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Chapter Text

The stench of copper overwhelmed Stiles.

Blood.

Warm, sticky blood was caked through Stiles’ veil, the material matting in a constricting way. The rapidly cooling liquid stained Stiles’ robes and hands, and he couldn’t hide what happened.

What had happened?

He felt like he couldn’t breathe as he started to claw at his veil. The rose gold circlet still held the veil in place despite Stiles’ attempt to free himself. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t get the blood off.

“Stiles.”

Hands grabbed at Stiles’ wrists, forcing an end to his attempts at unveiling his face.

“I can’t– I can’t breathe,” Stiles weakly admitted when he realized it was his father.

His heart was hammering, the constant thumping in his throat as his lungs struggled to draw in a breath. He was having a panic attack.

“We have to go,” John stated instead, using his strength to lift Stiles up from where he had been sprawled across the ground.

Stiles tried to push the veil from his skin. “Da–”

“Keep the veil on.”

John’s voice was harsh, his usual instructive tone edged into a command. It was the remnant of the man he had been–the General of one of the most lethal armies in the known world.

And he lost that prestige because of Stiles.

They moved, constant nomads with no permanent residence.

Because of Stiles.

Because of his face.

Because no one could catch a glimpse of his features and be reasoned with in the aftermath.

Beauty gifted by fae bloodline was nothing but an inherited curse.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles pushed his sob down, keeping his words as even as possible as he allowed his father to rush them through the corridors.

“I should have… we stayed too long,” John tersely answered, hundreds of thoughts racing through his mind.

He didn’t tell Stiles it was okay–that it wasn’t his fault.

And Stiles didn’t blame his father for not forgiving his fault.

A regent was dead. Murdered.

Stiles murdered the man when it became abundantly clear the regent wasn’t going to take Stiles’ rejection.

Stop! Please–

Stiles blinked his tears away. It wasn’t the first time someone grabbed him inappropriately–without his consent. He hated how touch-starved he felt until those grimy hands were pawing at him without his permission.

There was never any reasoning with powerful people when they took what they wanted. And the regent had been no different.

The man’s grotesque desire was laid bare in his admittance: he had watched Stiles bathe.

Stiles’ stomach churned at the man’s admittance to the violation–to pleasuring himself while Stiles unsuspectingly washed. He tried to leave the library as nausea hit him with realization at the regent’s reasons for cornering him. But the door was barred, likely blocked by the man’s personal guards. Stiles tried to leave, the regent’s steps quickly following him as words of obsession fell from the man’s mouth.

Then hands touched him to move him off course.

Strength shoved him into the shelves.

Hands tearing at his veil, lips trying to find his.

His pleas fell on deaf ears as he struggled, the regent’s sharp teeth biting and mouthing at Stiles’ exposed throat.

His nails dug into the regent’s own bare throat to stop him.

His head was slammed into the shelves in retaliation, his body weakly crumpling as his vision blurred from the assault.

Then hands were pulling his clothes apart, attempting to disrobe him.

Stiles couldn’t remember how he was able to get ahold of the dagger, but he did. He gripped the handle of the dagger tightly as he slashed at the regent. He wanted to scare the man.

He hadn’t intended to slit the regent’s throat.

~*~

Stiles had changed veils, his other completely ruined despite his attempt to wash it in the small stream they had made camp at. His hands were too steady as he scrubbed at the veil. There wasn’t much he could feel when thinking about the dead man he left in the palace halls, among the ancient tomes he had found solace with.

If the regent had been a Vampyr, perhaps his father could have argued Stiles’ innocence. Was it better or worse that Stiles killed a human regent who attempted to rape him?

Stiles felt a deep fear when thinking if a Vampyr had been the one to attack him. He couldn’t fight off someone of that strength. The best he could have done was injure the Vampyr for a moment.

Stiles was in the middle of sewing a new veil by their campfire, his fingers adept and knowledgeable of how to make the fabric bend appropriately. He could make a veil with his eyes closed. When the needle pricked his finger, Stiles didn’t react. He watched, through his traveling veil, as blood pooled on the tip of his finger.

And, not for the first time, Stiles wondered if his glamour would remain if he scarred his face. If he took the dagger from his father’s satchel and allowed the blade to slice through his cheeks, his forehead, even his nose.

If he sliced his lips off, no one could try to kiss him again.

He started to cry as he pressed his forehead to his knees, arms wrapped around his shins as he folded in on himself.

What was the point in being alive when he only could fear for the next time someone decided they wanted him?

He had inherited nothing else from his mother than his glamour. He had first thought it amusing, as a child, that other children gave him whatever he wanted because they wished to please him. It stopped being funny when an adult had tried to lead Stiles away from his parents. Stiles had to learn at a tender age that not every person who looked at him cared what he felt or thought.

Stiles was eleven when John gave him his first veil. He wore his mother’s circlet on top of the veil to keep it from falling out of place.

And that was Stiles’ world–everything was experienced through his veil.

He had begged John, once, to be sent to live with his grandmother in the fae court. But John forbade it, never giving Stiles a reason why. Perhaps he would be mistreated for his human blood, for he didn’t fully know his mother’s reasons for abandoning her people.

Stiles was glad to have cried before his father returned with two hares. He kept concentrating on his veil as his father worked on preparing their food for the night.

They ate in agonizing silence.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles stated again, breaking the stifled air. Though he breathed much easier without the veil covering his face from the cool night air, he felt like he was drowning.

John released a long, defeated sigh. “I know.”

It wasn’t tender, or comforting. It was an agreement that he accepted Stiles' apology because this was Stiles’ fault.

Stiles was glad he had no more tears to cry. He wished he could hide behind his veil, the first fresh air of the night was spoiled by this exchange. He looked up at the night stars. “You could have stayed,” he finally stated when he was certain he wouldn’t cry.

John looked at Stiles.

The silence was more of an answer than whatever John could have said.

No, John couldn’t have stayed. The only reason anyone kept inviting John to be a guest was because of Stiles. They loved the idea of having a fae in their court.

Even if that fae was only half.

Their hosts always entertained the idea of respecting Stiles’ veil. Until they started to dream of seeing him, before a scheme would take root to unveil him.

And they always succeeded.

“We could… go separate ways,” Stiles stated as his gaze dropped from the stars and into the fire. It made him sad to think of not having his father–John was the only person who didn’t act differently at seeing Stiles.

That was a blessing.

“Arryn likely knows about Edwin’s death by now,” John solemnly stated.

Stiles forced himself to look up at his father.

“Arryn won’t care that it was self defense,” John continued as he dropped the hare bones into the fire. “Parrish will send word what Arryn decides. And we will need a plan by then.”

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. He felt like he was going to vomit.

King Arryn von Dranden, high Vampyr and lord of the East.

Stiles had never met the Vampyr, but he had heard of his cruelty. Arryn’s version of mercy was a quick beheading. His version of torture? He enjoyed keeping viable blood sources alive for months, sometimes years, with slits in their veins for all the partake in.

“I can go back–”

“No,” John snapped. He pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly reprimanding himself for allowing the outburst. “No,” he stated in a softer tone. “I promised your mother that I would keep you safe.”

Stiles drew in a breath.

“I should have moved us,” John continued.

Stiles was staring at the fire. The coals were glowing, and his hands itched. He could grab one before his father reacted, press it into his face and the scar would be there. He could even press his face into the fire and allow it to take its course. He could die–from smoke inhalation or infection.

But Stiles didn’t feel anything but numbness at the thought.

This wasn’t living.

“If Arryn wants me, there is no one that would shield me,” Stiles finally stated as he looked up at his father.

Part of the benefit of never being able to attend court or dances out of fear of being revealed meant that Stiles could read his fill. He taught himself the customs, even the histories, of every court they had been a part of. And their petty nature for social climbing.

“There is one.” John was pushing the fire’s coals around, making it easier to build up for the night. “There is an Alpha shifter beyond the eastern oasis of Beacon.”

Stiles blinked.

“The shifters have been in a war with the Vampyrs for decades,” John stated with a shrug, as if the man wasn’t suggesting they put themselves in the middle of a war.

“They won’t trust us,” Stiles countered.

It was only a half truth–they would trust John, perhaps even invite him with anticipation of a benefit against their enemies.

Stiles, on the other hand, had to wear a veil to hide himself. As far as Stiles’ studies had offered, that wasn’t a custom shifters accepted, or even understood. They could scent someone from across the room, so what was the point of being veiled?

Unless you were untrustworthy , Stiles thought.

“Well, it’s our only option at the moment,” John answered Stiles’ hesitance.

Stiles nodded in acceptance. He would go with his father, and if the Alpha wanted to offer him up to Arryn, he’d accept it as long as the wolf promised to keep John safe.

~*~

Stiles was haunted by a recurring dream.

A nightmare of sorts.

He ran through the forest, his bare feet slapping against the forest floor–moss and mud.

His skin was scraped with the brash caresses of the stray branches and decaying logs. His breathing was heavy, his lungs tested against his stamina. He couldn’t see the thing chasing him, but felt it.

An animal.

A predator.

Stiles was always the prey, even in his dreams.

But there was something else lurking in the depths of the forest. He could never reach it, but was aware of its closeness. Something he was looking for, desperate to find.

A savior, of sorts. From his own loneliness and fear of complete abandonment.

The predator that chased him almost reached him; each and every time he would wake before the shadow grabbed him.

Somehow, the dreams were less terrifying than his reality. At least he always escaped the predator by waking.

~*~

Stiles didn’t fidget as he stood beside his father. There were hundreds of eyes on them, all of them waiting for a judgment to be passed on the trespassers.

King Arryn had reacted to Edwin’s death with the same air of disappointment Stiles had seen a courtier have with a sugarless banquet. But it didn’t stop the High Vampyr from demanding Stiles be brought to him for questioning .

There was no mention of John.

Stiles had seen only part of Parrish’s correspondence before John tossed it into the fire. He saw the bounty price and demand for him being alive upon retrieval, and he knew the High Vampyr wanted him for more than just answering to Edwin’s death.

Sometimes, a High Vampyr keeps a blood source , Stiles had heard one courtier laugh behind a fan. He had been walking to the library, his eyes downcast as he avoided the other humans and Vampyrs.

Pretty things with almost no thoughts left once they’ve served their purpose .

Perhaps King Arryn would drain Stiles until his thoughts were no longer his own–or until they no longer lingered in a fog.

“Your son wears a veil–why?”

Stiles looked up. He was wearing his nicest veil–the one made from his mother’s wedding vestments. Layers of lace, delicate looking despite their undisputable strength. He had made this veil as his most treasured and ceremonious. It had golden embroidery, hand stitched by his mother’s people as a sign of prosperity. He hoped the Alpha was educated enough to see the respect he was affording him.

John turned his head to look at Stiles in his periphery. “He is pale,” he started.

The man who asked the question released an uproarious laugh. “There is no sun here, so allow us to remove it.” He gestured towards one of the shifters near Stiles.

Stiles lurched when he felt a layer of his veil move–the softest touch of fingertips grasping at the fine material. He fell into his father, grasping at his veil to keep it close.

Hundreds of eyes.

Hundreds of witnesses.

Hundreds of people who would want to do ungodly things to him.

He would rather King Arryn drain him.

John had, either foolishly or valiantly, drawn the sword at his side to place in front of Stiles as he tightly held his son against him. “I thought shifters had manners,” John seethed at the man who had laughed.

“Oh, we do,” the man replied. “But not when we are being fooled.”

Stiles tried to even his breathing, his heart racing as he clutched his veil against his chest.

“We asked for a parley,” John countered.

“But forgot to mention that there is a bounty on your son’s head,” the man answered.

Stiles touched his father’s arm, prepared to offer himself up to the masses. And then he saw it, the faintest flicker of blue in the man’s irises as he continued to smirk down at John and their predicament.

Blue. Not red.

Not an Alpha.

“We requested a parley with the Alpha of the Resistance,” Stiles allowed his voice to project.

The ruins they currently occupied were gorgeously crafted, and clearly created for oratory projection. The columns, while vast, kept the atrium in a circular cone shape that curved the pit–and Stiles was standing at the center of it.

Everyone was silent at Stiles’ words.

“Where is he?” Stiles finally asked as he looked at the Beta.

John looked up at the man, unsure what Stiles was getting at.

The man continued to act with bravado. “Clearly your veil is too tight around your head.”

“Your spark is blue,” Stiles pressed. He forced his voice to not tremble despite the rapid beating of his heart. “Where is the Alpha?” He pressed again.

The shifter finally dropped his act. “Clever boy.” He laughed at the situation. “Very well, if you can find the Alpha among us, you can have your parley.”

Stiles furrowed his brow, looking at his father.

“We should leave,” John stated under his breath, despite knowing most if not all could hear it.

“I just need to find your Alpha?” Stiles chose to question.

“Find him, and you can have your parley,” the man stated once more.

Stiles drew in a breath, trying to recall what he read about shifters in general.

The Alpha spark was rarer, traditionally passed from dying parent to heir, though could be accidentally consumed by another member of the pack if the heir wasn’t worthy. There was the myth of what some scholars called true Alphas, shifters who were natural born leaders and an Alpha spark manifested out of worthiness.

There could be more than one Alpha present, and that did not bode well for Stiles.

Stiles turned, his eyes moving at a slower pace than his body would indicate. He had the benefit of his veil hiding where he was looking. He had to find an Alpha, and hope it was the correct one.

Stiles tried to remember what he had read years ago when he inspected the tomes in the Circulating Tower. Alphas were stronger than other shifters–they tended to have more muscle. An Alpha’s circulation and healing factor typically resulted in their body heat being elevated.

It was cold in the ruins, the snow storm circling Beacon had done little to guarantee any heat besides what was given by the large sconces and ornate braziers. Stiles was wearing more layers than even his father, but the shifters still wore lighter sleeves of sorts.

Stiles couldn’t remember if height was something influenced by the spark–he didn’t think it could change a fully grown adult’s height but perhaps a True Alpha or child who inherited a spark.

What did John say about the Alpha while they were traveling?

The Alpha was younger than a typical elder–a wolf shifter. He was from Beacon, one of the last shifters to be born on the Nemeton’s dais at the heart of the kingdom. Nothing in John’s description could help Stiles now except the Alpha’s likely age.

And then, Stiles saw him.

Something twisted in Stiles’ chest at the beauty of the man. He thought, for a moment, perhaps this is how people felt when first seeing him–before the glamour twisted attraction into obsession.

The man was attractive, with sunkissed skin and storm scattered eyes beneath his strong furrowed brow. He wore a sleeveless vest, his biceps bulging from how his arms folded over his chest in a defensive stance.

And in a flicker of reactions, there were a few shifters behind the man whose gazes drifted towards him before remembering to look away. They were waiting to follow the man’s lead.

And the shifters didn’t think Stiles was looking right at him.

But the man was staring at Stiles as if he was holding his gaze.

“I’ve picked,” Stiles stated with finality. He was ready to stop looking at him.

The man who had been speaking to them laughed. “You clearly have chosen poorly.”

With his veil in place, it did appear that Stiles wasn’t looking at the Alpha. He turned his head to point in the man’s direction. He released his hold on his father, walking with calm steps towards the man. The shifters parted from Stiles, as if he was a plague they didn’t wish to catch.

The man didn’t move, his eyes tracking Stiles’ approaching form.

Stiles stopped in front of the Alpha, drawing in a breath before reaching out to touch the man’s forearm.

A hand grabbed Stiles’ wrist before he could touch the Alpha, and twisted cruelly.

Stiles released a sharp breath of pain as he leaned into the agony.

“Erica,” the Alpha spoke with command. “Let him go.”

The blond who had grabbed Stiles released him with an annoyed huff.

Stiles gently rubbed his wrist, soothing the skin where a bruise was likely to blossom.

“Fuck me,” the man who had been directing them mumbled under his breath. “I didn’t think he was psychic.”

“I just read,” Stiles retorted. And then he realized he had put himself in the middle of the crowd of shifters, isolated from his father. He tried not to let his fear show.

A small smile pulled at the corner of the Alpha’s lips. “A nice party trick.” He looked at the man who had been talking. “Enough, Peter.” He turned and looked at others around them. “I suppose you won your parley,” he stated to Stiles. “Follow me.”

Stiles felt a dizzying lightness as he followed the Alpha, though he held onto his veil subconsciously. He was relieved to feel his father at his back once they descended deeper into the ruins.

“You’re the Hale Alpha,” John stated once they entered a smaller, more private chamber than the atrium of the ruins.

There was comfortable furniture arranged around the room, nothing ostentatious about the once ornate fabric that hung from the walls. It had a few piles of books littered throughout. And if Stiles wasn’t mistaken about the glance he had behind the curtain before the blond–Erica–pulled it shut, there was a cot.

The Alpha didn’t appear concerned with John addressing him. Or that he was allowing trespassers into their sanctum. Apparently, Stiles and John were not considered to be a dangerous threat.

“I am,” the man accepted John addressing him as he sat in one of the chairs. “And you have come here for… well, you haven’t said.”

Stiles remained behind his father, but he could feel the others looking at him in increments.

“We seek asylum,” John stated.

The Hale Alpha looked from John to Stiles. “You can’t expect me to just blindly accept… that,” he gestured at Stiles’ veil.

John tensed some. “My son keeps his veil on. For personal reasons.”

Stiles sighed when the Alpha scoffed.

“I am not going to trust strangers coming here, when we are at odds with the Vampyrs–people you’ve served for years,” the Alpha stated. He started to stand and Stiles’ hope dwindled with the oncoming dismissal.

“Which means I know how they work,” John stated, unphased by the Alpha’s words. “I could assist you with the skirmishes, even help you to regain some territory.”

The Alpha crossed his arms over his chest. “Why is there a bounty on your son?”

Stiles drew in a breath.

“We left King Arryn’s court with little pomp,” John started, the formulating lie obvious.

“Regent Edwin tried to rape me,” Stiles flatly stated.

John looked at Stiles.

It was the first time the words were spoken.

The Alpha was staring at Stiles, the air stifling in the room as the other shifters appeared to grow uneasy with that statement.

No, they were growing tense.

“I…” Stiles looked at his father, knowing the soft hopefulness in his eyes couldn’t be seen by his father. “I tried to stop him, but I couldn’t. I took his dagger and swung at him. I didn’t think he was close enough, but… I slit his throat.”

The Alpha was still staring at Stiles.

“You wear the veil because you’re afraid another will attack you again?” Erica softly asked, as if she didn’t want to hurt Stiles by asking for more information. “We aren’t like that.”

“No, I…” Stiles cut himself off. He knew why his father didn’t want to tell them about his fae blood. But they risked insulting their potential allies.

“You’re fae.”

Stiles turned his head to look at the Alpha.

“Fae?” One of the other shifters sounded mesmerized at the very idea.

Everyone was staring at Stiles now.

John took Stiles’ hand in his own. “My wife was,” he chose to admit. “Stiles is half-fae.”

“Wait, so does that mean you have … powers?” Another shifter asked, a sound of hope lacing his words.

“My son isn’t a weapon,” John started.

“I only have my glamour,” Stiles admitted, refusing to let his father go on lying. The Alpha had accepted that John was beneficial to their cause despite having lived among their enemy.

“So, you’re really pretty?” Erica asked.

“People are attracted to the allure,” Stiles chose to answer.

“We’re just supposed to trust you, and allow an outsider to remain veiled, while we are at the height of a war with the Vampyrs,” another shifter uttered with a scoff of contempt.

Stiles looked at the man, catching the way he glowered at him. He had expected resistance, yet knew he had no way to reassure them.

“Your Alpha can keep his scent–you’d know if he allowed someone to take his place,” John countered.

It was clearly a losing battle.

Stiles looked at the Hale Alpha, unsurprised to find the man looking at him. He needed the man to accept–if only for a little while, to protect John from Arryn’s plans until Stiles could find a solution. “I won’t unveil for the masses,” he started, drawing in a breath when eyes moved to linger on his veil. “But I will for your Alpha.”

“Stiles!” John harshly started, grabbing Stiles’ arm in a firm grip. He was preparing to walk them out of the ruins, out of the shifter camp, and into No Man’s Land once more.

“If you give us sanctuary, I will show you my face,” Stiles loudly stated over his father’s protests. “If and only if you give your vow that we are safe and will not be handed over against our will.” He looked defiantly in the face of the others’ uncomfortable stances.

The Alpha’s stance hadn’t flinched. “Erica, take John to the war room and brief him,” he spoke the order without looking away from Stiles’ veil.

“I am not leaving my son–”

“You’re going to have to get used to the idea of him being unveiled in front of me,” the Alpha countered. “He either lets me confirm he isn’t trading places with someone, or you can leave without sanctuary from Arryn.” He finally looked at John. “Your choice.”

Stiles turned to his father. He placed a placating hand on John’s forearm. “It’s okay.”

“Stiles,” John started in warning.

“They could tear my veil off now and there would be nothing we could do,” Stiles softly explained. “If it is one person, I can endure this.”

Stiles had never willingly taken his veil off for someone. It was always a bargaining chip, and never something he felt comfortable enough gambling away. But there was something in the way the Alpha appraised him.

There was no desire, no intrigue, no determination.

Curiosity, perhaps, but there was a strict reservation in the set of the man’s shoulders.

“Da,” Stiles’ softly spoke. He had called John less and less by the term in recent years. It hurt to be reminded of innocent times, when John was happy and Stiles was still ignorant. “It’s fine,” he hollowly stated. “Go, show them what they want to know.”

The muscle in John’s jaw ticked. “If you hurt him–”

“You’ll be in the right to demand blood,” the Alpha stated in a bored tone. “We don’t condone theft of one’s choice.”

John didn’t appear satisfied until Stiles hugged him.

“Please,” Stiles whispered through the veil. “I’ll be with you soon.” He pulled back, hoping his father would agree.

John stiffly nodded his head in acceptance, his hold on Stiles’ hand lingering before he finally released him.

And then Stiles was left alone with the Alpha.

Stiles fiddled with the bottom of his veil, forcing himself to take a step closer to the Alpha. “I am surprised you agreed.”

“To be candid, your father will be immensely helpful,” the Alpha replied as he dropped his arms from their crossed position over his chest.

Stiles nodded. “It’s why people put up with me,” he noted.

The Alpha was quiet for a beat. “You offered yourself up easily.”

Stiles tried not to flinch at the stiffness in his shoulders. “My father puts up with a lot because of me.”

“You think he would endure living here if I touched you?”

It wasn’t a threat, but a genuine question.

And Stiles couldn’t answer it without the doubt swelling in his gut. He knew his father retaliated each and every time someone crossed a line with him. But he knew there would be a day he couldn’t run anymore, and his father couldn’t keep changing allegiances.

Stiles shrugged, his hands plopping down at his sides. “I’m tired,” he softly stated, a huff of breath forcing the veil to sway. “I don’t care for these conversations anymore.” He took a daring step closer to the Alpha. “I will show you my face, and what you do next will be your decision. I can’t stop you–I never can stop anyone.” A sad laugh did bubble up at his admittance. “The first time I did stop someone, I killed him.” He wasn’t even thinking of Edwin, his thoughts drifting back to Anthony—sweet, kind Anthony, who took one look at Stiles and twisted into someone darker. He allowed the silence to build between them. “If you are offering a reprieve from this exhaustion, I will gladly accept whatever happens next.”

Stiles’ hands were shaking as he took a handful of his veil, though he wished he could act bravely and just tear the material off. He slowly began to lift the veil, his heartbeat racing as he continued to look at the Alpha through the material.

There isn’t another way , Stiles reassured himself.

His veil felt heavier than it should as he lifted it over his chin.

Calloused hands grasped Stiles’ wrists in a tight hold.

Stiles was startled, his actions halted. His veil was hanging just below his lips as he observed the Alpha.

Even if the man wasn’t a shifter, he could still physically hurt Stiles with his impressive bulk alone. But this man was stopping Stiles from revealing what so many had been desperate enough to glimpse in the past.

“Tilt your head,” the Alpha stated through clenched teeth.

Stiles hesitated before tilting his head to the right. He exposed his throat, his right cheek rested against the Alpha’s hand through his veil.

The Alpha bent his head, his warm breath ghosting over Stiles’ exposed skin. He breathed deeply, taking in Stiles’ scent. His beard grazed Stiles’ neck as he pulled back. He lowered Stiles’ hands to bring the veil back down.

“I have your scent,” the Alpha explained. “Every morning, and night, you’ll come here. My people, your father, will all believe you unveil yourself. But I’ll check your scent instead. Don’t ever take this for weakness–if you ever try to trick me, I will offer you up to Arryn.”

Stiles realized that the Alpha was giving him his privacy–a leniency Stiles had thought he would have to sacrifice. He nodded his head, “okay,” his voice softly mirroring the action.

“Good,” the Alpha uttered. He took a step back from Stiles, his hands flexing as if to forget the touch of Stiles’ skin against his.

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat as he backed away towards the door. “Thank you, Alpha.” He turned and started to leave.

“Derek.”

Stiles stopped by the door, turning his head to look at the Alpha.

The Alpha wasn’t looking at Stiles, his hand gripping the table. “My name. It’s Derek.”

Stiles drew in a breath. “Thank you, Derek.”

~*~

Every morning, Stiles slipped from his bed, walking by his father’s dutiful watch and attempting to ignore the melancholy look his father gave him as he pulled his veil into place. They didn’t speak about what Stiles was doing, and an ache formed whenever Stiles thought of lying to his father. But it was what he promised the Alpha.

Derek.

Stiles waited for the Alpha to be finished with different affairs that required his attention. He actually enjoyed being the least prioritized, feeling calm as the sets of eyes eventually dropped from staring at him. They knew he was there for their Alpha to look at, which appeared to dull Stiles’ novelty.

There was a rough type of softness to Derek’s handling of him. He never touched the veil, hands instead gripping Stiles’ forearms before the gentle brush of the man’s nose against his throat.

Sharp canines could tear through his flesh, but he couldn’t argue that the racing of his heart was fear. A rush of adrenaline hit Stiles whenever it came time for Derek to pull away. And just as easily as Stiles had been handled, he was dismissed, his scent registered.

Stiles always went to the Alpha before dinner.

And through hindsight, Stiles should have realized it was a bad idea. He hadn’t been eating as much as he probably should have. The shifters avoided him at every turn, and barely spoke to him when they exchanged any type of interaction.

Stiles had fixed a fishing net that the seamstresses were too busy to attend to right away, and the fishermen stared at him as if he was a three-headed hellhound. He could sew well and fast, learning early on that he had to upkeep his veils if he was to keep himself appropriately hidden.

But avoiding meals, and taking whatever his father gave him even though he lied and told his father he had his share, was not the best recipe for his health.

Stiles was dizzy as he leaned against the pillar on the outskirt of the small meeting. He had told the curly haired, cherub faced shifter–Isaac, he thought–that he could come back. The shifter merely averted his gaze from Stiles’ veil and mumbled that the Alpha said to have Stiles stay.

Stiles winced at the slight pang in his stomach. He should have eaten the rice and vegetable mixture his father had offered him. But he wanted his father to eat. The shifters weren’t all unkind, but on more than one occasion, Stiles had been indirectly denied food. He figured it was custom to shun the weakest–culling the herd, he had once heard a farmer say about cattle.

Incense. There was incense burning, and the overwhelming scent was causing a headache to creep through Stiles’ neck and squeezing his head.

Then a cold sweat started, and Stiles knew he was going to black out.

Panic gripped him, knowing his father was too far away. If he tried to get back to his father, he could pass out unaware and his veil could be dislodged.

Or, he could sit down and wait for the fainting spell to pass.

He chose the latter as he moved to sit on the floor. His limbs were shaking as he internally talked himself through the bout. He should have realized he would attract unwanted attention.

“What’s wrong?” The curly haired shifter asked, a tinge of fear in his voice as he took an abortive step towards Stiles.

Stiles wanted to laugh–even in a weakened state, he still induced some sort of fear over them. He knew they feared his ability to take their will away–no one ever seemed to mention that he didn’t want their attention.

“It will pass,” Stiles stated despite his delirium. His thoughts were floating as his senses were dulled, his ears feeling like they were stuffed with cotton just as his vision started to blacken. He thought he saw Derek’s form approaching him before unconsciousness consumed him.

~*~

Curiosity was causing the ache in Derek’s bones.

His wolf didn’t like scenting what it couldn’t see. And Stiles was causing an addiction with each passing sniff.

Stiles smelled of bergamot and dried lavender, a spark of warm amber hidden beneath the more calming scents. There was an edge of earthy tones, something similar to what Derek had chillingly recalled from years ago, but refused to acknowledge when first scenting Stiles. But it was impossible to ignore it lurking the more Derek scented him.

Grave dirt.

A rich scent of earth—fragrant of moss and mushrooms; decay that had cycled into new life.

Derek had never scented anyone of fae blood before, and assumed the smell was an accompaniment to whatever magic laced Stiles’ blood.

When Stiles had fainted, a litany of chaos began to buzz through the others. Too many people crowded the veiled form sprawled on the floor of the war room.

Derek was grateful they had the sense to part for him, relieved he didn’t have to shove anyone to get to Stiles. It would have reflected poorly to have their Alpha rushing to assist an outsider. Derek used his body to block Stiles from the gawking eyes, kneeling over him.

The veil had fanned around Stiles head, like a ring of a halo bathing Stiles in fabric. But his face thankfully remained covered.

Derek’s hand had itched to move the veil, his more rational thoughts arguing that it was for Stiles’ health. But he refused to violate Stiles in that way. Instead, he only lifted the veil slightly to slip his hand beneath to feel for a sign of breath. His heart jackhammered at the feeling of Stiles’ lips brushing his fingertips.

Stiles’ lips were soft, a curved bow parted as shallow breath escaped.

Derek had his answer, Stiles was breathing. But he didn’t want to remove his hand. He wanted to touch .

And that was the problem.

Derek had been scenting Stiles’ throat for weeks. The other man had so dutifully lifted his veil each time, turning his head to display his throat without hesitation. A surrender of vulnerability.

And the wolf wanted to sink its fangs into the soft flesh offered–it wanted to rut into supple and soft warmth.

Stiles’ scent was alluring enough, it didn’t care if its lust to claim had been blinded by the veil–it wanted that scent to remain its possession.

His possession.

Derek knew he couldn’t blame the wolf for it. He wanted all that. And more.

Derek had pulled his hand away, arranging the veil better to guarantee that no one saw Stiles. He lifted Stiles into his arms with ease before looking to Isaac. “Find John when he returns. I’ll leave Stiles to rest in the west wing.”

Isaac seemed shocked by that.

Technically, Derek should have brought Stiles to the infirmary.

The infirmary, where too many curious eyes would be on the unconscious man. No, Derek wouldn’t put Stiles there—he’d keep him safe, tucked away in the secure corner of the palace.

He was doing this for Stiles’ safety, not his own selfishness. That was the lie he told himself, at least.

~*~

Stiles woke up, groggily, unaware of his surroundings.

He was in a bedroom, that much was obvious from the mattress Stiles was laying on. He blinked a few times, realizing that he was looking through his veil even as his lips drew in air clearly unobstructed.

His veil was above his mouth.

“You’re awake.”

Stiles startled, flinching some as he sat up, looking at the Alpha.

Derek was sitting on the edge of the large bed, an apple poised in his hands as he easily cut the rosy fleshed fruit into pieces. He was concentrating on the apple, placing the pieces onto a plate.

After a glance, Stiles realized it was a teacup saucer.

The tea cup was resting on the stand next to the bed, water waiting to be drank.

Stiles sat up against the back of the headrest, a soft pillow easing the pains in his joints. Stiles had forgotten what it could feel like to relax into any form of comfort, especially after a fainting spell. He watched Derek’s hands expertly slice the knife through the apple to produce an even slice before decoring the seeds.

“I didn’t take your veil off,” Derek flatly stated, his eyes still on the apple. “I only moved it so you could breathe unhindered.”

Stiles blinked. “I didn’t think you did remove it… but thank you for the reassurance.”

Derek faintly nodded as he placed the last slice of apple on the saucer. He then handed the saucer to Stiles. “Eat.”

Stiles took the saucer, his fingertips brushing Derek’s warm hands. He always had cold hands, but he imagined Derek’s touch would be warm no matter what. “Thank you,” he stated as he stared down at the apple slices.

“I realize… I figured it would be easier to eat that way–with your veil.”

Stiles looked up at Derek. His observation of the slices must have made Derek self conscious, if the almost invisible dusting of a pink blush on the shifter’s ears was any indicator. “Yes, thank you. I’m just not used to… I don’t have to wear my veil when eating with my father, so no one has ever taken that into consideration,” he explained. He was thankful for his veil when he felt the heat of his own blush. He took a slice of apple and lifted it beneath his veil to take a bite. If his mouth was full of sweet, juicy fruit, he couldn’t embarrass himself.

Derek nodded to himself as he stood. “Your father was hunting when it happened–I brought you here to rest.”

Stiles pressed his bite of apple into the curve of his cheek. “Where is here?”

Derek looked at Stiles. “Technically, part of the royal wing,” he answered, hesitating for a moment. “This officially is my bedroom, though I don’t use it often.”

Stiles nodded his head. “You sleep close to the war room,” he offered up his insight. He smiled when Derek looked surprised. “Erica tried to hide it when we parleyed, but I saw the blankets.”

Derek relaxed some.

“You’re dedicated to your people,” Stiles offered. “I respect that.” He chewed more of his apple in silence.

“You’re not eating as you should, are you?”

Stiles froze. He placed his half bitten slice of apple onto the saucer as he swallowed what was in his mouth. He licked the juices off his lips before asking, “And how do you know?”

Derek seemed annoyed as his brow furrowed. “You passed out, for a start.”

“I could suffer from blackouts,” Stiles countered.

“Do you suffer from blackouts?” Derek pressed.

Stiles’ shoulders sank as he sulked some. “What other reason?”

“You smell different,” Derek replied.

Stiles twisted the saucer around in his lap as a distraction. “How so?”

“Hunger has a sour smell,” Derek explained. “And with your stomach growling, and the fact that I am sure you’ve lost weight, well either you aren’t eating or you’re sick. Both are causes for concern.”

Stiles released a heavy sigh. “It’s fine.”

“Don’t,” Derek growled under his breath. “Don’t dismiss this.”

“I’m an adult, I can manage–”

“You’re not managing, you’re refusing to eat–”

“I don’t want to inconvenience people!” Stiles snapped, and he wished he could take the words back. Words he had wanted to tell his father for days–years even. And instead, he said them to a complete stranger.

“I’ve allowed you and your father asylum,” Derek carefully stated.

“And your people are terrified because of it,” Stiles countered. He should have just kept eating his apple. He should have eaten before seeing Derek.

He should have done a lot of things.

“Has anyone retaliated against you?”

Stiles shook his head. “No, no,” he quickly uttered. “They’re just scared–being scared doesn’t make you want to share a meal with a veiled oddity.”

Derek was silent.

Stiles took the opportunity to eat another piece of apple. The fruit was sweet, with the edge of tartness, and the sugar lifted his mood.

“Then you can share your meals with me,” Derek finally stated.

Stiles cursed when he bit his tongue. “I can’t–ow,” he mumbled as he touched the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He could feel where he bit it. “I bit my tongue,” he explained when Derek’s eyebrows refused to lower from where they had risen at his initial curse. “I was saying, you can’t look at me.”

Derek nodded. “I’ll turn my back to you, then.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed. “That’s not going to–”

“An Alpha sets an example,” Derek explained. “If I show that I have built enough trust in you to allow you into my quarters–to partake in a meal, that will change sentiments.”

Stiles felt a nervous roil in his stomach at the thought. “Only dinner,” he finally stated.

“Fine,” Derek agreed.

“Stiles!”

Stiles perked up when he heard his father’s voice.

“Where is my son?” John’s voice was on edge, laced with a concern that dripped with fear he tried to hide with anger.

“Da,” Stiles called to his father.

John threw open the door to the bedroom, storming into the room despite Stiles’ calm tone. He seemed confused by what he saw: Stiles was sitting on the bed–fully clothed–with apple slices in his hand, and Derek stood away from him.

Stiles was grateful Derek was no longer sitting on the bed, a gap between them.

John’s eyes darted back and forth between Derek and Stiles before he closed the distance to his son. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands touching Stiles’ shoulders. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“I …” Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. His father had given so much to protect him–to care and provide for him. And he wasn’t eating and barely sleeping, despite it all.

“The heat,” Derek finally stated.

John and Stiles looked at the Alpha.

“The change from the cooler weather outside to the heat in the ruins,” Derek offered as explanation. “We are working on better ventilation, but shifters aren’t bothered by it as much as a human so we haven’t kept track.”

John looked at Stiles, his gaze dropping to the apple slices. He estimated that there was about a quarter of the apple remaining. “You didn’t eat before you left,” he explained. “I found the food by the fire pit.”

Stiles drew in a breath. “I wanted to meet with Derek before dinner–I didn’t want to interrupt whatever he had planned.” It wasn’t completely a lie, but an excuse he felt better at offering. “And the heat–with my veil, I didn’t realize how it was affecting me.”

“It was partially my fault,” Derek offered. “I made him wait.”

“I should drink more water,” Stiles mused.

“Just like your mother,” John sighed. It was a fond comparison, a faint smile at the corner of John’s lips. He was clearly relieved when he found Stiles in the room–veiled. He had been terrified when Isaac informed him Stiles had blacked out and was resting in the Alpha’s bedroom. His mind could only focus on the word ‘bedroom’ as he hastily rushed through the confusing layout of the palace. It was under construction, connected to the ruins, and John was certain it had been designed as a labyrinth.

But when he opened the door to see Stiles merely resting in the bed, his fears melted. His son was alive, and unharmed. His veil was still in place, and no tension in the way Stiles spoke to him.

“I will leave you both,” Derek formally stated. “I will see you tomorrow morning.”

John’s features twisted as he was reminded that Stiles had to unveil himself for the Alpha, every morning and night, to assuage the others from worries that they were smuggling an intruder in. Though how they thought that possible was insanity. Stiles’ scent would be unique with his fae lineage; and Stiles never left the encampment.

John waited until the door was closed to remove Stiles’ veil.

Stiles allowed his father to pull the material away.

John touched Stiles’ jaw, tilting his head to inspect him.

“I’m okay,” Stiles started.

“Did he touch you?”

Stiles was surprised by his father’s line of questioning. “He brought me here to keep me from being gawked at,” he explained.

“I don’t want you to think you owe him anything,” John explained.

“Da,” Stiles sighed. “He doesn’t…” He pressed his lips together. And he spoke in his mother’s native tongue, the language airy and vibrant–like a summer breeze. His father couldn’t speak it as well as Stiles, but he could understand him. “ He doesn’t make me remove my veil for him. He scents me, but never looks at me. ”

John stared at Stiles in shock.

“ He affords me dignity ,” it was a weird thing to admit, but it was the truth. Derek had given Stiles a form of dignity in the mere acknowledgement of autonomy over his body.

“I was impressed by his restraint, but this makes sense,” John admitted.

Stiles looked down at his apple slices as a blush overwhelmed him. There was a melancholy in his chest as he picked up one of the last apple slices. Derek had shown him a kindness without ulterior motives, one that Stiles never received from anyone outside his father. But if Derek looked at him, what would happen? Would that gentleness melt into obsession? Would Derek go against everything he wanted and suddenly show interest in Stiles? 

It was a twisted jealousy that Stiles wanted to have an authentic version of that.

“He is requiring me to have dinner with him,” Stiles finally stated. He looked at his father as he chewed on his apple.

“What?” John incredulously asked. “How can you eat a meal with your veil in place?”

“He and I will dine with our backs to each other,” Stiles explained, though he realized he never talked to Derek about the specifics. “He said it will help our relations with the other shifters if he sets an example,” he stated before his father could think of another argument. “You know they are still scared of me.”

John didn’t argue that.

“This will help,” Stiles stated in an attempt to reassure his father, and himself.

“I trust you, Stiles,” John honestly stated. “I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

Stiles drew in a breath. “I’ll tell you,” he softly admitted. “But I don’t think he means me harm.”

“It doesn’t mean he can’t hurt you,” John cautioned.

Chapter Text

Derek pinched at the bridge of his nose, breathing through his mouth as he attempted to focus on what his uncle was saying.

“Fucking enough,” Peter harshly snapped, breaking the tension of the room. He doused the incense burning in the metal basin. He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the lingering smoke. “You’ve been giving me a fucking migraine.”

Derek looked at Peter, blinking away his own headache. He looked from the incense to Peter, his brain catching up with what had just happened. His senses were sharpening with the dull lack of the burning woodsy smell overwhelming him.

“Isaac has been vomiting,” Peter stated in an annoyed tone. “If you can’t handle airing out this room after your dinners, meet with your boy in another room.”

Derek stared at Peter before realizing his uncle was referring to Stiles. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he started.

Peter scoffed. “I know what you’re doing.”

Derek furrowed his brow, remaining silent despite knowing that his uncle wouldn’t relent.

“I could even smell him lingering before the incense,” Peter explained. “You started burning it at an insane rate the moment you started meeting with him.”

Derek looked away from his uncle. He knew it was a tell, but looking at his uncle would have given away his guilt regardless. It was easier for him to not see Peter’s smugness at being correct. “It’s just his blood,” he finally admitted.

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Bullshit,” he countered.

Derek looked at Peter.

“His scent is tempting, I will give you that,” Peter offered with a shrug of his shoulders. “But I am just fine walking away from him without burning away my nostrils.”

Derek shifted his weight, looking over to where he knew Stiles would be sharing dinner with him tonight.

“Derek,” Peter spoke his name with an uncommon gentleness. “Is your wolf–”

“It’s nothing,” Derek snapped, cutting off his uncle as he stood up. “I’ll stop burning the incense,” he curtly added before turning his back on Peter.

Peter sighed in annoyance. “Fine,” he muttered before turning back to the papers. “Deny yourself, as always.”

Derek couldn’t admit that no matter what incense he burned, or whatever smell he pressed to his nose, nothing could erase Stiles’ scent from lingering. Nothing could stop the deep craving it awoke in him.

~*~

Stiles focused on his sewing whenever his father was helping others. He found himself mostly free during the days as he avoided leaving their tent. John had pressed that he was working to secure a more permanent dwelling, but Stiles was content in the small space. He didn’t fear the space the way he had buildings with various rooms–too much space for someone to hide.

Stiles was busy sewing his father’s saddle bag after another seam tore the stitching out. He chose to use thicker thread he had dipped in old wax as a reinforcement in hopes this would hold.

“Do you really believe he’s attractive?” A feminine voice inquired.

“That or he is hideous,” a masculine voice answered.

“It must be agony,” a younger, curious voice commented. “I couldn’t imagine living a life where I could never be looked at.”

Stiles froze his work, staring at the saddle bag in his lap. It was only slightly skewed by his veil covering his vision in a hew. He blinked, knowing this conversation was about him, but unsure if he wanted to keep listening.

“I don’t believe that bullshit,” the masculine voice proudly stated, as if he was the smartest person for being the exception. “No one is that attractive that they can’t be seen.”

“Have you ever met a fae?” The feminine voice replied with a smugness, as if she knew the answer. “They’re supposed to be gorgeous–irresistible.”

“Our Alpha must be very strong in his resilience then,” the young voice answered.

Stiles pulled the thread tightly, knowing he was securing it too roughly. His heart was racing too fast to care.

“I’m telling you, he’s ugly,” the masculine voice harrumphed.

“You’re just curious,” the feminine voice laughed. “Probably want to sneak a look.”

Stiles' stomach twisted sharply when there wasn’t a denial.

“I think everyone wants to look,” the masculine voice confirmed suspicions. “If our Alpha is fine seeing him, he can’t be that attractive.”

“Maybe he’s fucking him,” the feminine voice theorized. “He does smell a little like him.”

Stiles’ cheeks heated at the thought of Derek touching him more intimately than the brush of nose against his throat.

“It would make sense why he’s letting them stay.”

Stiles held the saddle bag to his chest, trying to breathe in slowly as he focused on the weight against his chest.

“If the old man can help us fend off the bloodsuckers, I’ll endure it,” the masculine voice rationalized as the sound of footsteps shifted in parting.

“You know, they say fae grant wishes,” the younger voice continued on the topic as the volume of conversation vanished into the distance.

Stiles breathed in the familiar scent of his father’s leather saddle bag, holding it was a balm to soothe his rising panic attack. He was safe, he told himself, even if the shifters didn’t like him.

He was safe, even if the one person he wanted to show his face to could never see him.

~*~

“You said you like to read.”

Stiles paused mid-bite of bread. He was thinking what Derek’s reference was to.

“When my uncle called you psychic,” Derek supplied when Stiles’ silence dragged on.

Stiles furrowed his brow as he swallowed. “Peter is your uncle?”

Derek snorted. “Yes,” he admitted. “He’s the black sheep of the family, as he likes to remind people.”

Stiles faintly smiled at that.

It wasn’t a normal dining scenario, that was for sure. But Stiles found himself looking forward to the shared meals he had with Derek. They kept their backs to each other, Stiles facing away from the door in case someone entered despite Derek’s orders. They sat on cushions, a shifter custom that was typical for traveling, though Stiles knew their priorities weren’t social constraints at the moment.

Stiles had merely flipped the front of his veil up over his head, not removing the garment completely out of fear that he wouldn’t be able to pull it on in time. But it was still freeing to be able to eat without stuffing food beneath his veil.

“I do like to read,” Stiles finally answered Derek. “When I was younger, my father worked with the monks at the Circulating Tower,” he explained. “I was allowed to read whatever I wanted there. Some of the books were one of a kind,” he smiled at the memories. “I think I liked it there most.”

“Why did you leave?”

Stiles’ stomach twisted, his smile evaporating. The food settling in his stomach was churning into ash.

“There was a … misunderstanding,” he offered, his voice sounding vacant. “We left for a human court after that.”

Derek was silent as he accepted Stiles’ explanation.

Stiles sighed, knowing that Derek could make the assuming connection between Stiles’ condition and the nomad lifestyle forced upon him and his father. “One of the monks watched me change.”

Derek’s hand tightened against his thigh, knuckles blooming with white tension.

“I didn’t think, at the time, that someone would go to the lengths of looking into my bedroom window,” Stiles continued to fill the silence. “But he did. And he…”

Stiles remembered his veil being pulled off his head as he walked up the spiraling stairwell. His balance had been forced off center, causing him to fall, sprawling sideways and into the alcove of a window to prevent a tumble down the steep stairs. And then, hands.

Hands touching his shirt, tearing buttons. The sickening feeling of his trousers being pulled down against his will.

A familiar voice trying to shush his cries of terror—a false comfort the owner of the voice was giving to himself as a hand physically suppressed Stiles’ pleas. He wanted to be absolved of any notion that he was to blame for Stiles' fear. This was Stiles’ fault, after all—he had no right being this tempting.

Stiles did the only thing he could as the terror gripped him. He kicked. His limbs were long, affording him better reach than some. He kicked his attacker as hard as he could.

The loud, echoing sound of the man tumbling down the steps, followed by the sickening crack of bone accompanied by a wet squelch.

Stiles’ erratic breathing was the only thing he could hear in the stairwell as he continued to tremble. There were no shouts, no sounds of footsteps rushing. Stiles had righted his clothes as best he could, his joints weak as he attempted to stand.

That was how his father found him.

Stiles hadn’t shown up for their lunch, and it amused John at first with the thought that Stiles was too wrapped in a book to remember the time.

John helped Stiles stand, concern lacing his features as he looked Stiles over. But then once more the veil was obscuring Stiles’ view.

It didn’t stop the stench of blood hitting Stiles as they reached the landing.

The monk—Anthony, he had always been kind to Stiles—was laying motionless across the cold floor of the landing. His right arm was bent at an impossible angle, his left crushed under his torso. His legs were sprawled, his neck horribly twisted. A horrifying pool of blood stained the stone beneath him, flowing out from his head.

Stiles sobbed as John escorted him away from the scene.

“He attacked me in the stairwell,” Stiles hollowly explained to Derek. “I fought back, and he fell. He died.” He drew in a deep breath. It was a simple explanation for a horrible fate. “My father moved us to avoid accusation of murder.” He looked down at his hands, remembering the feeling of Edwin’s knife in his hand, and the blood that cooled against his skin afterward. “Even when they attack me, I don’t… I never want them dead.”

“You try to show them a mercy they don’t afford you,” Derek answered in a low tone.

“It isn’t their fault,” Stiles argued. “If I could get rid of this glamour, I would, because it hurts too many people.” He set his bowl of stew down. “Sometimes, I think of scarring myself.”

Derek stopped breathing for a moment, unsure he heard Stiles correctly.

“But in all my education, I’ve never found anything that confirms it would work to stop the glamour,” Stiles offered as explanation—he didn’t want to admit that it scared him to think of the pain. “Fae, unfortunately, don’t seem to write much on their culture or biology.”

“I doubt they’d leave such valuable information for us to have,” Derek answered. He wanted to offer a comforting hand to Stiles, but the idea left a crawling disgust under his skin when he thought of touching Stiles without express permission. Stiles had suffered enough unwanted contact and Derek would not add to it.

Stiles faintly laughed. “My father said the same thing.”

Derek’s heart felt a little lighter from the soft lilt in Stiles’ voice.

“I still don’t understand why my mother didn’t seem to suffer from it,” Stiles admitted. “People always focused on me, never her.”

“Perhaps because she was married,” Derek simply stated.

Stiles hummed, curiously. “A theory I haven’t tested.”

“You just need to find a fool to marry,” Derek replied.

“Excellent suggestion,” Stiles mused. “Happen to know any?”

“Unfortunately, I know too many.”

Again, Stiles laughed. He allowed the silence to grow between them, his fingers fiddling with his utensils. “I like mysteries.”

Derek softly hummed. “Is there something in particular?”

Stiles took a sip of his water, running his tongue over his lips as he stared down at the liquid. “There’s always a reason.”

Derek’s brow furrowed as he processed what Stiles meant.

“Despite a mystery… even if it is a theft or a murder or … something, well there is always a reason for it.” Stiles knew he wasn’t making sense as he sighed. “The victim isn’t to blame.”

Derek released a heavy breath. “It’s nice to have answers,” he echoed.

Stiles nodded. “Yes,” he echoed Derek’s sentiment. “Um, what about you?”

Derek was silent for a beat. “Poetry.” He sounded more pained than anything.

Stiles smiled.

“I know, I know,” Derek sighed as he let his legs stretch out in front of him. “My father was a musician–he’d often be making up a song.” He looked up at the ceiling, watching as a moth circled above them. “I liked listening to his process.”

“It sounds like a lovely thing,” Stiles stated.

“Until you hear me sing,” Derek quipped.

Stiles laughed. “You can’t be that terrible.”

“I can be,” Derek shared in Stiles’ laugh.

“Are your poems any good?” Stiles asked in an inquisitive tone.

“No,” Derek replied. “They can barely be claimed as poetry.”

“Maybe… you could read some to me? Some time?” Stiles could feel his face heating at his boldness.

“Maybe,” Derek answered before he could realize that it was all he wanted to do.

“Do you think you’d be a good poet? If things were different, that is,” Stiles inquired.

“No,” Derek softly answered. “But it would have been nice to be able to choose.”

Stiles reached a hand backwards, only hesitating for a moment before his fingers touched the underside of Derek’s forearm. “I know how you feel,” he replied.

Derek gently leaned his weight to press their backs together. “Thank you.”

~*~

A howl followed Stiles.

He ran, his feet aching as he tried to escape the rapid breathing of the thing behind him.

Another howl, long and forlorn in the distance. A calling.

A longing.

Stiles woke with tears in his eyes.

~*~

Derek was certain if he stared at the map any longer, he would burn a hole into it.

There was no alternative he could see, and it unsettled him to think that their only course of action would result in the expected deaths of too many.

There was no way through the passage—the Deadman’s Knot. The Vampyrs had a chokehold on the region with that narrow passageway that left no possibility of coverage. There was no need for them to use their powers when they could simply rain death down on anyone with arrows.

Even if a force managed to make it through, there would be no reassurance that they could keep themselves alive once reaching the otherside.

This is what his mother had always told him was the worst part of being a leader—being faced with a choice where there were clear losses no matter what the outcome.

“You have the night to decide,” Peter offered as he hovered by the entrance.

Derek’s jaw tightened. “So I can sleep on the choice of killing my people,” he countered, though his eyes didn’t leave the map.

“So you can catastrophize about the risk of some dying for the hope that the rest can live,” Peter corrected Derek.

Derek wanted to throw the entire war table, imagining what it would look like to see the wood splinter against the impact. He pressed his face into his hands, drawing in a deep breath as he tried to calm his rage filled thoughts.

Dirt—the forest.

The wolf grumbled in satisfaction.

Bergamot and lavender.

Derek’s pulse lowered with each breath, the scent calming the race of his blood.

A delicate hand touched his shoulder.

Derek’s muscles relaxed at the comforting gesture, his stress evening out at the support. He lowered his hands from his face to look at Stiles. He tried to keep the disappointment from his face when he was confronted with the reminder of Stiles’ veil between them.

“I’m sorry to bother—”

“You’re not bothering me,” Derek corrected Stiles, hoping his annoyance didn’t show in his voice. He was annoyed that Stiles had removed his hand.

Stiles’ veil tilted down, as if he was looking at the ground. “Your uncle said you were busy, but dinner has passed and I was worried you hadn’t eaten yet.”

Derek stood, turning around in his spot as if he could tell the time that had passed just by his surroundings. “Apologies,” he started, realizing that he had forgotten to eat.

“No apology is necessary,” Stiles replied.

Derek turned to look at him. He was about to ask if Stiles ate when he noticed the basket in his hands.

“I… I brought food?”

Derek tilted his head at the question in Stiles’ voice.

“Bread and cheese, mostly,” Stiles offered. “I did manage to convince Erica to get preserves and cured meat,” he started to ramble. “Isaac said that you prefer apricot, but there was only fig.”

“I like figs,” Derek stated, his eyes dashing over the veil for any sign of Stiles. There was nothing Derek could see, not even the likely blush or the way Stiles would bite his lip. At least, Derek thought Stiles bit his lip from what he could hear.

Derek took a step back, moving to rearrange himself in their usual seating arrangement as he forced himself to stop thinking about Stiles’ lips and the likely redness of them.

“What were you thinking about?” Stiles asked when they were finally settled.

Derek was spreading fig preserves over the bread, halting when he considered Stiles’ question. He knew, logically, Stiles couldn’t know he was thinking about what he looked like. It still felt like a betrayal, when Derek thought about it in more detail—Stiles was meant to be safe with him. And he was acting like so many before him.

“You don’t have to tell me if it is sensitive information,” Stiles quickly offered.

“Oh,” Derek spoke with a sense of relief. He felt like a coward for it. “We have to move a group through the Deadman’s Knot.”

“Oh,” Stiles’ voice was heavy with sympathy. “Would a scouting party be safer?”

Derek was surprised by Stiles’ suggestion. It was better than what half the others suggested. He had wanted to throttle Greenberg when he suggested a catapult. “They still guard the passage, below and above. They could perhaps survive a few skirmishes with a limited number of Vampyrs.”

Stiles chewed thoughtfully for a moment. His weight disappeared from Derek’s back, steps moving away before halting. “May I… look at the map?”

Derek was surprised, once more. “Yes,” he uttered his permission. He wanted to turn and watch Stiles. He wanted to see Stiles studying the map that haunted his vision even when closing his eyes.

Stiles hummed in intrigue. “I’ve never seen the Deadman’s Knot, but Vampyrs did make note of it—they source some of their blood from those they take as prisoners.”

There was a ruffling sound.

“You can look—I brought my veil down.”

Derek should have been embarrassed with how quickly he turned. He stood, abandoning his food as he closed the distance between Stiles and him—the war table and him. He needed to stop thinking of things in relation to Stiles.

Stiles touched a forefinger to the map, tracing where the small groups of shifters where marked to be encamped. “Are they still here?”

Derek nodded when Stiles looked up at him.

A sound escaped beneath Stiles’ veil.

Derek tilted his head at the repetitive noise before he realized what it was: Stiles was clicking his tongue.

A smile pulled at Derek’s lips as he watched Stiles’ hand thoughtfully move over the map. And then Stiles’ hand stopped.

“What about instead of going through the pass, you go under it?”

Derek blinked at the spot where Stiles’ hand was. “The salt mines,” he mumbled. “They’re like a labyrinth.”

Stiles leaned back, stretching his spine as he arched backwards and up onto his toes. “Not if you parley with the coblynau.”

Derek had been paying too close attention to the way Stiles’ back curved.

“The coblynau could be reasoned with, and even serve as guides. As long as there isn’t any greed or ingratitude on our part, that is,” Stiles stated as an afterthought. He had only met a coblynau once, and it had been kind to hide Stiles away from the other children who were trying to steal his veil.

The coblynau didn’t even blink an eye at Stiles’ veil, merely inquired what he was doing in their cave. When he asked the spirit for refuge, offering up his gold ring, the spirit had seemed perplexed. And then it started knocking as a distraction for the others.

Stiles had been allowed to keep his ring, and the others were lost for days before their parents found them. Stiles had been blamed, of course. And it was just the start of his and John’s troubles.

“What wouldn’t offend the coblynau?” Derek asked.

Stiles looked up at Derek through his veil. “Um, kindness?”

Derek laughed, a small shadow of a dimple evident in his beard.

Stiles wanted to reach out and touch said dimple.

“Besides being kind,” Derek reasoned.

“They may appreciate some gold or jewels,” Stiles offered. “As long as the others don’t lie or show suspicion—and if they don’t touch anything in the mines. Though I doubt they would steal any salt,” he mused.

“Right,” Derek uttered, his eyes falling to the map. The salt mines were a distance back—it would add time to the group’s movement, but if it ensured their survival it would be worth the loss. “Couldn’t the Vampyrs follow?”

Stiles tilted his head as he hovered shoulder to shoulder with Derek. “In theory, but have you ever known a Vampyr without pride?”

Derek turned his head to look at Stiles. They were close—close enough that Derek could smell the sweet tartness of the preserve Stiles had been eating. The veil and a breath of air was all that separated them.

“The coblynau wouldn’t want to help the Vampyrs, not if it meant death in their mines,” Stiles stated, though he sounded slightly distracted. He was grateful for his veil hiding the way his eyes tracked Derek’s mouth.

“Negotiating a peaceful travel with the coblynau sounds much better than risking the Deadman’s Knot,” Derek finally reasoned.

Stiles beamed with pride. He had been helpful.

“Oh,” Stiles softly uttered when a moth landed on his veil.

Derek looked up, a look of surprise taking over his features.

Stiles reached a hand up to offer his finger to the moth. He laughed when it crawled onto his finger. He looked at Derek.

“There’s another one,” Derek gestured to the top of the veil.

“They do that,” Stiles explained. “They… well, they like me.”

Derek looked at where he was assuming Stiles’ eyes would be. “Moths like you?”

Stiles shrugged his shoulder as the moth on his finger crept along his skin. “Butterflies, too.” He wasn’t sure why he was telling Derek this as he watched the moth make its way over his knuckles. “Insects in general, I guess. I think it has something to do with…” He stopped speaking. He didn’t like talking about his fae blood—it never brought up happy memories these days.

When Stiles was a baby, butterflies would find a way through his window, and rest on his crib. He would giggle at them whenever one landed on his nose or forehead.

Claudia said the butterflies loved to share their kisses with him.

Moths had started to be drawn to him at night, various kinds attracted to him like a beacon.

It was nice to have some sort of friendship.

“Transformation,” Derek mumbled. He remembered the stories his father told, and how sometimes a moth played the role in a hero’s transformation.

Or death.

Stiles looked at Derek. He smiled when he saw a moth land on Derek’s shoulder. He reached his other hand out to touch Derek’s shoulder. He chose to ignore the flip of excitement in his stomach when his cool fingertips touched Derek’s warm shoulder.

Derek was wearing a sleeveless top, his arms bare to the night’s cold.

Derek’s skin was soft, firm muscle underneath the sunkissed tone. Stiles tried not to compare the paleness of his skin to Derek’s vibrant skin.

The moth’s antennae twitched as it sensed Stiles.

Derek turned his head to watch the moth perched on the curve of his shoulder interact with Stiles. It was immediate, how the moth sensed Stiles and reached for him. It moved with a calm ease to touch and crawl onto Stiles.

“They’re good company,” Stiles offered in a soft tone—one that suggested he was trying to gauge what Derek was thinking.

“I didn’t know they enjoyed human companionship.”

“When they aren’t scared of being hurt,” Stiles replied as he looked down at the two moths on his hands.

Derek wished, not for the first time, that he could comfort Stiles.

~*~

Stiles dreamt of hot breath against his skin.

Of strong, capable hands, touching him.

Of lips finally touching his in an agonizingly chaste kiss.

He dreamed of Derek’s eyes.

Of strong, familiar arms holding him.

The shadow didn’t come–there was nothing that could reach him within the safety of Derek’s aura.

~*~

Stiles hadn’t been afforded the luxury of attending formal schooling. He often found himself isolated after his eleventh birthday.

But that hadn’t prevented him from learning what it meant to be the subject of bullying.

It started with minor things—like Stiles almost tripping over something that had been placed in his way on purpose.

But what Stiles awoke to had crossed a line.

Stiles couldn’t breathe as he hurried to find a veil that hadn’t been destroyed.

Every veil had tears through them, some torn right in half.

Hot tears stung his eyes when he found his ceremonial veil—the one he had crafted from the remains of his mother’s wedding vestments. The vine fabric and stitching had been cruelly destroyed. The embroidery was maliciously targeted. It wouldn’t matter if Stiles could sew the fabric together again, the embroidery was lost.

The last gift he had from his mother’s people—his people.

And it had been destroyed with less care than stepping on a bug.

He had no veil. He couldn’t leave the tent.

John had left with a hunting party, reluctantly agreeing when Stiles continued to reassure him that all was well.

Things were getting better since Derek’s standing invitation for dinner. There were less stares and even a few friendly nods. The seamstresses allowed Stiles to join them with a few of the other young shifters in sewing circles to work on various necessities. Erica even allowed Stiles to help in the kitchens—strictly leaving him to prepare things that had nothing to do with meat. Stiles couldn’t argue with her when the first time he skinned a buck, the blood had made him envision Edwin on the prep table. He had vomited outside the tent, thankfully.

Peeling potatoes and chopping carrots were much more his speed than blood.

Stiles wanted to laugh at himself now—he hadn’t foreseen people turning on him so quickly, not when things had finally felt comfortable, no doubt thanks to Derek’s efforts.

Stiles looked at the fabric that hung around his sleeping cot—it had been John’s solution to giving Stiles more privacy and freedom while sleeping. He also imagined his father was worried Stiles would one day be strangled by the veil in his sleep. He was exhausted. He hadn’t been awake for more than ten minutes when he discovered the remains of his destroyed possessions. His space had been violated—someone was in here while he slept, destroying what little he had to protect himself.

The culprit could have taken any chance to see him, but the veils appeared to be the intended target. He wondered, briefly, if the person even knew he slept beneath the canopy as they destroyed his only conduit to the outside world.

Stiles crawled through the carnage of fabric, collapsing back into his bed. He hugged his pillow tightly as he cried, attempting to silence the tears. He didn’t want anyone knowing they hurt him.

Couldn’t people understand that he didn’t want to have to wear the veils?

He didn’t want people to lose themselves when seeing him. He didn’t want anything to do with his fae blood, as all it ever did was cause him heartbreak.

He fell asleep, curled up in his bed, tears staining his cheeks and pillow.

~*~

Derek was studying the map with Peter.

“If your lover has any more useful ideas, please share them,” Peter mused.

Derek looked up at his uncle, an unamused glare on his features as his hackles rose some. He didn’t appreciate the needling Peter continued to give him since the success of the salt mines.

The coblynau were more than happy to help the shifters through the mines once reading the letter Stiles penned, especially if it meant the Vampyrs would be thwarted. The scout said the lead coblynau jumped up and down for joy when told the Vampyrs would be disadvantaged.

And all they wanted was sugar.

“We live surrounded by salt, of course we want sugar,” the coblynau rationalized.

“All I am saying,” Peter started with a smirk, “is that the boy was right. He saved their lives, and they are grateful. They said they wanted to meet him to give their thanks in person.”

Derek thought about subjecting Stiles to a meeting like that. While he believed it was good for Stiles to feel how important he was, there was that hesitance that he could feel ogled.

“And you’re not deaf,” Peter added in a more serious tone. “You know what the others are saying.”

Derek looked back at the map. He knew.

People were whispering that Stiles was warming Derek’s sheets—that Derek had become infatuated with Stiles and was showing him favored treatment. It had all painted Stiles as the villain and Derek as some hopeless fool.

Derek sensed John’s anger before the man entered the room.

“What the hell is the meaning of this?” The older man demanded of the two Hales.

Derek stood upright, staring at the fabric in John’s hand as the man held it out in an accusatory way. He recognized the material immediately.

Stiles’ veils.

Derek’s entire body went rigid.

If John had Stiles’ veils—where was Stiles?

“What happened?” Derek demanded.

Peter slowly allowed his eyes to slip from the veils to Derek. “I’m lost,” he admitted.

“Someone snuck into our tent—they destroyed every single one of Stiles’ veils while he slept. He could have been seen!” John was furious as he threw the ruined veils onto the war table. “My son can’t leave the tent now,” he continued. “He’s shaken, terrified that someone could have seen him.”

“Did anyone touch him?” Derek asked, his voice low as he stared at the cruelly torn veils. Someone had violated Stiles’ trust—hurt him. They had acted callously and hurt someone that didn’t deserve it.

The wolf’s rage was clawing at the surface, digging through the last rational thoughts Derek had when it came to Stiles.

“He doesn’t think so,” John tried to calm himself. “The canopy around his cot was undisturbed.” He hesitated before grabbing the white veil—he knew what this one was. He had watched his son tirelessly work on stitching the veil together, determined to keep the embroidery intact.

He had stared at Claudia in adoration on their wedding day when she wore these vestments.

“This veil,” John cleared his throat of the lump that rose up. “Stiles made it from my wife’s wedding vestments.” He turned the veil with care. The embroidery was completely destroyed, none of its original meaning still remained. “Her mother, cousins, friends… they made this fabric and embroidered their love and tales into it.” He looked up at each Hale, his gaze settling on Derek. “It is all Stiles has left of his mother–their shared culture. And one of your people just stole that from him in an act of pettiness.”

Derek gently took the fabric from John, aware of the way the older man was reluctant to relinquish his hold on it.

~*~

Stiles was trying to sew together some sort of veil with the least torn fabric his father was able to pull from the pile. He knew it would be obvious that the materials weren’t exactly from the same dye or loom work. But he only cared about getting his face covered. He wanted to take a walk to clear his thoughts, and he couldn’t even do that until this work was done.

“Stiles.”

Stiles went rigid when he heard Derek’s voice outside the tent. His nails dug at the fabric of his ruined veil.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t come out–”

“I know,” Derek gently stopped Stiles’ need for an excuse.

Stiles blinked at the hot tears prickling his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he pathetically stated, unsure what else to do than apologize.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Derek answered him. “May I come in?”

Stiles felt like he couldn’t breathe. He ate dinner every night with Derek, their backs to one another, his veil discarded for the evening now that he had grown comfortable in Derek’s protective presence.

It had just been a few nights ago when Stiles finally took the veil completely off his head.

But he didn’t have a veil to hide behind this time. “I… yes,” he finally gave Derek the permission he needed to enter. He kept his back to the entrance as he stood, his veil hanging loosely from his hands. He stared down at the material in his hands when he heard the tent’s entrance move for Derek to enter.

“John informed me what happened,” Derek explained as he secured the tent’s flap behind him.

Stiles drew in a breath. “I don’t think I will be able to have dinner with you tonight.”

“I failed you,” Derek stated instead.

Stiles’ brow furrowed in confusion. “You didn’t do this,” he replied in reassurance.

“No, but I told you that spending time with me would make the others accept you,” Derek reasoned. “And instead of showing you trust, someone hurt you.”

Stiles drew in a breath.

“I brought you something,” Derek began, taking a step closer to Stiles. “Part of me wonders if it will make things worse or better—I can’t deny that I acted impulsively.”

Stiles waited, aware of Derek’s closeness when the man took another step. Fabric moved to hang over Stiles’ shoulder, Derek’s hand barely visible in Stiles’ peripheral. He took the material from Derek’s hold, making sure he didn’t move his head. He inspected the material, realizing that it was a new, solid cut of material that he could easily shape and stitch into a veil.

A new veil without haphazard stitching attempting to cover up cruel cuts.

“I asked the seamstresses what was the best material for a veil worn daily,” Derek explained. “They collectively chose that one.”

Derek had left the remnants of Stiles’ torn veil with the group of fretful artisans. It appeared that they greatly disapproved of what had happened, some of them even sniffing the material to try and catch the culprit. Though they promised to repair the veil, they acknowledged that the only person who could embroider it to its former glory would be a fae.

Derek decided that the next step was to get Stiles a new veil, one that carried his favor.

“That material is a gift,” Derek explained. “If one of my people harms it—takes it away from you, that is a direct assault on me.”

Stiles tightened his hold on the fabric.

“I can’t accuse someone of harming your veils without proof—I think they left a scent, though it is faint,” Derek explained. “But this holds some meaning, to all my people, that you are protected. By me.”

Stiles drew in a shaky breath. “Could you… close your eyes?”

Derek blinked a few times, unsure what Stiles could want from such a request. But he complied all the same. “I don’t know why you would require it, but they are closed,” he muttered.

And then someone was hugging Derek.

Stiles was hugging him.

Stiles tilted his head down, resting against Derek’s shoulder as his arms encircled Derek’s waist. He knew, seconds after touching Derek, that he should have asked him permission. “I’m sorry,” he started to pull away as a longer apology started to formulate.

But Derek pulled Stiles into a tighter hug.

Stiles released a faint huff of air as he collided against Derek. He softly smiled as he closed his eyes, allowing the pain in his heart to dampen as he relaxed into Derek’s hold. He felt lighter as Derek’s arms crossed over his back.

Derek kept his eyes sealed tightly as his nose brushed over Stiles’ hair, drawing in his scent. He could smell the sadness receding into a budding happiness. Stiles fit against him better than he dreamt. He wanted to hug Stiles more often–keep Stiles here, close to his chest… his heart.

“You don’t have to apologize for hugging me,” Derek finally offered.

Stiles curled his fingers against the fabric of Derek’s tunic, just at the middle of his back. “I should ask—I know what it is like not being asked.”

Derek was quiet for a beat as he drew in a breath of Stiles’ scent. “This is my fault, Stiles.”

Stiles gently shook his head against Derek’s shoulder. “Derek, please, you’ve done nothing wrong–”

“I’ve shown you favor already,” Derek answered.

Stiles’ brow furrowed. “You are keeping your people safe by keeping me close, I know that–your people know that.”

Derek scoffed. “I thought I was making it obvious this whole time.”

Stiles’ heartbeat quickened.

Derek briefly pressed his nose against Stiles’ pulse point, just at the curve of Stiles’ throat. “Stiles,” he spoke Stiles’ name like a weighted vow. “Every evening I’ve spent with you… I’ve dreaded the sunrise afterwards, knowing I had to wait to see you again.”

Stiles curled his fingers into Derek’s ribs.

“If I made you uncomfortable,” Derek started. “You don’t have to see me again.”

“No,” Stiles argued. He turned his head to press his forehead against the edge of Derek’s collarbone. “What are you saying, though?” He didn’t want to be hopeful.

“I… like you.”

Three incredibly simple words that Stiles never heard uttered towards him before.

You are beautiful.

I need you.

Just one touch.

He heard those plenty of times, but never these three words spoken in such earnest gentleness.

“But you haven’t even seen me,” Stiles weakly argued.

Because how could anyone want him without the force of his glamour?

“Stiles,” Derek started, a heavy sigh leaving him. “That doesn’t matter–”

“What are you going to do when you eventually want to see me?” Stiles argued. He felt the panic growing. He was sabotaging his own dream. He couldn’t accept it. And yet, Derek was giving him what he always wanted. But was it his will, or Derek’s?

“I already like you,” Derek countered, though there was an edge to his tone. “That wouldn’t change.”

“Derek,” Stiles started. He should stop talking—he wanted to stop talking and accept this. But he didn’t deserve it. “You like me, but that doesn’t mean you’re attracted to me. You’d never know if you actually found me attractive or not.”

Derek was quiet, his arms reluctantly releasing Stiles when he felt him pull back.

“Derek,” Peter’s stern voice uttered from outside the tent.

Derek turned to face the tent’s entrance, opening his eyes. He felt dizzy, a nausea building in him at the uncertainty Stiles urged to grow in him. “What?”

Peter was quiet for a beat before replying, “We have a problem.”

Derek faintly cursed. “I’ll be right there.”

Peter disappeared with Derek’s subtle dismissal.

Stiles fidgeted with the new material, having turned his back to Derek once again. “I’m sorry,” he offered, unsure how else he could soothe the rift he had forced. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”

Derek’s fists tensed for a brief moment. “Do you believe your father loved your mother?”

Stiles was shocked by Derek’s question. He drew in a breath before answering, “Yes.”

“Would you tell him he didn’t care for her because of her glamour?”

Stiles bit his cheek, because he knew Derek had a valid point. “No,” he quietly admitted.

“If I have to live the rest of my life never seeing your face, so be it,” Derek firmly said. “I’d rather have your heart, Stiles.”

Derek left Stiles’ tent without knowing he took with him the very thing he wanted–Stiles’ heart.

~*~

“King Arryn,” Derek stated the High Lord Vampyr’s name, echoing Peter and the signature at the end of the urgent missive.

Peter gently kicked the war table, watching as various markers toppled. “There goes our hope of victory.”

Derek was staring at the letter Peter had given him when he finally walked back into the war council room.

King Arryn’s writing appeared elegant and practiced, no doubt thanks to the ancient hand that guided the ink across the parchment.

I have held a great respect for your family–your mother was a strong, compassionate Alpha, who understood the importance of boundaries. Though my deepest wish is for us to come to an agreement, there has been an insult forced on me by the theft of a precious gem. I doubt you understood the depth of harm, likely kept in the dark by your recent conscripts.

There needs to be no ill blood between us.

I simply wish for what is mine to be returned, and the lands of Beacon and beyond shall be acknowledged as your people’s. I hope we can come to an understanding.

Come to the Lands Between, and during the height of the full moon, we can reach an agreement.

“Who else has seen this?” Derek asked, his stomach twisting at the ominous vagueness in Arryn’s words.

“I can’t guarantee that the messenger came right here, but I think we are the only two,” Peter offered. He looked at his nephew. “It is likely a trap.”

Derek ground his teeth as he reread the letter. It was obvious what Arryn wanted.

Stiles.

“The messenger is waiting for you to reply,” Peter said.

Derek looked at Peter. “Where are you keeping them?”

Peter snorted in amusement. “I simply had them placed in a secure room, watched at all angles.”

Derek sighed, glancing briefly at the letter.

“You’re not going to entertain it, are you?”

Derek looked at his uncle.

The older man was surprisingly at ease in his chair, feet propped against the edge of the war table. Though he was bodily at rest, his eyes were focused and calculating. He was an expert, afterall, at being a chameleon when necessary. A snake is what some called him.

Derek knew what Peter was good at, and making someone face the difficult choices was one of Peter’s strong suits.

“He purposefully was vague,” Derek noted as he dropped the letter onto the table.

“Of course he was,” Peter simply answered. “He wants there to be doubt about who Stiles is to him, to create chaos and sew distrust amongst you and the others.” He rested his hands on his stomach as he released a harsh breath. “It’s genius and I am frankly pissed at how he’s managed to pull it off so far.”

Derek furrowed his brow as he crossed his arms over his chest. He was glaring at the markers on the map. “We aren’t even winning, why would he risk coming to us now?”

“Because Stiles helped us outsmart him,” Peter stated the obvious. “Stiles knows things about the fae–even can speak and pen the language. That gives us an edge against the Vampyrs when there isn’t a species in this gods forsaken land that actually likes their entitled douchery.” He dropped his boots from the table, moving to stand. “Regardless, you need to give an answer to the messenger before dawn, or the man will burst into dust.”

Derek pressed a hand to his face, scrubbing at the tightness in his skin to alleviate his exhaustion.

“You know it won’t matter what you do,” Peter finally gave a voice to the only obvious answer.

Derek turned to look at his uncle.

“If you deny Arryn his claim on Stiles, you incur his wrath on us,” Peter started, sighing as he looked at the map. It was as if he was trying to visualize where they had gone wrong, or if there was a way to escape the corner Arryn herded them into. “If you give him Stiles–”

“Stiles isn’t an object to be given,” Derek snapped.

Peter looked at his nephew, seeing the glowing remnants of the Alpha spark flickering around the rim of his irises. “And that’s the problem,” he gently stated. “Stiles belongs nowhere, and yet you are about to place our people on the chopping block for an outsider. Because you’re infatuated.”

Derek wanted to argue with Peter. But it was the truth–Derek had an opportunity to save his people. Give Stiles to Arryn, and the shifters would be left alone.

Give Stiles to Arryn.

Give Stiles…

“You’d have me hand him over to someone who sees him as an oddity,” Derek weakly stated.

“It hurts when there isn’t an easy solution,” Peter reasoned.

“What example does it show that I would willingly hand over someone under my protection?” Derek countered.

“Stiles and John lied to us,” Peter answered. He was playing the cruel side of reasoning, as he usually did in times like these. “They have been with us for months, and did help with key strategies, but they will never be part of your pack, Derek.”

Derek clenched his jaw.

“Stiles will always be targeted–by the powerful, the curious, and the stupid,” Peter sighed as he dropped his feet from their propped position to stand. “You are the Alpha of shifters, Derek, you can’t possibly think you could marry him.” A sad expression pulled at his features when he saw the flicker of pain cross Derek’s face. “He holds no value, no connection. Your marriage is meant to bring us back to glory. You have a line to continue, remember.”

Derek could feel his fangs itching his gums, his wolf’s heckles rising at the thought of selling himself off into a marriage of convenience.

But Stiles…

Stiles was light. He was the calm of the forest during a run.

The calm nights spent sharing a meal, the laughter at the easy comfort growing between them.

Stiles had become all Derek wanted.

“I won’t hand him over to Arryn,” Derek finally confirmed. “There is a goodness in Stiles that the world has tried to rob from him, but he still shows his ability to care despite any pains inflicted on him,” he drew in a deep breath. “How could I respond with betrayal?”

Peter sighed, looking down. “I like Stiles, but I still feared you’d decide this,” he admitted. “The people will revolt–maybe even target him. He… he won’t be safe here, Derek.”

Derek wanted to believe in the good of his people, though wants and reality were very different things. “I should tell John and Stiles to leave,” he concluded.

“Giving them a head start would be the kindest gift we could give them.”

If it was a gift, then why did Derek feel sick at the thought of Stiles accepting it?

~*~

“You are far from home.”

Stiles froze, turning to look at the owner of the voice. He had been retrieving water from the aqueduct’s pool, arranging for a simple meal to share with Derek. His veil had done its job, many of the shifters who already warmed up to Stiles had complimented him on the veil. He felt a floating high of joy when thanking them.

They knew it was a gift from Derek.

The man who stood beneath the shadow of the aqueduct’s pillar was young, an ethereal glow to his eyes made his irises appear as mirrors.

Stiles stumbled backwards.

“I brought a message, I’m not here to drag you back,” the Vampyr sounded bored with Stiles’ reaction.

Stiles clutched the water jug against his chest.

“The Alpha’s uncle kept me for the day, threatening to release me into the sun if he chose,” the Vampyr rolled his eyes. “They are cliche, that is for sure.” He finally stepped out of the darkness, closing the distance to Stiles.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asked as his gaze flickered around them.

The aqueduct brought water to the settlement, but it was far from the town–far from people. Stiles was alone with the Vampyr unless someone else deemed a trip to retrieve water necessary.

“I brought a message to the Alpha,” the Vampyr stated. He looked from Stiles’ veil to the jug of water. “Arryn isn’t amused that you helped them,” he explained as he closed the gap between them. He placed a sharp nail against the clay jug, dragging the razor sharp edge to damage the clay.

Stiles refused to shake.

“He gave the Alpha a bargain,” the Vampyr continued. “If he returned you to Arryn, they’d get this shithole all to themselves,” a laugh of contempt edged into his tone.

Stiles kept his eyes on the Vampyr.

“Don’t you want to know what the Alpha said?”

“I don’t trust you,” Stiles countered. “No matter what you tell me, I won’t believe you. I will speak to Derek myself to hear the truth.”

A vice grip closed at lightning speed on Stiles’ jaw, forcing his face to turn up as the shifted face of an angered Vampyr sneered at him. The clay jug did drop from his hands at the jostling of the Vampyr grabbing his jaw. Sharp nails dug into Stiles’ skin through the veil, threatening to break the surface.

“You’re lucky Arryn wants you unharmed,” the Vampyr seethed. “Wait until I tell him you call that mutt by his name.”

Stiles refused to react. He wasn’t Arryn’s–he would never belong to the Vampyr lord.

“You have a choice, brat,” the Vampyr continued. “You come to Arryn on your own, or he will give the order to swarm this pathetic rebellion, and leave nothing but corpses for the rats and maggots to feast on when we are done.”

Stiles did force a smile then. “Derek refused him, then.”

The Vampyr released Stiles. “I will enjoy what Arryn has planned for you,” he hissed between his fangs. “Remember my warning–come to Arryn, and he will spare them. Choose not to, and he’ll have you anyway. And the blood of the shifters, as well as your traitorous father. Perhaps you’ll be smarter than the Alpha and choose to spare his people.”

Within a blink, the Vampyr was gone, disappearing into the shadows once more.

Stiles waited a beat before exhaling, his limbs shaking as he leaned against the aqueduct’s pool. He was supposed to go to Derek for dinner, but all he could think of was the Vampyr’s warning.

Arryn would raze the entire shifter species if he thought they slighted him.

And Stiles had dealt him a blow by killing his human regent, before escaping without consequences.

If Arryn had been human, he wouldn’t have been a kind man–cruel and decadent, finding amusement in breaking things he knew could never be repaired once broken. As a High Vampyr, he had no limits to his torment.

Stiles didn’t have a choice.

He never did.

Chapter Text

“Stiles.”

Stiles tried not to move when Arryn approached him. He once thought having hundreds of eyes on him would be more unsettling than just one pair.

Stiles agonized over the decision to leave Beacon. He had a head start, and knew it wouldn’t take long for him to run into one of Arryn’s envoys. Arryn was an arrogant person, it was obvious he would have threatened all Vampyrs to keep an eye out for Stiles–that he wasn’t to be touched, if the messenger was to be believed.

And the Vampyrs only smiled at their luck when Stiles admitted who he was. They seemed unsurprised despite their pleasure. As if they knew Stiles would choose to return to Arryn.

Arryn approached Stiles with wide open arms, a performative gesture that was meant to be welcoming.

Stiles’ mind screamed at him to run, his survival instincts trying to tell him this was a bad idea–he made a mistake not telling anyone he had made the decision for them by removing himself from the equation.

Arryn lowered his arms to take Stiles’ forearms in his hands. “Oh, you’ve tanned some,” he noted at the slightly darker tone Stiles’ skin had taken on. He smiled. “Still as freckled as ever,” he sounded pleased as his thumb grazed one particular mole by the pulsepoint on Stiles’ wrist.

Arryn was taller up close than Stiles imagined–he possibly could have been taller than Derek. Though the older man was slender, elegant and refined in his poise as he kept eyes on Stiles. He reminded Stiles of a bird.

Somehow, Arryn didn’t look sickly despite how unnerving his features were. His skin looked like marble–perhaps he had been a model for an artisan before sucking them dry. He looked like a statue come to life, something that would never leave the confines of its home.

Arryn narrowed his eyes as a smile pulled at his lips, a joyful glimmer in his eyes like the birds of prey who watched and sometimes toyed with their food.

And Stiles was no different than prey.

Arryn tsked, an amused gleam in his violet eyes. “Now, I must express that I was upset with your departure.”

Stiles opened his mouth to apologize. “I–”

Arryn placed a finger to Stiles’ lips, halting all conversation. His ice cold skin caused a knot to form in Stiles’ throat.

Arryn had reached beneath Stiles’ veil at such a heightened speed that Stiles’ hadn’t registered the Vampyr releasing one of his forearms. He smiled, some of his pale blonde hair shifting and falling towards his face.

But untold power was contained in the Vampyr when he wanted to appear unassuming.

“Edwin was human, but he still was appointed by me,” Arryn continued. He switched his forefinger to thumb, stroking Stiles’ bottom lip. “Imagine my surprise when I was told you had killed him.” He laughed, as if the idea was absurd. “I said, ‘sweet Stiles? Of course he couldn’t have done that. That would be an insult to me.’”

Stiles tried to keep his jaw from trembling as Arryn’s sharp nail pressed down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. He heard the murmur of the closer Vampyrs who scented the blood before Arryn withdrew his hand from beneath Stiles’ veil.

Arryn’s eyes finally left Stiles, looking at the blood gracing his thumb. He placed his thumb between his own lips, savoring the taste of Stiles with a low hum of contentment.

“Tell me, Stiles,” Arryn calmly started as his thumb dropped from his lips, though his voice dropped into a low tone. “Did you insult me by murdering my appointed regent?”

Stiles darted his tongue out to try and make the bleeding disappear. Copper tang soured on his tongue. “He tried to rape me.”

Arryn laughed. “You can’t rape a fae, Stiles,” he cruelly uttered, the rest of those watching laughed in agreement. “Why, I could tear your veil off, take you here in front of all these eyes, and no one would see that you had not brought it upon yourself.”

Stiles tried to take a step back, hesitating when Arryn tightened his grip on him. He winced at the strength, certain his forearm would bruise.

“Is it not your face that drives people to madness?” Arryn continued. “ Your smell?”

Stiles froze.

“Everything about you, Stiles, is made to draw in creatures of all species,” Arryn explained. “Even Alpha shifters.”

Stiles was going to be sick as he stared up at Arryn.

Arryn’s features gave nothing away despite the knowing smile.

It had to be a lie–Arryn was a liar, there was no other explanation besides…

Why would Arryn lie?

I like you.

Stiles’ mind was racing.

Derek didn’t take advantage of him. He had given Stiles a veil to hide behind. He refused to give Stiles back to Arryn.

“Oh, darling,” Arryn crooned, his voice filled with condescending pity for Stiles. “You didn’t think he loved you, did you? Your veil hides your face, but a pathetic piece of fabric can’t stop you from manipulating even the most reserved person into wanting you.” He reached his hand up under Stiles’ veil again, taking advantage of Stiles’ stupor. He forcefully turned Stiles, making him face the crowd as he pinned Stiles against his chest with a chokehold on Stiles’ throat.

Derek scented Stiles every night.

Your smell?

Stiles had been letting Derek scent him every night. He was essentially dosing Derek every night with pheromones, driving any desire Derek may have thought he had for Stiles. He made Derek think he liked him. He made Derek almost sacrifice his people to keep him from Arryn.

Stiles took Derek’s free will away.

Stiles was trapped against Arryn’s chest, the Vampyr’s cold seeping through their clothes, causing Stiles to shiver. He supposed he deserved worse than Arryn draining him in front of a crowd.

Arryn bent, his cheek pressing the veil up against Stiles’ as he spoke into Stiles’ ear, “Let me give you a demonstration.”

A rough grip took hold of Stiles’ circlet and veil.

Stiles screamed in protest as the fabric vanished from his vision, his arm trying to snatch his veil back.

Arryn had torn Stiles’ veil from his head, revealing Stiles’ face to all in attendance.

~*~

Derek paced without any goal in mind, his thoughts clouded as the others spoke.

“There was a faint scent of the Vampyr by the aqueduct pool,” Erica explained, her gaze shifting to Derek before she added, “the footsteps looked like Stiles may have dropped the jug when the Vampyr drew close.”

“He could have left willingly with the Vampyr.”

Derek stopped pacing. He turned to look at his uncle.

Peter didn’t look apologetic for the accusation.

And he wouldn’t apologize, not when there had been several shifters that whispered the rumor.

“He wouldn’t,” John countered. “He wouldn’t leave with him.” The older man was blaming himself–he shouldn’t have let Stiles go by himself to retrieve water.

“He would if he thought it would save us,” Peter finally stated. “He’s Arryn’s now.”

John pushed away from the table, marching towards the exit.

“John–”

“He’s my son,” John snapped as he looked at the Hales and their gathered party. He shook his head, more at the realization that he had been neglective, moreso than he feared. “He’s my son,” he softly stated, a sadness pulling at his brows. “I won’t leave him with Arryn.”

“Arryn will kill you,” Derek flattly replied. “And then Stiles’ sacrifice will have meant nothing.”

“You’re assuming my son went with them willingly,” John replied.

“I think it was the only way for Stiles to leave unharmed,” Derek honestly replied. “And Peter is right, he would have left if he thought it would save everyone–you included.”

John released a heavy huff of exasperation. “I’m meant to protect him, and I failed,” he confessed his shame. “Every time, I failed him. I’m not going to fail him this time.” And with an air of finality, John left the war room behind.

Derek looked at the war table, his brow crinkling as he observed the dwindling markers of Vampyrs. He hadn’t realized it, but out of sheer numbers, they had been winning. Their losses were nothing compared to Arryn’s losses.

And Arryn would have wanted to curb those losses with a display of victory.

“John is our best countermeasure against them,” Isaac muttered, more to the room at large than a specific individual.

“We have no right to tell him he can’t go after his son,” Peter replied, knowing there had to be someone willing to reply.

“I’m going with him,” Derek finally stated as he stood upright.

An unease swept through the room.

“Derek,” Peter started in a warning tone.

“Arryn will kill John, and like Isaac said, he is our best countermeasure,” Derek rationalized as he looked at Peter. “Arryn won’t kill me under a peace treaty.”

“Are you that obsessed with Stiles you’d risk your death?” Peter plainly questioned.

“He’s someone deserving of respect,” Derek replied.

“Answer the fucking question,” Peter raised his voice, his icy blue spark glowing in challenge. “Are you pursuing the Stilinski boy, at risk of your pack?”

“I’m keeping my word,” Derek angrily snapped, his Alpha spark reacting to the challenge. “I promised them sanctuary–this has nothing to do with favoritism.”

“That isn’t what your pack sees,” Peter replied. He gestured towards the others. “Go ahead, inform them of your intent to risk your life–the livelihood of the pack–for an attractive outsider.”

Derek ground his teeth, glaring at Peter. “I will do what I have always done,” he started, softening his features as he looked at his betas. “And I will do what is best for this pack–and that is not leaving an ally to die.”

Arguments broke out.

~*~

Peter watched John preparing his horse’s saddle, biting down into an apple as he let his thoughts drift to the various outcomes. They could lose or gain everything with the loss of one man. Perhaps it was John. Perhaps it was Stiles.

It most definitely would be Derek in any scenario.

But it was impossible to tell who would be left standing, and who would be buried in the sand, should any man be killed.

Derek exited the ruins, stomping up the steep incline that approached where Peter was lingering. He didn’t seem overwhelmingly surprised to find Peter blocking his path.

“You’ve decided to join him.” It wasn’t a question, merely a statement.

“Arryn won’t attack me under a peace negotiation,” Derek reasoned.

Peter nodded. “And if you die?” He curiously asked.

“You’ll get what you always wanted,” Derek replied with a shrug of his shoulder.

“Oh, fuck off,” Peter laughed.

Derek couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at the corner of his lips.

“Besides, we all know Erica would get your spark–and she hates me more than Boyd,” Peter sighed, watching as John tied the saddlebag–the bag he had seen Stiles tirelessly work to repair. “Do you love Stiles?”

Derek quietly looked down. “I don’t know,” he honestly answered. “My wolf is… fond isn’t a strong enough word.”

Peter nodded as he drew in a breath. “I know you’re trying to be an eligible bachelor to bring in more alliances, but… it wouldn’t be selfish to claim him if that is what you truly want.”

Derek’s brow furrowed. “He wouldn’t want that–”

“Derek,” Peter sighed in exasperation. “I may not be able to see his face, but it is clear he follows you no matter what is going on. I can smell his blush each time you look at him or speak to him.”

Derek ignored the blush that crept up his own neck. “He doesn’t want me, Peter.”

“Or he wants you badly, but he’s never known anyone to want him for reasons other than his glamour,” Peter mused. He placed a comforting hand on Derek’s shoulder. “Be careful of Arryn,” he offered. “He’s smart–and if I could figure out Stiles’ desire for you, he’ll have figured it out by now. Don’t let him bait you into a rageful response by using that against either of you.”

Derek nodded before walking away.

Peter watched Derek approach John, unsurprised by the older man’s defensive posture. He snorted at the way the human relaxed at whatever Derek stated. “Perhaps the war may end soon afterall,” he remarked as he looked up at the stars.

What he would give to have a new generation who lived knowing everything but war.

~*~

Stiles had nothing to preoccupy himself as Arryn slept through the day.

He remained on the designated bed that had been offered to him–bed was a generous term. It was a cushion at the base of Arryn’s opulent bed. He reached a hesitant hand up to touch the collar that was wrapped around his neck, avoiding the razor sharp edges. He couldn’t sleep with the thing around his neck, but Arryn knew that.

Once you behave, I’ll take it off.

Stiles had tried, foolishly some would call it, to retaliate after Arryn stole his veil. He knew it meant nothing to Arryn that he gave him what he wanted. But when the first Vampyr touched his cheek, Stiles bit the ancient being’s hand.

Arryn pressed the collar into Stiles’ throat, tongue lapping at where the blood pooled in the hollow dip of his clavicle.

It only took Stiles their first meeting to understand that Arryn enjoyed it even more when he struggled. He was relieved when his limp body appeared to disinterest Arryn this last time.

The cuts were healing, but Stiles knew if he tilted his head or moved too much, they would open again.

“Do you dream?”

Stiles startled at Arryn’s voice. He stared at the man’s motionless form on the bed. He had thought Arryn was sleeping, but now wasn’t sure he could trust his own evaluations when it came to the man. He dropped his hand from the collar out of precaution.

Arryn hadn’t moved, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t watching Stiles.

“Yes,” Stiles finally answered the Vampyr.

Arryn hummed. “I don’t,” he admitted, his face parallel with the ceiling. “No Vampyr does.”

Stiles allowed the silence to grow between them.

“What do you dream of?” Arryn pressed.

Stiles looked down at his lap. “Of being chased through the woods,” he finally stated.

Arryn languidly rose, his movements slow despite how fluid he was. His eyes shined through the darkness–haunting mirrors that looked so similar to a fishing lure. His hair hung loosely around his bare shoulders. “Do you escape?”

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. “Recently, yes,” he admitted.

Arryn snorted in contempt for Stiles’ hopefulness. “You think you’ll escape me.” It wasn’t a question, but an accusation.

Stiles looked away from Arryn and towards the balcony.

Arryn caught Stiles’ gaze, following it. “I won’t let you go,” he corrected Stiles’ hope of escape. “Even in death, I will make you suffer, Stiles.”

Stiles forced himself to look at Arryn. “Why do you care so much?”

In a flash, Arryn’s hand gripped Stiles’ hair in a vice grip, forcing him to stand to his full height. He didn’t react to Stiles’ desperate grapple–Stiles’ nails digging into his cold skin. “Struggle all you want,” Arryn’s voice was calm despite his anger. He needed to remind himself that he had won. “I have had centuries of perfecting this dance,” he explained to Stiles as he reached his free hand up to grip Stiles’ chin. His sharp nails clawed deep into Stiles’ soft skin around his jaw. “I’ve broken stronger, and far prettier things than you.”

Stiles glared at Arryn. “I will grow old, and I will die. And then I will escape you.”

Arryn smiled at Stiles, closing the space between them. “I’ll bring you to the brink of death before the year is out, Stiles,” he lowly promised, his voice above a whisper. “And then, I’ll turn you–I’ll keep you like the pretty little pet you’ve always been.”

Stiles’ heartbeat rose upon understanding Arryn’s threat. He struggled, despite knowing how pointless it was.

“And then, I’ll show you to that dog you so admire.” Arryn pressed a savage kiss to Stiles’ lips, using his grip on Stiles’ jaw to pry open his mouth.

Stiles whimpered as he struggled, Arryn’s nails piercing his skin and causing more wounds. He feared Arryn’s fangs biting his tongue in retaliation.

Arryn bodily yanked Stiles back when he felt something land on his shoulder.

Stiles staggered, seeing in the darkened room for the first time. The light was coming from him. He looked down at his skin, seeing the cold bluish light pulsing from him.

Arryn looked at the moth that had landed on his shoulder. He sneered at it in disgust before flicking it with a poised forefinger. He watched in amusement as the moth was cruelly shot a distance away.

Stiles made a noise of protest before Arryn looked at him. He did the only thing he could in the moment and spit in the Vampyr’s face. There was blood in his spit, the result of his own teeth trying to scrape any remnants of Arryn from his mouth.

Arryn slowly lifted his thumb to his face, wiping away Stiles’ spit.

“My Lord.”

Arryn left his gaze on Stiles as he answered, “What is it?”

The guard outside remained quiet for a beat too long.

“What!” Arryn angrily yelled as he looked at the closed door.

“The human’s father is approaching,” the guard finally stated. “And a shifter is with him.”

A muscle in Arryn’s nose twitched, his perfect features finally cracking. He shoved Stiles backwards, relishing in the soft cry of pain he released when the collar cut into the back of Stiles’ neck upon colliding with the wall.

“Gather everyone,” Arryn ordered as he left Stiles to dress.

Stiles breathed through the pain before he dared to move. He walked the necessary steps to inspect the injured moth. He scooped up the creature with gentle hands. He frowned when seeing the crippled wing of the black witch moth. He moved back to where Arryn would have expected him to be, cradling the moth in his hand and close to his body.

The moth reached its legs out, antennae twitching in recognition of Stiles’ light.

“It will be alright,” Stiles softly spoke to the moth, aware of the blue glow still shining from him. He was comforted as another moth landed on his shoulder. He closed his eyes, offering up the prayer he always did whenever finding an injured creature.

It wasn’t fair, Stiles had always thought, that creatures had to suffer at the cruel hands of humans–even Vampyrs and shifters alike. He could never stop himself from helping the ones he found.

When Stiles opened his eyes, he smiled when he saw the black witch moth’s wing move with ease, completely uncrumpled.

“Thank you,” Stiles offered to the moth. He knew what it meant, and he could only hope that Arryn’s death was coming sooner rather than later.

~*~

Derek watched John over the dying embers of their fire. They were less than a day’s walk to Arryn’s hall, and they had saved the horses’ strength for this last stretch. They would be at Arryn’s door in hours.

John was mixing a powder together, speaking something in a language Derek had barely heard Stiles speak.

Derek didn’t interrupt the man, knowing whatever it was must have been important to him. He hadn’t slept all night, aware of John’s tossing and turning. He kept himself awake out of some type of attempt to keep a semblance of sanity. He wasn’t sure he could control his wolf if he slept–he had half expected himself to wake up to carnage in Arryn’s hall, his fur matted with blood and gore, and Stiles staring at him in horror.

John added liquid from the water skin attached to his horse, mixing an inky paste from the mixture. He used it to write on parchment with the sharpened edge of a small bone. He was fast and meticulous in his actions before casting the parchment into the fire. He watched as the smoke changed color.

Derek stared in shock at seeing the smoke suddenly bloom, the fire growing with a heated ferocity beyond its life. Smoke billowed up into the sky as colors formed the letters in quick succession before evaporating. He furrowed his brow in confusion.

“A call for help,” John explained when they finally were cleaning up their camp afterwards.

“Who is Arabella?” Derek chose to ask.

John paused as he stared at the saddlebag in his hands. “She’s… she’s someone who cares about Stiles. But I don’t think she’ll come.”

Derek frowned. “Then why send her a message at all?”

John turned his back to Derek as he worked on finishing the saddling process. “Because I don’t think we can get Stiles back without her. And I can hope her love for Stiles is greater than her hatred of me.”

Derek turned his gaze towards the horizon, where he knew Arryn’s hall lay far beyond. He didn’t plan on leaving without Stiles–peace treaty be damned. And maybe that should have scared him more than anything.

~*~

A veiled figure knelt on the dais, perched close to Arryn’s throne.

Arryn played with a chain, running the metal over his hands and through his palms as if it was fluid like water. He smirked as he pulled on the chain, causing the figure to startle forward, hands colliding with the chair to prevent their owner from falling over.

“I guess someone does love you,” Arryn whispered through the veil. “Are you glad I let you keep this pathetic fabric?” He slipped one of his nails beneath the fabric, trailing the sharp edge across Stiles’ cheek.

“Stop it, please,” Stiles asked in a soft voice, knowing what Arryn wanted from him.

“You can beg better than that, Stiles,” Arryn stated in a bored tone as he relaxed into his throne, one knee swung over the armrest as he tapped the chain against his thigh. “You screamed so nicely when I tore it off,” he added as an afterthought. A smirk started to cross his features. “You can beg better than that, especially if you don’t want me showing him your face.”

Stiles had never felt horror the way it gripped him when Arryn tore his veil off. And then nothing happened. Hundreds of eyes staring at him without a feigned interest.

Arryn’s words had felt like poison dripped into his ear.

Fae blood means nothing to Vampyrs, you were always safest here .

The collar Arryn fastened around Stiles’ neck wasn’t the kindness Arryn pretended it was. It marked Stiles as Arryn’s property, keeping other Vampyrs away from him, but it had a ring around the front–just over his clavicle that allowed Arryn to attach a leash to. When Stiles wasn’t locked in Arryn’s apartments, he was leashed to the dais’ throne, a vision of supplication that pleased Arryn.

Icy fear crept down Stiles’ spine at Arryn’s words. He forced himself to look at their guests, unsure if he felt happy or terrified upon seeing Derek entering alongside his father. He knew, logically, when the guard said a shifter was with John, it was more likely Derek than anyone else.

But he hadn’t allowed himself to hope.

“Welcomed guests,” Arryn’s voice boomed over the hall.

“King Arryn,” John started with a bow, tilting his head to look at Derek. His mouth moved, speaking words to Derek that Stiles couldn’t make out.

Stiles assumed it was a plea for the Alpha to bow.

Derek was rigid as he bowed his head a slight increment, though his eyes never left the veil covering Stiles. It was more than Arryn deserved.

“Have you come to visit Stiles?” Arryn asked with a smirk.

Stiles clenched his hands into fists.

“We have come to request that you relinquish Stiles into our care,” John tactfully answered.

Derek was browbeatened, an annoyance flaring in his features as he finally looked at Arryn.

“Stiles is perfectly happy here,” Arryn answered, his hand gesturing towards Stiles.

Stiles tried to remain still, unwilling to provide Arryn with any tell. He knew that any desire he showed would be ammunition for Arryn.

“Oh right, you might not believe this is Stiles,” Arryn cruelly mused, a twisted smile pulling at his lips. “What is it that you used to do with him, shifter?”

“I can tell if it is my son,” John interrupted Arryn. The less Derek spoke, the better, John had thought.

Arryn’s cold eyes slitted over to John, all amusement dropped from his features. “I wasn’t talking to you, bloodbag,” he stated with no inflection in his tone. “You are a traitor, and alive only because I promised Stiles I wouldn’t hurt you.” Arryn stood, harshly yanking on the chain as he descended the dais.

Stiles fell with the force of Arryn’s brutality, unable to stop himself from falling down a few of the steps. He crawled when Arryn didn’t pause to allow him to stand.

The chain pulled harshly on the collar around Stiles’ neck, adding more cuts to his already healing wounds.

“I asked you, shifter,” Arryn started, looking directly at Derek. “What did you use to do with him?”

Derek ground his molars, impressed they hadn’t cracked from the force. “I scented him,” he growled.

Arryn smiled upon hearing the anger in Derek’s voice. “Can you not smell him from there?”

Derek barely let his eyes flicker from Arryn to Stiles, trying to feign his true emotions. He suspected Arryn already knew.

“Go ahead,” Arryn goaded Derek. “Smell him.”

Stiles was still kneeling, his legs sore from the number of times Arryn had hit the backs of his knees. The Vampyr lord enjoyed prostration most of all.

Derek let only a little control slip, realizing in an instant that it had been a trap.

Blood.

Stiles was bleeding.

Stiles was bruised.

Stiles was in pain.

The bitter, alkaline scent of exhaustion and fear laced the coppery tang of blood.

Derek’s wolf wanted out.

“You bit him!” Derek snapped at Arryn, his wolf’s hackles raising with each second Stiles wasn’t within reach.

Arryn laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, I wouldn’t dirty my fangs on a shifter’s plaything,” he remarked. “I use a blade to open him up,” he simply answered.

Derek took a step towards Arryn.

John grabbed the Alpha. “Don’t–”

“I believe that’s a challenge,” Arryn replied with an infuriating smile.

“You were baiting him,” John answered Arryn. “We came for my son, not a challenge.”

“And yet the shifter raised a challenge,” Arryn answered. “In my own hall, I may add.”

John moved to stand in front of Derek completely. He knew the young shifter could shove him aside, but he hoped Derek would see reason over his anger. “Arryn, I came here to negotiate–”

“Negotiate what?” Arryn’s voice was sharp, a darkness seeping into his features as he looked at John. “You have nothing I want anymore,” he stated, reaching a hand down to grasp Stiles by his bicep. He hauled the young man up, tightening his grip when he felt Stiles sway off balance. “I got what I wanted, and all I had to do was tell him the truth.”

Stiles clenched his jaw against trembling. He was tired–his mind hazy from the bloodloss. But he knew Arryn was playing a game by parading him around.

“You’re a liar.”

Stiles looked up at Derek.

Derek’s eyes glowed a deep, solid red.

“And what did I lie about?” Arryn questioned. He slipped his hand beneath Stiles’ veil, sharp nails roughly grasping Stiles’ jaw as he forced Stiles’ head up. He smiled at the whimper escaping Stiles’ lips in the wake of the scent of blood.

“I took his veil off, and showed him the world around him,” Arryn announced with a sick twist of mocking joy.

“You did what?” John demanded.

Arryn rolled his eyes, “You are a fool, John. Fae glamour doesn’t work on Vampyrs, it never has,” he laughed. “This veil? It is to protect him from the monster at your back.” He trailed a nail across the smooth underside of Stiles’ jaw. He had lied when telling Derek he wouldn’t dirty his fangs–he wanted to plunge them into Stiles’ smooth flesh, again and again. But he knew the truth: he would drain Stiles if he did. And he wanted to keep him for a few decades, at least. “Go ahead, Stiles. Tell them how you begged to keep your face hidden from the Alpha.”

Some of the red drained from Derek’s irises, a look of guilt pinching at Derek’s features.

“I wanted to protect you,” Stiles admitted before wincing at the sharp press of Arryn’s nails.

“How pathetically sentimental,” Arryn sighed in disgust. “You love him?” He asked Stiles.

“I care about him,” Stiles admitted.

Arryn looked up at Derek. Time seemed to freeze as the Vampyr and Alpha refused to break eye contact.

Then Arryn laughed. “Oh, that’s cute,” he stated in disinterest. “I have an idea then,” he spoke as he watched Derek. “You can have Stiles. On one condition.”

Derek’s hand tightened into a fist. He knew Arryn would dangle Stiles’ freedom in front of them all, but he wasn’t sure what the Vampyr was about to demand. He knew he would endure, whatever he could, to free Stiles.

“What do you want?” John softly asked when Arryn refused to speak about the condition.

“I’ll take his veil off, and we’ll see how the Alpha reacts,” Arryn flatly stated. He cruelly laughed when Stiles physically recoiled from him–a pathetic attempt to escape him. “Come now, you care about him, don’t you?” Arryn mocked Stiles. “Let’s see what he does when he sees your face, here, in front of everyone.”

“No,” Stiles argued as he tried to wrench himself out of Arryn’s hold.

Arryn only scoffed at Stiles’ attempts. “It would be quite a scene, wouldn’t it? I’ve never actually bedded a shifter, you know? Do you shift when you fuck?”

A low growl ebbed higher from Derek. The wolf was prepared to tear and shred the hands that were causing Stiles such distress.

“You might want to avert your eyes for this, John,” Arryn stated as he continued to watch Derek. He grabbed a hold of Stiles’ veil.

“Derek, don’t look,” John harshly demanded.

“Either he looks, or I’ll be the one fucking Stiles,” Arryn snapped at John.

Derek was shifting, the wolf tearing through the last remnants of control with Arryn’s threat. Inky black fur covered Derek’s skin as his joints snapped as his bones rearranged, the shift taking over completely. A snout grew with razor sharp fangs filling out his mouth to replace the blunt human ones. His form was larger than two strong, fully grown warriors, massive torso and limbs designed to tear prey apart. An angry, sharp snarl silenced the room, growls rumbling from the wolf.

Derek was prepared to lunge, about to shred any semblance of a peace treaty thanks to Arryn’s threats. Getting Stiles out of the Vampyr’s hold was the only thing that mattered.

“Stop!”

A shattering voice demanded the attention of the room.

Arryn’s smile disappeared when he saw the woman waltzing into the room, each and every Vampyr recoiling from the natural aura pulsing from her.

“Arabella,” John mumbled in disbelief.

The woman was dressed in vibrant shades of yellow and gold, her dress falling just off her shoulders and into billowing sleeves and cape. A golden crown set upon her head, two different circelets setting above her brow–one a rose gold tone that matched Stiles’.

“I didn’t think…” John stopped himself when Arabella turned her gaze on him.

“You didn’t think I’d come for my grandson?” Arabella asked in a sharp tone, one that suggested she didn’t want to address John.

“That you’d leave your realm,” John explained.

“Then why bother sending me a message?” Arabella looked from John to Derek’s shifted form before looking back at Arryn. “It appears I made the right decision to come.”

“You’re not welcome here, hag,” Arryn snapped before Arabella could speak.

Arabella lifted one eyebrow, and it was easy to see where Claudia had gotten her looks from.

Arabella looked to be the same age as John, maybe even younger in certain angles. Her hair was long ringlets of brown chestnut, a similar shade to Stiles’ own. She had honey colored eyes, and cupid bow lips.

Stiles looked at Derek, seeing the wolf eye Arabella with suspicion.

Arabella was Stiles’ grandmother. Arabella was fae.

But Derek wasn’t reacting to her in any particular way. Neither was John. Stiles felt confused by the way his grandmother appeared to inflict no shred of desire in either men, but made the Vampyrs recoil in fear.

“You will unhand my grandson, Arryn,” Arabella spoke as if it would be done simply because she said so.

Arryn looked at the audience in the hall, his lip curling in annoyance when he realized they were all recoiling from the woman. “He came to me, Arabella,” he decided to rationalize. “By law, he is mine.”

“By law, you cannot enslave a fae royal,” Arabella lowly stated as she walked towards Arryn. “And unless you want me to release a sun flare hotter than the suns themselves, you will unhand my grandson and relinquish any false claim you think you have on him.”

Stiles watched as his grandmother’s eyes burned a white hot, the honey color disappearing to be nothing more than fire. The aura of white light around her pulsed, growing and some Vampyrs screamed as they scrambled backwards.

Arryn bared his fangs at Arabella, hissing at her. “This is my domain.”

“I do not care!” Arabella loudly bellowed, her tone suddenly thunderously deep. “You’ve already incurred my anger, would you like to have his grandfather pay you a visit as well? I offer you what my consort would: darkness shall give you no respite should you prolong this! You shall burn in the sun and be driven insane in the shadows. Now make your choice, Vampyr!”

Arryn harshly tore the leash from Stiles’ collar, uncaring if the metal cut into Stiles’ skin more. He shoved Stiles towards Arabella.

Stiles stumbled, falling to his knees in front of his grandmother.

Gentle hands helped to lift him.

Stiles looked up at his grandmother, at eyes that were so similar to his.

Arabella sadly smiled at him. “Let us leave here,” she instructed before Stiles could speak. We will have all the time to speak later , her voice spoke in Stiles’ mind.

Stiles took small steps to not limp, but felt his strength failing as he moved. He was surprised when soft fur brushed against his side.

Derek was still shifted, and he was offering his body as support.

Stiles leaned against Derek, his exhaustion peaking. He realized Derek was pressing against him harder, forcing him to lean more. He hesitated before slowly lifting his body onto the wolf’s back by the time Derek nudged his leg a fourth time, leaning down to wrap his arms around the wolf’s neck. He was careful to keep his collar away from Derek.

Derek growled when more than one Vampyr tried to take a step towards Stiles. He didn’t know who Arabella was, but she had scared the amassed number into cowarding. He would count the win once he had Stiles safely away from this hall.

“We’ll have to meet again soon–discuss terms.”

Stiles was exhausted, but he heard the threat that lingered in Arryn’s vagueness. Arryn had been humiliated in his own hall, and that meant no one would be safe until his fury was sated.

~*~

Arabella was glowing in the darkness. There was no other explanation for how she held a bright aura around her. She busied herself with tending to Stiles’ wounded knees. She purposely avoided Stiles’ neck, knowing she needed his veil removed to even consider tending to the worst.

“I could track some hares maybe,” John stated as he stood back from the fire.

Derek was busy snapping logs into tenable pieces of firewood. With his bare hands. His anger at Arryn was still obvious with each aggressive snap of the logs.

Stiles’ eyes drifted over to Derek.

“I will be fine, John,” Arabella noted. “Stiles needs to be fed, though.”

“I’m okay,” Stiles argued, despite the pang in his stomach. He didn’t want to be an even bigger bother.

“Nonsense,” Arabella dismissed him. “You have been among those fiends for days, I know how Arryn acts, and he likely withheld food from you more than he gave you.” She directed a pointed look to Stiles.

Stiles tilted his head down.

“I’ll go.”

Stiles shot his head up to look at Derek. It was the first time Derek spoke since departing from the hall.

Derek dropped what remained of the wood into the growing pile.

“I can–”

“John,” Derek started, turning his head to look at the older man. “Arabella needs to remove Stiles’ veil,” he explained, his eyes flickering for a moment towards Stiles. “Besides, I’m a wolf,” he offered with a half-hearted smile. “I’ll be faster.”

John hesitated before nodding in agreement.

Arabella watched Derek leave their small camp before turning back to Stiles. “He’s a perceptive young man,” she stated, pulling Stiles’ veil from across his face when she was certain Derek had left. She set the veil and circlet with ease on the rolled up blanket. Her features softened with sadness as her gaze lingered on the circlet.

“He’s a good man,” John offered in response.

“He’s a wolf,” Arabella answered, tearing herself from any memories to focus on Stiles. She tilted her head to look at Stiles’ neck. Her nose scrunched in disgust at the metal contraption.

“You dislike him because he’s a shifter?”

Arabella looked at Stiles.

“You don’t know him,” Stiles continued.

“Neither do you,” Arabella replied in kind.

Stiles shook his head, despite the small aches of the still healing cuts along his neck. “I do,” he argued. “I’ve spent time with him–he’s treated me kindly, better than anyone.”

“Because he scented you and didn’t rape you?” Arabella questioned. There was no kindness in her words, merely a sharp cut of judgement.

“That may seem like a low requirement to you,” Stiles answered. “But yes. Though not only that. He learned about me–my likes and interests. He’s asked my opinion on things.” He blinked rapidly, trying to keep tears from forming.

Arabella stared at Stiles, a curious tilt to her head. “You like him.” It wasn’t a question, simply an acknowledgement.

Stiles allowed his eyes to downcast, avoiding looking at Arabella and his father. “It doesn’t matter.”

Arabella looked at John. “You never should have kept him from me.”

John glowered at Arabella. “Claudia didn’t want him controlled by your court.”

Stiles looked at his father. It was the most John had deemed to speak about Claudia and the obvious gap she had left between Stiles and his ancestry.

“He is an important product of a union between Seelie and Unseelie,” Arabella stated, her annoyance evident as she turned her back to John. “Stiles is the fae equivalent of your princes, and you’ve let him be abused–”

“Stop it!” Stiles snapped at his grandmother. A hot warmth built like waves in his chest. “My father has done more for me than most–I have made it difficult on him, and he’s never abandoned me.”

“Stiles,” John softly called his name.

Stiles looked at his father, catching the concern on the older man’s features. He saw that there was an eminent glow coming from himself. He drew in a soft breath, trying to calm his heart.

“I haven’t done the best,” John admitted. “But Stiles will always be my priority.”

“And forcing him to hide isn’t going to protect him much longer,” Arabella stated. She placed a hand on Stiles’ own, gaining her grandson’s attention. “Your mother gave up her world, and didn’t give you a choice. You’ve hidden beneath fabric for so long, you’ve forgotten your own power.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed. “I’m part human, too,” he stated, looking up at his father. “And I don’t want to abandon that either.”

Arabella reluctantly nodded. “Regardless, you deserve to know more–you shouldn’t have to hide.”

Stiles pursed his lips some as he thought of the questions he had swirling for so long about his glamour–his fae blood and the felt curse of it. “Why didn’t my mother suffer the way I do with my glamour?”

A look of surprise washed over her features. She turned to look at John. “You didn’t tell him?”

“Tell him what?” John asked in return, confusion lacing his words.

Arabella looked back at Stiles. “Fae glamour is to attract a mate,” she finally stated, an exasperated sigh leaving her.

Stiles watched as some of her curls swayed with the exhaled breath, a faint memory dredged up by the motion. He thought he could remember grabbing at those curls as a baby.

“Once you find your mate, the glamour… it fades,” Arabella chose her words carefully. “Claudia’s glamour faded when she married.” She turned her gaze towards John. “She ran away with your father years after that.”

Stiles blinked at Arabella, turning to look at his father.

John clenched his jaw, glaring at Arabella. “We married in our own way.”

“You can’t marry someone who was already married,” Arabella sharply answered.

“Ma was married to someone else?” Stiles looked continually between his father and grandmother.

“It was an arranged marriage,” Arabella answered. “One that didn’t end well.” She hesitated. “Her father gave her permission to leave–which caused a political incident, not that he cares much,” her voice was pinched with annoyance as she shook her head.

Stiles’ brows furrowed, looking at Arabella. “If I found a mate, it would be real?”

Arabella looked saddened by the question. “Stiles–”

“Would it?”

“If you go through a bonding ceremony, or …” Arabella pinched the bridge of her nose as she closed her eyes. “If you consummate a ceremony on bonding, it will fade.”

Stiles tried to ignore the blush that burned up his neck and settled on his cheeks. “I just have one more question.”

Arabella nodded as she looked at Stiles, lowering her hand.

“Does glamour influence smell?”

Arabella was confused, knowing she wore the feeling on her face when Stiles nibbled his bottom lip in uncertainty. “Smell?”

Stiles nodded. “Arryn said… it could influence smell as well. And I didn’t know…”

Understanding dawned on Arabella. “You really do like the wolf, don’t you?”

Stiles nodded, avoiding his father’s knowing gaze.

Arabella sighed. “It doesn’t, Stiles. Arryn wanted to hurt you.”

Stiles released a heavy breath, his shoulders feeling lighter. “I didn’t take his will away, then.”

“Oh, my moonflower,” Arabella softly uttered as she cupped Stiles’ cheek. “The glamour doesn’t steal away someone’s choice–those actions are their own. It amplifies that want and desire, but it doesn’t force them to act.”

Stiles blinked away the tears that burned his eyes.

He never took their will away.

He never stole what Derek gave willing.

Chapter Text

“I could kill him,” Arabella stated as she frowned, pacing near the fire as John finished cooking the hares Derek had returned with. There was no guarantee that if she utilized her sunflare as concentrated rays that it wouldn’t cut through Stiles’ throat.

Derek purposefully kept his gaze away from Stiles despite his veil being back in place.

“I can’t get ahold of it,” John answered as he looked at his mother-in-law. “Not without cutting my hands or risk cutting Stiles more. Even then, I don’t think I could get it open.”

Stiles sighed. “Arryn said he would be the only one able to remove it,” he reluctantly stated. “But I don’t know how.”

The collar had no latch or key. It had been welded into place.

The intricate lacing of the metal revealed a much darker intention–the curve of the collar that was made to look like lace was razor sharp. If Stiles tilted his head too much to the side, or even shrugged his shoulders, the metal sliced into his skin. Numerous open wounds were littered around his neck and collarbone.

“I could remove it.”

Stiles looked at Derek, frowning some when he realized Derek still wasn’t looking at him.

Arabella squinted at the young man. “How?”

Derek placed the last bit of kindling by the fire before standing. “I can force it open.”

“It’s silver,” Arabella stated without inflection.

Derek nodded. “I know.”

Stiles drew in a breath when Derek finally approached him. He grabbed Derek’s hands before he could reach beneath the veil. “It’s okay, I don’t need it removed,” he quickly stated. “Derek, you’ll burn your hands.”

Derek looked up at Stiles, where he assumed Stiles’ eyes were. “I’ll heal, Stiles.”

“Please, I don’t want you to hurt yourself for me,” Stiles argued, his voice small with emotion. “Please.”

“Stiles,” Derek softly spoke his name. “I am begging you to let me do this,” he firmly stated. “I can’t take another minute of that thing touching you–something he put on you to… to keep you like a pet. Like you’re a possession.”

Stiles hands were shaking as he threaded his fingers with Derek’s. “You’ll heal,” he echoed Derek’s words. “You promise?”

Derek nodded. “I promise.”

Arabella’s features softened at the scene before her. “Wait,” she spoke just as Derek reached for the collar. She tore a piece of her dress, moving to reach her hands where Derek’s were. “Place this under the collar, Stiles,” she instructed. “It will help to dampen the bladed edges.” She placed a hand on Derek’s shoulder as she stood.

Stiles held part of his veil out of Derek’s way, his eyes tracking the other man.

Arryn had the collar made of silver on purpose. He wanted Derek to burn himself. He knew it would be the last insult he could inflict if Stiles had managed to escape him.

Derek ignored the searing pain of the silver’s burn against his skin. There were parts where the rag of Arabella’s dress covered, but he made sure it protected more of Stiles’ skin than anything. He ignored the biting pain of the bladed metal slicing through his palm and pads of his fingers.

He pried the metal apart with his strength.

He meticulously pulled until the metal bolt snapped under the weight of his strength, the collar yawning open as the intricate design snapped under the bend. He threw the collar away from them, blood staining the silver metal as it skidded to a stop far away.

Stiles grabbed at Derek’s wrists before he could pull away. “You’re not healing.” He had seen Derek heal a few times, the rapid way a cut or burn vanished from his flawless skin. The burns were still marring Derek’s hands.

“It will take me a little longer than normal,” Derek answered. “I promised, remember.”

Stiles clenched his jaw before reluctantly nodding.

“You should eat,” Derek stated, a distraction for Stiles to stop staring at the burns littering his hands. He curled his hands away from Stiles, standing with grace as he put distance between them.

Stiles grasped for Derek, a longing twisting at him, but Derek was already out of his reach.

It was strategic of Derek, to separate himself as his hands healed from the damage. He rejected the food he had provided them, merely commenting that he had his fill while hunting. He even took a spot further from the fire than Stiles liked.

It was why Stiles waited until John and Arabella were asleep before quietly walking over to Derek’s bedroll. He lifted the blanket with ease, aware that Derek was awake when he saw the man’s back stiffen.

Stiles was too stubborn to change his mind. He was going to make Derek understand that what he did was for everyone else–Derek included. And he took that blame willingly.

“Stiles, go back to bed,” Derek growled in a low tone as he refused to move when Stiles’ body warmth touched his back. He was rigid when Stiles touched him, a fleeting attempt to appear standoffish.

Stiles knew he was overstepping by plastering his body up against Derek’s back. But he wanted to touch him–he wanted to give a wounded shifter the companionship a packmate would.

Derek deserved that and much more.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles spoke into the fabric of Derek’s shirt, his lips ghosting over Derek’s shoulder blade. “I didn’t mean to cause you more pain– I thought it was for the best, so no one else would get hurt.”

“What about the people who care about you?” Derek asked, though he didn’t make a move to separate them.

Stiles pressed his forehead into the curve of Derek’s neck. “I thought you’d all be better off without me,” he whispered.

“Don’t ever think that,” Derek growled under his breath.

Stiles curled his fingers against Derek’s ribs, tightening his hold on Derek’s shirt.

Derek reached his hand down to take ahold of Stiles’, guiding him forward–guiding Stiles’ arm to wrap around his waist. “Even if this is all we get,” he stated, fingers lacing with Stiles’ as he looked up at the moon. “You still mean the world to me, Stiles,” he confessed as he pressed their hands over his heart.

“I care about you,” Stiles uttered.

Derek’s entire body shifted against Stiles, turning from his side to face Stiles. He grunted in annoyance, closing his eyes when he caught a glimpse of Stiles’ hair. “You aren’t wearing your veil,” he muttered as he pulled Stiles in tightly, resting his chin on the top of Stiles’ head to prevent himself from seeing any more of him.

“I don’t care if you see me,” Stiles muttered against Derek’s collarbone. He felt the wispy hairs of Derek’s beard against his forehead, aware of the way the other man’s throat bobbed with a swallow.

“You didn’t want me to see you earlier,” Derek argued, his eyes trained on the coals of the dying fire.

“Not in front of him,” Stiles replied. He tried to lean out from his hiding spot, releasing a huff of air when crushed against Derek’s chest once more.

“Stiles–”

“Do you not want to see me?” Stiles knew his voice sounded childish, hurt and resentment mixing into the depth of his stomach.

“Not in front of your father and grandmother,” Derek curtly replied. “When I see you, I want it to be…” He released a heavy breath. “You don’t make this easy,” he mumbled. “I want to see you for the first time in private.”

Stiles squirmed, shifting his body under Derek’s hold until he could press his back into Derek’s chest. He rested his head on Derek’s bicep. “You said when,” he stated as his fingers sought out Derek’s. He played with Derek’s fingers before threading theirs together once more. He noticed the burns were almost healed, the skin merely a soft pink.

Derek tilted his head down, breathing in Stiles’ scent as he closed his eyes and pressed his nose into Stiles’ hair. “I’ve wanted to see you for a long time, Stiles,” he confessed. “But I never would take that consent from you.”

“I know,” Stiles admitted in a soft whisper. “But I want to show you.”

Derek slid his thumb back and forth over Stiles’ knuckles, a soothing rhythm. “When we get back to Beacon,” he finally agreed. “A quiet night, just us.”

A weight dropped from Stiles’ chest, breathing in easy for the first time. “Okay.”

~*~

Stiles wasn’t running.

He was sitting in a glade, surrounded by wildflowers and moss, the sun glimmering through the forest’s canopy.

And a black haired wolf was resting next to him.

Stiles brushed his fingers through the wolf’s fur.

He gently smiled.

He wasn’t running.

Derek was laying next to him as Stiles ran his fingers through Derek’s hair. Derek’s eyes were looking back at him.

And Stiles felt the sun burning a warmth through him at finally being seen.

~*~

A gentle hand touched Stiles’ shoulder. A voice speaking in his head for only him to hear.

Wake and follow me. There is something I wish to discuss.

Stiles blearily blinked his eyes open, aware that the sun hadn’t risen yet with the hues of orange barely breaking over the horizon. He looked to the forest, catching the glowing aura of his grandmother. He looked at where his hand still held Derek’s, reluctantly slipping out of their shared grasp. A twinge of relief loosened in his chest when he saw that Derek’s hands were healed. He slowly pulled himself out from under Derek’s arm, trying to resist his urge to smile when Derek’s arm tightened around him.

Derek’s arm relented, slipping off Stiles’ waist and dropping to the ground.

Stiles dared to sneak a look at Derek, breathing in deeply as he looked at Derek without a veil between them.

Derek’s brow wasn’t furrowed, slacken with sleep. There was a youthful edge to Derek’s features. His eyelashes were a dark contrast to his cheeks, a true resting beauty in Stiles’ own opinion.

Stiles forced himself to move, taking quiet steps to retrieve his veil from his bedroll.

“He could have seen you.”

Stiles startled for a moment, looking up at his father’s open eyes.

John was laying on his own bedroll, arms crossed over his chest, sword and scabbard tucked to rest knowingly over his chest. His boots were propped on one of the saddle bags. He slowly lifted his eyebrows, expectant of his son to have a response.

Stiles didn’t answer John’s statement. There was no point arguing what they both knew to be fact. “I wouldn’t care if he did,” he chose to reply. He allowed his veil to dangle. He would forgo the whole thing if he had his way–but he remembered Derek’s promise.

A quiet night, just us .

Stiles never wanted something more than that.

John was silent before he nodded his head slowly. He shifted his limbs, turning on his side to place his back towards Stiles.

“You’re not going to argue against him?” Stiles pressed, trying to remain aware of his voice’s volume.

“You are an adult,” John finally stated. “And if this… if he is who you want, I am not going to stand in your way. But think about it, Stiles,” he warned as he looked over his shoulder. “He is an Alpha of shifters.”

Stiles knew what it meant–Derek had a great deal of responsibility on him. And shared nights, no matter how innocent or emotionally complicated they became, Derek may have to keep the memory of Stiles locked away in those moments. “If he doesn’t want me, I will accept that.”

“It isn’t an issue of him wanting you, Stiles,” John sighed. “It is if he can keep you. Remember, kiddo, you could never abandon a wounded moth. I don’t want you hurting yourself to try and save him.”

John’s words repeated in Stiles’ head as he followed after where his grandmother had disappeared to, the veil heavy in his hands.

When Stiles was a child, he often exhausted himself, to the point of illness, to heal the torn wings of butterflies or the damaged leg of a moth. He once healed a wounded doe he found in the forest, collapsing into unconsciousness for a whole evening. His father had gathered a search party for him—John had carried Stiles through those woods, fear lacing his features the hotter Stiles’ skin became.

That was the first and last time he reached out to Arabella.

The fae Queen had been furious when finding her grandson running a fever, plagued by terrors that trembled his body. It was as she nursed him back to health that she made her threat— You fool of a human. Neglecting him! You let him exhaust his magic. I will take him with me next time, John, make no mistake about that.

In his least lucid moment, Stiles had reached up to Arabella, his small hand enclosing around one of her curls that hung over her shoulder. She had cut the lock, leaving it under his pillow to watch over his recovery.

Stiles had thought it was Claudia’s lock of hair for the longest time, until John offered up the true owner though no explanation had been given.

“Your thoughts plague you.”

Stiles looked up, realizing he was in a small grove, illuminated by his grandmother’s aura. He observed Arabella, curious what she needed to steal him away from the others to say. “Decisions to be made plague me,” he corrected her. He drew in a defeated breath. “What is it that this couldn’t wait?”

“Like most things in life that can’t wait,” Arabella replied as she turned about the edge of the grove. “A decision.”

Stiles pursed his lips in annoyance at his grandmother using his words against him.

“You have a choice,” Arabella explained, finally turning to look at Stiles. She slowly closed the gap between them, drawing his hands up in hers. She lifted his veil filled hand up for Stiles to look at. “Your mother never fit in with our kind.” A sadness pulled at her lips. “I blame myself for never preparing her, or giving her the choice she so badly wanted. I swore that if I had you in my life, I wouldn’t make that mistake.” Tender affection filled her eyes. “You aren’t the last of my union with your grandfather,” she explained. “Though it doesn’t dampen your worth to many courts and species.” She twisted one of Stiles’ rings, admiring the familiarity in Claudia’s heirloom.

“This was her father’s,” Arabella softly stated. “He gave it to her when he let her leave.”

“She told me it belonged to grandda,” Stiles replied, feeling the warmth of happiness flood from Arabella at the thought.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye to her,” Arabella replied. “And I don’t want to lose you,” she added. She looked up at Stiles. “Which is why I am giving you the choice to come be with us.”

Stiles frowned. “Us?”

“Your family–your kind,” Arabella explained.

Stiles gently shook his head. “Da is here,” he replied. “And I am half human.”

“You won’t change, Stiles,” Arabella reassured him. “But you won’t live in fear, either. You’ll live with those who understand.”

Stiles gently nibbled his bottom lip. “You said the glamour fades though–with a bond?”

Arabella frowned. “Yes,” she reluctantly stated. “But how much longer are you willing to hide beneath a veil?” She shot a look of disgust at the cloth in question.

“I don’t want to remain under a veil… I want to ask Derek if he would bond with me,” Stiles forced himself to admit. “And even if he doesn’t… I will accept that.”

Arabella’s brow furrowed.

“You’re upset with me,” Stiles said.

Arabella shook her head. “I’m upset with myself,” she corrected him. “I tell you that I regret forcing Claudia to choose, but I am willing to do the same to you.”

“You’re still giving me a choice,” Stiles offered, looking down at his veil. “And in some ways, I am terrified I will make the wrong choice.”

Arabella reached a hand up to cup Stiles’ cheek in her palm. “The only wrong choice would be to live a life that goes against your nature.”

Stiles smiled at that. “I would still like to know you, grandma,” he spoke while closing the space between them. “I don’t want to be isolated.”

Arabella cupped Stiles’ cheek in her palm. “You’ll never lose us.”

“Why did my father never call you before?” Stiles softly asked, a nervousness twisting in his stomach as he looked at his grandmother.

Arabella’s expression fell, a look of guilt pulling a frown across his lips. She sighed, dropping her hand from Stiles. “I imagine that is my fault,” she offered. “I was cruel, Stiles. I am often considered more volatile than your grandfather.”

Stiles gave his grandmother the opportunity to continue.

“I told your father I would take you should the opportunity arise—I spoke in anger, it was when you fell ill when you were young,” Arabella finally confessed. “I didn’t think Claudia should keep you stuck in this world she seemed so fascinated by—you didn’t make that decision and you knew nothing about your own abilities.” She pinched the bridge of his nose as she closed her eyes. “Though I was willing to take that decision from you as well.”

“Da was afraid of losing me, then,” Stiles stated.

“Yes,” Arabella confirmed as she dropped her hand. “I suppose he was willing to lose you to me if it meant saving you from Arryn.”

“She never told Da anything–me either,” Stiles absently spoke about his mother. “She… she kept it all to herself.”

“Perhaps she thought if she ignored her nature, she could stop being fae altogether,” Arabella replied. “She sacrificed her life to never return.”

Stiles looked at his grandmother. “You can’t stay here, can you?”

Arabella gently shook her head. “We lose our strength, the nature of this world drains us.”

“Why haven’t I suffered?” Stiles quizzically asked.

“It is as you said–you are human, also,” Arabella stated. “This is as much your world as the fae world is.”

Stiles drew in a breath. “I won’t die like her then?”

Arabella clenched her jaw, turning to look away from Stiles as she tried to stop tears from forming. “Your mother chose her fate, in the end,” she offered. “I hope you choose yourself over all else, Stiles, but I can see your intention in your heart.” She looked at her grandson once more. “You choose the wolf.”

It wasn’t a question or assumption–Arabella stated it as if Stiles had already admitted everything.

Stiles hesitated before nodding.

“Are you sure?” Arabella pressed, more out of concern than demand.

Stiles fiddled with the veil’s material. “I’ve lived my life as an object to so many,” he explained, forcing himself to look up at his grandmother. “Their hands have touched me without consent. I’ve never known privacy or a moment’s peace with the surety of safety.” He drew in a breath. “When we first met, I offered to show my face, if it meant Da would be safe. And Derek rejected it, offering to scent me instead.” His fingers were twisting the veil into impossible shapes. “And then when I fainted, he protected me from being seen by others. He even made sure I was eating regularly.”

Arabella watched Stiles speak without a flicker of change in her features.

“If he will have me, I choose him, not just because he showed me a kindness, but because he doesn’t see me as an object.” He tilted his head slightly. “He sees me, grandma.”

Arabella slowly moved to embrace Stiles. She tucked his head against her shoulder. “Then I give you my blessing,” her voice soft like the wind brushing through the forest. “But know that you never have to choose either world, Stiles. You are always welcome. And I extend that offer to your father. And your wolf.”

Stiles tightly wrapped his arms around her waist, closing his eyes as he spoke in their language: “ Thank you, grandmother.”

~*~

Derek fastened the saddle onto his horse, pretending to be unaware of John watching him. He had tried very hard not to be thinking about Stiles leaving their sight to spend time with Arabella. While he acknowledged the woman’s right to spend time with Stiles, he also worried about Stiles’ need to please anyone’s desires besides his own.

And if Arabella wanted Stiles to leave with her, Derek worried Stiles wouldn’t stay.

“I know there will be a great deal to discuss when returning,” John broke the silence they had shared. “But I want to acknowledge the clear intent Stiles has towards you.”

Derek ran his hand down his horse’s mane, fingers trailing through its hair with care. “If I can keep him, you mean.”

John didn’t show his surprise outwardly when Derek looked at him. “So you were awake,” he simply stated.

“I couldn’t open my eyes without seeing him,” Derek answered. He shrugged. “Perhaps it wasn’t right of me not to say I was awake.”

“You won’t challenge me on it though, will you?” John pressed for an answer to his doubt.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, I fear being challenged on any attempt at a union with him,” Derek stated as he looked towards the trees. He watched with bated breath as Stiles exited through the brush. He could hear Stiles’ laughter from beneath the veil as Arabella said something. “But I know what my wolf feels–there is no one other than Stiles for me.” He turned to look at John. “And I won’t allow anyone–pack or Vampyr Lord–stand in my way should Stiles choose me in return.”

Derek didn’t wait for John’s response as he moved to meet Stiles and Arabella.

Stiles slowed his steps as he approached Derek.

Arabella gave a soft tilt of her head in recognition of Derek as she continued her steps towards John.

“Did you sleep well?” Stiles asked.

Derek released a soft laugh. “Would have been nice to wake up with you there,” he stated with honesty.

“My grandmother wanted to speak to me,” Stiles replied. “Otherwise I would have stayed.” He reached his hand out to take Derek’s, inspecting where the burns had been. The tightness in his chest loosened when he saw that Derek’s skin was healed.

“I promised,” Derek stated when he caught the shift in Stiles’ scent—the grief melting into relief.

“Thank you for keeping that promise,” Stiles answered. “I know there is going to be a lot you’ll have to handle when we return,” he started, his hand nervously dropping from Derek. He twisted his fingers together, looking down through his veil. “But I would like to talk to you about… well, about us.”

Derek closed the space between them, hands reaching up. He paused when his fingertips brushed the edge of Stiles’ veil. “May I?” His voice wasn’t demanding or anticipatory, simply seeking permission.

Stiles consented, nodding his head before uttering, “Yes.”

Derek’s hands were warm against Stiles’ neck, slipped beneath the shield of Stiles’ veil to touch. He easily guided their foreheads together, closing his eyes as he breathed deeply. “I am not great with words, Stiles, as my uncle likes to remind me. So I will be as direct as I can be. You’ve taken what’s left of my heart.”

Stiles’ pulse jumped at Derek’s words, his hands clutching at Derek’s arms for balance.

“There are benefits to being a shifter—the warmth on a winter’s night is particularly helpful.” He smiled at Stiles’ laughter. “But our animals—my wolf—is a part of us. It guides us, warns us.” He swallowed the lump in his throat as his stomach twisted. “My wolf has reacted to you, Stiles. I know, without challenge, that I accept its match.”

Stiles opened his eyes, barely able to make out Derek’s features through his veil. He could see the dark contrast of Derek’s eyelashes against his check. “Besides the wolf,” he started before hesitating. He bit down on his bottom lip in uncertainty. “If you couldn’t tell—if your wolf didn’t know or didn’t exist… could you claim that you feel anything for me?” He hated asking the question, but he needed to know the truth—for both their sakes.

“I love your laugh,” Derek simply said. “The one you have where you clutch at your stomach, as if it hurts you to keep laughing but you do so anyways.”

Stiles blushed at the memory of the scout who almost walked in on their shared dinner. The scout had apologized and knocked into the table, which caused a map marker to fall before rolling off and hitting a scrolled map, tipping it into a serving table and dumping wine on Derek.

Stiles had barely managed to keep his laughter in as Derek glared at the scout’s bumbling response.

“I find you admirable,” Derek continued. “You have shown a strength most leaders couldn’t muster—you value people and their well-beings, even if they have been unfavorable towards you.”

Stiles thought of Deadman’s Knot, and the scouts who had returned. A few had grown cold towards Stiles when they realized his involvement, while others asked to embrace him.

“I know I can’t see you, but sometimes, when you look up at the lights where the moths have gathered, I can tell that you scrunch your nose if they draw too close to the flames.”

Stiles clenched his jaw at the thought of the last moth who suffered an injury from one of the torches in the camp. He healed the foolish creature, softly asking that it avoid such disasters in the future.

“And I… I trust you,” Derek lastly stated. “I trust your sound opinion when you weigh the options. I trust that you knew what you were doing when turning yourself over to Arryn, because you wanted to protect people. I trust that you know, deep in your heart, that I would go a lifetime without laying eyes on you if you chose that.”

Stiles’ lip trembled. “Keep your eyes closed,” he instructed.

“Okay.”

Stiles pulled back slightly from Derek, leaning enough to gather the ends of his veil. He lifted the veil with ease, draping it over Derek’s head as Derek’s hands traveled down his shoulders to grip the backs of his arm. He blinked as he looked at Derek’s closed eyes. They were hidden beneath the veil together, breathing the same air as they shared their own world beneath the veil. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Derek’s cheek. He felt Derek’s fingers tighten on his arms with the gesture. “I trust you, Derek,” he confessed. “I feel safe when I am with you. And I want… I want you—I want to be with you, by your side.” He closed the space between them, his arms lifting up to hold the veil from drowning them both in material. He felt Derek’s hands leave him, watching as Derek’s arms lifted to help Stiles support the veil above them.

Stiles smiled at Derek’s sweetness. He leaned forward, lips close to Derek’s when he asked, “May I kiss you?” His eyes roamed over Derek's face, the way his eyes remained vigilantly closed.

“Yes,” Derek replied.

Stiles pressed his lips to Derek’s, pressing their bodies close. He smiled into their kiss when one of Derek’s arms dropped to wrap around his waist. He dropped his opposite arm to drape over Derek’s shoulders.

Derek trailed kisses along Stiles’ cheek before pressing his face down along the curve of Stiles’ throat. He breathed deeply, taking in the comfort of Stiles’ scent. He was staying—Stiles wanted to stay, with him. “I choose you, Stiles,” he admitted, keeping his eyes closed as he pulled back.

Stiles pressed a more chaste kiss to Derek’s lips before placing their bare foreheads together. “And I you.”

Chapter Text

Stiles looked at himself in the mirror, turning from side to side in order to examine the material. His nerves grew the moment he finished the last stitch, the obstacle cleared. He had been ready, all resolve behind his determination to see Derek tonight. But now he hesitated.

“You look nice.”

Stiles turned around to see his father. He ducked his head to hide his blush, looking down at the clothes that hung from his body. He had managed to perfect the material into a stylish wrapped top of sorts, hanging down longer than usual to drape over his trousers. He tried to create an outfit that he hoped would mirror what should have been his marital clothes.

“You’re seeing him tonight,” John stated. It wasn’t a question but an understanding.

“Yes,” Stiles replied. He hadn’t spent a dinner with Derek since returning, understanding that there was a great need to prepare for whatever Arryn intended to be a retaliation. He had spent time with his grandmother before seeing her off, saddened that their time was short.

“I am sorry, Stiles,” John started, a soft sigh escaping him as he moved to sit in the empty chair by the mirror. “I should have done better by you,” he continued, placing a hand up to stop Stiles when he opened his mouth to argue. “Your mother didn’t want to talk about her family—her culture,” he looked down, picking at a wrinkle in his trouser over his knee. “She always said that it was something she left behind for good, and didn’t want to relive it. I think she was trying to reassure herself that she made the right choice in leaving, and maybe she did.” He looked up at Stiles. “I forced you to hide here—I didn’t know any better, and I should have. I should have pushed to know more, even when she grew sick, but I allowed my grief to overshadow that.”

“Da,” Stiles softly uttered as he moved to kneel before his father. “You did protect me—what those people did… how they reacted, that was their will.”

“Arabella was right, though,” John countered. “You would have been safer with her.”

“I wouldn’t be who I am,” Stiles argued as he placed his hands over his father’s. “I would be someone different. I wouldn’t have you.” He tightened his hold on John’s hands. “I don’t regret having to wear the veil. I regret that ma didn’t think I deserved to know more about her.”

John’s brow furrowed. “I should have pushed.”

Stiles looked down at their hands. “Arabella said that ma was always welcomed to come home, but she never saw her again. I… I never want to think of not seeing you again because of having to choose between two sides of me.” He looked up at John. “I don’t blame you.”

John leaned forward, drawing Stiles into a tight embrace. “You are my world, Stiles. Never forget that. I want you to be happy.”

Stiles closed his eyes, aware that he was glowing as he relaxed into his father’s warmth.

~*~

Stiles felt silly.

There was no other way to describe it.

He had agonized over this moment since they returned.

Derek had been immediately summoned by his uncle to go over what happened and what they could expect from Arryn as a response.

Almost every person stared at Stiles, some in awe and others with clear blame lacing their features out of fear for what was to come. He wasn’t sure Derek pulling him in close helped to quell anger, or to spread it. His breath shuttered when Derek’s gentle grasp on his hips pulled him in close, their forehead resting against one another with nothing but the thin material of the veil separating them.

“I’ll see you later,” Derek had spoken the words with more hope than question.

“Yes,” Stiles breathily answered.

And now, Stiles was waiting for Derek in his bedroom. He has asked Erica to let Derek know, feeling more comforted than embarrassed by her knowing smile—he at least knew she didn’t disapprove of him.

Stiles looked down at the dressing robes he had finished detailing this morning. He had spent all night and morning working to complete it after Derek had offered his apologies for not being able to get away from planning.

This morning the invitation came for dinner tonight with Derek.

Stiles was too nervous for dinner. He pulled at the sheer material of the robes, looking at how it flowed and accented his body. Was it presumptuous? He had hoped it offered Derek an understanding of his intent more than anything.

His hands trembled as he ran them over the flat plain of his stomach. His fingertips pulled at the lush fabric of bunched material.

“Stiles.”

Stiles’ breath caught at Derek’s voice. He looked up, feeling like he had been caught. He evenly breathed as he took in Derek’s exhausted form.

Derek had barely slept last night, the few hours he had been granted leave from preparations was more of a punishment. If he wasn’t focusing on their safety, the looming threat of Arryn, then his mind wandered to Stiles.

He had barely stopped himself from seeking Stiles out; the only thing that barred him was the reality that it could hurt Stiles to be seen as a distraction.

But here Stiles was, in his bedroom, greeting him like the dawn after a long run.

His hands itched to touch Stiles, just to hold him close and know that it hadn’t been a dream when they retrieved him from Arryn.

Stiles’ hands nervously fiddled with one another as he waited for Derek to speak.

Derek took a step further inside the room, closing the door behind him. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t take off another’s head if they saw Stiles like this.

Stiles was wearing a rich silken fabric, the color a dark blue that appeared to ripple and transform into onyx. It hung beautifully from his shoulders, a deep plunge to where it tied around his waist left his breastbone exposed. He also wore the veil Derek had gifted for him.

“Did I presume too much?” Stiles’ voice was soft in questioning, more uncertain than accusatory.

Derek had to clear his throat to speak. “That’s not… No.” He looked up at Stiles’ veil. “I just want to know if your father is about to storm in here and try to take my head off.”

Stiles released a soft, nervous laugh. “He knows I came to speak with you—that you invited me to dinner. I… I told him not to worry about me. I think that was enough explanation for him.” He remembered the way his father avoided looking at him when he offered a faint grunt of acceptance. It wasn’t easy to tell one’s parents the intent to physically pursue another.

Stiles took a step forward, his hand boldly reaching out for Derek.

Derek obliged, closing the gap to offer his arm up to Stiles. His eyes were roaming Stiles with the need to memorize what he could.

“My grandmother gave me the material,” Stiles explained as his fingers circled around Derek’s wrist. “She said they were matrimonial in nature, for the Night court,” he muttered as Derek’s body swayed closer to him. He could feel the heat from Derek, his heartbeat quickening. “But I don’t expect that of you,” he clarified.

Arabella had been unashamed when she explained that if Stiles intended to break his glamour with Derek, he should at the minimum be dressed for the occasion. She had muttered something about tradition and decorum, and then a snort of laughter at how her husband would find the situation funny.

The memory was a comforting reminder that Stiles felt like he would get along with his grandfather.

Derek reached a hand up, hesitating for a moment as his fingertips grazed the end of Stiles’ veil. “May I?”

Stiles hesitated as he looked at Derek. He wasn’t sure if Derek was asking to unveil him or not—and then something strange came over him. He realized that he didn’t care if Derek unveiled him in that moment. He wanted to be seen—by Derek.

“Yes,” Stiles softly consented.

Derek didn’t move to unveil Stiles, instead, he lifted the veil slightly to inspect Stiles’ neck—and the cuts that still remained. Anger flashed across Derek’s features at the reminder of what Arryn did to Stiles.

“They’re healing,” Stiles offered in what he hoped was reassurance.

“They never should have happened,” Derek responded. “Arryn will be lucky if I don’t meet him on the field,” he added.

“Please,” Stiles stated in a tired tone. “I don’t want to think of him, or that, now.” He reached arms to the back of Derek’s biceps, hands traveling up to cup his shoulders as he closed the already shrinking space between their bodies.

Derek dropped the veil from his hold, his hands resting on Stiles’ shoulders, thumbs brushing the exposed skin where Stiles’ shoulders met his collarbone. If he pushed, the material would fall down Stiles’ shoulders and expose him. “Stiles,” he started, his voice laced with hesitation.

“My grandmother explained the glamour,” Stiles interrupted whatever self-sacrificing thing Derek was about to say. “It is meant to attract a mate,” he continued when Derek gave him the chance to. “And once the act is done,” Stiles felt his face blush at the unspoken implication, “then it is gone—it is why my mother didn’t suffer from her glamour.”

“You’re saying,” Derek started, his voice strained. “That you want to share my bed.”

Stiles tightened his hold on Derek. “Only if you want that,” he admitted his vulnerability. “I understand if you don’t—the last thing I want to do is take away your consent, Derek. This isn’t something you have to do—”

Stiles made a noise of surprise at the back of his throat when Derek swiftly moved to lift him into his arms. He wrapped his arm around Derek’s neck, his other hand pressing against Derek’s exposed collarbone.

“You’re offering me a gift, Stiles,” Derek explained as he walked them over to the bed. He placed Stiles onto the soft mattress with revered gentleness, aware of the way Stiles’ hold tightened on his shoulders, pulling him in to remain close. “Even if it is just once,” he allowed his hand to travel down to Stiles’ hip, thumb pressing circles through the fabric. “It would be something I cherish.”

“Ideally, more than once,” Stiles uttered, though there was a tinge of shakiness there—anticipation and nervousness.

Derek huffed out a faint chuckle. “Ideally… always.”

Stiles’ blush deepened.

“What do you want, Stiles?”

Stiles drew in a breath. “Could you… would you let me see you? All of you?” Like a magnet, he drew up into a sitting position to follow Derek retracting himself from the bed. He watched Derek’s graceful movements, eyes tracking the way Derek disrobed himself. He had a chance to stare and watch his muscles ripple in the motions to undo his boots.

Derek’s eyes didn’t leave Stiles’ veil, determined to read him regardless of any barrier between them. He wanted to please Stiles above everything.

Stiles’ eyes roamed over Derek’s bare chest, before tracing down his arms to where his hands began to work the laces of his trousers. He allowed his desire to move him, kneeling on the bed as he touched Derek’s bare skin, fingers roaming over his shoulders and down through his chest hair. He looked down between them to see Derek’s unlaced trousers, the dusting of hair that traveled down his abdomen from his navel and disappeared. His hands moved to settle on Derek’s muscular hips, drawing them in close. “I want you,” he spoke gently through his veil. He felt the way Derek’s trousers moved with ease, loose material that slid against Derek’s warm skin. He slipped his thumbs beneath the material and pushed the trousers down just as Derek’s hands moved to assist.

Derek shuttered as he stepped out of his trousers, aware of his nudity being under Stiles’ gaze. He reached a hand up, pushing under the veil’s material to cup Stiles’ cheek. His thumb brushed a small, smoothing circle over Stiles’ jaw.

“I want to kiss you,” Stiles admitted.

Derek pressed his forehead against Stiles’, aware of the veil between them. “I can maybe help with that,” he offered. He took the quiet as Stiles’ answer, withdrawing to take a look around the room. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he looked back at Stiles.

Stiles could see an idea formulating when Derek’s eyes dropped to his robes and the sash around his waist. He drew in a giddy breath when Derek pulled the sash, undoing it with languid ease. He watched as Derek brought the sash to his own eyes, pulling the material to be fastened as a blindfold.

Stiles blinked back tears of affection, reaching a hand up to take his circlet and veil off. He tossed them to the side, uncaring when the circlet clattered on the nightstand. He cradled Derek’s face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together, bare skin touching. They breathed the same air for a beat. “Thank you,” he uttered.

Derek waited, anticipation met with Stiles’ timid press of their lips together. He cradled Stiles’ head in his hand, pressing in closer as he opened his mouth, slipping his tongue between Stiles’ welcoming lips.

Stiles clung to Derek, aware of the robes that separated them from one another. He clawed at the material, his mind focused only on the way their tongues met. He was breathless and wanted more. He was off balance, leaning his weight into Derek, when Derek’s arm finally pulled the material off his shoulder.

The robes billowed and fell, pooled around Stiles’ calves in bunches on the bed.

Stiles’ gasp was swallowed by Derek when their naked bodies touched. He clung to Derek when Derek’s arms encircled his waist, allowing the stronger man to situate them onto the bed at the sacrifice of their kiss.

Stiles laid bare among Derek’s sheets and pillows, his heart racing as Derek stretched out beside him. He pulled Derek’s lips back to his, guiding him to continue their kiss.

Derek’s lips left Stiles’, smirking at the huff of annoyance Stiles emitted. Derek pressed kisses to Stiles’ neck, traveling down to tongue at the dip in his collarbone. He could taste the healing wounds. His wolf wanted to rut, to lay its claim of protector on Stiles—and Derek was holding back by a hair.

Stiles’ voice hiccuped with surprise when Derek made his way down his body. He shuddered when Derek’s teeth scraped across his abdomen, tongue mouthing near his navel. His body was on fire, a deep flush covering him as he squirmed under the pleasure. “Derek,” he softly spoke, his hips wiggling as his legs fell open to accommodate Derek. He didn’t know what he was doing, but trusted Derek to guide them.

Derek bit down on the curve of Stiles’ hipbone, sucking a lover’s mark deep into the skin as he listened to Stiles’ breathing hitch and moan. Stiles’ fingers tightening in his hair spurred him on.

Stiles’ heart rate increased when he felt his leg being moved. He looked down, watching how his leg was draped over Derek’s shoulder, Derek’s arm curled tightly around his thigh. His fingers avoided the blindfold of his sash around Derek’s eyes.

Derek’s head nestled close to his cock.

Stiles gasped in pleasure when Derek’s tongue licked at his sensitive flesh. His leg curled, heel pressing into Derek’s spine as he drew him in. He didn’t want Derek to stop touching him.

Stiles gripped Derek’s hair tightly when his head began to bob in a fluid motion, gasping in shock as Derek fingers touched and prodded elsewhere. A moan punched out of him when Derek’s mouth left him, the sound of spitting before the warm heat returned. He was confused, for a moment, before wet fingers slipped between his cheeks. He moaned as his body tensed, whining when Derek withdrew completely. He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew he didn’t want Derek to stop. “Please, please,” he repeated, unsure what he was begging for when looking down at Derek.

Derek’s lips were used, spit slick as he kept his head lifted. “Is this what you want?” His voice was rough with lust.

Stiles nodded before remembering that Derek was blindfolded. “Yes, Derek, please.”

“What do you want, Stiles?”

Stiles released an annoyed huff of frustration. “You. I want you to never stop touching me. Please, Derek. Please, show me.” He sobbed the moment Derek’s mouth was back on him, his back arching off the bed as his hand twisted the sheets. Derek’s tongue was moving across his cock, licking at the sensitive skin.

“Can you reach the nightstand?”

Stiles was breathing heavily as he reached a trembling arm out. He was able to paw at it just within reach.

“There is oil in the drawer.”

Stiles twisted his body in determination, a gasp shuddering through him as Derek added more pressure to his sucking. He aimlessly rustled around until he found a vial of oil. He had read about oil being used for such things, but he had foolishly forgotten to bring any. He yelped when Derek physically pulled him down the bed, Derek’s curled arm a weighted anchor holding him close for Derek to continue plundering.

“Here,” Stiles panted as he pressed the vial into Derek’s hand. He watched as Derek paused his onslaught, blindly opening the vial to pour oil onto his hand, fingers coated in it.

“Take a breath, and tell me if you want to stop,” Derek instructed Stiles.

Stiles’ breathy, “okay”, was all that preceded his body flattening on the bed, staring up at the top of the canopy. He couldn’t help squirming at the intrusion of Derek’s finger entering him, snuggly fitting between his asscheeks as he drew in a sharp breath. His toes curled and muscles tensed at the feeling of being entered. He tried to breath, aware of his cock losing its arousal. He almost told Derek to stop when something jolted through his body—a pleasure making him gasp and tense in a different way as he almost curled up in pleasure. “Derek!”

Derek’s arm reached up in response, hand pressing down on Stiles’ chest to keep him in place as his finger continued to explore Stiles. He took Stiles’ cock back into his mouth when Stiles moaned again. He didn’t care if Stiles came from this, more than willing to patiently wait until Stiles wanted more.

Use me , Derek wanted to tell him.

Stiles was unable to control himself. He tightened his hold on Derek’s hand that was pinning him, his hips undulating to meet both Derek’s mouth and his finger. Fingers now, if the pressure was anything to go by. He almost tried to move away when Derek touched that spot again, panting as he cried out in pleasure. He lifted Derek’s hand from his chest, placing kisses along his fingertips. He could feel the remnants of scars—scars from the collar Derek had liberated him from. He trailed his lips along the marred skin.

“Derek, you’re going to make me…” His breath hitched when Derek removed his mouth. “Please, Derek,” he was begging, his whole body lit up by the sensations Derek had been pleasuring him with. He felt as if his whole body would combust.

Derek sat up, his fingers slipping from Stiles.

Stiles whined as he clenched around nothing.

Derek parted Stiles’ legs, moving to slot his hips into position as he leaned over him.

Stiles reached his arms up, hands and forearms doing their best to curl around Derek’s neck and draw him close. He stared at the blindfold, before placing a kiss to Derek’s cheek. “Do you want this?” He finally asked, realizing he never asked Derek his feelings.

Derek softly chuckled. “If I could spend my days growing old in this bed with you, I’d die a happy man.”

Stiles blushed at that before kissing Derek, tasting himself on Derek’s tongue. He lifted his heavy legs, wrapping them around Derek’s waist.

Derek left a lingering kiss on Stiles’ lips before leaning back, his hands trailing down Stiles’ ribs and pausing on his hips. He lifted Stiles’ hips with ease, drawing one of Stiles’ legs up over his shoulder. He paused, tilting his head to place a kiss to the inside of Stiles’ knee that rested just over his shoulder. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he instructed.

“I will,” Stiles promised as he watched Derek open the vial of oil once more. He tracked the way Derek poured oil into his hand before covering his cock. He drew in a shaky breath when Derek's hand returned to his hole. He tried to not tense, gasping when he felt the head of Derek’d cock settle.

“Stiles,” Derek started, his voice strained.

“Please,” Stiles begged.

Derek pushed, slowly at first before pausing when Stiles tensed. “Loosen your muscles.” He sounded pained, as if he was concentrating on keeping himself in control.

Stiles could see the shift in Derek’s features, he could feel the tension in his muscles. He did as Derek instructed, concentrating on the feel of Derek gliding into him, not the burn that followed. He hiccuped when Derek pulled out before pressing in. He did his best to meet Derek’s thrusts, gasping each time Derek’s cock brushed that spot inside him.

Derek was holding Stiles’ leg for leverage, drawing Stiles into the flex of his hips, plunging into his tight warmth with barely contained control. He wanted to shift into his beta form. There was a scratching at the back of his mind, begging him to release that last strand of control—to shift and bite down on Stiles’ neck and mark him as his mate.

Stiles cried out in pleasure when Derek’s thrusts increased in strength and speed. He could feel his orgasm building, his thoughts racing as he looked at Derek. He could see the presence of Derek’s fangs through his barely parted lips, a look of concentration hidden behind the blindfold.

Stiles reached a hand out, grabbing at Derek’s shoulder even when it felt impossible. “Kiss me.”

Derek dropped his hold on Stiles’ leg, moving to drape his body over Stiles as he kissed him, Stiles’ hands guiding him.

Stiles hugged Derek, one hand reaching up to bury in his hair as they continued thrusting against one another. “Derek, let go,” he spoke against his lips. “You can shift.”

Derek gritted his teeth, breathing heavily.

“Shift, Alpha,” Stiles spoke sweetly, hoping it was all he needed.

Derek’s muscles rippled at the command, the tension that had been consuming him suddenly snapped. He felt his facial features shift, his fangs fully dropped, his nails elongating into sharp claws. He was panting as his thrusts picked up, listening to the hitch in Stiles’ breaths.

“Derek!” Stiles cried his name as his orgasm crested, clinging tightly to Derek as he was fucked through it. His breathing was shaky, his sweat slick skin cooling as his thoughts came back to him. He tightly gripped Derek’s shoulders, his fingers spasming as they released. He dropped his head onto the bed, exhaustion washing over his limbs. He felt Derek mouthing at his throat, the brush of teeth sending gooseflesh across his skin. He buried his hand in Derek’s hair, his nails catching on the blindfold.

Derek hadn’t come. He rocked into Stiles, gentle with hesitancy. His fangs itched. His wolf howled, bite, bite, mate, mate. The mantra was overwhelming his senses, and the lingering scent of Stiles’ euphoria. His mouth froze in his work to leave a hickey on Stiles’ throat—over the healing cuts Arryn had left—when he felt the blindfold moving.

“It’s okay,” Stiles reassured when he felt Derek flinch at the material moving.

“Stiles,” he spoke against Stiles’ skin. His tongue begged to reach back out.

“You can look at me,” Stiles stated, his heartbeat elevated at the excitement the words produced. He softly laughed, offering through watery tears, “you can look at me, Derek.” He pulled the blindfold off of Derek, his hands moving to smooth out Derek’s hair. He placed a chaste kiss to Derek’s furrowed brow as the man stubbornly kept his eyes closed.

Stiles could see the beta shift more clearly now, Derek’s brow musculature and bone had shifted, his beard had more hair along his sideburns, and the presence of fangs beneath his lips. Derek was still as gorgeous as before, the remnants of the man Stiles had come to love were there beneath the altered appearance.

“Look at me,” Stiles instructed Derek with kisses. “Look at me as you come, Derek.”

A shiver racked through Derek’s body at his words.

“Mark me,” Stiles continued. “Let everyone know, I’m yours.”

Derek slowly opened his eyes, hesitating. He could feel the way his eyes burned with the Alpha spark. He allowed his eyes to slowly roam over Stiles. He took in the rash his beard had left across Stiles’ throat, craving to sink his fangs into the gorgeous hollow of where his shoulder and neck met. He took in Stiles’ jaw, seeing the shape of his chin.

Lips. Stiles had a cupid bow shape to his lips, his bottom lip plump and bitten tenderly.

Moles—there were moles scattered over Stiles’ skin, but there were a few beauty marks on his cheek. Derek reached a hand up, careful of his claws as he touched the spot.

Stiles' nose was slender, an even parallel line between his gorgeous eyes.

Large, amber filled eyes that were staring back at Derek. Honey pooling through tea had a similar aura to the way Stiles’ eyes blinked up at Derek.

Gorgeous. Stiles was gorgeous, and Derek wanted everyone to know Stiles had chosen him.

“I probably don’t look how you thought,” Stiles’ voice filled the silence that had built as Derek took in his appearance. “And without the glamour, you probably don’t think I’m—”

Derek silenced Stiles' doubt with a greedy kiss. He put his want into each movement, his tongue slipping into Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles tightened his hold on Derek, letting the man plunder and take. If he could stay beneath Derek for the rest of his life, he would die happy.

“You’re breathtaking, Stiles,” Derek spoke against his lips. “You’re beautiful—and you chose me.”

Stiles nodded, gasping when Derek moved inside him. He ached as Derek thrusted, but he craved this.

“I want to mark you—claim you,” Derek’s words were hissed through his fangs. “You—I just want you.”

“Derek,” Stiles’ breathing grew, his own cock hardening once more as Derek’s thrusts grew in intensity. He felt the remnants of his orgasm suddenly flaring back to life. A blush spread across his skin, flushing his pale skin into a pinkish shade. He could feel his face heating. “Claim me,” his words were punched from him, desperate as he clung to Derek. “Please—I want you,” he echoed Derek’s words. “Mark me, Alpha,” he moaned. He pressed a hand over Derek’s heart. “My mate.”

Derek’s wolf took over.

His fangs tore into the soft flesh of Stiles’ neck, his hips thrusting as he chased euphoria. He rutted, ruthlessly, into Stiles until he felt the pleasure coursing through them both. He heard the breathy wail Stiles released, his fingers twisting a handful of Derek’s hair to the edge of painful. His body collapsed over Stiles, feeling the warm release between them cooling against their skin once again. He didn’t care, not as he stayed clamped to Stiles, leaving his mate mark visible on Stiles’ neck. He tightened his jaw one last time, nostrils flaring at the arousal it sparked in Stiles before he slowly opened his mouth. He felt his fangs leave Stiles flesh. He inspected the mark, watching it bleed now that his fangs weren’t compressing the wounds. He licked at the blood, cleaning it and hoping the saliva’s healing properties would work for a fae the way it did shifters.

Stiles softly brushed his fingers through Derek’s hair as he started to slip into sleep. He was exhausted, the burn of the mark on his neck left him feeling weak. “I’m sleepy,” he mumbled as his limbs grew heavy.

“I should have warned you,” Derek’s voice sounded distant. His hands tilted Stiles head, catching his eye.

Stiles smiled, knowing Derek was looking at his bare face.

“I’ll clean us up,” Derek offered. “Sleep, we’ll speak later.”

Stiles was already falling asleep before Derek fully pulled away from him.

~*~

Stiles sung a soft lullaby, gently rocking his arms as he observed the trees surrounding the meadow. He smiled when he heard the soft coo coming from his arms. He looked down at the child that smiled up at him.

The baby was small—little fingers reaching up to Stiles.

Stiles could see the shifter color of a faint gold.

The baby giggled.

Strong arms encircled Stiles’ waist, pulling him back against a familiar chest.

Derek pressed a kiss to Stiles’ cheek.

This was Stiles’ dream.

~*~

Stiles extended his arm across Derek’s chest, curling himself tightly around him. His cheek was pressed into the warmth of Derek’s pectoral. He was partially awake, wishing to go back to his dream of their child. He didn’t know where the child came from, but he wanted to see the child again—wondering when they would meet them for real.

Derek trailed his fingers over Stiles’ naked hip, drumming out a soft beat. His hand paused when he felt something land on his knuckles. He tilted his head, looking down at his hand to find a moth had landed. Its antennae twitched as its legs moved with purpose, trying to find a piece of Stiles to touch. The moth crawled over Derek’s hand before transferring over to Stiles.

 Stiles stirred some.

“A moth,” Derek explained.

“There’s one on the canopy too,” Stiles yawned.

Derek looked up to see three moths fluttering around and landing on the canopy. “Am I going to have to share you with moths every night?”

Stiles softly laughed. “I think I am glowing,” he offered. “Grandma said it happens more often when we have intense emotions.”

Derek hummed. “And right now would be?”

“I’m happy,” Stiles answered as he cuddled into Derek more. He turned his head to look up at Derek. “I had a dream,” he started, drawing circles into Derek’s chest hair as a distraction. “We had a child.”

Derek’s eyebrows slowly arched. “Not that I am against trying, but I don’t think we have the biology to make one.”

Stiles laughed despite the blush that rushed across his skin. “They were a shifter—a beta gold.”

Derek frowned. “An orphan?”

Stiles furrowed his brow. “Is that common? For an Alpha to take in an orphan.”

“If the Alpha mates with a person of the same sex, or if they are unable to have children, then yes,” Derek explained. “And in our case, it will… be expected.”

Stiles shifted his body, resting his chin on his hand as he laid mostly on Derek’s body. “Do you want children?”

“Do you?” Derek questioned instead.

“I never thought I would have this,” Stiles admitted. He smiled when a moth fluttered down and landed on Derek’s chest. He reached a finger out for the moth to climb onto. He watched the insect as it crawled onto him. “I never thought I could have a child because I thought no one would ever see me without trying to hurt me.”

Derek ran his hand in a soothing motion across Stiles’ back.

“But do I want children with you?” Stiles looked from the moth to Derek. “Yes.”

Derek cupped Stiles’ cheek in his palm. “I always thought I’d marry someone for political gain—some stupid attempt to make the pack more stable,” he explained, an edge of sadness in his words. “Children never really seemed like something I would want to have if that was the case. But with you,” his thumb brushed along Stiles’ cheekbone. “Someday.”

Stiles smiled.

“Derek.” A voice, sharp and commanding came from outside the door.

Stiles startled, scrambling to pull the blanket up around them.

Derek moved quickly, putting himself between Stiles and the door. He waited until Stiles had the blanket covering him, grabbing his trousers from the ground to slip on. He didn’t bother lacing them, intent on staying with Stiles once the person had been dismissed. He barely opened the door, refusing to give anyone a look at Stiles in undress.

Peter was standing on the other side, a look of annoyance on his features. “Arryn’s forces were spotted a day’s ride from here.”

Derek cursed under his breath. “Has he sent a messenger?”

“No,” Peter scrunched his nose, likely able to smell enough to give him a hint at what happened. “You’re needed.” He paused, looking pained as he added, “And John would like to know where his son is. I think it would probably be best coming from Stiles what you did.”

Derek didn’t react, wondering if his uncle could really know.

“I told you,” Peter started. “That I support you. But now everyone needs to know you chose a mate. You’re no longer an eligible bachelor, and that changes sentiments.”

Derek knew what Peter was getting at. If other packs couldn’t have an alliance through mating, there was no point in pretending to be allies. He gave a sharp nod before closing the door. He pressed his back against the door, knowing he had to go to the war room and discuss a plan for defense. He ran a hand through his hair, tipping his head back against the door. His eyes landed on Stiles.

Stiles was sitting on the bed, blanket wrapped around him to hide his nudity. He looked unsure of what was happening, tilting his head when Derek only stared at him. “He’s angry my grandmother made him hand me over,” he finally stated. “He’s going to demand that you return me.”

Derek walked towards the bed, moving to kiss Stiles. He pushed to crawl his way over Stiles, pressing him down into the bed.

Stiles willingly let Derek move him, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck as he accepted his kisses.

“Doesn’t matter what he demands,” Derek spoke as he trailed kisses down to the mark on Stiles’ neck. He placed a gentle kiss on the still healing wound. “You’re my mate.” A happy rumble pushed through Derek at the words. “And I am your mate,” he repeated the same sentiment again. “You aren’t a pet to be passed from owner to owner.”

Stiles played with Derek’s hair as he looked up at him. “I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours,” Derek echoed in return, kissing him again.

~*~

Stiles threaded his fingers with Derek’s, a moment of uncertainty causing him to waiver. He drew in a breath, unhindered by the veil for the first time.

“You don’t have to do this now,” Derek offered, clear concern pulling at his normally stoic features.

Stiles turned to look at Derek, leaning up to place a kiss to Derek’s lips. “Don’t leave my side,” he softly spoke.

“Never,” Derek answered before pulling Stiles into another kiss.

Stiles softly laughed into their kiss when Derek pulled him into his chest. He barely pulled himself away from Derek, moving them towards the exit. He continued to rub their fingers together in reassurance.

Derek guided them out of the royal residence, taking point to keep himself between anyone else and Stiles.

Stiles felt too many eyes suddenly drift to them. He subconsciously swayed closer to Derek, holding onto Derek’s arm like a barnacle.

Derek was aware of Stiles’ tightened grasp around his bicep, slowing his steps to accommodate Stiles being closer.

“Derek,” Erica called his name as she walked towards them. “We need to— oh holy shit.” She stopped walking, frozen as she stared wide eyed at Stiles.

Stiles shifted his body behind Derek some, knowing his face was still visible. He was starting to doubt himself, wondering if Derek had a point that he didn’t have to do this now. Perhaps showing his face was a bad idea in general.

“Erica,” Derek’s voice was low.

“You’ve got brown eyes?!” Erica sounded annoyed with this discovery. “Shit, I owe Isaac a gold coin,” she huffed as she crossed her arms over her chest. “But also, while you’re cute, I don’t understand the whole need to hide your face.”

Stiles blushed, blinking up at Erica.

“He doesn’t have his glamour anymore,” Derek spoke under his breath in a low tone.

Erica slowly blinked in confusion. “How did he get rid of it?”

Stiles cleared his throat, looking up at Derek.

Derek sighed before turning towards Stiles. He reached his hand up to pull at Stiles’ collar.

Stiles nodded his head in silent agreement.

Derek pulled the fabric down to show his mark embedded in the span of Stiles’ shoulder.

Erica made a shrieking noise when she saw the mark. “Oh my— you didn’t tell any of us! This is big!”

“Erica,” Derek snapped at her as he let go of Stiles’ collar. “We can celebrate later, right now—”

“I know, I know,” Erica excitedly stated as she closed the distance between herself and Stiles. She grabbed his hands, smiling at him. “Congratulations, and welcome,” she lifted his hands to her forehead, a gesture of respect between shifters, before placing a kiss to his knuckles. “Mate of my Alpha.”

Stiles didn’t try to stop his growing smile as Erica lowered their hands. Warmth spread in his chest, finding a comfort in being seen by someone other than Derek. He was finally living outside his unending fear of missing his veil.

Derek offered his hand to Stiles once more, allowing Erica to inform him of what was transpiring in the war room. He kept his pace slow, strolling with Stiles beside him.

John’s entire body was on alert when he saw Stiles enter the war room with Derek—unveiled. His eyes were wide with concern, but something shattered that fear as he watched how others reacted.

Most were surprised at seeing Stiles, before figuring out who he was by his faint scent alone—the part of his scent that hadn’t been covered by Derek’s. Stiles curled his free hand around Derek’s bicep, pressing his chest against Derek’s arm.

Derek relaxed against him, though his body was prepared to pounce on anyone that took an unwarranted step near Stiles.

“Well, he is gorgeous,” Peter commented when others simply stared at Stiles.

Stiles tilted his head down to avoid displaying his blush.

“I don’t think an announcement is needed,” Derek started, pausing when Peter’s eyebrow lifted in question. “But I offered my mark to Stiles, and he accepted. He is my mate.”

It was the simplest way to announce it, though it felt like an anvil being dropped on top of the fragile foundation.

Derek extricated his arm from Stiles, moving to wrap his arm around Stiles’ waist, tucking him to his side.

Stiles leaned into Derek, wrapping his arms around Derek’s stomach to settle his hands against Derek’s hip. He touched his cheek against the crest of Derek’s shoulder.

Peter sighed. “Well, I suppose you at least make an attractive couple,” he muttered as he looked down at the war table. “Besides that, we’re fucked.”

Stiles frowned, a knot forming in his stomach at hearing the resignation in Peter’s voice.

“You’re giving up before trying?” Derek countered.

“No, I am acknowledging that we now have nothing to offer the other packs and clans—you were the bargaining chip, Derek. And now that you have a mate, you’re not the shiny trophy anymore.”

Stiles tightened his hold on Derek’s shirt. He would never stop being the problem. He looked up at Derek, sadness pulling at his heart when he saw the crease in Derek’s brow. He knew, if Derek hadn’t been with him, the self-sacrificing fool with a heart of gold would have offered himself up on a silver platter.

“I’ll challenge Arryn,” Derek stated.

The silence sliced through the room. Peter stared at Derek in shock.

“He’s too proud to say no,” Derek reasoned. “He’ll agree if it means he gets a chance to hurt me.”

“Kill you,” Peter snapped. “And he will kill you, Derek,” he stood to his full height, rounding the table. “He has centuries on you—he doesn’t even have a heartbeat. For the sake of the goddess Derek this is the stupidest thing—” His gaze flickered to Stiles briefly, “well, second stupidest thing you’ve done.”

Stiles clenched his jaw, biting back a response because… he agreed with Peter. He knew he was a mistake for Derek. But he had been selfish when taking Derek’s offer of mating.

Derek took a step towards Peter, releasing his hold on Stiles.

“Unless you have suddenly garnered control over the sun, there is nothing that can defeat that monster,” Peter stated.

Stiles allowed his gaze to flicker across the others. He could see how beaten they looked—resigned to a fate worse than war torn. And the resentment was barely hidden with the looks they snuck of him.

“I’ll talk to him,” Stiles announced.

Derek was stiff when turning to look at Stiles.

“I’ll talk to him,” Stiles pressed.

“Stiles,” Derek started.

“He was afraid of my grandmother for a reason,” Stiles offered. He gently shook his head. “I think I understand now.”

Years of his life—over a decade spent hidden behind a veil. Light couldn’t breathe when smothered.

He remembered playing in the meadow with his mother—the way a cool tone of light shone brightly from his mother, to be met by his own warm glow. He remembered the way butterflies found him with ease—the way a forest at night never particularly scared him, a constant light his guide.

My little sunshine .

That was what Claudia called him in those days.

“And how do you plan on speaking to a predator who has their fangs on your throat?” Peter asked.

Stiles looked at the older man. He had known Peter was being the hard diplomat in the room—the devil’s advocate of what no one wanted to acknowledge. It didn’t do anything to lessen the twinge of inferiority it fed within him.

Stiles drew in a breath as he brought his hands level with his chest. He looked down at them, concentrating like he did as a child, palms facing one another. He remembered the doe in the forest. He remembered the butterfly’s torn wing the village children had laughed at him for crying about. He remembered the moth Arryn had cruelly flicked with little concern. He remembered the burns and cuts on Derek’s hands, and how Derek had pulled away from him before he could even think of healing him.

A small, warm light pulsed between Stiles’ hands.

The light appeared to breathe, a calming presence in the quiet of the room.

Stiles looked up at Derek.

Derek wasn’t looking at the light, but at Stiles.

The light grew, steadily growing and shining as Stiles smiled at Derek.

“By the goddess,” Erica softly uttered in awe.

“Fucking hell,” Peter echoed Erica’s shock.

Stiles’ hands began to shake, the light slowly shrinking before disappearing. Stiles tried not to sway, but his vision blurred. He stumbled into Derek’s arms, “I’m okay, I promise,” he quickly stated as he looked up at Derek.

Derek’s brow was furrowed, a look of fear on his face as he drew in a shuttering breath. His thumb brushed over Stiles’ cheek. “You’re burning up,” he noted.

“I haven’t concentrated on it in years,” Stiles explained. “But I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“Stiles,” John’s voice was edged with a warning.

“Arabella said she would release a sun flare on Arryn,” Stiles started, forcing himself to stand up, no longer supported by Derek’s arms though he didn’t pull away from the reminder of Derek’s hand resting on his hip. “She said I could do the same—”

“You could release a moonbeam on him by accident,” John countered. “Stiles, there is no telling what you can do or what will happen to you.”

“I can practice,” Stiles stated. “I need to try.”

Derek clenched his teeth together. “If you can’t, Stiles, I will challenge him.”

Stiles looked at Derek.

“If you risk your life, I will risk mine,” Derek pressed.

Stiles frowned at that before reluctantly nodding. “But you will let me try.”

Derek nodded. “I trust you, remember?” He placed a kiss to Stiles’ cheek.

Stiles offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Chapter Text

Stiles was exhausted from practicing control over his light. He hadn’t meant to push himself to the brink of passing out, but their time was limited. He didn’t want a repeat of the incident from yesterday, when Derek found him unconscious in their room.

Their room.

Stiles enjoyed sharing a space with Derek. He still had the veil Derek gifted him, leaving it to rest on the table beside the bed. He had accidentally put it on some mornings, forgetting he didn’t have to hide his face. He had taken to shortening the veil to frame his face, comforted by the reminder.

It didn’t matter what Stiles wore or didn’t, the others still stared—either out of curiosity or resentment. Stiles tried not to think about the latter feeling.

This night, opposed to the morning, Stiles was glowing a light blue and he couldn’t determine the difference between the two. He had written his grandmother a letter, unsurprised when no one would let him leave the camp on his own.

It seemed to be the only thing Derek, Peter, and his father agreed on.

John brought the letters to the mushroom circle Arabella showed them before her departure.

“If you need me, simply place a message here. I will answer you—always.”

Stiles had been surprised when his father brought him a letter from his grandfather the day after Arabella’s departure. He laughed at the amusing writing of a man who seemed more antsy at the idea of leaving his throne than Arabella had been. He smiled at his grandfather’s fond memories of Claudia, and felt a familiar longing to meet him.

Arabella said she would return when Arryn declared his intent. She couldn’t be part of whatever negotiations were held, but she offered to defend the defenseless. It eased Stiles’ sense of panic and worry that the elder shifters and children would be at risk should Arryn choose cruelty.

For the time being, Arryn chose to be a looming force just encroaching on the Deadman’s Knot.

“You’re certain you feel better?”

Stiles looked at Derek, swallowing down his mouthful of bread and cheese. He offered a soft smile. “I am,” he offered. “And I am sorry if I worried you.”

Derek released a soft, almost relieved laugh. “I was startled,” he admitted, looking down at his drink. “I don’t think I would enjoy a repeat of finding you unconscious.”

Stiles reached a hand to touch Derek’s forearm. “I won’t push myself,” he promised.

Derek slowly looked up at Stiles, tilting his head. “You’ve already pushed yourself.”

Stiles dropped his slice of bread onto the plate before shifting his body closer to Derek. He slowly crawled into Derek’s lap, pressing his side into Derek’s chest. He placed his cheek against Derek’s shoulder. “You risked yourself for me already,” he explained, watching his fingers play with the folds of Derek’s shirt, just where it parted over his chest.

Derek’s arms tightened around Stiles. “Stiles, you can’t argue that you haven’t risked yourself already.”

Stiles knew he couldn’t argue.

“I trust that you’re strong enough for your plan,” Derek continued. “I wouldn’t do you the disservice of thinking you are weak.”

Stiles placed a grateful kiss to Derek’s exposed collarbone.

Derek slightly groaned as he placed his cup down to be forgotten on the floor next to them. “You enjoy doing that.”

Stiles laughed against Derek’s skin, his fingers pulling at the fabric of Derek’s shirt. “You enjoy when I do this,” he twisted Derek’s words with a wicked grin.

Despite Stiles’ lack of veil, they had continued to sit together on the floor when partaking in meals. Though they now enjoyed the ability to look at each other. And yet, these nights usually unfolded into shared touches and exchanged kisses.

Derek lifted Stiles in his arms, situating them down to the floor amidst the melody of Stiles’ lilted laughter.

~*~

Stiles was glowing, even in his sleep.

Derek gently nosed at Stiles’ shoulder, his eyes tracking the way moles stood out against the light emitting from Stiles.

Stiles’ breathing was easy, his body curled around a pillow with his back against Derek’s chest.

Derek kissed where his mark graced Stiles’ neck.

A moth fluttered down to land on Stiles’ shoulder.

Derek faintly smiled, watching the moth. He lifted his hand, offering his finger to the nosey creature.

The moth reached an antennae out, inquisitive in nature. When it determined Derek was no threat, it crawled onto his offered landing. It hesitated, turning back toward Stiles like a magnet drawn to him.

“I know the feeling,” Derek softly spoke, attempting to keep his voice low enough to not wake Stiles.

Stiles made a faint noise, but didn’t stir against sleep.

The moth fluttered off, circling around Stiles once more.

Derek looked down at Stiles, watching the softness of the light’s aura pulsing with each of Stiles’ breaths.

The light was bluer, colder than Stiles’ usual golden light during the days. It was strange to see the difference in the two tones. Derek couldn’t understand the difference at first, but began to assume that it had to do with the exchange of the sun and moon.

Then he saw the letter from Stiles’ grandfather, explaining the gift of moonlight.

Moonlight .

The pale shine shared the same tone and feeling of the moon’s light whenever Derek spent nights racing through the forest. Those nights had grown so few in recent years, Derek’s concentrations focused on the continued skirmishes with Vampyrs. But the freedom Derek felt resting in bed with Stiles had matched the feeling of the meadow’s moss beneath his paws.

Stiles had given Derek’s wolf a peace in these nights, just by sharing the same space.

Derek’s brow pinched as he settled back into the bed, tightening his hold on Stiles.

Stiles released a heavy breath, shifting his weight.

Derek didn’t bother to hide his smile when Stiles twisted and rolled into him. He allowed Stiles to sling his leg over his thigh, resting back onto the bed to look up at the canopy as Stiles rested on top of him. He trailed his hand over Stiles’ spine, traveling across his soft skin to rest on his hip, watching as the moth fluttered around the top of the canopy.

Derek trusted Stiles. But he couldn’t reconcile the worry that ate away at his resolve. He didn’t want to risk harm befalling Stiles, and Arryn was the worst type of threat to Stiles’ wellbeing. That and Stiles’ determination to be the one to deal with Arryn.

Stiles huffed, pressing his cheek into Derek’s chest once more. He tilted his head to look up at Derek. He blinked slowly with a growing smile. “I had a lovely dream,” he softly spoke.

“Oh?” Derek replied, returning a small smile to Stiles.

Stiles’ light grew as he hummed. “We had a party—a celebration,” he explained. “I think it’s a positive reflection of what is to come.”

Derek trailed his fingers over Stiles’ ribs and up to his shoulder. He placed a chaste kiss to Stiles’ forehead. “We will know soon enough.”

~*~

Stiles stood beside Derek, his veil once more covering his face. He felt strange, donning the veil once more. He had called the veil a safe haven before Derek—and now it served its purpose to trick their enemies.

Derek had peppered Stiles in kisses when settling the veil into place, fueled by Stiles’ soft laughter.

“Remember,” Stiles started, taking a step forward to stand beside Derek as the figures approached. He knew the most prominent figure was Arryn, flanked by others in high ranking garb.

“I let you act first,” Derek finished Stiles’ words. He was hyper aware of the massive force gathered in the distance, likely waiting for a single encouragement to charge. His wolf’s hackles bristled with each step Arryn took towards them.

Stiles reached his hand out, his pinky curling around Derek’s in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. He smiled when Derek curled his pinky in response. He knew that he was glowing a pale blueness beneath the veil, hoping it continued to mislead Arryn.

You are the child of both the moon and sun, Stiles’ grandfather had written. You possess  the gifts of both, while traveling the road of human nature. But hiding behind a veil will shun those gifts. Never forget who you are, my moth.

Arryn foolishly assumed Stiles’ magic only came from his Unseelie linage—a child of the moon’s blessing.

Stiles felt the warmth start to rise in him when Arryn smugly smirked at the veil covering Stiles’ features. He couldn’t wait to douse the proud Vampyr in sunlight.

“What a shame,” Arryn started in a bored tone. “No lover’s embrace?”

Derek understood what Arryn was doing when he saw the Vampyr’s gaze flicker briefly to the empty surroundings behind them—likely looking for a hidden trap. He had been unwilling to allow Stiles to go alone, but agreed to keep the army away per Stiles’ insistence.

Stiles was afraid of hurting others if he lost control. He had fought with Derek to stay back, but ultimately crumbled when Derek explained his reasoning.

If Stiles lost control and incinerated himself, Derek didn’t want to be left alone. It was a macabre and terrible outcome that Stiles didn’t want to consider—but understood Derek’s reasoning all the same.

“You should really look at him without the veil,” the female Vampyr spoke to Derek from Arryn’s side, a fanged smile splitting her face. “He actually is shockingly attractive.”

“A little pale,” the older male Vampyr commented, a look of annoyance overtaking him. He clearly found this meeting to be a waste of his time.

“Enough,” Arryn snapped. He was insulted by the lack of a shifter army. “You know why we came,” he finally stated. “You treat us as no threat? You insulted me once in my own hall already.”

“You insulted yourself,” Derek answered.

A muscle in Arryn’s nose twitched at Derek’s interruption. “Blood is demanded,” he continued. He pointed at Stiles. “I can’t keep you, that much is true to the accords.”

Stiles had read many proposed changes to the accords that ruled many species and forced co-existence—in most cases, but the one constantly struck down proposal was the retention of any fae person, especially royalty, in the human world. And Stiles was afraid Arryn would push the rules to bend for the allowance of Stiles’ retention since he was half human.

But no, Arryn wanted retribution.

“Your lifeforce is mine to claim,” Arryn stated with little care, curling his hand as he looked down at his nails. “And I claim it now.”

“Your claim is not recognized,” Derek stated, his eyes glowing red with the Alpha spark.

Arryn laughed. “Didn’t you learn your lesson last time, pup? You can’t change laws, and you can not stand in my way.”

“Arabella saved you from the embarrassment of losing your jaw last time,” Derek growled.

It was quite the mental image to picture Arryn’s torn jaw dangling from Derek’s clawed fist.

“Your claim isn’t recognized because I am bonded,” Stiles finally spoke before Derek or Arryn actually attacked one another as the tensions continued to grow.

Arryn dared to allow his gaze to turn from Derek, landing a cold glare of disbelief on Stiles.

Stiles reached up to his circlet, removing it for what he hoped was the last time in order to pull the veil from his face. He released a breath as fresh air touched his face. He looked from Arryn to the two others. He wanted to laugh—clearly Arryn feared Derek if he needed two experienced seconds flanking him.

Derek looked at Stiles, his Alpha spark calming and receding from his irises. He trusted Stiles’ plan, his fingers twisting with Stiles’ in a supportive hold.

The circlet and veil no longer contained the heft they used to, feeling lighter than they ever had.

Stiles lifted his chin in defiance, daring the Vampyrs to question his claim of bond. He tilted his head to expose the very top of Derek’s mark scarred into his neck.

His bond. His mate.

The old male Vampyr released a heavy bark, heartily laughing at the turn of events. “All this for a fae who's been mounted by a dog, Ryn?”

The muscle of Arryn’s jaw clenched in a repetitive motion, his fangs grinding.

The female Vampyr looked annoyed now. “Pathetic,” she hissed at Stiles. “Let us go.” She turned, prepared to dismiss the whole endeavor.

“No.”

She halted and looked at Arryn. “Are you mad?” She lowly questioned, disbelief lacing her tone. “You have no claim to him now.”

The old Vampyr looked at Arryn with calculating eyes. “You want to enter full blown war for a used fae?”

Anger licked low in Stiles’ chest with each passing remark that was meant to degrade Derek’s very species. As if anything a shifter touched was somehow lesser.

“It isn’t war—it is restructuring,” Arryn answered. “They’ve been a thorn in my side for too long.”

“They’ve held you at bay so far,” the old Vammpyr answered. He looked at Stiles. “And with a fae, clearly clever enough to outmaneuver you in the Knot.”

“I will deal with the Alpha,” Arryn finally stated.

“No.”

It wasn’t a plea, nor a shocked outburst.

It was a denial of what Arryn planned, and Stiles’ voice was calm in that rebuke.

“What, plan to send a cluster of moths after me?” Arryn sneered.

Stiles calmly blinked. “No, I plan on gifting you the sunflare my grandmother offered you.”

Silence crept through the trio of Vampyrs as looks of disbelief and uncertainty ruled them.

“He’s bluffing,” Arryn finally claimed.

Stiles released his hold on Derek’s hand, taking a step in front of him. His light slowly began to change in tone, the cool light giving way to the same bright warmth Arabella’s held that night they spoke in the forest.

The old Vampyr looked impressed, softly mumbling, “Remarkable.”

The female Vampyr took a tentative step back. “Arryn,” her voice was shaky with fear, as if she knew what horrors Stiles’ warm light was capable of.

“You’re bluffing,” Arryn snapped once more at Stiles, anger radiating off of him.

“You know who my grandparents are,” Stiles replied. “Do you want to gamble with your life?”

“He is a wolf’s bitch—unworthy of our fangs! Don’t be ridiculous,” the female Vampyr argued.

“I will have order!” Arryn yelled at her, his eyes completely blown into full inky pits of darkness. His fangs dropped into jagged razors. He had shifted into one of their most primordial forms.

“You are mad!” She yelled back at him. She looked at Derek and Stiles. “I won’t take any part in this. Do what you want to him.” And with that, she was gone—a blur that left them.

Derek stepped closer to Stiles, feeling the warmth that was emitting from him.

“You’ve been bested in this, Arryn,” the old Vampyr spoke. He looked at Stiles, bowing his head. “Give my best to Lewellyn.”

Stiles was caught off guard by the Vampyr’s words before the man vanished in a similar manner to the woman.

Lewellyn. ‘Like a lion’.

His grandfather had sealed his letters with a wax imprint of a lion head.

“You fucking pest,” Arryn lowly cursed.

Derek’s hand touched the top of Stiles’ hip, fingertips grazing his ribs before settling. He was preparing to pull Stiles backwards if Arryn lashed out. He looked beyond Arryn, at the figures looming still in the vast distance.

The Vampyrs may have retreated a safer distance, but the numbers weren’t dispersing.

Derek feared he knew what threat it would take.

Stiles’ light grew in intensity.

Arryn laughed, shaking his head before pushing his fingers through his loose hair. “I should have bled you when your father first brought you to my hall. But Edwin was so obsessed with the idea of seeing you—I was curious what he’d do.”

A queasiness edged into Stiles’ stomach.

“That’s all you’ll ever be, Stiles,” Arryn’ barb hit the mark. “A face to be fucked, a weapon to wield. Useful but unnecessary.”

Derek circled his arm around Stiles’ waist, pulling him back against his chest. “I trust you,” he whispered to Stiles, an echo of their words this morning.

“You’ll never understand what it is like to be loved, Arryn,” Stiles stated, aware of the way his eyes burned bright as a familiar warmth consumed his gaze.

Derek held back from pulling Stiles away when Arryn lashed out.

A fiery hot light burst forth from Stiles, the blinding beam consuming the space before them—the space Arryn had existed.

It tore through the vast expanse, slamming into the shadows that were the looming Vampyr invasion.

Stiles was aware of the heat escalating, growing into an inferno that he never felt before. He was burning through his strength, his body trembling as he struggled to let the light diminish.

“Stiles, stop! Let it go,” Derek’s voice echoed through Stiles’ lost thoughts.

Stiles could feel the light extinguishing. He felt Derek’s arms steadying him. And then his body was falling, his eyes closing against the last of the burn.

~*~

Stiles woke to a comforting scent.

“You’re fretting,” a deep male voice stated with a faint amusement.

“Shut up,” Arabella answered.

The masculine voice laughed, warm and gentle. “Ever my butterfly,” the words spoken with love, a nickname filled with adoration and respect.

Stiles blinked a few times, his body tensing at the ache of pain. He shifted his body, moving to sit up some.

“Careful, moonflower,” Arabella quickly moved to steady Stiles, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him.

Stiles leaned against the pillows propped against the headboard, looking around the room to realize with relief that he was in his and Derek’s bedroom. He looked at his grandmother, offering a small smile to her worried expression. He opened his voice to speak before hesitating when he saw the man leaning against the wall behind his grandmother.

The man’s arms were crossed over his chest, a look of calm amusement on his face. His hair was a long ashen blonde, plaited into several different braids. He wore a silver circlet with opals and sapphires. He was pale skinned, with a scatter of moles that looked somewhat similar to Stiles’ own.

“Granda?” Stiles softly asked in an inquisitive manner.

The man smiled. “Hello, Stiles.”

“How are you feeling?” Arabella asked as she checked Stiles’ pulse.

“Okay,” Stiles admitted, despite his headache. He looked between Arabella and his grandfather.

“You’re hovering, my butterfly,” Stiles’ grandfather noted.

“Lewellyn,” Arabella growled, turning a glare on her husband as she looked over her shoulder.

Stiles looked from Arabella to his grandfather—Lewellyn.

Lewellyn faintly smirked at Arabella’s annoyance.

“Lewellyn,” Stiles spoke his grandfather’s name, unsurprised when the man looked at him. “One of the Vampyrs said that name,” he explained.

“One of the ones you turned to ash?” Lewellyn asked.

Stiles blinked, looking to his grandmother for confirmation.

Arabella nodded her head.

Stiles frowned at that. He hoped he hadn’t hurt any innocent Vampyrs caught in the crossfire of Arryn’s greed. He described the old Vampyr who spoke Lewellyn’s name.

Lewellyn looked pensive before laughing. “If he’s alive, he’ll be the next Lord.”

Arabella looked at Lewellyn. “Francis?”

Lewellyn nodded. “At least your shifter won’t have to worry about continuing the war with Francis in charge. He is much more level headed, if not boring.”

Stiles’ pulse increased at the mention of Derek. “Where is Derek?”

“I had to yell at him to leave,” Arabella admitted, though she didn’t look guilty. “He carried you back here and had refused to let anyone near you until I came.”

Lewellyn pushed away from the wall. “I will go retrieve him—surely he will be less sourly at the news you’re awake.”

Stiles watched his grandfather leave. “You’re both here,” he finally stated when looking at Arabella.

Arabella nodded. “He wanted to come originally, but technically the Unseelie have connections with the Vampyr hordes. He was barely obeying the laws before I finally sent him word that he could come.” She reached a hand out to brush her fingers through Stiles’ hair. “He will be here long enough for you to speak, don’t worry.”

Stiles smiled at her, comforted by how she seemed to know his concerns without his need to voice them. “I don’t remember what happened… after the sunflare.”

“There was some disagreement whether Arryn attacked you first,” Arabella started. “But his seconds, of whom I am guessing Francis was one, explained they had left him when he showed no sign of rationality. It was decided that your attack was valid.”

“They don’t want to bother accepting any responsibility,” Stiles commented. “Will I grow sick from using too much? Like… like mother.”

Arabella frowned. “No, darling, you didn’t push yourself too far.”

Stiles nodded, relaxing into the pillows more. He was still exhausted, but pushed himself to ask the question that plagued him. “Are the others scared of me?”

~*~

Derek listened to the shifters roaming around camp, excitement and joy gracing their disbelief. The majesty of fae light wasn’t something experienced every day. He was irritated, his wolf wanting nothing more than to rest close to Stiles. He wanted to curl around his mate and bite any hand that dared to touch him in his fragile state.

Stiles was sleeping, regaining his depleted strength, and the only person capable of dismissing Derek had been Arabella.

“You’re good at acting calmer than you are.”

Derek looked at the man who spoke, realizing it was Lewellyn.

Lewellyn was surrounded by a pale blue light, similar in presence to Stiles’ light at night. He was looking at the shifters around them, taking in their appearance and attitudes.

“I wouldn’t dare cross Arabella,” Derek finally answered Lewellyn.

Lewellyn laughed. “That makes you a smart person.” He tilted his head to observe Derek. “Stiles spoke highly about you in his letters,” he offered. “But I must push to know the truth about you.”

Derek furrowed his brow.

“You laid a claim on my grandson,” Lewellyn stated. He tilted his head when a moth fluttered into his view. He faintly smiled, offering his hand out to the insect. He watched as the moth traveled across his knuckles. “You haven’t taken vows with my grandson. And it is a requirement to recognize your union among the Seelie and Unseelie alike.”

Derek sighed, relieved that Lewellyn was asking for the simplest thing Derek could offer. Of course he wanted to marry Stiles in a formal setting—their lives just didn’t allow that in the moment. “That was our intention for after all… well, this.”

Lewellyn was silently watching Derek before nodding in acceptance. “Very well,” he accepted. “Then I suppose I should tell you, Stiles is awake.”

Derek stood quickly, looking at Lewellyn for a sign he was lying.

Lewellyn shrugged his shoulders. “I wanted to ask you first, before you ran off to see him.” He hadn’t finished his words before Derek started running. He smiled at the moth. “Thank you for keeping a close eye on them,” he tilted his head in respect to the insect.

The black witch moth twitched its antennae in appreciation of Lewellyn’s words.

Derek thought of little else as he practically burst through the doorway to their bedroom.

Stiles smiled at Derek. “I’m okay,” he started upon seeing Derek’s worried expression.

Derek paused his approach when he realized that Arabella was still present and physically in the space between them.

Arabella stood, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ forehead. “I will see you later, moonflower.” She turned and walked by Derek, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as she passed.

Derek closed the space until he reached Stiles’ side even before Arabella closed the door. His hands cradled Stiles’ face as he kissed him.

Stiles laughed joyfully into their kiss. “I’m sorry—I’m alright,” he stated to reassure Derek.

“I was so scared, Stiles,” Derek admitted. “You were overheating. And unresponsive. I thought I… I thought I lost you,” he confessed his pain as he pressed their foreheads together.

“It’s okay,” Stiles confirmed, reaching his hands up to hold Derek’s shoulders. He brushed his thumbs in reassuring circles. “I’m sorry I worried you, but I am glad I was able to do what I did.”

“I know,” Derek uttered as he pulled back, looking Stiles over. He dropped his hands to collect Stiles’ hands together. He lifted Stiles’ fingers to his lips, kissing each one tenderly.

Stiles smiled.

“I would have hunted them all to the end of their days if you were hurt.”

Stiles felt the warmth coil between his lungs and stomach—a spot that seemed to ache only for Derek.

“I have to tell you,” Derek started, looking at Stiles’ fingers as they rested in his palms, placed between their laps. “Your grandfather asked my intentions towards you.”

Stiles felt his blush rise across his cheeks. “He seems a bit more… forward than Arabella.”

Derek snorted. “Putting it mildly.”

Lewellyn had been sarcastic at best, and ominous at worst. Arabella had to be the one to dismiss her husband when speaking to Peter and the others of what the implications were for fae relations now that Stiles was Derek’s mate.

“We never…” Derek’s brow furrowed before looking up at Stiles. “I supposed I assumed, but we never spoke of marriage.”

Stiles bit the insides of his lip. He was aware of the moth that circled above them, almost wishing he could use the insect as a distraction. “I think I assumed that… unless you don’t want to—but isn’t the mate bond like the shifter equivalent of marriage?”

Derek’s smile slowly grew. “Something like that, but deeper.”

Stiles looked down at their hands. “As far as I am concerned, you are my husband.”

Derek leaned in, his lips pressing against Stiles as he moved to tilt Stiles’ head back.

Stiles accepted Derek’s kiss.

“And you are mine,” Derek spoke against Stiles’ lips. “I love you, Stiles,” he confessed. “I’ve loved you before, and after, you removed that veil.”

Stiles kissed Derek. “I love you, Alpha of Alphas.”

~*~

They had one wedding, much to Lewellyn’s amusement and Arabella’s annoyance.

“You’ll just have to share the stage with me, my lovely butterfly.”

“I should have shoved you off the pedestal during our wedding.”

King Francis, newly anointed High Vampyr lord, sent a bottle of wine that Stiles grimaced at with uncertainty—Derek ended up locking it in the royal storeroom, persuaded against shattering the bottle in cautionary avoidance of insulting the sender.

The coblynau sent a bundle of sugar that Stiles promised to use the ingredients next time he made cookies, intending to share with them. The lead coblynau didn’t know what cookies were, but anticipated Stiles’ visit with glee.

Stiles laughed when Peter suggested Derek wear a veil.

Stiles hadn’t been certain he would wear a veil, moved by the clothes the sewing circle of shifters had created for him. He admired how they beamed with pride and acceptance when seeing him in the ceremonial marriage garb. The older members were the most vocal about Stiles’ acceptance as their Alpha’s mate—one of the men leaving a pin cushion on a certain shifter’s seat at dinner in retaliation for their dismissal of Stiles.

Stiles cried when his grandparents gifted him a marriage veil of his own, a gold thread sewn throughout with the love and wishes of both Seelie and Unseelie. Lewellyn had sewn the last of the veil together to bless, just as Arabella added an accented trim from the preserved petals of meadow flowers.

Stiles had seen Arabella speaking with Derek on a few occasions, growing more and more curious each time Derek dismissed his inquiry about the topic. Lewellyn simply told Stiles to send a moth to spy on them—leading Stiles to the shocking revelation that he could apparently use moths and butterflies as spies. He ultimately rejected the idea, allowing Derek his privacy.

It wasn’t until their wedding that Stiles realized what Derek had done.

Derek spoke their vows in fae, learning through the weeks from Stiles’ grandmother.

Though Derek admired the veil Arabella and Lewellyn created for Stiles, moved by the use of gold thread to gift back the garment that had been so cruelly destroyed, he hated not seeing Stiles’ face. He felt the tremble of emotion through their point of connection, hands clasped as both Arabella and Lewellyn spoke.

Derek could feel the glares from some of the fae in attendance, realizing early on during the ceremony’s arrangements that many thought they had a chance of marrying into the royal family. He apparently ruined those carefully orchestrated plans. He found more than one poisonous flower slipped into his drink until Arabella yelled at everyone.

“A consent of a shared bond, one to echo through time and obligation ,” Lewellyn finished his part of the instructional vow.

“A joining of hearts, souls, and hands. You may share your first kiss as bonded mates ,” Arabella subtly elbowed Lewellyn when he laughed at her use of “first”.

Stiles pulled one of his hands back, lifting the veil with calm ease. He stopped when he had it lifted high enough to catch Derek’s eye. He shyly smiled at Derek’s arched eyebrow, lifting the veil slightly higher to place over Derek’s head.

Derek returned Stiles’ smile, mirroring his action to hold the veil above their heads. He kept a hold of Stiles’ hand as they draped the veil to see one another.

“Husband,” Stiles greeted Derek with a smile as he stepped closer.

“Husband,” Derek mirrored Stiles, leaning in to share what felt like the first of many kisses.

~*~

It had been the end of the solstice, one of the longer nights of the year, when Stiles emerged from the forest with a shifter babe in his arms.