuild the much-feared pack?
“I envy her,” said Stiles at last.
The king’s eyebrows flew up. “In beauty?”
“In death. I am glad she was not here to witness the destruction of her beloved home.”
“One does find it devastating.” Humming, the man looked at Derek. “I’d like a few minutes alone. If you can bear to leave your omega for that long.”
Two wolves stared at each other, and even though Stiles could not see Derek’s face, he knew just by how tense his shoulders were that the alpha must be seething. Stiles could just imagine the furrowed brows and the downturned corners of those lips. Just as he thought of it, he wished he knew how to forget.
Derek sighed. His shoulders sagged. He glanced at Stiles over his shoulder and said, “He won’t harm you. You are safe with him.”
“Why should I believe a word you say?”
The acceptance in the alpha’s gaze softened the blow of Stiles’ glare. It seemed the wolf did not even feel its sting. He watched Stiles from above for a heartbeat, then another, then turned on his heels and left without a word. Stiles’ cheeks flushed, his jaw clenched. He turned away as the king approached and carefully transferred the silver tray from his lap onto the bed. Most of the food was cold and untouched.
“I would have loved to show you our lands under different circumstances,” mused the king as he crossed his hands on his lap and watched Stiles’ every move. “The winters are divine here, in the North.”
“I would have loved to visit," confessed Stiles, meeting his gaze. "Alas, your invitation must not have reached me. You really did not have to stoop so low as to abduct me."
King Peter’s lips stretched in a lazy smile. He waited for Stiles’ heart to pick up pace, then wondered, “And cause a scandal? Two lonely bachelors inviting an unmarried omega prince?”
“Less ruckus.”
“Perhaps.”
“Instead, you’ve let your nephew deceive me for years. Don’t wolves abhor liars? He must have hated it.” The king opened his mouth, but Stiles was far too heated to stop. “I could have been married to my father’s ally at sixteen, established a strong alliance, and doubled our forces, but Derek had caught me by then. Nicely played. Or was it boredom? Both? Fantastic, either way. Well done, your Grace. What now, though, huh? What are the two bachelors going to do with an omega now that you've killed his father?"
His voice broke at the end, sending shards of pain into Stiles' soul. He clamped his lips shut and breathed hard, trying to fight the stinging in his eyes.
The king was silent. What was he waiting for? Could a person who orchestrated the murder of his father have enough grace to let the omega gather himself at such a tense moment? No. It was another game. It must be.
Stiles lifted his red-rimmed eyes, allowing the hatred to bloom in the amber. He had nothing to hide from the king. Nothing to—
“Your father is alive.”
Stiles’ breath caught. A quick, stray tear dropped from his eyelids onto his chest before he could blink it away.
“Alive?” he gasped hoarsely.
The king’s smile dwindled. “Alive. We aimed to threaten, not to kill. We are not animals.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes. The king let him look, readily meeting his gaze.
“You want him to drop the Argents,” muttered the omega. “To stop the alliance and the trade, to leave them without my father’s army and our crops.”
“See, you know it all already.”
Stiles frowned. His eyes dropped to his hands, picking restlessly at the covers. “Why kidnap me?' he said, quieter. "You would not win any favors with me gone.”
The king sighed. “You are a stipulation. Rather costly, I might add.”
“Who is a man that can force stipulations onto a king?”
“The only one that’s left.”
Derek. Of course, it was him. The only family the king had was the nephew. As Queen Talia’s son, Derek must have inherited the title after his sister Laura had succumbed to the burns. Yet, Peter was the regent.
It could not be familial respect. Too high were the stakes, too heavy the power. Did Peter threaten him? No, Derek wasn't a man easily frightened. Perhaps it was Derek who offered it. Why? To save his own skin from being slaughtered at night by a power-hungry uncle?
Stiles studied Peter’s light-blue eyes and could not see the answer.
“What did he ask for?” Stiles questioned quietly.
The king smirked. “You.”
The omega recoiled from the reply. His heart pounded, and his cheeks flushed, though shyness was not to blame, not as the king must have thought.
Despite the wolf's appearance, Stiles never thought of Derek as cruel. Perhaps it was his luck that they met at the ball and not in a battle. General Reyes captivated him when he was just a young, naïve omega, swept him up in a dance, and oh, Stiles’ poor heart, starved for the closeness of another, had never felt this warm as when it was pressed against the general’s chest. A year full of glances, accidental touches, and sneaking around to watch the new general train his army was a year full of aching longing and flushed cheeks. To think of it, Derek must have scented how slick he got during their strolls together. Was it then that the wolf decided to humor him? take the advantage? distract himself?
Stiles swallowed through a tight throat. His fingers pinched the blankets at his lap.
So, it was true then, what they said about omegas. Once you get a taste of one, you will die of thirst before tasting anyone else. It seemed that Derek got used to him. He had the prince domesticated; why let it go to waste?
The king tutted. “You misinterpret me, child, I can see that clear as day—”
“Not a child,” bristled Stiles, though his quaking voice betrayed him.
“You are, to me. Must be the age. Forgive me. If it is any consolation, I even consider Derek a child, and that pup hasn't been a boy in a long time. And I simply wished to say that it is by Derek's wish and my indulgence that you find yourself here. We did not aim for your father's death, but if that were to happen, we would not have mourned him. You, on the other hand…” King Peter breathed deeply. “My nephew all but begged to let him have you.”
“Your nephew does not beg.”
The man’s eyes glinted. “You know him well, and yet...”
“Your Grace—”
“How are your feet?” King Peter asked, all of a sudden, looking strangely concerned. He looked over Stiles’ legs as if he could see through the clothes and covers. “Do Alan’s pastes work?”
Stiles sighed. “They do. They are healing nicely.”
“And you do not feel any pain, I assume?”
The omega grit his teeth. "He steals it at night — I know, I know! I doubt it isn’t yet another plan to pull something out of me.” The king sighed, but Stiles spoke over. “If you have any power over him, forbid him to sleep here.”
“You either take me as a fool or are one, if you think I would oblige a prisoner.”
“I’ll tell you things.”
The king’s eyes sharpened, though he had not moved an inch. His voice was quieter as he spoke. “Humor me.”
Stiles lifted his chin. “As an omega, I am not an heir to the throne. But as my father’s son, I am privy to the meetings of the court. And, you know, all the talk is usually boring, but lately there’s been a buzz. Argents this, Argents that…” the omega shrugged. “You oblige, and who knows? I might remember something.”
“You do not look like a traitor.” The king narrowed his eyes.
“Oh, not at all. Beacon is my father’s country, but it is mine as well. I want what’s best for it, but it is here that our paths differ. The Argents are strong, yes, but… They are not good allies. Not in the long run. They’ll bleed us dry and leave us at vultures’ mercy.”
The king hummed as he stared at the omega. His wrinkles hid a lot, his eyes not windows but a mirror. Despite talking to him for so long, Stiles realized that he knew nothing at all about the man sitting casually on his bed.
“So what?” King Peter murmured sweetly. “The young prince is on the wolves’ side now?”
“As long as I am in the wolves’ den and not in their stomachs.”
The king tsked, shaking his head. “How crude.” He smiled. “I’ll talk to my nephew.”
Stiles did not hide the relieved breath that fell from his lips.
*
No one came to Stiles that evening, apart from the maid who brought him dinner. The omega did not touch it as his stomach felt as tight as a breadcrumb, and he spent several hours flinching from every shuffle that came from outside his chambers, which there were a lot of. No one said anything, but Stiles could almost hear them breathing down his neck.
At sunset, he hobbled to the windows. Stiles sat on the wide windowsill and watched the golden disk grow angry red and melt into the horizon like butter on a hot bread. Then, the moon came, coating the sharp, giant, snowy mountains in light periwinkle powder. Under Stiles' tower, there was nothing but the bursting, bubbling river, rushing down to freeze somewhere below. As Stiles pressed his hands to the cold window, he wondered how quickly he'd fall if the glass disappeared. Would he feel the pain from the impact? Or would it not matter, then?
It was the first night when Stiles did not hide the tears. They fell and fell his puffy cheeks onto his shuddering, tight chest.
In the morning, he awoke in his bed, painless. The cage around his heart squeezed tighter.
*
“Do not touch me.”
“Kitten.”
“And do not call me that!”
“I shall call you whatever I like. Alan ordered you a bath with healing tisanes, and it’s getting cold.”
“I am going to walk there on my own two legs.”
“You are not. You are not yet healed.”
“I shall crawl.”
Derek sighed loudly. From the corner of his eyes, Stiles saw him unclasp his outer doublet and tensed.
“You are too heavy for our maids,” said Derek, lazily rolling his sleeves. “And as your alpha, your warder, and your personal menace, I therefore forbid anyone from looking at your naked body, as it is for my hands and my gaze only. Is that clear to you, my love?”
Stiles threw him a gaze full of hatred. “You—”
“Come here.”
Stiles yelped as the wolf swept him from the bed in one move, one hand under his knees and one around his waist. He seemed immune to Stiles’ glare or the omega’s aching heart pounding against his chest. Marching toward the steaming en-suit, Derek pushed the door open with his shoulder and carried Stiles inside.
The familiar heat of Derek’s body felt like torture. How many times did those hands carry him like that? His body knew those hands, just as those hands had been on every inch of his skin. Stiles' chest constricted, his throat cinched. He hated those hands. It would have been easier if they were unkind.
"There you go," muttered Derek as he lowered Stiles onto the seat next to the hot bath. The thin nightshirt had already begun clinging to Stiles' steam-flushed skin. The wolf kneeled, took Stiles’ ankle, and put it on his lap, then caught it again when the omega tried to pull it back. "Stop that.”
“I’ll do it on my own,” bit out Stiles, watching Derek’s fingers work quickly on his bandages.
“You will do as I say.”
“And what if you put me outside and tell me to spread my legs for anyone? Should I be quiet then, too?”
Stiles waited for a reply or a slap — whatever it would be — with his chest rising and falling rapidly. At last, Derek lifted his eyes, and, somehow, his gaze stung harder than any slap. Dark, pensive, and disappointed. Silent.
To his surprise, the wolf did not retaliate. Not even with a growl. Tense and sullen, he studied Stiles’ face, searching for something, then just as quietly returned to the bandages. Stiles watched him with bated breath and blood drumming in his temples.
At last, Derek let go of his feet and stood up. Stiles took an effort to keep his shoulders straight as the wolf loomed above him, so much stronger than the omega sitting below.
“Strip,” muttered Derek.
Stiles swallowed hard. Each loose droplet was a cannonball to his ears. His trembling fingers untied the knot, letting the soft gown slide down his shoulders, then caught the lower hem of his white nightshirt to lift it above his head. It felt like shedding second skin — his flesh all bare and raw now, burning under the sight of the hard, red eyes.
This alpha could do anything to him. Stiles was a prisoner, nothing more. A toy, a doll to play with, to shake and growl at and tear apart. The wolf’s ears were deaf to the soft flutter of Stiles’ infatuated heart. The years of intimacy dissipated within seconds.
It meant nothing. The thought repeated inside his mind like a prayer on a preacher's lips. It means nothing.
Derek’s hands slid under his naked thighs and naked waist, unbearably gentle.
“Hold onto me.” The wolf’s voice was a rumble. Stiles’ hands slid onto his shoulders all by themselves.
The alpha carefully deposited him into the hot tub so that his knees dangled over the edge and his feet stayed dry. The water, stinking thickly of herbal remedies, splashed over Derek’s shirt, but the alpha seemed to pay it no mind.
They were no strangers to each other’s bodies, or to bathing together, but the silence was strange. Thicker than steam, it clung to Stiles’ lungs, making it hard to breathe. As he bathed, he glanced at the wolf sitting on the chair beside the tub, but Derek’s gaze was absent, his face darkened by a deep scowl.
“You swore to me you’d remember.”
Stiles jumped from his voice. The soap slipped from his hands to the tub’s bottom and hit him in the thigh.
The omega watched him for several tense moments.
“You swore to protect my kingdom,” he reminded.
“That is an oath I made to your father; it has nothing to do with you. The king of Beacon made his choice. I retaliated.” Derek looked up. Another slap. “I swore to protect you. Do you remember that?”
Stiles did not answer.
Derek nodded. Silently, he stood, then kneeled at the edge of the bathtub. His hand sneaked between Stiles’ dangling legs and wrapped around his wet knee; Derek traced the tense muscles hiding under the smooth skin, his touch reverent.
“I do not care that you do not believe me,” he grunted lowly, pinning Stiles with a steely stare. “I’ll die before I break that oath. You are my omega. Mine.” His hand tightened around Stiles' knee. His thumb caressed the bulging bone. “I conquered you once, and I shall do it again. I fought for less and was ready to die. You are the only one worth dying for.”
“I have no need for your death,” whispered Stiles. The heat of Derek’s hand scalded him. “Just tell me the truth.”
“I love you.”
Stiles’ lower lip trembled. “Don’t,” he choked.
Derek leaned his cheek against Stiles’ calf, gazing at him with that strange, deep gaze. “I miss you.” He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, held it in, and released it as if it pained him.
Stiles swallowed. Despite the moistness, his dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I have already agreed to tell your king everything I know. You don’t need to keep doing this. It’s done.”
“I haven't lost a fight yet. Just remember that." Derek placed a short kiss on Stiles' calf and stood up. His eyes glowed red. "I'll leave you to your bathing. When you're done, we're having dinner, and you are eating all of it."
*
Another painless night. Another morning, when he woke up alone.
“You should start walking,” said Deaton after examining Stiles’ feet. “Otherwise, your muscles will weaken. Walk around the room, then rest, then walk again. Avoid putting pressure here and here,” he pointed at some of the deeper cuts at the soles of Stiles’ feet. “Tiptoe, perhaps.”
Stiles spent that lonely day doing just that. He circled his chambers, then lay down when his feet started to ache, then circled again. Only the maids visited him, silent but kind. The omega jumped from every creak and whisper, but the wolves left him alone.
The king had managed to keep his promise, then.
So, when Derek came to him in the late evening with dinner, Stiles was dressed and standing.
The alpha scowled immediately. “What are you doing?”
“I wish to see the king.” Stiles lifted his chin and met the wolf’s gaze.
Frowning, Derek closed the chamber door. He walked to the bed, placed the dinner tray on it, then placed his hand on Stiles’ stomach, and pushed him to sit down.
“You are staying here.”
“But—”
“Peter will come see you.”
“Deaton said—”
“I know what he said.”
“How?” Derek gave him a bored look. Stiles gasped. “Did you listen in?”
“Eat.”
Gritting his teeth, Stiles picked up the plate. Derek watched him eat with an obsessive attentiveness, and no matter how hard Stiles glared at him mid-chew, the wolf did not lower his eyes. When he was done, Derek took the plate, then offered him a goblet of warm, spicy wine.
“For bravery,” the alpha muttered.
Stiles cringed his nose. “I’m not afraid of the king.”
“You do not know him well. Drink it.”
Stiles watched him for a moment before taking the goblet. If Derek wanted him, he did not need Stiles willing or drunk — the prince was easy to take. Stiles sipped the wine but only to wet his throat and stifle the taste of meat. The spices warmed his chest from the inside, as if he swallowed a small coal.
“When can his Grace see me?” asked Stiles.
Derek glanced at him, then turned to the side and called, "Raeken." He waited until the man entered and, without another word, nodded at the door.
Stiles stiffened at Raeken’s gaze, which found him within seconds. Was he outside the entire time? Well, for how long was he staying there? How many wolves prowled just outside his flimsy chamber doors?
The omega pointedly lifted his chin and glared at the guard until the latter lowered his eyes. With a nod, Raeken disappeared presumably to fetch the king.
“It seems hardly appropriate,” said Stiles.
“What does?”
“Having the king at one’s beck and call.”
“What's a couple of flights of stairs when you might have the answers he craves so much? Besides," Derek narrowed his eyes at Stiles' feet. "You are not healed enough to walk for long.”
“So much care for a prisoner of war.”
“There’s more to you.”
“My womb?” sneered Stiles.
Derek looked at him sharply, his eyes bristly red. He breathed out hard, then inclined his head, listening. He seemed to have more to say, but time did not let him.
King Peter entered the chambers with an insolent slowness, the one only granted to royalty. He was dressed in an evening gown and, despite the late hour, looked strangely lively.
“As always, a sight for sore eyes, your Grace,” he greeted with a smirk, keeping his hands locked behind his back. “May I be bold to assume you are ready to betray your father?”
Stiles’ cheeks heated. Now, faced with the king, the wine seemed like a good idea. At least, he had a goblet to latch onto. The wine sat warmly in his stomach. The omega glanced at Derek, sitting silently beside him, then back at the king, and licked his lips.
“The Argents are awaiting a large armory supply to the south of the Dove Isle. Our division had already departed; your rebellion missed them by two days. If anything I heard about wolves is true, you’ll be able to intercept them. Do you have a map?”
The map of the three neighboring kingdoms was provided within minutes. The king and the prince talked until midnight with scarce interruptions from Derek, who sat sullenly by Stiles’ side. The omega’s voice was hoarse by the end of it, the goblets filled and emptied one after another. The wolves only kept throwing more logs into the fireplace.
By the end, Stiles told them everything he had heard and everything he knew. He was surprised to find the king interested in his opinions and strategies; although King Peter shared little, he listened to Stiles with all seriousness, humming and asking questions that Stiles would not think of in a hundred years. Stiles had no delusions about thinking that the king would share his plans, and it came as no surprise when the king stayed silent. Derek listened to their talk, staring at the map and stroking his beard.
By the dark gloom on his face, it was clear that he despised the idea of leaving Stiles alone, but there was nothing he could do. Tomorrow, he would lead the wolves to the Dove Isle. If all goes well, he will come back within a week, loaded with Beacon's armor and making a significant dent in the Argents' defenses.
Perhaps, Stiles’ heart was used to the worry. It clenched at the thought of Derek's departure, of what he had to do, of the ringing silence for weeks on end, and the damn lack of knowledge. It was a habit, this aching anxiousness. A habit, nothing more.
Stiles glanced at Derek; his gaze picked up the deep line in his forehead, the scuffled beard with grey streaks, the shadows under his eyes. The eyes that stared back at him were loaded with something heavy and deeply hidden.
Stiles broke the gaze. His eyes fell on the map, but he could not discern a single word.
His heart pounded, bleeding.
*
The blade rested in his open palm, shining with sharpness. The grip was covered in chestnut-colored shagreen, and the rain-guard consisted of thin, delicate pattern swirls. Inside the pommel, a ruby glared at him.
Stiles lifted his eyes to Derek, struggling to see the man behind the carefully neutral mask.
“Is this a test?” he asked.
A shadow of amusement ran over Derek’s lips. “No. It is a dagger.”
“Should I laugh?”
“I’d rather you protect yourself.”
Stiles studied the dagger — a masterfully done, truly beautiful weapon — and could not, for the life of him, understand. He frowned at the wolf.
“I fear you have gone mad, Alpha Hale. You do realize what power you grant me, right? I am your hostage.”
“You are my omega, first and foremost. And, even though I trust my wolves, you are far too tempting.”
Stiles recoiled, feeling cold all of a sudden. His heart palpitated. What would happen now when Derek leaves? What did he mean by his words?
The dread settled in his stomach, coiling like a snake.
A hand encircled his wrist. Carefully, the wolf guided his hand up until the blade was pressed against Derek’s neck.
Mad, thought Stiles. Truly mad.
Derek’s eyes pinned him in place, so hard and heavy was his gaze. Quietly, he spoke, “Go for the throat. Do not hesitate and do not linger. I will not forgive your indecision if it costs you your life.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes. "What kind of fool are you to give my hand access to your throat?" he asked instead.
But Derek smiled.
Then, he leaned forward. A droplet of blood welled up on the blade.
With a cry of outrage and shock, Stiles pulled the dagger back. His face paled, his ears rang, and his heart, his poor heart, thundered against his ribcage.
“What are you doing?!” he yelled, feeling the heat go up his neck and to his ears. “What’s gotten into you?!”
Derek, for some reason, chuckled. “Proving a point,” he murmured, wiping his neck with the back of his palm. There was no sign of the tiny cut.
“What point?” Stiles’ hands shook. The dagger slid into the sheath only on the second try.
“That you’re a sweetheart.”
As Derek gazed at him with that little one-sided annoying smile and his eyes all warm, for a fleeting moment, it seemed they were back in Stiles’ room, dancing around each other, a kiss away from falling onto soft sheets.
The windows whinged from a cold mountain wind. The glass trembled under the tremendous force. Between them, the silence rang.
When Derek touched him this time, Stiles did not flinch. Despite the sizzling heat of Derek’s knuckles gliding down his cheek, Stiles did not meet his gaze and stood still, like a fawn that folds onto itself when faced with a wolf.
Derek’s hand fell.
“If something happens, run to Peter. He will keep you safe.”
And then he left, leaving Stiles standing alone in a shuddering room, reeling from emptiness. The omega twirled the dagger in his hands, placed it on the nightstand, and crawled onto the bed and under the sheets. He stared at the fireplace, at warm coals nesting at the inner hearth. The ruby, the blood, and now the coals. Red, like the wolf's unblinking eyes watching him.
It was the first time in years that Derek left without kissing him goodbye.
Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face into the pillow.
*
“Grim, isn’t it?”
The king’s voice boomed across the spacious room. Stiles turned sharply, his heart jumping to his throat.
“Your Grace,” he greeted. “I was just…” he gestured at the painting behind him.
“Ah, yes…” King Peter slowly walked toward him with his hands locked behind his back, then stopped by Stiles’ side. Following his pinched gaze, Stiles looked at the enormous oil painting taking up the entire wall of the hall. “Talia ordered it a year before the murder.”
Stiles glanced at the king, then at Raeken, who stood silently to the side, staring at him, and finally returned to the painting. This gorgeous, detailed piece depicted the Hales in all their love and glory — an entire family from one corner of the canvas to another. In the middle, Queen Talia looked down on them over her highly lifted chin and sharp nose, her eyes glowing magnificent red even through the paint; next to her was the Royal Consort, George, who looked so much like Derek it hurt Stiles’ soul; then, came the three children — Laura in blooming youth, just as stunning as her mother, Derek, a gangly, scowling boy, and the smallest of them, Princess Cora — she barely reached his brother’s waist and clutched at his hand with her pudgy fingers, her glare outmatching that of her brother. There was King Peter with a gorgeous woman by his side, and several other people, old and young; some of the oldest were in their full shifts as wolves — it was hard for the werewolves to shift in old age, and most ended up never shifting back. The Hales, regal and fierce; it seemed they would jump at the onlooker with their mouths open in a snarl, if the poor soul looked at them wrong.
Stiles looked at the older, wrinklier King Peter, standing beside him.
“I hope it will feel good,” he said quietly.
“What?” asked the king.
“Justice.”
The king’s lips twitched in a smile. “Burned skin tends to turn numb,” he murmured.
“Spilled blood has a sharp enough smell, your Grace.”
The man met his gaze. His smirk stretched into a grin. He looked the omega up and down with his eyes narrowed. “My, that is what he sees in you.”
Stiles sharply turned away. “A means to an end?”
“I’m sure you can multitask.” The king chuckled at Stiles’ glare. “Come on, your Grace, let us snatch a moment while he’s away and stretch your legs. Or, perhaps, you want him to carry you everywhere?”
Stiles pursed his nose and weaved his hand around King Peter's offered elbow. Together, they settled into a slow, leisured stroll. Stiles was half-convinced the king allowed him to be slow to preserve his dignity; otherwise, he'd hobble. As they walked past, Stiles felt Raeken’s eyes on him, but the omega pretended not to notice.
“Now, how about a barter?” asked the king.
“What kind?”
"You tell me about the Argents, and I show you around our castle. I must admit, our nature is our best feature, but if Derek sniffs out that I had you outside, he'd have my head."
Stiles glanced at him strangely. “I did not know he could do that.”
“He’s the alpha.” The king shrugged.
The omega opened his mouth, then shut it. “And you are… not?”
“The alpha spark did not deem me worthy, considering I assisted in the killing of the previous alpha."
Stiles’ insides went cold. “Talia—”
“Laura.”
“I thought she—”
"Died from the burns?" The king frowned, his gaze lost in memories. "No. Her skin kept healing and disintegrating for months. Derek was ready to claw his own skin off and give it to her; that's the nature of the pack's order. We felt her pain but sat there, helpless. The only thing we could give her was mercy.” They fell silent for a while. “Derek was just a boy then. I knew I was the only one who could do it.”
“Then he became the alpha,” murmured Stiles.
The king nodded. “It is a heavy burden, the alpha spark.”
“So you became the regent.”
“Indeed.”
“And he did not… ask for it back? The rule? It has been nearly two decades.”
“We have long since come to a compromise. The division of the roles frees us, in a sense. I rule the country, he rules the pack. Besides, I am not against the element of surprise.”
Stiles squinted at his smile. “You are much too generous with the information,” he said quietly. “I feel like a dog chewing on its last bone.”
“Not quite. I simply think you should be in the know of these things.”
“Why?”
The king sighed. “To see how things are run here.” He glanced at Stiles. “You will stay here for a long time, your Grace. Better get used to it. Now, enough about us. Tell me, how long have you known the Argents…”
*
“You may go now,” muttered Stiles. The link cuffs fell away at the swift move of his fingers. The warm coat that Derek left for him slid from his shoulders along with the weight of the day. His voice was tender after speaking for so long. At least, another day had passed, fleeting…
Humming, Stiles turned around and jumped at the sight of the wolf standing still in the doors. He frowned. “What is it?" he asked, somewhat exasperated. It was late, and his dinner was getting cold on the table, and he desperately needed to lie down and check his healing wounds. And it was too soon to hear the news from Derek.
Raeken lowered his head. “Your Highness, I did not mean to interfere with your evening. I could not help but notice that my alpha spends his evenings here, and as he appointed your care into my hands, I thought—”
“Leave,” bristled Stiles.
“Of course, your Highness, I would not dare to disturb you. Simply following orders. It’s just… you spend the days alone here and—”
“Leave now, wolf.”
Raeken hesitated. Stiles, in a daring display of hubris, stood at the table with his back turned to the wolf and fiddled with his cuffs. He slowed his breathing, but his heart had begun to slowly pick up pace. The damn traitor.
Stiles’ eyes snuck discreetly over the room and zeroed in on the dagger — the ruby was peeking from under his pillow where he hid it.
A breath of silence, and then,
“Of course, your Highness.”
A shuffle, a thud of the door closing, a click of the key in the lock.
Stiles breathed out. Glancing at the door, he hurried toward his bed and snatched the dagger from its hiding place.
He waited and waited, but the door stayed closed. Slowly, the dagger lowered.
“Damn it,” he mouthed, knowing full well that Raeken could hear every word.
With a sigh, Stiles sheathed the dagger and fixed it on his hip. He ate on the bed, his glare fixed on the fireplace, and mentally prepared himself for another long sleepless night.
*
“Your Grace?”
“Yes?”
“What would happen after their death?”
“The funeral, if someone is left alive.”
Stiles threw the king a sharp glare. The man smirked, leaned forward, and replaced Stiles’ pawn with his knight.
“I meant, with me,” bit out Stiles. “You would have no need for me once the Argents are destroyed.”
The king hummed, arching his eyebrow.
“No need,” insisted Stiles, knocking the king’s knight with the rook. “You are not going to war with Beacon, are you?”
The king thought for a long time. In the fireplace, the log fell apart in a soft explosion of sparkles. The fire warmed Stiles’ cheeks enough to make them bloom.
“I do not want to go to war with your father,” murmured the king as if they were discussing the duck, which they ate for dinner. “I’d rather establish a trade with him. We would benefit greatly from your crops.”
“My father would never agree. He does not forgive treachery.”
The king hummed. “Isn’t it convenient, then, that Derek snatched you?”
“You meant, unfortunate, because it’s the exact point of no return. My father would not let it slide.”
“And yet, three weeks later, you and I are playing chess.” King Peter smiled.
“For all I know, he lies, incapacitated and ensured that his son stays by his side," bit out Stiles.
"Oh, he is well," the king murmured absently. He rubbed his fingers, chose the chess piece, and moved it on the board. "Check."
Stiles sat, motionless. His heart drummed. “Well?” His voice broke.
“Mhm. He had been notified of your disposition. Did not take it well, as far as I know.”
Stiles groaned and covered his face with his hands.
“Your turn,” nudged the king.
Stiles ignored him. “Without D— your nephew, Harris would step up to lead the army. It is bad enough that the men despise him; he cannot lead! At all! He is an outstanding moron!”
“So I should not expect a parental visit.”
Stiles stayed silent, his mouth dry.
The king hummed curiously. “Your turn,” he said after a while.
Irritated, Stiles threw his hands off his face and, scowling, plucked his knight off the spot and placed him in the way of the king’s rook.
The king stared at the board, nodding to himself, then lifted his sharp blue eyes to the omega. They glinted in the low light from the fireplace.
“We can resolve this very easily, your Grace,” he murmured sweetly. “Your kingdom and mine, joined against the foul forces. You know we can.”
Stiles stared at the chessboard until it swam from side to side. Despite years of schooling and scolding, his leg began to jiggle.
“I do,” he said, then cleared his throat. Stiles lifted his eyes to the king’s smile. “So? When is our wedding?”
The king’s eyebrows twitched as if in surprise. Shaking his head but keeping the smile, the wolf leaned over the board.
“Forgive me, your Grace, but you are not my first choice, no matter how lovely you look. My choice is currently rotting under the ground, and, if you don't mind, I'd rather she rest and not haunt me for marrying another." He picked up his queen and gently placed her in front of Stiles' king. "Check and mate."
Stiles stared at him, wishing with all his might for it to be a mistake. He heard it wrong, surely. It could not be. Not after…
The king watched his face, then tsked, and took a wine bottle. He poured some into Stiles’ empty goblet and offered it to the omega. “Drink, your Grace. Pallor does not suit you.”
The wine burned Stiles’ mouth and spilled down his tight throat, spreading like a web of heat across his chest.
He could not marry Derek. What would that life be like? Getting tormented by his presence day and night, as the years' worth of fond memories grow bitter with mold? Derek lied to him all these years. He kissed Stiles, made love to him, whispered such things in the omega's ear that their memory alone could bring Stiles to his knees.
All while Derek simply enjoyed him. Used him. Stiles was his eyes and ears at the court meetings, his shoulder to cry on when it came to his father and all the courtmen staring at him like a piece of meat. Stiles told him everything, because who else deserved his trust if not the general, the commander of his army? It was never love, not a second of it; and Stiles was the fool whose stomach fluttered from giddiness each time Derek smiled at him. Fool!
“I thought you’d be ecstatic, your Grace.”
Stiles blinked the stinging away from his eyes and glanced at the king. The air came into his lungs in heaving spurts. He licked his lips. "I… I guess I should have expected him to be cruel. I am the son of the man who sided with his enemy. It only fits."
A shadow of concern lay over the king’s face. “Cruel?” he asked.
“I’ve never sided with father. He knows this. How many times have I complained to him and— Why? Why would he do this?”
Frowning, the king leaned forward. “My boy,” his voice was warm as wine, “he loves you.”
The tears rang in Stiles’ eyes, threatening to spill. His throat hurt from the heartache’s noose.
Stiles stood up. “Did I not agree to tell you everything I know?” He wished to scream, but his voice kept breaking. “I am conspiring against my father for you, and you cannot give me grace and honesty?”
“I am honest.”
“You cannot be.”
“Why so?”
“Because none of it was real!” exploded Stiles. His fists shook, clenched by his sides. “I bet it was fun hearing about the head-over-the-heels omega falling for him, sleeping with him, all while he was using me to spy on people. And it worked. You are halfway to serving your justice, and I am the jester, the laughing stock. I—” Stiles put his shaking hand to his forehead, struggling to breathe.
“Your Grace…” the king rose slowly.
“Stop pretending — that is all I ask. You do not need me in love to tell you things.”
“I told him you won’t forgive him.” King Peter’s voice was low but firm – a sobering slap in Stiles’ face. His mouth twisted. “But he was adamant that he did not care.”
“See, I told you—”
“He brought you here because that way he can look after you. He can lock you up, tie you down, have you trash and scream at him, but you’d be here, where he can see you and protect you. Do you think they would have been kind to you, hmm? After it is revealed that you welcomed a spy into your bed?"
Stiles grew red. His teeth clenched along with his fists as he glared at the king. Thousands of thoughts buzzed in his head, but none stood out, so frantic they were in chaos.
“You want me to believe he cares that much?” sneered Stiles.
“He loves you,” the king sighed. “No one laughed at you, your Grace. If anything, it concerned me that he fell so hard for you.” The wolf watched him shake his head, then pursed his lips. “I see your anger, and your hurt blinds you. Sleep on it. I shall not see you tomorrow. Here,” the king took their half-full bottle of wine and pushed it in Stiles’ hands, “to help you sleep.”
Locked in his chambers, Stiles drank it all to the very last drop.
*
He loves you.
With his breath fogging the frosted glass, Stiles watched the moon as it peeked out of the clouds and hid again. It was night, deep, windy, and heavy. Below, in the valley between the mountains, the pines rocked gently back and forth, caressed by the wind that willed them to sleep. Stiles’ mind, however, was far from rest.
The king’s words swirled in his head, biting like snow. The worst thing was that Stiles began to see reason.
People did not particularly approve of his and Derek's relationship. It was not even that, in their eyes, just an escapade, a tryst, an affair. Something meaningless and fleeting, like thoughts in every omega's head. Before, Stiles thought that Derek was the only one who really understood, who saw the depth of his feelings without belittling them. That, perhaps, was not a lie. Even if Derek lied to him, he had to see what he meant to Stiles. And he did.
It was not all about passion and lust, not all the time. Sometimes, they simply lay in each other's arms; Stiles talked about everything and anything, while Derek listened, stroking his skin; Stiles shared ideas he was unable to voice during the court meetings, spoke boldly about the future, and bitterly about his past. Derek heard him. He made it clear that he understood. That could not have been a lie.
So… what if the rest of it wasn’t, either?
The king was right when he said the others would’ve torn him to shreds if he were to stay at the castle after the attack. Stiles’ father would have tormented him day and night with interrogations about Derek. People looked at him wrong as it was, but after, their gazes and murmurs would have incinerated Stiles’ soul.
Derek kidnapped him, killing two birds with one stone: plucking him out of the vultures’ claws and forcing Stiles’ father to reevaluate his behavior.
And the way Derek approached him, then, his gentleness and care… Had he not cared about Stiles at all, the wolf would have snatched him over his shoulder, no questions asked, no softness given.
He could have had Stiles under him every night since his capture. Why hadn’t he?
Suddenly, Derek’s absence felt like torture. Just like in the olden days.
He loves you, said the king as if he pitied Stiles' resistance. He was offended and disappointed by Stiles' denial, as if he thought more about Stiles' intelligence.
They've had him already. Why lie?
Unless… they did not.
*
Stiles froze, mid-move. The water dripped down his neck onto his naked chest and down into the towel that the omega held against his body. Quickly, he turned his head and listened.
Steps. The murmur of the clothing.
Stiles' eyes fell onto the dagger lying on the floor near the now cool bath. Abandoning the towel, Stiles snatched the bathrobe, pulled it on, took the knife with his damp hand, and hid it between the folds of the gown. His heart thumped against his neck in frantic pumps.
Was it Derek? No, he was not silent upon greeting. The king had manners, and he had not heard any skirmish this morning, so then it must be—
The door handle of the en-suite turned. The door opened for just a sliver and stopped.
“Your Highness?” asked Raeken in a strangely soft voice. Without waiting for a reply, he entered. His eyes found Stiles immediately and swept up and down his body. His nostrils flared.
“How dare you enter my chambers without permission?” Stiles bit out coldly. His cheeks heated from the anger coursing through him. “What are you doing here? Leave.”
But Raeken did not move. “I…” he swallowed. “You were taking too long, your Highness. As your guardian, I was worried. And—” he hurried as he saw Stiles open his mouth, “as you are a… prisoner, I do not really need your permission.”
Stiles inclined his head and gave him a viperous smile. "Is that so?" he sauntered lazily toward him. It seemed Raeken had stopped breathing. "Did you know that your alpha was allowed to kill anyone who entered my space uninvited and unwelcome, without a question or order?"
“Yet my alpha entered your space with no protestation,” said Raeken.
In a flicker, Stiles lifted his hand. Before it could collide with Raeken’s cheek, the wolf snatched his wrist in the air, gripping it so hard that Stiles' bones whined. Raeken chuckled breathlessly. A smile broke on his thin lips.
“Why so harsh, your Highne— Alright…” Raeken dropped his wrist as Stiles pressed the dagger’s tip against his jugular. The wolf’s neck bobbed as he swallowed, but Stiles’ grip did not falter. Raeken lifted his hands. “There is no need, your Grace. It was but a silly joke.”
Stiles' upper lip curled. "I'll be sure to inform Alpha Hale that you see him as your equal. See how funny he finds it."
“He would believe his pack before he believes you.”
The blood trickled down the dagger. Raeken’s mouth flinched. The wolf closed his eyes, licked his lips, and took a careful step back. Stiles followed him.
“I may be a piece of meat, but the blood in my veins is that of a royal,” he snarled quietly, glaring up at the wolf. “My space is beyond your means. Leave.” He put the dagger under the man’s chin and pushed until Raeken took another step back.
They glared at each other until Raeken gave up. With steel in his gaze, the wolf nodded and left, leaving the en-suite door open. Stiles waited until the chamber door shut and the lock clicked in place before gulping a desperate breath. Anger rushed away from him within a second, leaving him shaking.
He’d take Derek sleeping on the cot any day over the guards bursting into his room at any given moment.
Raeken’s gaze scared him, so dark it was. He did not want to think about it, but the way he gazed at Stiles reminded the omega of Derek. Though where Derek's eyes held gentleness even on their most passionate nights, Raeken’s were cold.
“Shit,” Stiles muttered as he noticed his wrist. Damn his sensitive skin, eager for marks. Raeken’s fingertips were now imprinted on his hand.
Did he mean to grip this hard, or was it the usual strength of a wolf? God, how careful Derek was with him all this time?
Derek.
Stiles rubbed his hand through his damp hair, then down his flushed face. Despite himself, he found that he could not wait until the alpha returned.
*
The king squinted at him. “You seem jumpy. Nightmares?”
Stiles shrugged. “Too much plaguing my mind, your Grace.”
“Marriage?”
The omega pursed his nose much to the king's enjoyment. It was the first time he led Stiles outside, as the weather had quietened enough for a stroll to be bearable. The white puffs of snow fell from the sky, twirling in the air in a child-like dance and landing together in heaps. The beauty of the gardens was now buried under the snow, though the king kept assuring him he'd like it in the summer.
The cold bit Stiles’ cheeks and nose. The king took Stiles’ hands and made him weave them around his elbow to hide in the pelt that hung down his arms. It brought Stiles closer than he liked to the man, though he appreciated the warmth. His own fur coat, as per the king’s tale, was one from a wolf that Derek had defeated in the battle. He, apparently, skinned the wolf alive, which King Peter had conveniently told him after Stiles put it on.
“I do not have much choice, do I?” grumbled Stiles, shielding his face against the gust of wind.
“Alas. It is the only way to reestablish the alliance, given the delicate circumstances. If you were to bear the Hale children—" Stiles' stomach twisted at the king's words, "—there would not be much your father could do."
“He could disown me.”
“Again, you underestimate how much someone can love you.”
“He can have another heir, then.” Stiles tightened his lips at the thought. It distressed him. In his eyes, his mother was his father’s only love, and that love should last forever. But it did not work that way, not in the world Stiles was from. It was a wonder that his father did not marry a year after his mother’s death; the court pushed and pushed, but his father resisted.
“He could,” the king said simply. “Though I doubt he’d let your sacrifice go to waste.”
“Sacrifice?”
“Are you not being forced to marry a feral beast? An enemy? A traitor?”
“Oh, that…”
The king chuckled. “Yes, my dear, that.”
"You can just keep me hostage," said Stiles quietly. "Alpha Hale does not have to sacrifice his marriage for revenge. And…” Stiles’ chest tightened, “…were he to have favorites—”
“Wolves do not have favorites when they are mated,” interrupted the king. “And Derek wants to mate with you. A marriage is for propriety.”
Stiles frowned. “Is that not the same thing?”
“No, it is not. Wolves mate for life, your Grace. No favorites, no affairs, no strayed glances. It is not done lightly, but once the wolf’s mind is set, there is little one can do.”
Stiles’ heart galloped. “And Derek…” He could not finish.
The king's voice softened. "You know, after I met my Olive, I walked around in a daze for weeks. When I confided in Talia, she said that she already knew. Just by the way I looked and spoke about nothing but her." He fell silent. "Derek wrote to me once, years ago. He kept me updated throughout, given that he could not openly write about what he learned in case the letter was intercepted. And then, at the end of one dry, unassuming letter, he wrote: ‘Danced with the prince. Cannot resist anymore.’ That’s when I knew.”
The dance.
Stiles’ jaw clenched.
The truth was, they had been dancing around each other for some time before that ball. Derek taught him horse-riding, self-defense, archery, and knife skills; a lot of it came with close contact, and the wolf was the only one who was not afraid or shy to touch him properly. He was the General of the Army, the one tasked with the prince’s safety. He was allowed. And Derek manhandled him at every opportunity. Not that Stiles resisted, twirling around the wolf like a moth around the flame.
And then, the ball, the dance; Stiles, emboldened by wine, drunk on closeness and shared heat of their bodies. They sneaked away, laughing in everyone's faces. Derek looked particularly smug, being the one to tug Stiles away. They ran into the gardens, into the overgrown maze, only to get lost, first in the foliage and the darkness, and then, in kisses. Stiles was hunger, and Derek was an appetite. The wolf left him gasping at the simple touch of his fingers, so unfamiliar and scandalous to the young omega at that time.
The wolf, however, quickly got him used to his mouth, his fingers, then to his cock — the taste and weight of it on his tongue, the thickness of it deep inside him, hitting his womb.
Stiles’ hunger turned into satisfaction — something he expected to have. The wolf’s appetite kept growing.
Cannot resist anymore.
“He’ll have you as his husband either way,” said the king with apologetic softness. “But he won’t mate with you if you resist." He waited for the omega's reply, but after Stiles stayed silent, King Peter patted his hand. "Your heart is tearing itself. You know too much about the Argents to get distracted by that pain. I need you with me, I need your mind. Talk to my nephew when he returns and listen to what he has to say. He did not expect you when he signed up to be a spy.”
“Is that an order?” asked Stiles in a hoarse voice.
The king smiled. “See? You already know everything.”
*
The delegation had arrived. Stiles felt it by the shift in the air, the ruckus and murmurs behind the door. Strangely, his stomach clenched in anticipation.
Habit, Stiles told himself. Simple habit.
He paced around the room, eagerly waiting for the news. Did they manage to intercept the Beacon’s forces? Or did they fight the Argents? How many did they lose? Did Derek—
Stiles cursed under his breath. His heart was stuck in his throat.
Even if they were successful, the wolf had plenty to do. He probably had to report to the king, arrange the stolen arsenal, eat, rest—
The lock clicked, and the door slammed open. It happened so suddenly that Stiles yelped. He started to turn, but in the next second, someone lifted him in the air. Strong, shaking arms wrapped tightly around the omega’s body, pressing him to the broad chest. The familiar prickle of beard upon Stiles’ neck forced an involuntary exhale, and the omega all but melted into the embrace.
Derek did not speak. It seemed all words had left him at that moment. A click of his throat, his labored breathing fanning against Stiles’ neck, and his heart pounding against Stiles’ chest — that was all the alpha was capable of.
Coming out of the fright, Stiles lowered his hands onto Derek’s shoulders. His feet dangled above the ground, but the alpha held him high and tight.
Stiles’ eyes prickled, his chest cinched. Slowly, his cheek came to rest against Derek’s sweaty temple.
The wolf chuckled, sending shivers down Stiles’ neck. “You’re still a sweetheart…”
What was he supposed to say? Once more, Derek left him speechless and empty-minded.
The alpha hummed. The tip of his nose rubbed against the underside of Stiles’ chin as he breathed, and breathed, and breathed…
“You smell better every time I leave,” he rumbled, and then, “I miss your taste.”
“Must you torment me?” whispered Stiles, his voice struggling to get through his tight throat.
He squawked when Derek pressed a sudden, hot kiss against his neck and put him onto the ground. The wolf did not let him go far, though, and immediately cupped his face. For a moment, Stiles thought that Derek would kiss him — and, oh, how his heart froze at the thought — but the wolf studied him intensely, his eyes running all over the omega, looking for god knows what.
“You look at me like that and dare to say a word about torment?” Derek’s smile was just a touch too bitter. His hands fell to Stiles’ waist, his eyes squinted. “How are your feet?”
“All healed.”
Derek hummed. He took Stiles to the bed and forced him to sit, then kneeled before him. Without asking, he took off Stiles’ shoes and warm stockings and looked over the red lines that were left after the wounds.
“Your healer knows what he’s doing,” said Stiles.
“Mm. Have you been taking walks?”
“Yes. The king and I have gotten acquainted.”
Derek gave him a look, then handed him the stocking. Stiles went to take it when suddenly, Derek caught him by the wrist.
Startled, Stiles looked down and snapped his mouth shut.
The wolf traced the clear imprint of a hand around Stiles' wrist. All softness disappeared from his face; his jaw clenched. He studied Stiles' wrist for a long time, and when he looked up, his eyes burned red.
“Who did this?” asked the wolf in a dead voice.
Stiles’ mouth went dry. There was no reason to hide it, truly.
“Raeken.”
Perhaps, someone in Derek's place would have asked what it was that Stiles had done to deserve such treatment, what did he say to the alpha's right hand, to the second person in the Hale's forces, for the said man to bruise him. But even now, with this tension between them, Stiles knew that Derek would do no such thing.
“Is that all?” asked Derek, watching him without blinking.
Stiles licked his lips. “He entered while I was bathing. Said he was worried that I took too long.”
“Did he see you?”
“Almost.”
Derek’s jaw clenched. His eyes had yet to return to hazel. “I’ll deal with it.” He took Stiles’ wrist and kissed the inside, then stood up at full height. “He will not bother you again.”
“He better not.”
The wolf let Stiles’ hand slip from his grip, nodded, and stormed out of the chambers.
A strange, forgotten feeling spread through Stiles’ chest and into his stomach. Like wine, it inebriated and warmed him. The small patch of skin where Derek kissed him now burned as if touched by a sizzling coal.
As much as he did not want to think about it, his love for Derek had not gone away. It went from a pleasant, tame fire to an open flame that burned the inner flesh of Stiles’ soul. And now, gasping and desperate, after the vast coldness of loneliness and betrayal, it was able to feel the soft tendrils of heat once more. Not fire, but sunlight on his skin. A palm above the candle. The distant flame for a wandering moth.
In the land of the wolves, the fear of fire meant certain death. Where there was warmth, there was life.
Did Derek really want him as his mate? If it were only about having the upper hand, Derek would have taken him as a husband, and that's it. There could be favorites, affairs, new lovers every week — such things were expected of a royal. But a mate? If the king spoke the truth, then it could mean a lifelong commitment. No affairs, no side glances. Derek would not do this to himself out of spite. Seducing someone to gain information? Sure. But signing himself away for life with someone he did not care about?
Cannot resist anymore.
I love you. Swear to me you won’t forget.
And then he went and left Stiles’ home and heart in blood-stained ruins.
Silent, Stiles stood up and walked up to the door. The handle did not turn when he tried it, secured by a lock. Too soon, then. The king usually let him out at dinnertime.
Stiles had to seek out Derek. Had to find the answers, even if they scorch him.
*
They let him out only in the morning, when the sun was high enough to blind anyone who dared to look at it. Eager and with his nailbeds bitten raw, Stiles hurried downstairs. Poor Isaac called for him, begging him to watch his step. He did not find Derek, but instead stumbled upon a king in the dinner hall.
King Peter was finishing his leisurely long breakfast and, upon seeing Stiles, called for him to join. Stiles was not able to have but a crumb in his mouth this morning, and it seemed that the king had sniffed it out because the man instantly sat him down and all but ordered him to eat. He was more delicate in his persuasion compared to his nephew, but no less insistent.
“You will have to excuse our Derek,” he drawled as he watched Stiles move the eggs around his plate, “he had some… urgent rearrangements to do, yesterday and today.”
Stiles threw him a bored look. “I know it’s about Raeken, your Grace.”
The king’s lips twitched in an amused smile. “Do you?”
"Yes. He was a second-in-command, was he not? I imagine, with his dismissal, Alpha Hale had to find a proper replacement."
“Mm.”
“He… He did not tell me,” Stiles sneaked a glance at the king. “How did it go? The mission?”
“Magnificent.” King Peter watched him with his cheek against his fist and a mischievous glint in his eyes, too bright for the morning. “Derek intercepted them just as they were about to leave the port for the Dove Isle. The troops were thoroughly confused as to why their general turned them back and took all their arsenal.” The king shrugged. “I am sure they’ll find out when they reach home.”
“Good,” said Stiles.
"Oh, very." King Peter smiled and stood up. "Now, would you be a dear and accompany me on the walk? I am craving some fresh air, and your cheeks look lovely, pinched by the cold. Besides, we need to discuss our next step…"
The air was crisp with sharp coldness. The snow shined under their feet, like heaps of tiny diamonds spread carelessly over the land. The lone sun sat high in the clear, vast blue. Dressed warmly, Stiles could only feel the cold on his face, just like the king said. They strolled around the inner yard where the winds could not get them; here and there, the wolves greeted them, curtsying and nodding as they passed. None of them were surprised to see Stiles’ hand around the king’s elbow, so used they were to the scene. It seemed particularly lively today, with hundreds of murmurs spreading across the castle — must be the excitement at the successful venture.
During these strolls with the king, Stiles felt the jabbing pain of his father’s absence particularly hard. His old man must have been worrying about him day and night. Did he think Stiles was in on the plan from the beginning? What would he think of his son after the marriage?
Quietly, they murmured about their plans, the backup routes, the emergency points; they’ve gotten quite good at firing ideas toward each other and dissecting them with predatory viciousness down to the most minute details. Neither the king nor Stiles expected such turnout, but now, the Argents' demise looked more promising each day.
“Your Grace?” probed Stiles after a bout of silence.
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you for something?”
“Depends on what it is.”
Stiles watched his feet kicking the snow as they walked. “If it comes to it, please, spare my father’s life.” The king did not reply, so Stiles continued, “My marriage would be enough for the people and our court. However, both love my father. They would rebel if you were to kill him.”
“So what do you suggest?” asked the king dryly.
“Again, if it comes to it, if he does not cooperate… Imprison him, for life if it calls for it. Lock him away — lock me away with him — but spare his life.”
The king stopped. He looked down, deep in thought, then lifted his eyes to the horizon. Stiles stared at him with his heart thrumming, waiting for a verdict.
“I cannot promise you,” muttered the king. “If Derek were to fall, I would not let them live. If he doesn’t and if your father does something heinous… I’ll think about it.”
Stiles breathed out. “Thank you.”
The king watched him closely. "That goes the same for you, your Grace. Do not break my nephew's heart. It is tough, but only when hiding behind the ribs, and he had given it to you to hold." The king's eyes were cold all of a sudden, calculating, sharp like the wind that bit Stiles' face. Were his mischievous smirk and lazy gestures a carefully crafted act? Or was this sudden coldness? Stiles looked at the king and only now understood that he would never know. “I hope and dread for the day when you understand how much power you truly own.”
The king looked away and squinted against the wind. Stiles watched him for a couple of moments, contemplating, then sighed, turned to continue on their way, and froze.
In front of them, in the middle of the closed square, was a heavy wooden structure, decades old. Steps led up to it, forcing it off the ground, as some sort of a stage. Stiles stared at the strange object dangling in the middle of it. He looked and looked, but his mind could not understand what it was that he was seeing, so still it was, so pale and blue was the frozen flesh…
“What?..” Stiles whispered hoarsely, unable to draw his eyes away. “What is that?”
The king’s eyes burned the side of his face.
“Theodore Karl Raeken.”
*
Stiles did not remember the way back.
He could not eat because his stomach clenched too tightly. Every murmur or a step forced a startle out of him. Lost in thought, Stiles lay on his bed, staring at the setting sun, then at the moon getting brighter and higher in the night sky.
The image of Raeken’s frozen, naked body rocking in the wind was embedded in his mind.
*
He jumped at the first flutter of a touch against his cheek. Within a second, his hand, clenched around the dagger, burst from under the pillow in a deadly strike.
Someone caught his wrist inches before the fateful impact.
“Hey, hey, easy…” An amused smile shined in the depth of Derek’s voice. He held Stiles’ hand until it was clear that the omega recognized him, then let go.
Stiles' poor heart raced, his breath short and heaving. The moonlight painted the silhouette of Derek's frame, while his face was shrouded by darkness. After a small sigh, Derek leaned away; something shuffled, and then, a candle fire flickered to life, newborn and trembling. Warm, golden flame was just enough to light the two of them, but nothing more.
As Stiles’ heart softened its beat, the fright lessened, and his eyes adjusted to the light, his mind awakened as well.
“Did you do it?” Stiles asked in a hoarse, sleepy voice.
The wolf sat close to him — so close that Stiles could feel the warmth coming off his body in waves. The candlelight softened Derek's angular features, his short beard, and his prominent eyebrows. He looked so big and broad, sitting there fully closed while Stiles shivered in his milky nightshirt.
“Yes.” The wolf’s eyes did not leave Stiles’.
The omega breathed out, gripping the dagger that rested on his lap. “Was it… because of what I said?”
Derek’s hand came to lie on Stiles' thigh, his thumb rubbing it back and forth. "No. It was because of what he did.”
“I told you, he did not—”
“I entrusted you to him. I ordered to keep you safe. He disobeyed.” Derek studied him with his head inclined. “He told me what he said to you. Told me everything that has been going on in his head ever since he saw you.”
Stiles did not need to guess what it was. He swallowed tightly. "I thought you would dismiss him."
“See, both of us can be wrong.”
“Have I been wrong about you, too, then?” Stiles’ voice grew desperate. His throat tightened. “You seduce me. Betray me. You ruin my home, take me away, and put me under a lock, and then you… hang the man that…” He shook his head. “And now your king says you want me as your mate. I do not know what to believe. No matter which way I turn, I feel like a fool who has been played.”
Derek watched him for a long time and then, strangely, smiled.
“I have taught you many things, have I not?” he asked lowly.
Stiles’ cheeks went rosy. “Yes.”
“Then let me show you what to do when you feel like someone takes you for a fool.”
Quick as lightning, Derek clamped his hand around Stiles', the one that was clutching the dagger, and lifted both to his neck. The sharp blade cut into the flesh, and the blood welled up on the surface.
“What are you doing?!” Stiles shrieked. He pulled at his hand but could not move it an inch, not even when he clawed at it with his other hand. The dagger pressed into Derek’s neck more and more. “Stop it!”
The wolf’s amused smile drove him mad. “You do this.”
“Derek!”
“Order me to tell the truth.”
“Are you insane?! Let me go!” Stiles’ voice grew hysterical. It seemed that his heart would explode into a bloody mess at any moment, so torturously fast it was beating. He all but hung on the dagger with his weight, trying to pry it from Derek’s grip, but it was at naught. Tears of anger and shock burst out of him along with a tormented whine.
“Come on, kitten, it is but a simple order,” murmured Derek, watching his desperate attempts with a grin.
Stiles bared his teeth in a frustrated snarl. “Tell me the truth, then!”
“About what?”
“Derek, please—”
“Just ask.”
“God— Why did you betray me?”
“You know the answer to that one. Ask me what you really want.”
Stiles’ body shook. A panicked sob burst out of his throat as he looked into the wolf’s calm eyes.
Inexplicably, they softened. “Come on,” he said with gentle encouragement, “ask me. Do not be afraid. I am here.”
The blood slid down the dagger in a loving caress, dripped down the handle, and warmed Stiles’ fingers, trapped under Derek’s unyielding grip.
“Why did you take me to your bed?” he asked. “Was it a game? Or did you love me?”
Derek’s lips twitched as if he were pleased. He stroked his thumb against Stiles' shaking hand as if the omega was not falling apart inches from him.
"Nothing had ever tempted me as you did. I had my hands on you during our training. I have seen you blush and squirm at my touch, and it only roused me. You think I wanted to fall in love with my enemy’s son? I had no time, nor desire for this. But you are just so…” he bared his teeth, looking all over Stiles’ face. “I thought we’d both get satisfied after that first night. Thought you were just an urge, a flare of lust. But once I learned what it was like to have you… I knew that you were not meant to be shared. I could not let anyone else see you like that. And I simply could not have anyone else.
“When my men went to brothels to forget, I caught myself thinking of your smile. Not even your taste, or smell, but your smile. Of course, I loved you. Loving you is the easiest thing that I had ever done.”
“You could have told me,” whispered Stiles. “I would have been on your side. You know that.”
“It is my battle, baby. My revenge. I won’t let it touch you.”
“What do you call this, then?”
Derek chuckled darkly. “They would have tortured you for information about me. They would not have blinked an eye that you are an omega, or a prince, or that you are young and did not know anything. They would have thrown you into their army barracks at night and not come until days later. I can handle your hatred and your tears if it means you are safe and untouched, and under my watch. I will never apologize for avenging my family, and I will never apologize for taking you with me. I know I hurt you. But I did it on my terms. I value your life more than your heart.”
The words crammed into Stiles’ mind. His blood thundered in his temples. With his chest rising and falling rapidly, Stiles nodded, frantic. “I get it. I understand. Please, let me go.” His eyes strayed toward the dagger that kept slicing into the wolf’s neck, while Derek did not seem to notice it at all.
“What did you understand?” asked Derek calmly, watching him. “Tell me.”
“Derek.”
“Say it.”
Angry tears scalded his cheeks. "You loved me. It was not a game."
“Right. And?”
“And…” Stiles swallowed against a sob. His eyes did not lift from Derek’s neck; perhaps, he knew that looking into the wolf’s eyes would hurt more. “And you still do. You love me.”
“Good boy.”
As soon as Derek released his hand, Stiles threw the dagger into the furthest corner as if it were a hissing, venomous snake and slapped the alpha across the face.
“How dare you do this to me?!” he screamed. Red splotches covered his face and neck. His chest was heaving, his fists clenched and shaking. “What if I startled or jumped or applied too much pressure, what if I killed you, do you know what it would do to me?! Do you? What if… what if I…”
The panic spilled over the brim, burning his flesh on its way. Ugly, heaving sobs burst from him along with tears. His fists, pounding at Derek’s chest, stopped, weakened all at once.
He broke entirely when Derek weaved his arms around his shivering frame and pulled the omega to his chest. With his face buried in the crook of Derek’s neck, Stiles allowed his spider-webbed glass of a soul to shatter at last. He clutched at Derek’s shirt, pressing himself tightly to the alpha — to his alpha; his every shuddering breath brought Derek's scent into his lungs and into his blood.
The wolf murmured something into his hair, stroking Stiles’ back and arms. Did he feel the slap at all? Stiles doubted so. Derek simply held him because it was what his omega needed.
Because Derek loved him.
It was so warm in his embrace, so indescribably safe and soothing. The alpha’s scent seemed intoxicating. For the first time in a while, Stiles could openly admit to himself that he missed Derek. Sure, the wolf left once in a while back in the day, but apart from that, Stiles had everyday access to the one he considered his alpha. He had never gone without his touch or scent for so long, and never strayed from it by his own will.
He hated it. All of it.
He hated loneliness and cold, empty beds.
Slowly, his sobs quietened into occasional, shuddering breaths. He softened in Derek’s lap and in his arms, letting the alpha take all his weight. It was ridiculous, but Stiles felt like he weighed a ton — his closing eyelids, his unclenched fists, lying uselessly in his lap, his tears that soaked through Derek’s shirt, and most of all his loudly beating heart.
Stiles did not want to carry it anymore. It was too heavy with all the love and sorrow.
But he knew who had enough strength to hold it.
He was probably the ugliest he had ever looked, with his puffy eyes and red face, when he emerged from the safe haven of Derek’s neck. With what little strength he had left, Stiles lifted his eyes to Derek’s and felt like crying all over again as he met the wolf’s gaze.
Soothing. Loving. Strong and dependable.
They looked at each other, as if meeting again after a long time apart. And, though Stiles’ lips stayed shut, Derek understood his plea just by looking into his eyes.
The wolf cupped Stiles’ face and kissed him.
*
Perhaps, it was the pinnacle of Stiles’ existence to be kissed by someone who loved him.
At least, that’s what Derek made him feel. The alpha lay on top of him; his hands stroked and caressed Stiles’ body, maddeningly slowly. Stiles melted under the firm pressure. It seemed he had lost control over his body, lost all strength, physical and emotional, and the only thing he could do was lie there, helpless, as Derek did what he had to do.
He reciprocated Derek’s kisses, opening his lips and letting Derek’s tongue stroke over his. His legs fell apart at the slightest nudge of Derek’s knee. He did not fight when the wolf hitched up his nightgown — just closed his eyes and exhaled in embarrassing relief.
A mewl broke off his lips at the first touch of Derek’s thumb to his clit. He closed his eyes even as Derek pressed his forehead against his; Stiles knew he was watching. But even this felt like too much after what they went through.
“Derek—” he breathed.
“Shh.”
Stiles arched as Derek's thick fingers went lower, stroked the sensitive, wet lips, and delved deeper, curling expertly. He clamped around Derek's fingers as they stroked him in and out. His thighs could not close, no matter how much he pushed and stayed spread around Derek's large frame.
Derek's hot breath rolled over his neck as the wolf pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along the skin. The scratch of his beard was so familiar, it almost made Stiles sob.
After long bouts of kissing, it did not take long for Stiles to come. Derek wasn’t even fast, just insistent and firm. He knew exactly where to push, how much pressure to apply, how to handle Stiles inside and out — the wolf knew so much about him, it was almost embarrassing.
Stiles’ eyes stayed closed. Derek did not talk.
The wolf waited until he stopped gasping to push his fingers out. Everything was wet — his hands, the sheets under them, the front of Derek's trousers. None of them paid any mind; only Stiles' cheeks reddened more.
Stiles did not protest when Derek slid his hands under and gently turned him over. His eyes opened just a touch at the sound of the metal buckle unclasping. He watched the wax slowly spill over the edge of the overly warm candle. The flame was slow, constant, casting a soft glow upon his face, while the rest of the room was pitch black.
Stiles’ breath hitched when Derek took his hips and slid a pillow under them. He clenched his eyes shut, awaiting. His hands slid under the pillow and clutched at it. The bed dipped right near his face as Derek rested his hand on it, and Stiles instinctively grasped at his wrist.
He bit his lip when Derek stroked the tip of his cock over Stiles’ soaked opening. He knew by now what to expect, but still, his breath froze as Derek breached him. The shape of him was familiar, the stretch, the pulsing feel; still, Stiles whimpered as Derek’s cock slid deeper and deeper. And the omega was so wet that it seemed there was no resistance at all. There never would be, as long as it was Derek.
Pushing his legs apart, Derek lowered on top of him. Stiles went all red when he realized that Derek did not undress, just gasped when the metal buckle pressed into his tender cheek.
At last, Derek was fully seated inside him. The wolf stroked his sides, trying to soothe, his lips hovering over Stiles’ heated cheek, his temple, his neck, but the stretch was just as unforgiving as always. This time, Derek gave him a minute to adjust; perhaps, he needed a minute himself so as not to come immediately.
Then, slowly, he started to rock. Back and forth, gently at first, pulling out in small increments and pushing back in. Still, Stiles felt tears gathering behind his eyelids. He bit his lip, but it wasn’t enough to keep his whimpers hidden, no matter how pathetic they were. They burst out of him as Derek increased his thrusts. The wolf, however, remained silent.
The words, it seemed, did not matter. What mattered was Derek, ruining him for everyone else, claiming him over and over again.
Derek’s cock, thick and engorged, pounded into him with a force just a touch away from too much. The alpha weaved his arms around Stiles’ chest and leaned all his weight on top, fucking into him harder and harder. Was he punishing Stiles for not trusting in his love? No, Derek would never use sex as punishment. Perhaps, a reminder, then — the one he would not forget.
The air heated, thickened between them. It smelled like sex, like sweat and slick. Stiles felt Derek’s abs flexing against his back as the wolf rocked in and out in a maddening rhythm.
There was nowhere to get away from him. Derek was too strong, too heavy, too all-encompassing, possessive, and deep. No matter what Stiles did, he would stay. That's what this was about. The wolf would catch him, pin him, hold him in the tight vice of his arms; Stiles could squirm and cry and wail — Derek would not let go.
Stiles’ legs shook at the onslaught. His stomach was clenched tight, his lungs too constricted to take a full breath. Still, he gasped, and small, soft “uh-uh-uh” fell from his lips.
Tears streamed down his face, unstoppable and stinging. He had never felt this hot. His body rocked along as Derek fucked into him, completely at his mercy. If Derek used him, then let it be so. Stiles was tired of thinking, of being and feeling anything besides the overwhelming pleasure.
He yelped as Derek’s fingers found his clit again. He clenched around Derek’s cock, mewling into the pillow, squirming, and trying to close his legs, but nothing worked. He could only shudder and whine as the wolf brought him to another orgasm, not stopping to let him breathe. His rhythm was almost mechanical in nature, too knowing for Stiles’ comfort.
He was Derek’s, through and through. All of him. He belonged to the wolf, his body, heart, and soul.
He shuddered, wailing in Derek's arms. He arched into Derek's thrusts, trying to wiggle away from his insistent hand, but Derek kept stroking him, caressing his soaked, puffy lips, and nudging at his rosy clit.
“Derek—” he sobbed weakly. “I can’t…”
But Derek only kissed his cheek. He bore into the omega, circling his hips. Stiles whined as he felt the pressure grow. It seemed like Derek was getting bigger while inside him, but how was that—
“Ah!” Stiles gasped, squirming under him.
The wolf held him by the hips and pushed and pushed. There was something bulbous at the base of his already thick cock, and Derek seemed determined to push it inside.
“Derek…” he whined, crying from the stretch, but it only kept growing. “What— It’s too big, please, I can’t—”
He wailed as Derek ground into him. Something popped inside him. The pressure released along with Derek’s breathy groan right into his ear, and in the next second, Stiles’ insides were flooded with thick, hot come.
Stiles could only lie there, buried in the sheets, as Derek's heavy cock pulsed and pulsed, filling him deep. The stretch was unlike anything he had experienced before; it seemed to be on the verge of pain, but never over it. Maybe, the wolf had something to do with that, considering…
Derek kept coming.
Stiles' legs ached from being stretched for so long, though there was nothing he could do. He felt himself grow heavier and warmer with Derek's come. Stiles slid his hand down, but found Derek's hand already over his womb.
They lay, breathing heavily. There was but an inch of the candle left, and the wax had dripped all over the nightstand in white splatters. It would not be long until the flame died for the final time.
With a shuddering, deep breath, Derek kissed his neck gently, gripped onto Stiles’ waist, and turned them on their sides. Stiles cried out at the change in pressure and the stretch until Derek adjusted enough to let Stiles breathe. The wolf’s hands caressed Stiles’ lower stomach, dangerously close to his most tender, oversensitive parts.
“What—” Stiles murmured in a hoarse, croaky voice. His blinks were lethargic, his mind empty.
“It was my knot,” said Derek, his voice just as rough as Stiles felt. “I could not knot you before, as you’d guess what I am. You don’t even know how long I wanted to do that.”
“It’s so big,” whined Stiles in a thin voice. His eyes closed, exhausted. “So heavy.”
Derek’s chuckle warmed his cheek. “It is designed to ensure the successful conception.” He groaned as he spurted more come; his thighs flexed against Stiles’. At last, Derek released his breath and stroked Stiles’ waist in a non-existent apology. “We’ll stay tied for some time. You can sleep.”
Stiles blinked into the approaching darkness. “But I—”
“You cannot get pregnant outside of your heat, I know that. But it is my instinct to keep trying.”
An image of him with his belly full flickered in Stiles’ mind for a moment before the omega dismissed it. The very thought of it made his insides clench from tenderness and longing so painful that it hurt to breathe.
“Derek?” he murmured, closing his eyes. His cheek rested against Derek’s stretched arm. The alpha was but a wall of heat at his back, hot and strong.
“Mm?”
“Tell me again.”
The tip of Derek’s nose pushed against Stiles’ neck. “I love you.”
Stiles breathed out. Every square inch of him felt raw and open. But there was darkness around him, Derek’s hand against his stomach, and his cock buried deep inside him. It seemed sinful the way Stiles found it soothing.
“Rest,” the alpha ordered, nuzzling at him.
Stiles had nothing left to do but obey.
*
"You smell like him again," said the king so openly, as if they were discussing the weather.
Stiles’ face reddened. It should have been obvious that wolves would know these things. And after Derek had him last night, then again at dawn, then again as they bathed… Yes, Stiles probably smelled nothing like himself.
“No need to shy away,” the king reassured after noticing Stiles’ stunned silence. “The pack would accept you more eagerly once they smell that their leader accepted you. You smell claimed, and loved, and like one of their own.”
Stiles pursed his nose. He caught several of the wolves’ glances as they walked. “So they would be less inclined to kill me?” he grumbled.
The king smirked. His cheeky silence was an answer in itself.
*
“If I am to stay here,” said Stiles, observing the wine-colored canopy above Derek’s bed, “does that mean I am no longer your prisoner?”
“You shall remain my hostage until our wedding.” Frowning, Derek busied himself with unclasping his cuffs. “I have just… relocated you.”
“To your bed.”
The corners of the wolf’s lips twitched. He slowly walked toward Stiles and pushed at the omega’s chin with his finger. “Our bed, my love. Better get used to it.”
Humming in contemplation, Stiles looked down and traced his hand over the soft sheets. The spacious room felt warmer than his chambers, luxurious, and more lived-in. It smelled overwhelmingly of Derek and, to Stiles’ satisfaction, no one else. All day, the staff had been transferring Derek’s clothes from one closet to another, as they had to make space for Stiles’ clothes. He had a few outfits that Derek had stolen over the months, but the alpha said they were making him more.
It was then, perhaps, when it hit Stiles that he was here to stay. This castle in the middle of the snowy mountains, getting blasted with ice winds from all sides, surrounded by myriads of prowling, howling wolves, is going to be his permanent home. He was going to marry here. His children would run around these very halls.
Children.
Derek took his chin in his fingers and lifted it.
“You look tired.” He frowned.
“It is your smell,” Stiles sighed, “it is making me sleepy.”
“Sleep, then. No one will bother you here.”
Nodding, Stiles toed off his shoes and lifted his feet on the bed. He groaned quietly as his head hit the pillows and the wolf’s scent wafted in his face; Stiles hugged one of them, tugging it to under his cheek. With a chuckle, Derek pulled covers over him, leaned over, and pressed his lips to Stiles’ temple.
His lips lingered for a long moment before the wolf pressed his nose into Stiles' neck and inhaled.
“Mm,” Stiles frowned, pushing at him as his beard tickled.
After another kiss on Stiles' cheek, Derek pulled away, humming to himself.
*
Holding the walls for support, Stiles stumbled through the long halls, down and down the flights of stairs in search of an escape. Warmed by the flame, the wax dribbled down the candle onto his fingers. They should have burned, but Stiles did not feel a thing. He had no time. He had to get out. He had to…
The wolves he met along the way stopped and stared at him in confusion and alarm, though no one dared to touch him, and he scurried away before anyone could talk. The candle provided little light, but that was where his muscle memory kicked in, as he took almost daily walks with the king and knew where to go.
It felt like he was forgetting something or someone, but his mind was full of cotton wool. His limbs grew heavier with every step. Stiles bared his teeth in a snarl at the passerby, though at this hour, there were few around.
He walked and walked through the castle’s maze, his feet catching onto themselves, when suddenly, a distant, mournful howl thundered through the walls. Even Stiles could hear the urgency in it, the alarm and the anger. His breath hitched, his heart in his throat. Murmuring nonsense under his nose, Stiles quickened his step.
At last, he reached the small exit to the inner gardens. It was not guarded, to his fortune.
Bursting through the doors, Stiles fell right into a heap of snow with a sharp cry. The candle fell from his hand and went out in an instant. The blessed, cold night air filled his scorching lungs, and the omega gulped it with his eyes closed in bliss. It felt like his skin would steam any minute now, just like his breath.
The howls multiplied. Or was it an echo?
Shaking, Stiles grabbed the snow with his red fingers and splashed it against his neck, rubbing it in. It took his breath away. For several moments, he could not breathe, just gasping for breath in the cold.
Perhaps, it was too cold…
“Your Grace?”
Stiles flinched. Swaying, he looked up and around until his gaze focused on the lone, big figure of a black werewolf standing not far from him. His eyes glowed golden under the furried brows, his frame tense and ready to spring.
Stiles stilled as well, staring up at him. He should stand, should pull out his dagger, but there was almost no strength left.
The strange man stepped closer. “Your Grace, please… Let me help you into the castle. Humans do not handle the cold well.”
Stiles bared his teeth in a pitiful parody of a snarl.
The man's face cleared. His shoulders squared. With a determined, grim set to his mouth, he lifted his chin and howled so loudly that it made Stiles cower and cover his ears.
Behind him, in the castle, someone answered with an angry howl. Thunder rolled down the stairs, someone shouted, someone growled, and then—
Stiles screamed as rough, strong hands grabbed him around the waist and lifted him off his snow.
“Let go,” whined Stiles, squirming.
"Wanted to run away, didn't you?" Derek's growl was full of ice shards. Stiles would have shivered if he were not already doing so.
“No…”
“You thought I would not catch you, huh?”
“I wasn’t—”
He yelped as someone turned him around. Blinking hard, he found himself face to face with a half-shifted Derek, glaring at him with red eyes. His hands, wrapped around Stiles' thighs and waist, were shaking.
“Do my words mean nothing to you?” the wolf snarled. “You will never leave these walls, do you understand me? Never. I will not let you. You think you can run from me? Think you can play— What… what are you doing?”
His frantic, furious words went over Stiles’ head. Ignoring the wolf, Stiles looked down, picked up the handful of snow melting between the folds of his nightshirt, and swallowed it with a pleased hum.
“Alpha?” Derek tensed at the voice and glared over Stiles’ shoulder at someone — perhaps, the same black wolf from before. Now that Stiles was looking, there were a lot of people pouring from all the corners to watch the scene unfold. Stiles whined, straining to hide from their glances. “Alpha, look at him.”
With his teeth bared, Derek looked up at Stiles — really looked at him. His eyes ran over Stiles' flushed face, his state of undress, his nightshirt, soaked at the front and clinging to his chest, and the droplets of melted snow showering his neck and face. At last, the wolf looked into Stiles' delirious, glassy eyes. His nostrils flared.
“Fuck,” he muttered darkly, then looked around for the same wolf. “Bring Alan to my chambers. Now.”
Without waiting for an answer, he swiveled around and made his way upstairs.
His shaking slowly came to a stop as they ascended. Stiles leaned over him, exhausted beyond comprehension. It seemed this late-night run had sucked all energy out of him, though he slept for an entire day…
“Shouldn’t have left you…” muttered Derek under his breath. “Knew, fucking knew it that something was wrong…”
Stiles closed his eyes. “Derek?”
“What?”
“I’m tired.”
A deep sigh. “I know, love.”
“Go to bed with me.”
“Getting to it.”
Within seconds, Stiles somehow got on Derek's bed, though no matter how much he tugged at the alpha's arms, the wolf would not budge. Then, Deaton arrived for whatever reason, though Stiles did not invite him, which he had announced loud and clear, and made him drink some putrid-smelling liquid in a vial. Stiles would not have gone anywhere near it if it weren't for Derek looking at him so strictly. Stiles' pouting did not help.
Deaton left. Stiles managed to get Derek to lie next to him and pillowed his cheek on the wolf’s chest. His own stomach fluttered from closeness. Slowly, he started to feel cold despite the sweat on his temples. Something throbbed deep inside him, making him wince in discomfort.
“Stiles?”
“What?”
“Are you with me?”
Stiles huffed. “Clearly.”
“Look at me.”
Swallowing complaints, Stiles lifted his cheek from Derek's chest and glared at him. "What?" he repeated.
A strange, eager expression overtook the wolf’s face. He reached out and stroked the hair away from the omega’s forehead, then cupped his cheek, holding him in place.
“We do not have much time. Deaton gave you something to stave it off for a few hours, and we have something important to decide here.” He watched as Stiles scrunched his forehead in confusion and sighed. “You are going into heat.”
“What?!” Stiles’ heart sank into his stomach. He tried to lift himself off the alpha, but Derek held him strong. “I don’t— Why? I am not going into heat, it is way too early, I cannot—”
“You have been too distressed for a while, and your body seeks extreme comfort.”
“Nothing about a heat is comforting!”
“Listen to me,” growled Derek, making Stiles focus on him again. “We will spend it together.”
“But—”
“It is not up for discussion.”
Stiles paled. His mouth dried. “Derek, I—”
“I am going to be here. You do not need to be afraid. I shall take care of you. Of everything. Do you…” Derek swallowed. “Do you trust me?”
They stared at one another, knowing that trust was too small a word to encompass what was about to happen.
Stiles and Derek spent countless nights together. Rough and soft, hard and slow, they had been through everything. And, while Derek was bigger and stronger than him, while the alpha could overpower him any minute, Stiles was conscious through it all. He whined and complained sometimes, but knew that Derek would adjust to his needs.
However, in heat, Stiles would lose his mind completely. He would be a doll at the alpha’s mercy and wish to do as he pleased. Derek could do anything to him, and Stiles would not be able to say a word. The wolf could give him to anyone, could discard him for these three hellish days, could throw him out in the cold, and Stiles would do as he said, because Derek would be the alpha in charge.
If they were to spend Stiles' heat together, the omega would have to entrust the care of his body to Derek's hands.
Stiles looked into the alpha’s eyes and could not form a single word. His mouth stayed firmly shut, and only his heart pounded against Derek’s chest.
"Have you…" Stiles cleared his throat, feeling the blood pool away from his face. "Have you spent a heat with—"
“No.”
An exhale of little relief. “Do you know what is going to happen to me?”
Derek stroked his cheek. “Yes.”
“I am not going to be present. At all.”
“I will take care of you if you only let me.” Derek’s voice had a strange, eager edge to it. A red sheen overtook his eyes. “We will do whatever you want, be it my fingers, my mouth — anything. I can simply watch over you, if you want. I am all yours."
But I am going to be all yours as well, thought Stiles.
He stared into Derek’s eyes as hope slowly died inside them. His stomach clenched into a knot.
“Derek?” he asked in a quiet, hoarse voice.
“Yes?”
“Promise to not give me to someone else.”
The hurt flared in Derek’s eyes before he stifled it. The wolf nodded, cupped Stiles’ face, and pulled him in. His lips pressed against Stiles’ feverous forehead.
“I promise.”
Closing his eyes, Stiles leaned into him, folding himself over Derek’s chest, and hid his face in Derek’s neck. It was dark there and warm. Here, it seemed, no one would ever find him.
There was nothing else Derek could have said. Just those two simple words.
Stiles did not have time to test Derek's loyalty, nor his intentions, nor the depth of his love. No, the heat would be the answer to it all. It was the peak of Stiles' vulnerability; he would either shatter into a myriad of pieces when he fell, or… or have his alpha catch him.
“Goodbye, then,” mumbled Stiles, as the sleepiness and fervor slowly took over. “See you on the other side.”
“Yeah,” Derek’s voice was hoarse and quiet. “Goodbye.”
*
“Alpha…”
“I’m here, love. Shh.” Firm touch, quiet kiss. “You are mine. Only mine.”
*
The sun blinded him upon waking. It speckled through the frost-stained window, breaking into thousands of tiny light particles on the en-suit floor, past the bottles, vials, towels, and discarded clothes.
Stiles blinked languidly. It took him a few minutes to orient himself. Lifting his head, Stiles glanced down; his arms were wrapped around someone’s broad shoulders, his cheek rested upon someone’s wet, black hair, and his chest was pressed to someone’s hairy chest. There were arms around him, holding him in a steady, sure grip. His hole was stretched around a now familiar knot, his walls milked a thick cock in rhythmic clenches. Stiles groaned a little at the fullness inside him and winced.
“Easy, kitten,” someone rumbled tiredly. “It’s all yours.”
The hot water sloshed around them, soothing his sore muscles. It smelled vaguely of rose oil, but every scent mellowed in contrast with the overwhelming musk of the alpha.
He smelled of no one but the alpha.
Swaying, Stiles leaned away just a little bit and, with a pounding heart, looked into the face of the man holding him.
Derek opened his closed eyes and blinked at him. He frowned, and then his gaze narrowed.
“Are you with me?” he asked quietly.
Stiles took a second to remember how to talk. “Mm… yeah.”
“Yeah.” Slowly, Derek’s lips bloomed into a smile. His entire face brightened with it, so much that it left Stiles in awe. “Hi, then.”
“Hi.”
Derek’s hands stroked Stiles’ back. “How are you feeling?”
Stiles blinked at him blearily, then closed his eyes with a hum and put his temple against the wolf’s. “Sore,” he croaked.
“It’s been three days.”
“Mm.”
“Do you remember anything?”
Stiles frowned. Sensing the tension, Derek instantly soothed his hand down Stiles’ thighs and, damn it, that worked.
“Did something happen?” asked Stiles.
“No,” Derek hurried to reassure him. “No, baby. You were very sweet.”
Stiles groaned, knowing that in reality, he probably just whined every time Derek went away for more than a couple of feet and demanded to be fucked regardless of time or the alpha’s energy. Although, it did feel like Derek reciprocated enthusiastically…
“Now we definitely have to marry," murmured Derek, failing to sound neutral.
Stiles pursed his nose and leaned away to glance at him. “Why is that?”
Derek suppressed a smile. “I’ve been with you for three days, love. There is no way you are not with child already.”
Ah…
“I’m not,” said Stiles and snorted when Derek’s smile fell.
“Why?” the wolf sounded offended.
“Deaton has been giving me potions. Per my request!” quickly added Stiles, feeling Derek going still beneath him.
“You… don’t want—”
Stiles pushed his hand onto the wolf’s mouth. “I do. But I will not raise a child of a dead man. Or a loser.” He met Derek’s gaze readily. “You win this war, and my child shall bear your name. Lose, and your bloodline ends by me.”
Derek watched him silently for a long time. The red ring circled his pupils, a touch away from exploding. The muscles in his jaw bulged and relaxed. At last, the wolf nodded.
“I see.” His voice was rough and thick.
“Good.”
Derek’s eyes slipped from Stiles’ gaze to his lips to his neck, marked lovingly by lovebites. The wolf’s hands unfroze and slowly restarted stroking Stiles’ skin. Derek all but forced himself to relax, though Stiles could feel his cock harden inside. The omega bucked forward, clenching around it, then settled into a soft, slow ride, barely undulating inch by inch. His stomach rubbed against Derek’s hairy abs, and his lower lip caught softly between his teeth.
Derek’s eyes, his face, his touch — everything was filled with hunger.
“Start thinking about names,” he murmured, unable to tear his eyes away from Stiles’ sinfully moving body. “You’ll bear the child of a victor by the end of the year.”
Stiles smiled, cupped Derek’s face, and caught his lips.
*
“It is not about the revenge anymore, eh?” the king wondered.
Stiles squinted against the sharp wind. With his head inclined, he stood by King Peter and watched as the wolves trained on the ground below the balcony. Everyone felt the new invigoration and fervor coming off Derek in waves. He trained all day, from early morning until the very dawn, growling and snapping, pushing his wolves to their limits; however, his nights belonged to Stiles and Stiles alone, and the wolf knew better than to disobey.
“Did he tell you?” asked Stiles without looking at the king.
“I was simply surprised by his energy.” The wolf shrugged. “Thought it would be the other way around, considering…”
They fell silent for a while as Stiles' blush bloomed and faded. The omega watched as the newly appointed second-in-command — that black wolf who found him outside on the premises of his heat — walked between the wolves, critiquing their sparring with few, but precise words. The king thought he was too young, but Derek said he had been considering him for a while. So far, they worked splendidly together.
"You gave him something to live for," the king murmured suddenly, so quiet that Stiles struggled to hear him. "I feared what would happen to him after the war. He was so fixated on it. Obsessed… But once the Argents' blood dries on his hands — what then?”
“I’ll give him children to hold once it does,” said Stiles.
A small smile flickered past the king’s lips. It was, perhaps, the most genuine Stiles had ever seen it be.
“I want my father to be present for my wedding,” Stiles added quietly. “Not the mating ceremony — that is not for his eyes to see — but for the wedding…” He glanced at the king. “Can you arrange that?”
The king hummed and, after a few minutes, replied. “Do you think he will want that?”
Stiles lowered his eyes. His stomach clenched.
The king sighed. "I'll see what I can do. See if he behaves as well as he has been for these past months. See, if you behave.”
“I give my womb to the wolves, and you dare to question me, your Grace?”
“Yours is not the only womb available to him.”
“It is the only one he wants to have.”
They looked at each other. Slowly, the king smirked. “Ah, you see it now. I am glad. Your blindness was quite tiring.”
Stiles gave him an understanding, if guilty, smile and turned back to the training field only to find his wolf's eyes fixed on him. The omega shivered from the gaze, pleased to be the prey.
*
The news of the engagement spread far, wide, and fast. Many had already heard the rumors of the rapidly growing Hale army, led by the merciless but undefeated traitor. There were not a lot who were willing to ally with the Hales, but considering that the most important alliance in the face of the Stilinskis was already secured, it mattered little. Too many people lost supplies and income after the wolves disturbed the trade to the Argent land; thus, the trade withered until it died altogether. The Argents were left hungry, their armory supplies waning.
They were ready for a strike, but still, it did not save them.
The battle lasted two months. Stiles slept so little that the shadows under his eyes barely lightened. He and the king spent their nights together, in the library, in total silence most of the time; King Peter played chess with himself, Stiles struggled to read books; sometimes, when they got drunk on wine, the king told him stories about their family — stories that Stiles knew he had to tell his future children. The wolf's voice grew quiet; its somberness cinched Stiles' throat.
The king never touched him intimately, though there were many opportunities for him to do so. Sometimes, they spent entire days and nights side by side. The omega had never feared him, though Derek said that he should; perhaps, it was the resemblance to Stiles’ father that soothed him, or maybe, it was the dagger on his thigh.
Sometimes, Stiles caught the judging looks of the human servants, many of whom thought him to be unfaithful. The wolves, on the other hand, now knew very well to whom Stiles belonged. They could smell it. Any temptation that could have been was thwarted instantly by one single walk across the backyard, where Raeken’s corpse hung, shriveled, black, and frozen.
Rarely did Stiles come and look at it. Derek forbade anyone to touch it until spring, when the rotting starts — something about Stiles being pregnant by then, and the stench upsetting his stomach. Before Stiles, Raeken served well. He was vicious in battle, had a firm hand with warriors, and supported his alpha. He was a good second-in-command. But when it came to Stiles, Derek did not tolerate disobedience. Not even from his closest. It was but a glance, a word, an unwanted presence, yet here Raeken was. Rotting.
*
“I believe you will mate upon his arrival. Do not expect him to hold any longer.”
“Peter…” Stiles put the utensils down, leaned back into his chair, and glared at the king. “Please.”
The wolf shrugged. “Maleficiating is your burden, not mine.”
"Just… wait until it is over. Talks of the future only lead to thoughts of grim possibilities."
“You let nerves get to your stomach.” Peter tore off a bread bun, slathered it in butter, took Stiles’ limp hand, and shoved the bun in it. “Eat, or else my nephew thinks I am starving you."
“Peter.”
“And I like my head and neck attached, thank you. I sent a letter to your father, by the way. A formal invitation.”
Stiles sighed. He pinched off some bread and put it in his mouth. The correspondence from Derek stopped, which meant only two things: either they were violently destroyed, or they were busy hurrying home. He mourned the carrier pigeons that he loved to terrorize back in Beacon; although stupid, the birds did the job better than sending young wolves to run back and forth.
He barely noticed the servant who came and leaned close to Peter’s ear. The king’s face remained neutral — a habit Stiles yearned to acquire. The king nodded and dismissed the man, then poured some wine into his glass. When Stiles pushed his goblet, Peter tsked.
“Not this time,” he muttered.
“Why?” complained Stiles.
But Peter, strangely cheery, only toasted to him. Smacking his lips, Peter sniffed at the bread and pulled the napkin off his lap.
"Have you thought of the name yet?" he asked.
Stiles frowned. “What?”
“The name, my boy. The name.”
“Wh—”
The doors opened heavily. Startled, Stiles turned around.
A cry wrung out of his chest. The chair toppled onto the floor. With breath caught in his lungs, Stiles burst into a sprint across the room and jumped at the last minute.
“Hello to you, too, my love.” Derek’s warm breath coated his neck as he chuckled.
Stiles’ body shook even more when the wolf’s arms wrapped around him, colder than usual from being outside for so long. His thick fur coat was soaked with melting snow, his boots all white from frost; his beard was thicker than Stiles had ever seen it, his hair long and frosted. He smelled like dirt, sweat, and exhaustion.
Words refused to come. Instead, Stiles heaved frantic sobs of pure joy mixed with grief that he had been preparing himself for. It all came out now in one burst of sweet tears that Derek was busy licking off his cheek.
“Do not cry,” Derek laughed, his voice rough and tight. “God, you smell so… Let me look at you. There you go.”
His cold hands traced down Stiles' red cheek. His eyes ran all over Stiles’ face, hungry and desperate despite the tiredness.
“I’m getting you all dirty, angel,” Derek laughed and rubbed Stiles’ cheek. “I missed you so—”
Stiles covered his lips, kissing him deeply. He did not allow himself such grand shows of affection, not in front of the entire army, it seemed like, but he could not help himself in the moment. The greed took over. A moment longer, and his heart would have burst if it weren’t for the kiss.
Derek answered him readily, accepting Stiles’ lips and tongue like one would accept a gift from a deity. The wolf kept smiling and kissing him in apology. It was so warm in his arms, so safe and secure, that Stiles felt like he would float if it weren’t for Derek holding him.
Derek’s beard was cold from melting snow. His fangs came out, delightfully sharp under Stiles’ tongue. The wolf’s claws pricked through Stiles’ clothes, an inch from piercing his skin.
Stiles did not care. As long as that heart beat against Stiles' chest, he did not care.
“Tell me the name,” Derek breathed harshly into his open, puffy lips when they parted. “Tell me…”
“Eli.”
Derek pressed a hard kiss to Stiles' lips, but could not hold a kiss for long, as the smile ruined it. “Eli,” he chuckled, breathless.
He put Stiles on the ground, but kept him close with his hand on the omega’s waist. Stiles felt dizzy from how hard his heart was beating and swayed into him, plastering himself to the wolf’s side.
“Nephew.”
Stiles did not even notice him come. He looked up at the king with his eyes brimming with tears, but Peter had his eyes on Derek.
Without saying a word, Derek picked something from his belt on his side and handed it to the king. The gold shined in morning sunlight. Peter held the crown, speckled with something burgundy in color, and stroked his thumb over the regal gemstones. At last, he looked up at Derek, who met his gaze readily. His smile was small, but warm and proud.
“I did not doubt you,” he said. His eyes flared bright blue, the way Stiles had not seen them do before. “Thank you.”
Derek answered with his own royal red.
“I’ve got something for you, as well,” muttered the alpha, looked over his shoulder, and released him.
Following his gaze, Stiles saw a couple of wolves unloading a small chest off one of the sledges. It was simple, yet grim; it looked like it had been buried in heaps of snow. Per Derek’s nod, they carried it over to the very end of the breakfast table, void of food.
“What is it?” asked Stiles, leaning over Derek’s shoulder. He felt guilty for speaking so ill of his suitors before, as many brought him similar chests, if not bigger, filled with treasures, books, and fabrics from all over the world to impress him. Would Derek remember his comments? Stiles would certainly be much nicer if it were Derek who brought him gold. The suitors could only dream about his ways to express gratitude…
Derek did not answer. Instead, he unlocked the chest and stepped aside, letting Stiles see it in full.
The omega did not understand it at first. He frowned and carefully pushed aside handful after handful of tightly packed snow as it melted against his skin, until he felt something cold and hard, like a big stone sitting at the bottom of the chest. He arched an eyebrow at Derek, but the wolf watched him so intensely that the omega tensed.
“What is i— Oh.”
The big dark-red “stone” fell from his hands back into the chest. Stiles stared at it, then at his own hands, now stained red, and finally back at the alpha.
The wolves stood aside, tight as strings. Each waited with bated breath for a verdict.
But Stiles only had eyes for one of them.
“Is it…” Stiles croaked, then licked his dry lips. “Is it his?”
Derek watched him for some time, unblinking, then took Stiles’ hands and wiped the blood off his palms with the edge of his coat.
“It once belonged to Gerard Argent,” said Derek, looking up. “Now it belongs to you.”
Stiles looked down at the still, frozen heart. The heart of the enemy, taken by wolf’s hands, as per the oldest tradition in werewolf culture, signified the first step of the mating ritual. Once it began, there was no stopping it, short of total rejection.
“Do you accept it?” Derek’s quiet voice reached through his buzzing thoughts. One could almost take it for a plea, yet there was nothing pathetic in those words. It was an earnest, deep want.
Gazing at Derek now, Stiles knew that by midnight, he would become the Alpha Mate of the Hale pack.
“I do,” said Stiles. His hand slipped into Derek’s. “Mate with me.”
He startled and laughed as, behind them, the king howled. One by one, the wolves joined until the walls and the ground hummed under Stiles’ feet.
*
“It looks like it hurt.”
"It would not matter if it did."
His father’s eyes tore away from the mating scar on Stiles’ neck and pinned them on his son’s radiant face. His mouth was set in a tight, grim line. His eyes had never lit through the entire evening, despite the present cheer.
Though Stiles picked his own wedding attire, he could not help but regret not covering his neck and shoulders. Derek’s bite was huge and deep, with jagged, broken lines across his shoulder and a bit of his neck, as the alpha was fully shifted when he took the omega that fateful day. Stiles’ cheeks pinkened as he remembered it.
“Nothing you say will ever convince me that you consented to this.”
“Father.”
“Nothing,” insisted the king of Beacon with tightly sealed fervor breaking his voice.
Stiles licked his lips and turned away. Immediately, he noticed gazes dropping off him, breathless chuckles, and red cheeks heating people’s faces. Stiles looked stunning, and he knew that, though it did little to please him.
He slid his thumb across the glass’ edge, studying it. “I thought it would calm you seeing me tonight. You were the one whining about marriage since I was sixteen. But when I do it on my own terms…”
"You are not doing it on your terms."
“Did you really think I was going to marry Parrish?” Stiles bit out.
They glared at one another until an amused voice broke the silence.
“Parrish?”
“Derek!” Stiles gasped and immediately attached himself to his side. Derek’s hand slid into place on his waist as if it always belonged there, sending shivers up Stiles’ spine.
“You were going to give him to Parrish, really? Him?” Derek arched his eyebrow at the king of Beacon. Ignoring Stiles' insistent poking, the wolf caught Stiles’ hand and kissed the back of it before trapping it forever in his hold. “Jordan would have never known what to do with you.”
Stiles' father grit his teeth, glaring at him. It seemed he had sworn himself to eternal silence while in Derek’s presence. Beyond being incredibly sad on Stiles’ heart, it also made the interactions very awkward.
“Do not try to tell me you would not have tried to disrupt the wedding,” said Stiles.
“Parrish would simply not have lived long enough to walk the aisle.”
“Derek!”
“Mm?”
“If you start a war, I am taking the kid and—”
His father choked.
“A kid?!” he shouted, getting red. He followed Stiles’ hand, which flew to his stomach, then up to his face.
Before Stiles could think of what to say, Derek took his hand and tugged him toward the center of the room to dance. The wolves cheered, and the small orchestra settled into an instant song.
Derek’s hands wrapped around Stiles’ frame and tugged the omega close so that Stiles’ belly was pressed to the wolf’s stomach. The baby bump was too small to be recognized by anyone who was not already intimately familiar with Stiles' body; however, by the second week, everyone already knew he was expecting simply by watching their alpha. As if reading Stiles' thoughts, Derek settled his hand on Stiles' stomach, stroking his thumb back and forth.
“It is too soon to tell him,” grumbled Stiles, trying to look over Derek’s shoulder.
The alpha turned them around instead. “He’ll get used to it.”
Stiles glared at him. “What if he doesn’t?”
“If not after our first child, then by our third.”
“Oh, god…” groaned Stiles, but quietened when Derek pushed a kiss onto his cheek. He could not help but soften, so bright and handsome his husband looked. “Stop looking at me like that.”
Derek smirked softly, watching him squirm. “You bared your bite and expect me to not think of our mating night? Or not to imagine how this night would go?”
"Keep teasing, and you'll have our gallows full by morning."
Derek leaned down to Stiles’ neck, took a deliberately deep breath, and swallowed loudly. “I’d rather spend the night by your side. There are too many people salivating at your scent and sight to catch by dawn.” Derek’s gaze softened. “You look really beautiful today.”
“Does marriage suit me?” smiled Stiles. He doubted his cheeks would ever stop reddening at the wolf’s stare.
“Most certainly. One cannot simply look at you and not think of marriage.”
“Good thing you’ve caught me first, huh?”
“Good thing you’ve let me.”
Stiles smiled, arching an eyebrow at him. “Do wolves need permission to catch their desired?”
Derek watched him as if Stiles were the same young, naïve prince that he had danced with that first time. His eyes glinted with the same amused fondness; the fluttering awe had settled into deep, indestructible conviction of the wolf's claim. The mating bond suited Derek, relaxed him. The ever-present tension in the corner of his eyes, his shoulders, and posture dissipated like the morning winter fog.
He looked very much like the Hale alpha he was supposed to be. Calm, confident, and exuding strength.
And it was Stiles who made it happen.
“Of all the traps set out for you, it is mine that you have chosen,” said Derek. “You wanted to marry a victor, so you chose me, and I became it.”
Stiles hummed, pleased, flushed, and smiling. “I think I knew you’d be a victor when I asked you to dance. Everyone shied away and trembled looking at me, but not you. You were the only one able to look into my eyes and hold me like I wanted.”
“Is that what gets you? Boldness?” Derek chuckled when Stiles hid his face in the wolf’s chest, laughing. “I should have stolen you years ago.”
“Now, where is the fun in that?” Stiles quipped.
Derek’s eyes narrowed in a way that made Stiles shiver from giddiness.
“Shall I show you?” he asked exasperatedly.
Stiles screeched when Derek pulled him closer by the waist and began biting him on his neck. Soon, the scream turned into breathless laughter and the bites into content kisses that slowly but surely traveled to Stiles’ lips. Once a thief, forever a thief, and with Stiles’ heart, body, and future in his hands, the wolf still craved more.
Trapped in Derek’s arms and yielding to the kiss, Stiles knew that he would give it all to the wolf before he even asked.