Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles tipped his head back, breathing in the scent of wildflowers. He smiled at the sun’s warmth on his face. The fragrant breeze was a welcomed break from hunching over another book barely illuminated by the library’s sconces.

Memories of his mother always visited him among the wildflowers.

Claudia would smile brightly whenever Stiles offered her a wildflower. She had taught him, from a young age, which flowers were beautiful for their appearance and which were false.

“A flower’s petals can be more deadly than any sword.”

There was no miraculous cure for Claudia. No matter how many books Stiles read, the results were always the same. There was no flower to grant her a merciful reprieve from the pain of illness.

Death followed months of deteriorating health, and flowers lost their meaning for Stiles.

Stiles opened his eyes when a shadow loomed over his face. He blinked up at the person in confusion. “Uncle?” He spoke in disbelief as he scrambled to stand. He dropped his bitten apple, throwing his arms around Chris’s shoulders when the older man smiled.

“Hello, Stiles,” Chris greeted him, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist as he accepted his nephew’s hug. He held Stiles tightly, closing his eyes as he let the moment linger. It had been too long since he saw his sister’s only child.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles sounded out of breath as he pulled away from Chris. A look of concern wilted his features as he dreaded the worst. “Is my father alright?”

“He’s fine,” Chris quickly put Stiles’ concerns to rest. He took a step back to look at Stiles. “You’ve gotten so much taller.”

Stiles softly scoffed. “I’ve been this tall for a while now.”

Chris frowned at that.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles immediately apologized when seeing the regret on Chris’s features.

Gerard had sent Stiles off almost as soon as Claudia died. John visited Stiles when he could, but war pulled the man away more often than not. And that was the extent of who Stiles was allowed to see according to society and its propriety.

No one else dared visit, per the incursion of Gerard’s distaste—no cousins or uncles or aunts.

Stiles was alone in his solitude as a scholar.

Chris offered his arm to Stiles, gesturing his head to trails through the wildflower meadows.

Stiles smiled as he accepted Chris’s arm. His brow furrowed when he saw the armed guards closer to the school, where Chris likely approached from. “Why did grandfather send you?”

Chris barely glanced at the guards before turning their backs towards them. He clenched his teeth before replying, “I’ve asked the dean if you could come home for some time.”

Stiles was surprised to hear such a thing. He looked down at their boots, watching as small pebbles moved and tumbled to the sides. He remembered dragging his feet as a child whenever his mother would bring him into the gardens. Now, he found a haven among those types of flowers.

“Your father was prepared to petition the King,” Chris continued with a sigh as he looked at the grounds around them. “He hated you being stuck here.”

Stiles frowned. “It isn’t so bad,” he argued. “I get to read—and write.”

Chris laughed. “There is more to life than reading.”

“Oh, do you find me odd for loving to read?” Stiles smiled as he questioned his uncle. He hesitantly withdrew his arm from Chris when they reached the shade of an oak tree. He sighed, pacing in a small circle. “I know you’re here for a reason.”

Chris allowed Stiles to speak without interruption.

“Grandfather is a selfish bastard and he would never admit he was wrong sending me here,” Stiles stated, finally turning to look at Chris. “I have no claim to his title, you and Allison get that. Whatever father has does go to me, but it is nothing compared to what the Argent house has.” He drew in a breath. “He sent me here for a silly childhood indiscretion. And yet… just tell me, please.” He didn’t want to think about what happened. He was a child then—it had been an innocent kiss shared between friends, and yet it was seen as a moral failing on his part.

Just Stiles’ part, not the duke’s son who had been three years older.

Regardless, it was the excuse Gerard needed to hide Stiles away.

Chris always admired Stiles’ wit. He had told his sister Stiles was smarter than any child had a right to be, and Claudia merely laughed at him with the declaration that her son would one day rule the kingdom of knowledge.

She had been right in some ways—Stiles could very well end up ruling one day.

“Gerard arranged your marriage.”

Stiles blinked at Chris. He shook his head, momentarily bewildered by Chris’s words. “No,” he spoke the protest as if it was the simplest of conclusions. “You’re mistaken. Gerard sent me here to keep me out of his way—to keep the embarrassment hidden.”

He knew the truth—there was more than one way to keep an embarrassment hidden. Marriage to a figurehead far out of the way of society.

Chris shifted his weight, watching as Stiles’ words spiraled through logic. His eyes dashed towards the armed guards who had moved closer at Stiles’ outburst. He could only keep them at bay for as long as he could keep Stiles calm.

“Will he still keep me hidden?” Stiles asked, turning to look at his uncle. “Married to some ogre?”

Chris’s features twisted. “No.”

“A silly lordling locked away in some tower, then?” Stiles’ anger was rising with each absurd guess.

“The King’s nephew.”

Stiles felt sick, taking a step back from Chris. “You’re mistaken.”

“I assure you, Gerard was very clear,” Chris stated with an annoyed grimace. “He said you’re to come back home, and then be introduced to court properly. The wedding will be announced then.”

“I can’t go,” Stiles argued. “I have my studies.” He knew, deep down, that it was pointless to argue. He wasn’t going to be given any type of reprieve from Gerard. His spine grew rigid as he turned to look at the two approaching guards. “He sent you so I’d be more agreeable, didn’t he?”

“I begged to come,” Chris corrected Stiles, taking a step towards him. He took his nephew’s hand. “He doesn’t care if they hurt you to get you into the carriage,” he softly warned Stiles.

Stiles blinked back tears of anger. Of course his own grandfather didn’t care. The old man never cared about anyone if it didn’t mean some progression of name and legacy.

“How am I supposed to marry the King’s nephew when he’s engaged already?”

Chris frowned. “That nephew died last full moon,” he explained. “He has another nephew—”

“Derek,” Stiles muttered the man’s name. “Talia’s son.”

Gerard thought Stiles was stupid when it came to court politics and etiquette. But Claudia made him memorize the family trees of every royal and noble in the known records. He could recite from memory those of both legitimate and illegitimate origins—and those who married blood relatives as if it was a requirement. Power hungry families, whose secrets were sometimes worn on their sleeves, while others hid them away.

King Peter had three siblings. All dead throughout the wars that split houses and divided kin. Two brothers dealt the decisive blows to each other on the battlefield, while his older sister, Talia, had been killed in a fire. He had two nephews and two nieces.

His eldest nephew, Henry, was adored by the masses—his portrait often given the grace of a halo or golden light illuminating his features. But he was greedy despite his beloved status.

Many thought the heir apparent nephew would bankrupt the royal vault once he became King. He was much like his father, arrogant eldest Hale patriarch Michael, Peter’s older brother and who many thought the rightful king by blood.

King Michael was cruel and power hungry. The masses knew he would destroy the kingdom in pursuit of his own desires.

“You’ve gone into your head,” Chris commented.

Stiles blinked at his uncle. “How did Prince Henry die?”

Chris sighed. “In a bathhouse.”

“Did he drown?”

“No, a cutpurse is thought to have robbed him,” Chris explained. “He was found in the bath with a knife embedded in his eye, coin purse gone.”

Stiles closed his eyes against the thought of such violence. He had struggled for a while to come to terms with the fact that he would have to get used to the sight of blood if he wished to continue with a medical approach to his study. He felt sick at the waste of such life. “My studies,” he began, taking a deep breath before looking at Chris. “Will I be allowed to continue?”

Chris’ brow pinched. “That would be up to your husband.”

Stiles felt his anger rise through his cheeks. “Why should he be allowed to choose?”

“Derek is a prince, Stiles,” Chris stated. “He outranks us all, which makes you beholden to his rank and commands.”

Stiles wanted to yell at Chris. He wasn’t an object to be placed on a shelf and remain silent. But hadn’t he been just that when his grandfather sent him to this academy? He was to be a scholar, forgotten by the nobility and a mere marker on a family tree.

Stiles deflated when looking at the armed men. He had no real choice then. The door to his gilded cage had slammed shut before he even got to spread his wings. “If I don’t go willingly,” he started, refusing to look at his uncle. “They’ll drag me out.”

Chris was silent as he turned to look at the sun soaked horizon.

“Uncle, please,” Stiles started, twisting his hands. He knew, deep down, that there was nothing Chris could do. But he had no other option than to beg the one person who could be sympathetic to him.

“You’re already married.”

Stiles’ stomach dropped. He turned towards Chris in outrage. “He can’t do that. My father wouldn’t agree—”

“Gerard outranks John,” Chris explained, a sharp aggravation in his tone. He pressed his hand to his face, pinching at the pressure point of his nose. “He informed me of the legality when I left the estate.”

“I didn’t agree to this!” Stiles shouted.

“That doesn’t matter!” Chris snapped as he dropped his hand. He drew in a breath. “I’m sorry, Stiles, I shouldn’t have yelled,” he spoke softly—the same way he had when Claudia was dying, a comforting hand placed on Stiles’ shoulder until John returned. He looked at Stiles, hating himself the inability to comfort him now. “Gerard finalized the marriage with the King. You’re to have a ceremony just before the autumn solstice.”

Stiles clenched his jaw, his hands closing into fists as he struggled to contain his anger. He had been banished from his home as a child of fourteen, a few years after his mother’s death, only to have his leash yanked tight now that he saw the horizon of his freedom. “I’ll be sure to wear the clothes of a martyr then,” he seethed as he stormed away from Chris and towards the academy’s dormitories. He skidded to a stop when the guards blocked his path. “Get out of my way,” he angrily dismissed them.

One of the young men had the nerve to laugh at Stiles. “You’re getting in the carriage—”

“I am getting my things, you moron,” Stiles snapped. “Now get out of my way, because if I truly am married to the prince, that makes me his consort, which makes me a much higher rank than you.” He took a step forward, closing the space between them until he was almost in the guard’s face. “So move, before I have you flogged.”

Anger flashed in the guard’s eyes. “Lord Gerard will hear of this.”

“Go ahead,” Stiles flippantly dismissed the guard. “My grandfather isn’t my problem anymore.” He shoved passed the guard, heading towards his room. He would cry there, among the little trinkets of possessions he had. He was mourning his life, unsure what his future held now that he was to be the husband to a man he knew next to nothing about.

It was true that he had heard stories—most in the kingdom had.

Derek Edmund Leonor Hale was a beast.

That was what most people whispered behind closed doors. The prince had rarely been seen in polite company, and when he was seen he wasn’t polite. There were stories of a man possessed by bloodlust, more animal than human, when fighting.

Some absurdly believed he turned into a wolf and descended on unsuspecting innocents.

Stiles had snorted at the last person he heard tell such ridiculous tales.

But now, Stiles would be put to the test in determining whether he was actually going to be married to a beast or not.

Husband.

Stiles was married to the prince he had never seen, who was reported to be prone to bursts of violence. He wished Gerard had just tucked him away in a tower far away.

~*~

Derek stared out the window, leaning against the cold stone as he listened to Peter argue with a handful of council members. He hated these meetings, but reluctantly agreed to attend when Laura wasn’t able.

“Being heavy with child has its benefits—like the excuse of missing boring meetings.” Laura had been grinning, lounging in her bed, still dressed in her sleeping gown. She had some sympathies for Derek, but she didn’t regret passing these responsibilities to him.

It wasn’t Laura’s fault they were suddenly forced to take on more responsibility.

If Henry hadn’t been a fucking idiot and insulted every lowborn he met, perhaps his idiotic mess would have been here instead of Derek.

Derek closed his eyes in a grimace at the remembrance of Henry’s body.

The bathhouse attendants had left Henry submerged in the water, a thief’s knife driven into his eye. While it was the obvious kill, it wasn’t the only mark left on him.

Derek did honestly blame Peter for not marrying and producing any legitimate heirs of his own—it would put all this court intrigue to bed; the whispers of another war, this time between cousins instead of siblings. He was aware of the gossip spreading that he and his siblings were responsible for Henry’s death, some twisted belief that they craved power they already were close enough to.

Derek had been in the mud of a skirmish along the northern borders by the mountains while Laura was bedridden with fatigue and Cora was busy planning the next festival for the people to reap the rewards of their hard work. Henry had been cavorting with irreparable individuals since Peter’s coronation, so it came as no shock to even the King that Henry had been killed in a disreputable bathhouse.

“We are looking forward to the festivities,” an older lord stated loudly enough to catch Derek’s attention.

Derek lifted his temple from the cold stone, turning to look at the council as many started to disperse.

“Yes, it will be a happy celebration,” Peter replied as he poured himself a goblet of wine. He nodded his head in recognition of the man’s bow, waiting for the others to leave him with Derek.

Derek crossed his arms over his chest, observing his uncle as he relaxed without the audience. “Did I have to be here?”

“Well, as second behind Laura in line for the throne,” Peter muttered, gesturing around them. “Yes, Derek, you had to be.”

“Will you be inviting the baby then when Laura is sick?”

Peter snorted at his nephew’s jab. “I think a baby would be better company than you.”

Derek scowled at his uncle. He had just returned from a brutal skirmish that left more dead than alive, but it had been hailed as a victory regardless of the losses. He was haunted, every night, by the dead he walked through; by those screaming as he patrolled the medical tents. “I came from a field of death, Peter,” he growled.

“And you think it is my doing that you have to be here?” Peter questioned as he looked at Derek.

“Why am I even here?” Derek pressed. “To remind the gentle folk that a monster is in line for the throne they want?”

Peter’s features fell.

Derek never bothered to express concern or acknowledgment over his scars. In fact, he avoided discussing them entirely. They were prominent across his body, but there was a scar that ran along the left side of Derek’s face that had been the most eye-catching to others. The burn marred his skin, agitating him originally with the way it had healed. Some charlatan had convinced his family’s healer that he would benefit from cutting and rearranging the skin. It resulted in more scars that cut into his cheekbone and forehead.

Not every person had a visible reaction to Derek’s appearance. Being a soldier, he had a warrior’s build and appearance. He was taller than most in the court, his hair longer than typically accepted, braided with trinkets of his fallen brethren as a reminder of what was lost. He never bothered to have it cut short once the scars healed, using it to his advantage of hiding the part of the burn that went into his hairline. His muscular build intimidated people, but the visual of his scar always caused staring or at worse a recoil.

“No, Derek,” Peter’s voice was soft as he set his goblet down. He walked over to the shelving where various scrolls and bound ledgers were stored. He retrieved a locked box, walking over to the council’s round table. He placed the box down before retrieving the key from his robes.

Derek wouldn’t lie that he was intrigued by Peter’s show of secrecy. “If this is for Laura to know, you should tell her yourself.” He didn’t mind relaying information to Laura, but he would rather be gone from the keep—he preferred the barracks. The soldiers didn’t look at him with any type of disdain or shock, most of them sharing similar scars to his own. And they knew what he sacrificed in the bloodied dirt beside them.

“It’s for you,” Peter corrected him, withdrawing several trinkets from the box before pulling out a piece of parchment.

Derek walked towards the table when he saw a particular trinket being set down by Peter. He picked up his father’s circlet, turning it in his hands. “You kept it.”

Peter paused, looking at the circlet in Derek’s hands. “Of course.”

Derek’s father had been beheaded on the battlefield—in the war between siblings that had nearly torn the entire kingdom to shreds.

Edmund Hale had been Prince Consort to Princess Talia Hale, relinquishing his own familial surname to dedicate himself to his wife and her family. He was an exceptional fighter, and won more than a few significant battles that benefited Talia and Peter. He had been unsaddled when a spear struck his horse down amidst the battle. He fought, even as the arrows struck him down. He had to be pinned with spears to cease his fight.

Gerard Argent’s brother had paraded Edmund’s head around like a war trophy, even tossing it at Talia’s feet at the supposed peace treaty between Michael and her.

Talia had been pregnant with Cora at the time. And she still managed to be faster than the old man’s guards when she threw a carving knife into the man’s throat.

Derek remembered the howling of Talia’s grief when she returned. He had snuck down from the room he shared with Laura—it was easier in these times to keep them together for safety reasons. But even Laura couldn’t soften her tears as she read Derek a story to try and bring the comfort of sleep.

Laura had fallen asleep hugging Derek tightly, as if she was determined not to lose him to this bloodshed.

Derek had only been eleven. He watched as Talia knelt, prostrated in the chapel as her body was racked with sobs.

Talia tore at her hair, at her dress. She wanted to claw whatever she could as she grieved, her belly a heavy reminder of the love she lost.

Peter knelt beside her, collecting her in his arms as her sobs echoed against the walls into a loud wail that still haunted Derek to this day.

Cora was born that next morning, and Talia never fully recovered.

Derek had carried a screaming baby Cora out of the fire the Argents had set, his body burned and near broken as he fought to get her out. He would never forget his mother’s motionless form sprawled out under the burning debris, Cora’s bundled form tumbled from her stretched out arms.

Derek turned his attention towards the broach Peter had laid out. It was Talia’s—a gift from Edmund on their wedding day. His mother had died with it, the only thing that had been recovered from the fire that tore through the manor. “Why do you keep these in that box?”

Peter rolled out the parchment—the appearance of a license or declaration written across it.

Derek didn’t bother trying to read it, having given up when he never properly learned after the war had stolen his childhood and family. No one seemed to care if a child had the ability to read when his life was in danger. He was too embarrassed to ask for any type of training in the subject now. He guarded that secret even from family; a great shame he tried to hide.

“They’re for you,” Peter answered. “I gave your sisters theirs already.”

Derek looked at Peter, a furrow settling on his brow.

“I gave your father’s familial ring to Cora,” Peter explained. “Your mother’s coronation necklace to Laura.”

Derek nodded. “Thank you.”

Peter turned to look at Derek. “Remember that feeling with what I am about to tell you.”

Derek looked from Peter to the parchment, a dread hitting him. “What did you do?”

Peter sighed. “With Laura’s raise to heir apparent, and Ansem’s death, well,” he rubbed the back of his neck.

Laura’s husband, Ansem Merse, the eighth Duke of Ternum, died only months after the announcement of their child.

Derek looked away from Peter.

Laura had been bedridden, bruises on her arms and legs, the remnants of an ugly red and purple welt blossomed from her forehead. Ansem was a coward, and Derek didn’t regret killing him. The man was stupid enough to think Derek’s invitation for hunting was an attempt to elevate his importance to the family—not to ensure he had been torn apart by a wolf.

“You have been the topic of conversation,” Peter stated as he turned to Derek.

“Get to the point,” Derek angrily snapped.

“Your marriage has been arranged,” Peter sighed, dropping the parchment before Derek.

Derek slowly reached a hand out, fingertips brushing over the ink as he slowly pulled the parchment closer. He could read his name, seeing another’s name below. He didn’t recognize the garble of letters.

“What did you do,” Derek’s voice was emotionless as he stared at the name. He could understand the flourished ‘M’ and even a few vowels. But he couldn’t sound out the name—his spouse-to-be’s name.

“It was going to happen with or without any input,” Peter reasoned. “I took liberty to guarantee that the person you married was loyal to our family. He’s the son of a prominent family—he was actually going to be a scholar at–”

Derek snatched the parchment, crumpling the words from his sight and halting Peter’s introduction. “Inform him I refuse,” he turned to leave the room.

“It’s already done,” Peter stated.

Derek stopped. His chest was heaving, his vision blurring. He didn’t realize at first that they were tears. Angry tears that heated his vision.

“Marriage by proxy—he will be here by the end of the week,” Peter calmly explained.

“Don’t do this to me,” Derek nearly whispered. He couldn’t do this—he couldn’t live a life with someone who wanted nothing to do with him. Someone who would likely recoil at his very existence. Some scholar who knew more than Derek could even dream of learning. An academic for an illiterate monster, that would be what was whispered behind gloved hands and smug expressions.

And Peter was the only person who could void the marriage now that it had been sealed.

“I am sorry, Derek, but this is the reality of the expectations placed on us all,” Peter replied.

“But not you!” Derek snapped as he turned to look at Peter. “I have bled for you—I have mercy killed friends, and knowingly ordered soldiers who are no older than children into their deaths. I have endured what is expected of me.”

“And this is the last,” Peter answered, his expression neutral.

“You fucking coward,” Derek lowly whispered before dropping the parchment and leaving the room. He refused to ask Peter who his spouse was, but he recognized the house seal as belonging to the Argents.

And that sat even more unwell in his gut.

Argents—the family that tore his apart. He was part of a farce to create harmony and peace in the wake of a war no one wanted to admit was foolish. He was to be married to a snake, one he couldn’t even name.

~*~

Stiles ignored Chris for the entire carriage ride, grateful his uncle understood that he had nothing to talk to him about. He knew, rationally, that Chris had nothing to do with what happened. He also knew that he couldn’t ignore the lump that sat low in his throat. His only relief had been that his father was informed and would be returning for his wedding ceremony.

Wedding ceremony.

Stiles wanted to scream.

But he wasn’t even allowed that minor reprieve, ushered to the royal court’s current residence to start his official introduction. And his grandfather was unfortunately part of his welcoming committee.

“Father,” Chris uttered, his tone less jovial than factual as he reached his hand out for Stiles to take. He was grateful Stiles at least took his offered hand, even if it was only to get out of the carriage more easily.

Stiles immediately dropped his hands to his sides. He wanted to cross his arms, but recalled the way Gerard had mocked him for appearing childish in such a pose. He stared blankly at his grandfather, taking in the way the man had aged in the time Stiles had been gone. He wanted to tell the man that his schemes had caught up with him, clearly.

“You managed to bring him,” Gerard uttered with mild annoyance, leaning most of his weight on his cane as he cast a judgmental eye over Stiles. “Despite his whining, I assume.”

Stiles bristled. “I don’t think arguing about being married against my will is whining,” he sharply snapped.

Gerard’s glare was enough to change any topic of conversation. He hobbled closer to Stiles, his cane supporting his feeble movements with each grandiose step. “You will watch that tongue,” he seethed. “Or I’ll have it torn out, and tell the King I forgot you were mute.”

Stiles clenched his teeth, releasing a heavy breath. “I’m not your problem anymore, remember?” He replied. “I’m a Prince Consort now. Perhaps my tongue isn’t the one to be watched.”

Gerard’s face was reddening as he lifted his cane.

Chris reacted quickly, grabbing his father’s arm. “The King,” was the only thing he said in explanation when his father whipped his head towards him.

“I hope the ride wasn’t harsh.”

Stiles looked from Gerard to the approaching man. He tried to remember what Chris had taught him on more than one of the breaks during their journey. He bowed slower than the others, his right leg out behind him as he bowed at the waist before placing his hand over his chest. He realized he would need to practice it more with how unsteady he felt. He noticed that his grandfather merely bowed what he could of his upper body before the King waved a dismissive hand to everyone.

Stiles was barely straightening when the King stepped towards him, surprised to have the older man collecting his hands into his. It was an intimately familiar gesture, one that Stiles had not expected a royal to give. It felt friendly, and that frightened him more than a cold reception would have.

“You look a great degree like your mother,” the King stated, a fond glimmer in his eye as he looked Stiles over. “You have her eyes.”

Stiles’ breath stilted, his world tilting. He remembered how often his father would get a sad look about him, before fondly remarking on the shade of Stiles’ eyes matching Claudia’s. He was the closest to a walking reminder for John of what was lost. “You knew my mother?” He softly asked, grasping at the opportunity to know more.

Gerard cleared his throat.

Right, no one was allowed to ask questions of the King—that was one of the many rules Chris had tried to give Stiles a rundown on.

“I did know her,” the King confirmed, apparently unfazed by Stiles’ question. He took a step to the side, gesturing with his arm for Stiles to walk with him.

Stiles slowly took the man’s arm despite his surprise, walking beside him as he left Gerard behind. He looked over his shoulder to catch sight of his uncle watching him… or perhaps the King.

“I didn’t know you knew my family well, Your Majesty,” Stiles approached the subject with caution. He tried to focus on conversation while walking and taking in the grandness of the Royal Court’s residence. It wasn’t the original palace keep, but the country’s equivalent to such grandeur—Stiles found himself preferring the less intimidating of the two.

“Since before I was King,” the King answered. “And please, call me Peter.”

Stiles was unsure about the informalness of such a request.

Chris had been reluctant to speak about the King, except to inform Stiles that he was unorthodox, and a little mischievous.

“Peter,” Stiles uttered the King’s name, aware of more than one servant bowing and moving out of their way as they walked. “May I ask a forward question?”

Peter laughed. “Something tells me you’ll ask it anyways. But please, do ask.”

Stiles slightly pursed his lips. “Why did you agree to choose me for your nephew?”

Peter’s steps slowed before halting. He took a deep breath, looking down at their feet. “Have you ever been on a hunt?”

Stiles felt surprised by the question. “Once,” he honestly answered. “I begged my father to never make me go again.”

Stiles had been twelve, Gerard declaring he was old enough to join. John had been the one to take the gutting knife from Stiles when Gerard tried to make him perform the killing blow. He would never forget the look of the deer staring at him, its labored breathing. He cried the whole journey back, silencing his tears as he stared at his horse’s mane. He was grateful for his father’s comforting embrace when they were home, and the reassurance that he’d never have to endure such horrors again.

Peter nodded. “I think, before long, you’ll understand why I picked you.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed in confusion, reluctantly following the King’s direction as they started walking once more.

“I don’t know how much you’ve been told, but the wars have settled—even the skirmishes are believed to be coming to a complete end,” Peter explained as they entered another opulent hall. “And with that, there is often a need to solidify connections through arrangements.”

“Which is where I come in,” Stiles muttered.

“Yes,” Peter agreed. “My nieces and nephew are what I have left of a family torn apart by cruel and senseless war.”

Stiles looked down at their feet, watching the ground they moved over with each step. For all he knew, the King was taking him to the dungeon. Or worse, his marital bed.

“I am not asking you for more than loyalty,” Peter explained. “Do not betray my nephew, or my family, and you are welcome to all that we have.”

Stiles slowed his steps, ultimately pulling on the King’s arm to halt their mobility. “You know nothing of me,” he finally stated as he pulled his hand from Peter. “My grandfather is power hungry. I have no experience with the Court.” He forced himself to look at the King. “Why would you want me to marry your nephew if you care about him so much?”

The King looked introspective. “Gerard wants power, which means he would stop at nothing to make sure one of his kin or another under his thumb were elevated into some role with my family—if not try and unseat me.” He softly smiled to himself as he looked down. “He had no idea how easy it would have been to aim higher.” He shook his head, forgetting the sentiment. “If one of his kin is raised to a prince or princess consort, then he can’t push the other lords and ladies into considering that another should be pushed upon the royal family.”

Stiles blinked at the King, finally realizing the angle he had been playing. “You tied Gerard’s hands,” he uttered. “If I am married to your nephew, he can’t push to have someone married to your nieces. And I am the one family member he has that isn’t under his thumb.”

Peter smiled. “I knew I was going to like you, Stiles.” He offered his arm once more. “Come, I should introduce you to your husband.”

~*~

Isaac fell, sprawled out on the ground. He yelped, rolling to the side and out of the way just as Jackson landed in a heap next to him.

“Where’s Boyd?” Jackson groaned. “He doesn’t hit him as hard.”

“Wrong,” Isaac huffed as he started to sit up. “Boyd is better at dodging him.”

Jackson grimaced when he heard the splintering of a practice sword. “He’s almost never like this.”

Isaac stood, dusting himself off before offering a hand to Jackson. “He’s married now,” he answered with a faint smirk as he pulled Jackson to his feet. He grimaced when he heard one of the newbies get the wind knocked out of them.

“Shouldn’t he be in marital bliss then?” Jackson groaned, stretching his back some.

“Did I say we were done?” Derek snapped at them both.

“It’s called the practice ring for a reason,” Isaac complained, eyeing the others who were more beat than them. “Derek, you’re going to thin our numbers out before the next rebellion uprising even starts forming.”

Derek huffed.

“He broke all his toy soldiers when we were little.”

Isaac and Jackson both were more alert at the feminine voice.

Derek glared at the two as he turned to look at his approaching sister.

Laura waved a hand in dismissal as a number of the other men tried to bow.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Derek demanded of her, his gaze flickering down to where she held her stomach in support.

“I’m pregnant, not an invalid,” Laura sighed. “Besides, I came for a walk, and heard groans of pain. You can’t blame me for investigating.” She looked at the men in the practice hall, offering a sympathetic look. “Could everyone please take a break?”

A wave of appreciative thanks, followed by ‘my lady’, could be heard as the men started to disperse.

Laura looked at Isaac and Jackson. “Boyd is guarding Cora at the moment—walking the gardens.”

Isaac perked up at the mention of Cora.

Jackson shoved Isaac towards the exit. “Thank you, my lady.”

Laura nodded before turning back to Derek. She watched her brother throw the practice sword he had down to the side before walking towards the benches. She looked around them, taking in the area that she had frequented as a child with their father. It had been improved since Peter was crowned, though it still held a degree of nostalgia for her. “I remember father teaching us the basics,” she started as she turned to look at Derek. “And it was never like you to shy away from a challenge.”

Derek wasn’t looking at Laura as he drank from the water skin.

“You are supposed to be bathed and dressed, not—”

“This is who I am,” Derek cut her off, allowing the water skin to drop and hang from its place on the pillar.

“So you want to act like some uncivilized brute?” Laura pressed, her brow furrowed. “You know, I married as I was expected to—”

“Laura, stop it,” Derek forcefully demanded. “Ansem was a bastard, and you can’t argue against that.”

“At least you won’t be forced to have a child with your husband,” Laura coldly stated.

Derek finally looked at his sister.

“All I am saying, Derek, is that you should try,” Laura finally offered.

“And why?” Derek pressed. “So I can be left to wallow in rejection?”

Laura laughed. “You fear rejection, so your solution is to reject him first?”

Derek looked away from her.

“Derek,” Laura heavily sighed. “I love you, but for the love of all that is holy—you need to learn how to use your words. Simply tell him this.”

Derek bristled at the thought.

“Cora said he seems nice—”

“What?” Derek’s attention snapped back to Laura.

“Peter brought him to meet with us, and you weren’t there,” Laura shook her head. “Cora came to tell me, and I snuck away to find you.” She gave her brother a pointed look. “Go wash the sweat off, dress appropriately, and join us for dinner.” She put up a hand silencing Derek’s protest. “I mean it, Derek. I am your older sister, and I swear if I wasn’t pregnant and waddling, I would kick your ass right now.” She pointed a finger at him. “If you make Stiles feel less than you already have, once the baby is born, I will fulfill that promise.”

Stiles.

Derek looked away from her. “I thought his name was…”

“That’s his given birth name,” Laura replied, tilting her head. “He goes by Stiles.”

Derek nodded, looking down at his hands. “Alright,” he softly acquiesced to Laura’s demands. “I’ll see you for dinner.”

~*~

Stiles tried not to fidget, but he felt eyes on him—servant and royal alike. He had been embarrassed when his husband never showed up to meet him, despite the King and Princess Cora’s reassurance that Derek was probably delayed for a good reason.

His desire to not be married to me, Stiles had thought.

But they sat at a dinner table, all pleasantries dropped now that Derek was once again missing.

Laura was seething, flipping her silverware multiple times before the King’s hand settled over hers. “Once this baby is born,” she muttered to herself.

“Are we sure Derek didn’t drown in his bath?” Cora asked, her tone suggesting that she was serious in her question. “Perhaps it is a familial trait we suffer.”

Peter sighed, raising his hand to his squire. “Find the prince,” he tiredly informed the man.

Stiles took his goblet, drinking his wine as he side-eyed his uncle.

Chris had purposefully sat as far away from the King as possible, something Stiles noticed immediately with how the King tipped his head in reaction.

Gerard appeared pleased to be seated at the place of honor over Stiles.

And between Stiles and the King, across from Laura, remained an empty chair.

“Your nephew seems to keep disappearing, Your Majesty.”

Stiles looked at his grandfather, hearing the lack of actual respect in the aging man’s tone.

“Yes, well,” Peter started, appearing more on edge with Gerard than anyone else. He showed genuine sincerity when he apologized to Stiles the first time Derek hadn’t appeared.

“My brother was training new recruits,” Laura interjected. “It was why he missed your initial greeting,” she spoke to Stiles directly. “I am sure he has a completely excusable reason this time.” Her smile suggested she was going to make sure he did.

The doors suddenly burst open.

Chris moved first, putting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder in a pre-emptive move to steer him away from any danger.

“Your Majesty,” the servant was out of breath, clearly spurred to hurry from whatever news they carried. “The prince has been attacked.”

Stiles felt a dread hit him.

“What?” Laura startled as she quickly stood.

Cora grabbed her sister’s arm, standing in unison with her.

“Is he alright?” Peter demanded.

“He has sustained an injury on his arm—he killed his attacker,” the servant continued. “We sent for the healer, but we don’t know how far–”

“May I see him?” Stiles asked. He felt the flush that hit him when all eyes turned to him.

Gerard forced a laugh. “Eager to see his husband.”

Stiles bristled. “I specialized in medicine at the academy,” he told the King, ignoring his grandfather. “I am not a healer, but I know how to tend wounds until one arrives.”

The King stood, nodding his head. He looked at his nieces.

“We’ll keep our guests company,” Laura stated. She was paler than before, but sat without difficulty as she pulled Cora down with her.

Chris dropped his hand from Stiles’ shoulder, watching as his nephew stood with graceful ease to follow Peter.

~*~

Stiles was staring. He felt as if he swallowed his tongue.

Derek was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a bloodied linen to his arm. He was shirtless, hair still wet, his skin damp from his bath. His trousers were hastily pulled on when he realized his wound was more serious than he had realized. He called a servant who immediately paled at the lifeless body and the mess that had been made from the struggle that ensued.

Stiles was coming to the realization that his husband was attractive.

“What happened?” Peter asked as he closed the distance to Derek.

Stiles took a stumbling step forward, halting when he saw the sheet that had been placed over a figure laying motionless on the floor.

“I was in the middle of bathing.”

Stiles’ stomach flipped at Derek’s voice. He had never been attracted to a voice before.

“Obviously,” Peter sighed.

“He tried to strangle me,” Derek sighed. “Didn’t expect me to fight back.”

“Foolish,” Peter commented.

“He had a knife as back-up. I ended up getting it away from him.” Derek gestured his head towards the discarded knife by the bathtub. “When the fuck is the healer arriving? It won’t stop bleeding.”

Stiles snapped out of his stupor at Derek’s comment. He approached, realizing that Derek must not have registered his presence.

“I brought assistance until Melissa arrives,” Peter answered, taking a step to the side to give Stiles space to approach Derek.

Derek finally turned to look at him.

Stiles blinked slowly, taking in Derek’s eyes—gorgeous green and grey, with specks of golden brown. He saw the faint signs of scarring on the side of Derek’s face, though he noticed the prince turned his head away to avoid it being seen. He could see the scars and burns on his torso and arms, but wondered if those were less sensitive subjects.

“I can wait,” Derek mumbled.

“I don’t think Stiles is going to kill you,” Peter drawled.

Derek’s entire body went rigid at the mention of Stiles’ name. “You brought him in here–”

“If you had been at the greeting, this wouldn’t have been your first interaction,” Peter countered.

“If you hadn’t married us by proxy, we would have met sooner,” Derek growled at Peter.

Stiles cleared his throat. “While you have a point,” he started, taking a step into Derek’s space. “May I look at your arm?”

Derek’s eyes flickered over to Stiles before nodding, offering up his arm.

Stiles reached his hands up, pulling the linen back with ease as he examined Derek’s arm. He furrowed his eyebrows at the gash, noticing that it was jagged in nature. “How did he wound you?”

“I blocked the blade with my arm,” Derek muttered. “He was trying to disembowel me.”

Stiles felt light headed at the thought. “I’m glad he didn’t widow me before we met.” He felt his blush rise to his ears, cursing himself for his lack of filter.

“A… mutual feeling,” Derek stumbled through his response, a sense of uncertainty in his words.

Stiles looked around the room, pretending he wasn’t curious about Derek’s lack of dress. “I need a fresh linen,” he explained to Peter.

Peter turned, looking about them before snatching up one of the linens meant for drying off after bathing. He offered it to Stiles, watching his work with curiosity.

Stiles removed the bloodsoaked linen from Derek’s arm before tightly wrapping the fresh one. “I apologize if it hurts.”

“I’m used to it,” Derek simply answered. His eyes were watching Stiles’ hands, tracking his nimble fingers working.

Stiles watched as the blood seeped through before slowing. He lifted Derek’s arm higher than his shoulder. “It will bleed less if it is above your heart,” he explained. He blinked as he realized he was holding Derek’s arm level with his shoulders. He offered a small smile when he saw that they were eye to eye. “Hello.”

Derek blinked at him. He continued to turn his head away from Stiles despite his soft, “Hello,” back.

It wasn’t hard for Stiles to realize Derek was hiding his facial scars.

“Well, as far as first introductions,” Peter began. “I would say this is rather nice.”

Derek narrowed his eyes at Peter. “I am bleeding.”

“Yes, a state you seem to be in constantly,” Peter dryly answered.

Stiles couldn’t stop his soft chuckle. He shifted slightly as he tried to find a place to look besides Derek’s nearly naked body. He purposefully avoided looking at Derek’s stomach, the way his muscles curved with his posture—the trail of hair that lead down passed his navel, disappearing beneath his trousers.

Stiles blinked, aware of the heat on his cheeks as he looked around Derek’s room. His eyes landed on the book by Derek’s bed. “Do you enjoy reading?” He asked with excitement, looking at Derek with a hopeful expression.

Perhaps their first bonding could be discussing a shared love of reading.

“No,” Derek curtly stated without thinking.

“Oh,” Stiles knew his disappointment showed.

A muscle in Derek’s jaw twitched. “Sometimes the healers on the front ask for herbs,” he finally stated. “We have the best books about them, so I bring them some.”

Stiles’ expression softened as he looked at Derek. “That’s very kind of you,” he noted.

Derek reluctantly tipped his head. “Thank you.”

“Oh goddess,” a woman announced her arrival. She shook her head as she passed the covered body. She gave a small bow to Peter as she passed him, as if she prioritized a patient’s health over the social etiquette of acknowledging the king first.

Peter appeared amused by it all.

“Ah, you took my advice and got a healer,” the woman stated as she looked at Stiles.

“Oh, I’m not…” Stiles looked at Peter and then Derek, unsure if he was supposed to tell anyone.

“Melissa, this is young Lord Mieczysław Stilinski,” Peter started the introduction. “He is Derek’s betrothed.”

Melissa blinked a few times before releasing a sigh. “Well, at least he seems to know what he is doing with his hands.” She moved to take Derek’s arm from Stiles. “Smart lad, you kept the bleeding down by raising his arm.”

Stiles felt a small wave of satisfaction at the healer’s praise.

“I’ll need my needle heated,” Melissa noted as she inspected Derek’s arm. “No sign of poison or that it went too deep, good signs.” She looked at Derek. “Can I never see you on a joyous occasion?”

Derek faintly snorted.

“His wedding,” Peter noted.

Stiles shifted, feeling useless when Melissa taking over and the servants dedicating themselves to whatever she needed. He lingered to the side, eyes watching as Melissa cleaned Derek’s wound before pinching the skin together to start her stitching. He turned his gaze away, hating that blood and wound stitching still bothered him. He could sew clothes expertly, even minor work on leather and saddles—he had bound enough vellum books to know how to secure things together.

But the moment any type of living creature was involved, Stiles’ brain became fuzzy, his head feeling lighter.

“Keep it dry and clean,” Melissa instructed Derek as she finished her last stitch. “And no practicing while this is healing—you’ll tear it back open.”

“He’ll have his hands full with Stiles,” Peter noted.

Stiles didn’t look up, knowing his face was a shade brighter at the thought of what Derek exactly would have his hands full of.

“Peter, try not to be so crass,” Melissa sighed as she finished bandaging Derek’s arm. “There, good enough for you to endure dinner.” She took a step back. “I will take my usual room, if it is available,” she looked at Peter.

“Always,” Peter answered, gesturing with his hand to a servant. “Make sure Lady Melissa is accommodated.”

Melissa tapped Derek on the knee, a type of maternal comfort as she turned. She paused by Stiles. “You did very well—I’d say you have a healer’s touch. You’ll have your hands full with him—he can’t seem to avoid injury.”

Stiles faintly smiled. “I studied medicine,” he offered. “But I have no practical experience.”

Melissa hummed. “Most women get theirs from childbirth, but I am a practiced healer now with no formal teaching,” she offered. “You’ll learn soon enough from being around this family how to tend nicks and scrapes.” She smiled at Stiles before taking her leave.

Derek stood, extending his arm and twisting it to adjust to his new mobility. He looked up at Peter and wanted to sigh when he realized his uncle wasn’t going to let him avoid the dinner.

“I will walk us back to dinner, give the others the good news,” Peter announced as he walked by Derek, a comforting hand on his shoulder before offering his arm to Stiles.

Stiles took Peter’s arm, sneaking a look at Derek. He had a feeling his husband did not wish to attend dinner—and he couldn’t blame him.

“I’ll be there shortly,” Derek supplied the expected response.

Stiles frowned, hearing the reluctance in Derek’s voice. He hoped it was a reluctance towards others and not him.

~*~

Stiles was distracted as Peter relayed the necessary information to the others. He saw how relieved the two princesses were with Peter’s reassurance that Derek was well and suffered a superficial wound.

“I hope there will be a way to discover who was involved,” Cora noted.

“We will look into it,” Peter echoed his niece’s sentiment but didn’t elaborate more.

The doors were opened, the herald announcing Derek’s arrival with a flourish of titles—an introduction Derek didn’t appear to care for as he breezed by the man before he finished.

Stiles was surprised at being the subject of Derek’s attention when the prince stopped at his seat. He allowed Derek to take his hand, drawing in a breath at the prince’s gentle kiss to his knuckles.

“I apologize for missing you earlier, and for the delay tonight,” Derek offered Stiles.

Stiles nodded his head. “I understand.”

“You are kind,” Derek answered as he released his hold on Stiles’ hand. He offered a necessary bow to Gerard and Chris before taking his seat next to Stiles—he was relieved to have his scars facing his family and not the others.

“I hope your injuries are as minor as the King relayed them to be,” Gerard pushed the subject.

Derek didn’t look at the man, briefly catching Peter’s eye before replying, “A fool tries to kill a predator as it bathes.”

Peter smiled into his goblet.

“I’m sure what my brother means is that he is lucky to be efficient in physically defending himself from harm,” Laura stated in a clipped tone.

Derek looked at his sister, narrowing his gaze.

Laura’s gaze flickered over to Stiles before pinning to Derek.

Derek dared to turn his head, aware his scars were visible to Gerard when the man squirmed.

Stiles was frowning down at his lap, his hands twisting together as he nibbled the inside of his lip.

“A definitive change for Mieczysław, no doubt,” Gerard commented. He smelled blood in the water and was determined to regain some holding. “The servant said you broke the man’s neck, after gutting him.”

Stiles flinched at Gerard’s imagery.

“Stiles has soft hands, always had the hands of a scholar,” Gerard continued. “He couldn’t even gut the boar he brought down as a child—his father had to do it.” There was contempt in Gerard’s voice.

“A deer.”

Chris collected Stiles’ hands in his own, an attempt to stop him from tearing the skin from his own nails.

Stiles was trembling. “It was a deer, grandfather,” he spoke louder as he finally looked at the man. He snatched his hand away from Chris. “I begged you. I begged not to go hunting—father was kind to not make me kill the helpless thing. It’s not weak to loathe death.” He pushed his chair back, escaping the room before he heard another word.

Stiles didn’t know how long he had been on the terrace, his tears having dried as his breathing began to even out. He couldn’t stop thinking of the deer’s confused eyes blinking up at him. He thought of how unmoved he was when seeing the sheet covered corpse. He had been worried for Derek when first informed, but a kind thought hadn’t passed for the wouldbe assassin.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Stiles wiped at his eyes before turning to look at Derek. He felt strangely comforted by the realization that Derek wasn’t hiding his face from him—at least in the palely lit moonlight. “I don’t take offense to you,” he finally stated, realizing after he had stormed out just how much of an insult it could have been to the royal family.

It wasn’t the best impression to leave his inlaws with.

“My grandfather is… cruel,” Stiles admitted, looking down at his hands. “I’m sure you are the type of grandson he would have wanted, but when he realized I wasn’t a fighter in the slightest… he was glad to be rid of me when the academy accepted me.”

Derek was quiet as he moved to lean against the balcony, keeping Stiles at more than an arm’s reach away. “I don’t enjoy death,” he finally stated, looking up at the moon as he considered his words. “It’s what I know. It is what I was taught, from a young age—that the one constant in our lives is death.”

“He wanted to scare me about our marriage,” Stiles admitted. “And he had, originally.”

Derek tilted his head to look at Stiles.

“He wanted me to think you were cruel—crueler than him, actually.”

Derek stood to his full height, taking a step closer to Stiles as he placed his thumb and forefinger against Stiles’ chin. He was gentle in his prompting—the gentlest he had been since the last time he had held Cora as a baby. “I would never make you hunt. I would never make you kill.”

Stiles blinked, his mouth partially parting. But he didn’t know what to say.

“I never wish that feeling on anyone,” Derek finally stated, dropping his hand from Stiles. His head turned away from Stiles, adding, “If you don’t wish to leave with Gerard, you are welcome to remain here.”

Stiles was surprised by the news. “But he will expect me to—after he demands a public apology.”

Derek scoffed. “Perhaps he forgot, in his old age, that we are married.”

Stiles tilted his head to the side as he observed Derek. He felt his chest flutter and his cheeks heat when Derek looked at him over the curve of his shoulder.

The moonlight illuminated Derek’s scars, easier to see than the shadowed part of his face.

“You’re a Prince Consort now,” Derek offered. “You outrank everyone in your family. You technically are under my command.”

Stiles ignored the swoop in his stomach at the thought. “Could I send my grandfather home?”

Derek nodded.

~*~

“You’re coming home until you learn manners,” Gerard lowly seethed, rallying against the absurd suggestion that he return home and leave Stiles with the Hales.

“I am home,” Stiles corrected his grandfather. “I will be staying with my husband.”

Gerard laughed, a cruelly twisted wheeze that left Stiles repulsed. “You will listen to your betters, boy,” he darkly threatened, apparently forgetting that Derek was a lingering presence beside Stiles. “I will tear this sham marriage up—”

“A marriage by proxy can only be annulled by the King if it is proven consummation hasn’t been successful,” Chris corrected his father. “And considering Stiles is male, societal sexism isn’t something that can be forced into consideration.”

Stiles felt his smile as he looked at his uncle.

“Fine,” Gerard stewed in his anger, his face growing redder by the moment as he realized he had been outmaneuvered. “Bide your time, boy,” he threatened Stiles in a low tone.

Derek took Stiles’ arm, guiding him back and away from Gerard as he placed his body as an obstacle between them. “He’s no longer your concern, Lord Argent.”

Stiles swayed closer to Derek, his hand touching Derek’s bicep as he steadied himself. He was hiding behind Derek, both physically and socially, and there was nothing Gerard could do.

“The rumors are true then, eh?” Gerard spat. “Enjoy him while it lasts, I suppose. He has nothing else to offer after you take that from him—I hope the price of his virginity was worth it to your King.” And with his last insult, the aging lord stormed off.

Stiles felt the tension in Derek’s muscle, just as his face burned with embarrassment. Chris hadn’t told Stiles the necessary requirements of his marriage—he thought it was only relevant that he was an Argent. He never considered that there would be what some grotesquely referred to as a “maidenhead price”.

Same-sex marriage wasn’t common, but enough of a rarity that it often wasn’t considered prudent to demand any type of chastity from either party—legitimacy of an heir was never a concern.

But Gerard’s words made it evidently clear just what type of gendered role was expected of Stiles.

Chris appeared on edge as he turned to Derek and Stiles. “Don’t believe his words, please.”

Stiles realized his uncle was speaking directly to him. “So there is no mention of my virginity in the marriage license?” It was petty, but Stiles was hurt and he wanted to press for more proof that Gerard’s last hurled barb hadn’t hit the truth.

Derek’s brow furrowed in anger.

“No!” Chris adamantly denied it. “Besides, even if it was, Derek would have had nothing to do with that—neither of you were present for the license being finalized.”

Stiles eased some at that point. At the very least, Derek wasn’t to blame for any nefarious and grotesque consummation requirement. He wasn’t even sure how one would check for what would be defined as male virginity. He deflated when he realized he knew less than he had hoped.

“It’s been a long night,” Derek finally spoke. “The King has offered you room and board if you so choose,” he explained to Chris. “But you will be removed from the estate should Stiles request it.”

Stiles looked from Derek to his uncle.

“I assure you, I will respect such a request,” Chris answered Derek.

Derek nodded. “A servant will show you to your quarters,” he explained to Chris. “I will show you to your room,” he informed Stiles in a much gentler tone before turning and heading back through the hallway. Clearly he expected Stiles to follow him when he didn’t look back.

“My room?” Stiles asked, slightly confused before rushing after Derek.

As it turned out, Stiles’ room was more spacious than the shared dormitory rooms at the academy. He was cautious as he walked around the room, his footsteps muffled by the lush carpet beneath his boots. He swallowed down the lump in his throat when he stared at the bed. He forced his gaze away, turning towards the roaring fire. He plopped down in the chair closest, sighing as he felt the chill of the night begin to leave him. He looked at the open doorway, surprised to find his husband simply standing there.

The tips of Derek’s boots grazed the inside of the room, but the man remained like a watchful guard at the entrance.

“Did I… do something wrong?” Stiles softly asked as he sat up some. Perhaps he wasn’t allowed to sit before Derek entered a room.

“No,” Derek simply stated, though his eyes didn’t leave Stiles. He was watching him closely, as if he wanted to take in what he could of him. “I wanted to wish you good night,” he finally added, briefly looking away.

Everyone always told him he wasn’t made for talking.

You’re a battering ram, not a book.

“Are you not staying?”

Derek forced himself to look up at Stiles, though he guarded his scars as best he could. “This is your room.” He pointed towards the heavy set of doors that were parallel to the open doors that lead to the bath. “Mine is through there.”

Stiles slowly stood, twisting his hands together as he bit his lip. He wanted to ask why they were separated, but knew it was impolite to question—perhaps Derek wanted them separated. He walked around the chair to get a better look at the doors, his hand reaching out to touch the ornate decoration of flowers and animals.

The detail was breathtaking, better than some books Stiles had read.

Stiles’ hand trailed over the doorknob, his fingertips brushing the rich colored tassel of the key resting in the lock.

“They lock on this side,” Derek reassured him.

Stiles dropped his hand from the key, looking over at Derek. “Why would they need to lock?”

Derek felt a strange pang in his chest. Hope? “To reassure you that I wouldn’t…”

Stiles blinked at Derek. Then a dark crimson color rushed up his neck to settle on his cheeks as understanding widened his eyes. “I don’t think you’d— You’ve been nothing but nice, but I guess— um, it’s not really something that needs to happen yet, correct?”

Derek was quiet as Stiles’ heartbeat pounded in his chest, every pulse point a loud drumming that Derek couldn’t tune out. “It never has to happen,” he answered.

Something sour tinged the air.

Disappointment. Embarrassment.

“Right, I know,” Stiles muttered. “I just… thank you.”

Derek blinked at Stiles, watching his husband squirm with the awkwardness. “I will leave you to get sleep,” he offered a bow to accompany his words. “Good night, Stiles.”

Stiles looked at Derek, his lips parted as the blush still clung to his cheeks. “Good night, Derek,” his voice softly trailed after Derek’s departing form.

Derek was in great risk of transforming and tearing the palace apart with his claws. Stiles smelled right—his wolf never pulled at him to shed his human skin without the promise of bloodshed.

He wouldn’t risk Stiles like that. He would make the wolf submit, and bare his own throat to Stiles in return.

Chapter Text

Stiles was annoyed when the servant woke him early. He was never a morning person, despite the academy’s best efforts to make him one. He had continually snuck glances at the doors leading to Derek’s room—the key left inside the lock, never turned to bar Derek from entering.

But Derek hadn’t come to him.

Stiles couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or self-conscious with that fact.

Derek had more responsibilities than Stiles realized a prince could have. Most made it seem as if Derek had been a recluse hermit, but Stiles witnessed the various chores and responsibilities he took on daily. Not to mention the way he actively trained with the soldiers.

Derek had seemed unsure of himself when showing Stiles the library. He lingered behind Stiles, watching in reverence as Stiles continually turned in circles to observe the ongoing shelves in all their opulence. He felt himself smiling when he saw how happy Stiles was, the way his husband quickly ran up to a shelf to scan the titles.

“This is amazing,” Stiles breathed out in excitement, pulling a book from the shelf. He smiled down at the book, fingers tracing the embossed lettering across the leather cover. He looked up at Derek, his eyes filled with soft tenderness. “Thank you.”

Derek felt his heart hammering, his stomach tumbling with butterflies. “It’s all yours.”

Stiles blinked in surprise.

“You can have any of the books you want,” Derek offered in explanation.

Stiles tightened his hold on the book. “Thank you,” he uttered once more, unable to think of a different way to express his gratitude. He wanted to kiss Derek, but the impropriety of it left him with only a blush.

Stiles toured the library alone now, his fingers tracing each spine of the books as he marveled at the vast collection. There were too many books for him to read in his lifetime, and that was likely the most upsetting thing. That, and Derek was gone from the residence for an undetermined amount of time to train the soldiers.

“Good morning.”

Stiles almost dropped the book he had pulled from the shelf. He clutched the book to his chest as he turned to face the woman who spoke. He eased when he saw that it was Princess Laura.

Laura smiled at Stiles, looking amused as she was settled in a luxurious reading chair. “I didn’t expect to find you wandering the rooms.”

Stiles offered a small bow, unsure what he was supposed to do when greeting his family. Gerard would have insisted Stiles bow correctly to all of the Hales, regardless of his current status. “I’m sorry, my lady, I didn’t know you were in here.”

Laura snorted. “Please, Stiles, you’re allowed to call me Laura.” She sighed. “I also snuck in here to avoid those crones.” She shuttered at the thought of the older women who continually touched and prodded her stomach for any signs of the child. She knew her baby was alive, with every kick given. She didn’t need a bunch of people trying to tell her what she knew.

“Are you unwell?”

Laura laughed. “I’m with child, my body is trying to punish me.”

Stiles offered a sad smile. “I’m sure they are just concerned—childbirth is risky for all.”

Laura placed a hand on her stomach. “Oh not you, too,” she muttered. “Derek has been a mother hen since the healer mentioned I may need constant bedrest until the child arrives.”

Stiles tilted his head. “Your brother simply cares about your safety.”

“He’s a stuffed bear,” Laura announced. She reached a hand out towards Stiles, wiggling her fingers at him. “Help me up, and I will tour the gardens with you.”

“But—” Stiles closed his mouth with Laura’s sharp glare. He had seen Derek offer that glare to Peter. It appeared the Hales came equipped with such expressions.

Stiles was glad, in the end, to have Laura as his companion during his sightseeing. It appeared that more than one person was wary in approaching the princess, perhaps because of the way more than one guard reacted upon someone’s approach.

“Derek had put great fear into many a gossiper’s heart,” Laura sighed as they reached the fountain at the heart of the gardens. She released her hold on Stiles’ arm to sit on the lip of the fountain, tilting her head back as she closed her eyes and breathed. “He is paranoid that someone may harm me or the child—after everything with Ansem.”

Stiles tried not to stare at Laura, his brow furrowed as he tried to understand what she was referring to. “Apologies,” he started, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “But I believe I am in the dark on most things.”

One of Laura’s eyes slid open, observing Stiles carefully before shutting. “My husband beat me.”

Stiles held his breath, amazed at Laura’s admittance to such cruelty befalling her. “I’m sorry,” he offered, feeling foolish for not knowing what else he could offer—it all felt insufficient.

Both of Laura’s eyes were now on him. “It is often the way of things,” she stated with no malice or sadness—more resignation than anything. “He resented that I outranked him. He resented that more people loved me. He… he was cruelest in private.”

Stiles looked away from Laura, his expression somber. “Even if it is often the way of things… it doesn’t excuse how he acted.”

Would Laura brush away if Derek mistreated him?

“It is often the way of things.”

And yet, Stiles couldn’t reconcile the Derek he had glimpsed with some twisted vision of cruelty—despite Gerard’s best attempts to make Stiles believe it.

“My brother is nothing like Ansem,” Laura finally stated, as if she could read Stiles’ mind. “He is a warrior, true. But… Derek was always a soft soul. Tenderhearted, if you will,” she was gazing out at the flowers surrounding them, her eyes traveling to the wisteria trees. “My brother never had a chance at peace, Stiles. He was forced to be what we needed him to be, at too young an age.” She forced herself to look at Stiles. “I am asking you to protect that tender heart—the boy who didn’t get a chance to choose happiness.”

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. He nodded his head in agreement. “I promise,” he softly vowed.

~*~

Cora snorted with laughter as she watched Isaac fall into the dirt. She briefly glanced to her side to get a look at her new brother-in-law. She was surprised when Peter announced that Derek’s marriage had been finalized—by proxy. Laura’s outburst much matched her own internal sentiments—it was cruel to force another expectation on Derek.

Stiles was around Cora’s age, though he seemed much more naive in some aspects.

“He has been locked away in an academy for almost a decade,” Peter had explained when Cora mentioned that she couldn’t place the Argent he had chosen.

The Stilinski household was loyal to Talia, a shocking offshoot of the Argent family that branched away from house loyalty.

Lord Johnathan Stilinski had been an early supporter of Talia and Peter when the infighting happened. And his support only wavered during the period of time he grieved his wife’s passing.

It made sense, in a way, for Peter to pick John’s only son and heir, a black sheep of the Argent family, to be a prince consort.

It also didn’t mean that Cora had to immediately trust him like Laura was so quick to.

Stiles winced when another man was struck.

“I am guessing you are not a fan of sport like this,” Cora commented.

Stiles all too quickly turned his gaze away from the practice ring below, looking at his sister-in-law. “I know it is necessary,” he offered. “Don’t think I turn my nose up at it.”

Cora faintly nodded.

“But I never liked… well, violence.” Stiles shifted uncomfortably, his book still secure in his hand.

It was, in a way, unkind of Cora to drag him to the practice ring when stumbling upon him departing the library. But she was curious, and wanted to know more about him. With Derek having returned from training, she knew he would be holed away in the training grounds close to the residence. It was a perfect time for her to proceed with a light interrogation of Stiles while exposing him to the rougher sides of being married to an experienced soldier and war leader.

“It is a way to ensure self-defense skills, despite the reason,” Cora explained, gesturing her head back towards the practice ring below. “Derek could probably teach you some ways to protect yourself.”

Stiles allowed his gaze to wander back, a deep blush creeping up his neck.

And there it was, the telltale attraction Cora thought she had seen. She knew, having overheard numerous courtiers, that Derek was attractive to them in certain ways. She ground her teeth whenever a person dared to mention her brother’s scars.

“It is a true shame. He was so handsome before.”

“His body though—”

Cora had upset the entire pig on a rotisserie, pretending not to smile when the grease of fat stained and ruined the nobles’ ostentatious outfits.

Her brother suffered those wounds saving her from the arms of the dead mother. She would never tolerate a single person speaking ill of Derek.

“I wouldn’t want to bother your brother,” Stiles softly explained to Cora. “He is an exceptional fighter and I… well, there is a reason I place my nose in books.”

Cora tilted her head, staring at Stiles as she observed him. Could he have been blushing from embarrassment at the idea of his own amateur skills being put to the test?

And then Stiles straightened up suddenly, his expression open and vulnerable as he offered a small wave down to the practice ring.

Cora followed the gesture, unsurprised to see her brother staring at them—at Stiles. She faintly laughed when she saw that Derek had his hand partially raised in response.

“We should maybe go,” Stiles began, his blush deepening.

“Nonsense, I’m sure Derek will put on a show for you now.”

~*~

Derek sunk lower into the tub, relaxing since he had already scrubbed his skin raw of all dirt and sweat. He knew what was bothering him, the reminder that Stiles had been watching him during their afternoon practice in the ring. He never bothered to hide his scars among the others, but with Stiles there it meant a vulnerability in being seen.

And yet, Stiles had blushed and waved at him, offering a faint smile in return for Derek’s small wave back.

Derek sunk until the water met his jaw. Their wedding was in two days.

Well, celebration, really. They were already married.

And the only person capable of voiding their marriage was Peter. Or, if one of them died.

Derek imagined Gerard Argent was keen on the idea of him being murdered and leaving Stiles with some claim to the throne. It was a ridiculous leap, but he didn’t put it beyond the aging lunatic’s greed to devise something like that.

Derek sighed, closing his eyes as he tried to think of something else.

Only to conjure up visions of Stiles.

Stiles was beautiful, that was something Derek wouldn’t deny if asked.

It was clear which was the beauty and which one the beast.

Derek opened his eyes when he heard the door to Stiles’ room open from the hallway. His wolf had become disturbingly attuned to Stiles in the short time he had come to know him. It was why Derek avoided Stiles at most turns. His wolf wanted to hunt Stiles down, to drag him into its bed and stay there.

Derek ran a hand over his features, pinching at his brow as he released a heavy sigh. He hated himself for his reaction. Stiles deserved better than a rutting animal for a husband.

And yet, at each mention of intimacy between the two of them, Stiles’ scent would change to a sweet tang of attraction and desire. Lust. But there was also a melancholy edge to some of Stiles’ feelings for him.

It was as if Stiles held reservations about himself, and not Derek.

Derek clenched his jaw tightly. He was determined to make Stiles see his own worth. Even if it meant exposing his own vulnerabilities.

Stiles deserved that.

Derek sighed before dunking his head beneath water.

He was hopelessly pining for his husband, and there was no resistance from his wolf.

The feeling was mutual between human and beast.

~*~

Stiles was sexually attracted to his husband.

There was no other explanation for how the heat pulsed through his body as he watched Derek spar. A liquid pool of heavy want curled in his stomach when he saw the way Derek smirked at another’s complaints, or when he stripped out of his shirt on the particularly hot day.

Stiles had returned to the practice ring after leaving with Cora. He bit his bottom lip when Derek pulled the sweatdrenched shirt from his shoulders, dropping it to be forgotten by the side. He had seen the muscle on the farmhands close to the academy—his eyes had dangerously tracked the way their muscle cord rippled with the actions of lifting bales of hay or tending to the animals. But he had never seen a warrior in any state of undress.

And Derek’s body was a work of art.

His shoulders were broad, strength evident in the way the muscle moved with each practiced maneuver. His biceps were defined in a way Stiles had never felt in his own arms. Lifting books was hard work, but nothing compared to the control needed when handling a weapon of war.

And Derek’s torso was another attraction all together.

Derek had hair that traveled from his pectorals down his stomach and disappeared into his trousers—following down his navel and into the sharp cut of his hips.

Stiles had, when seeing Derek in a state of undress from the assassination attempt, tried to be respectful in averting his eyes.

Stiles allowed himself to look now, for once not caring if he looked a gluttonous amount. He was attracted to his husband. He also saw the scars that covered Derek’s body. Though Derek reacted shyly to Stiles seeing any part of his facial scars, Stiles couldn’t see the need for it.

Scars were part of the healing process. And Derek had been through much to heal the way he had.

The control of Derek’s strength, the movement in his thighs and hips.

Stiles couldn’t stop himself from imagining just what Derek would be like as a bed partner. And he felt some shame for it, unknowing if Derek would even feel the same about him. He purposefully left before he could be caught by anyone, Derek in particular.

Stiles looked down at the book he had found, blushing furiously as he hid the title in the crook of his arm. He didn’t need anyone knowing he had no idea what he was doing when it came to carnal intimacy—nor that he was doing research to prepare himself for the day his husband may show interest in him.

It was better, in Stiles’ opinion, to be prepared instead of cursing hindsight.

~*~

Stiles stood beside Derek, his gaze flickering between the King and the commoners who came to plead their plights. He tried not to fidget with each straying look that focused on him. He knew he was an oddity to many people—he hadn’t been seen for almost a decade, likely spoken about in hushed whispers as they speculated when he was sent away.

Their wedding ceremony was tomorrow, and the entire kingdom had appeared to make the pilgrimage to call on the King’s festive mood of generosity.

Stiles swayed closer to Derek when he realized one person in particular was staring at him. It was a young man in the crowd of courtiers. And Stiles disliked the intensity of the man’s gaze.

Derek tilted his head to look at Stiles, aware of his husband’s sudden uneasiness.

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbled, looking up at Derek through his eyelashes. His gaze quickly flicked over to the man staring at him once more. “A lot of people are staring at me.”

Derek wanted to tell Stiles that he was just as likely the target of such looks. He followed Stiles’ gaze and saw who it was.

His wolf’s hackles were up.

Theo.

He almost bared his teeth in a snarl when the other man smirked at him. A challenge from wolf to wolf.

Derek had never gotten along with his distant cousin, however many times removed—Laura had sighed when she realized Derek would never remember.

“He keeps staring,” Stiles mumbled to Derek. “It’s unnerving,” he added as he fidgeted some.

Derek reached his arm around Stiles, settling his hand on the top of Stiles’ hip. He drew Stiles into his side.

Stiles’ heartbeat ticked up, his pulse pounding in Derek’s ears.

And then the familiar scent of arousal hit Derek’s nose.

Stiles couldn’t stop his blush from burning his cheeks as he tucked himself more into Derek’s side. He felt comforted by the touch, his anxiety dulling despite the people who were now staring even more.

“He is unfortunately a relative,” Derek growled under his breath.

Stiles sucked in a surprised breath. Derek’s growls were starting to stir Stiles’ arousal in ways he would once have been embarrassed. He had never been attracted to a voice before, but found himself enthralled by his husband’s.

And then, Stiles felt a soft caress touch his hair.

Derek had placed a gentle kiss to his hairline, just along his forehead. He brushed his nose in Stiles’ hair, keeping eye contact with Theo as he scented Stiles. If his distant cousin wanted to challenge him, he was going to meet said challenge with little remorse.

I’ll tear your fucking throat out, Derek thought.

Stiles was his.

~*~

Stiles tried not to tremble. He had seen the crowd gathered for the ceremony from behind the tapestry of the small room he found himself hiding in. He hated that his father was absent from the ceremony, unable to stop his frown when Chris informed him.

The King had, thankfully, dismissed Gerard before the older man could continue to insist he walk Stiles down to the altar instead of Chris. He offered a falsely kind smile, taking hold of Stiles’ hand despite Gerard’s initial argument.

The King’s wishes were law, and Peter had made it clear he was to walk Stiles down the aisle. Afterall, it was the highest honor to be led by the King.

Stiles took Peter’s arm, his body shaking despite his attempt to stop it, offering a small smile to his uncle when Chris followed Gerard out.

Peter placed a calm hand on Stiles’ that rested on his forearm. “Deep breath,” he offered.

Stiles faintly nodded his head. He was grateful for his veil hiding his face in the interim as he took the necessary steps to match the King’s.

Hundreds of eyes turned to gawk at Stiles.

Stiles focused on his slippered feet poking out beneath his ceremonial robes with each step taken. He didn’t want to see just how many had attended in attempts to size him up.

He was essentially a nobody who had managed to win the prize of the prince’s hand. And many would do anything to be placed in such a prime seat of prestige. He slowed to a stop as the stairs came into view. He dared to look up through his veil, catching sight of Derek waiting for him.

Derek looked much like the prince he was in title as he reached a hand out to take Stiles away from Peter’s guidance. He wore a silver circlet, one that belonged to his father Edmund, Stiles had been informed by a tearful Laura as she arranged the broach Derek had given Stiles the previous night.

“This was… my mother’s,” Derek had explained after gently knocking on their shared door. Stiles had been vibrating with anticipation as he opened the door. “My father gave it to her, as a vow of devotion.”

Derek was still clothed, though his shirt was loosened and showed much more of his bare chest than Stiles had seen at dinner. He held the broach in his hands, turning the elegant looking heirloom in his adept fingers.

Stiles held it with reverence when Derek placed it in his hands.

“It would mean… a lot, if you grant me the request of wearing it tomorrow.”

“Yes—I mean, yes, I will wear it,” Stiles stumbled through his response as he looked up at Derek. “You’re sure?”

Derek nodded, a faint smile pulling at his lips as he looked at the broach in Stiles’ hands. “Thank you.”

Stiles wanted to kiss his smile. He took a brave step forward, observing Derek’s response. He pushed onto the pads of his feet, placing a lingering kiss to the corner of Derek’s mouth.

Derel turned into the kiss, pressing in to chase after Stiles’ lips.

Stiles released a faint noise of surprise when Derek’s hands gripped his biceps, holding him close as they shared their first real kiss.

Derek kissed Stiles with more force than he had intended, but he could scent the arousal between them.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

The wolf was howling, tearing at the last strands of Derek’s control. It was a herculean effort to part their lips.

Stiles swayed forward, chasing after Derek only to be steadied by Derek’s grip.

“Can’t.” Derek closed his eyes tightly.

Shame radiated from Stiles.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles started, the burn of tears hitting him.

“No,” Derek quickly shook his head, forcing his eyes open as he hoped the Alpha spark receded enough. “I can’t ruin our wedding night.”

Understanding washed over Stiles’s scent as he looked up at Derek.

“We didn’t get to do things correctly—how either of us would want,” Derek added. “But I would like to at least keep your honor in tact.”

Stiles released a soft laugh, placing his hand over Derek’s heart. “You’re a paragon of virtue.”

Derek covered Stiles’ hand with his. He pulled Stiles’ hand away from his chest, lifting Stiles’ soft fingers to his lips. He pressed a chaste kiss to Stiles’ fingertips. “I will see you tomorrow.”

Stiles nodded, the soft agreement of, “Tomorrow,” leaving his lips.

Stiles forced himself to lift his head against the weight of his veil, shyly thanking Peter, his words soft against the cacophony of moving bodies and whispers. He took Derek’s hand, moving to stand beside him.

Stiles made sure not to fidget as the arch deaconess started the ceremony with a loud prayer, overwhelmed by the knowledge that too many people were expecting him to embarrass himself before the night was through. He may fall over when walking down the small set of steps.

“You look nice.”

Stiles blinked, turning his head slightly to look at Derek. He was surprised to hear his husband’s voice, let alone catch his gaze on him. He knew he was blushing beneath the veil, aware that it didn’t do much to cover his features as it had served as a pointed reminder that he came from wealth. He could see the small diamonds that had been sewn into the material, aware of their coldness against certain points of his skin. He wore his mother’s broach on a simple ribbon around his throat—the opal and ruby trinket settled in the dip of his clavicle.

His robes were more or less the traditional design, giving him a chance to drown in the way the fabric draped and parted down his body. He had been relieved when Laura showed him the design.

The broach Derek had given him rested over his heart, pinning the draped cape to his robes, securing it and announcing for all to see that Derek had given Stiles a precious keepsake.

A mark. A stake. A claim.

“Thank you,” Stiles softly answered. “You look uncomfortable.”

Derek did a poor job of covering his faint chuckle. “Politics are more dangerous than a battlefield. And our marriage may be the catalyst.”

Stiles tightened his hold on Derek’s arm. “I hope you can at least trust me.”

Derek turned to Stiles, the intent was for him to place a ring on his finger. It was the one interaction between them, as Stiles was instructed to give Derek his ring afterwards, in private.

Stiles was surprised when Derek placed the ring in his hand. He looked at the elegant silver, realizing that it was too big. It wasn’t his—it was Derek’s.

Derek slipped the smaller silver band onto Stiles’ slender finger, his own hands lingering against the soft skin. He marveled at the feeling of Stiles’ softness—so foreign to everything Derek knew.

Derek held out his hand for Stiles.

Stiles didn’t look at the arch deaconess when she made a garbled noise of disapproval. He slipped the band onto Derek’s finger. He held onto Derek’s hand as he looked at their ringed fingers so close together. He was reluctant to let go even when Derek released him.

Stiles closed his eyes when he felt the veil lift. He was surprised to feel the weight disappear from him, the telltale sound of a heavy tinkling hitting the marble flooring before the crowd’s involuntary gasp that rippled through the cathedral in waves. He blinked up at Derek, catching a brief glimpse of his veil having been discarded onto the floor.

Something so valuable, any spouse would see it as a gift in dowry form. And Derek had thrown it away.

It was the last thing Stiles had that belonged to Gerard—a gorgeous leash tightening the collar on his neck.

It was a rebuttal of Gerard’s ownership of Stiles.

Stiles let Derek pull him into a kiss, surprised by his own steady stance. He gripped at Derek’s shoulders, his eyes fluttering shut as he let Derek lay claim.

Derek tightened his hold in Stiles’ hair, angling his husband’s head to avoid anyone catching sight of his features just as he deepened their kiss. His other hand gripped low at the base of Stiles’ back, dragging him forward.

His wolf’s instincts were right—too many people in this gathering were eyeing Stiles with their own desirous thoughts, while others wore their jealousy loudly.

And the wolf wanted to claim.

Stiles’ fingers gripped the material of Derek’s shoulders, a faint whimper escaping him as he nearly lost his balance. He blinked, eyelids fluttering deliriously as he looked up at Derek with a blush covering his cheeks. A smile pulled at his lips—a reassurance. He would let himself be embarrassed later, when he didn’t have his hands on his husband despite the gathered crowd.

Stiles followed Derek, stepping over the veil to be forgotten. He purposefully avoided looking at anyone except Derek.

Prince Consort.

Stiles was a Prince Consort and didn’t have to listen to Gerard ever again. He released a soft laugh when descending the steps of the cathedral. Perhaps he didn’t get to finish his academic career, but he had another life paved out in front of him—one he was less afraid to take now that he found just how freeing Derek’s presence beside him could be.

~*~

Stiles nibbled at the bread, his gaze continually flickering over the various foods. He was still focused on the way his high from earlier dampened some when realizing they had to attend their own celebration. He wanted to ask Derek if they could leave, but he saw how Derek agreed with what the King requested.

Stiles tilted his head to look at his husband, watching as the other man conversed with his sisters. His gaze dropped to Derek’s hands—one holding a goblet while the other lingered against the table. His brow furrowed, recalling what had bothered him before the wine really started making him forget any disagreement.

Derek had changed hands when signing the marriage license. Truthfully, their marriage by proxy didn’t need their own signature, but it was a formality as the King had explained.

Stiles had seen the way Derek’s features fell, a perplexed scowl taking hold. He had signed the parchment before handing the quill to Derek. He watched as Derek changed his writing hand twice, finding it strange that he seemed unsure of himself.

Perhaps Derek had wanted to sign with a false hand.

That put Stiles ill at ease, which he hated. Nothing about Derek’s attitude towards him would suggest such a scandal.

“Would my nephew care to dance?”

Stiles looked up at Chris, smiling at his uncle. He looked at Derek, smiling back when Derek merely kissed his hand in parting. He followed his uncle onto the dancefloor, taking up the traditional stance. “How mad is he?”

Chris made a pained noise. “Well, he would like to beat you, and is furious he can’t,” he offered.

Stiles frowned, looking down at the intricate tile of the dancefloor as they moved. “He didn’t think I would like Derek.”

“He thought Derek would be cruel to you,” Chris corrected Stiles. “He didn’t care if you liked your husband. He cares that it appears your husband values you.”

Stiles smiled at that, sneaking a glance over to Derek. “He is kind, I am finding.”

“Good,” Chris answered. “You deserve that.”

Stiles nodded. “I want to write my father—do you have his address?”

Chris frowned. “I will ask if the address is correct.”

Stiles pursed his lips. “Perhaps my husband can help,” he mused aloud.

“A fine idea. But enough of that,” Chris reasoned. “It’s your wedding, you should be focused on enjoying yourself.”

It was hard for Stiles to admit that he would have been happier had his father been present. He didn’t blame anyone, knowing that couriers weren’t always as fast or accurate as hoped. And finding a former spymaster would be complex regardless of relation.

Stiles felt overwhelmed after a few turns about the room, finding his dance partners to be courtiers he could not remember ever meeting. His nerves were getting the best of him when he took a breather away from the crowd. He drew in a breath of fresh air coming from the open balcony. He turned and paced a little, keeping an eye on the dances that were still happening just in view. He smiled when he saw Cora dancing with a young courtier who barely reached her waist, allowing the young girl to stand on the top of her boots.

He looked down at the ring gracing his finger, twisting it some as he remembered the feeling of Derek’s warm fingers slipping it into place. His stomach tumbled as he thought of the way Derek kissed him—his sure hands resting so low on his back in an intimate and almost practiced manner.

Stiles thought of tonight, recalling how Derek said consummating their marriage was never necessary… but Stiles found himself desiring it.

He drew in a heavy breath, want twisting low in his gut as he leaned to look at Derek.

Derek was standing by Boyd and Isaac, conversing with the two men as a laugh gently shook his chest. His sleeves were rolled up his arms, revealing muscle flexing as he set his goblet onto a servant’s offered tray. His hair was still tied appropriately, though Stiles believed it was purposefully hanging to cover most of his scarring despite the circlet still in place. His presence was sound and sure—authoritative in nature despite how relaxed he appeared.

Stiles’ cheeks heated at the thought of Derek pressing him into his bed, warm hands heating the sensitive skin of his thighs—would he be rough with desire or gentle? Stiles wanted both, or whichever Derek wanted to give him.

Gerard had intended to humiliate Stiles with the revelation that his virginity had been bartered.

But Stiles wouldn’t be embarrassed by his desire for his husband. What he lacked for in practice, he would gladly make up for Derek in enthusiasm.

“Ah, there is the lovely bookworm.”

Stiles jolted at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. He took a step back from the approaching man.

“Bloomed like a rose under the beast’s touch?”

Stiles allowed his brow to furrow, unsure what the hell this stranger was getting at. “Excuse me, I was just rejoining the party,” he offered with fake sincerity as he moved to leave the hiding spot.

And then a hand grabbed him.

Stiles startled, his balance off as he was practically hauled further into the darkness of the room barely lit by low burning sconces. “Let go of me!” He snapped, ripping his arm away from his attacker. “How dare you,” he started, prepared to run away when he realized that in his confusion, he no longer had a clear path back to the party. He was cornered by the man. He debated screaming, unsure how it would look if some random courtier stumbled upon them—a newly wedded Stiles with some drunkard.

“Now, now,” the man laughed, putting his hands up in fake surrender. “I have been watching you, and I wanted a chance to talk.”

“You do not need to lay your hands on someone to talk to them,” Stiles quickly answered. He was trying to keep his nerves from shaking his voice.

“I was surprised Peter managed to get such a beauty for old scarface,” the man stated. “My cousin is terribly shy about his face—rightfully so, no?”

Stiles blinked, his anger delayed as it took him a moment to understand what the man was implying. And then full fury swept over him. “How dare you,” he seethed, anger boiling in his gut.

“I heard him telling you about me,” the man stated, ignoring Stiles’ anger. He didn’t appear as drunk as before, and that frightened Stiles more than anything. “I’m a distant cousin. Theo.”

Stiles realized now why he looked familiar. This was the man—Theo—who had been staring at him yesterday.

“I don’t care who you are. Never presume to touch me again,” Stiles firmly stated. “I am married to Derek, and I take my vows seriously, even if you don’t.”

Theo cruelly laughed. “You’re far too attractive to give to that beast,” he stated, reaching a hand up to pull at one lock of Stiles’ hair.

Stiles smacked Theo’s hand away, attempting to get away from him. He stumbled into Theo’s forearm as he was caged tightly into the wall. He grew nervous as he stared out at the dancehall—he had been foolish to want a small moment to himself from the chaos of the crowd. He was trying to spot Derek when he felt Theo’s warm breath sickeningly close.

“You’re not the first one of his I’ve played with, you know?”

Stiles recoiled at that.

“He had a betrothed before—then she realized the idiot couldn’t even read.”

Stiles glowered at Theo. “How dare you talk about my husband like that,” he seethed in a low tone.

“Come now, you can’t be thrilled to be staring at such an ugly sight for the rest of your life,” Theo spoke as if Stiles was someone to pity.

Without verbal retort, Stiles brought his knee up as hard as he could into Theo’s crotch. He used the man’s pained distraction as his opportunity to escape. He slipped through the gap Theo made, rushing to get into the eye of those gathered. He was breathless when he ran into Derek.

Derek’s hands were warm, gentle despite their firmness.

Stiles looked up at Derek, about to apologize when he realized his husband was looking over his head. He looked behind him, seeing that Theo was still nursing his injured pride but also glaring.

“Did he cross a line?” Derek asked, a clear storm raging in his normally stoic features.

Stiles swallowed down the lump in his throat. “I… Yes.” He startled when Derek released him to advance on Theo. He grabbed his husband’s arm. “Please, not here,” he softly begged. “Others will know.”

It was diplomatic of Stiles to request such a thing.

But Derek wanted to tear Theo’s throat out.

Stiles placed his hand on Derek’s chest. “Please.” He waited for Derek to look at him. “Please, let us enjoy the rest of our night.”

The tension in Derek’s shoulders dropped at Stiles’ words.

Our night.

Derek hesitated before nodding. He took Stiles’ hand, turning his back on Theo. He would pummel his distant cousin another night. Tearing Theo’s name from the family tree was a more pleasant thought. His own heartbeat fluttered when Stiles slipped his arm around his, his upper arm pressed against Stiles’ chest.

Stiles smiled at Derek. “Thank you, husband.” He kissed Derek’s cheek in appreciation. “Besides, I think I managed to teach him somewhat of a lesson,” he mused. “Vile asshole,” he muttered in addition.

“I didn’t realize I married a poet,” Derek commented.

Stiles smiled. “Oh, the chaos I could stir with my vocabulary.”

~*~

Stiles barely ate. He picked at the food that had been placed in front of him, unable to look up at the others who were seated at the table.

Laura seemed to pity Stiles the most, while Cora appeared more agitated.

“I placed inquiries as to your father’s location,” Peter broke the agonizing silence.

Stiles pulled his gaze from his plate to look at Peter.

“And the location of his husband?” Cora grumbled.

Laura indiscreetly kicked Cora under the table.

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek. He knew what the servants’ gossip had ignited throughout the palace and now likely the kingdom.

Stiles’ marriage bed was unsullied—chastened as a monk’s.

No evidence of any coupling, and absent of the prince the morning after—merely a hungover Stiles who was left to piece together the events.

And the gossip of working servants spread like wildfire.

Derek had carried a drunken Stiles back to his room, and proceeded to gingerly disrobe him before placing him into bed with the most modesty afforded.

Derek hadn’t stayed the night. He had left Stiles to sleep.

At first, Stiles wasn’t bothered by the idea of his husband respecting his faculties—finding it sweet that Derek would want his consent.

But now, he had yet to see Derek, as if his husband was avoiding him.

“With respect to you, Stiles,” Peter began, though sparing a brief glare at his nieces to present his annoyance despite the kindness of his tone. “Derek is overseeing a skirmish that has broken out in the wake of your marriage. I promise, it is nothing as dangerous as he is used to,” he explained when Stiles’ brow furrowed in concern.

Stiles fiddled with his napkin. “Should he be out there?”

Peter tilted his head as he observed Stiles in an almost affectionate way. As if he couldn’t place Stiles except as an anomaly.

“Derek is safe, I promise,” Laura tried to reassure Stiles.

Stiles hated that he didn’t fully believe Laura.

~*~

Stiles promised himself that he was going to stand up for himself when Derek returned. He hadn’t expected Derek to bring him flowers.

Stiles stared at the flowers, blinking slowly at them before looking at Derek. “Thank you,” he uttered upon taking them from Derek.

“I should have spent more time with you before parting,” Derek offered, running an unsure hand along his neck. “It is my regret.”

Stiles looked down at the flowers. “Did you use the book about flowers to find these?”

Derek looked at Stiles, blinking a few times.

“The book you brought to the healers,” Stiles continued, tilting his head slightly as he watched Derek try to place the inquiry. “The book you had the night we met. It was about medicinal herbs. This blue one is poisonous, though a poison can be medicinal in the correct dose.” He looked at Derek, his excitement dropping into the pit of his stomach at Derek’s frown. “Very pretty though,” he added in reassurance.

It wasn’t like Stiles planned on eating the bouquet his husband had gotten him. “The beautiful ones are usually the most deadly,” he offered with a smile.

Derek brow furrowed as a frown overtook him. “I saw some of their images in the book, but…”

Stiles tilted his head, waiting for Derek to continue.

Derek shook his head. “I’ll get you different flowers,” he started to reach for the bouquet.

Stiles snatched the flowers against his chest, as if they were too precious to be handled by another. “These are mine,” he countered Derek’s look of surprise, practically crushing the flowers in his tight grasp. “I’m not going to eat them, so it’s fine if they are poisonous,” he explained. “Besides… you picked them for me, that makes them special.”

Derek’s faint smile was worth the reassurances Stiles could give.

But there was something needling at the back of his mind as he took Derek’s arm to be escorted to dinner.

“He had a betrothed before—then she realized the idiot couldn’t even read.”

Stiles didn’t put much trust in the words of a weasel like Theo. But he had begun to think that Derek couldn’t read and was hiding the fact from him.

“Derek,” Stiles started, pulling back on his husband to stop them from exiting their rooms. Well, Stiles’ room, as Derek had yet to allow Stiles full access to his own. It was always Stiles’ room that they met in and left and returned to; all before Derek departed for the night to be in his own room.

Derek turned to look at Stiles, arching an eyebrow.

“Thank you,” Stiles stated with a smile. “I love flowers, and it means a lot that you brought me some.”

Derek’s entire body appeared to relax at Stiles’ praise. “If they make you happy, then that is worth it.” He closed the space between them, pressing a chaste kiss to Stiles’ forehead. “But I will have to learn which ones aren’t poisonous.”

Stiles forced what he hoped was a convincing smile.

~*~

“Stiles.”

Stiles startled at the seriousness in Derek’s voice. He blinked through the darkness at Derek’s approaching form. The candelabra in his hand was the only source of light besides Stiles’ barely lit fire. “Is something wrong?”

An agonized scream tore through the halls, startling Stiles into sitting upright.

“Laura’s in labor,” Derek explained. “I have to ride out for Melissa. But… Peter is worried something is wrong.”

Stiles pushed the sheets from his body, getting out of bed on unsteady feet. He was grateful for Derek’s steadying hand.

Another scream.

“I’ve never done a delivery by myself,” Stiles admitted. He had, over the years, assisted different midwives and healers with pregnancies if he had been in the villages or towns on errands for the academy. “But I can make sure she is stable—until Melissa gets here.”

Derek weakly nodded his head. “If anyone can help her, it would be you.”

Stiles allowed his hand to linger on Derek’s arm before he hurried to his bureau to pull on a pair of lounging pants. He wouldn’t need to be dressed elegantly to help Laura with her delivery. In his experience, sometimes the clothes were too bloody to be saved.

Cora was kneeling in the bed beside Laura, her hand holding Laura’s as her other rubbed against her sister’s back. “Even breathing, that’s what Melissa said,” she tried to be helpful.

“I am,” Laura growled before another scream left her. “I’m never doing this again,” she cried.

Stiles was startled to see that Peter was even assisting, boiling water and supplying a cooling rag in turn.

“Stiles, thank the gods,” Peter spoke with relief. “Derek, go get Melissa and hurry.”

Derek handed Stiles the candelabra. He moved quickly—elegantly for a man of his size—to Laura’s side. He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be back soon.”

Laura sharply nodded. “I will be here,” she tried to lighten the mood despite her own fears. She screamed again as a pain threatened to split her in two.

Stiles was surprised when Derek kissed him.

“Thank you,” Derek expressed gratitude before he was running out the door.

Stiles turned his attention towards Laura, setting the candelabra down as he tied back his sleeves. “We need more light,” he finally told Peter.

If the baby was determined to arrive before Melissa, Stiles would do his best to keep child and mother in best health until her arrival.

~*~

Derek couldn’t hear Laura’s screams any longer. He tried to reassure himself that it was a good thing—that he hadn’t arrived too late with Melissa at his back. He carried her bag in one hand, candelabra in the other as he took the stairs multiple steps at a time.

“If you leave me in the dark, I may break my neck,” Melissa called after him as she hurried up the steps behind him.

Derek grunted in response, slowing his stride to be more accommodating with the human healer.

“Stiles is accomplished, Derek, he will do what is possible to save them both.”

That is what Derek feared—what was possible to save them?

Stiles didn’t know about Laura’s lycanthropy.

A baby’s cry echoed down the hallway.

Derek forgot to slow his pace as he broke into a run.

Melissa cursed, rightfully calling him a disobedient stray for abandoning her.

Stiles was cleaning a wiggling mass of limbs and noise. He was softly smiling down at the baby, his fingers working expertly to clean blood and membrane as quickly as possible. “Another girl,” he announced as he wrapped the softly crying baby in fresh linen. He turned, baby secure in his arms as he moved to Laura’s side. He slowed when seeing Derek standing in the doorway.

Stiles was illuminated by candlelight and the faintest stray beams of moonlight. His arms were a secure cradle beneath the baby as it attempted to wiggle out of the wrap Stiles had secured. He offered a smile to Derek. “They didn’t want to wait,” he uttered before moving closer to the bed.

“They,” Derek mumbled.

“Twins,” Peter stated from Laura’s other side. He placed a kiss along the top of Laura’s head. “You did amazing,” he softly added.

Laura was staring down at her daughter in her arms. “They’re both so small,” she uttered when Stiles offered her second daughter up. She arranged her arms to accept her, leaning back against the bedframe with two babes secured in her exhausted arms.

Derek didn’t flinch when Melissa smacked his back.

“I told you not to rush ahead of me with the light,” Melissa reprimanded him as she walked into the room. She took her bag back from Derek, turning to look at the others. “Ah, well, it’s a good thing Stiles was here.”

Cora took Laura’s firstborn from her arms when her niece began to fuss, offering her sister time to tend to her other child. “Stiles did so well, even when Laura threatened to break his arm.”

Stiles faintly blushed. “Laura did all the work, I just cut the umbilical cords.”

Laura reached her free hand out before Stiles could pull back. “You saved them,” she sternly corrected Stiles, a look of deep gratitude in her eyes. “I was scared, Stiles. But you…” She bit her lip. “Thank you,” she finally offered.

Laura didn’t want to think of her mother’s screams the night Cora came into the world. She didn’t want to remember the stench of blood, the way her mother had cried as if being torn apart. She didn’t want to be her mother—she wanted to watch her children grow. And at the moment when the pain was the worst, Stiles had been the one to calm her.

“Laura, I’m here—we are all here. Breathe with us.”

Stiles gave Laura’s hand a lingering squeeze of reassurance. “Thank you for trusting me,” he echoed before releasing his hold on her. He dropped Laura’s hand as he gave the Hales space. He allowed Melissa to pass him, faintly smiling at her when she touched his back.

Stiles walked over to Derek, his steps slowing as he reached out for the candelabra. “You should meet your nieces,” he softly spoke at a lower volume than Melissa as the healer started to ask Laura questions.

Derek hesitated, looking at Stiles.

Stiles leaned onto the tips of his toes, pressing a kiss to Derek’s cheek. “I need to wash up better. And Laura will be wanting to sleep soon. Take the time to be with her and the girls.”

Derek grabbed Stiles’ bicep as Stiles began to depart. “You don’t have to leave.”

Stiles nodded. “I know.”

“You… you’re family too,” Derek struggled to offer.

Stiles smiled at that. “Yes, I am.” He leaned closer in mock conspiracy, “But I plan on stealing time with them tomorrow, when they are less cranky about being born.”

Derek found a light chuckle leaving him. He kissed Stiles’ forehead in thanks, reluctantly releasing his hold on Stiles as he watched him go.

~*~

Stiles was sprawled out in front of the fireplace, books opened to various pages as he studied the different anatomy drawings and descriptions of best practices. He frowned as he quickly wrote a short handed reminder to ask Melissa’s opinion on the best way to heal a mother post-birth.

He had been relieved when Peter informed him of Laura’s health improving, having been fearful of the cautionary tales of death that too often followed twin births.

The children, on the other hand, were just as vibrant as their mother.

And Stiles pretended that his heart didn’t skip a few beats when Derek held both girls in his arms with such tender care. He told himself, rationally, the fever one felt for a baby shouldn’t apply to his own attraction towards his husband, as it was biologically impossible for such an occurrence.

It didn’t, however, compute for Stiles' brain, and he felt more attraction for his husband’s tender disposition towards the children.

Nurturing. Comforting. Providing.

Derek displayed those qualities in abundance.

There was a faint knock, pulling Stiles’ attention into pausing his writing.

Stiles looked up at the door that connected his room to Derek’s, as smile gracing his lips when he saw Derek lingering there. “Good evening,” he stated as he sat back, knowing he made himself look quite a mess with his display.

“Good evening,” Derek mimicked Stiles’ greeting, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. His eyes flickered over the books before landing on Stiles.

Stiles faintly shrugged his shoulders as he set his quill down. “I wanted to follow up on my work. From the academy.”

Derek nodded without hesitation. “You should—Melissa said you’re very talented in the field of medicine.”

Stiles blushed. “She would be the first to tell me so,” he offered with a barely shrugged shoulder.

“That’s unfortunate,” Derek answered. “That they don’t recognize you.”

Stiles looked up at Derek, watching his husband from afar. “You’re kind to say so.”

Derek looked down at his hands as he cleared his throat. “I was going to ask if you wanted to accompany me tomorrow.”

Stiles tilted his head.

“There is a gathering of artisans before the festival celebrations.” Derek lifted a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing minutely as he struggled with his words. He avoided looking at Stiles. “Cora mentioned there are booksellers.”

Stiles smiled. “I would like that.”

~*~

Stiles held his head to the side, scanning the book titles on the spines of the various bound tomes. His fingers trailed the leather and gilded details.

“Aren’t you hurting your neck?”

Stiles looked up at Derek, a blush hitting him at the reminder of Derek being forced to hold his previously purchased titles. “It’s faster than picking the books up to read.”

Derek’s brow furrowed momentarily before he nodded. “I suppose.”

Stiles tried to cover up the frown pulling at his lips. He looked back down at the titles. His fingers were nimble in their movement when he withdrew one book from the rows.

Derek shuffled the four books in his arm, his gaze dropping to the top one. He couldn’t read the words, only knowing what Stiles told him about them. His hands itched to open the book, to read the words hidden in the pages.

These books held knowledge—words that Stiles could read easily.

And Derek’s eyes merely jumbled the letters together.

“You can’t read.”

That is what Paige had said. There was more pity than anything else in her words. That was only the beginning of her pulling away. It ended with her breaking the betrothal his mother and father had worked hard to obtain before Paige’s birth.

Paige’s parents had wealth and status, though nothing compared to what she would have inherited as a Princess Consort. Her familial lands were strategic, something that had first drawn an appeal in the betrothal.

As long as Hale obtained those lands, it would be a fine match.

Paige married Theo.

Still a marriage of royal blood, though a considerable step down from what she had originally been guaranteed by her parents. And the explanation hadn’t been needed by the masses—the Prince is a beast, scarred and animalistic on the battlefield.

A hulking illiterate.

Derek was far from the catch his parents had intended him to be.

“Have I gotten too many?” Stiles softly asked as he held another two books, his coin purse already tied back into place. He was frowning at his books with uncertainty.

“You can add another wing to the library if you wish,” Derek answered, simply taking the books from Stiles to add onto the growing pile.

“Oh, you don’t have to carry them all,” Stiles began to fret, gesturing to take at least the last two books back.

Derek held the books out of Stiles’ reach, his other arm wrapping around Stiles’ waist to pull him to his other side. “I can handle six books,” he stated in reassurance, placing a soft kiss to Stiles’ forehead.

Stiles blushed despite leaning into Derek’s side. He enjoyed the contact, telling himself not to be ashamed of showing affection to his husband. But he felt as if eyes tracked them. He knew there were guards around, hiding throughout the crowd.

Derek kept Stiles tucked against his side, aware of more than one person turning attention to them—to Stiles. He wanted to deter any brewing threat. Or flirtation.

“Oh!” Stiles excitedly exclaimed, slipping from beneath Derek’s hold as he hurried towards another vendor. “Are these for medicinal herbology?” He excitedly asked the woman.

Derek faintly laughed when he saw that it was another book peddler. Perhaps he would need more assistance in carrying Stiles’ haul home.

~*~

Derek’s hands caressed over the leatherbound book. He lifted the firm cover, eyes dropping to the ink brushed across the weathered vellum. He could make out a few letters, his fingertips tracing the unknown ones.

“An illiterate animal,” Derek mumbled as he dropped the cover once more to leave the book alone.

“What did you say?” Stiles called from the other room.

“You’re reading a lot at once,” Derek chose to call back.

Stiles walked out into the room, his hands reached behind his neck as he tied a few strands to tighten the corseted spine of his vest. He dropped his hands with a tired sigh. “My arms hurt,” he noted.

Derek looked at Stiles, his eyes dropping over Stiles’ entire body. “I can…” He gestured to Stiles’ neck.

Stiles smiled as he approached Derek before turning to show him his back. “I enjoy reading a few books at once. It can be fun to compare what others are saying about the same subject.”

Derek focused on his hands tightening one of the loose strands by Stiles’ shoulders. He pulled the ropes, pretending that he didn’t itch to pull the ropes from the eyelets and disrobe Stiles.

“I … it’s embarrassing, but I bought you something,” Stiles admitted as he looked down at his fingers twisting together in front of his stomach.

Derek’s hands paused for a moment before completing their action in tightening the ropes properly. He examined his work before uttering, “You didn’t have to.”

Stiles looked over his shoulder at Derek. “I know,” he replied before moving to one of the closest book piles. “But I thought it would be nice to share with our nieces.”

Tonight was meant for the girls.

Peter would announce their official names, and bless their legitimacy.

A name day that was another celebration of life over death.

Stiles offered out the small book to Derek, a faint smile on his lips. “It was my favorite as a child,” he explained, opening the cover to show Derek the various drawings. “You have a really nice voice,” he added, feeling more self conscious when Derek didn’t take the book from him. “You’d make a great storyteller.”

“Right.” Derek’s voice felt like sharp blades were pressed into the tenderest parts of his throat. He took the book, refusing to look at it.

Stiles’ features dropped.

“I…” Derek hesitated.

“I did something wrong,” Stiles asked as he looked up at Derek.

Derek could smell the disappointment in Stiles… and guilt.

“Derek… you can’t read, can you?”

Derek felt his stomach unravel at Stiles’ words. He dropped the book, calm in his movements as he stepped away from Stiles. And his books. He didn’t answer Stiles, merely a startled predator turned prey in the moment. He didn’t know whether to deny it or flee. But he couldn’t admit it—it was giving weight to his failing, and would show how unfit he was for Stiles.

Stupid animal.

“I thought maybe you couldn’t,” Stiles softly started to explain his deception. “But you never said anything, and even implied that you read that book on herbs…” It didn’t excuse the trickery, he knew that much. “I wanted you to say something to me.”

“What … why are you doing this?” Derek hollowly asked as he stared at the ground by Stiles’ feet. He had been trying to open up more to Stiles, but this felt like a raw wound torn open for another surgeon to poke at.

“I didn’t… I thought there was something off when you signed our marriage license,” Stiles started as he got closer to Derek. “I wasn’t trying to trick you—”

“Just humiliate me,” Derek snapped, finally looking at Stiles. He could feel it, the spark of his wolf’s anger boiling over—a bright pooling crimson threatening to overtake his eyes. “No, I never learned. Does that satisfy you? You’re married to an idiot.”

Stiles flinched at the cruelty in Derek’s words. “You’re not an idiot,” he argued, though his voice was weak. He was never good at arguing, not when he knew he had been in the wrong. His father always told him that he was a terrible liar.

But he wasn’t lying now. He hated Derek calling himself an ‘idiot’; he just knew that there was no way to make Derek believe him after his trickery.

Derek could feel his wolf at the surface, and he did the safest thing he could for Stiles as he chose to flee. He turned bodily away, determined to leave.

“Derek, wait,” Stiles pleaded. He fucked this up—he wanted to know more, but instead of gently asking to be let in, he brought a hammer down on Derek’s walls. His hand carefully grabbed Derek’s arm, an attempt to dissuade him from leaving without him. If he could get Derek to stay, to at the very least apologize and explain to him, then perhaps he could take some of Derek’s pain of betrayal away. They could still go to the girls’ celebration.

Stiles was not expecting Derek to whirl on him, hands grabbing him and slamming his back into the wall.

A sharp breath of air rushed out of Stiles.

Pain radiated through Stiles’ back, a tearful cry leaving his lips at the impact. He had never been taken by surprise in such a manner, his body crumpling in on itself as he shook with the startling reminder that his husband was much stronger than him.

Derek’s hands trembled as he released his hold on Stiles.

“It’s fine,” Stiles weakly uttered, his arms wrapping around himself in a defensive manner. He kept his eyes downcast, avoiding looking at Derek. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“I’m… sorry, Stiles.”

Derek’s voice was strained, pained in layers before he practically fled.

Stiles wasn’t sure how long passed before Melissa was walking into his bedroom.

“Derek almost tore my doors off the hinge,” Melissa explained as she had Stiles sit in his vanity’s chair. She was maternal in her approach, cold fingers analytically inspecting Stiles’ joints and bones with a tender care.

Stiles could see her frown in the mirror when she looked at his back. He hated the feeling of her undoing Derek’s work to tie the ropes of his vest.

“You’re going to bruise,” Melissa finally explained. “I have some bath salts and a few different remedies that will help with the pain and discoloring.”

Stiles didn’t answer her.

“Derek said he hurt you.”

Stiles caught her gaze in the mirror, her eyes looking over his shoulder at him.

“We got in a fight,” Stiles began.

Melissa scoffed. “A fight,” she muttered. “Stiles, that is no excuse for him to lay hands on you—”

“He was trying to leave after I tricked him into proving he couldn’t—” He stopped himself. He wasn’t going to tell anyone else. Not after hurting Derek like that.

Melissa tilted her head. “He couldn’t what?”

Stiles looked down at his hands, avoiding Melissa’s eye contact.

“He can’t read,” Melissa supplied, realization dawning on her.

Stiles felt his heart rate jump.

“It’s a… cruel taunt the others use,” Melissa explained. “It was never proven that he can’t, just a vicious rumor.” She sighed, running a hand over her face. “I suppose when you are a child who is expected to survive a civil war of infighting, reading isn’t a priority.”

“Instead of asking him, I tricked him, Melissa,” Stiles weakly confessed. “I hurt him.”

“He slammed you into a wall, he said,” Melissa countered.

“He was angry, he tried to leave, and I… I grabbed him,” Stiles explained. “There was something wrong with his eyes, Melissa. They were…” He shook his head. “I swore they were red.”

Melissa grew completely still. “You… grabbed…” She finally stood, looming over Stiles in shock.

Stiles blinked as he looked at her.

“You grabbed Derek midshift,” Melissa stated in disbelief. “And he let you go.”

“Mid… what?” Stiles turned to look at her finally as he pulled his shirt up onto his shoulders once more. He pulled at the ties, but his mind wouldn’t leave Melissa’s words alone.

“I need to speak with Peter,” Melissa grumbled as she shook her head. “I will send my assistant with the remedies I mentioned,” she continued to shake her head as she departed.

“Melissa,” Stiles called after her.

“Just… stay here, Stiles,” Melissa instructed him.

Stiles stared blankly at the door as it closed, leaving him alone once more with nothing but the pain radiating from his back. He moved to sit on his bed, his eyes focused on his fingers as he fidgeted. He tore at the skin around his nails, a nervous habit he never got away from in times of high stress. He snuck a look up at the doors connecting his room to Derek’s.

Stiles had never locked them. He thought what that implication would be—if he locked Derek out now, which he would argue he was more than in the right to.

But he didn’t want to.

He wanted to talk to his husband. He wanted to apologize for his own deception, before allowing Derek to explain his outburst.

“I’m… sorry, Stiles.”

Derek had sounded so pained by the words. His voice almost lisped.

Stiles hoped, beyond practicality, that Derek was truly sorry for his actions. There wouldn’t be a way forward for them if he held no true remorse for it.

But the question remained if Derek would forgive Stiles.

~*~

Dirt.

Moss.

Petrichor.

The wolf ran, anger subsiding into loneliness as the distance grew behind him.

Claws were tearing the earth beneath the wolf, a base carnal desire to tear and shred what caused the anger.

The joy at having finally found a mate—a partner—soured into a venom.

Betrayal. Hurt. Inadequacy.

Derek never deserved the pleasures of the human world—he was an animal, after all. So he would remain in the woods, where he belonged.

The wolf won out in the end.

An animal.

The Beast.

~*~

Stiles opened the doors that lead into Derek’s room. He paused at the threshold, unwilling to break that boundary. He hadn’t been invited, but he did lean forward to look for a sign of Derek.

No fire, no disturbance of the sheets.

There was no indication that Derek came back.

His husband had been missing for three days, and Stiles was sickened at the thought.

Peter had offered little to ease Stiles’ worry.

“He may have gone… hunting, to sooth his wounded pride,” Peter spoke diplomatically, as if he was hiding much more than he let on.

“But,” Stiles started to protest, stepping close to Peter despite decorum. “No one knows where he is, and if something happens to him, how will we know? He could be hurt.”

Peter’s expression softened at Stiles’ worry. “I will send men to retrieve him,” he finally offered. “If they don’t find him by the full moon, I’ll go myself.”

The full moon was nearly a fortnight away.

Stiles had reluctantly agreed, leaving the war council room with his head hung low. He was worried about Derek, and he blamed himself. He shouldn’t have pushed.

Stiles spent the next week pining. He was forlorn as he wandered the palace grounds, each time his inquiry about Derek was met with a sad admittance of no new leads. He had started to study the maps of the surrounding areas, curious if he could decipher where his husband disappeared to.

In the early hours of the morning, he left the library exhausted and defeated.

Stiles was staring at the ground, not paying attention to where he was wandering, only aware of the shift in colder air as he found himself walking the covered halls exposed to the courtyard. He played with the excess material of his sleeves, comforted by the repetitive motion he had often seen his mother do in times of stress.

He was wearing a rich emerald green, a color he had noticed Derek’s eye caught more than once when he wore material containing the rich dye. The fabric was velvet, and Stiles wondered if Derek would enjoy the touch of it.

“Honestly, it’s good riddance.”

Stiles slowed his steps, daring to look up.

“There at least is another to replace him,” another voice answered.

Stiles approached with muted steps as he remained hidden behind the massive decorative column at the corridor’s edge.

“Violent animal,” the first voice huffed. “He was necessary in the war, but of little use in Court.”

“His husband,” the second voice mused. “Mieczysław.”

Stiles felt bile rise in his throat.

“Rumor is, the marriage bed was never consummated.”

“Hardly necessary—though, it wouldn’t be from a lack of trying if given the chance.”

A disgusting laugh grated Stiles’ ears.

“Well, Lord Argent has already sent word,” the voice spoke in hushed tones, a pause as if they were determining how safe their location was to be speaking such treasonous thoughts. “Mieczysław will be up for grabs should the Beast never return.”

“He’s already brokering allegiances?”

“You know he hates the King.”

“Mieczysław isn’t royal—maybe if he could give an heir, but there is nothing there.”

“But it would give whoever weds and beds the boy an advantage when Gerard is crowned.”

Stiles pressed a hand to his mouth, slowing his breathing as his thoughts raced. He was panicking, unsure if he should make himself known or run back down the corridors to Peter’s chambers. Either way, he would be discovered and who knew what these men would do to keep their secrets safe.

Each approaching step matched the thudding of his heart.

“If Theodore marries him, he’ll probably be communal play.”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to block out the sickening laughter.

Cruelty. Vulgarity. Greed.

How he hated these men that thought so little of harming others.

“Regardless,” the voice sighed. “It will be another war, no doubt. And without the Beast on their side, it is a coin toss.”

Stiles made his choice—he ran. He didn’t care if he was seen, he had to get to Peter.

“Hey!”

Stiles could only hear his breathing over the rush of steps chasing him. He was terrified, his heart rate hammering in his chest as he rushed through the turns of the corridors, heading to Peter.

Guards met Stiles, hands restraining him from entering the room.

The guard looked kind enough to be handling a fleeing Prince Consort.

Stiles wondered, briefly, if the man trained with Derek.

“Your Grace, the King is meeting with—”

“We need to talk to him.”

Stiles recoiled, shoving himself behind the guard. He was between the armored knight and the doors to Peter’s council chambers. He was horrified to see that one of the men was a lord his father had a working relationship with. At least, when Stiles was a child.

“My lords, step back,” the guard blocking Stiles instructed the two men who had approached.

“Mieczysław was eavesdropping on a private conversation,” the other man explained.

Stiles recognized the voice as the one who had spoken such vulgarity about him. He was desperate to hide from the men. He blindly reached behind him, pulling at the handle when he grasped it. He fell backwards, landing in a heap inside the room.

“Back up!” The other guard yelled at the two lords who tried to advance when they saw Stiles was close to getting to the King.

Stiles used the distraction to his advantage, thankful that the two guards were handling the men. He scrambled to his feet, rushing into the inner chamber.

“Peter.”

Stiles felt a rush of adrenaline when he recognized his uncle’s voice.

He had not, however, expected to walk in on his uncle and the King in compromised positions. He made a loud noise, somewhere between a shriek and an apology as he turned his body away from them.

Peter righted himself, his hands pressing Chris out of his space as he stood. He ran a hand through his loose locks, correcting them as best he could. He cleared his throat, paying attention to righting his trousers. He picked up his dressing gown, something he had been wearing when informed he was being summoned to meet with an insistent Lord Christopher. He had hopes he wouldn’t need it for long—though Stiles had spoiled that with his unannounced interruption.

Chris kept his back to Stiles, drawing in a breath as he gripped at his hair.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles quickly started, though he didn’t turn around to look at the men. “But there was something horrible I overheard and I—”

Peter cleared his voice when one of the guards entered. “I thought when I said no one was to disturb me, it meant no one.”

“Apologies, Your Majesty,” the guard bowed deep, moving to a knee to show deference. “But there was a disturbance between the Prince Consort and two noble lords.”

Chris finally turned to look at the guard and Stiles. He was unsurprised to find Stiles’ back directed at them. “Which lords?”

“They’re being detained,” the guard explained. “They seemed determined to get to the Prince Consort.”

Peter’s brow furrowed. “Keep them detained. You can leave,” he dismissed the man with a flick of his hand.

Chris approached Stiles with caution, aware of his nephew’s reluctance to look at either of them. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles drew in a breath before turning to face them. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright, Stiles,” Peter answered as he crossed his arms over his chest, keeping his distance from Chris.

Stiles twisted his fingers together. “I was walking the halls, and was in the courtyard when I heard them,” he began. He explained everything to Chris and Peter, thankful that they didn’t interrupt him. He could see the anger rising in Peter with each detail, while Chris looked tired.

“Of course he is planning to kill me,” Peter huffed under his breath. “Your father needs to be more inventive,” he looked at Chris.

Chris wouldn’t look at Peter. “I’ll try and deal with it.”

Peter clenched his jaw, annoyance flaring. “Right, as usual.”

Chris forced himself to look at Peter. “I said I will try. But clearly that is never enough for you.”

Stiles stepped to the side as his uncle brushed by him, watching the tension in his shoulders as he departed. He dared to look at Peter.

Peter was glowering at the table—the very table he had been very happily sprawled out on with Christopher’s hands derobing him. He wished they could stay in that desirous cloud without a worry of the outside world. It was always robbed when reality settled around them.

“I am sorry,” Stiles softly spoke.

“It isn’t your fault,” Peter answered before turning towards him. “I should let you know that I sent men for your father.”

Stiles was startled by the change of topic, his joy soured slightly by the thought of Derek still missing.

“He is scheduled for a visit soon,” Peter offered. “A few days, his correspondence said.”

Stiles blinked at Peter. “He didn’t send me word of his arrival,” he muttered, feeling foolish for speaking such childish things in front of a King.

Peter walked over to the mass of papers and correspondences that were awaiting the King’s attention. It was no wonder Peter had long and strange hours most days. He pulled a sealed letter out from the pile, offering it in an outstretched hand to Stiles.

Stiles nearly snatched the envelope from Peter. He had no word from his father in a year, aware of the lapse in conversation coming from his father’s work as a spymaster. But it did little to soothe the ache of missing him. “Thank you,” Stiles stated as he tucked the letter against his chest.

“He said he was afraid Gerard would intercept one for you,” Peter explained. “He hid it in a falsely addressed letter that was delivered for me.”

Stiles nodded, realizing that it made sense. “And… what about Derek?” He ignored the burn to tear open the letter, wanting to know if Derek had been sighted anywhere.

Peter frowned. “Nothing,” he confessed. “I will be joining the search in the following days.”

It was Stiles’ turn to frown. “What if something happened to him?” His voice was weak with worry. He didn’t want an answer, afraid that Derek could be hurt somewhere, dying thinking that Stiles hated him.

Peter put a kind hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “I promise, I will find your wayward husband and bring him back to you—alive and apologetic for making you worry.”

Stiles tried to offer a convincing smile.

Peter’s soft smile disappeared. “It would also be good of you to forget what you saw.”

Stiles tilted his head. “I don’t care about… if my uncle wishes to… be with you.”

Peter couldn’t stop the soft chuckle that left him as he dropped his hand from Stiles’ shoulder. “Your uncle and I have a marred past, Stiles. One that is better forgotten, as Gerard intended.”

Stiles frowned. “I’ve seen how my uncle steals glances at you.” He wasn’t sure why he pressed the topic, aware of the rejection in Peter’s hunched shoulders.

“He made his choice, and so did I,” Peter hollowly stated. “Leave it there, Stiles, please.” His words barely passed his lips before he bit down.

Stiles looked away from Peter. “I will.”

~*~

Dearest Mieczysław,

I am sorry it has been too long. I have neglected you—as a father, and protector. I should have been there when Gerard made this insane arrangement.

You never should have been forced from the academy—it had been a reassurance I had obtained that you would never be forced into politics. It was your mother’s dream for you to pursue whatever you wished. And seeing you blossom at the academy is a great point of pride, and joy, for me.

I will be arriving in the coming days, and I will speak with the King.

I will request your marriage be annulled, and that you are returned to the academy. I pray every night to your mother that she is watching over you, protecting you from any harm. I informed the King of my concerns and requested your safety.

With my love.

Stiles’s brow furrowed as he reread the lines above his father’s signature and seal. He wasn’t in danger—not from Derek. His father’s words colored Derek as the threat.

“Annul,” Stiles mumbled under his breath as he paced before his fireplace. He clenched the paper tightly. He didn’t want an annulment.

He wanted his husband.

Stiles huffed out his annoyance as he paced with the letter hanging from one hand. “This is a disaster,” he continued before looking back at the letter. “I don’t want that.”

No one asked his opinion. No one listened to him.

No one but Derek.

Stiles threw his father’s letter into the fire before daring to walk into Derek’s room. He hesitated for a moment, feeling anxious about crossing that boundary. “I’m sorry,” he apologized to the room before daring to enter. He walked directly to Derek’s wardrobe, trying to ignore taking in any other detail. He pulled at the fabrics, finding clothes that would fit him better than his thin scholarly robes, or ceremonial garb.

Derek dressed for practicality. His clothes would keep Stiles the warmest when hunting him down in the forest.

Stiles would take every little piece of evidence he had of Derek’s location, and he would find him.

At least, that was what Stiles told himself as he dressed in Derek’s trousers and layers of shirt and vest. He tied the trousers’ laces tightly, trying to not think of the fact that Derek was bigger than him—if Derek was hurt in the forest, what chance did Stiles have?

Derek was a warrior. He was adept at hunting and sport. He was an accomplished fighter and horseback rider.

Stiles was relieved to have his own riding boots, knowing Derek’s wouldn’t fit him properly and risking an injured ankle was the last thing he needed.

Foolish. You are foolish. You are a bookworm. You know nothing of the outside. You won’t survive the night.

Stiles pushed those thoughts away as he prepared a satchel of provisions.

~*~

The wolf prowled.

Wounded.

The wolf had wounded his mate.

Anger. Jealousy. Guilt.

The wolf shook its head, descending the mountain terrain with ease.

A bright scent struck the wolf.

Rosemary.

Sandalwood.

Lavender.

Bergamot.

Herbs crushed between practiced hands; flowers tended with a bright smile. The burn of candlewax, the musk of old vellum and the tang of ink.

Stiles.

The wolf howled before running towards the scent it had been avoiding for too long.

Mate.

~*~

Stiles held his wedding broach that kept his cape around his shoulders, his hood covering his head from the winter chill. He had been walking for hours, and he was finally at the last point where Derek had been seen. There were old tracks at first, both human and animal. But now the snow was too much.

Stiles paused, catching his breath as he rummaged through his satchel. He pulled his small booklet out, reading his notes again. He had studied the maps, determining where the best routes would be—and which to avoid. He should have, in hindsight, left a note to let someone know he was leaving.

But Stiles was afraid that someone would try and stop him.

A howl cut through the woods.

Stiles startled, looking around to try and determine where it came from. The only thing he could see in the winter wonderland of trees was his own breath puffing out in front of him before evaporating. But he knew that howl.

A wolf.

That much Stiles could remember from what his father taught him. “Keep walking,” he reassured himself, tucking the book away before moving. “If I keep moving, it will be fine.” He tried to think if that made sense despite his uncertainty. He stumbled through some of the thicker snow, his feet already freezing from the cold. He needed better boots—ones that weren’t made just for horseback.

When he found Derek, he was going to make his husband carry him out of the woods.

Another howl.

Stiles stopped, realizing it was much closer than before. He looked around, unable to see anything moving through the trees. He forced himself to move across the incline, hoping to find some sort of salvation close. He hesitated when he saw the frozen river down the incline, just within reach.

A river cut through the woods, ice hiding the lively water beneath the frozen surface.

Stiles moved quickly when he heard another howl even closer now. He slid down the incline with unsure movements, his feet barely slowing his descent as he tried to dig in his heels.

“Father can forget the annulment, I will end up widowing Derek,” Stiles breathed harshly as he clawed his way to standing. He hesitated when his boots barely touched the ice of the river. He cautiously reached a foot out, experimentally pressing his weight down on the ice. There was no sound, no indication that the ice would give way. He slowly gained his balance on the slick surface. He had ice skated with his mother on occasion, and even without the blades on his feet, he felt the confidence she had given him.

A snarling sounded closed in behind him.

Stiles turned to look over his shoulder. His heart beat faster with fear at the sight of the wolf looming just on the ridge where Stiles had been. His breath was ragged, fearful of the threat.

The wolf was bigger than any Stiles had seen before—which weren’t many. Its legs were long, paws leaving huge prints in the snow as claws dug down into the earth. Its shoulders hunched; its body poised to lunge. A low, growling snarl emitted from its chest.

Stiles took a step backwards onto the ice. A loud rippling crack echoed across the silent forest, splintering ice beneath his feet. He was either going to be torn apart by the wolf, or drown in the icy depths of the river.

The wolf descended slowly, its body languid in movement as it approached its mark, shoulders rolling with each approaching step.

The light, aquatic blue of Stiles’ cape was a beacon in the desolate waste of snow and ice. Whatever food the wolf had gone without would be supplemented by the newly bundled prey.

A large black form suddenly tackled the grey wolf.

Stiles slipped, startled by the sudden explosion of angered snarls and snaps of teeth. He fell onto the ice, aware of the instability beneath him. But he was too terrified at the display before him to move.

Two wolves were fighting.

Blood stained the snow as teeth and claws tore at the other.

A yelp cut through the forest.

The black wolf had won the struggle, its teeth pinning the other wolf by the throat.

Stiles heard the gurgle followed by a vicious snap. He was shaking as he watched the black wolf drop its hold before lifting its head to howl loudly.

This howl was the one Stiles had initially feared.

The black wolf turned to Stiles, approaching slowly.

Stiles scrambled onto his feet, his mind screaming at him to run. He would be the next throat torn—neck snapped before the wolf feasted on his bones. He turned and started to run across the river’s icy top.

The wolf pursued.

Heavy, near galloping strides hammered against the ice at the wolf closed in on Stiles.

Stiles fell against the ice, his riding boots lacking any grip, as he turned to look behind his shoulder. He collided with the frozen surface, his back slamming against the ice as he failed to brace his fall. Light blossomed across his vision, his eyes blinking a few times as he tried to orient himself, catching his breath.

Fear enveloped him when he saw the large figure up close.

The wolf slowly caged Stiles beneath it, looming over Stiles with its massive bulk.

Stiles breathed in jaggedly, fearful that he was staring into the eyes of his death.

The wolf tilted its head, pressing its bloody muzzle into the crook of Stiles’ neck. A huff of hot air caressed Stiles’ skin. But teeth did not follow—no pain, only the press of fur and the carnage from the other wolf.

A warm tongue licked at Stiles’ throat, cleaning some of the blood away.

The sound of muscle contracting, the noise of bones snapping and rearranging. A transformation from fur that rippled and receded into skin.

Human skin. Human limbs.

The fur against Stiles’ throat vanished, replaced by the remnants of a beard caressing his skin. And then the familiar face looked down at him.

“Derek?” Stiles uttered his name in disbelief.

His husband was the wolf, living in the forest to be isolated from humans. From him.

Derek drew in shuttering breaths. The cold didn’t bother him—it hadn’t for a long time. But the feeling of Stiles fleeing him hurt more than any burn or cold.

“Now, you know what I am,” Derek uttered, his voice raw with disuse and pained by the expectation of rejection. “Tell me.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed.

“Tell me I disgust you.”

Stiles reached a hand up, hesitating when he remembered his gloves. He slipped the leather of a fingertip between his teeth, pulling the material off to be discarded. He reached his ungloved hand up, fingers touching Derek’s cheek—fingertips grazing Derek’s scars.

“Tell me,” Derek almost begged as he pressed into Stiles’ touch.

Stiles’ lips parted, words on his tongue. He couldn’t hate Derek—he couldn’t find disgust for his husband.

For whatever reason, every rational and scientific reason in his mind floated away. He would be the husband of a wolf if it meant he kept Derek.

“Tell me,” Derek breathed against Stiles’ lips.

Stiles closed his eyes, lifting his head to kiss Derek’s lips, uncaring of the blood staining them. The kiss was soft, too chaste—and cut short by inevitability.

The ice shattered beneath Stiles, his body falling into the freezing river beneath him as a cry escaped his lips. He was faintly aware of Derek’s hand grasping the broach of his cloak, dragging him back up through the water and to the surface.

And then there was nothing but the cold for Stiles.

Chapter Text

Stiles was trembling. He was sweating under the mountain of blankets piled on him. His mind was foggy, memories of Derek looming over him.

A wolf.

A black furred predator licking his throat.

A weight was resting on his thighs and stomach, pinning him down beneath quilts.

A cold compress was touching his head. He softly whimpered at the feeling.

A low growl emitted from the weight resting on him.

“Derek, snarl at me again and I will kick you out of this room,” Melissa’s voice reprimanded.

A snort of annoyance answered the healer.

Stiles blindly reached his hand down, his fingers touching fur. He threaded his fingers through the fur, feeling a purr rumbling from the wolf.

Derek.

~*~

Stiles didn’t want to be submerged in water, the icy currents still lingering in his thoughts to frighten him. If Derek hadn’t grabbed him, Stiles would have been trapped under the ice to drown.

“You’re running a fever,” Melissa explained as she attempted to pull the blankets from Stiles.

“I don’t—” Stiles' voice broke off. His mind was hazy, as if a cloud had enveloped him. He weakly struggled as he was pulled from the bed with surprising gentleness by arms much stronger than Melissa’s.

“It will help.”

That was Derek’s voice. It was Derek’s chest he was pressed against—Derek’s arms he was cradled in.

Stiles was aware he was naked—they both were as Derek lowered them into the cold water. He tensed against Derek, his fingers clutching at Derek’s shoulder as he pressed his face into Derek’s throat. “It’s cold,” his jaw trembled.

“Just a few minutes,” Derek explained as he tightened his hold on Stiles.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles managed to get out.

“No,” Derek countered. His voice was deep, a rumble against Stiles’ ear. “I am the one who is sorry.” He pressed a faint kiss to Stiles’ hair. “I hurt you, Stiles. Then I almost got you killed.”

“Please,” Stiles softly spoke. “Let us both be sorry.”

Derek was quiet after that, keeping Stiles pressed against his chest as he monitored his heartbeat. He would argue more when he was confident the fever left Stiles.

~*~

If Stiles slept, Derek kept to his wolf form. He laid in bed with Stiles, keeping his head resting over any part of him. He would snarl at anyone who tried to touch Stiles for too long.

If Stiles was awake, Derek took on his human form again. He helped Stiles bathe and eat and drink, easing him out of the fever that held him.

“Don’t,” Stiles weakly uttered as Derek pulled away from him. “Stay,” he sleepily spoke, resting his head on the pillow. “Stay with me, like this.”

Derek hesitantly slipped in to sleep beside him, his arms wrapped around Stiles in a protective manner. He pressed his nose against the pulsepoint of Stiles’ throat, closing his eyes as he listened to Stiles’ breathing ease.

Derek kissed the soft skin of Stiles’ shoulder before he allowed himself to sleep.

~*~

Stiles awoke very overheated. He squirmed, sweat dampening his skin as he struggled with the heavy blankets.

Muscular arms tightened around him, halting Stiles’ attempts to free himself from the heat.

Stiles lifted the blanket from his body, observing the arms that were around him—one scarred arm was wrapped securely around his waist, the other resting beneath the crook of his neck. He looked at the hand laying against the bed, outstretched across the various blankets.

Strong, capable hands that he had found himself in recent weeks wishing to see again.

And then Stiles realized he was feeling naked skin against his own.

Very naked.

A rush of heat crawled up Stiles’ neck and settled on his cheeks.

“You’re awake.”

Stiles’ heart fluttered at the grumble of Derek’s deep voice—the feel of Derek’s words rumbling through his chest and into his back. He reached his hand down to idly play with Derek’s fingers as a distraction from the heat of Derek’s breath against his neck. And from allowing his mind to wander lower, where he could feel a particular part of Derek pressed up against him.

Derek’s nose pressed against the short hairs of Stiles’ nape. “Don’t tell me the fever silenced you,” he softly huffed. “It will be a quiet marriage if you can no longer speak.”

Stiles couldn’t stop the small laugh that left him, the embarrassment falling away. “No such luck for you,” he answered. He swallowed down the scratchiness in his throat, wondering how long they had been sleeping for. He remembered asking Derek to stay with him.

“I’m sorry, Stiles.”

Derek’s voice was weaker than before, tinged with melancholy—sadness and guilt.

Stiles forced himself to turn in Derek’s hold, rotating his body to face his husband. He would be embarrassed about his nudity later, unable to take his eyes off of Derek’s eyes. He reached a weak hand up to touch Derek’s cheek, fingertips trailing down his jaw before resting against the curved bump of Derek’s throat.

Stiles thought of all the anatomical diagrams he had studied at the academy. None of them compared to Derek. The shape of Derek’s muscles, the broadness of his shoulders and the tampering of his waist. The way he held his body and moved with a grace some men went their lives without seeing.

Stiles’ fingers gently traced through the hairs of Derek’s beard.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles replied, looking at Derek. He felt the way Derek’s arms tensed. “I wasn’t trying to be cruel, but that doesn’t mean I hadn’t betrayed your trust.”

“I hurt you, Stiles.”

“And I hurt you,” Stiles argued.

Derek’s brow furrowed with a shake of his head. “It’s not the same.”

“You were…” Stiles stopped himself. He still didn’t understand the intricacies of his husband’s abilities—gifts, they could be called. But he wanted to understand. “Melissa said you were mid-shift?”

Derek blinked at Stiles. “Then you remember.”

Stiles pursed his lips, looking down at Derek’s clavicle. He lowered his index finger to touch a mole just over the dip in Derek’s throat. “Kind of difficult to forget your husband can turn into a wolf,” he mumbled.

Derek was quiet for a beat, his hold loosening. “And it disgusts you.”

Stiles realized, almost too late, that Derek was preparing to run. He looked up, grabbing Derek’s arms before he could even make a move to get out of the bed. He forced himself to bodily lay on Derek, despite his weakened state. “Don’t even think about running,” he huffed. “I was just making an observation—you don’t disgust me.”

Derek stared at Stiles, his eyes flickering over his face.

“I’m an academic, Derek,” Stiles began before biting the inside of his lip. He was tired, but he wanted to have this discussion. “Everything I know is thrown out the window, but that doesn’t mean I think you’re…” He sighed, his body sagging. “You’re not disgusting. You’re not an animal.”

Derek tensed at Stiles’ words.

“And I… I don’t care if no one ever took the time to teach you how to read,” Stiles softly stated as he reached a hand up to brush through the loose strands of Derek’s hair. He enjoyed Derek’s longer hair. “Because if you want… I’ll teach you. But if you never want to learn, that’s fine too.”

Derek tightened his hold on Stiles. “Thank you,” he softly uttered.

Stiles gently smiled before leaning closer, pressing a faint kiss to the corner of Derek’s lips. “Please don’t run away again,” he whispered, like a prayer spoken in the cathedral for a god to grant.

“Don’t ever go into the woods looking for me again,” Derek countered.

Stiles narrowed his glare at Derek. “Don’t disappear and make me worry.”

Derek sighed, his chest deflating and causing Stiles to realize their current positions.

Stiles had, perhaps subconsciously, thrown his leg over Derek in an attempt to keep him in bed. And now, he was very much straddling Derek’s thigh, his own thigh slotted between Derek’s. A blush of arousal and embarrassment rushed over Stiles’ cheeks.

Derek’s nostrils flared slightly before his eyes closed and he groaned. “Stiles,” he strained to say his name. “I can…”

Stiles tilted his head, pretending he couldn’t tell they were both aroused.

“I can smell the change in scents,” Derek growled.

Stiles blinked. “You can…”

“I can smell arousal.”

Stiles looked down, a feeling of shame hitting him. “You don’t have to smell it when you can feel it.”

Derek tipped Stiles’ chin up. “Don’t feel embarrassed.”

Stiles blinked a few times.

“I just meant…” Derek dropped his head to the pillow, his entire body relaxing except his arm on Stiles’ waist. He felt heat move across his own cheeks at the thought of finally touching Stiles how he’s wanted for months.

Stiles shifted his body, his hand pressed against Derek’s chest as he lifted his leg to straddle Derek completely. His breath hitched as their bare cocks brushed one another. He read about this—he had analytically approached preparing for sharing a bed with Derek before and after their wedding.

And then Derek was alert, his entire body coiling with tension as his hands settled like pistons on Stiles’ hips. “Stiles,” Derek garbled Stiles’ name through gritted teeth.

Elongated fangs.

Stiles brushed his thumb over Derek’s lips. “If you don’t want to, we don’t have to, but… know that I do. Want this, I mean. Want you.”

Stiles would take his time to marvel—later—at his husband’s strength. He wasn’t startled as much as impressed by Derek’s ability to sit up with just the strength in his core, Derek’s hands never leaving his hips with the motion.

Derek kept one hand on Stiles’ hip, fingers massaging his skin there as his other arm wrapped around Stiles’ torso. Derek’s hand splayed over Stiles’ shoulder blade, blunted human nails digging into Stiles’ skin.

Stiles gripped at Derek’s shoulders for purchase.

“I need…” Derek closed his eyes, biting down on his own lip. He tasted the copper tang of his blood. “Stiles, I don’t have control.”

Stiles lifted his hands to cradle Derek’s face. “Okay,” he started. “What do you need?”

Derek drew in deep breaths. “To ease into it, or I could hurt you.” He forced his eyes open to look at Stiles.

Stiles blinked at Derek’s eyes.

Bright, inky pools of crimson observed Stiles. There was a heat to Derek’s gaze, a type of glow embers emitted from a dormant fire.

“Okay,” Stiles’ voice was barely a breath shared between them. He hesitantly started to bring his lips to Derek before stopping. He looked at Derek, questioningly. “What if I… pleasure us?” His voice sounded foreign, completely outside of who he was as his body heated with arousal and shyness edged into one.

Derek nodded his head minutely. “Put your hands on us,” he instructed Stiles before drawing Stiles’ lips into a languid kiss.

Stiles softly whimpered, his moan lost to his ears as he dropped his hand to touch Derek’s cock. He bit his lip as he moved his hips in an undulating motion. He rubbed his own arousal against Derek’s, a pleasured gasp mingling between them both.

Derek’s hand traveled from Stiles’ shoulder to bury in his hair.

Stiles felt the pressure of pinpricks moving across his scalp, the wave of gooseflesh pimpling across his skin. He kissed Derek like a starving man as his hips and hand chased both their pleasure, speed quickening with urgency.

Derek’s hand dropped from Stiles’ hip to grasp just beneath his thigh. His fingers dug into Stiles’ ass as he helped Stiles move.

The prick of nails grew against Stiles’ skin—so close to his arousal, to the base of his aching cock.

“Derek,” Stiles moaned his name in breathy pants as he chased what they both wanted. Needed.

It didn’t take long for Derek’s body to tense, his release painting Stiles’ stomach—a claim almost as close to what his wolf craved. He wanted to fuck Stiles, to rut into him until the pleasure nearly edged into pain. He wanted to mark Stiles inside and out, as his. He pulled back the prickling at the base of his head that urged him to merely flip them, pull Stiles’ welcoming thighs open, and fuck into him with abandon.

He wouldn’t hurt Stiles again.

Never again.

Derek clawed the wolf’s instincts back, forcing it into silence as he lifted his head to expose his throat to Stiles. He was an Alpha, but Stiles was the one he submitted to. He would bend the wolf to understand that in time.

Stiles panted against Derek’s throat, his teeth scraping at the vulnerable stretch as his orgasm spasmed through him. He was gasping as Derek’s hands massaged his body, holding him close.

Stiles was vaguely aware of being lifted in Derek’s arms, unsure where they were going when Derek placed him in the bath tub. He blinked at Derek, watching his perfectly sculpted husband hastily wipe away the evidence of their coupling before putting on a dressing gown. Stiles leaned against the lip of the tub, “Where are you going?” He knew he sounded childish in his question, a pout on his lips sealing that fact.

Derek knelt, capturing Stiles’ lips in a firm kiss.

Stiles chased Derek’s lips when he pulled away.

“Getting you hot water,” Derek explained.

“Not to sound spoiled,” Stiles began, licking his lips and enjoying the way Derek’s eyes tracked his tongue. “But isn’t that what servants are for?”

Derek’s hand tightened in Stiles’ hair. “You aren’t as smart as they say if you think I’m going to let anyone else see you like this.”

Stiles felt a tumbling want cut through him, a soft smile touching his lips. “Hurry back,” he requested as he gave Derek a parting kiss.

He was dangerously close to admitting to being in love with his husband.

~*~

Laura tapped her nails out in a rhythm against the table. “I can’t believe he told you.”

Stiles was dividing his attention between two tomes Derek had given him access to—one was a grimoire of old magic pertaining to shifters, while the other was written by werewolf elders on customs, culture, and even the anatomy of them. He blinked when an elegant hand snatched the grimoire from the table in front of him. He looked across the table at Laura. “I was reading that.”

“I am talking to you,” Laura countered as she set the grimoire down. “I said, I can’t believe he told you about us.”

Stiles frowned. “Why wouldn’t my husband tell me he is a shifter?”

Laura blinked, opening and closing her mouth when an answer wouldn’t come.

“I’d never betray that trust, Laura,” Stiles gently explained. He thought of Derek’s reluctance to admit it—of Laura’s daughters and the uncertainty if the girls would have lycanthropy. “I … care about you all.”

Laura allowed a kind smile to grace her lips as she reached a hand out to cover Stiles’. “I know, I didn’t mean you’d do anything terrible. Just… it is a dangerous secret to have, and to burden you with it is… well, it is a lot.”

“I asked to know,” Stiles replied. “I want… I want to be with Derek. For the rest of my life.” A blush bloomed over his neck, threatening to rise onto his cheeks. “And I will protect him, and you all, to keep that a reality.”

Tears prickled Laura’s eyes as she released a faint noise that resembled a sob. She lifted her hand from Stiles’ as she attempted to stop any tears from falling. “Don’t make me cry,” she stated.

Stiles gently laughed before standing, moving around the table to embrace his sister-in-law. “We can blame it on postbirth emotions,” he offered.

Laura gently laughed as she hugged him back. “I’m so glad he has you,” she admitted. “Please, take care of him.”

Stiles carried Laura’s words with him as he left the library with his tomes, and a small novel he planned on sharing with Derek. He had read the short story as a child often, remembering his father teaching him to sound out the words.

“Your Grace.”

Stiles slowed his steps, turning to look at the voice. He looked around to make sure the guard was speaking to him before giving the woman his full attention.

The young woman caught her breath as she slowed her approach to Stiles.

Stiles had been surprised he didn’t hear her running.

The woman shook her head. “Are you tough to find—Derek said you’d be in the library, but of course you weren’t.”

Stiles tilted his head, intrigued that the young guard did not call Derek by title.

The guard straightened up, apparently catching on to Stiles’ suspicions. “His Majesty has asked that you join the council with Prince Derek.”

Stiles blinked at her. “Why?”

The woman looked surprised in turn. “They don’t really tell me things,” she offered with a shrug of her shoulders. “It was just, ‘Erica, go find Stiles’, you know how Derek barks orders.”

Stiles faintly smiled. He had heard Derek refer to Erica previously, but he had yet to meet her. “I understand,” he offered as he started to go the way she had come from.

“What did you pick up for reading?”

And Stiles then remembered what Derek had said about Erica—“She’s nosey.”

Erica leaned closer to Stiles to spot the books. She smirked when Stiles attempted to hide them. “It’s okay—any shifter with an Alpha knows what those look like.”

Stiles stopped walking, his gaze flickering over Erica.

Erica looked back at him, flashing a toothy grin at him as her eyes flared a brilliant golden color. “Derek’s our Alpha,” she explained before continuing her walk as if she expected Stiles to simply catch up to her. “And honestly, am I glad he finally found a mate, he’s been a pain in the ass. But you soften him.”

Stiles started off after her, a million questions running in his head.

~*~

Derek was keeping himself restrained by the simple reminder that Johnathan Stilinski was technically his father-in-law, and that Stiles would never forgive him if he hurt the man.

But it was a close call, which made sense why Peter sent Erica to find Stiles.

Stiles was good at speaking. He could calm his father and be the buffer Derek needed to not be the center of attention.

Because every time Johnathan looked at Derek, something coiled tightly in Derek’s chest. Defensiveness—a desire to hide his face from the man’s calculating eyes.

“Stiles agreed to the marriage and even the ceremony—you were invited to it by the way,” Peter continued to take a brunt of the dialogue, strategically moving about the room as if his goal wasn’t to keep Lord Stilinski’s gaze from Derek.

Derek always thought Peter had more in common with a peacock than a wolf with how well he preened.

“The letter arrived after the ceremony happened,” Lord Stilinski snapped, his hand slamming on the table over the laid out marriage license. “My son should never have been packaged up and shipped here to be a sacrifice for Gerard’s gain.”

Peter bristled, whirling around to face Lord Stilinski. “My nephew is a greater match than your son ever could have procured.”

Things were becoming heated, and Derek prayed Erica would find Stiles quickly. Stiles was always in the library, how difficult would it be to find him?

The doors opened, putting Derek’s hackles up before he caught the scent of Stiles.

Stiles stalled in the doorway, books in his arms as he stared at his father.

“Stiles,” Lord Stilinski quickly spoke his son’s name as he moved to get to him.

And Derek didn’t realize he was reacting—someone was getting close to Stiles, someone who hated their union.

Someone who could take Stiles away.

Peter grabbed Derek, having moved before Derek could to stop him.

Derek’s eyes flared red, only met by Peter’s defiant blue.

“Calm down,” Peter whispered. “Trust in Stiles.”

Peter’s words seemed to calm the anger in Derek’s chest. The wolf settled with a defiant growl before Derek turned his back on the scene before him.

“Father,” Stiles softly spoke. He shuffled the books awkwardly as John embraced him.

“I’m so sorry, Stiles,” Lord Stilinski spoke, putting some space between them to inspect Stiles. He seemed pleased to see Stiles was in good health, despite his reports that he had been sick.

Stiles’ eyes wandered over to Derek, frowning to see his back. He could detect the rigidness in Derek’s broad shoulders, and wondered if he was struggling with control.

Or perhaps his father was crueler than Stiles thought he could be.

“I plan on petitioning the courts if you don’t agree to it,” Lord Stilinski finally addressed Peter as he turned from Stiles.

Stiles blinked at his father.

“I am the courts,” Peter gruffly answered. “And I am standing by this union.” His gaze flickered to Stiles.

Peter had been surprised when Derek came to him days ago. While relieved to hear of Stiles’ recovery, he had been shocked when Derek asked for the grimoire and family tome.

“For Stiles to know more.”

“More?” Peter incredulously asked as he stared blankly at Derek.

“He knows,” Derek stated as he stared at the ground. “He knows and… he cares to know more.”

Peter wouldn’t have handed the grimoire and tome to anyone else. Stiles had surprised him, at every turn, and he hoped this would not end in disaster as the Argents had hoped.

If Stiles was willing to die in the dead of winter in a wolf infested forest to find his missing husband, Peter assumed he could trust the young man.

Stiles ignored Peter and John, instead choosing to walk over to Derek. He placed his books down on the table—next to his marriage license. He caught sight of Derek’s shaky signature, recalling how he had been hesitant to sign. But he did—Derek had managed to push beyond his own insecurities to guarantee their marriage was fully recognized.

Stiles touched Derek’s waist, his hand settling on the small of Derek’s back. He didn’t force Derek to turn, instead walking the extra steps around Derek to be facing him. He blinked at the shift in Derek’s features.

It was what the tome had called ‘beta shifting’—as it was the common shift for most Betas who had been born to other Betas. But children of Alphas, and Alphas themselves, had the ability to master a full shift into a wolf.

In addition to Derek, to Stiles’ knowledge, Peter, Laura, and Cora could achieve full shifts beyond their beta shifting—though Derek was the only Alpha among them.

Beta shifting can be a sign of agitation on the shifter’s part—anxiety, fear, even anger can cause these emotions to heighten and force a defensive response.

Stiles reached his hands up to cup Derek’s face. He forced Derek to not hide, aware of the way Derek shied from him even now. “Hey,” he softly spoke, taking a step into Derek’s space.

Derek’s beta shift was different from the drawings in the tome. Softer, not as harsh.

Derek’s brow had built up in musculature, his facial hair growing. His nose was scrunched, his lips parted to allow the fangs to be exposed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stiles whispered to Derek. “You’re my husband,” he continued, low enough for just Derek to hear—though Stiles wondered if Peter had sensitive enough hearing to eavesdrop. He placed his lips to Derek’s ear. “You’re my mate.”

Derek softly whined as he gently wrapped his arms around Stiles, pulling him in. He wasn’t being abandoned. He wouldn’t lose Stiles.

He wouldn’t be alone again.

Derek pressed his face into Stiles’ throat, forcing the shift to recede. He breathed in Stiles’ scent, comforted by its presence.

Stiles gently twisted Derek’s hair in his fingers as he looked over Derek’s shoulder at his father.

Lord Stilinski looked shocked by Stiles’ display.

“I’m staying, father,” Stiles firmly announced. He turned Derek with him when he felt Derek’s shift settle.

“If you’re worried about the divorce affecting your career, an annulment—"

“We consummated our marriage already,” Stiles firmly stated, despite the rush of embarrassment hitting him at having to say that to his father. “And I… I don’t want to leave.” He dropped a hand to hold Derek’s, pressing into Derek’s side. “I’m where I want to be, father. By Derek’s side.”

Derek lifted Stiles’ hand, pressing a chaste kiss to his knuckles.

Lord Stilinski sighed, pressing a hand over his eyes. “This is insanity,” he stated. “Gerard did this for a calculated reason, don’t you understand that?” He looked at Peter instead of Stiles. He knew his son wouldn’t change his mind.

“Gerard thought Derek was an animal,” Peter sharply answered.

Stiles tightened his hold on Derek’s hand when he felt his husband flinch.

“He wanted Derek to hurt Stiles,” Peter continued. “I did nothing to dissuade Gerard from believing that.” He looked at Derek with a sad expression. “I’m sorry for not standing up for you—that is my only regret in this.”

Derek briskly nodded, an acceptance of his uncle’s manipulations against Gerard.

Lord Stilinski pressed a hand to his forehead, turning to pace away from the others.

“Father,” Stiles started, though he never released his hold on Derek. “I may not have wanted this at first,” he honestly admitted.

Derek twisted his fingers with Stiles’ as he looked down at their hands.

“But I am happy.”

~*~

Derek’s brow was furrowed, his eyes tracing the curves of Stiles’ penmanship on the parchment. He bit his lip, teeth worrying as he sounded the words out in his head.

“Heart.”

Stiles placed a kiss against Derek’s clothed shoulder. “Good job,” he joyously smiled as he picked up the quill to write more.

Derek watched Stiles, eyes intent. His brow twitched as he recognized the word before Stiles finished.

“Lips.”

Stiles avoided looking at Derek.

“I think you have an intention,” Derek murmured as he leaned close to Stiles.

Stiles felt his blush. “I surely don’t know what you mean,” he coyly replied.

Derek dropped his mouth to the curve of Stiles’ exposed neck—where a bruised lover’s bite still bloomed over Stiles’ pale skin.

“Derek,” Stiles softly laughed at the tickle of Derek’s beard. He lifted his hand up to clutch at the back of Derek’s head, pressing Derek’s mouth down against his skin in encouragement. He sucked in a sharp breath when Derek pulled him into his lap. He squirmed as Derek’s hand traveled down his stomach to settle between his thighs. He panted heavily, biting down on his lip when Derek’s other hand pulled on Stiles’ shirt to expose more of his shoulder.

Derek’s mouth massaged Stiles’ neck, his shoulder. He leaned forward, curling around Stiles’ body as his mouth latched to Stiles’ throat.

Stiles dropped his head back on Derek’s shoulder, exposing his throat. His hips undulated against Derek’s hand.

They were in the library, hardly taking the care of avoiding scandal.

Derek jostled them both as he stood, forcing Stiles to stand with his support. He guided Stiles’ hands to the table. His hand settled around Stiles’ throat, turning Stiles’ head to look back at him. He kissed Stiles, capturing the weak moan that escaped Stiles when his foot kicked Stiles’ feet apart.

Clumsy fingers with elongated nails fumbled with Stiles’ trousers.

Derek yanked the ties harshly before pushing the material down Stiles’ hips.

“Derek, someone could see,” Stiles weakly argued.

“I’ll hear anyone approaching,” Derek reassured him. “But if you want to stop, tell me.”

Stiles gently shook his head. He almost didn’t care if someone saw them, merely thinking about Derek’s own reputation. “Please, keep going.”

What would courtiers gossip about if they knew the prince pleasured his husband in the library?

The scandal would burn through the halls.

Stiles watched Derek as he pulled away. His brow furrowed as Derek moved to kneel behind him, Derek’s hands firmly grasping his hips.

Derek’s lips fell to Stiles’ back, placing open mouthed kisses down each notch of Stiles’ spine.

Stiles shifted his body as his breath caught.

“Tell me to stop if you don’t like it,” Derek uttered.

“I thought you could smell my arousal,” Stiles retorted. His breathing stuttered when Derek’s hands gripped his ass, thumbs pressing the muscle into parting for Derek’s pleasure.

A sharp, gasping moan cracked from Stiles’ throat when Derek’s tongue slipped between. He lifted up onto his toes before sinking back into Derek’s exploring tongue. He wasn’t sure what he wanted as Derek feasted on him.

Stiles’ arms were shaking as he rocked back and forth, pleasure overwhelming him. Moans left him in waves. “Derek,” he softly spoke. “Please.”

Derek continued to massage Stiles with his tongue, his hand moving to squeeze the base of Stiles’ cock.

Stiles gasped loudly, his body crumpling over the table. His trembling hands pawed at his mouth in an attempt to silence his louder moans. His hazy mind suddenly crashed into clarity when Derek’s tongue left him. He forced his shaking arms to push himself off of the table. He felt like a newborn colt, unsteady on his legs. He heard Derek’s clothing move, pliant to his husband’s whims when he felt Derek’s strong chest against his back. He reached an arm back, hands burying in Derek’s hair. He felt Derek’s cock between his legs, brushing against the bottom of his taint—his balls, his cock. “Derek.”

Derek’s hands cradled Stiles’ hips.

Stiles looked down to see the head of Derek’s cock peaking between his thighs, beneath his cock. He pressed his hips back into Derek, rocking into a chaste rhythm. He bit his bottom lip as his eyes drifted to Derek’s hands.

Black, elongated claws stood stark against the paleness of Stiles’ skin. Hands holding Stiles’ hips in a punishing grip of control but never breaking the delicate skin.

“Squeeze your legs together.” Derek’s words were garbled from restraining the wolf.

Stiles realized what Derek was doing—fucking his thighs to bring them both off. He arched the small of his back further, pressing his ass back into Derek. He tightened his thighs together, biting his lip as he relished in the heat of Derek’s cock against his sensitive skin. He kept a hand buried in Derek’s hair, his other gripping Derek’s forearm for support.

In the recent weeks, they had spent more time discovering what they enjoyed with one another’s intimate embraces. Derek had immense control, sometimes to Stiles’ disappointment. He wanted Derek to fuck him, having spent too long preparing himself for what felt like a time that would never come.

But there were times like now.

When Derek let go of that control for a shred of a moment. And Stiles felt the power in his strength.

Stiles was like a doll, merely there to be pleasured without any effort on his behalf.

Derek’s body was pure strength beneath Stiles’ hands.

Derek’s thrusts were strong, practiced with calm ease, an elegant shift despite the storm of want burning deep.

Stiles could see the image they made in the barely reflective surface of the windows across from them. He turned his head, pressing his forehead against Derek’s.

He could feel his orgasm building even before Derek’s hand encircled his aching cock. He gasped, focused on tightening his thighs together to give Derek more. “Derek, I’m… you’re making me…” He bit down on his lip.

And then a strange sensation hit Stiles—the pinprick of teeth biting on his shoulder. He did his best to muffle his scream as pleasure pulsed through him, his orgasm torn from him as his limbs seized as Derek fucked him through the waves of pleasure.

Stiles was a little light headed as he was laid out on the table, his chest warm against the cold wood of the table. He could feel the warmth recede as coldness leaked from his shoulder—blood was trickling down his shoulder and rolling into the curve of his spine. He knew Derek bit him, not the first time they shared the connection.

An euphoria cocooned him at the connection of fangs making a claim. Stiles’ other shoulder already bared the still healing mark, even the brush of clothing sparking a deep want in Stiles at the reminder of Derek’s fangs in him.

His body was shuffled in an undulated rhythm—Derek was still rutting against him. He reached back, his hand touching Derek’s hips. He looked over his shoulder, seeing that Derek was straining himself, his fangs clasped tightly shut as he kept his eyes closed. He forced himself to upright, pressing his back against Derek’s chest. “It’s okay,” he started, panting as the remnants of his orgasm dissipated.

“Stiles,” Derek growled as he shook his head. “I can’t…”

Stiles reached his hand down between them, touching Derek’s cock.

Derek hissed at the contact, his hands moving to claw down into the table as his arms locked around Stiles. He was desperate not to hurt Stiles, but the pleasure of Stiles’ hand touching him was too much—too sensitive.

And then, Stiles felt it.

A large, bulb-like formation at the base of Derek’s cock.

Stiles turned to face Derek completely, looking down between them.

A knot had formed.

Stiles had read about an Alpha’s knot, and didn’t push to ask Derek questions about it.

A male Alpha’s knot is intended for breeding with one’s mate. Though unnecessary to produce children in couplings between two males, the knot is still known to randomly form in rare cases of mates. This is believed to be part of the Alpha’s affection towards his mate.

“Stiles, don’t,” Derek started, trying to bodily pull away from him.

“Hey,” Stiles softly uttered, his other arm wrapping around Derek’s waist to keep him close. “It’s okay—”

“It’s embarrassing,” Derek harshly uttered.

“Why?” Stiles pressed a kiss to Derek’s throat. “Why is it embarrassing? It’s a part of you. And I happen to like all parts of you.” He trailed his lips along Derek’s throat and down to his clavicle. “And I think this means you like all parts of me too,” he added, his hand twisting to apply pressure to the warm flared flesh as a smile graced his lips.

Derek’s hips bucked into Stiles’ hand, his breathing heavy.

“I read about it,” Stiles continued, his fingers massaging the sensitive skin as his eyes watched Derek for a sign of discomfort. “It’s rare to happen between two males.” He withdrew his arm from around Derek’s waist when he was certain Derek wouldn’t flee him. He used both hands to pleasure Derek—one hand moved along Derek’s shaft in practiced motions, while the other applied a pressure to Derek’s knot.

Derek whimpered, his hips thrusting into Stiles’ grip.

Stiles bit down on his lips as his eyes dropped from Derek’s face to his knot. He knew it could hurt, that he would have to prepare well beyond what he had to simply take Derek’s cock. But he wanted to feel it. He wanted to feel Derek. His own desire flaring to the surface again.

The knot can be painful if handled inappropriately. Preparation and communication is necessary between mates.

Male mates will need to advise a healer should something tear, though this is uncommon if the mating is taken seriously.

Well, Stiles was serious about Derek.

Stiles licked his lips. “Do you want to give me your knot?”

Derek shuddered, his breathing rapidly increasing as he thrust into Stiles’ grip harder—as if he was chasing the thought of fucking Stiles. He pressed his forehead to Stiles’ as his hands dug grooves into the table he had caged Stiles against.

But Stiles was more than a willing captive as his long fingers continued to practice different twists and movements to bring Derek pleasure.

“Because I want you to,” Stiles admitted as he looked up at Derek’s face, placing a soft kiss to the corner of Derek’s lips, giving in when Derek chased the parting kiss. “I might not be able to give you a baby,” he continued, sharing a breath with Derek. “But you can still breed me.”

“Fuck!” Derek snapped as his arms encircled and gripped Stiles tightly, his thrusting losing all grace and devolving into erratic movements.

Stiles felt Derek’s orgasm and release against his hands and parts of his exposed chest.

Derek’s entire body convulsed minutely in the wake of it, burying his face in Stiles’ shoulder as he whimpered, his hips driving forward with another orgasm.

“Are you still…”

“Yes,” Derek weakly admitted, his hips pressing against Stiles in experimental thrusts that shook Derek to his core. “I’ll keep…” He grumbled the rest as he mouthed at Stiles’ collarbone.

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” Stiles asked after pressing a kiss to Derek’s neck.

Derek grumbled, “No.”

“Was… was it okay?” Stiles shyly asked.

Derek weakly huffed out a laugh. “Better.” He pressed his temple against the side of Stiles’ head as he tightened his hold on him. His chest rumbled as he closed his eyes. “I think…” his features pinched. “I like you, Stiles.” He pressed his cheek into Stiles’, attempting to leave various scent markings on him.

Stiles felt his heart quicken, a soft chuckle leaving him. He reached his hand up to grip at Derek’s back for a purchase. He closed his eyes against the prickle of tears. “I like you too.”

~*~

“That’s utterly absurd.”

Stiles was glowering at the official message Gerard had sent with the full intention of causing a dispute. He wanted to tear the thing up, cast it into the fire.

“Well, it is good to know your stance on the matter,” Peter sighed as he lowered himself into the seat beside the table. He pressed his face into his hands as he massaged at the growing headache.

Stiles looked at Peter as he allowed the parchment to dangle from his hand. “I am here willingly.” He needed to know Peter understood that. “Perhaps at first I was… upset. But that had been pointed at Gerard, not even you. And especially not Derek.”

Peter leaned back in his chair, his arms hanging limply against the armrests as he observed Stiles. “As charming as that declaration is to me, it won’t prevent Gerard from spreading misinformation.”

Stiles frowned. “I’ll write my own declaration then,” he reasoned.

Peter stared at Stiles in disbelief. “You’d…”

Stiles nodded as he dropped Gerard’s message onto the table. “I will write a message to be sent out, wherever it needs to be, that I am the loving, devoted husband of the Prince. And that anyone who says otherwise does not speak for me and has nefarious reasons for doing so.”

Peter tapped his hands against his chair. “He’ll say it wasn’t you who wrote it.”

Stiles clenched his teeth. “Then I will declare it in person.”

Peter looked off to the distance. “If a war breaks out—”

“Don’t say that,” Stiles argued.

“But if it does,” Peter firmly stated. “We may not win again—at least not without a heavy cost.” He thought of Laura and her child. Once, Peter had thought of forcing himself to marry for an heir, but he never made the move—not when he could barter himself around as a potential commodity. It was a risky bet, completely driven by others becoming rabid with the desire to gain access to Peter via marriage.

It gained and lost him more than one ally.

And it had cost him Chris at the end of it all.

“Protect them,” Peter finally said as he looked at Stiles. “I have no qualms about putting my own head up for offer if it will spare them. But they will all need you.”

Stiles frowned. “I’m not a politician.”

“You’re an academic who has a silver tongue,” Peter replied. “I used to have my own charm and negotiating power. But I think my well has run dry now.” He looked down at the papers spread across the table. He had too many fires to put out, and Gerard was attempting to burn down everything.

“Let me speak to Derek about this,” Stiles offered, looking at the discarded parchment that held his grandfather’s hideous signature. “And then… well, we will see.”

Peter nodded. “You control the board, young Stilinski.”

~*~

Stiles hadn’t been surprised to discover Derek resting beneath a tree closer to the forests than the residence’s sprawling cultivated land. He appreciated that Derek didn’t flee when Peter first told them of Gerard’s attempts to cause issues.

Issues being a polite way to put it.

Gerard had made the claim that Stiles had fled from the Hales the night he was in the forest, only to be hunted down by Derek and dragged back to the palace.

Which was utterly ridiculous considering it was Derek who had been missing and Stiles had been determined to find him.

But there were already some who latched onto the scheme.

Derek was reading beneath one of their preferred trees.

Stiles preferred it best because there was a formation of roots at the base that allowed them to sit in comfort for hours.

Derek looked up, dropping the book to his side as he smiled up at Stiles. He shifted his body to accommodate Stiles when he dropped down between his legs.

Stiles pressed his back against Derek’s chest, drawing Derek’s arm over his stomach as he entwined their fingers. “What are you reading?”

Derek lifted the book, his thumb flipping the cover to show Stiles. “I’m still… very slow,” he offered. “And I don’t know all the words.”

Stiles took the book from Derek, opening it so they both could look at the pages. “Reading speed is different for everyone,” he offered, his finger brushing over the pages as he read where Derek had been. “You’re doing really well.”

Derek dropped his nose to press into Stiles’ hair, just behind his ear. His lips brushed along the shell of Stiles’ ear. “I have a great teacher.”

Stiles smiled, allowing Derek to cocoon him. He looked over the field of wildflowers around them, memories of the academy lingered for him. He had been happy there, but not like this.

“What did Peter have to say?” Derek asked, his mouth dropping down to Stiles’ neck. He rubbed his nose along the soft curve of Stiles’ shoulder.

“Gerard sent an… official inquest, of sorts.”

Derek’s brow furrowed with uncertainty.

“He is making the claim that I was fleeing into the forest,” Stiles started as he dropped the book down beside Derek’s thigh. He twisted his fingers around Derek’s, his thumb brushing over Derek’s knuckles. “That I was trying to escape…” He bit his lip.

“Me,” Derek supplied with a defeated sigh.

“I’m going to handle it,” Stiles replied, shifting his body to turn onto his side. He pressed a kiss to Derek’s jaw. “I’m going to make a declaration.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Derek replied.

“I know,” Stiles agreed. “But Gerard is the problem, and I can handle it.”

Derek reached a hand up to run his fingers through Stiles’ hair.

“Can we stay like this?” Stiles sighed as he closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the base of Derek’s throat.

“Always,” Derek answered, tightening his hold on Stiles.

Stiles was giddy with the knowledge that Derek enjoyed cuddling, even without sex. It didn’t matter where they were, Stiles merely had to look at Derek and his husband could read his wants.

It was nice to be seen.

~*~

Stiles smiled with pride as he clapped for Derek, his ribboned favors tied loosely around his own wrist. A number of visiting knights had taken it upon themselves to ask for his ribbons—all rebuked with satisfaction.

It didn’t matter who Gerard sent to Stiles, no one would bare his mark except his husband.

Stiles descended the steps of the elevated box he had been occupying with Laura and Peter. Cora was busy preparing for the archery competition, though he suspected she was merely interested in Lady Allison Argent—Stiles’ cousin and the only Argent the Hales cared to see win anything.

Stiles didn’t hide his smile as Derek approached him, offering up his arm to Derek. He watched as his husband carefully pulled the ties apart to free the ribbon. His pulse quickened when Derek lifted the inside of his wrist to soft lips.

A kiss to Stiles’ pulse point, a gentle reminder of his husband’s devotion.

Stiles took the ribbons from Derek to tie along his upper arm, securing them around his armor.

“You’re putting them all on me?” Derek feigned surprise, already knowing Stiles had been determined to show even more affection since Gerard’s absurd attempt to paint their union as unhappy.

Stiles snorted. “As if I want anyone else to carry my colors,” he explained. He lifted his lips to Derek’s, his arm wrapping around Derek’s shoulders to steady himself when Derek’s arms encircled his waist to lift him.

Stiles would have happily remained enthralled in their kisses if it wasn’t for the clearing of a throat.

Derek ceased their kiss to glare at Peter over Stiles’ shoulder.

“Should I just invite the court to watch you stain your marriage bed?”

Stiles blushed deeply as he ducked his head, releasing his hold on Derek.

“You’re just jealous,” Derek grumbled before leaving a fleeting kiss to Stiles’ temple.

“If I wanted Stiles, I would have married him,” Peter waved away Derek’s barb with little care.

The growl that left Derek was low, intended for another wolf to hear.

Stiles placed a hand over Derek’s chest. “He’s not my type,” he whispered to Derek, kissing his jaw. “Win for me?” He looked at Derek.

Derek’s expression softened when looking at Stiles. He offered a sure nod, as if Stiles’ request was simple.

And for the wolf, it was.

~*~

Derek was well aware something was going on when Laura grabbed his attention, pulling him away from Stiles. He had been less suspicious when his sister deposited the twins in his lap, and asked him to care for them. In Laura’s favor was the fact that the twins seemed taken with Derek. More accurately, the twins liked Stiles and Derek happened to smell the most like him.

But now that the girls had been put to sleep, and the celebrations waned enough for Derek to be excused without causing scandal, he retired to his room. The phantom remains of Stiles’ scent lingered in the corridors as he grew closer to his destination. He opened the doors to his bedroom, an instant feeling of relief hitting him at seeing the doors between their rooms left open.

It meant Stiles was likely still awake, and perhaps if luck was kind, intentionally waiting for Derek.

An unfamiliar herbal fragrance caught Derek’s senses as he undid the various fastenings of his ceremonial jacket. He never once felt a pride in the material, until he realized that Stiles would be mirroring him now. Or when Stiles would properly fix different tassels or the placement of Derek’s cape. Any excuse to have Stiles pay him even the smallest of attention was something Derek would gladly endure.

Derek moved to sit on the ornate piece of furniture at the end of his bed. He lifted his foot, folding his leg against his chest as he reached his hands down to undo the laces of his boots. Intricate, ornate, ostentatious. He would have preferred the boots he wore almost daily, broken in from walking the fields.

He dropped the boot with no care, shuffling his weight as he deposited his attention to his other leg. He was in the middle of unlacing the boot when it hit him.

The gentle thrum of a heartbeat.

Nervous.

Excited.

Prey.

Derek felt the knot untwist in his stomach when he breathed in the scent of Stiles.

Warmed honey. Bergamont. Mint. Lavender. A headiness of ambered wood and wildflower.

“I didn’t want to assume.”

Every hair on the back of Derek’s neck rose. He drew in a breath through his mouth, knowing that another lungful of Stiles’ scent might throw him into a complete shift. He forced himself to look up, greeted by the image of Stiles standing in the arch of their shared doorway.

Stiles shifted his weight, peering up through his eyelashes at Derek as he waited.

It was agony to feel Derek’s eyes on him, with such an intense space between them.

Derek blinked a few times before pulling his second boot off completely. He cleared his throat as he stood. “Assume what?” His voice was rough.

A blush climbed Stiles’ neck to settle on his cheeks. His fingers played with the ties of the dressing gown he was drowning in.

Derek’s dressing gown.

The rich black and emerald detailing was darker against the paleness of Stiles’ skin. And Derek found he liked it better on Stiles than anywhere else.

Well, perhaps the floor beneath Stiles’ feet would be his favorite place for it.

Stiles walked the sure steps to bring himself into Derek’s reach. He gently bit down on his lower lip before answering, “That tonight you’d want to share more than just sleep.” His hands twisted in the ties, a repetitious twitch of motion. “I maybe went too far by wearing your robes.”

Derek reached his hand out, hesitating for a moment before he gently touched Stiles’ clothed ribs, his gesture holding Stiles from swaying away. “I prefer them on you,” he answered to reassure him. His eyes roamed over Stiles, from his exposed feet to the way the robes were tightly tied to keep the material in place. The way Stiles’ nimble hands were reaching for him.

Stiles placed his hands on Derek’s shoulders, his fingers light against Derek’s muscle.

Stiles’ clavicle was exposed, his bare sternum rising and falling under Derek’s gaze. “I read, um,” his breath shuttered as his chest rose and fell at the feeling of Derek’s hand settling low on his hip. “That certain scents can help calm the wolf. And are used for certain ceremonies.”

Derek’s other hand mirrored his grip on Stiles. Hands filled with the tender touch of Stiles’ body in his space. He hummed to let Stiles know he was aware of his explanation.

Stiles stepped into Derek’s space, his eyes dropping to watch Derek’s legs part slightly. He lifted his hands to Derek’s face, his fingers threading through Derek’s hair as he tilted Derek’s head back. He looked down at Derek, watching the red flare flicker and glow beneath Derek’s irises. “I meant what I said,” he explained, his cheeks burning with a blush of desire.

Derek’s hands dropped, his thumbs pressing into the curve of Stiles’ furrowed hips. He welcomed Stiles’ reflexive move, the way he leaned into his grip.

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. His thumb dipped to brush over Derek’s jaw. “I like all parts of you.”

Derek exhaled a deep breath, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

“I’ve been … um, practicing,” Stiles offered, with a shy smile. “To make sure I was ready.”

“Ready,” Derek repeated the word.

Stiles leaned down, brushing his lips over Derek’s. Draped to hug Derek, his hands caressing every part of his scalp and neck, his fingers moving to dig down into the muscle of Derek’s back. Their tongues pressing for each caress.

“Whatever you want to give me,” Stiles spoke between breaths.

Derek released a soft chuckle, pressing another kiss to Stiles’ lips. “I want to give you everything.”

Stiles’ hands dropped to the ties of the dressing gown, pulling the fastenings. He parted the material with little hesitation. He bit his lip when Derek’s hands parted the material further to expose more. He stumbled back when Derek stood into his space, his balance steadied by Derek’s arms.

Derek’s arms slipped between the material and Stiles’ soft skin. He gripped at Stiles, his hands caressing Stiles’ back—his shoulders, his ribs.

The material was off Stiles’ shoulders, forgotten in a pile pooled around Stiles’ legs.

“Derek,” Stiles breathed out, his gentle moan lost by Derek’s kiss. His naked body was flush against Derek’s clothed one. He gripped at Derek’s shoulders as he exchanged kisses, his thoughts foggy as he gave over to Derek’s directive. His small gasp of surprise tumbled into a laugh when Derek lifted him. He moved, languid and pliant to be laid out on the bed, a wave of gooseflesh rushing over his bare skin from the caress of the soft fur blanket covering the mattress.

Stiles tried to not reflexively cover himself when Derek pulled away to strip out of his own clothes. He watched, hungry to see Derek’s naked body. He thought, more than once, about Derek when he was practicing for this night. He was in disbelief when he realized he hadn’t seen Derek completely naked. He felt Derek’s naked body against him, but he never looked at Derek in his entirety.

Stiles leaned on his elbows, sitting up to watch as Derek stripped out of his shirt and trousers. His eyes dipped, unashamed of staring. He laid back, thighs parting for Derek. There was nothing quite like the feel of Derek’s heavy body over his, the weight keeping him centered. He accepted Derek’s kiss, his arms curled around Derek’s back as he sucked in a shuttering breath at the feel of Derek’s bare cock against his.

Stiles moved his thigh, brushing against Derek’s hip. His fingers dug deep in the muscle of Derek’s shoulder blade. He released a heavy breath when Derek’s lips fell to his jaw and throat.

Stiles moaned, loudly, when Derek’s mouth covered his nipple. His thighs tightened.

Lips, tongue, teeth. A nip at his collarbone. A lover’s bite sucked into the soft skin of his throat.

Stiles tilted his hips, his eyes fluttering when Derek pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Derek’s hand slipped from Stiles’ hip, pressing down Stiles’ body to slip fingers in a testing manner. An involuntary groan left him when feeling just how pliant and slick Stiles was.

Practicing, Stiles had said.

“What’s easiest?” Stiles asked between gentle pants.

Derek closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against Stiles’ collarbone. He breathed deep, his wolf exhaling a content rumble. “Stiles, we shouldn’t…” He grimaced. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Stiles ran his fingers through Derek’s hair. “You won’t,” he spoke against Derek’s skin, his lips grazing Derek’s forehead. “Because we won’t force anything.”

Derek lifted his head, looking at Stiles. He kissed Stiles, seeking his lips for that reassurance.

Stiles cradled Derek’s face. His fingers were experimental, gentle in every touch of Derek’s skin. But he didn’t avoid the cuts or burns. He accepted them, just as he had with every other part of Derek. “And if you’re worried, we don’t ever have to.”

“You’re too perfect,” Derek softly breathed. He moved to sit back on his haunches, forcing himself to place space between him and Stiles. He couldn’t keep himself plastered over Stiles and make an informed decision.

Stiles’ hand touched Derek’s chest, his abdomen. He allowed his hands to drop to Derek’s, the ones placed over his hips. His eyes drop down to his parted legs wrapped around Derek’s waist.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Derek finally stated, his eyes closed against the burn. “But I want you.”

Stiles sat up, closing the space between them. He pressed a kiss to Derek’s cheek. “Would you let me… be inside you?”

“If that’s what you want,” Derek answered, looking at Stiles. “I’ve never… but I wouldn’t mind if it was you.” He honestly answered, pressing his cheek into Stiles’ hand.

“Derek, I trust you, and you clearly trust me,” Stiles explained. “And while I may like to try that some day, I would like to… try it this way,” he muttered, a blush returning as he faintly smiled at Derek. “I’ve been studying.”

Derek faintly laughed.

Stiles smiled as he kissed Derek. “What if,” he started with a faint hum, leaning forward to gently nip at Derek’s ear. “I’m on top.” He moved with ease, shifting to move their bodies. He wasn’t surprised when Derek moved at his prodding and guidance.

Derek allowed Stiles to move him, hands pressed over his chest. He had never enjoyed being touched by another, until Stiles. He leaned back onto the mattress, the inclined pillows. He wanted to watch Stiles from every angle.

Stiles moved with ease, his legs shifting to straddle Derek’s hips. He gently bit his bottom lip when Derek’s hands settled on his hips.

Derek tightened his hold on Stiles. He moved with ease to sit up, collecting Stiles in his arms as he allowed his lips to explore Stiles’ body.

Stiles buried his hand in Derek’s hair, fingers tightening at the sensations of Derek’s tongue caressing over his skin. He bit his lip, breath sucking in sharply as he let his head tilt backwards.

“Set the pace,” Derek instructed Stiles. “Please,” he released a pained sound. “Set our pace, Stiles.”

As things would have it, reading about and actually taking an Alpha werewolf’s knot was not the same.

Much more complex. Much longer.

Much more pleasurable.

Stiles gained confidence with Derek’s hands on him, his moans of pleasure louder than he intended as he moved rhythmically. He gasped in surprise when Derek shifted, his body supported by Derek’s strength as he leaned back—the stretch of his pale neck on display had Derek’s fangs itching to bite down where his mating mark belonged.

Stiles was dizzy with their movement, surprised when Derek lifted him, pressing him face down into the blankets and pillows. He lifted his hips for Derek, aware of the next part from his readings. His whole body was on fire in the wake of wherever Derek’s hands touched him.

“Is this okay?” Derek spoke clearly, his lips pressing languid kisses along the notches of Stiles’ spine.

Stiles nodded, “Yes, Derek, please.” If his words didn’t convince Derek, the curve of his back as he pressed his ass up in the air should have been enough.

Presenting.

Derek’s movements grew rough for the first time.

Stiles gasped, his hands gripping the blankets as he endured the desperation in their fucking. He wasn’t even sure what he was saying—begging, his voice had grown hoarse from his moans. He was trying to stay still, the faint reminder of Derek’s claws gripping his naked hips.

Through the sharp and fast movements of their rutting, Stiles felt the telltale stretch that started to apply more pressure with every other thrust.

“Derek,” Stiles moaned when a hand grabbed his neck tightly. Then he was on his knees, face torn away from the bedding. The fast, savage movements of before replaced by the slow undulations of an Alpha werewolf preparing to knot his mate.

Stiles gasped, knowing he was babbling when he turned his head to kiss Derek. He didn’t care about fangs, or beta shifts. He needed Derek’s mouth on him. The pressure was tearing him apart, and his instincts told him to try and get away.

Prey fleeing.

He remembered reading that part of the grimoire. The warning that rejecting an Alpha would end in carnage for both partners.

An Alpha didn’t survive hurting their mate.

Stiles clenched his teeth, his eyes screwed shut as Derek’s knot ground into him. And then he felt it—the impossible stretch and touch against his prostate. He gasped, his orgasm taking him by surprise. His entire body coiled tightly, his fingers digging into Derek’s arms for something to hold onto.

And then Derek’s teeth tore through his shoulder.

Stiles experienced euphoria, another orgasm jerking through his body as Derek held him.

Derek growled against Stiles’ skin, his hips still grinding into Stiles as his knot finally took, his own ongoing orgasm well started. He shook with each release. His hand massaged Stiles stomach, his stupid wolf wishing they could have a child. He was embarrassed until Stiles’ fingers threaded through his, keeping his hand over Stiles’ belly.

Afterwards, Stiles remembered falling asleep on top of Derek. His fingers were massaging Derek’s neck and scalp as he remained seated in Derek’s lap. He turned his head, giving Derek’s mouth access to his neck.

Derek buried his face in the curve of Stiles’ throat, scenting and marking his skin, his hands kneading the tension out of Stiles’ hips and thighs as his tongue lapped at his mating bond. He listened to each calming beat of Stiles’ heart, placing delicate kisses to Stiles’ inflamed skin whenever his breath hitched.

Stiles’ limbs were loose and pliant as his fuzzy mind slipped into exhausted sleep. He fought, as best he could against the heaviness in his eyes. He felt Derek’s words rumble through his chest, a gentle rhythm that soothed Stiles.

“I’ve got you,” Derek placed a kiss into Stiles’ hair, tucking Stiles’ head into the crook of his shoulder. His hand moved in languid motions, caressing up and down Stiles’ bare spine in a comforting manner.

Stiles hummed, pressing a chaste kiss against Derek’s throat. He shivered at the feeling of Derek’s knot connecting them again. He wasn’t sure how often his body could take it, or if it would happen every time.

Experiences vary, was all the tome said.

He was safe with Derek.

He was happy.

With Derek.

Stiles remembered waking up overheated, sweat clinging to his skin. He pried his eyes open, looking out into the space of the room. Derek’s room. He smiled to himself when he felt Derek’s arms around him. He blinked away the blurriness, lifting his head a little to realize that it was Derek’s chest cushioning him. He smiled as he watched Derek sleep, scrunching his body up some as he wiggled against the fur blanket. He sighed, looking down at his body before pulling at the blanket. He paused, looking at their naked bodies together.

Derek’s body was a rival in anatomical fitness. His arms were defined in the sharp curve of their strength; his chest and abdominal muscles flexed and rose with each breath he took. The furrow muscles of his hips were obscured by Stiles’ own body covering him.

And scars littered his skin.

Some were small, almost invisible to the naked eye, though evident by touch. Others were silver in tone, flattened by age and healing. Then there were the prominent scars, echoing the ones on Derek’s face that had caused his initial recoil from Stiles.

Stiles’ hand dropped to some of the worse scars marring Derek’s body, one along the side of his ribs.

The scarring was almost bubbled, as if the skin had been burnt to a degree.

Stiles’ fingers traced the outline of the scar, sadness clenching in his stomach as he tried to imagine what Derek had endured. All because of his name—on and off the battlefield.

“Are you okay?”

Stiles settled his hand on Derek’s ribs, tilting his head up. He wasn’t surprised to find Derek’s eyes still closed. “Overheated,” he mumbled, feeling a yawn growing.

Derek grumbled, grabbing the offending blanket and tossing it to the side.

Stiles softly laughed. “Now we’re naked.”

One of Derek’s eyes peeked open to look at Stiles.

Stiles faintly smiled at him.

Derek curled, turning their bodies to plaster his own body over Stiles.

Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek, accepting the change in position. He continually ran his fingers through Derek’s hair, brushing the hair away from Derek’s shoulders and neck as Derek pressed his face into Stiles’ chest.

Stiles rubbed the sole of his foot along the curve of Derek’s bare calf.

“Stiles,” Derek gruffly spoke his name, a soft growl in his voice.

“Hm?” Stiles hummed in mock innocence.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Derek mumbled, finally lifting his head.

Stiles smiled as he cupped Derek’s cheek, his thumb reaching to brush Derek’s eyebrow.

“But we will end up fucking again if you keep doing that.”

Stiles coyly pursed his lips. “This?” He pressed his foot harder against Derek’s calf.

A red shine glittered across Derek’s irises.

Stiles gently bit his bottom lip. “I’m a little sore,” he confessed. He pressed a kiss to Derek’s lips before adding, “But my mouth is fine.”

It turned out, Derek’s knot didn’t happen every time.

Chapter Text

Derek couldn’t sleep.

He was listening to Stiles’ breathing—Stiles’ heartbeat beneath his ear. He was resting against Stiles’ chest, possessive in the way he didn’t want to lift his weight away. He enjoyed the way Stiles’ fingers had played in a rhythmic loop with the end strands of his hair before sleep overtook.

His lack of sleep had nothing to do with his new bed partner, and everything to do with his instincts.

The wolf didn’t want to put any space between them.

The wolf laid claim. The wolf knew what it wanted. What they wanted.

Stiles.

Mate.

The need to protect Stiles thrummed through Derek like electricity.

Perhaps that was the cause of his exhaustion, the hyper vigilance that gave way to sleep. Perhaps that was why he didn’t wake when the servant entered their room.

A soft intake of breath, a murmur of surprise before the heartbeat backed out of the room and disappeared.

Derek caught the scent when they were dressing for the day. He had to fight his wolf to let Stiles out of bed, let alone dress. He watched Stiles, eyes tracking his husband’s movements with ease.

Stiles kept looking over his shoulder at Derek, a shy smile on his lips before returning to his morning dressing routine.

“I think a servant saw us,” Derek finally admitted when he relented and allowed Stiles to fix the fastenings of his shirt.

“Oh?” Stiles uttered, his concentration on the various ties.

“We woke much later than usual,” Derek offered, a small smile pulling at his lips as he watched Stiles concentrate.

“Well,” Stiles started, pausing only because one tie was expressing more difficulty than the others. “Hopefully the spread of rumors will do most of the work for us.”

Derek arched an eyebrow at Stiles when he looked up at him.

“I don’t think I would be content laying underneath you if I didn’t like you,” Stiles answered, leaning up on his feet to kiss Derek. He faintly laughed into their kiss when Derek lifted him off the ground. “Derek, we have responsibilities.” He knew he wasn’t making a great argument, not when his arms wrapped around Derek’s neck. He wanted to spend the day with his husband.

“Should stay here,” Derek uttered between kisses.

“We can retire early,” Stiles promised.

Derek huffed as he set Stiles’ feet back on the floor, placing a gentle kiss to Stiles’ lips. “If you promise.”

~*~

Derek pressed his hand against the wall, a cushion of Stiles’ head as they kissed. He was caging Stiles into the hard rough surface of the garden’s statue.

Stiles clung to Derek, his hands tightened against Derek’s chest, fingers twisted in Derek’s shirt. His hand strayed, traveling up to touch Derek’s throat, creeping to settle around Derek’s neck. He faintly moaned when Derek pulled back, chasing after Derek’s lips. “Not fair.”

Derek faintly smiled before kissing down Stiles’ neck, sucking and biting at Stiles’ throat.

Stiles tightened his hold on Derek, leaning his head back. “Derek,” he breathed out. His throat was decorated in bruises from Derek’s mouth, the delicious blossoming reminder of tantalizing pain whenever Derek’s gentle lips traced.

They had been walking through the outdoor corridors, heading towards the gardens. And it had been Stiles who looked over his shoulder at Derek before running through the small gardened maze. He laughed when Derek had caught up to him barely a few moments later.

It had been Stiles’ intent to be caught, but he only laughed when Derek wrapped arms around his waist and hauled him back towards one of the hedges.

Stiles couldn’t recall much, not after Derek dropped to his knees and practically tore the ties of Stiles’ trousers apart. He clapped hands over his mouth, desperate to keep the noises silenced when Derek’s mouth enveloped him. His leg was hanging, uselessly, over Derek’s shoulder as Derek practically lifted and bodily pinned him.

Stiles dropped one hand to tug at Derek’s hair—just how Derek seemed to enjoy if the faint growl of contentment was to be believed. He tried to concentrate on the cold air, the fact that they could be discovered by anyone. His breath hitched with each movement of Derek’s tongue and wet mouth. It almost didn’t seem fair that Derek could tell what Stiles enjoyed most just by his scent.

But Derek had become less shy in telling Stiles what he wanted.

And what Derek wanted was Stiles.

Wherever, and whenever, he wanted him.

Stiles removed his hand from his mouth to grab at the statue behind him for balance. “Derek, please,” he begged. He moaned when he felt a saliva coated finger breach him. His orgasm was a loud cry, his foot digging into Derek’s back as his entire body convulsed. His body felt weak when Derek slipped his leg off his shoulder. He faintly laughed when Derek steadied him before they were kissing again.

No one saw the way Derek pleasured Stiles.

They saw the bruises on Stiles’ skin.

They saw the way Stiles winced sometimes when sitting.

That night, they saw Derek using Stiles for his pleasure, Stiles on his knees with Derek’s cock in his mouth and strong hands clasping his head in a vicious rhythm.

They didn’t hear Stiles’ soft “please” as he lapped at Derek’s cockhead beforehand.

How could anyone know that Stiles’ hands were gripping at Derek’s thighs in the anticipation of feeling the strength in them? Not begging for mercy but for more.

Not the rhythm that Stiles set and took painstaking time to get Derek to agree to. Not the way Derek had to be convinced to treat Stiles at all roughly, only with the constant reassurance from Stiles that he would know when things pushed too far—“you know when I am scared, and when I am experiencing pleasure. I will tell you before it is too much, Derek, but I also trust you.”

No.

They saw a beast abusing a gentle flower.

And it made Gerard’s job easy.

~*~

“This is fucking ridiculous!” Stiles tore and crumpled the official announcement Gerard had made, throwing it with great force into the fire. He was rabid with anger, wishing he could kick even the fire despite all his rationale.

“It’s already been spread.”

Stiles stilled his pacing to look at Derek.

Derek was perched on the end of their bed, his eyes staring hollowly at the fireplace, completely unseeing of Stiles.

A melancholic red shined through his irises.

“There will be lines drawn, houses divided, and another war.”

Stiles moved quickly when he heard the break in Derek’s voice, pressing into Derek’s space. He had to physically press his knee between Derek’s to part his husband’s thighs to make room for him.

Derek adjusted, slowly accommodating Stiles.

Stiles ran his hands through Derek’s hair, tilting Derek’s head back to look at him. “There won’t be,” he forcefully stated.

Derek swallowed down the lump in his throat. He couldn’t lose his family again. “Stiles, he’s—”

“He’s a monster, Derek,” Stiles sharply stated. “Do you understand that? I am telling you, Gerard Argent is the monster. He always has been.”

Derek’s jaw tensed, but his hands gently settled on Stiles’ waist. “I can’t lose you.” His voice was soft, almost childlike against the quiet of their room.

Stiles pressed a kiss to Derek’s forehead, his lips traveling down his cheek before settling on his lips. He didn’t press for more than he felt Derek willing to give, pulling back as he brushed a thumb beneath Derek’s cheekbone. “You won’t. Because I am not going anywhere.”

Derek rested his forehead against Stiles’ clavicle, allowing his husband to hug his upper body. He wanted to make a nest around Stiles and snarl at anyone who came close. He settled for his hands gripping tightly along Stiles’ shoulderblades, pulling his husband bodily into him.

~*~

Derek was going to snap the wood beneath his hands if his grip tightened any more.

Stiles’ hand soothingly moved across Derek’s knuckles, fingertips rhythmically rubbing until Derek relented and allowed his fingers to splay in order to thread with Stiles’.

“Your father is smart enough to send you,” Peter uttered as he stared at Chris. “That, or a coward and hoping I would have harmed you.”

Chris snorted, shaking his head. “Likely all of that,” he crossed his arms over his chest. “I think a trial is ridiculous, but somehow he has convinced other houses that a trial may be necessary.”

“What…” Stiles frowned, looking down at his hand holding Derek’s. “What would this trial even be?”

“It would be a way for them to present… evidence that Derek is abusing you,” Chris looked uncomfortable with whatever details he was omitting.

“Am I supposed to show them how willingly I sit on his cock?”

Derek was relieved he could actually still laugh, lifting Stiles’ hand to his lips.

“Stiles,” Chris groaned, shutting his eyes. “A consummation ceremony isn’t needed when supposedly there are already witnesses.”

Stiles bristled at that. “While Derek and I haven’t always been private, I assure you, I have always been a willing participant. If anything, I am the one abusing him with my needs.”

“Some witnesses say they heard you crying before seeing Derek…” Chris grimaced.

“Clearly they’ve never been fucked well,” Stiles snapped. “How is it our fault that they can’t tell the difference between a cry of pain and a cry of pleasure?”

Peter actually laughed, unable to contain his amused chuckle.

Derek, however, was still solemn despite Stiles’ enthusiasm to describe their sex lives in whatever detail necessary.

“Couldn’t I…” Stiles frowned. “Could I be my own witness?”

Peter looked at Stiles, his smile faded. “They’ll think I put you up to it.”

Stiles shook his head. “Not if I play my role well enough.” He looked down at Derek’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “I plan on keeping my husband, which is all the motivation I need.”

“Perhaps starting with a gathering would be enough,” Chris suggested, rubbing a hand over his furrowed brow. “Surely, all in attendance would witness how Derek treats Stiles then. And this would be a moot point.”

Stiles looked to Derek, wishing to know his feelings on the matter. It would be a night of stares—those around them would be scrutinizing every move they made.

“What is the likelihood Gerard would…” Derek’s brow furrowed before he closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, moving to stand. His hand slipped from Stiles’ in an action that felt more like defeat than necessity. “If there are guarantees that he won’t hurt Stiles.” He turned his back on Peter and Chris, leaving the room the same way he entered it—completely silent.

Stiles stared after Derek, having stood when Derek did. He twisted his fingers together, his nails digging at the skin of his cuticles. He drew in a heavy breath. “He doesn’t care about himself enough,” he softly confessed.

“He’s still the child who lost everything.”

Stiles turned to look at Peter.

Peter’s features were stoically cold, as if he wasn’t recalling some of the worst memories that haunted him. But he was an adult suffering the casualties and horrors of war then. Derek was a child forced to endure.

“I can guarantee that Gerard wouldn’t target Stiles when this whole thing is meant to dissuade the masses from you,” Chris replied, looking at Peter.

“Or he wants me to be hurt and cause a misunderstanding,” Stiles countered. He pressed a hand to his forehead as a stress headache began to form. “Uncle,” he finally uttered, looking up at Chris. “Please find out what his intentions are.”

Chris nodded. “We’ll hopefully know soon, thanks to your father’s help.”

Stiles nervously nodded, taking his leave without a goodbye as he absently searched for Derek.

Derek was sitting in the twins’ nursery, his eyes focused on his sleeping nieces. He didn’t stir or look at Stiles as he approached. “They don’t deserve any of this.”

Stiles stood next to Derek, his hand dropping to Derek’s shoulder. “Neither did you.”

Derek gingerly pulled Stiles into his lap, arranging them to both watch the girls sleeping.

Stiles curled against Derek, pressing his face into Derek’s collarbone. “You still don’t deserve it.”

Derek continually allowed his open palm to stroke up and down Stiles’ back. His fingers played with the rich material of Stiles’ jacket, once again reminded of the way Stiles had begun to dress in ways that stirred his senses more.

“We’ll be gracious hosts, we will show everyone how much we adore one another, and then we will put this behind us,” Stiles announced, as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

Derek remained silent as he tightened his hold on Stiles. He wanted to believe Stiles, but had lost the ability to hope for the best a long time ago.

~*~

Stiles was certain he would black out. His pulse was racing, his stomach roiling with Peter’s words.

Gerard hadn’t come. Instead, sent a dismissive apology with the request for another gathering.

“A hunt.” Stiles tasted the acrid bile at the back of his throat.

The deer. The fear in its eyes. The tight hold of John’s hug in the aftermath.

“He will aim to kill me,” Derek noted.

“Then we won’t reply—refuse such a ludicrous invitation,” Stiles started.

“He will spin the tale as a twisted briar bush,” Peter stated as his eyes remained glued on the missive sprawled on the table. He needed to return to the festivities if they were to keep gossip from spreading. It was bad enough that he had requested Derek and Stiles join him after he received Gerard’s letter. “If we require group outings, in well seen spaces.” He released a heavy breath before pinching his brow. He tipped his head back, hundreds of different outcomes laid before them, and he had to choose.

“I will accept whatever terms he has,” Derek answered, his tone muted.

Stiles closed the space between them, wrapping his arms around Derek’s waist as he pressed himself against Derek’s back. He could feel the tension in Derek’s muscles, he could see it in the way he stood. He pressed a chaste kiss to Derek’s shoulder. “Don’t do this,” he softly begged, looking up at Derek’s profile.

Peter sighed, tipping his head to Stiles and Derek. “I will give you time.”

Stiles held onto Derek as he watched Peter leave.

Derek didn’t move, allowing Stiles to hold him as the seconds passed in agonizing silence.

Stiles brushed his hand down Derek’s arm, his face hidden in the bend of Derek’s spine as he tried to calm his racing heart. He didn’t care if he ruined all their finery for the night, as there was no way he could go back into that ballroom and face the masses with this weight on him. He knew Derek would smell his fear—the terror that was making it harder for him to breathe.

“Stiles,” Derek spoke his name like a prayer.

“No, I am not letting him take you from me,” Stiles argued as tears burned his eyes. He grabbed at Derek’s waist, pressing his face into the fabric of Derek’s shirt to smother the tears. “I’ve never wanted anything, Derek,” his breath hitched. “I never—” Sobs shook his shoulders as he finally admitted it. “I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you. Just you. So please, don’t do this. I will stand by you through all of it, but I am begging you.”

Derek turned, forcing space between them. He gathered Stiles in his arms, kissing and wiping Stiles’ tears away with a finesse Stiles couldn’t mirror. “Listen to me.”

“Derek—” Stiles started to argue, his words silenced by a chaste kiss.

“Please, listen to me,” Derek instructed. It was a gentle nudge to get Stiles to hear him.

Stiles faintly nodded, his gaze dropping to Derek’s throat. He reached an unsteady hand up, his fingers touching one of the scars that ran across Derek’s collarbone.

Someone tried to kill Derek when he was a child.

Edmund had made it in time, rushing through the palace halls with Talia close behind him, both parents out of breath. Edmund had been the one to kill the assassin as Talia cradled a sobbing Derek to her chest.

This is what Peter meant when he alluded to Derek’s concerns.

The agony of looming fear. The likelihood of rebellion and regime change. The possibility that the wars were not over.

Derek took Stiles’ hand, lowering Stiles’ open palm over his chest. He flattened his hand over Stiles’ own, his thumb brushing tender strokes over his knuckles.

“This is, and always will be, yours.”

Stiles clenched his jaw tightly, blinking rapidly as he tried to get the prickling of tears out from the back of his throat.

“Until the moon cracks open—until the sun goes dark—I am yours, Stiles. I’ve never wanted. I’ve never loved. Until you. I love you, Stiles.” Derek’s lips caught the shaky breath Stiles couldn’t hold back. He pressed his forehead against Stiles’ as they both drew in breaths. He evened his breathing to get Stiles to match the calmed rhythm. “I have never accepted my wolf the way I do when I am with you. You managed a harmony between us—you are my anchor to humanity. You call to me, Stiles.”

Derek bit down on his lip as he lifted his head to look down at Stiles. “Which is why, I have to go.”

Stiles shook his head. “No, you don’t!” He was angry. How dare Derek admit all that—lay his love and devotion at his feet. He grabbed Derek’s jacket, stepping into him. “You don’t, you know you don’t have to.”

“I won’t let them hurt you!” Derek’s hands wrapped around Stiles’ biceps as he drew him in. “Understand that—I will not let what happened to my parents happen to you!”

Stiles couldn’t stop his tears when he saw a similar reflection in Derek’s eyes. He let Derek tuck him against his chest, hiding his face in Derek’s throat as they both sought comfort in the arms of the other. He wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist, hooking his hand around his wrist in a vice grip to enclose Derek in his grasp.

“I am coming with you,” Stiles finally stated, his gaze unfocused on Derek’s skin as he blinked his tears away from his eyelashes.

Derek released a faint growl. “Stiles—”

Stiles bit down on Derek’s throat.

The muscles in Derek’s body tensed at the sudden action.

His throat.

His wolf thrashed and whined.

Stiles only ever pressed against his throat, sometimes kissing or leaving lover’s bites. But Derek’s teeth were always the ones that marked Stiles.

Stiles kept himself flush against Derek, showing no fear of the wolf in his arms.

Derek’s breathing was heavy as he tried to turn his head, only for Stiles to tighten his jaw.

Submit.

Mate.

Submit.

Submit.

Mate.

Derek’s grip on Stiles loosened, his muscles slackening under Stiles’ teeth.

“We go together, or neither of us do,” Stiles spoke against the brutalized skin of Derek’s throat. He pressed a gentle kiss before mimicking Derek’s care with gently licking the marks.

Stiles knew it was the wolf’s way of staking a claim—the saliva over the mark was meant to keep a part of their mate with them always. He pulled back to look at Derek.

Derek’s chest rose and fell heavily as he debated the intense rush of emotions that warred in him. “Fine,” he finally agreed, looking away from Stiles. “But you don’t argue with your safety again.” His hand settled on Stiles’ neck, pulling him in close. “Agree to it, Stiles.”

Stiles pushed into Derek’s grip, his head tilting back to put his throat on display for Derek. “I promise.” He reached his hands up to cup Derek’s face when Derek pressed his face into his pulse point. His fingers threaded through Derek’s hair. “And… I love you, too, Derek.”

Derek faintly growled in annoyance. “I want to mark you,” he huffed, knowing he couldn’t leave his typical lover bites—bruises that blossomed across Stiles’ skin.

“Just not where anyone can see,” Stiles corrected him, tilting his head for a moment. “My thighs are hidden,” he mused before a small smile pulled at his lips.

No one dared to walk into the King’s private council rooms to discover Stiles sprawled across the table, Derek’s head buried between his thighs.

~*~

Stiles sat obediently atop his horse as he watched the various people mingling. He raked his gloved fingers through his horse’s mane, soothed by her calm demeanor. He didn’t want to be at the hunt, memories of his first and last time still haunting him. But he was comforted by Derek’s presence more than anything.

There was even a seriousness in Derek’s tone when he offered Stiles the chance to ride with him.

Derek had assisted Stiles in mounting his riding saddle, his hand holding onto the horse’s bridle as his other hand lingered on Stiles’ calf.

“I still dislike this,” Stiles spoke softly when Derek released his hold on Stiles.

“It will be over soon,” Derek promised.

It still scared Stiles to think what was to be the outcome. It was more than likely that Gerard also knew whatever happened today would be the end of all schemes.

Gerard would either succeed in dethroning the Hales, or be destroyed in the process.

True to Peter’s word, there were many in attendance with the purpose of large groups. If there were too many eyes for Gerard to control, then any lethal intention became dangerous to pursue.

Stiles did his best to remain at the same pace with Derek. His eyes tracked the people around them, attempting to take note of who would be likely ally or foe—he wasn’t overtly confident where the lines of allegiances could be drawn.

“Your grandfather mentioned it is your first hunt!” One of the lords announced his presence with more gusto than Stiles approved.

“Second, actually,” Stiles remarked, his gaze flickering over to the lord momentarily. He discreetly steered his horse to walk closer to Derek’s.

“Not accomplished in sport?”

“Death isn’t a sport,” Derek countered, attuned to the wane of Stiles’ spirit in the man’s presence. “But Lord Argent appears to favor such hobbies.”

The lord laughed. “Well, it is one way to provide.”

“For one’s ego,” Stiles scoffed. He slowed his horse’s movements as he noticed that people were beginning to dismount. “I will be of little help during this hunt, my lord. I merely accompanied my husband. He is well trained in providing a swift and clean cut.”

“I’ve heard,” the lord answered. He nodded his head respectfully as he pushed his horse ahead.

Stiles released a heavy breath, closing his eyes briefly. “I swear, the gods test us.”

Derek faintly chuckled, reaching his hand over to take Stiles’ gloved one. He pulled Stiles’ hand from his reins, pressing a chaste kiss to his knuckles. “Stay back while we are in direct pursuit of the boar,” he offered, his thumb brushing the back of Stiles’ hand. “They can be lethal up close.”

Stiles clenched his jaw tightly, a firm nod of his head informed Derek of his understanding.

“I will make sure they don’t prolong its suffering,” Derek answered. “And… I’m sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles looked up at Derek, tilting his head in question.

“I lied to you,” Derek explained. “I told you I’d never make you endure this.”

Stiles frowned. “You’re not. Don’t apologize for something that you cannot control.”

Derek nodded in response.

“You’re still protecting me, even now,” Stiles added, offering a small smile to Derek. “And thank you, for promising to give the animal dignity in its final moments.”

Derek gently squeezed Stiles’ hand before releasing him.

“Your Highness, surely here would be an advantageous starting point.”

Stiles covered his mouth when he softly laughed at Derek rolling his eyes. He dropped his gaze as Derek moved his horse forward. His brow furrowed as he took in the sprawling blooms of purple near and around them. He puzzled through his memory, trying to remember where he had seen its like before.

A sharp fear clawed up his spine as he recalled the drawings from the grimoire.

Aconitum.

“Derek!” Stiles called his name, worry evident in his features as he pressed his horse to trot forward. He was alarmed when he realized Derek started to lift himself off the saddle, preparing to come over to him. “Stop, don’t get off your horse.”

Derek lowered himself back into the saddle, his gaze cutting over to where he could see the others, Gerard included.

“Stay in your saddle, don’t touch those purple flowers,” Stiles hurriedly explained once he was close enough.

Derek turned his head to look at Stiles. “Why?”

“They’re aconitum,” Stiles hushed his voice, looking away from the flower to look at Derek. “Also known as monkswood or wolfsbane.”

Derek’s expression fell into understanding, his gaze sweeping over the field of purple. “I’ve never seen it up close,” he admitted.

“It can cause some numbness with touch normally, but to you—” Stiles cut himself off. “It will kill you.”

“Peter,” Derek stated, turning his gaze back towards their camp. “Would he know?”

Stiles’ eyes widened. He didn’t know if Peter could even read the grimoire or historical tome—they were written in a nearly extinct archaic text. He had been too excited to read it himself. Would Peter know what wolfsbane looked like? Could a wolf even determine what the fragrance was.

“Is something wrong, Prince?”

Derek looked over at Gerard and his people. A field of purple bell-shaped blooms separating them.

“Derek,” Stiles spoke with a warning under his tone.

“Apologies, Stiles is feeling unwell,” Derek raised his voice to reach the distance.

Stiles looked between Derek and Gerard. His stomach clenched when he saw the old man’s sickly false smile of concern.

“Well, how unfortunate,” Gerard answered.

“He’ll head back to camp,” Derek replied.

“Derek,” Stiles sharply stated his name in protest.

“I need you to get to Peter,” Derek spoke softly, his lips barely moving with the words as he continued to look at Gerard. “I’m not the only person they want to hurt, Stiles.” He looked at Stiles now, a solemness in his brow. “If they know what I am, they know what my family is.”

Stiles’ heart was hammering in his chest.

“I’m sure Stiles can reach camp alone,” Gerard uttered in annoyance.

Neither Derek or Stiles pulled their gaze from one another.

“Stiles, please,” Derek softly asked.

“You’re asking me to abandon you,” Stiles countered, reaching his hand out to touch Derek’s thigh. He tightly gripped the muscle above Derek’s knee. “Don’t do this.”

“What happens if I don’t stay here?” Derek asked instead of arguing.

And Stiles hated him for it, because it wasn’t an emotional response. It was a factual question—an academic one that they both knew the answer to.

Gerard would win if Derek left to watch over Stiles. If they both stayed, Gerard would win by likely killing Peter.

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek before nodding. “Don’t touch the blooms or anything that does. I’ll help you take your boots and clothing off when you return,” he dropped his hand from Derek, looking up at him. “You’re not widowing me.”

It was an order.

“I will see you at camp—I promise,” Derek vowed, lifting Stiles’ hand to his mouth to press a lingering kiss.

It was agony to turn his horse, waving in acknowledgment to the others before leaving. He forced himself to not look back when he heard someone jest of Derek’s worry for his husband. He waited until he was well beyond the trees before pressing his horse into a galloping run towards camp.

~*~

Derek looked at the spear, barely able to see the handle that had been nearly consumed by the purple blossoms.

“Don’t touch the blooms or anything that does.”

Gerard knew—there was no other explanation why he had led them into a forest littered with wolfsbane. And why the man tossed his own spear down at Derek’s feet to be swallowed up by the flower.

“Is something wrong?”

Derek looked up at the lord who spoke. He cleared his throat. “Merely thinking of Stiles.”

The lord nodded in understanding. “I’m sure he will be alright.”

Derek could tell the lord was thinking more of Stiles than of him in that moment. He wondered if the lord was referring to Stiles’ assumed grief once they succeeded in their plan to kill him. Or if any were actually aware of Gerard’s schemes.

Derek did the only thing he could, reaching down to grab the spear’s shaft with his gloved hand. He schooled his features when one of the blossoms managed to brush part of his exposed wrist.

It was pure agony.

Fiery hot pain sparked across Derek’s skin in the wake of the soft blossom. A painful numbness spread as a reddening agitation started to bubble up from Derek’s skin.

He turned his body, hiding that part of his skin from staring eyes as he gritted his teeth against the pain. He knew his Alpha spark was burning, despite his attempts to push it back from his irises. If he showed any part of himself now, they would all know he was truly the beast the rumors labeled him as.

They were to hunt down a boar, and Derek could barely think of anything by the pain radiating up his arm—his throwing arm.

If the flowers didn’t kill him, the boar would.

~*~

Stiles wasn’t surprised to find the camp quiet. He slowed his horse to avoid drawing attention as he approached the stable master.

“Your Grace,” the older man seemed shocked to have the Prince Consort back, with no sign of Derek. “Is everything alright?”

Stiles hesitated before nodding his head. “I am unwell,” he explained as he lowered himself from his horse. “I wanted to let His Majesty know that the others are near the far forest to the east,” he continued.

The stable master didn’t seem at all suspicious of Stiles’ explanation. “Of course.”

Stiles gave a show of laying a hand over his stomach and keeping his head down as he headed for where Peter’s tent was.

If Peter waited, as he was meant to, it would imply Gerard had plans to commit regicide either in sync with his attempt on Derek or in the wake of.

There was no way Derek’s death would be anything but suspicious with Argent’s people surrounding them.

A low growl caught Stiles’ attention as he neared the tent.

A wolf’s growl.

Stiles ran into the tent without thought.

A wolf, smaller than Derek’s form, was hunched over a collapsed form, teeth bared and snarling at the intruder before it.

Stiles reacted before he had a chance to weigh any consequences, grabbing the chair that had been meant for Peter to utilize as he saw fit. He crashed the portable chair over the intruder’s shoulders, catching the man off guard as he was focused on the wolf.

Stiles stumbled backwards, giving the wolf enough room to lunge and finish the job. His breath caught when he saw the person the wolf had been defending. “Uncle!” He hurried over to Chris, checking him for signs of bleeding. He couldn’t find any sign of harm as he looked around them.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Stiles turned to find a disheveled Peter, haphazardly covered by his dressing gown.

Peter had barely wiped away the blood on his face and neck, his attention on Chris as he helped Stiles turn him.

“It’s probably wolfsbane,” Stiles quickly uttered. “Did he touch anything—”

“The wine,” Peter stated, gesturing towards the stained ground. “We were talking, he had it from my goblet.”

Stiles dropped his ear to his uncle’s chest, listening for his heart beat. He felt relieved at hearing the soft, slow beating. “He’s alive.”

“That man rushed in here when I called for help— where the fuck are my guards?” Peter angrily uttered.

“There is almost no one in the camp,” Stiles explained. “We need to treat his symptoms, keep his heart rate up. Can you put him in the bed?”

Peter nodded, lifting Chris with ease. “Where is Derek?”

“I rode back here when Gerard led us into a trap—wolfsbane grows in this forest.”

“Fuck!” Peter cursed.

“Derek is pretending not to notice, but he wasn’t sure if you would be—”

“Clearly the intent was to kill Derek and I,” Peter replied as he propped Chris against the mound of pillows. “He would likely push for you to be married to Laura, then guarantee her death.”

Stiles ignored the rapid beating of his heart as he examined his uncle’s vitals. He wasn’t letting Gerard hurt his family—he wouldn’t allow his future to be torn like a discarded page.

~*~

Derek pulled the spear from the boar’s side with as fluid a motion he could from his nondominant hand. His right arm was in an agony that tore at the muscles and lit his nerves on fire. He could feel the way the touch of the wolfsbane had spread beneath the fabric of his shirt. He had still managed to locate the boar before the others, aware of the creature’s intent to charge, and striking before it could.

“Well done, Prince.”

Derek looked up at Gerard, schooling his features as he tipped his head in thanks.

“Remarkable!” One of the lords laughed jauntily as he sidled up to Derek, putting an arm around his shoulders.

Derek shuddered the wince of pain that tensed his muscles when the lord’s hand hit his upper arm—where the wolfsbane had spread.

The longer Derek spent with the others, the more likely it became that Gerard had not convinced them of the Hales’ monstrosity. Too many seemed joyful in Derek’s presence, unless they were remarkable actors in addition to their titles of aristocracy.

“One would think you are an animal yourself,” Gerard remarked with more agitation.

The lord beside Derek stiffened, his happy features falling into disapproval. “Come, Gerard, no need for such jabs.”

“Should we look for more sport?” An older lady called over to them as she moved towards them, changing the subject. “The Prince managed to make quick work of our query. Another should be easy.”

Derek wanted to bite out that he was prepared to head back to camp. But he saw the way Gerard looked at him with anticipation. “If it would please others.” He was playing a dangerous countdown: either his arm or Gerard’s pride would be the cost.

~*~

Stiles crushed the herbal mixture with rough, quick movements of mortar and pestle. His eyes dashed across the grimoire as he translated the archaic language by sight alone. He had to make sure he was interpreting what the writer intended to be a cure for shifters. He only hoped it worked on his uncle as well.

Topical was easier to cure than internal.

“His breathing is shallow,” Peter warned Stiles, his eyes never leaving Chris as he ran his fingers through Chris’s hair. His other hand settled on Chris’s chest, watching as his hand moved with each motion of Chris’s breathing.

Stiles thanked the moon and stars for Erica when she had brought not only the grimoire but every ingredient he blurted out to her. He was certain the mixture was correct as he dumped it into the heated wine Erica was tending.

“Tell the other shifters to avoid the purple flowers—any touch could kill you and reveal your wolf,” Stiles quickly instructed Erica as he poured the mixture into a goblet Erica had procured from well away from Argent tampering.

Erica quickly nodded, her hand gently touching Stiles’ shoulder in comfort before she headed out to warn the others—and hopefully get to Derek.

Stiles had to trust that all would be well until he had tended his uncle.

Peter lifted Chris, slotting himself beneath Chris’s limp body. He gently propped Chris’s head against his chest, assisting Stiles in administering the mixture to Chris’s lips. “Don’t be stubborn, drink,” he softly chastised Chris even knowing he wouldn’t hear him.

Stiles watched his uncle’s throat swallow before he administered more. Time dragged on in agonizingly slow moments of bated breath, both Stiles and Peter staring at Chris’s throat and chest.

Once the last of the mixture was gone, Stiles sat back on the edge of the bed.

“Now what.”

Stiles looked at Peter.

Peter’s eyes didn’t leave Chris, his hand brushing hair behind Chris’s ear before his fingers lingered in touching Chris’s face.

“We wait,” Stiles honestly stated. “And we will know if this cure works should he…”

Peter didn’t press, dropping his hand back to Chris’s chest. “Derek needs you.”

Stiles frowned. “Peter, you should leave the camp to get back to safety—”

“I can’t leave him.” Peter looked at Stiles finally, the faintest blue shine of his wolf lurked in his irises. “Did those books tell you about the color of our eyes?”

Stiles swallowed, gently shaking his head. He was confused by the change in subject.

Peter looked down at Chris, his thumb brushing over Chris’s chest. “Red is the spark of an Alpha. Gold is the spark of a Beta.” He drew in a breath before looking at Stiles, allowing his eyes to shine the icy blue. “Blue is the guilt of a Beta. A Beta who suffers from a betrayal they commit.” He scoffed. “My parents were at least kind enough to explain that.”

Stiles’ jaw tensed as he studied Peter’s eyes. “I don’t know what betrayal you think you committed, but—”

“I hurt and rejected my mate.”

Stiles blinked at Peter.

Peter huffed out a sad, bitter chuckle as he looked down at Chris. “I had a chance, well before the war, to abandon this hellscape.” He swallowed down the bitterness he felt rising. “Chris wanted me to leave with him. We could have been anyone, hidden away in the deepest forest, forgotten. I wasn’t the eldest of my siblings, so I could be forgotten.” He snuck a look at Stiles. “I was too scared. I had just experienced some of my first full shifts, and I couldn’t control my wolf. I couldn’t tell him why.” He forced his gaze away, staring off into the distance as he blinked his tears away. “Derek is much better at control than he gives himself credit for,” he commented, pulling his thought away from past regrets. “I am glad he has you,” he looked at Stiles as he spoke. “Which is why you need to go to him. He’ll need you now more than ever.”

Stiles blinked, his eyes flicking between Peter and Chris. It was all too easy for him to understand Peter’s determination to stay. After all, Stiles would do the same with Derek, just as Derek had done when the fever threatened to take Stiles away.

Stiles rose, his hand lingering on his uncle’s. “You should tell him the truth,” he softly pressed, looking up at Peter. “He loves you.”

“It was never a question of his love,” Peter replied, looking down at Chris. “It was a question of whether I was selfish enough to make him choose me.”

Stiles drew in a soft breath. “He already has, Peter.”

~*~

The pulsing drum of a heartbeat echoed through Derek’s senses like a ripple. The repetitive beat caused the hairs on the back of his neck to prickle and stand.

The wolf wanted to hunt.

The red spark pulsed to life in response, warmth flooding Derek’s irises as the crimson pooled.

He was slowly losing control, the wolfsbane tearing at his human body. The wolf wanted to tear apart anyone that came close.

Babump. Babump. Babump.

Blood pulsed through his temples, sweat trailing across his skin.

Derek closed his eyes, his face scrunching up in an attempt to push the red back.

“Your Highness, is something wrong?”

A snarl crept up through Derek’s chest. “Fine,” he ground out.

Derek was far from fine.

He breathed in deeply. The woodsy aroma that permeated beyond every other scent sent a spike of warning down his spine: pine, mud, absinthe, truffle. And underneath it all, the alluring woodsy smell of a flower that meant to kill any shifter foolish enough to fall for its beauty.

He was a wolf lost among the flowers, and he would die among them.

Rosemary.

Derek breathed out harshly, clearing his nose of the wolfsbane.

Sandalwood.

The heavy approach of hooves overpowered the beating pulsepoints.

Lavender.

“Stiles?” Gerard’s agitated voice. “What are you doing?”

Bergamot.

Warmth enveloped Derek, arms wrapping around Derek’s neck as his face was pressed to the only pulsepoint he wanted to know. The only one that mattered.

Stiles.

It was Stiles here, holding Derek as if he was about to break.

“I’m here,” Stiles softly spoke to Derek as he turned their bodies, keeping Derek from facing the other’s stares. He glared at his grandfather over Derek’s shoulder. “There has been an attempt on the King,” he loudly announced, his eyes studying the others in attendance. “My uncle has been hurt, but will hopefully make a recovery.”

“What?” One lord asked in surprise. “What happened?”

Stiles was glaring at Gerard. “Poisoned. His cup was laced with a toxic plant. One I have been learning about—that grows wild in Argent held lands.”

The older woman—Stiles recognized her as Lady Yukimura—did not look surprised as she looked between Gerard and Derek. She remained silent as she waited to see Gerard’s excuses.

Gerard scoffed. “Ridiculous,” he dismissed Stiles’ words with little care.

“Look beneath your feet, grandfather,” Stiles spoke the term with malice. “The purple bloom is aconite. Aconitum napellus.”

“Wolfsbane,” Lady Yukimura supplied. “It’s toxicity is similar to… foxglove,” she spoke the name of the flower while looking to Stiles. “Anyone could have done this,” she stated, though she seemed in need of little convincing.

“Exactly,” Gerard huffed.

“You chose this spot,” the young lord muttered, looking at Gerard.

Stiles threaded his fingers through Derek’s hair when he felt the small tremor run through Derek’s body. “A spot with the exact petals found in camp.” He didn’t dare press the lie, but he could see the immediate response of Gerard to his bluff. His grandfather likely did have the poisoned flower somewhere in his belongings.

“My arm,” Derek weakly whispered to Stiles.

Stiles tore his eyes from Gerard, making a little space between himself and Derek to look down at Derek’s arm. He couldn’t see any skin, but he could tell Derek was favoring his right arm. “I’m taking my husband back to camp,” he announced, taking hold of Derek’s left arm to lead him towards his own horse. It was easier to act without protest when several of the guards had arrived—Derek’s own Betas moving to block them from Gerard. He knew the others would be able to tell Derek was hurt if he allowed Derek the horse. But he didn’t care, not when he could feel the pain in Derek’s tensed muscles and stiff movements.

“I think we will continue this conversation when things have settled,” Lady Yukimura stated, though her gaze was calculating of Gerard.

“Get on,” Derek instructed Stiles once they reached the horse’s side.

“Derek,” Stiles softly started to protest.

“I’ll get on with you, but just get on, Stiles,” Derek firmly answered through clenched teeth, finally looking Stiles in the eyes.

Stiles’ expression softened some as he followed Derek’s gesture. He felt Derek’s warmth close to him as he pulled himself up onto the saddle. He was surprised he didn’t break his neck when he slid off before stopping—he had been so determined to get to Derek that he didn’t even think of his own safety. He leaned to the side when Derek reached his hand up to grasp the saddle just in front of Stiles.

Derek used his strength to pull himself up onto the horse despite the pain in his side. It was growing, even with Stiles’ calming presence. He pressed his face into the side of Stiles’ neck and shoulder, breathing in as his arm wrapped around Stiles’ waist.

Stiles didn’t bother with any departing words to the others as he pushed the horse into action. He reached a hand down, threading his fingers with Derek’s that were near limp against his stomach. “Don’t leave me,” he spoke as he looked back at Derek.

Derek struggled to answer, the wolfsbane already reaching beyond his shoulder and tendrils carving down into his chest and up through his throat. Numbing pain that did nothing to erase the pain. He pressed a kiss to Stiles’ bare neck as his answer.

~*~

Agony.

White hot pain buried deep in his bones. His muscles were scraped raw. His body was overheating; his Alpha spark ran out of control with every attempt to save him from the wolfsbane.

Cool hands tended him, the softest of lingering touches on his face.

“Don’t leave me,” Stiles’ voice echoed again, accompanied by the faintest caress of lips against his forehead. The stain of tears before they were wiped away.

Derek slowly opened his eyes to the darkened ambiance of night. He blinked, grimacing some as his senses heightened to the sounds around him. The sound of servants moving throughout the hall at leisurely paces. The hooting of the owls, followed by the various nightcalls of other nocturnal predators. The fire crackling, a sapling knot popping and snapping a log into two.

Soft breathing of a sleeping human, the matching heartbeat close enough for Derek to reach out.

Derek weakly turned his head, looking down at his side.

Stiles was half-strewed on the bed, his head pillowed by one arm as his other touching Derek’s forearm. His hair was unwashed, clearly having forgone too many days of his own self-care to commit to Derek. There were dark circles under Stiles’ eyes, his breathing deep. There were several books open across the bed, a clear indicator that Stiles merely closed his eyes for a moment’s reprieve from reading and fell to sleep.

Derek lifted his hand, brushing his fingers through Stiles’ hair. His thumb slowly lifted and tucked a lock of hair behind Stiles’ ear.

Stiles pressed into Derek’s touch, though sleep clung to him.

If Derek was strong enough, he would have pulled Stiles into the bed with him. That was a lingering thought as his eyes dropped closed once more.

~*~

Stiles signed the document without guilt.

Peter’s eyes tracked Stiles throughout the whole council meeting, watching the young man as all points were brought up against the Argent household.

Chris had taken a step back from the proceedings, but several people argued he was already too close with his location within the King’s bed.

Stiles had been calm and collected when he stood. He wore a rich green velvet, accented by a satin of black, and a high collar made of the finest dyed lace. Talia’s broach was pinned at the base of his throat, just above the dip in his collarbone.

“I am not an Argent,” Stiles had started, looking at the council one at a time as he allowed them to hang on his every word. “I am no longer a Stilinski even. I am a Hale. I am my husband’s. I have been, in the eyes of man and gods, a devoted husband and Prince Consort. I pray, every day, for my husband’s recovery and the continued prosperity of the King.” He drew in a breath. “I saved the King, my uncle, and my husband from death at the hands of Lord Gerard Argent. And I would do so again.” He walked over to Peter, allowing his steps to echo loudly in the silent room before he moved to kneel in the way he had been practicing when not at Derek’s side. He prostrated himself, leveling his forehead with the floor at Peter’s feet.

There was an uproarious noise.

Peter had raised a calmed hand to silence the others, his eyes never leaving Stiles.

“I beseech my King,” Stiles recited the lines with a hint of passion. He tried to not oversell his desperation. “Please, allow me to remain at my husband’s side. Allow me the dignity to shed my ancestral names, and be only his.”

Peter stood, bending down to take Stiles’ hands in his. He guided Stiles to stand. “Forgiveness is not needed when nothing was broken by you.” He pulled Stiles into a hug, his senses aware of the relief coming from their audience. “You should have been an actor,” he whispered into Stiles’ ear.

Stiles covered his small snort of laughter as a sob of gratitude, lifting Peter’s hands up to kiss. “His Majesty is just.”

Peter hid his own smile.

Once Stiles signed the proclamation agreeing to his familial bond to the Argents being cut, he was free to leave the council meeting to Peter and Laura.

Laura hugged Stiles before he departed.

Stiles was carrying two of the books he obtained from the library, curious if they had any additional information he could use in nursing Derek to full health. He had dreamt of Derek’s fingers in his hair the other night. He had been reluctant to leave Derek today, even when Laura pressed him to be presentable.

Well, Laura threatened to throw Stiles into a river if he didn’t bathe and dress elegantly.

So bathe and dress he did, though against his will as he looked forlornly back at Derek when he left.

Stiles was looking down at the books when he pushed open their bedroom door. He was flipping through the pages, his eyes catching a few details of recovering from poisons and toxicities. There was unfortunately very little on how to heal a shifter from poisoning.

“Stiles.”

Stiles startled to a stop, his head snapping up to look at Derek.

Derek was sitting on the edge of the bed. He had barely been able to move from the mountain of pillows he assumed Stiles had piled around him. He was exhausted despite his rest, and his limbs were slack with disuse.

Stiles dropped his books as he rushed over to Derek. He threw his arms around Derek’s shoulders. “You’re awake,” he hurriedly uttered, his hands touching every part of Derek that he could before kissing Derek’s cheeks and mouth. “You’re awake,” he stated against Derek’s lips.

Derek’s hands had settled low on Stiles’ waist, weighed down with fatigue still. “I remember…” he started, only to be silenced by more of Stiles’ breathless kisses.

“I was worried. I’m sorry,” Stiles stated quickly before pulling back, though he didn’t step out of Derek’s reach. He cupped Derek’s face in his hands.

Derek’s eyes flickered over Stiles. “I remember you being with me,” he finally stated. He looked down at where his hands settled on the satin embroidery of Stiles’ jacket. His thumb brushed the velvet above the satin. “You’re dressed up,” he remarked before looking up at Stiles.

Stiles softly laughed. “A council meeting,” he explained. “I made my proclamation against Gerard.” He blushed when he realized Derek was naked. “I should go tell the others you are awake—let you get dressed.”

Derek closed his eyes as he gently shook his head. He pulled Stiles in closer, between his legs, resting his head against Stiles’ chest. “Don’t leave me.”

Stiles’ breath caught, his lip wobbling some as he curled around Derek, hugging over Derek’s shoulders. “Never.”

~*~

Derek tightened his arms across his chest, keeping his dressing gown folded for the most part against the cold. He was out on the balcony, standing beneath the glow of the full moon. He blinked up  at the opulence, and wondered—not for the first time—if there truly was a goddess who showed patronage to his wolf.

The elders believed a goddess watched over them, and gave them favor in the various gifts she granted them.

Derek thought of Stiles sleeping in their bed just inside; pale, warm skin that bruised easily, even with Stiles’ welcoming arms.

Was Stiles a gift from a goddess?

Was he the calm Derek had always prayed to the goddess for when he was a child, when the wars seemed endless and he was forced to grow up and take his father’s place.

The calm he begged for after walking in the wake of battlefields.

The calm he never thought he would deserve.

“I’m cold,” Stiles announced as he pressed into Derek’s back.

Derek turned, opening his dressing gown enough for Stiles to slip beneath the material. He closed the gown around them, smiling to himself as Stiles wrapped his arms around him.

Stiles pressed his face into the curve of Derek’s throat, a chaste kiss planted on Derek’s clavicle. “Are you okay?” He softly asked, closing his eyes as he listened to Derek’s breathing.

“Wandering thoughts,” Derek answered.

Stiles hummed, enjoying the rumble of Derek’s chest against his. “I hope they were good, considering they forced you from bed and out of my arms.”

Derek tilted his head enough to kiss Stiles along the temple. “About you.”

“Well, then clearly good,” Stiles jested.

Derek faintly smiled. “Curiosity, really.”

Stiles looked up at Derek, a faint furrow pulling at his brows.

“About what I would do without you,” Derek explained.

Stiles gently swayed his head back and forth. “You’ll never have to know.” He tilted his head up to kiss Derek.

Derek gently took Stiles’ lips into a kiss, his arms tightening around Stiles to hold him close.

In truth, Derek never cared what they called him.

Animal.

Monster.

Beast.

He was simply a wolf that fell in love, folded into the blossoms of Stiles’ embrace, where he would contently bury himself for eternity.

Stiles was a calmness in the wake of a life forged in battlefield after battlefield—a kindness Derek never imagined he would have.

“Come to bed,” Stiles softly requested, taking a testing step backwards as he guided them back into the room. He smiled at Derek when he followed him.

The wolf happily relinquished control to its mate.

A prince and a scholar.

A beast and a beauty.

A wolf and a flower.