You Were Never a Saint (and I loved in shades of wrong) - LadySlytherin (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Friday, August 17th, 2018

“Please...please, Stiles, I would owe you majorly.”

Stiles huffed, rolling his eyes at his roommate’s pleading face. Danny was unfairly attractive, which Stiles attributed to the fact that he was from a family of werewolves despite being one of the handful of humans in his family. And that wasn’t to say that humans couldn’t also be unfairly attractive, but there was just something about supernatural creatures, at least in Stiles’ experience, that made them insanely gorgeous. He knew that was probably a little vain of him to think, considering his own magical abilities, but Stiles had spent a lot of years being an awkward mess of pale skin and too-long limbs so the fact that he’d finally grown into himself was something of a point of pride.

“Why the hell would I want to go rub some sweaty stranger for you?” Stiles snarked, rolling his eyes again when Danny whined, the sound distinctly canine despite Danny not being a wolf himself. “I’m not a massage therapist, dude. I wouldn’t know what the hell to do.”

“C’mon, that’s not true.” Danny gave him wide puppy eyes, leaning across the little island in their shared apartment to get closer to Stiles, who was trying to make himself lunch. “I’ve taught you the basics, and that’s all the Alpha needs, I swear. But Mrs. Martin hurt her shoulder playing tennis and she needs a trained professional.”

Stiles shot Danny a quelling look. “So rather than rescheduling one of the two people you double-booked, you want to send me, a rank amateur.”

“I can’t cancel on Mrs. Martin.” Danny explained. “First off, she’s hurt. Second off, she’s insanely rich. And while she’s fully human, her husband’s family are supernaturally connected, so she has ties to both of the upper class communities. If she recommends me to her friends, do you know what that would do for me? If I have enough independent clients, I could leave the agency and stop giving them a cut.”

“So cancel on this Alpha guy.” Stiles said, gesturing with the knife he’d been using to slice a tomato for his sandwich, a positively delicious-looking BLT. “He’s a regular, right? I’m sure he’ll understand.” After a beat, he snorted and added. “Also, what the f*ck kind of hippy ass name is Alpha?”

“First off, it’s not his name. It’s his title. Second off...not so much on the understanding front.” Danny said, straightening up at last and shoving his hand nervously through his short, dark hair. “I can’t just cancel on him. He’s, uh...he’s sort of...”

Danny trailed off and Stiles narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously. “He’s sort of what, Danny?”

Danny chewed his lower lip nervously for a minute before answering. “Okay, so. You know how certain supernatural families are, uh...important? Like, they keep the peace and control other supernaturals and that’s why they’re allowed to just, sort of...do their own thing?”

That drew a snort from Stiles, and he leveled a distinctly unimpressed look at his roommate. “Am I, the son of a sheriff, aware of the fact that for the last, oh...hundred-and-fifty odd years or so, supernaturals have been run by what is essentially a handful of powerful mafia families? Yeah, Danny. I’m aware.”

“Right, so.” Danny drummed up a nervous smile that somehow still managed to look charming. “The Alpha is, uh...it’s what humans call him, right. And other supernaturals, too. Like, a respect thing. Because he controls the werewolves in New York City. I mean, there’s a bunch of packs here with their own alphas and they don’t all answer to him directly, but everyone knows if a werewolf steps out of line, he’s the one who deals with it. So he’s like, the Alpha of alphas. And werewolves in general.”

Stiles stared at Danny for a long moment, then carefully set the knife down so he wasn’t tempted to stab his roommate. “So what you're saying is...” Stiles curled his fingers around the edge of the island’s countertop, trying to ground himself. “Not only do you want me to rub some strange sweaty dude for you, but that strange dude is also a werewolf. And not just any werewolf, but like, the head werewolf. Of the werewolf mafia.”

“Just in New York City!” Danny said quickly, as if that somehow made it better or less terrifying. “Besides, you’ve got magic, right? You’re more of a supernatural than I am, so who cares if he’s a wolf? Stiles, if I cancel on him, he’ll probably ask the agency for someone else. And I don’t want that to happen.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at that, something in Danny’s tone seeming off. “Why not? If you’re going to have all these super rich new clients, who cares if he drops you?”

Danny’s cheeks flushed and Stiles groaned. “Oh my god, you like him. Danny, I swear to god-”

“It’s not like that!” Danny stretched across the island again, narrowly missing knocking Stiles’ sandwich to the ground as he grabbed Stiles’ hand and squeezed. “He’s never shown any interest in me, okay, it’s not...it’s not a thing or anything. But, I don’t know, there’s something about him. He’s compelling. And, once a week, I get to touch him. So, just...can you please do this for me? Please?”

Stiles let his head fall back so he was staring up at the ceiling, scowling even as he groaned again, loud and drawn-out and dramatic. “Uuuggghhh, fine!” He lowered his chin so he could give Danny another narrow-eyed look, adding sharply. “But just this once, and you owe me.”

He picked up his sandwich, preparing to take a bite, when another thought occurred to him. “f*ck me, what am I supposed to wear?” Because Indulgence - the massage agency that Danny worked for - had a stupid uniform and it was mandatory and there was no way in hell that Danny’s was going to fit Stiles because Danny was way more muscular than Stiles.

Danny looked a little sheepish at that. “I may have borrowed a uniform from one of the other guys.” He tipped his head, squinting at Stiles, then admitted. “I think maybe I was picturing you as, uh...scrawnier than you are? Like, now that I’m looking at you, it might be a little snug.”

When Stiles let out an annoyed hiss from between clenched teeth, Danny offered. “Or you can borrow mine! It’ll be too big on you, for sure, but if you’d rather have it be baggy than snug...”

Stiles grumbled, finally biting into his BLT while staring balefully at Danny over it before saying around his mouthful of food. “I’ll try both and see which one is less awful. But, and I’m repeating this because it bears repeating, you f*cking owe me.”

“Yup. Absolutely. I owe you.” Danny circled the counter and pressed himself along Stiles’ back, arms slid around Stiles’ narrow waist, squeezing even as he nuzzled into Stiles’ throat. Sometimes the fact that Danny had been raised with werewolves really showed. “Thank you. You know you’re my best friend, right?”

Stiles sighed, melting into the affectionate touch, but he nodded even as he took another bite of his sandwich. “I know.” He agreed, smiling when Danny laughed in his ear at Stiles’ mournful tone. “Put the uniforms in my room and text me all the info.”

Danny nuzzled his cheek once more before releasing him, and Stiles let his attention shift fully to his lunch, thinking ruefully, ‘The things I do for the people I love...’

~*~*~*~

Stiles huffed as he pulled into the driveway of the address Danny had given him, stopping at the massive wrought-iron gate blocking his path. He cranked down his window, reaching out and hitting the little button on the intercom box. The speaker crackled to life and a cold voice came through. ‘No soliciting.’

Stiles gritted his teeth in annoyance, but forced his voice to be as polite as he could manage. “I’m here from Indulgence.”

There was a pause, then that cold voice came back, sounding a little puzzled. “Indulgence?”

Stiles’ brow furrowed and he nodded, though he wasn’t actually sure if there was a camera for the security person he was speaking with to see him. “Yeah, Indulgence. You know, like...for all your beauty and wellness needs? The spa and wellness agency? I’m supposed to have an appointment with, uh...the Alpha? I think?”

He sort of hated how hesitant he sounded - how unsure - but this wasn’t how he’d thought this was going to go. He wondered if maybe he’d gotten the address wrong somehow; pulled into the wrong driveway. Except that this stupid werewolf mob boss lived on a massive piece of property. The kind with high walls and gardens and sh*t, where the only bit of green nearby that wasn’t a part of the property was the city park that butted up to it on two sides, and the nearest neighbor wasn’t actually near at all. So there was no way Stiles was at the wrong mansion estate in the Bronx, because there weren’t actually that many of the damn things. Especially not ones that were still estates as opposed to, like, museums.

After another pause, the voice came through the intercom again. “You’re not Danny.”

“No, I’m not.” Stiles agreed, because it was certainly true. “I’m afraid Mr. Mahealani had a scheduling conflict and couldn’t come. Since he didn’t want to cancel on the Alpha, he sent me as his replacement.”

There was a loud, metallic click and then the gate was swinging open, the intercom crackling to life again. “Pull up to the house. Someone will meet you at the door.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, but pulled through the gate and followed the long driveway up to the circle in front of the massive house. He swung his jeep around the circle, trying to figure out where the hell he was supposed to park the damn thing. The whole thing was paved with old - like, old - brick or cobblestone or something and none of it looked any different, so how was he supposed to know where to stop? Except there was a man standing on the top step in front of the house, so Stiles stopped in front of the doors and gave the guy a questioning look.

The man scowled, and lord but his eyebrows were impressive, as was his whole, well...his whole everything, if Stiles was being honest. Still, the scowling hottie waved towards the stretch of the circle about fifty feet in front of Stiles’ jeep, so he pulled up, tucking his baby as close to the edge of the driveway as he could, on the house-side. Once he’d done that and was sure he was as out of the way as he could be, considering, Stiles jumped down from the jeep and walked back to the front steps and the sexy but glaring man standing there.

The guy was dressed in snug black jeans that sat low on his hips and a black tee that strained across his well-muscled chest and broad shoulders. He had stupid Disney prince hair and eyes that were hazel but also grey-green-blue under the aforementioned impressive eyebrows, dark and thick and pulled low in annoyance. His full lips and stubbled jaw were so perfect they could have been sculpted from marble and the way he was crossing his arms over his chest just served to accentuate how devastatingly flawless his entire physique was. Stiles would have suspected the man was supernatural even if he hadn’t known he was standing outside a werewolf mafia boss’ mansion. As it was, Stiles was reasonably certain the man was a werewolf though he wasn’t fully prepared to rule out some other type of shifter.

“Hi.” Stiles said, drumming up a smile despite the man’s hostile attitude. “I’m Stiles. I’m here to-”

“Give my uncle a massage, I know.” The man said and while he was still scowling, his voice wasn’t sharp or cold or even growling. Just low and soft. “C’mon inside, then.”

Stiles followed the man - the nephew of a powerful mob boss, apparently - into the entrance hall, where another man was waiting. He was attractive too, and well-muscled. A little younger than Nephew, if Stiles had to guess, and closer to Stiles’ own age. He was figuring Nephew to be closer to thirty than twenty and Stiles himself was only twenty-three. The other guy was also dressed in black jeans and a black tee, and Stiles noted warily that he had a gun holstered on his belt, though the first guy seemed unarmed.

“This the guy who’s subbing for Danny?” The second guy said, raking his eyes over Stiles curiously, something mischievous shining in his eyes. It made Stiles uncomfortably aware of the way his borrowed uniform was clinging to him, but too tight had seemed better than too loose when he’d tried it on. He was questioning that decision now as the guy added with a leer. “Wow. Danny really knows how to send an apology, doesn’t he? Boss’ll like this one, right, Derek?”

Derek, apparently, scowled harder, flashing golden wolf eyes at the second guy. “What my uncle likes is none of my concern. Or yours, Ethan.” He gestured to Stiles, adding. “Just check him and bring him downstairs. I have other things to do.”

Ethan moved closer to Stiles, hands raised, as Derek turned on his heel to walk away. Stiles took a hasty step back, bristling up. “Hands to yourself.” He snapped.

The smile on Ethan’s face grew sharp and he flashed blue eyes at Stiles, sending a chill down his spine. “Relax, pretty boy. I’m just going to frisk you.”

“The f*ck you are!” Stiles protested, smacking Ethan’s hand away when it got too close to him. “I’m from a goddamn agency, here to provide a service. I never agreed to be groped.”

Derek had stopped on his way out of the large foyer, turning to scowl at Stiles. “My uncle has many enemies. No one is allowed to see him without a weapon search.”

Stiles folded his arms across his chest, scowling right back. “Then you can tell your uncle that he won’t be getting his massage, because no way am I letting creeper wolf here play grab-ass with me.”

Derek opened his mouth, eyes flashing in annoyance, but Ethan broke in with a laugh. “Oh, come off it, Derek. Look at the guy! If he’s managed to hide a weapon somewhere under that painted-on uniform of his, I say he deserves to kill the boss.”

Derek snapped his fangs at Ethan, but flicked his fingers dismissively. “Fine. Take him down. But if Peter winds up injured, I’m blaming you.”

“Sir, yes sir!” Ethan said around more laughter, giving Derek a mocking salute. Derek responded by flipping him off without even turning around, and Ethan rolled his eyes before turning to grin at Stiles. “Alright, come on. I’ll take you down to see the boss.”

He led Stiles over to an elevator, an old-fashioned affair caged with gleaming metal and the sort of accordian-gate across it that you saw in old movies but nowhere else. They stepped in, Ethan tugging the gate shut again before pushing a button.

Stiles blinked, seeing it said 1L. He skimmed his eyes over the other buttons. 4, 3, 2, 1, 1L, 2L, 3L. Which meant that there were nearly as many levels underground as there were above it. That was a little unnerving, honestly. Stiles shifted restlessly, moving to discreetly dry his sweat-damp palms on the uniform shorts he was wearing before remembering they were white. Instead, he curled his hands into fists, nails biting into his palms, as the elevator rattled its way down a single level.

As it ground to a halt and Ethan reached for this level’s gate to open it, he shot Stiles a considering look before saying softly. “I’m not actually a creep, you know. And no one in this house will hurt you. I know you don’t know me, but I consider Danny a friend. You can trust me.”

Stiles let out a trembling breath, but managed a weak smile for Ethan. “Thanks. I, uh...I’m just a little nervous, that’s all.” Knowing he couldn’t lie to a werewolf unless he was telling the truth, Stiles added. “I’ve never given a werewolf a massage before.”

Ethan shrugged even as he led Stiles up a hallway. “I’d imagine it’s the same as giving a human one, except that you can safely use more pressure.” He flashed a fang-y smile at Stiles over his shoulder even as he stopped next to a wooden door. “We don’t bruise easily.”

Stiles huffed out a little laugh at that, but felt some of the tension bleed out of him. Danny did this every week and had for almost a year; it couldn’t be that difficult. And if he screwed up, what did it matter? He was never going to see this Alpha guy again. The worst that happened was the guy hated Stiles’ technique and cut the massage short, sending Stiles home. Ethan knocked on the door, opening it a moment later despite the fact that Stiles hadn’t heard a response.

Ethan stuck his head in and Stiles heard him speak, only a little muffled by the mostly closed door. “Hey, boss. I guess Danny couldn’t make it today, but he sent someone else to make it up to you. Can I send him in?”

Ethan pulled back almost right away, nudging the door open the rest of the way. “Go on, then. The boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Stiles stepped into the room, fighting the urge to flinch when Ethan pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Stiles in a dimly lit room with an unknown alpha werewolf. There were candles scattered around, though Stiles couldn’t smell anything and imagined they were unscented and lit purely for the ambiance. The room was warm, which made sense considering the man face down on a massage table seemed to be naked, covered only by a thin white sheet draped over his ass. He was bare from the tops of his thighs down and from the small of his back up, anyway, and Stiles would be genuinely surprised if there was anything under that sheet besides bare skin.

Taking a measured breath, Stiles tried to focus on the soft harp music playing over a speaker somewhere in the room. He carefully approached the table, noting that the man laying there was just as muscled as his nephew had been. His skin was lightly tanned, his hair a rich mahogany color that looked touchably soft. Stiles’ fingers itched for a minute with the urge to touch, but thankfully his self-preservation instinct kicked in and reminded him that he should not try to pet the alpha werewolf mafia boss. Not unless he wanted to die.

Shaking his head at himself, Stiles grabbed a bottle of massage oil off a nearby table, squirting a little onto his palm before setting it back down. He rubbed his hands together, coating them properly, before stepping right up to the edge of the massage table. For a half a second, Stiles reached for the man before realizing that maybe just touching wasn’t the best way to go about this.

He swallowed hard, then spoke barely above a whisper, knowing the Alpha - which felt stupid to call the man, even in his head, but he didn’t have another name for him - would hear him. “My name is Stiles. I’ll be giving you your massage today.” Then, deciding to be as honest as he could without potentially getting Danny in trouble, Stiles added. “I’m still learning, but let me know if you need me to do something differently and I’ll do my best to accommodate you.”

The Alpha hummed quietly in what seemed to be agreement but didn’t bother lifting his head, so Stiles shrugged and got down to it. He settled his hands on the Alpha’s strong shoulders, fingertips digging into the tops while his thumbs pressed in deep circles on either side of the Alpha’s spine. He could feel the tension there and dug his thumbs in a little harder, trying to remember what Danny had taught him. He let his hands slide down the Alpha’s back a little ways, working his way back up with most of his weight behind his thumbs, but it didn’t feel quite right.

Frowning, Stiles considered his options for a moment before circling to the head of the table. He leaned forward, reaching over the Alpha’s head to press down on the Alpha’s shoulders and upper back from that angle and nodded to himself, because it felt better to him. Like he had a better angle, or a more equal reach, or something. He could feel the Alpha’s muscles shifting under his skin, which was more than warm. It was actually hot to the touch. But then, werewolves had a tendency to run hot, which Stiles knew.

There was something soothing about the slick slide of the Alpha’s skin beneath his palms. Something about the soft harp music playing in the background, and the low lights, and the flickering candles that settled Stiles’ busy mind down to a quiet buzz. Stiles sighed softly as he leaned forward again, reaching as far as he could down the Alpha’s back before he slowly began sliding up again.

And then, halfway back to straightening up - with his slick palms resting just below the Alpha’s shoulder blades - Stiles suddenly felt large hands on the backs of his legs. A heartbeat later they slid higher, cupping Stiles’ ass. He froze, not even daring to breathe for the span of several heartbeats, and then those hands squeezed. With an offended yelp, Stiles jerked himself backwards, away from the Alpha and the table and the touch. The man let him go, though he lifted his head and shifted to sit up, letting Stiles get a look at his face for the first time.

And christ, but that was like a suckerpunch.

Ethan had been attractive. Hell, Derek had been downright gorgeous, in a GQ cover model way. But Stiles had been around enough supernaturals in his life - or supernaturally adjacent folks, like Danny - to be somewhat immune to their preternatural good looks. But this...this was another level.

The Alpha was...f*ck, how had Danny put it? Compelling. Well, his roommate had been right about that. Piercing blue eyes that were as cold as ice bit into Stiles as the man’s eyes moved over him in a slow, indolent sweep. He had a patrician nose and full, sensual lips that immediately made Stiles think filthy things, despite all the reasons he knew he shouldn’t. His facial hair wasn’t quite a goatee since it continued carefully along the edge of his strong jaw, but his cheeks were clean and it was thickest where it framed that wicked mouth so it had something of that look. In truth, Stiles wasn’t sure how he was still standing, given his knees felt like they’d disappeared the moment the Alpha’s eyes had locked on him.

Stiles’ eyes drifted lower, over the well-muscled body he’d already known the Alpha had, because he’d had his hands on it just a minute ago. The Alpha’s chest was just as sculpted as his back and Stiles bit his lower lip, curling his hands into fists as he fought back the urge to squeeze the Alpha’s pecs; to run his fingers through all of that delicious chest hair, or maybe nuzzle his face into it.

‘Not cool...’ he reminded himself sharply, struggling to cling to his anger at having been groped by this man while he was trying to do his job. Or, well, not Stiles’ job, but Danny’s job, and the Alpha had no idea that Stiles wasn’t employed by the same agency, so the point held. ‘You don’t get to lust after him when he’s being both an asshole and a creep.’

Still, his mouth felt dry as the Alpha pushed himself up, sliding off the table and moving closer to where Stiles was standing, backed against a wooden table with shelves under it that held towels and oils. The sheet had fallen away and the Alpha was completely naked as he prowled closer, a smirk curving his sensual lips into something equal parts tempting and dangerous. Stiles fought to keep his eyes on the Alpha’s face, not daring to look down at where the older man was entirely bare. Except that the longer the Alpha stood in front of him, tension building until it was nearly unbearable, the harder it was to not look.

Finally, Stiles’ traitorous eyes slid down. Past the firm pecs and their covering of thick hair that Stiles still wanted to touch. Past his lean waist and the faint muscles of his abdomen. Following the trail of dark hair below his navel that Stiles sort of wanted to bite. Past the jut of his hip bones, and the enticing V his muscles made, leading Stiles’ eyes further down...

Down...

Down...

And then Stiles’ eyes were locked on the Alpha’s co*ck. His hard co*ck. Fully hard, with the foreskin drawn most of the way back to reveal the flushed head, wet and shiny even in the soft lighting of the room with a glistening bead of precome clinging to the slit. Stiles felt breathless and his tongue darted out to wet his lips, an utterly unconscious gesture he was barely aware of until the Alpha spoke.

His voice - low and husky and dark - sent shivers dancing up and down Stiles’ spine before he registered the words the Alpha had said.

“Do you want to taste my co*ck?”

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

There were things Peter Hale had never expected. Living in New York City, for instance. Having been born and raised on the west coast - his father had been the head Alpha of the Los Angeles werewolves, after all - Peter had never imagined living elsewhere. Talia - Peter’s older sister - had been raised to take over when their father stepped down, and had done so only a couple of years after her marriage. Just as her eldest daughter - Laura - was being taught the ropes now, though Peter doubted Talia would take a step back anytime soon. And Peter had been raised to be Talia’s second. Her right hand. Her consigliere, as it were. His place was at Talia’s side, unless ordered elsewhere.

So when Laura and her twin brother Derek decided to attend college in New York City, Talia had sent Peter with them. Laura, who was destined to take Talia’s place one day...and Derek, who was meant to take Peter’s. His purpose was to protect them and return them safely to Talia’s territory once they’d graduated. But when news of Talia’s heir apparent’s presence in New York reached the head Alpha of the New York werewolves, Deucalion Emery had reacted with a predictable level of violence. After all, Deucalion’s increasingly unhinged behavior was a large part of why Talia had sent Peter with the twins in the first place.

Deucalion had tried to kill Laura. Peter had stopped him. And, quite suddenly, Peter had found himself an alpha, though he’d never anticipated that, either. Wanted it, certainly, at least at times. But he’d had a solid position of power at Talia’s side, with only a fraction of her responsibilities, so he’d been content enough. But with Deucalion’s death, Peter had gained glowing red eyes and an influx of unanticipated power. Moreover, he’d been faced with a moral dilemma.

Deucalion’s death had resulted in a power void in New York. Every alpha werewolf would be vying to fill it, while the other supernatural families would likely try to carve out slices of the werewolves’ territory for themselves while things were unsettled. It would have been an outright civil war. There would have been a high death toll among werewolves...and a nearly unprecedented number of human deaths as collateral damage. The fallout would have affected human-supernatural relations across the country, if not the world. It was a disaster of epic proportions, resting squarely on Peter’s shoulders.

So Peter had done the only thing he could. He had stepped into the void. He had taken Deucalion’s place. As the one who killed him, that was his right and doing so prevented the upheaval a void in the power structure would have caused. But it meant that Peter couldn’t go home. His place was in New York, running things. Laura’s was at home in LA, so as soon as she’d graduated, that was where she had gone. And Derek...

Well.

Peter and Talia had had a long talk about Derek. Because Peter had never planned to settle down or have children, which meant that he had no heir for the kingdom he’d inherited. And with the power of the Hale Family now spanning both the East and West coasts, that was something they needed to address. But Talia had done them the great service of birthing twins. So Laura had returned home while Derek had stayed with Peter, named his heir and now in the same position as Laura, albeit on the far side of the country. And Talia’s younger child - Cora - had chosen to come to New York for college as well. Now Cora was freshly graduated, but had no desire to head back home to live in her sister’s shadow once more. She also wasn’t interested in being Laura’s second.

Peter had swayed Talia into allowing Cora to stay by arranging a marriage for his niece, to the brother of the head Alpha werewolf of Boston. Things weren’t entirely finalized on that front, but it was getting there. None of them were in any great rush about it.

So Peter had never expected to be an alpha, let alone an Alpha. He had never expected to live in New York. He had never expected to have - or need - an heir.

He also didn’t expect to be canceled on.

People didn’t cancel on the Alphas of the various supernatural families. It just wasn’t done. People curried favor with Alphas. Peter had grown used to that, in the ten years since he’d become one. And yet, there was Ethan, telling him that Danny had sent a replacement. As if Peter was going to want some absolute stranger touching him while he was naked and vulnerable. Well, not vulnerable-vulnerable. Peter was a powerful alpha; it’s not like he was helpless. Even unconscious, his instincts would kick in if someone attacked him. But still, it was an odd situation to be in with someone you didn’t know.

Naked for sex was different than naked for relaxing and Peter had thoroughly vetted Danny before allowing Indulgence to send him to the house. Peter had also been adamant about having a massage therapist who had a supernatural background, preferably werewolf-specific. If Danny’s replacement was a human who had no experience with werewolves, it was unlikely to be a satisfactory massage. For one thing, more pressure was required, something humans were often reluctant to apply when they didn’t understand werewolf physiology. For another, there were parts of a werewolf - especially an alpha werewolf like Peter - that shouldn’t be touched by a random stranger, massage or no. Like his neck.

If this replacement touched Peter’s neck, well...he couldn’t be held responsible for whatever consequences there were. His control was good, but it wasn’t perfect.

Still, Danny had been his massage therapist for nearly a year, so there was a chance that whomever he’d sent to replace himself was well-informed and would know what to do. And what not to do.

When the man came in, the first thing Peter noticed was that the man’s heart was racing. Not an uncommon response to being alone in a room with an alpha werewolf, though it did increase the odds that this person was human. Not bothering to look up from his position on the massage table or speak, Peter simply waited to see what the man was going to do. Soft footsteps approached and the man’s scent hit Peter next.

Rich. That was the first thing Peter noticed about it. The man’s scent was rich, but not sweet. It was earthy, like loam and moss and green, growing things. It was wound through with petrichor - with the scent of parched earth soaking up long awaited rain - and it was heady. Dark, but pleasant. Warm. Enticing. And faintly - laced under it all, subtle but distinctive - was something else. Something sharp and electric. Almost metallic but not quite. Ozone. It was a distinctive smell that could only mean one thing.

Danny’s replacement was a magic-user.

What type of magic user was still up for debate, but that was just details. Peter liked to focus on the big picture when first presented with something new, then hone in on the finer points later. And this man’s big picture was screaming magic.

When Peter heard the man rummaging through the massage oils, he risked lifting his head to steal a glance at the man. The young man, apparently. Danny’s age, most likely, if not younger. He had pale skin, dotted by moles. He had thick chestnut hair, cut short at the sides and back but a little longer on top. Long enough for someone to sink their fingers into and pull, if they wanted. Peter couldn’t see much of the younger man’s face, but what he could see was pleasant enough. As the man chose an oil and tipped some into his cupped palm, Peter tucked his face back into the hole in the massage bed, certain of something else.

This man was not a massage therapist...and he definitely didn’t work for Indulgence.

True, he was wearing the uniform, but it didn’t fit. Not even close. The white shorts were too short on this man’s long legs, and far too snug across his firm, perky ass and muscular thighs. The white shirt was a little loose at his slender waist, but it rode up when he reached for things in a way it wouldn’t if it was fitted to him. Not to mention, the upper part of the thing was straining, pulled taut across the man’s shoulders. The short sleeves bit into his upper arms and Peter was a little surprised all of the seams were holding up.

And really, there was only one reason to send an Alpha someone who was not a massage therapist, in a uniform that didn’t fit in all of the best ways. What was it Ethan had said about Danny? ‘He sent someone else to make it up to you.’ And wasn’t that sweet of Danny. To send an apology for canceling, in the form of a pretty young man. Peter had received worse apologies, for sure.

“My name is Stiles.” No uptick to the man’s heart, despite the oddity of the name he’d given. “I’ll be giving you your massage today.”

His voice was soft and a little breathless, which Peter attributed to the faint scent of cinnamon heat now underlining the man’s natural scent. Arousal. It smelled almost the same, no matter who it was coming from. Peter was used to smelling it, but it pleased him every time. Moreso this time, from this man.

When Stiles continued, his heart did something...odd. It wasn’t an uptick - not quite - but it wasn’t perfectly steady, either. “I’m still learning, but let me know if you need me to do something differently and I’ll do my best to accommodate you.” It might have been nothing. A less powerful werewolf likely wouldn’t have detected it at all, but Peter wasn’t a less powerful werewolf and there was very little he missed.

Peter let out an agreeable little hum, but his mind was working hard.

Stiles had just lied. Or, if not precisely lied, then he’d at least skirted the truth. Still learning. That was the part that wasn’t true, or not fully, anyway. Peter turned the puzzle of it over in his mind as Stiles’ hands - long-fingered and strong - smoothed over his back, slick with oil. Which meant Stiles had likely started learning massage and then stopped before learning everything. He wasn’t fully trained, but he wasn’t actively learning more, either. That was an interesting piece of information; another piece of the whole puzzle. And it just made Peter more sure of what Stiles’ actual occupation was.

As Stiles circled around to stand near his head, hands going back to Peter’s back in strokes that were firm enough to feel good but not nearly enough to be a proper massage, Peter let an amused smile curve his lips. This wasn’t the first time he’d been sent a prostitute, but this was the first time he’d been tempted to accept the gift on offer. He normally preferred to choose his bedmates himself, whether they were paid for the privilege or not. Stiles, however, was tempting.

Because he was, Peter let his hands settle on the back of Stiles’ thighs, right where the shorts started, at about the midway point. He slid them up, cupping Stiles’ pert little ass in both hands. When Stiles went still but didn’t protest, Peter allowed himself the pleasure of squeezing the firm flesh beneath his palms.

Stiles squeaked, jerking back, and Peter let him go. He lifted his face from the table, then settled himself in a seated position on it. He watched as Stiles backed himself up against the low wooden shelving behind him. Watched as wide, Bambi eyes roved over Peter’s body. The cinnamon-hot note to Stiles’ scent got stronger, growing liquid-slick at the edges in a way that made Peter’s wolf perk up and take notice. Stiles was trembling faintly and his heart stuttered when Peter stood, stalking closer to the young man.

He paused directly in front of Stiles, waiting as those doe-dark eyes struggled to maintain eye contact. It didn’t take long - a minute or two at the most - before Stiles’ eyes were slipping lower. Down...

Down...

Down...

And then, when Stiles’ eyes had locked on where Peter was hard and aching, that sinful mouth parted and a flash of pink tongue darted out. It left Stiles’ lower lip shiny and wet. It made Peter feel hungry.

Voice husky with want, he asked smugly. “Do you want to taste my co*ck?”

Peter was so focused on the delicious, full-body shiver that overcame Stiles and the way his heart stuttered again, his scent flooding with want, that the slap almost took him by surprise.

Almost.

~*~*~*~

“Do you want to taste my co*ck?”

The words registered and Stiles tensed up, acting without thought. He swung his hand, open-palmed, at the Alpha’s face. It wasn’t until a strong hand enclosed his wrist, stopping his arm’s momentum, that Stiles even realized what he’d just done. His narrowed eyes widened, his throat growing tight with fear as the truth registered. He had just tried to slap a werewolf. Not just any werewolf, either. An alpha werewolf. An alpha werewolf who just so happened to run a sizable chunk of New York City.

‘Oh f*ck...’

Stiles would have taken a step back if he could, but the damn shelves were behind him. There was nowhere for him to go. He swallowed, breathing a little harder than normal, caught in those cold blue eyes.

“Not a very smart thing to do.” The Alpha murmured, before yanking Stiles’ arm higher, then turning his head and running the tip of his nose up the inside of Stiles’ forearm to his wrist. Once there, the werewolf breathed in deeply through his nose. “You know it, too. This is the first time you’ve smelled like fear.”

“It was instinct.” Stiles rasped, his naturally snarky attitude choosing this moment to make itself known. “A guy says something creepy to me, I don’t let it stand. I’d say it’s nothing personal, but given you’re the one who was being a creep, I guess it sort of is.”

One eyebrow lifted, a smirk curving the Alpha’s full lips. “I apologize if I offended you. I was under the impression you had been sent as an apology to me, for a cancellation.”

“I’m not an apology.” Stiles said with a frown, not sure why that word was rubbing him the wrong way. “I’m a replacement. I mean, I’m not as skilled as Danny so I’m not a great replacement or anything, but he’s the one who taught me and he said what I knew was enough, so.”

Those blue eyes narrowed for a moment, then widened as if in understanding. “You’re a friend.” Stiles nodded and the man chuckled softly. “Then I do apologize. If I had known...but I didn’t. So when I realized you weren’t a massage therapist, I assumed...well.”

Stiles tensed up as he finally figured out what the Alpha had thought, his cheeks flushing. “You thought I was a prostitute? Oh my god. No! No. That’s not...” Stiles groaned, moving to cover his face only to realize his wrist was still being held captive.

Feeling a little frantic, he gave it a tug. “Look, I’m just...can I go now, please? We can just pretend this didn’t happen, right?”

The Alpha’s smirk sharpened into a wicked smile and he took another step forward, very nearly pinning Stiles in place with his body. “Now why would I want to do that? You might not be what I thought, but that doesn’t make you any less enticing.”

Stiles swallowed hard. “Look, Mr. Alpha, I-”

“Peter.”

Stiles blinked at the man, then - a bit dumbly - said. “What?”

“Call me Peter.” The Alpha - Peter, apparently - said simply.

He finally released Stiles’ wrist, but his hand settled around the front of Stiles’ throat almost immediately. Peter’s grip was gentle but firm as he forced Stiles up onto his toes before leaning in to trace the line of Stiles’ jaw with his tongue. His lips found Stiles’ ear a moment later, voice a low growl. “I want to hear you scream my name when I make you come.”

Stiles had never gotten hard so fast in his life. And yeah, okay, he’d been on the edge of arousal from the moment he got a good look at Peter, but still. The way Peter was manhandling him, the things he was saying, the fact that they were basically strangers...all of it was hot, in a dirtybadwrong sort of way. It was like nothing Stiles had experienced before. He’d been awkward in high school, and in college he’d been focused on his studies - both academically and magically - so he’d never really dated. And this wasn’t dating, obviously. This was someone incredibly sexy and also dangerous offering him sex, pure and simple. Except Stiles had never had that either; no random hookups or one night stands.

But dear god, he wanted.

And okay, Stiles had always had a thing with impulse control, but screw it. Everyone made stupid mistakes in their early twenties, and Stiles wanted to make this one. Refusing to second guess himself, Stiles slid his hands up into Peter’s hair. He yanked hard enough to make Peter draw back from where he’d been nuzzling Stiles' throat, a snarl on his lips and his eyes flashing red. But Stiles wasn’t afraid.

Instead, a delicious little shiver chased itself up his spine and Stiles licked his lips before whispering breathlessly. “I guess you better f*ck me then, Alpha.”

And sure, Stiles knew Peter’s name now but he also knew werewolves. And the way Peter growled in response to the formal address said Stiles had made the right call. So did the way Peter spun Stiles around and moved him quickly towards a wall that didn’t have a bunch of shelves against it. Stiles’ back hit the wall and then Peter was capturing both of his wrists in one hand and pinning them against the wall above Stiles’ head. A second later, Peter leaned in and caught Stiles’ lips in a demanding kiss.

Stiles kissed back for all he was worth, letting Peter lick into his mouth and then sucking on the man’s tongue. He arched against Peter’s hold on his wrists, moaning softly when the unrelenting grip held strong. Peter swallowed the sound down, still kissing Stiles hard and fierce. Possessive. And suddenly Peter’s other hand was between their bodies, and Stiles’ fly was open, and Stiles was panting into Peter’s mouth. Stiles barely had a moment to appreciate the relief that came from the sudden extra space for his erection in the too-tight uniform shorts before Peter’s hand was sliding down the back of said shorts...and Stiles’ briefs.

Strong, sure fingers squeezed one cheek for a moment and then his hand was sliding lower, fingers pressing. Stiles tore their mouths apart, swearing as Peter’s fingers found his slick hole.

Peter hummed even as he set his teeth to Stiles’ jaw, fingers pressing in with no preamble. “What’s this, my little minx? You’re all wet for me...”

“S’not...n-not...” Stiles gasped around the words, whimpering even as he hitched his leg up around Peter’s hip, opening himself further to Peter’s demanding fingers. “F-f*ck, it’s not...”

“Not what, pet?” Peter murmured, tongue rasping up the front of Stiles’ throat. He pressed a sucking kiss to Stiles’ racing pulse, then teased. “You didn’t get yourself all slick and open before coming here? You weren’t hoping to entice the big, bad wolf?”

Stiles’ keened softly as Peter’s fingers pressed deeper, then he bit out. “It’s a spell.”

That made Peter lift his head, surprise scrawled across his face. “What?”

Stiles spared a moment to be grateful he was already flushed with arousal, because otherwise he would have been bright red with mortification. But Peter had gone still - fingers still buried inside Stiles - so he knew he had to answer. Gritting his teeth, he explained. “It’s a spell. When I’m aroused, I uh...I get...”

“You get wet.” Peter purred, and the smirk was back now. “Well, well. Isn’t that handy?”

And then Peter’s fingers were sliding out of Stiles, and Stiles’ nails were biting into Peter’s shoulders in protest, and Peter was lifting him by the thighs; carrying him over to the massage table. He clicked his tongue at Stiles in a teasing reprimand even as he set him back on his feet. “Tsk, tsk. None of that now, pet. I’m going to take good care of you.”

Before Stiles’ snappy reply could spill off his tongue, he was spun around and bent forward over the center of the table. He gasped even as Peter yanked down both the shorts and his briefs, and then the blunt heat of Peter’s co*ck was pressed against his entrance. Again, Peter wasted no time. He drove his hips forward, filling Stiles between one breath and the next. A heartbeat later, Peter was slamming repeatedly into Stiles, f*cking him hard and fast. And the worst part was, it was good.

It ought to have been too much. Too fast. Too abrupt. It ought to have sucked, the way Peter roughed his way inside of Stiles’ body, over and over like he was chasing his own pleasure with no care for Stiles’. It should have been completely awful. Instead, Stiles found himself clinging to the black leather padding of the table, keening as he pressed his ass back into every one of Peter’s thrusts. He felt full, in a way he’d never managed with his fingers or the few toys he owned, and Peter was hitting his prostate with every thrust, his demanding rhythm never faltering or even slowing down. There was skill and purpose in every move Peter made.

It was divine.

Stiles was dangerously close to the edge after only a couple of minutes. He keened when Peter’s hand curled around the front of his throat again, fingers bruise-tight without making it so Stiles couldn’t breathe. He could feel the air as it was pulled past his lips, over his tongue, and down his throat to his lungs. Could feel his chest expanding with every breath he pulled in, nearly panting as Peter drove him higher. But Peter’s fingers were so hard against the sides of his throat, biting into him, and he felt light-headed. Dizzy. And then Peter’s grip was loosening, palm a gentle pressure at the front of his throat and nothing else.

The sudden headrush was like nothing Stiles had ever experienced.

And then Peter’s hand fisted in Stiles’ hair and he jerked Stiles’ head down, baring the back of his neck. Peter’s mouth was there a moment later. And as Peter sunk his teeth into that vulnerable expanse of skin, Stiles screamed Peter’s name and spilled himself - co*ck untouched - against the side of the massage table and the floor. Possibly his underwear and shorts had caught some of it too, but Stiles honestly couldn’t be sure. Even if he’d had a clear view of the aforementioned clothing, his vision had gone all blurry with his org*sm and he figured it might take a few minutes for his brain to properly reboot, given he was still shivering with aftershocks.

Peter was still f*cking into him, hard and fast, and Stiles whimpered softly at the overstimulation of it all, tensing against the continued intrusion. Thankfully, that seemed to send Peter over the edge as well. The alpha growled, teeth still latched onto the back of Stiles’ neck, and ground himself deep into Stiles’ ass. Peter spilled himself there and Stiles moaned weakly at the feel of Peter’s co*ck twitching inside of him as he filled Stiles with his come.

And part of Stiles was thinking, ‘We didn’t use a condom...’ but the rest of Stiles was pointing out that Peter was a werewolf who could neither contract nor transmit diseases, sexually or otherwise. The alpha couldn’t catch a cold let alone give Stiles chlamydia or whatever. And it was hot, to think that Peter had been inside of him with nothing between them. To know that Peter had filled him, in every sense. It was hot...

...right up until Peter’s co*ck slid out of his body and Stiles had to frantically clench against everything that wanted to just spill out of him.

A moment later, Peter’s hands were pulling Stiles’ underwear and borrowed shorts back into place, then guiding Stiles to stand upright. Stiles screwed up his face, ready to ask for a shower. Or, barring that, a f*cking washcloth or a moist towelette or something. He felt disgusting.

And then he met Peter’s eyes. Blue. Ice blue. And still so goddamn cold. Peter studied him dispassionately, then offered in a cool voice. “If you ever require my assistance, Stiles...you need only ask.”

Stiles’ back went ramrod straight, his chin coming up in stubborn defiance. Something about the way Peter was looking at him made Stiles feel horrible. ‘What did I do?’ he wondered, knowing with a bone deep certainty that this had all been a terrible mistake. ‘I should never have let him touch me...’

Summoning as much cool disdain as he could manage, Stiles offered shortly. “I can’t think of a single thing that would ever make me ask for your help.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, flashing red for a moment, and Stiles fought down the urge to apologize; to try to appease Peter and his temper. Instead, he murmured. “Goodbye, Alpha.”

Then, turning on his heel and doing his best to pretend his knees weren’t still made of jello, Stiles walked quickly to the door. He opened it, stepping into the hallway and pulling it shut behind him. As he headed quickly for the elevator, Stiles prayed he didn’t run into anyone else on his way back to his car. If he did, they would be able to smell what he and Peter had just done and Stiles wasn’t sure he could handle the mortification of someone knowing what he’d just let a complete stranger do to him.

Thankfully, there was no one in the elevator. Or the foyer. In fact, Stiles made it to his car without seeing another person. Grateful, Stiles slid into his jeep, wincing and then clenching his butt when he felt everything start to seep out of him at the sudden change in position. With a steadying breath, Stiles started Roscoe and pulled out into the driveway. When he reached it, the gate swung silently open to let Stiles out. As he headed back across the city towards the apartment he shared with Danny, Stiles told himself he was glad that was over.

And he ruthlessly squashed the part of him that was disappointed and hurt that Peter had let him go.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Saturday, November 17th, 2018

Stiles dragged his fork listlessly through the pasta sauce on his plate. When Ian said Stiles’ name and gave him a confused look from across the small table, asking if he was okay, Stiles forced his lips to curve up into a reasonably facsimile of a smile. “Yeah, just...got a little lost in thought. Work stuff, you know?”

That sent Ian off on a tangent about his work, which was exactly what Stiles had been hoping for. It would buy Stiles a few minutes to get his head on straight. He was on a date, dammit. A date with his boyfriend of two months. A man who doted on Stiles. A man who was incredibly beautiful, with vibrant green eyes and golden blonde hair and the body of a Greek god. Ian was sweet, and considerate. He was intelligent and generous and he seemed to delight in Stiles’ snarky and slightly mean sense of humor. He took Stiles on wonderful dates, and held his hand, and kissed him breathless. But he also respected that Stiles had wanted to take things slowly, and he’d never once pushed or made Stiles feel bad for not being ready to have sex yet.

And what was Stiles doing, as he sat in a fancy restaurant with Ian, celebrating two months of dating? Thinking about another man. Thinking about Peter. Which was a patently stupid thing to be doing in the first place because Stiles had only spent about a half an hour in Peter’s presence, one time, three months earlier. He didn’t even know the man. And what he knew of the man - what he’d dug up in the three months since their encounter - wasn’t exactly a glowing recommendation.

Peter - known almost exclusively as The Werewolf Alpha or The Alpha Wolf by the various news outlets who speculated about him - was a dangerous man. Werewolf. Whatever. He was dangerous. He had killed the previous Alpha Wolf of New York City and taken over. He was suspected of a multitude of crimes that no one had ever managed to pin on him, with some of the news outlets speculating that the cops (and the Hunters) weren’t even trying because he’d bought them all off.

The more Stiles had read, the less he felt like he knew, because it was all speculation and supposition and a lot of it contradicted itself or other sources. But the one thing Stiles was certain of, was that he was better off staying far away from someone like Peter. That was the sort of complication he didn’t need in his life.

With that in mind, when Ian wrapped up his little work-story, Stiles lowered his voice and asked huskily. “What do you say we get out of here? Go back to your place and...”

He trailed off suggestively and Ian’s eyes widened for a moment, before a wide grin blossomed on his handsome face. “If you’re suggesting what I think you are, then I’ll get the check.”

“I am.” Stiles agreed, tamping down on the nerves tightening his belly. He cared about Ian. A lot, actually. And he was attracted to him. This was the next step in their relationship, and Stiles was done putting it off.

He watched Ian flag the waiter down and forced his smile to stay in place. ‘This is what I want,’ Stiles reminded himself as Ian asked for their check. ‘To have sex with my boyfriend, who cares about me.’

As Ian handed over his credit card, Stiles clung to his determination. This was what he needed, to get past the whole mess with Peter. Everything was going to be fine.

~*~*~*~

Stiles hummed into Ian’s kiss when his cell started ringing from the coffee table. Ian’s lips shifted to Stiles’ throat and he murmured heatedly. “Just ignore it. If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.”

Stiles huffed in amusem*nt, sliding his hands into Ian’s hair so he could pull his boyfriend’s mouth back to his own for another kiss. He was feeling pleasantly tipsy from the wine he’d had with dinner, and flushed with the sort of low-grade arousal he’d grown to expect from kissing Ian. It wasn’t harsh and demanding, but rather the sort of slow simmer that could be coaxed into a rolling boil if you were patient and knew how. Stiles liked it, and he was eager to fan those flames tonight. To see where all of this with Ian could go, if he let it.

He slid one hand under the back of Ian’s untucked button-up, pressing his palm flush to hot skin. Ian made a pleased sound, then nudged Stiles into laying back on the couch. Stiles went willingly, liking the way it felt to have Ian’s muscular body over him; caging him in against the buttery leather of Ian’s couch. He sighed into Ian’s mouth, then startled when his phone started ringing again. He turned his head to frown at it, even as Ian pressed kisses along the edge of Stiles’ jaw. It rang three times - the limit Stiles’ phone was set to - and fell silent again.

Then, just as Stiles turned his attention back to Ian, it started ringing again. Ian groaned when Stiles stretched out his arm to snag the thing. “Really, Stiles?”

Stiles gave him an apologetic smile as the phone went silent in Stiles’ hand. “Sorry, just...what if Danny got locked out of the apartment or something? Let me just see who it is, deal with whatever they want, and then I’ll put it on silent. Okay?”

Ian sighed again, but agreed with an easy smile that let Stiles know he wasn’t actually upset. So Stiles unlocked his phone, frowning at the readout.

Three Missed Calls From: Dad

“That’s weird...” Stiles mumbled, finger hovering over the call back area on his phone’s screen. When Ian hummed questioningly, Stiles explained. “It’s my dad. He doesn’t normally call like this. I wonder-”

Stiles cut himself off as his phone rang again, lighting up with another call from Noah. He gave Ian a baffled look, then said. “I’m just...I’m gonna take this. See what he wants.”

Ian nodded even as Stiles swiped to answer, bringing the phone to his ear. “Hey, Dad. What’s got you calling like I’m late for curfew? I’m on a da-”

“Stiles, Isaac is missing.”

Noah’s voice cracked around the words as they trickled out of the phone and into Stiles’ ear, making his breath catch in his lungs. Stiles’ heart tripped over itself in his chest and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. “What do you mean?” Stiles asked, the words barely more than breath with how they wheezed out of him.

There was a choked sound over the line, then Noah was speaking again. “He hasn’t checked in. Not in two days. I called Melissa and she hasn’t heard from Scott, either. And I reached out to the last hostel they were at. Their stuff is still there, but the boys are missing.”

Stiles felt frozen, his thoughts sluggish. Isaac was the little brother he hadn’t wanted, when Noah had brought him home when Stiles was ten and Isaac was just five. Isaac had been quiet and skittish, having been abused by his father, but he’d slowly come around. They both had, and now Stiles couldn’t imagine life without Isaac. At eighteen, Isaac was sweet and kind, if a little naive. His best friend was Scott McCall. The two had decided to spend a year backpacking through Australia before they headed off to their freshman year of college.

And now Isaac was missing.

“I’m coming home.” Stiles finally rasped out, because it was all he could think of to say. “I’ll...it might take me a day or two. I have to deal with work and book a flight and...Dad. Dad, I’m coming home, okay?”

Noah let out another choked sound, and this time Stiles recognized it as a sob. “Okay.” He managed after a moment where the both of them just breathed. “Yeah, okay.”

“I love you.” Stiles promised, forcing every bit of certainty into his voice that he could. “And they’ll find him. You know as well as I do that Isaac is tougher than he seems. Everything is going to be okay. I’ll call you again as soon as I have my flight information.”

Noah said his own ‘I love you’ and a quick goodbye, then Stiles disconnected the call. Ian was standing there, looking concerned, but Stiles didn’t have the time to deal with it. Not now. “I’m sorry, I have to go. There’s a family emergency and I...I just have to go.”

“Stiles-”

But Stiles didn’t wait to hear what Ian had to say. He was out the door a moment later, not even bothering to stop and call the elevator but rather barreling into the stairwell and all but throwing himself down them. Nothing mattered in that moment except for Isaac; his baby brother.

~*~*~*~

Stiles was hastily folding clothes and shoving them into a duffel bag, cell phone on speaker on the bed as it rang and rang and rang. Danny walked into the room as Stiles’ boss’s voicemail picked up and he held up one finger to Danny while taking a deep breath so he could leave a message. “Hi, Fey. It’s Stiles. A family emergency has come up and I need to work something out with my schedule. If you can give me a call back as soon as you get this, I would super appreciate it. Thanks so much.”

He hung up, then turned to stare at Danny. “What?”

“We should call Ethan.” Danny said, rolling his eyes when Stiles flinched back. “Look, I know you and the Alpha didn’t get along when you covered for me that day, but he didn’t fire me over it so it can’t have been that awful, right? And Ethan’s a friend of mine. Maybe he can help. They have connections, you know?”

Part of Stiles wanted to say no. Danny didn’t know what Stiles had done that day - what he had let Peter do - and he was really hoping to avoid ever having to tell him. Moreover, he didn’t want to ask Peter for help. He didn’t want to owe Peter anything. But Stiles thought of Isaac. He pictured his brother’s wide blue eyes and cherubic brown curls. Wondered if Isaac was scared where he was, or hurt.

And Stiles knew he would do anything - anything - if it meant Isaac came home.

He met Danny’s eyes and nodded. “Okay. Call him.”

As Danny left the room to make the call, Stiles went back to packing his bag. He couldn’t book the flight to L.A. until Fey got back to him and he worked out sh*t regarding his job, but the moment he could, he was going to be on the first plane to California so he wanted to be ready. He finished packing in just a few minutes, then sank down onto his bed and started chewing anxiously on the edge of his thumb.

Ten minutes after that, Danny walked back into the room. “The Alpha wants to see you.” Stiles blinked up at Danny with wide, panicked eyes and Danny wiggled his cellphone. “Ethan’s coming to pick us up.”

Stiles nodded numbly, swallowing down the bile that was trying to climb his throat. He didn’t know how to deal with this. How to face Peter, after what had happened. He glanced at his packed duffle, then straightened his shoulders and nodded again. ‘Whatever it takes,’ he reminded himself. ‘All that matters is Isaac.’

“Okay.” He told Danny, pushing to his feet. “Guess we’d better go wait for him then.”

~*~*~*~

Peter was a patient man. Part of that came from being the younger sibling of the heir to an alpha spark. Peter had always been something of an afterthought, and that meant he’d had to wait for a great many things. Part of it came from having been raised to be Talia’s second, as patience was a key part of diplomacy and diplomacy often fell to Peter, given his position. And part of it was just that Peter knew that there were some things that were that much sweeter if you had to wait for them. So Peter was a patient man.

Most of the time.

Sometimes, Peter had been forced to speed things along. To reach out and move pieces around to make things fall into place the way he wanted them to. Sometimes, he couldn’t just idly wait for everything to line up; for something he wanted to fall into his lap. There were times when an effort had to be made. When resources had to be expended. When sacrifices had to be made, for the sake of the bigger picture.

Peter had spent the last three months waiting for Stiles to come to him. It had taken longer than Peter had expected it to, but also not, given how stubborn Stiles had seemed to be during their first meeting. And Peter hadn’t been sitting idly by, of course. He had done his homework. Researched who Stiles was. Where he was from - Beacon Hills, California, where Peter himself had been raised for the first ten years of his life, before he’d been brought to Los Angeles to train as Talia’s second. Who his family was - a small town sheriff father, an adopted younger brother, and a mother who had died when Stiles was only eight. Where his magic came from - his mother’s side of the family, apparently. Where he worked - Fey Aspen Literary Agency - and why he was in NYC - college first, and now his job. Little bits and pieces that made up Stiles’ life and history, including his full legal name - a Polish monstrosity made up of too many consonants and Stilinski as his surname, which explained where Stiles had come from, anyway.

And now, of course, Peter was going to get Stiles.

When Ethan had knocked on his office door and told Peter that Danny had reached out because Stiles was having a crisis and needed help, it had taken everything Peter had not to bay in victory. Instead, he had calmly told Ethan to fetch Stiles so they could discuss options.

Options.

Peter liked that word. He liked it more when those options were under his control, as they were now. A person in crisis might have the option to refuse Peter’s help, but it wasn’t an option they were likely to take. It let Peter set a price on his assistance, knowing that - however steep that price was - the person coming to him for help would most likely pay it. In this instance, Peter didn’t think Stiles would put up much of a fight about it, anyway. It wasn’t like he was going to ask for anything awful.

All he wanted was Stiles.

Peter glanced at the clock, noting he had a little time yet before his guest would arrive. Not much, given Ethan’s propensity for speeding, but some. Deciding he should calm his nerves a bit, Peter tapped a cigarette out of the pack on his desk, lighting it up and inhaling deeply. The tobacco taste was underlined by the sweet, faintly metallic taste of the anise that laced Peter’s cigarettes. More effective at soothing a werewolf than nicotine, given their unique physiology. Non-addictive as well, though Peter would argue that the effect was somewhat addictive and he was never happy if he ran out.

This anxiety regarding Stiles’ visit wasn’t something Peter was pleased about, but he’d learned a long time ago that there were some things you couldn’t change. All you could do was adjust to them. Adapt. Work around the issue as best you could. It wasn’t even that Peter thought Stiles would say no, because he didn’t. He was completely confident that the coming meeting was going to play out in his favor. In short order, he would have exactly what he wanted.

What he’d wanted for the last three months.

Stiles would belong to Peter. For a little while, anyway.

And really, that was the part that was making Peter anxious. This would be temporary. Which normally suited Peter just fine. He’d never wanted the company of anyone for more than a short while. Peter found himself growing bored with his partners - romantic or sexual or both - in very short order, time and again. But then, he’d never found himself so instantly enamored as he had with Stiles.

It wasn’t just the fact that Stiles was almost inhumanely beautiful. It wasn’t just the way Stiles smelled, rich and heady in a way that made Peter want to sink claws and fangs into him so Stiles couldn’t leave. It was more than the way Stiles had felt under him; around him. More than the way Stiles had been perfectly responsive to Peter’s every touch. It was more than Stiles’ snarkiness, or the sheer bravery it had taken for him to stand up to Peter, not once but twice during their first meeting.

There was something about Stiles that told Peter he was interesting. And interesting was a commodity that Peter found was too often in short supply.

It left Peter with something of a dilemma. He was going to ask Stiles for an amount of time. The fee, as it were, for his assistance. Stiles would belong to Peter...for an amount of time. But how long? Too long, and Peter would undoubtedly grow bored before it was over and be left to dismiss Stiles without having collected the full measure of his demanded price. That wouldn’t do Peter’s reputation any favors. On the other hand, too short and Peter might find himself still craving Stiles, the way he had for the last three months. And true, he would likely be able to entice Stiles to stay on longer, if that was the case, but to what end? And at what cost?

No, it was best to work out the most likely time-frame in advance. Best to sort out how long it would take before Peter grew tired of the novelty that Stiles currently was. He had a wealth of previous experience to draw on, after all, even if no one had ever hit him quite the way Stiles seemed to. This had an expiration date. It had to. Peter simply wasn’t built for permanence; never had been, even before he’d inherited the position of Alpha Wolf of New York. He wasn’t in the market for anything other than temporary. It was just a matter of how temporary, in this particular instance.

Peter contemplated the issue as he smoked, watching the tendrils of blue-grey smoke as they worked their way towards the high ceiling after each exhale. As he was finishing the cigarette, the intercom on his desk went off, letting him know that Ethan was pulling through the front gate.

Stiles was here.

Peter stubbed out the butt in the pretty crystal ashtray on his desk and reminded himself that he was in control of the situation. He knew what he was asking for, and he knew what Stiles would say. What Stiles had to say, if he wanted Peter to help him. He knew when this would all end, because he was the one choosing the date. It was all Peter’s choice. When the intercom buzzed again, it was Ethan and Peter knew it was time.

He hit the button and gave the order. “Bring him to my office.”

Yes, Peter was in complete control here, so there was absolutely no reason to be nervous. But he lit another cigarette anyway.

~*~*~*~

Ethan gestured for Stiles to enter the room. Taking a careful, measured breath, Stiles stepped inside. He heard the door close behind him, but his focus was taken up by Peter. The alpha was seated behind a massive wooden desk that looked like it was an antique and worth more than Stiles’ jeep. He was smoking, and the smell of tobacco and licorice laced the air. Peter was watching him through the blue-grey smoke trailing up from the cigarette, an amused smirk curving his sensual mouth. And god but it was unfair, because Stiles had halfway convinced himself that his memory was exaggerating how devastatingly attractive Peter was. Except now he was in the same room as Peter again and the man was just as gorgeous as Stiles had remembered him being. Maybe even moreso, dressed as he was in a black suit and button-up, a shiny red silk tie the only thing breaking up the austerity.

Swallowing hard, Stiles took a careful breath and then crossed the room. He sat on the chair across from Peter when the alpha’s eyes flicked to it, hands clasped tightly on his lap as he waited.

After a long minute, Peter stubbed out his cigarette and spoke. “Ethan said you were having a crisis, and he was hoping I would agree to help you.” Stiles nodded, not sure what else to do, and Peter leaned back in his chair, looking amused. “Please, elaborate. What manner of crisis is it?”

“M-my brother.” Stiles stammered, hating the way his voice shook. “My younger brother, Isaac. He’s been backpacking in Australia with his best friend, Scott. And now they’re missing.”

“Ah.” Peter laced his fingers together, index fingers extended and pressed together as he tapped them thoughtfully against his lips for a moment. “That is troubling. Am I to assume you would like my assistance in tracking down your brother and returning him to you?”

Stiles nodded, heart lodged in his throat and tears stinging the backs of his eyes. When Peter raised an eyebrow, Stiles managed thickly. “Yes, please. A-any help you can offer...I would be so grateful.”

Peter’s lips twitched up at the corner, his blue eyes sparkling. “As sweet as that is, pet...it will take more than your gratitude to secure my assistance.”

“W-what do you mean?” Stiles asked, unease creeping up his spine in a slow trickle. “I don’t...I don’t really have any money, so I can’t pay y-”

“I don’t need - or want - your money, Stiles.” Peter cut him off, voice a little sharp at the edges now but still laced with the faintest trace of dark amusem*nt.

Stiles swallowed again, then whispered. “What do you want?”

“You.”

The word fell heavily between them, like a gauntlet. For several heartbeats, Stiles wasn’t sure he’d heard Peter correctly. Was certain he was missing something. The punchline, maybe...or the joke that explained how that answer was supposed to be funny. But Peter wasn’t laughing and the silence was deafening in the wake of that single word answer.

Finally, Stiles spoke, the words falling from numb lips. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple.” Peter said, and it made Stiles want to recoil the way his tone was so cold. So matter-of-fact. Almost clinical. As if this was no more personal than a business transaction. “You want my help, and I want you. So if I help you - if I locate your brother and bring him back to you - that is my fee. You will turn yourself over to me, for one month. During that time, you will surrender yourself to me. Fully. Completely. In every way. You will wear what I tell you to wear. You will eat what and when I tell you to eat. You will take whatever I give you and give me whatever I desire. Your body will belong to me.”

Stiles stared at Peter, horror and desire warring inside of him. He felt ill with it, honestly. He swallowed down the metallic taste flooding his mouth, doing his best to ignore his churning stomach. “I...I can’t.” He protested, though he knew the words sounded weak as his voice wavered. “I have a job, a-and a boyfriend, I-”

“Do they matter so much, then?” Peter asked, tilting his head curiously to one side. “More than your precious little brother?” When Stiles just stared at him, Peter shrugged one shoulder. “You have to choose, Stiles. Between them, and the brother you long to save.”

Stiles’ breath hitched in his chest, sharp and unpleasant. Tears pricked the back of his eyes once again and he fought the urge to blink, not wanting to let them fall. “You’re a monster.” He rasped out, wondering how anyone could be so heartless; so cruel.

Peter’s smile was sharp, fangs flashing tauntingly at Stiles. “Why, thank you, pet.”

“It’s not a compliment.”

Peter grinned again, this time letting his eyes bleed red for a few heartbeats. “Perhaps not in your world, but it most definitely is in mine.”

“How can you be like this?” Stiles demanded, the caricature of it all edging his words with disbelief. Surely no one could be this villainous in real life.

“I’m not sure I understand.” Peter’s words were laced with a warning tone; something that urged Stiles to choose his next words with care.

He didn’t bother.

“Cold.” He bit it out, condemnation dripping off his tongue like venom. “Like my pain means nothing to you. Like the fact that I’m hurting is irrelevant. You say you want me, but why? Why, when you clearly don’t care for me at all? What kind of person are you, that you can ask something like this in exchange for helping?”

“Ah, well.” Peter steepled his fingers again, studying Stiles for a moment before replying. “I’m an opportunist. When I see a way to get something I want, I take it.”

When Stiles said nothing, Peter tsked softly. “Really, Stiles. Would it be so terrible to submit to me? To give yourself over to the pleasure I’m offering?”

Stiles gritted his teeth together, balking at the idea of submission in the way Peter was demanding. To sacrifice his will to another person - to someone who was very nearly a stranger - was all but unthinkable. “I don’t follow orders well.” It wasn’t a refusal and the look on Peter’s face said he’d noticed that, so Stiles added sharply. “I can’t agree to total submission. I can’t...what if you did something I hated? What if you asked me for something I can’t or won’t do? I don’t make promises unless I know I can keep them.”

“Hmmm.” Peter studied him for another moment, before offering softly. “A caveat, then. If I do something and you don’t like it - if you truly don’t like it, mind you, not something you think you shouldn’t like or something that pushes you past your comfort zone - I’ll stop.”

Stiles hesitated for another moment, something in him shrieking like warning bells that this was stupid to even consider. More than that, that it was dangerous. He looked into Peter’s piercing blue eyes and saw a cold, bright universe that went on forever. It was so pitiless - so ruthless - that it made Stiles recoil in horror.

‘How can I possibly submit to this man?’ he wondered, throat tightening with the sickening realization. ‘For Isaac, how can I not?’

“If I agree...” Stiles rasped, fingers curled into tight fists where they rested on his denim-clad thighs. “W-when would I have to...” Stiles trailed off, not yet willing to give voice to the words.

“That can be discussed once your brother is found.” Peter drawled, and the look on his face said he knew he’d won; the victory there was clearly visible. “Can I assume you know enough about werewolves to understand why I’m not insisting on a medical exam and a clean bill of health, and why condoms won’t be used?”

Stiles snorted at that, unable to stifle his sarcastic nature when he replied. “What, you don’t care if I’ve got chlamydia because I can’t pass it on to you, thanks to your freaky werewolf immune system?”

“The word you’re looking for is superior, not freaky.” Peter snarked back, and it chafed Stiles a little that Peter seemed to have a sense of humor that matched his own. After a brief pause, he asked curiously. “Do you have chlamydia?”

“Jesus f*cking christ.” Stiles groaned, dragging one hand down his face in frustrated annoyance before shooting Peter a cold look. “No, I don’t have f*cking chlamydia. I don’t have any diseases. I’m perfectly healthy.”

Peter hummed noncommittally and Stiles wanted to scream, but he choked it back, instead muttering under his breath. “This is so unfair. I can’t believe I’m being forced to do this.”

“No one is forcing you.” Peter reminded him placidly, even as he rose from his chair, circling the desk until he was looming over where Stiles was sitting. “You have a choice in all of this, Stiles. You can always say no.”

“What kind of choice is it, when saying no means I might never see my little brother again?” Stiles snapped, because the truth of it hurt. He pushed to his feet as well, hating a little bit that Peter didn’t bother backing up so they were nearly chest-to-chest.

“I admit it’s a difficult choice, but it’s still a choice.”

Stiles was trembling now, closer to Peter than he had been since their first meeting. Close enough to smell Peter’s expensive cologne. Close enough to see the way his dark lashes fanned against his sharp cheekbones every time he blinked. Close enough to touch with the barest effort, if Stiles only dared. Not that he wanted to, of course. Except that he could remember so clearly the way Peter’s hands and mouth and co*ck had made him feel. He could remember how his body had seemed to sing at Peter’s touch. And it was so tempting...

Before he could do something - either touch Peter, or convince himself to move away from the alpha - Peter’s fingers tucked under Stiles’ chin, nudging his face up. He met Peter’s eyes and the alpha growled softly before murmuring. “You’re as beautiful as I remember.”

Trying to resist the way Peter’s low voice made his heart flutter, Stiles jerked his head to the side, away from Peter’s touch. An instant later, strong fingers were sliding into his hair and fisting there, jerking his head back far less gently than the touch to his chin had been. Stiles sucked in a shuddering breath, wishing he could stop his body from responding to Peter. Wishing Peter wasn’t a werewolf, who could sense Stiles’ arousal in ways no human would have been able to. Wishing he was anywhere but here, even as his body tried to urge him closer to Peter and the pleasure he promised.

“Did you know your eyes change color with your mood?” Peter murmured, leaning in enough to drag the tip of his nose along Stiles’ jaw. “They turn as golden as a wolf’s when you’re aroused.”

His lips found Stiles’ ear and he resisted the urge to shiver as Peter whispered filth into it. “Why are you fighting this, pet? We both know you want me. You’d let me take you right here, wouldn’t you? You’d let me bend you over my desk, or bear you down to the floor. You’d let me mount you anywhere I pleased, because that’s what you want as well. To be f*cked like an animal, raw and hard and dirty. You want me to make you come so hard you go blind with it, so many times you think you’ll die if I don’t let you rest.”

He nosed at Stiles’ cheek again, inhaling deeply before adding. “He left you unsatisfied tonight, didn’t he? This boyfriend of yours. But don’t worry, pet. I won’t leave you wanting. All you have to do is say yes, and I’ll give you everything you desire.”

And god, but Stiles did want. He was slick with desire, co*ck hard and aching where it was trapped in his jeans, and he hated it. He wished he didn’t want Peter. Wished he could want his sweet boyfriend the way he wanted this powerful, dangerous, terrible man. Wished there was some other solution to all of this that didn’t feel like bartering away his soul to the devil himself.

“The police will find him.” Stiles said, a weak protest at best. “They’re already looking.”

“The police are useless.” Peter scoffed, lifting his head enough to shoot Stiles an amused look. “Do you know how many people go missing world-wide every day, pet? Do you know how few of them are found?” He released Stiles’ hair at last, taking a step back and adding. “If you want any hope of seeing your brother again, you know what the price is. What’s your answer, Stiles?”

Chest heaving with every panting breath Stiles took, he met Peter’s eyes and gave the only answer he could. The one they had both known he would give, before he’d even know what Peter’s price would be.

“Yes.”

Peter’s grin was too sharp to be considered pleasant, but that was something for future-Stiles to worry about. The alpha circled his desk again, taking his seat before continuing. “In that case, it would seem I have some calls to make.” He reached for the phone, then paused and nodded towards the door. “You can go. I’ll let you know when your brother is located. Ethan will give you my number so you can send me any pertinent information, in regards to your brother and his disappearance.”

Once again feeling oddly numb - as if Peter’s matter-of-fact acceptance of Stiles’ answer had doused Stiles in ice water - Stiles turned on his heel and exited the office. He would go and retrieve Danny from downstairs and they would go home. Stiles would wait to hear from his work. He would book his flight home. He would go and be with his father. And he would hope that Peter was as good as his word.

There was nothing else he could do.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Ethan drove Stiles and Danny back home in a tense silence. The radio was playing softly, but Stiles wasn’t listening to it. He was pretty sure none of them were. No one was speaking, either. It was awkward and miserable and Stiles hated it. When Danny and Stiles were finally alone in their apartment, he didn’t know where to start. What he was supposed to say or do. He’d already packed, and he wasn’t hungry, and he was still waiting to hear back from his boss. So, what was there to do, really?

Wait.

Stiles was pacing restlessly across the living room when Danny finally spoke. “Is he going to help you?”

For a moment Stiles just stared at him. Finally, he nodded, forcing out hoarsely. “For a price.”

Danny’s brow furrowed and he patted the couch cushion next to the one he was sitting on. Stiles sat, though he was perched on the edge, restless and fidgety. Like a bird prepared to take flight at the slightest disturbance. He honestly felt like he was about to jump out of his own skin. Twitchy. Uneasy. Like he couldn’t settle. Like he needed to do something but he didn’t know what.

“What price?”

Stiles couldn’t meet Danny’s eyes as he answered, guilt clawing at the inside of his throat and making the words come out thick. Like they were sticky and hard to dislodge from his tongue. “Me. If he finds Isaac, I have to be his for a month.”

Danny was staring at him, eyes wide and lips parted slightly in surprise. “What did you say?”

That brought Stiles’ head up, and he shot Danny an apologetic look, desperation creeping into his voice. “It’s my brother, Danny. I said yes. I had to say yes.”

The silence stretched between them again, as tense and awkward as it had been in the car with Ethan. Maybe even moreso. Finally, Danny asked. “What happened, the day you covered for me?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Stiles whispered, dropping his eyes back to his hands, which were twisting anxiously together in his lap. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The Alpha Wolf of New York City wants you to be his for a month.” Danny snapped, anger that Stiles knew was born from jealousy making his words hard. “So something happened the first time you met. And whatever it was, it matters. To him, at least.”

‘And to me.’ The unspoken words hung between them, and Stiles knew he’d run out of time on this secret. If he didn’t tell Danny the truth now, it would destroy their friendship. Of course, the truth might do that anyway, but that was Stiles’ own fault. It wasn’t like Stiles hadn’t known that Danny had a thing for Peter when he’d let Peter bend him over the massage table.

So Stiles took a careful breath and did his best to explain. “He...he thought I was a prostitute you’d sent as an apology for not being able to make it. So he...he made a pass at me. A very crude pass.”

“People send him apology hookers?” Danny said and Stiles shrugged, though he’d wondered the same thing in the months since it had happened. Danny shook his head, then gave Stiles a narrow-eyed look. “What did you do, when he made the pass?”

“Tried to slap him.” Stiles admitted, because it was the truth and also a little because he was hoping Danny would laugh. When he did, it felt a little bit like a victory.

But the laughter died quickly and Danny muttered. “It didn’t end there, did it?”

“No.” Stiles whispered, because he wasn’t going to lie to his best friend. Not even to save himself from Danny’s anger. Not even to save their friendship. “He was...persistent, even once I explained I wasn’t a whor*. He...it was just...”

Stiles hesitated, not sure how to explain without making it sound awful. Finally, he shrugged at Danny and fell back on the truth. “I let him f*ck me. And I shouldn’t have, obviously. It was a mistake, and one I regretted almost instantly. I felt horrible afterwards and left as quickly as I could.”

Danny’s jaw was working hard, his hands clenching and unclenching repeatedly on his lap. Finally, he gave Stiles a cold look. “You must’ve been a damn good f*ck, if he wants you for a whole month. Guess he was too, huh? Since you agreed and all.”

“Danny...” Stiles reached for his friend, flinching when Danny shifted away from him. “I’m sorry, okay? It was a stupid mistake. I’d take it back if I could.”

“Would you?” Danny asked. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re preparing to do it again. Doesn’t seem like you’re real sorry about it.”

“That’s not true.” Stiles felt frantic now, his throat tight with panic at the thought of losing his friendship with Danny. “I don’t want to do this, Danny. I wish I could have said no. But it’s Isaac.”

But Danny wouldn’t meet his eyes and, after a moment, he said. “I want you out. I can’t be your roommate anymore. I can’t...I can’t be around you right now.”

“Danny...” Stiles watched him stand, turning and heading for his room. “Danny, please...”

Danny didn’t stop or turn back, just disappearing up the hallway and into his room. And Stiles felt the tears he’d been holding back for hours finally spill over. He pulled his feet up onto the couch, wound his arms around his legs, buried his face in his knees, and sobbed. He let the guilt and the fear and the anger and the shame wash over him like waves. Let it break him apart. Let it all spill out in messy, heaving sobs. Let himself cry until he felt empty.

Only then did Stiles slink into his own room again, stopping in the bathroom just long enough to pee and scrub the remnants of his crying jag off his skin.

The last thing he did before falling into a fitful sleep was make a list of everything he knew about Isaac’s trip. Where Isaac had been staying. When he’d checked in and when he was supposed to have checked out. The last time he or Scott had checked in with their families. The next planned stop on their list. He added a picture of Isaac and Scott from a week earlier, when they’d gone on a bush hike, and sent the whole thing off to Peter at the number Ethan had given him. He had no idea if it would help - if any of this would help - but he had to try.

~*~*~*~

Sunday, November 18th, 2018

The first thing Stiles did when he woke up was send a series of texts. The first he sent off were to Danny.

I’m sorry this is hurting you. That was never my intention.

I hope you can understand that I don’t have a choice.

I would do ANYTHING to save Isaac.

He didn’t know if it would help, but he didn’t want to give up hope for their friendship. Not yet, anyway.

The next set of texts he sent went to Peter.

Hi. I sent you everything I know about my brother’s route and the last place he stayed.

Please let me know the second you hear anything. I’ll see you soon.

Part of Stiles felt sick at the idea of Peter texting him back. Of Peter finding Isaac. And he felt ashamed of that; that part of him was hoping Peter wouldn’t succeed. But he also felt ashamed of what he’d agreed to. If - when - Peter found Isaac, Stiles would belong to him. Only for a month, but still. He had sold himself. And he could say it was for Isaac’s sake; he could say he was suffering for love of his brother. But the truth was that part of Stiles was excited by the idea of it. He wanted to belong to Peter. He wanted Peter to do all of the filthy things he’d whispered in Stiles’ ear the night before. Wanted to feel Peter inside of him again.

And that was almost worse than if he’d just been gritting his teeth and bearing it for Isaac’s sake.

Fighting against the rising guilt and shame, Stiles sent one more series of texts, this time to Ian. To the boyfriend he’d run out on the night before, right into the waiting arms of another man. You know...metaphorically.

I’m so sorry about last night.

Things are complicated right now, but we need to talk.

The sooner, the better.

Normally, Stiles didn’t go into work on the weekend. Especially not on a Sunday. But as he was making coffee, his boss called him back and asked him to meet her at the office to discuss his family emergency. So he poured his coffee into a go-cup and headed out. He didn’t like driving in the city, for all that he had his jeep, so he took the subway instead, as he did most days. It gave him a little time to get his thoughts in order, at least, before he arrived at the office. It wasn’t an office building, but rather a cute little house that had been converted into office space. It suited the vibe of the Fey Aspen Literary Agency, anyway. They weren’t stuffy, but rather like a little family, which was why Stiles was hoping Fey would understand why he needed some time off.

The entire building was quiet when Stiles let himself in. It was his job - along with two other readers, Casey and Avery - to go through the submissions they got from aspiring authors. Stiles didn’t mind reading through the slush pile, honestly, and he’d even come across a few gems during the year he’d been working there. Neither Casey nor Avery was in, which Stiles had expected. None of them were typically there on a Sunday.

The main floor of the house held a tidy little kitchen, a bathroom, and rooms used to meet with publishers and various executives, as well as offices for the two other agents Fey employed - Shelley and Thomas. Stiles headed upstairs, to where Fey’s office was. The second floor also housed the Television and Film Rights Division and Stiles wasn’t surprised to see that Mark was in their office, though Billie clearly wasn’t. Other than Fey, they were the most likely to be at the office on a weekend, given they were sometimes dealing with networks in other timezones, or even on the other side of the world. Not to mention all of the tedious contract law they had to go over.

Stiles rapped on the door to Fey’s outer-office, slipping inside when her secretary - Mina - called out for him to come in. Mina used the intercom to let Fey know he’d arrived, then asked if Stiles wanted tea or coffee while he waited. Lightly shaking his go-cup of coffee, Stiles demurred, too restless still to take the seat she offered him. He let Mina chatter at him about her upcoming trip to Paris, doing his best to act interested though he knew his heart wasn’t in it. Hell, neither was his head.

Finally, Fey opened her door, sticking her head out and giving him a soft smile. “Come in, dear. Let’s talk.”

Thankfully, it didn’t take Stiles long to explain the situation to Fey. And, as he’d hoped, she was sympathetic and concerned. She urged him to take a week to go home and be with his father. She offered thoughts and prayers, promising that the whole office would be thinking about him during this trying time. And when he quietly mentioned that, after the week she was giving him, he might need to work from home for a little while, she said that was fine. As long as Stiles could come into the office at least once a week - to swap out the manuscripts he’d read for new ones from the slush pile - she was willing to work with him on when he would return to the office properly. It was better than he’d hoped for, honestly.

With Fey’s blessing secured, Stiles headed down to the basem*nt where he and Casey and Avery had a shared office and a little bathroom. They even had their own coffee and snack bar set up, which was where Stiles headed to first. He popped open a tin of cookies, only to recoil at the buttery scent of them when his stomach twisted unpleasantly.

‘Damn anxiety,’ he thought, quickly putting the lid back on the cookies and breathing through his mouth as he crossed to his desk. He hated when his nerves upset his stomach. Shaking his head, Stiles quickly tidied his desk up, then wrote a note to his office-mates, explaining that he was dealing with a family emergency but would hopefully see them again next week. He stuck it to the coffee maker, knowing that would be seen the quickest come Monday morning.

Then, standing there and tapping his foot, Stiles decided he’d waited long enough. He called Ian, waiting impatiently as it rang, hoping his boyfriend would pick up. When Ian answered, Stiles immediately started speaking. “We need to talk. If you can make time for me before lunch, I’d appreciate it.”

There was a brief pause, then Ian cleared his throat. “Of course. I’m free now. Just name the place.”

Stiles gave the name of a cafe near his apartment and they agreed to meet in twenty minutes. With one last look around his office, Stiles headed out. The sooner all of this was over, the better.

~*~*~*~

Stiles had only been waiting for a few minutes when Ian walked in. He leaned in for a kiss, but Stiles turned his face away. He couldn’t; not now. Not with what he’d agreed to. That was the whole point of this meeting, after all. To tell Ian how things were. Ian seemed puzzled by Stiles’ silent rebuff, but not upset.

“Are you hungry?” He asked, sweet and considerate as ever. “Can I get you a muffin?”

The mere thought of food made Stiles feel queasy again, so he hastily shook his head. Ian frowned, but nodded. “I’ll just grab coffee real quick, then we can talk. Okay?”

Stiles nodded, then turned his attention to tracing random patterns over the table with one finger. He startled a few minutes later when Ian slid a latte in front of him before sitting down with his own cappuccino. Stiles curled his hands around the cup, but didn’t drink. Wasn’t sure his roiling stomach wouldn’t completely rebel if he dared take so much as a sip. He wished he knew where to start. How to begin the conversation they needed to have.

In the end, it was Ian who spoke first.

“Why did you rush out last night?”

Stiles figured that was as good a place as any to start. “My brother is missing.”

Ian sucked in a sharp breath, sympathy flashing across his face. “I’m sorry. God, Stiles, I’m so sorry. I know how close you and Isaac are.”

Stiles mustered a weak smile, unable to stop himself from flinching when Ian reached across the small table to cover Stiles’ hand with his own. Ian froze, then slowly drew back. “What’s wrong?”

“I...” Stiles hesitated, not sure how to say this next part. “I have to get my brother back. I would have done anything to make that happen. So I...I went to see someone. F-from one of the...the supernatural families that controls the city. I didn’t...I didn’t know what else to do.”

Ian was staring at Stiles with growing horror. After several moments of increasingly tense silence, Ian leaned forward and hissed. “Stiles, what were you thinking? Do you know how potentially dangerous-”

He cut himself off, shaking his head before dragging one hand through his blonde hair and shooting Stiles a distressed look. “It doesn’t even matter at this point, I suppose, as you’ve already done it. I just hate that you were so reckless. For a non-supernatural-”

“I’m not a non-supernatural.” Stiles muttered, dropping his eyes to the table when Ian sucked in a sharp, stunned breath. “It’s not...I’m not connected with anyone. I just inherited magic from my mother. I was...I was going to tell you. It just hadn’t come up yet.”

“Okay.” Ian said it softly; simply. Like it really was that easy for him to accept something that a lot of non-supernatural people struggled with. “Stiles, it’s okay. I’m not...thank you, for telling me.”

Ian paused, giving Stiles a considering look. “How did you even know where to go? Since you’re not connected with any of the families, I mean.”

Stiles licked his lips nervously, rolling his cup slightly between his palms and still not meeting Ian’s eyes. “This guy is one of Danny’s clients. And he agreed to help. T-to find Isaac, and bring him home.”

He could feel Ian’s eyes on him; the weight of them. He glanced up, wincing when Ian said lowly. “Help like that doesn’t come cheap. What did he want in exchange?”

“Me.”

The whispered word hung between them for a moment. Finally, Ian said. “You? What do you mean, you?”

“I mean me.” Stiles said, shrugging helplessly when Ian just stared at him. “And I told him yes.”

“I wish you had come to me first.” Ian said, sounding shaken. “I wish you’d talked to me, before...”

“What difference would it have made?” Stiles asked, and he wasn’t trying to be cruel but it was the truth. “It’s my brother. I had to say yes. I didn’t have a choice.”

Ian’s lips curved up but his eyes were shadowed; haunted, almost. “There are always choices, Stiles.”

Stiles scoffed at that. “And if it were your brother? You wouldn’t have done the same, if you had the chance?”

“I don’t think I could give you up for anyone.” Ian admitted, and it felt like he had reached inside of Stiles’ chest, grabbed Stiles’ heart, and squeezed. “I would have found another way.”

“It’s a month of my life, for all of Isaac’s.” Stiles said, refusing to feel bad about the choice he’d made. He hated that he was hurting Ian, but this was the only choice he could live with. “I’m not changing my mind. I just...I wanted to tell you in person, as soon as possible. I’m sorry for ending things this way, I ju-”

“No.” Ian said, reaching across the table again. He grabbed both of Stiles’ hands, clinging a little desperately. “No, we’re not breaking up. I won’t accept that, Stiles.”

“Ian-”

“You don’t even know if this guy will find Isaac.” Ian snapped, and Stiles flinched back from him at the harshness of the words. “Maybe he won’t.”

Tears brimming up, Stiles hissed. “That’s a horrible thing to say to me.”

Ian sighed, dragging his hand through his hair again before giving Stiles an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant...maybe the police will find Isaac first. There’s no reason to rush things and break up when you might not owe this person anything.”

Stiles didn’t speak and Ian aimed his pretty green eyes - wide and pleading - at him. “Can you blame me for being upset about all of this? Yesterday we were taking the next big step in our relationship and today you’re trying to end things because you bartered yourself to a stranger.”

Stiles jerked one shoulder, a wave of guilt rolling through him. “I won’t apologize for what I agreed to. I made the only choice I could.”

“Stiles, I love you.”

His head snapped up, lips parting in shock, and Ian was pinning him with those intense green eyes in an instant. “I love you, and I’m not letting you go without a fight.”

Stiles’ throat got tight, that metallic taste flooding his mouth again. He genuinely thought he might throw up this time. He couldn’t say the words back, because he didn’t love Ian. He liked Ian. Cared about him quite a bit, if he was being honest. But Stiles didn’t love him.

Instead, he said the only thing he could. “I’m sorry. I’m breaking up with you and there’s nothing you can do to change that.” He took a shaky breath, adding. “I don’t want you to wait for me.”

“I’d wait forever if I had to.” Ian said. He reached for Stiles’ hand again, giving it a firm squeeze. “A month is nothing against the lifetime I want to spend by your side. I’ll wait.”

“Please, Ian.” Stiles didn’t draw away from his touch, but he left his hand limp in Ian’s grip. “What I really need right now is a friend.”

“Okay.” Ian agreed easily. “I can do that. I can be the best friend you’ve ever had.”

Stiles laughed, the sound a little damp around the edges, but mustered a weak smile for Ian. “I have to go. I booked my flight to California and I need to get ready. I can’t...I can’t leave my dad alone right now.”

Ian nodded. “When will you be back?”

“I don’t know. I only booked one-way.” Stiles slid his hand carefully out of Ian’s. “I guess it’ll depend on how things play out.”

Stiles started to stand, freezing when Ian asked. “Who did you go see?”

“What?”

Ian met his gaze unflinchingly. “You went to see someone from one of the supernatural families. But there’s several of them, and more than a few members of each. Who did you go see?”

Stiles chewed on his lip for a moment, debating whether or not he should answer. But what was the harm in it, really? And maybe if he answered, Ian would better understand why he shouldn’t wait around for Stiles; all of the ways Stiles was going to be different when this was over.

“The Alpha Wolf.”

Ian’s eyes widened, seeming almost blue in the cafe lights for the span of a heartbeat, and then he rasped. “You went to see Peter Hale?”

And...oh. Well, that was interesting. Hale was a supernatural family name Stiles knew, though he knew it because of LA’s Alpha werewolf, Talia. Stiles hadn’t known Peter’s last name, as it wasn’t deemed important by the news outlets. His title was what mattered. He also hadn’t realized there were Hales in New York as well; hadn’t realized the family was powerful enough to span the country that way. It was more than a little frightening, though it also gave Stiles hope as well. Power like that might be exactly what was needed, to find Isaac.

Still, it was weird that Ian knew Peter’s full name, considering none of Stiles’ research had pulled it up. “How do you-” Stiles cut himself off, shaking his head at his own curiosity. “You know what, it doesn’t even matter. I’m sorry, Ian. I have to go.”

Ian stood as well, and suddenly his hand was on the back of Stiles’ neck, drawing him in. Stiles rocked up onto his toes at the gentle pressure, tipping his face up, and then Ian was kissing him. It was a little fiercer than usual; a little more demanding and possessive. And yet, nothing about it lit Stiles up the way Peter’s touch did. It was a good kiss, for all intents and purposes, it just...wasn’t enough. It didn’t make his heart race. It didn’t make him dizzy with need. It didn’t leave him hard and slick and wanting.

Drawing back, Stiles gave Ian a sad smile. As Ian stepped back from him, his hand dropping to his side, Stiles choked out a single word past the guilt. “Goodbye.”

Then, turning on his heel, he fled.

~*~*~*~

Stiles had paid rent through the end of November, but he stopped on his way through the apartment to tell Danny that he would pack his stuff away tonight. His flight was leaving first thing in the morning and Stiles wanted to make sure Danny could start showing the room while he was in California. After all, there was no point in dragging things out and Stiles would have the whole month he was with Peter to find someplace else to live. Danny didn’t reply, just nodded while continuing to make a smoothie - something green and probably foul-tasting - so Stiles left him in the kitchen.

With the message delivered, he started wandering through their shared spaces, collecting all the little things that littered the various rooms. Photos, and knickknacks, and toiletries. The Funko Pop Avengers who were scattered over two bookshelves in the living room. The mug shaped like a cow that lived on the bathroom sink.

Stiles was holding the mug and sniffling a little - not crying, okay, just sniffling, because it had been a perfectly awful couple of days - when Danny knocked on the open bathroom door. Without turning around, Stiles offered thickly. “Do you want to keep the cow mug?”

“I want to keep you.” Danny replied, making Stiles turn to look at his friend. “I don’t want you to move out, and I don’t want to stop being your best friend.”

Danny’s eyes were red-rimmed and damp, much like Stiles’ own, and he held out his arms for a hug. As soon as Stiles had put the mug down and curled into Danny’s chest, Stiles started sobbing. Everything was falling apart around him and he didn’t know how he would have been able to handle this without Danny. Danny’s arms were strong around him, and comforting, and he rocked them both where they stood, in the middle of their cramped little bathroom.

“I’m sorry.” Danny whispered against Stiles’ hair, rubbing his cheek there in a way that Stiles knew came from having been raised in a family of werewolves. “I’m so sorry I’ve been acting like a dick. I’m going to drop the Alpha as a client. I need to just...move on, you know? Get over this stupid crush I have.”

Stiles sniffled again, drawing back enough to meet Danny’s eyes. “I’m sorry, too. I sh-should never have had sex with him. If I hadn’t-”

“Then maybe he wouldn’t be helping you with Isaac.” Danny broke in, pulling Stiles back against his chest and squeezing tightly. “So it’s okay. You can...god, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but...you don’t have to feel guilty. The Alpha wants you to be his, and you’re allowed to enjoy that.”

“It’s not that simple.” Stiles admitted, reaching up to swipe at the tears clinging to his lashes. “He doesn’t want me to be his stupid boyfriend, Danny. He wants me to be his f*cktoy. I’m supposed to, like, wear what he tells me to and eat when he tells me to and-”

“Stop talking, please.” Danny whined miserably, though he gave Stiles another reassuring squeeze. “I love you, Stiles, but that information is not helping my jealousy any.”

That made Stiles draw back far enough to gape up at his roommate. “I’m sorry, are you saying you’re into kinky sex sh*t, like taking orders?”

When Danny shrugged, his cheeks flushed a dark pink, Stiles snorted. “Jesus, dude. That’s...honestly both more information than I needed, but also like...the kind of thing you should have told me years ago, considering we’re best friends. Holding out on me, man.”

“You never seemed interested in talking about sex.” Danny pointed out, and that was true enough. It was a little hard to talk about something you’d never done, after all. “But sure, we can expand our friendship into that area. I mean, at this point, we might as well.”

Stiles huffed out a laugh, because that was true as well. “I guess so.”

“Are you a submissive?” Danny asked, letting Stiles ease out of their hug at last so he could wash the tears from his face and blow his nose. “Because if you’re not, then giving the Alpha what he wants is going to be complicated as f*ck.”

Stiles shrugged, meeting Danny’s eyes in the mirror over the sink. “Honestly? I don’t know. I, uh...I’ve only had sex the one time, with Peter. So I don’t...I don’t know what I like.”

“Guess you’ll have a month to figure it out, huh?” Danny teased, and Stiles felt like they were on a little more even footing again. Then, Danny said. “So, since you don’t have to put all your sh*t away, how about we make some popcorn and watch a movie?”

“Yeah, okay.” Stiles gave Danny a grateful smile as they walked up the hall to the living room. “Want to get Chinese for dinner?”

Danny nodded, continuing through to the kitchen while Stiles pulled up Netflix and started clicking through their options. As the air popper started up, Danny called. “You want me to drive you to the airport in the morning? I can move a couple of appointments around...”

And that was sweet, but Stiles shook his head and called back. “No, it’s alright. I can manage it on my own.”

When Danny joined him with a massive bowl of popcorn a few minutes later, Stiles found himself impossibly grateful that he hadn’t lost his best friend. He forced himself to focus on the movie even as he silently prayed he hadn’t lost his brother, either.

~*~*~*~

Monday, November 19th, 2018

The flight into LAX was uneventful, culminating in Stiles and his father hugging tearfully outside the airport before piling into his dad’s police cruiser. Because of course Noah was driving the sheriff’s car rather than his personal one, despite Beacon Hills being an hour outside of LA. Stiles wasn’t even surprised. They made the drive from the airport to the house in near-silence, the radio playing softly in the background. Part of Stiles wanted to reassure his father again. He wanted to explain that he’d enlisted help from a powerful Alpha, so they didn’t have to worry, but he didn’t know how to say that. How to explain why he had asked Peter for help...or why Peter had agreed. Noah was a sheriff. He didn’t condone the way Peter - the way all of the major supernatural families - existed outside of the law. And sure, the Hunters policed them, but Stiles knew from years spent doing homework in the sheriff’s station that the police were skeptical of the way the Hunters handled things.

So he bit his tongue, saying nothing until they arrived at the house. Noah let them both inside, and Stiles couldn’t help laughing tearfully when he was immediately jumped on by Bones, the frankly massive King Shepherd who had been the sheriff's department’s K9 unit until a few years earlier when he’d retired. He crouched down, nuzzling into Bones’ neck, hands stroking over his thick fur.

“I know, boy. I miss him, too.” Stiles whispered, because Bones had always liked Isaac better than Stiles and they all knew it.

“Are you hungry?” Noah asked gruffly from behind him, nodding towards the kitchen. “I can make sandwiches, or we can order something...”

Stiles straightened back to standing, opening his mouth to say that anything was fine - he wasn’t even sure he was hungry, honestly - when his phone chimed from in his pocket. Sliding it out, Stiles unlocked the screen and thumbed open the text he’d just received.

A loud, heaving sob wracked Stiles’ body and his knees buckled, sending him back to the floor. Noah was at his side in an instant, hands racing over Stiles in a panic, demanding to know what was wrong. Unable to find the words, Stiles shoved his phone at his dad’s face, watching as his dad read the two words.

Peter: Found him.

Noah grabbed Stiles’ shoulders. “Isaac? Is this about Isaac?”

Stiles nodded, pulling in a shuddering breath before choking out. “Yeah. Peter is a...friend. He has connections and I asked if he could help and he...” Stiles’ voice broke again.

And then Noah was pulling him into a tight hug, right there on the floor of their front hall. “Please thank him for me.” He pressed a kiss to Stiles’ hair, then groaned as he got to his feet. “You know what? Forget sandwiches. We’re celebrating with pizza, okay, kid?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” Stiles laughed as Bones whined and squirmed onto his lap while Noah headed for the phone in the kitchen. He stroked the dog’s fur, still crying a little, and whispered. “He’s coming home, okay? I promise he’s coming home.”

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Tuesday, November 20th, 2018

When Isaac got to the house - dropped off by a nondescript black SUV with tinted windows all the way around, as Peter had insisted on ensuring Isaac’s safety until he was back with his family - Stiles had promptly yanked his brother into a hug that lasted a good ten minutes. The SUV had driven off - to return Scott to his mother, according to Isaac - while Stiles and Noah all but dragged Isaac into the house. Stiles was pretty sure he wasn’t going to let Isaac out of his sight until the moment he had to fly back to New York. Though he had to admit, Isaac seemed in perfectly good spirits and didn’t have a scratch on him.

Once they were all seated in the living room - wedged onto the couch, three grown men and a very large dog, regardless of the space available - Isaac softly told them what had happened.

“We never saw the faces of the people who grabbed us, because they were wearing Disney character masks.” Isaac explained. “We were walking back to the hostel after getting dinner and a white van with blacked out windows pulled up next to us. We were grabbed and pulled inside before we really had a chance to register what was happening. I always kind of scoffed when people said stuff like ‘It all happened so fast!’ but it really did. One minute we were walking down the street, the next we were inside a van.”

Isaac was stroking over Bones’ fur, soothing himself as much as the dog as he continued. “We didn’t fight when they tied us up, and blindfolded us, and gagged us. They had a gun on Scott, so how could we? It just seemed safer, to do what they told us to.”

“That was a good call.” Noah praised, reaching out and ruffling Isaac’s brown curls. “I taught you both what to do if you were ever kidnapped and I’m glad you listened, Isaac. I’m glad you remembered. You don’t fight when there’s a gun on you. You wait. You stay alive. You did the right thing.”

“I know.” Isaac flashed Noah a small smile, fingers still carding through Bones’ thick ruff. “And it wasn’t that bad, honestly. They undid all the bindings once they took us to wherever we were being held.”

Stiles made a questioning sound, reaching out and grabbing one of Isaac’s hands, giving it a squeeze. “What do you remember about it? Where you were, I mean.”

Isaac shrugged, though he squeezed Stiles’ hand back and gave him a smile, too. “I don’t really know where it was, other than Australia. I think it was a warehouse, though, that had been divided into little rooms like the one they put me and Scott in. Whenever it got too hot, they turned on a ventilation fan system, so.”

Stiles thought that was interesting, that they’d apparently cared about their captives’ comfort. Or, at the very least, didn’t want them damaged beyond repair. “Was it just you and Scott?”

“No.” Isaac shook his head, brow furrowing. “I mean, in our room it was, but we could hear other people, crying at night or sometimes begging the guards to let them go. We couldn’t talk to anyone else though. The guards would bang on the doors and yell at us if we tried, and we didn’t want to make them angry.”

“They fed you, though?” Noah asked, concern lacing his words. “And they didn’t hurt you?”

“They didn’t hurt us.” Isaac promised, soft and sincere. “We didn’t even have any bruising or rope burn from when they tied us up. And they fed us a couple of times a day and gave us bottled water to drink.”

With the dark sense of humor that Isaac had developed in the wake of the abuse he’d suffered at the hands of his biological father, before Noah had taken him in, Isaac added. “Definitely not the worst thing I’ve been through. I wasn’t alone. I had room to stand and lay down and stretch. I had food, water, and access to a bathroom. And nobody was beating me. Mostly it was just inconvenient.”

“I don’t think Scott would agree.” Stiles said dryly, rolling his eyes when Isaac huffed out a laugh. “I know you’re tough - I told Dad as much when he called to tell me you were missing - but don’t downplay what you went through. It must have been terrifying.”

“I mean...a little, I guess, when they first grabbed us.” Isaac admitted. “Like, they had a gun and it was pointed at my best friend. That was scary. But once we were in the room, not so much. Once I realized they weren’t planning to hurt us, it was just a waiting game. I knew we’d be found and that we’d be okay.”

“That’s a lot of faith in the Australian authorities.” Noah muttered, sounding annoyed. “And they’re not even the ones who found you.”

Isaac laughed again, nudging Noah with his foot even as he leaned back against Stiles, letting Stiles wrap an arm around him and pull him a little closer. “I didn’t think the police would find us. My Dad is a cop and my big brother is a witch. I knew one of you would find us, and I was right.”

“Not exactly right.” Stiles said, brotherly annoyance lacing his words. “Technically we didn’t find you. Also, I’m not a witch. That sounds so...hoodoo-y and woo-woo. You ever seen me cackling over a cauldron in a pointy hat?”

“Don’t perpetuate stereotypes, Stiles.” Noah’s tone was teasing and fond; this was a running joke. “Your mother was a witch and your magic comes from her.”

“Doesn’t make me a witch.” Stiles muttered, rolling his eyes when Isaac stuck his tongue out at him. “And it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not the one who found you.”

“No, but your friend was.” Isaac said, shrugging. “That’s basically the same thing. You know, they didn’t even fight to keep us? As soon as your friend’s people showed up, the guards all got spooked as hell and just handed us over. He must be a pretty powerful guy.”

Stiles wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he just nodded. Isaac tipped his head back, looking up at Stiles in an almost upside-down way. “What’s his name? This friend of yours, I mean.”

For a moment, Stiles considered lying. Because Noah was right there. Because Stiles knew who Talia Hale was, and he knew his dad did, too. Especially considering that up until a hundred years ago or thereabouts, before they had moved their base of operations to LA, the Hales had lived in Beacon Hills. They still did, actually. Or at least some of them did, from time to time. The Hales were considered one of the Founding Families of Beacon Hills, in fact, and their names and faces were splashed all over the local historical society museum. And Stiles wasn’t sure exactly how Talia and Peter were related, but there was definitely a connection there and Noah wouldn’t miss it any more than Stiles had.

In the end, Stiles went with honesty. Because maybe Noah wasn’t fond of the supernatural families who controlled the others of their kind, but Peter had saved Isaac and Stiles knew that would matter more.

“Peter Hale.”

Noah’s eyes widened, but Isaac just smiled at Stiles and nodded. “Tell him thank you, from me. Please. I want him to know how grateful I am.”

Refusing to meet Noah’s questioning, worried eyes, Stiles forced himself to smile back at Isaac. “Of course. I’ll let him know.” Clearing his throat awkwardly, Stiles changed the subject. “So, what are you and Scott going to do now, since you’ve got another eight months before college?”

As Isaac launched into their plans for another trip - one that kept them in the country this time, though Isaac admitted they might dip into Mexico or Canada - Stiles continued to avoid Noah’s eyes. He wouldn’t be able to dodge the questions he knew were coming forever, but he could put it off for as long as possible, anyway.

~*~*~*~

‘As long as possible’ turned out to be ‘until after dinner.’ Stiles made a mental note to work on his avoidance skills; he might need them while dealing with Peter.

Noah cornered Stiles while he was loading the dishwasher. Isaac had gone to take a shower and change into pajamas so he and Stiles could have a brotherly scary movie marathon. Noah had to go into work shortly, for an overnight that would turn into a double spanning Wednesday morning. He’d then come home to crash for a few hours before working another overnight, but it meant he’d be home by six am on Thursday morning. Stiles’ plan was to let his dad pass out watching the parade and football while he cooked, and then they could have Thanksgiving dinner together. Noah had Friday off as well, which would let him recover a little before he had to work again on Saturday. Stiles, for his part, would be flying back to New York on Saturday evening, so he planned to maximize his time with both his brother and his dad until then.

Ideally, Stiles would have preferred to do that without the lurking specter of Peter Hale hanging over him and Noah, but that ship had sailed. All he could do now was handle it.

So when Noah sat at the kitchen table and gave him an exasperated look, Stiles was braced for the conversation as much as he could be. “You asked a Hale for help? Really, Stiles?”

“He got Isaac back.” Stiles pointed out, keeping his eyes on the dishes he was rinsing off before slotting them into the dishwasher. “And in just a couple of days. You’re really going to complain about that?”

“Of course not.” Noah snapped, and Stiles flinched a little at the sharp tone. He hated fighting with his dad. “I’m not saying I’m not grateful to have Isaac back. You know that. But Stiles, families like the Hales don’t help people for free. They’re not wasting resources out of the goodness of their hearts.”

Stiles swallowed hard even as he dropped a handful of silverware into the little holder. “I never said there wasn’t a price. But I knew what it was before I agreed and it’s one I’m willing to pay.”

“I don’t want you mixed up with the likes of the Hales.” Noah didn’t sound angry anymore, just tired, and it tugged at Stiles’ heart. “You’re a good kid and you don’t need to be a part of that life. Your mother never let her magic get her tangled up in those sorts of things and-”

“First off, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m twenty-three years old.” Stiles snapped, not willing to let that one slide. He was more than old enough to make his own choices, dammit.

“You’re still my kid.”

Ignoring that, Stiles pressed on. “Second off, Peter doesn’t want my magic.” He turned to level his dad with as calm of a look as he could manage. “I’m not even sure he knows I have magic, though I did mention it in passing the first time we met so it’s possible. But that’s not...the price isn’t anything like that. I promise.”

Noah narrowed his eyes, drumming his fingers restlessly against the chipped formica table top for a moment. “So what is the price?”

“Nothing illegal.” Stiles said, because he figured that was the most important thing. “Nothing magical. And nothing dangerous.” He turned back to the dishes, adding softly. “Beyond that, it’s my business what I’ve agreed to.”

“Stiles-”

“It’s worth it.” Stiles interrupted, shooting his dad an icy look over his shoulder before noisily wrangling a pot into an empty spot on the bottom rack of the dishwasher. “I’m not getting into the specifics, because they aren’t important, but it’s worth it. What Peter asked me for is nothing compared to having Isaac home safe. I’d have agreed to far more if I’d had to.”

Noah’s hands gently turned Stiles around, and then his dad was pulling him into a crushing hug. Stiles sighed, but hugged him back. Against his hair, Noah murmured. “I just want to know that both my boys are safe.”

“I’m fine, Dad. Really.” Stiles gave an extra little squeeze before easing back to smile up at Noah. “I know what I’m doing, I promise. Everything’s okay.”

Noah cupped Stiles’ cheek with one hand, leaning in to press a kiss to Stiles’ forehead. “Okay. “ He agreed. “I trust you, kiddo. If you say you’ve got it under control, I believe you.”

“Yup. All good here.” Stiles said before nodding at the door. “And you’re going to be late for work if you don’t leave in the next couple of minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Noah rolled his eyes, which was fair considering he was the sheriff. He didn’t exactly have a boss who was going to write him up if he clocked in a couple of minutes late. But he headed out anyway, pausing in the doorway to add. “Be careful, kiddo.”

“Always am.” Stiles promised.

Noah stared at him for another moment, but finally left the kitchen. Stiles heard him yell a goodbye up the stairs to Isaac, who yelled one back, then the front door opened and closed. Shaking his head, Stiles turned back to the dishwasher and the remaining few dishes in the sink. He’d handled Noah, and Peter was a worry for when he got back to New York. Right now, all Stiles had to concern himself with was these dishes and a movie marathon with his brother. Everything else could wait.

~*~*~*~

Wednesday, Nov 21st, 2018

Stiles had never had the best sense of self-preservation. He had a tendency to say things without thinking or any sort of filter, regardless of whether or not they would piss off the people around him. This was particularly dangerous as Stiles grew older and began actively practicing magic, since he was more and more often around people who were capable of hurting him if he pissed them off enough. Thankfully, Stiles was just charming enough when he had to be that he’d managed to stay out of too much trouble. Hell, three months ago he’d tried to slap an alpha werewolf and had gotten away with nothing more than a mind-blowing org*sm. Not too shabby, all things considered, even if Stiles had regretted the sex afterwards.

It was a sight better than a trip to the hospital, anyway. Or the morgue.

But the fact remained that Stiles was impulsive. He was sarcastic. He was well-known by those around him for being a snarky little sh*t. So when he finished reading the NDA that Peter’s lawyer had emailed to him first thing that morning, he couldn’t resist texting the man.

I’d like to make an amendment to Clause 7.

Stiles was dicking around on his laptop when his phone chimed a reply a short while later.

Peter: hello to you too, Stiles

Peter: what amendment?

Stiles quickly tapped out a reply and hit send. If you die before me, I can write a memoir.

Peter: why would I agree to that?

Peter: also, you’re unlikely to outlive me

So there’s no harm in agreeing, is there? Stiles typed back, rolling his eyes. Though given your occupation, I’d say I’ve got a decent shot at outliving you. But even still...if you’re dead, what do you care if I tell everyone what you were like in bed?

Peter: an interesting point

Peter: very well, then

Peter: I’ll have my lawyer send you a revised NDA

Peter: in the event of my death, you will be released from the NDA specifically as it pertains to our private relationship and your private interactions with me, though the rest of the clauses will still stand

Peter: but you will be free to write a book detailing all of the incredible sex

Stiles snorted at Peter’s string of replies, though he was pleased Peter had conceded the point. Not that Stiles was planning to actually write a memoir about his time as a sex toy to a supernatural mob boss, but that wasn’t the point. It was about options.

Still, he couldn’t resist needling Peter a little more. The distance currently between them made it feel...not safe, exactly, but less dangerous.

Maybe I’ll write about how awful you are in bed instead.

Stiles’ phone chimed with Peter’s response and he couldn’t keep the grin off his face.

Peter: and here I thought you were planning a memoir, not a work of fiction

So humble. Stiles teased back, sending a second message. Tell me, how does that big head of yours fit through doorways?

Peter: I don’t know about doorways, pet, but it certainly fit inside of YOU well enough

Stiles groaned at the joke he really should have seen coming, then startled when Isaac suddenly stuck his head into Stiles’ room, which still held the remnants of his childhood and teenage years, for all that Stiles hadn’t spent more than a few weeks a year in this house in five years. “You okay?”

“Mhmmm. Yeah, yup. Everything’s fine.” Stiles slapped his laptop screen shut, turning to smile too-widely at his brother, who was eyeing him with disbelief. “Just...going over a contract. Can’t talk about it. NDA clauses and all of that, you know how it is.”

“Oh. That’s good, right?” Isaac gave him a sunny smile. “I mean, only the really big publishers draw up NDA stuff, so that’s good for the agency. And if it’s good for the agency, it’s good for you. Right?”

“Mmmm.” Stiles flicked his eyes to his phone when it chimed again, then darted them back to his brother. “Sorry, I was just...negotiating a clause. Working out details. I know I’m technically off of work until I go back to New York, but some stuff just won’t wait.”

Isaac nodded, jerking his head towards the stairs. “Yeah, no. I get it. I’ll leave you to finish up. I was just wondering if you wanted to go to the diner for lunch. Maybe see if Dad can swing by too, on his break.”

“Yeah, no. That sounds great.” Stiles mustered a more genuine smile for Isaac this time. “I’m almost done, so if you call the station and figure out when Dad’s break is, I’ll hop in the shower and get dressed so I’m ready whenever. I just need, like, ten more minutes to wrap stuff up.”

“M’kay.” Isaac disappeared from Stiles’ doorway.

Stiles blew out a sharp breath before opening his laptop and letting it load again while he picked up his phone and unlocked the screen.

Peter: my lawyer has sent the modified NDA

Peter: when should I expect you?

I’ll be back in NYC on Saturday evening, so Sunday I suppose.

Stiles closed the original NDA, refreshing his email and opening the new one instead. He skimmed it quickly to make sure that the only change that had been made was the one he and Peter had just discussed, and that the wording of it all was acceptable. His phone chimed again just as he was finishing.

Peter: I expect you Saturday night

Stiles scowled at his phone, debating the merits of arguing. After a minute, he shot back. There’s no point in me showing up at your place at ten or eleven at night. I’ll come on Sunday morning.

Peter’s response this time was almost instantaneous.

Peter: I expect you Saturday night

Peter: don’t disappoint me

Stiles groaned in frustration, but typed back a terse agreement before silencing his phone. If Peter replied again, he wasn’t interested in seeing it. Not right now, anyway. He printed the NDA and tucked it into his laptop bag. He’d have to make it a point to go to the bank while he and Isaac were out, so he could get it notarized. The email from Peter’s lawyer had said a courier would be by some time in the evening to pick up the signed NDA, so he’d need to do that sooner rather than later.

But first, Stiles needed a shower.

~*~*~*~

Saturday, November 24th, 2018

Stiles didn’t mind flying. His anxiety manifested in a lot of ways, but that wasn’t one of them. He’d never had an issue with heights. In truth, he found looking out an airplane window mid-flight to be soothing. There was no traffic up here; no noise beyond the whirring rumble of the jet engines. Outside there were only clouds, and the ground far below, making the whole world and everything in it seem tiny. Insignificant. It was hard to worry about anything when you were so far above it.

The second the plane landed, of course, that was over. Stiles’ anxiety came rushing back, with a sound like tornado sirens. All of his uncertainty surrounding what he’d agreed to was back at the front of his mind. Peter was a dangerous man; there was no denying it. And while Stiles was far from helpless - or defenseless - he wasn’t keen on pitting himself against the man. Or anyone else in Peter’s world, for that matter. And there was no denying that doing this with Peter would place Stiles himself squarely at the center of that world, at least temporarily. It was a daunting thought, and one that haunted him all the way to his apartment.

He and Danny ate dinner together, then Danny sat on the edge of Stiles’ bed while he packed, offering advice that Stiles found less than helpful. “You’re saying no to basically everything I own.”

“Not true.” Danny protested, even as he wrinkled his nose and shook his head at Stiles when he held up a plaid flannel shirt. “I approved, like, three different button-up shirts. And two pairs of slacks. And that one red pair of jeans.”

Stiles shot him a snotty look. “Which isn’t enough clothes for a week let alone a whole month.”

“Maybe if you didn’t dress like a high school nerd...” Danny teased, laughing when Stiles lobbed a grey t-shirt at his head. He looked at the cartoon graphic of a muffin on the front, read the words - Stud Muffin - and snorted before refolding it and placing it in the suitcase. “This one is okay for you to sleep in, provided you don’t wear it with sleep pants or boxers.”

“What am I supposed to do, Donald Duck it?” Stiles’ words were edged with exasperation as he rooted through his closet for something that wasn’t a graphic tee or a plaid overshirt. “That’s not a good look, Danny.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Danny said, but it was fond rather than harsh. “You wear it with a pair of cute underwear. The kind that are small and tight and leave almost nothing to the imagination.”

Stiles turned and shoved a pair of gym shorts and a tank top into the suitcase. “Yeah, I don’t own a cute pair of underwear, dude. Why would I? Nobody sees them but me.”

The look Danny shot him was full of disbelief. “You were dating Ian for two months. You’re telling me you didn’t let that man see your underwear? Not even once?”

“I told you I hadn’t had sex with him. Just Peter, that one time.” After a half a second’s pause, he added. “And Peter didn’t seem too concerned with what my underwear looked like, if I’m being honest.”

“I thought you were specifically talking about penetrative sex when you said that!”

“Uh, no? I meant all kinds of sex.” Stiles shrugged when Danny continued to look at him like he was crazy. “And like, sex-adjacent sh*t, too. Ian and I made out a few times, but that was all.”

Danny dragged both hands through his own air, looking more than a little frazzled as he eyed Stiles with something a bit like madness glinting in his eyes. “How in the hell is it that a man you didn’t even get close to f*cking is willing to wait around while you play sex toy to an alpha werewolf just for another shot at you?” He squinted at Stiles suddenly. “Are you an incubus? Or, like, a siren?”

That garnered another exasperated look from Stiles. “You’re ridiculous. The only thing supernatural about me is that I have some magic from my mom. I’m not a supernatural creature. Especially not one that’s got crazy magical allure. If I did, I’d be a high class escort and live in a way nicer apartment.”

“Fair.” Danny sighed, flopping backwards across Stiles’ bed, twisting his head to meet Stiles’ eyes and adding. “You know, when this is all over, maybe you should become an escort. I wouldn’t mind living in a nicer place.”

“Then you should become an escort.” Stiles laughed, rolling his eyes. “If my ass pays for a place, I’m not sharing it with a roommate.”

Grinning, Danny rolled onto his stomach instead so he didn’t have to keep craning his neck. “If we’re both escorts, we could have a place that’s twice as nice.”

“True.” Stiles glared at his suitcase for a moment, then stood up and started tossing random things from each of his drawers into it. “f*ck it. If he doesn’t like my clothes, that’s his problem.”

Danny groaned. “You’re so frustrating, Stiles. You’re not even going to try to look nice for him?”

“No.” Stiles decided, zipping his bag shut around the stuff he’d haphazardly shoved in it. “I’m not worried about impressing him. He has me for a month, and if he wants to cut things short because I don’t dress fancy enough then fine. I’ll count my blessings.”

“This is gonna go so badly.” Danny muttered as Stiles double-checked that he had all of his electronics and their respective chargers. “So, so f*cking badly.”

When Stiles finally hefted his suitcase and laptop bag off the bed, he shot Danny an amused look. “You’re just an eternal optimist, aren’t you?”

“Things going badly is me being optimistic.” Danny said pointedly. “If I was being pessimistic, I’d point out that he’s probably going to kill you in the first week.”

That garnered another snort from Stiles, though he had to swallow around the sudden tightness in his throat that was caused by fear. He didn’t really believe Peter would kill him - if he did, he wouldn’t have agreed to this whole thing - but Stiles had been known to annoy people to an almost unbelievable level. Still...

“If my clothes piss him off that much, he can buy me something else to wear.” Stiles thought of the massive estate Peter owned, and the stunning house he lived in, adding under his breath. “God knows the man’s got enough f*cking money.”

“That would be because of the crime.” Danny pointed out.

For a long moment after that casual statement, neither Danny nor Stiles said anything, just staring at each other in silence. Then, they both dissolved into laughter. When they finally got control of themselves, Stiles took several shuddering breaths while wiping away the tears of mirth from his cheeks. Danny was doing the same, hiccoughing softly as he recovered from his own bout of hilarity. It felt good to laugh like that, and Stiles sighed softly as he jerked his head towards the door.

“I should go. He’s expecting me, and I don’t want to piss him off straight out of the gate, you know?’

Danny slid off Stiles’ bed and pulled him into a tight hug, murmuring against Stiles’ hair. “I’m going to miss you, you know.”

Stiles slid his arms around Danny, squeezing back. “Please. Like you’ll even notice I’m gone.”

“I will.” Danny said, laughter edging the words along with a vague trace of annoyance that Stiles could tell he was trying to hide. “I’ll be picturing that bastard f*cking you stupid every night when I’m trying to fall asleep.”

“Kinky.” Stiles joked, choosing to ignore the annoyance since they both knew it was a remnant of Danny’s crush on Peter and nothing else. When Danny pulled back from the hug to glare at him, Stiles continued teasingly. “Want me to send you a postcard every day?”

“What, pictures of you getting f*cked in every position under the sun?” Danny teased back, making Stiles laugh again. “No, thanks. I’ll manage without them.”

“Mmmm...we’re still going to see each other.” Stiles pointed out, poking Danny’s arm lightly. “I’m not even leaving the city. We can grab lunch, or watch movies, or whatever.”

Danny tipped his head at Stiles, in the wolf-like way he had picked up from his family. “Will Peter allow that? I mean, aren’t you supposed to be at his beck and call?”

“The man’s running a criminal empire and controlling a city’s worth of werewolves and then some. He’s not going to want me constantly.” Stiles shrugged when Danny just raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m just saying. There are bound to be times when he’s doing other sh*t and I’ll be able to do what I want.”

“If you say so.” Danny stepped back fully, though he ruffled Stiles’ hair teasingly before doing so, snorting when Stiles swiped at him and missed. “Go on, then. You’d better go. But text me, okay? And call once in a while so I know it’s you and that you’re okay.”

Stiles huffed, rolling his eyes. “I’ll see you, Danny. I’m not a prisoner.” But seeing the worry on his friend’s face, he added softly. “I’ll text and call, too. Promise.”

Then Stiles took his things and headed for the jeep. He had someplace to be.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

Stiles parked the jeep in the same spot he had the first time he’d come to Peter’s house. Mansion. Whatever. He had to admit, there was something deeply amusing about the sight of his jeep - rusted blue, desperately in need of a good wash - sitting in front of the gorgeous house with its immaculately kept driveway and surrounding landscaping. It didn’t fit. Stiles figured he didn’t fit either and refused to let it bother him. He was only in Peter’s life temporarily, not as a permanent fixture. He didn’t need to look the part, or worry about whether or not his presence actually made sense. All he had to do was get through the next month.

He was hauling his suitcase and laptop bag out of the back of the jeep when Derek and Ethan suddenly appeared behind him, making him jump about three feet in the air and flail enough to accidentally smack Derek right in the chest. “Jesus f*cking christ, you guys need bells. Why are you sneaking up on me in the dark?”

He was panting now, leaning over to brace his hands on his knees as he caught his breath and tried to calm his racing heart. Derek was just staring at him, but Ethan was snickering so Stiles shot him an annoyed look. “I’m telling Danny you’re an asshole.”

Ethan sobered up quickly. “C’mon, it was an accident! But it was funny. You spooked like a cat does, bristling up and whirling around, all big eyes and whatnot.”

“Shut up.” Stiles groaned, though his lips were twitching up into a smile. “So, what brings the two of you out into the night air?”

“Ethan’s going to bring your things inside.” Derek muttered and, sure enough, Ethan was taking Stiles’ bags from him before turning towards the house. “Give me your keys so I can put your jeep in the garage.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed. “I can park it there myself, if you tell me where it is. I’ll need to know anyway, if that’s where it’s going to be kept.”

“You won’t need it for the next month. Someone will turn it on every couple of days to keep it running, but if you go out, you’ll be driven in one of Peter’s cars.” Derek explained. “For security reasons.”

Stiles jingled his keys nervously, bouncing them against his palm. He didn’t like the idea of being without his jeep; not at all. But he imagined Derek couldn’t do a thing about it, even if Stiles was able to lay out a coherent argument for why he needed to use his own vehicle and not one of Peter’s. It was Peter that Stiles would need to convince and that couldn’t be done while he was standing in the driveway.

Stiles sighed, but unhooked the valet key from the rest and held it out to Derek. “I guess I’ll just...go inside. Get settled in, uh...wherever. I’m guessing someone will show me where I’ll be staying.”

Derek’s mouth pinched even as he took the key. “You’ll be shown your room later. Right now, Peter wants to see you. He’s on three-lower. Take the stairs.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed even as he moved away from the jeep. “Uh, okay? Is there a reason I can’t take the elevator instead?”

“I’m just passing along Peter’s orders.” Derek said, opening the driver’s door so he could move the jeep. Derek met Stiles’ eyes for a moment, the werewolf’s flashing a deep, electric blue before he looked away, offering softly. “Just do as he says, Stiles. It’ll make things easier on you.”

Stiles frowned at the ominous words, but Derek had pulled the door shut and started the jeep so, really, what was he supposed to do? If he wanted to question the guy, it would have to wait until later. Shaking his head, Stiles turned and headed into the house. The foyer was just as impressive as he remembered, though this was the first time there was no one waiting when he walked in. Ethan had disappeared, probably to put Stiles’ bags in whatever room he’d be using during his stay. He wondered for a moment if he would be sleeping in Peter’s room before remembering Derek’s words from outside.

‘You’ll be shown your room later.’

If he was meant to sleep with Peter, surely Derek would have said, ‘You’ll be shown Peter’s room.’ right? And Stiles figured it made sense, that he wasn’t going to sleep with Peter, because it took a lot of trust for a werewolf to let someone into their space when they were sleeping. Alpha werewolves were known to be even more particular about such things, and Peter was no ordinary alpha. He was bound to be intensely paranoid when he was at his most vulnerable. Still, it was more than a little disheartening to think about all the time he was going to be spending cooped up in this massive house alone, while Peter did who knew what.

Stiles silently vowed to make friends with as much of Peter’s staff as possible, so he’d at least have someone to talk to when he inevitably got bored. And he was definitely going to hang out with Danny and continue going out and doing sh*t. Stiles didn’t handle boredom well and it wouldn’t bode well for anyone if he was bored for an extended period of time. Peter would just have to deal with it.

Shaking his head to clear it, Stiles crossed to the elevator and the door next to it that was surely a staircase, debating. Finally, with a sigh, he opened the door and began the long trek down three goddamn flights of stairs, fully prepared to bitch Peter out. He’d had a long goddamn day and even if it wasn’t as late as he’d feared it would be when he arrived - only a little after nine - Stiles still wasn’t pleased about being forced to do a f*ckton of stairs at the end of it. The shock he felt when he slipped out of the stairwell onto 3L was like a suckerpunch. He could feel his mouth drop open but he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

The air was humid; heavy and warm. It pressed in against him, thick and damp, making Stiles feel like his clothes were sticking to him right away. Nearly everything Stiles could see of this floor of the house was made of some sort of marble or tile or stone. He could hear water moving - soft, liquid, lapping sounds and faint dripping - made echoey and resonant by the materials that formed the walls and ceiling and columns. There was something in the dense air - a scent, floral and exotic - and Stiles thought maybe it was jasmine. There were hidden speakers somewhere playing something full of woodwinds - a pan pipe, or something similar - with an undertone of strings and it twisted through the steam as well. There wasn’t much Stiles could see here in the entrance to this level, just columns framing a doorway and what was easily a few dozen potted plants. Ferns and palms and all sorts of lush, green things. It was little more than a stretch of rectangular hallway, really, despite the strange decor.

Taking a careful breath, Stiles stepped through the doorway. The next room was small and square - maybe ten feet by ten feet total - and the sound of water had grown louder, telling him he was closer to its source. There were a couple of benches - dark wood slats with marble legs supporting them - in the center of the little anteroom. The walls had hooks, and Stiles noted that there was a pair of dark slacks and a blue button-up shirt hung up there. A pair of dress shoes sat on the floor below them, socks tucked neatly inside. There were two doorways - edged by more columns - leading out of the room. One to the left, and one to the right, both near the far wall that was directly across from Stiles. Along that far wall were wooden shelves, lined with towels and bath products and what looked like folded robes. And there were more potted plants as well, scattered around the little room.

Stiles walked over to the doorway on the right and peeked through, shocked by the sight of a large in-ground swimming pool. Along one wall, set in little alcoves, seemed to be showers, though there were no privacy curtains to block them off. It was all just open. Stiles could hear the water trickling through the pool’s filtration system, echoing louder in this room than it had in the first two. The light danced along dark blue tiles and black marble and across the surface of the water. It was a massive pool, considering it was a private one, and part of Stiles itched to get in the water. But the pool room seemed empty and he was meant to be looking for Peter. But he made a mental note to come for a swim as soon as possible.

He stepped back into the small square room - a changing room, perhaps? - and then crossed to the other doorway to peek through that one, too. There was a pool in there as well, only not. It was sunken into the floor, and full of water for certain. But it didn’t look near as deep as the other one. It was round, and maybe fifteen feet across. There was a set of four steps that led down into the water, and around the entire edge - from one side of the stairs, all the way around to the other - was a bench, set low enough that if one was sitting on it, they would be under water up to the middle of their chest. At least, that’s how deep the water was on Peter, who was sitting in it, his back mostly to Stiles. His arms were stretched along the floor of the room - the miniature pool’s ledge - on either side of himself, his head tipped back against the ledge, eyes closed. There were a number of bath products on the ledge as well, a little to one side of Peter.

Stiles’ breath hitched in his chest even as he noted that the room held the same sort of shower-alcoves around the edge of it, and even more potted plants. The soft sound of water lapping against the tile echoed in this room as well, underscored by the music he could still hear. The whole floor was obviously wired with speakers and some sort of master sound system. He licked his lips, hesitantly taking a step into the room.

Peter’s voice froze him in his tracks.

“There is no clothing allowed past the changing room, pet. Strip, then come to me.”

Stiles could feel a blush heating his face, but he hastily stepped back into the changing room. He quickly stripped off his tee and jeans, hanging them on the nearest set of hooks. His shoes - socks tucked into them the way Peter’s were - he left on the floor under the hooks. Then he took a measured breath, hooked his thumbs under the elastic, and stripped his boxers off as well. He felt silly hanging them on a hook but he wasn’t going to leave them on the floor so it wasn’t like he had a lot of options. He shifted his feet restlessly for a moment, co*ck already half-hard and his hole starting to leak.

He flicked his eyes to the towel-filled shelves, making a quick decision. He grabbed one and wound it around his waist before padding into the room Peter was in. The alpha turned to watch him enter, something dark in his eyes as he tracked Stiles’ progress towards him. “Feeling shy, are we? What happened to my little minx?”

Stiles shrugged, his cheeks still flushed, because there would be no point in denying it. Peter would hear it if he lied, after all. And he wasn’t in the mood to explain his lack of experience...or point out the fact that Peter hadn’t actually gotten a proper look at Stiles the first time. He paused a few feet from the edge of the pool as he realized that Peter wasn’t - as he had first assumed - wearing a bathing suit, but rather was completely nude. Dropping his eyes quickly, Stiles wished the towel was doing a better job of hiding his arousal. But it was a flimsy barrier at best and left very little to the imagination with the way Stiles was tenting the terrycloth.

“You didn’t shower before coming here.” Peter murmured, and Stiles couldn’t tell if he was annoyed by that fact or not, so he simply shook his head. Peter jerked his head towards the nearest alcove, ordering. “Rinse off, pet, so you can join me.”

Stiles obligingly moved to the alcove, hanging the towel on a small hook while keeping his back turned to Peter. He gave himself a cursory scrub - without soap or products - as he stood under the shower’s spray, just to make sure the worst of his travel-funk and sweat was gone. Once that was done - and after taking a few deep breaths and thinking of as many unpleasant things as he could to bring his erection back under control - Stiles shut the water back off and turned around. He approached the pool while keeping his eyes off of Peter, since that would only bring his arousal right back.

He circled to the steps, walking down them with his eyes focused on the far wall, well above Peter’s head. He could feel the alpha’s eyes on him, but did his best to ignore it, focusing instead on the way the hot water lapped at his skin, more like a steaming bath than any pool he’d ever been in. And really, the bath products still lined up beside Peter gave credence to that. To this room being some sort of elaborate, rich person’s bathing room rather than an actual pool.

Trying to draw Peter’s attention away from his nude form, Stiles rasped out. “I wanted to thank you. F-for returning Isaac to me. I’m more grateful than I can say.”

“Show me.”

Peter’s rumbled words snapped Stiles’ eyes to him at last. His breath hitched in his throat at the way those blue eyes glittered - hard and dangerous, like thin ice over dark water on a cold morning - and Stiles knew better than to disobey, really. But everything in him froze, going still halfway across the pool. He wasn’t sure what to do; what Peter expected from him. And that uncertainty made it hard for Stiles to do anything.

Peter’s eyes narrowed, flashing red for a brief moment. “I’m not in the habit of repeating myself, Stiles. Or are you not as grateful as you claim?”

‘Serve. You’re here to serve him,’ Stiles reminded himself, forcing his limbs to move again. ‘I’ve seen a ton of p*rn. I can figure this out.’

Casting his mind over his options quickly, Stiles picked up a soft, natural-looking sponge from the ledge and drizzled a small amount of body wash over it. A half-second dunk into the water, then a couple of quick squeezes had it foaming up nicely and Stiles shifted even closer to Peter. He was watching Stiles through heavy-lidded eyes, but he hadn’t protested. Hadn’t said or done anything to stop Stiles, or alter his course. It wasn’t tacit permission or approval, but it was enough to let Stiles hope he was on the right track. Or, at the very least, that what he’d opted for was intriguing enough for Peter to let it play out.

Wetting his lips nervously, Stiles made a hasty choice and straddled Peter’s thighs. He was sitting as far back as he could, his knees barely touching the bench Peter was sitting on and his ass hovering just above Peter’s own knees, not yet willing to settle his weight there. Then he lowered the sponge, stroking it along the top of Peter’s chest and leaving a foamy lather in its wake. Peter was watching him, lips curved up in an amused smirk. A moment later, Peter had plucked the sponge from Stiles’ fingers.

“Very clever, little fox. But I’m already clean.”

Stiles opened his lips - not sure what he was going to say - then let out a shuddering moan when Peter dragged the soapy sponge across Stiles’ chest. He smirked up at Stiles, murmuring. “But you aren’t. Let’s fix that, hmmm?”

Stiles’ chest heaved as Peter moved the sponge in slow, sweeping strokes over his skin. Across his shoulders, and down each arm. Over his chest, the teasing touch of the soft, slick sponge against his nipples forcing a whimper from his throat. Peter let the sponge slide down Stiles’ belly and he couldn’t help the way his hips jumped as Peter drew closer to his aching co*ck. But Peter stopped shy of it, instead sliding the sponge around Stiles’ waist - just above his hips - to his back, and stroking back up. It was maddening, the pressure that held the strength of Peter’s hand behind it but which offered no skin-to-skin contact. Stiles felt like every nerve in his body was awake now and screaming for more.

Stiles wet his lips again, something in him twisting pleasantly when Peter’s eyes tracked the subtle flick of his tongue. Peter growled softly, eyes flashing red again.

“Show me how grateful you are.”

The repeated order snapped Stiles’ thin thread of control and he surged forward, catching Peter’s mouth with his own. He parted his lips, tongue darting out to beg entrance. When Peter’s lips parted as well, Stiles eagerly licked past his teeth, his hands coming up to tangle in Peter’s thick hair. He rose up a little higher on his knees, which served the dual purposes of giving him a better angle to ravage Peter’s mouth while also bringing him closer to that strong, firm body he desperately wanted to be pressed against.

Peter’s hands were suddenly sliding over his ass, gripping tight and making Stiles break the kiss with a moan, panting in the close, heated air between their mouths. “F-f*ck...” He stuttered out as Peter squeezed before letting his fingers press in.

Stiles threw his head back, spine arching even as he keened. Peter’s fingers - thick, long, plural - slid into him like they were meant to be there. Peter’s lips found the hinge of Stiles’ jaw, teeth scraping as he murmured heatedly against Stiles’ skin. “That’s it, pet. Open up for me.”

Stiles slid his hands from Peter’s hair down to his shoulders, clinging even as he buried his face in Peter’s throat, all but sobbing as Peter’s fingers pressed deeper. He gasped, tensing up, when Peter withdrew suddenly and lifted Stiles, spinning them around. He set Stiles on the ledge, strong hands guiding him to lay back. And then Stiles’ knees were hooked over Peter’s shoulders as the man knelt on the bench inside the bathing pool. Stiles held his breath as Peter leaned down, further...

...further...

...further...

He released it on a shuddering exhale when Peter’s hands once again found his ass, this time digging in enough to part his cheeks. And then Peter’s mouth was there, close and hot and intimate in a way Stiles wasn’t prepared for, tongue lapping at Stiles’ slick skin. He moaned and whimpered, writhing beneath Peter’s onslaught. His hands slid desperately over wet tile, seeking purchase where there was none. His heels dug into Peter’s shoulders, thighs tensing around the alpha’s head as Peter’s tongue pressed into him, over and over.

It wasn’t just his tongue, either. Peter’s teeth nibbled on his rim. His lips sealed around it, sucking. And his tongue alternated between thrusting as deep as it could and licking up the slick Stiles was dripping with. His co*ck rested on his belly, leaking as well, hard and aching with want. But when he reached for it, Peter caught his wrist and growled, the vibration making Stiles whine. But he let his hand fall limply to the tile, scrabbling uselessly for something to anchor him, no longer trying to touch himself.

Peter seemed pleased with his submission, redoubling his efforts as he devoured Stiles’ ass. And Stiles tensed, panting and whining with every breath he took of the dense, humid air. His hands went up, slid into his own hair and fisted there, tugging sharply as his spine arched up off the damp tile floor. Peter lifted his head, tongue replaced in an instant by two fingers, which found Stiles’ prostate with unerring precision a heartbeat later. He pressed there in demanding little pulses, eyes no longer ice blue but rather a burning red as he snarled above Stiles. His tongue was hanging from his open mouth, huffing in sharp breaths through both his mouth and nose, and Stiles knew Peter was scenting him. Tasting Stiles on the air, the way he’d just been tasting him properly only seconds earlier.

The relentless assault of Peter’s fingers driving into his prostate slammed Stiles over the edge after only a minute or so. His co*ck throbbed, spilling the first pulse of sticky-wet heat over his belly before Peter’s mouth was suddenly closed around the head, sucking. Stiles let out a strangled scream at the wet heat of Peter’s tongue as it lapped over his still-pulsing slit, cheeks hollowed as his mouth and fingers worked in tandem to milk every drop of Stiles’ org*sm from his trembling body.

When Stiles finally collapsed to the tile, still shuddering with aftershocks, Peter’s fingers slipped out of him and the man raised himself higher, looming over Stiles’ prone body. Stiles blinked up at him, vision still blurry at the edges, but gladly tipped his chin up when Peter leaned down to catch his mouth in a deep kiss. His tongue swept into Stiles’ mouth, carrying with it a burst of salt-sharp fluid. With a needy moan, Stiles sucked his own flavor from Peter’s tongue, thighs tensing around Peter’s hips as the man rocked down against him in a teasing grind.

When Peter lifted his head, Stiles was a panting, shivering wreck beneath him. And then suddenly Peter was shifting Stiles around. He was lifted with ease, cradled against Peter’s chest with one arm under Stiles’ knees and the other around his waist. He expected Peter to turn - to carry Stiles up the steps - but instead the werewolf simply stepped from the bench to the ledge with ease, as if Stiles’ added weight was nothing. He clung to Peter’s neck, face buried in his throat, as the man carried him out of the bathing room, through the changing room, and out into the entrance.

Part of Stiles wanted to beg Peter for a towel, a robe, something to cover himself with as he carried Stiles into the elevator. But Peter was nude as well, and it was Peter’s house, so Stiles held his tongue until they reached the second floor. Peter stepped out into the hallway, striding confidently up it, Stiles keeping his face buried in Peter’s throat. If there was anyone around, he didn’t want to know. Though presumably Peter’s staff knew better than to disturb him and were hopefully tucked away elsewhere in the house.

Peter carried him through a small, private sitting room and into a bedroom - his room, or Peter’s, Stiles wasn’t sure and didn’t think it was the time to ask - and tossed him onto the massive canopy bed that was taking up a significant portion of the enormous room. Stiles landed with a bounce and a quiet oof. And then Peter was on the bed as well, hauling Stiles closer, hard hands shoving his thighs apart. Stiles whimpered as his hole clenched around nothing, leaking slick again but also feeling tender and oversensitive. His co*ck twitched against his hip, the feeling a combination of pleasure and too much that bordered on pain.

“Wait...” Stiles rasped, even as his eyes were drawn to Peter’s co*ck. Thick, and long, and hard. Shiny-wet as it was leaking precome, making Stiles’ mouth water with the sudden desire to taste.

Swallowing down the urge, Stiles continued weakly. “I...I need a break. T-to rest. Just...just for a little while, please, I can’t, not so soon...”

“Oh, I’m sure you can, pet.” Peter rumbled, and a moment later he was pressing the head of his co*ck tauntingly against Stiles’ slick hole and earning a ragged moan for his trouble. “I’m sure I could make you.”

Peter’s words were followed by the heated press of his co*ck sliding into Stiles’ body, making his back arch even as his eyes rolled back in his head. His hands fisted in the silky bedding beneath him as heat pooled low in his belly, his co*ck twitching again and dragging another whine from Stiles’ lips.

His eyes flew open on a gasp when, in the next moment, Peter’s co*ck slid back out of him. He blinked in confusion, mind sluggish, as he watched Peter grab a robe from a hook on the wall, shrugging into it. Stared in disbelief as Peter covered his co*ck - still hard, slick now with Stiles’ desire as well as his own - and belted the robe around his waist.

“Come to my office in an hour.” Peter told him, voice level and so much colder than it had been just a moment before. And what the hell had changed, between Peter making sexy, threatening promises while sliding inside of Stiles’ body and now, when he was leaving so abruptly? Stiles didn’t know. “If you need anything in the meantime, ask one of my staff. They’ve been instructed to assist you in any way possible, provided your requests don’t go against a direct order from me.”

Peter crossed the room to the door, then paused with his hand on the doorknob. He glanced back at Stiles, studying him for a moment, and his next words came out low and dangerous, somewhere between a threat and a warning. “Oh, and Stiles? Don’t be late.”

Stiles watched Peter go, a sinking feeling of dread in his stomach replacing the heated desire that had gathered there so recently. He swallowed against the rising metallic taste flooding his mouth, refusing to get sick over Peter’s callous disregard. He wouldn’t be that weak.

He refused.

Instead, Stiles poked around the room he was in, pleased to find a tray with chilled champagne in an ice bucket and two crystal flutes. The tray also had strawberries - some plain, some dipped in chocolate - and chocolate truffles and something Stiles thought was caviar. He wrinkled his nose at the black stuff, having no desire to eat fish eggs, but greedily shoved a plump strawberry in his mouth. With any luck, it would help settle the nerves in his stomach. The same reasoning had him pouring himself a glass of champagne, which he drank quickly. It was light, and fruity, and crisp in a way the cheap stuff he’d had before never had been. Enjoying the taste, he poured himself another glass, gulping it down between bites of a chocolate truffle and a second strawberry. His third glass disappeared nearly as quickly as the first two, and Stiles was starting to feel loose and warm.

‘Good,’ he thought as he poured another glass, giggling softly to himself. ‘Might as well relax a little before Peter f*cks me again.’

After finishing the fourth glass, Stiles’ head was swimming in a way that wasn’t entirely pleasant. So Stiles glanced at the clock, deciding he had enough time to go find some coffee before he had to meet with Peter. He looked around but didn’t see another robe...and he couldn’t exactly stroll down to the kitchens without a stitch of clothing on, now could he? And this was clearly Peter’s room, because Stiles’ suitcase and laptop bag were nowhere in sight, so he didn’t even have his clothes as an option. Shrugging, Stiles started pulling open drawers on the dresser. He came across what was clearly Peter’s underwear drawer fairly quickly and fished out a pair of silky boxers in a deep, eggplant purple color. He skimmed them up his legs, then rolled the waistband down a couple of times to prevent them from falling right back off as he was a bit slimmer than Peter.

When the dresser didn’t yield the rest of what he was hoping for, Stiles turned to the armoire next. Then, when that failed, he found the closet. And there he hit the jackpot, quickly pawing through an obscene number of button-up shirts in a variety of colors. Settling on a long-sleeved black button-up that was so lightweight and smooth that the cool fabric felt like water sliding over his skin, Stiles pulled it on. He buttoned the middle three buttons, not bothering with anything else, and shoved the sleeves up past his elbows. It was loose around his shoulders and torso and barely hung down past his ass, but the boxers covered both that and the tops of his thighs well enough so he didn’t care. Humming softly to himself - and swaying just a bit - Stiles made his way out of the bedroom.

He debated the stairs, but felt wobbly enough that he elected to take the elevator instead, pressing 1 and then letting it carry him down the single flight of stairs.

The kitchen Stiles knew how to find - sort of - from the last time he’d been here, as that was where Danny had waited for him while he’d met with Peter. It still took a bit of searching - a couple of wrong turns - but he managed it eventually. He stumbled in, a little surprised to find the kitchen wasn’t empty. Instead, there was a woman with dark skin and straight, dark hair that fell just past her shoulders. Her dark eyes were cold and calculating and Stiles wondered what her job was in Peter’s household, though she seemed to be cooking at the moment. Derek was also sitting in the kitchen at the quaint breakfast bar. Both of them watched him walk in, making Stiles a little more conscious of the way he was swaying unsteadily on his feet.

Ignoring them both, Stiles made his way carefully over to the coffee maker, squinting at the fancy thing which had far too many buttons.

“You’re supposed to be in Peter’s office in...” Derek’s eyes flicked to his watch, then back to Stiles. “About twenty minutes.”

Stiles shrugged carelessly. “So? If he has to wait a few minutes, he has to wait.” Scowling, he poked at the coffee machine but only succeeded in making it beep angrily. “f*cking piece of...can someone please show me how this thing works? I need coffee, dammit.”

Derek seemed shocked, but he moved over to the machine. “Why don’t you sit down? You seem...unsteady.”

Stiles hummed agreeably, wobbling his way over to a stool at the breakfast bar. As he slumped onto it, the unknown woman set sugar and creamer in front of him in fancy little dishes. She was studying him rather intently, so Stiles cleared his throat and drummed up a smile. “Hi, I’m Stiles. Resident f*cktoy for Peter. For the next month, anyway. Who’re you?”

The woman blinked placidly at him even as Derek started choking on nothing by the coffee maker. Stiles ignored him in favor of the woman, who finally curved her lips up into the smallest smile Stiles had ever seen. “My name is Marin. I run the kitchen.” After a brief pause, she added softly. “I’m also Peter’s acting emissary, though he’s made it clear that as soon as he finds someone he likes better, I’ll be replaced.”

“As cook, or as emissary?” Stiles asked curiously. When Marin only shrugged, he turned to watch as Derek walked over with a mug of coffee. He took it with a smile, murmuring. “Thanks.”

Stiles reached for the sugar, but managed to knock the little crystal bowl over instead, spilling it across the marble countertop of the breakfast bar. Marin moved to clean it up as Stiles babbled out apologies, but Derek was scowling now. “You’re drunk.”

“Mmmm...yes.” Stiles agreed, snorting softly. “So what? That’s not a crime.”

“You’ve got about fifteen minutes to sober up.” Derek pointed out, nudging the coffee closer to Stiles. “Drink that, dammit, and pray it works quickly.”

And Stiles had wanted the coffee, but Derek’s attitude made him roll his eyes. “Why? What’s Peter going to do, kill me for getting drunk? S’not like it matters anyway. I can get f*cked drunk just as easily as sober.” Though he frowned down at the coffee now, adding in a mumble. “Peter does kill people, though, doesn’t he? I mean, that’s how he became an alpha in the first place.”

Derek was muttering under his breath now, pinching the bridge of his nose as if frustrated. Marin slid a bowl of something in front of Stiles, nodding towards it. “It’ll help soak up the alcohol still in your stomach.”

Stiles looked down at the bowl, which was filled with...Stiles didn’t know what. Stew, maybe? Or some sort of thick, dark soup? What was the difference between soup and stew, really? He wasn’t sure. “What’s in this?”

“Venison. Potatoes. Onions. Carrots.” Marin waved her hand dismissively. “It’s heavy and, as I said, will help soak up the alcohol. Eat.”

The smell of it wafted up to Stiles’ nose and his stomach twisted miserably. The metallic taste flooded his mouth again, pooling there like saliva, and he shook his head hastily, shoving the bowl away from him. “No, thank you. I can’t.”

“It’s not a good idea, pissing off Peter.” Derek said pointedly, nudging the bowl back towards Stiles.

He shoved it away again quickly. “Dude, don’t. Not unless you want me to throw up.” His skin felt clammy all of a sudden, and the whole room tipped sickeningly. “And you might be afraid of your uncle, but I’m not.”

And it didn’t feel like a lie, even if Stiles sometimes was afraid of Peter; of the cold darkness that lurked behind his eyes. Head still spinning, Stiles closed his eyes, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the cool marble counter and slurred out. “Bet you could take ‘im in a fight, if y’had to.”

“Stiles, you’re supposed to be in Peter’s office in a few minutes.” Derek said, giving Stiles’ shoulder a sharp shake that made him groan miserably at being jostled. “Stiles!”

“S’fine.” Stiles managed around a yawn, letting his eyes close again. “Just carry me to his office.”

He felt Derek shake his shoulder again, but the exhaustion of the last week seemed to finally catch up to Stiles when combined with the alcohol in his system. It dragged him under before he could even think to resist.

~*~*~*~

Peter waited an additional fifteen minutes before growing impatient with Stiles. He didn’t take defiance well, but Peter understood that this was new to the human. Stiles was a magic user, yes, but he had no affiliation - as far as Peter had been able to find - with the supernatural world. Stiles had never had an Alpha from any of the families, just as he’d never had a pack alpha, He couldn’t possibly understand that obedience was mandatory. Peter knew he ought to give Stiles a little leeway, because of that, but he also knew that Stiles needed to be made to understand how things worked in Peter’s world.

True, Stiles was only visiting, but while he was with Peter, he needed to act accordingly. So there was a lesson here that needed to be taught and properly enforced.

Peter could have used the intercom to make one of his men - Derek, or Ethan, or any of the others - fetch Stiles and bring him to Peter’s office. He could have...but he didn’t. Instead, he went back to his room, expecting to find Stiles there. Sleeping, maybe, or else caught up in doing something that had distracted him from the time. Stiles hadn’t been outright defiant, after all. Only a little hesitant, in between the moments where he gave in and submitted so beautifully to Peter’s will.

Instead, the room was empty. Empty...and missing a considerable amount of champagne from the bottle that had been left on ice. Frowning, Peter wondered where Stiles might have gone, since he hadn’t actually been given a proper tour of the house yet. Had he wandered off, curiosity getting the better of him, and lost track of time? Or gotten lost, even, as the house could be a bit confusing until you were used to it.

Frowning, Peter hit the intercom on the wall, paging the kitchen where he knew his betas tended to congregate when they weren’t actively doing something else. It was Marin who answered, much to Peter’s annoyance. She was one of the hold-overs from Deucalion’s time as Alpha Wolf and he had never trusted her fully, though she’d done her job well since he’d taken over. Peter had made it clear that the moment he found someone capable of replacing her, he would do so...but Peter had exacting standards and a distaste for most druids, who were the most commonly employed as emissaries, so Marin remained.

“Are you hungry, alpha?” Marin asked, voice tinny through the intercom speaker but still eerily placid. “I can send up something.”

“Is Stiles in the kitchen?” Peter snapped back, not answering her question.

There was a pause - an extended beat of silence - before Marin’s reply came through. “I believe Stiles is in his room, but I can send Ethan to check, if you like.”

“No.” Peter said, voice soft and smooth. “That won’t be necessary.”

By the time Peter made his way up to the third floor and the room he’d assigned to Stiles, his temper had flared and cooled again. He knew he ought to be furious at this clear and outright defiance on Stiles’ part, but mostly he was intrigued. There was something compelling about the way Stiles seemed so unafraid of Peter. Nervous, yes. A bit uncertain and hesitant at times, certainly. But not afraid, barring the few seconds immediately after he’d tried to slap Peter during their first meeting. And even then, the fear had settled quickly. Peter might have attributed it to sheer stupidity, if he wasn’t so sure that Stiles was dangerously clever.

He slipped into Stiles’ room, staring down at the young man. Stiles was sleeping. Deeply, based on his breathing and heart rate. His high, sharp cheekbones were flushed with rosy color and he smelled faintly of the champagne Peter knew he’d been drinking. Stiles had kicked the blanket off of himself, leaving it bunched near the foot of the bed. The sheet - a shiny claret-colored swath of fabric - was twisted around his lean, lanky form in a way that was somehow deeply erotic. Moreover, Stiles was wearing Peter’s clothes, which sent a fierce thrill of possessiveness through him.

Peter wanted. He all but ached with his desire for Stiles. It felt like a kind of madness, to want this fiercely. Peter had never experienced this before. He’d never wanted anyone this way before. It was why he was planning to f*ck Stiles at every available opportunity. Peter had to get Stiles out of his system, and logic dictated that the more he had Stiles, the less he would crave him. Supply and demand. The more readily available something was, the less pressing your desire for it was. Peter understood business, and commerce, and this thing with Stiles would be no different. With enough exposure, he would want Stiles less.

Eventually, Peter was certain he wouldn’t want him at all.

Stiles sighed softly in his sleep, head turning and exposing the long, delicate line of this throat. Peter had cradled that throat, the first time he’d f*cked Stiles. Had curled his palm and fingers snug around it. Had pressed in just the right way to restrict Stiles’ blood flow, effectively suffocating Stiles without actually cutting off his air supply. He had felt the racing flutter of Stiles’ pulse beneath his fingertips. Had heard each desperate breath get pulled past those full, pink lips, every one of them an act of futility as none of that precious oxygen was allowed to go where it was so painfully needed. Not until Peter allowed it to.

Humans - even ones with magic, like Stiles - were so terribly breakable. It would take almost no effort for Peter to snap that delicate neck. Would take even less, to rip Stiles apart with his claws.

Peter reached out, fingers tucking beneath Stiles’ chin while his thumb dragged lightly across Stiles’ lower lip. He felt it when Stiles sighed again, lashes fluttering against his sleep-flushed cheeks as if he might awaken at any moment. But there were bruises under his eyes, deep and dark, pressed there by not enough sleep. So Peter drew his hand back and slipped from the room, leaving Stiles to his dreams.

For what it was worth, Peter hoped they were sweet.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

Sunday, November 25th, 2018

Stiles woke in a room he’d never been in before, head throbbing just a bit behind his temples and his eyes. He groaned, hating the way his mouth tasted like he’d been chewing on a dirty sock in his sleep, and squinted his eyes against the morning light streaming through the curtains. A slight twitch of his fingers had the blackout panels pulling shut, which at least dulled the ache in his head enough for him to drag himself out of the bed. Stiles hated hangovers. He had never been much of a drinker, honestly. Wasn’t sure why he’d gone so hard on the champagne last night, except maybe because of the nerves of it all.

Nerves.

All kinds of nerves, really. Anxious-nerves, which Stiles was far too familiar with, given he’d had panic attacks since his mother had first gotten sick, back when he’d still been too young to understand what was happening to her, or just how final it all was. Excited-nerves, because as f*cked up as this whole thing was, he couldn’t deny that parts of it were thrilling. That Peter was thrilling, in a potentially dangerous way. And pleasure-nerves, because thanks to Peter, Stiles felt like every actual nerve in his body was suddenly awake and cranked up to eleven, making him feel in a way he hadn’t realized was possible. And god, but Peter was good at plucking those nerves in all of the best f*cking ways. Which, of course, circled right back to the excited-nerves.

Regardless, Stiles was a little confused about where he was until he took a better look around the room and noticed his laptop bag on the desk and his suitcase beside the dresser. This was surely the room that had been assigned to Stiles, then. His presence in it was still a little confusing, all things considered. He remembered being in Peter’s room, and drinking champagne. He remembered stumbling down to the kitchen. Remembered talking to Derek and Marin. Remembered feeling woozy and slipping towards unconsciousness.

He also remembered - quite distinctly - telling Derek to deliver him to Peter. He’d thought Peter would like the idea of it, honestly. An unconscious Stiles was one who couldn’t run his mouth, or disobey. Based on their interactions so far, Stiles had expected Peter to be annoyed, of course, but also amused. If he’d taken the time to think about it, he would’ve expected to wake up in one of two places. Either Peter’s bed, if the man had been more amused than not...or Peter’s office, if the annoyance had won out.

Waking up in a bed - in a room - that was meant to be his wouldn’t have made the list of plausible options. But then, Stiles was so new to all of this. He barely knew Peter. So why had he thought he could predict Peter’s actions, or reactions? Why had he been arrogant enough to assume he could think like Peter?

Shaking his head, Stiles slipped into the bathroom to take care of things. First order of business: take a piss. Second order of business: brush his damn teeth. Third order of business, take a shower. Fourth order of business: get to the kitchen so he could take care of his damn hangover. Peter - including thoughts of Peter - would just have to wait until later.

~*~*~*~

Stiles dressed comfortably in well-worn jeans, a graphic tee, and a flannel overshirt. No point in dressing up unless he was going somewhere. Besides that, he hadn’t even brought anything dressy, the closest to that being two different work-acceptable outfits for the days when he went into the office to swap out manuscripts. He made his way to the kitchen easily, giving Marin a tight smile as he started rummaging through cabinets. His head was still throbbing and he wanted to deal with that before he tried to eat anything.

“I’ve already made breakfast.” Marin told him, gesturing towards a doorway. “I’ll show you to the breakfast room, where you’ll eat each morning.”

Stiles waved her off as he finally found the spice cabinet and started pulling out jars and bottles to read the labels, setting the ones he needed back on the counter. “I’ll eat in a minute. Need to whip something up first.” He muttered under his breath as he kept looking at labels, then asked. “Do you have a mortar and pestle?”

“I do.” Marin opened a cabinet - Stiles noted which one - and then set a green and white marble mortar and pestle on the breakfast bar, where Stiles was setting his ingredient choices. “Is there anything else you need?”

Stiles considered for a moment what he’d already put on the counter, then nodded. “You got cohosh?”

“I don’t.” Marin said, the faintest hint of an apology lacing the words. “I have salamander ash, though, if you’re making something for your hangover.”

“Do you?” Stiles raised an eyebrow at her, a little impressed. “That would be great, actually. And since you’ve apparently got magical ingredients...what about mermaid scales? I could also use doxy wings...”

“I have both.” Marin offered, fetching two jars and a glass bottle from what looked like a china hutch. Stiles wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed it until Marin was opening it, but he imagined it was a spell of some sort. She noticed Stiles watching her and added softly. “You’re welcome to use whatever you like from my stores. Just let me know if you use the last of something, so I can get more.”

“Thanks.” Stiles grabbed a glass from a cabinet, a small bowl from another, and a spoon from a drawer. He surveyed everything on the counter, then asked. “Spring water? And a set of measuring cups and spoons.”

Marin set what he’d asked for next to him, along with a small kitchen scale, and Stiles set to work quickly. A hangover cure wasn’t the easiest thing to make, and everyone liked to claim they had the best recipe with the least unpleasant side-effects, but Stiles had made quite a bit of his spending money during college by whipping them up for the frat boys and sorority sisters after all the best parties. He could make one that would do in a pinch from the standard crap most folks had in their kitchens, but when he had better ingredients...well.

Stiles powdered a single mermaid scale as well as two of the doxy wings, dumping them into the bowl. He added some of the ground clove and ginger he’d found in the cabinet, humming softly as he measured and mixed. He added some of the bottled spring water to the glass, then stirred in a measure of the salamander ash. His powdered mix went in next, followed by a few other herbs. He stirred vigorously, still humming, watching as the entire solution turned a soft purple color, swirling through with shimmering black and a sort of acidic green. He clicked his tongue, then added a solid spoonful of honey, stirring again until the color once again settled into that swirled mix, though this time there was the faintest crackle of gold sparking through it as well.

“No incantation?” Marin questioned, watching Stiles intently as he raised the glass to his lips and chugged the entire thing.

It effervesced on his tongue, tasting sharp and sweet by turns, with a faint smokey afterburn when he’d finished swallowing. All-in-all, not the worst tasting one he’d ever made. Just strong. Shuddering as the magic of it washed over him, Stiles sighed in relief when it chased away the headache, the faint traces of nausea he’d been experiencing, and the all-over ugh feeling he’d had.

Part of Stiles wanted to ignore Marin’s question - he didn’t talk about his magic often - but she was a magic-user herself, since she’d mentioned being Peter’s emissary. “I don’t like incantations. I’ve learned to use my magic without them.”

“That’s interesting.” Marin murmured, even as she gestured for Stiles to follow her, most likely to the breakfast room she’d mentioned before. “It means your spells can’t be readily replicated, as mimicking the exact tonal pitch, speed, and cadence of the non-verbal intonation you do would be difficult, if not impossible, for someone to recreate. Though I’d imagine it makes getting consistent results difficult for you.”

“Not really.” Stiles jerked one shoulder when Marin shot him a surprised look over her shoulder, though it was as subtle as all of her facial expressions seemed to be. “It comes naturally to me. If I were to make exactly the same hangover cure tomorrow or next week or three years from now, it would turn out the same. But a lot of what I do isn’t set like that, anyway. I’m fluid with what ingredients I use for any given spell.”

Marin hummed consideringly as she nodded, then gestured to a doorway. “This is the breakfast room. If there’s anything you particularly want for breakfast, just let me know the night before.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Stiles gave her another small smile, which she returned with a slight incline of her head before turning and heading back to the kitchen.

Stiles was a little surprised by the huge array of food set out in the breakfast room, though he imagined Marin was used to cooking for werewolves so it wasn’t entirely unexpected. All shifters required a massive amount of calories and Stiles had yet to meet one who didn’t eat like the food was going to disappear if they weren’t fast enough. His own appetite wasn’t quite that large, though whenever he used magic he definitely needed more calories to compensate. That being the case, Stiles tucked into breakfast eagerly and with gusto.

When Ethan wandered into the room, Stiles swallowed a mouthful of eggs and gestured to a chair. “Hey, you hungry? You can join me.”

Ethan flashed him a smile, but shook his head. “Nah, I ate in the kitchen. But thanks.” He sat, though, looking relaxed. “I’m supposed to give you a quick tour when you’re done eating. And Peter’s requested you at ten, in his office.”

Stiles hummed agreeably, swallowing down a few more mouthfuls of food and half a glass of orange juice. “Alright, let me just clean this up and-”

“Marin’ll get it.” Ethan broke in, standing and stretching out his back with a pop. “C’mon. It’s a big ass house, lots to see and all that.”

With a sigh, Stiles followed Ethan out of the room.

~*~*~*~

The tour didn’t actually take as long as Stiles would have expected, if he’d thought about it. Ethan opted to skip the parts he had already seen, for efficiency’s sake. Underground - in addition to the swimming pool and weird bathtub pool on the lowest floor, which Ethan called a bathhouse - there was a gym, a sauna, a steam room, an entire movie theater, and a temperature-controlled wine cellar. 2L also had a massive ballroom, which Ethan said was for throwing parties, though he added that Peter didn’t really do that. Above ground, the house had a total of fifteen bedrooms - including Peter’s and the one assigned to Stiles - twelve full bathrooms, three half-bathrooms, Peter’s office and the kitchen of course, and a formal dining room. There was also an assortment of rooms that Stiles would have called living rooms but which apparently included sitting rooms, parlors, the breakfast room, a den, something Ethan called a morning room, and actual living rooms. Stiles wasn’t sure what the hell the difference was, in any of those rooms, but he wasn’t about to ask.

He could always google it later.

Additionally, there was a conservatory, full of lush plants, the air warm and humid despite the bite of winter that was creeping into the air outside. And...a music room, which was where their tour ended. It held several instruments, some on stands and others in pretty glass display cases or mounted on the walls. There was also a beautiful grand piano, taking a place of prominence in the center of the room. Stiles let his fingers run lightly over the keys, not pressing any of them but simply savoring the slick-smooth feel of them against his fingertips. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere on the thing, its black surface shiny and perfect. He had no doubt it was perfectly in tune.

“Who plays?” Stiles asked curiously, because no one had a piano like this - expensive and so well cared for - unless someone in the house played. And played well, at that.

Ethan stared at him for a moment, then said stiffly. “No one. It’s just decorative.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed as he turned back to the piano. Tentatively, he hit a key and - just as he’d suspected - the correct note rang out, pure and clear. ‘Perfectly in tune,’ Stiles thought, trying to puzzle it out. ‘Why keep it in tune if it’s a show piece?’

“No one plays?” He asked softly, keeping his face turned towards the piano but watching Ethan’s face from the corner of his eyes. “What a shame. It’s a lovely instrument...”

Something flickered across Ethan’s face - an unease of sorts - and he was grimacing when he answered. “It was left by the previous Alpha Wolf. Peter’s changed some things, since taking control, but the house is basically the way it was when Deucalion lived here. Maybe someone played back then.”

“Maybe.” Stiles murmured, then jumped when Ethan moved closer and closed the keyboard cover with a resounding clack at the force of it, barely getting his fingers out of the way. “Dude! What the hell?”

“Leave it alone, Stiles.” Ethan said simply, a low growl underlining the words. “Remember, Peter’s office. Ten o’clock. Don’t be late.”

Stiles huffed in confused annoyance when Ethan turned and walked out of the room. He glanced at the piano again, then at his phone. With a sigh, he headed back to his room. He had an hour before he had to see Peter, so he might as well try to get some work done.

~*~*~*~

Stiles was still mentally bemoaning the manuscript he’d barely made it halfway through - skimming, only skimming, because he didn’t hate himself that much - when he got to Peter’s office just before 10am. He wasn’t going to finish the manuscript, either. It was going in the reject pile. And Stiles hated that part of his job - the part that meant he had to reject someone’s work - but it came with the whole shtick so he dealt with it. He’d had to reject a lot of work over the years, so he was almost used to it. They didn’t call it a slush pile for nothing.

He knocked lightly on Peter’s door, opening it when Peter called out for him to enter. He stepped in, shut the door behind himself, then leaned back against it. Peter was seated behind his desk, pen scribing something at the bottom of a piece of paper - a signature, perhaps - and he didn’t even look up when Stiles came in. That was fine, though. It gave Stiles a few moments to study him. Peter’s suit jacket was hung on a hook on the wall behind his desk. He wasn’t wearing a tie, and his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at his throat. In fact, the top three buttons were undone, giving Stiles a tantalizing view of Peter’s chest hair where the fabric parted. The sleeves were rolled up, baring his strong forearms.

When Peter finally looked up, Stiles met those chilling blue eyes levelly, determined not to back down. Not to cower or shrink back. If he was going to do this - and he was, clearly - Stiles was going to do it in a way that asserted him as Peter’s equal. He wasn’t less than Peter, regardless of the way he was temporarily submitting himself to Peter’s will. Because this had been Stiles’ choice, which meant the power was in his hands, to give over to Peter or not. Peter might have control over him, but only because Stiles was allowing it.

That was a fact Stiles had no intention of letting Peter forget.

Peter studied him for a moment, then made a come here motion with his hand. “Closer, pet. You’re of no use to me way over there.”

Stiles obligingly moved away from the door, stopping once he was in front of Peter’s desk. “Ethan said you wanted to see me.”

“Why in the world are you wearing plaid?”

Stiles blinked at the question, glancing down at himself before raising an eyebrow at Peter. “Because I like it, obviously. I own quite a bit of it.”

“Don’t wear it again.” Peter said, before sliding his chair back a bit and gesturing to the desk. “Come sit in front of me, pet. On the desk.”

Stiles huffed, but circled the desk without protest. He paused, looking at the papers and such, then asked. “Do you plan to move all of that first or...?”

“Tch.” Peter sucked his teeth lightly in annoyance, though his tone was mild when he said. “I told you to sit. You don’t need to worry about anything beyond that order. Just obey.”

That was a damn big ask, for someone like Stiles, but he had agreed to do this. So Stiles turned and boosted himself up onto the large desk, ignoring the way papers were crinkling beneath him. Peter watched him with a small smirk curving his lips and Stiles told himself not to fidget under the weight of those eyes. Stiles dropped his eyes to avoid them for a moment, then sucked in air with an involuntary little gasp of surprise when he realized Peter was aroused, the front of his slacks tented with it.

Peter’s smirk widened a little at Stiles’ surprise, then he said softly. “You missed our appointment last night.”

Stiles’ head snapped up at that, and he blinked at Peter in surprise. “What?”

“Our meeting.” Peter repeated, and this time a trace of anger laced his words. “You were supposed to come to my office. You didn’t. I understand you got drunk, but-”

“Hey, no. No.” Stiles broke in, not even caring that he was interrupting an alpha werewolf. “I am well aware I got drunk, plus I was exhausted, so I passed out. But I told Derek - I told him - to bring me to your office. Did he not bring me to you?”

Peter blinked, lips parting in surprise for a half a heartbeat’s time before he seemed to get control of himself. “He did not.”

Stiles hissed in annoyance. “Okay, so you need to take that up with him, not me. I knew where I needed to be and so did he, and I trusted that he would bring me to you.” Temper flaring, Stiles muttered. “Actually, I’m going to take it up with him, even if you don’t.”

Peter tipped his head to one side, saying slowly. “You passed out, but before that you asked Derek to bring you to my office. You were willing to be brought to me, even knowing you were going to be unconscious?”

“Uh, yeah?” Stiles shrugged one shoulder, not quite sure where the issue was. “I trust that you’re not going to do anything that causes permanent damage to me, so I’m not worried about needing to defend myself. I mean, there’s not really a worst-case scenario here. Like, so what if you’d decided to f*ck me anyway. I already agreed to let you do that whenever you want, so how’s that a problem?”

“Interesting.” Peter murmured, though he was looking at Stiles as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. “You are...endlessly fascinating.”

Stiles felt his cheeks heat up with a blush and dropped his eyes. A moment later, he tensed when Peter said. “Take your jeans off. I want to f*ck you.”

Flicking his eyes back up, Stiles asked softly. “Do you have to be like that?”

Peter studied him for a moment, face impassive, then asked. “Like what?”

“Cold. Impersonal.” Stiles shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the desk. “Like this is beneath you in some way, even though it’s what you want.”

“Perhaps that’s precisely how I want it.”

“I don’t think it is.” Because Stiles had never known when to quit, whether he was ahead or not, and he wasn’t about to start now. “I think you’re just afraid.”

Peter’s eyebrow went up, a sneer pulling at his lips. “And what is it, exactly, that you think I’m afraid of?”

And jesus christ, Stiles had no idea where this was coming from; why he was pushing this way. But he was thinking about the cool, impersonal way Peter had asked him for this in the first place. Demanded it, more like, but still. He was thinking about the way Peter seemed determined to keep Stiles on the defensive. How every time Stiles tried to assert himself - every time he tried to treat this like it wasn’t just an arrangement for Peter’s benefit - Peter responded with icy demands meant to rock Stiles back on his heels. The way he seemed determined to make Stiles fall apart at his touch - to make Stiles crave him - while holding himself above it.

The way he hadn’t f*cked Stiles the night before - the way he’d given Stiles an hour to think about it, forced to wait alone after Peter had wrung a shattering org*sm from him in the bathhouse - spoke volumes. And maybe Peter would have f*cked him, if he hadn’t gotten drunk and had instead gone to Peter’s office. But maybe he wouldn’t have. Maybe he would have just pushed Stiles away again, since he seemed so determined to keep a distance between them. And it didn’t make sense, because Peter had asked for this. He had demanded that Stiles give himself over to this; to Peter. But Peter refused to do the same.

And Stiles had never been a fan of uneven footing in any situation, but for an intimate relationship? Stiles wanted a level playing field, dammit. He’d never had a lover before Peter, but like hell was he going to keep getting treated like he was the prostitute Peter had once mistaken him for.

So he raised his chin defiantly and snapped. “You’re afraid of feeling something.”

“For you?”

The sneering condescension dripping from those words cut into Stiles, but he refused to flinch or let it show; refused to let Peter know it had hurt. Instead, he snapped back. “Of feeling anything that isn’t disdain or smug superiority. Of letting your guard down. Of treating this like it matters in any f*cking way.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me, then. What would make this feel...less cold? For you, I mean.”

Stiles floundered for a moment. “I don’t...I don’t know! Some lead-in maybe? Something other than a quick brace yourself, I’m going in when you’re in the mood? I’m not here to lie back and think of England, dammit. If you want my pants off, try taking them off me. Or, hell, try kissing me so that I want to take them off.”

Peter studied him for a moment, then stood slowly. He leaned in, making Stiles catch himself on his hands as he was pressed back, not quite reclining against the desk but at a definite disadvantage in terms of position. Then, Peter offered flatly. “Kiss me, then.”

Stiles licked his lips, stomach fluttering nervously. He leaned up a little, brushing his lips along the line of Peter’s jaw. He kissed down the side of Peter’s throat, each one soft and a little damp, his lips parted just enough that he could taste the faint salt of Peter’s skin. When he reached Peter’s fluttering pulse, Stiles flicked his tongue out for a better taste, then drew back to meet Peter’s eyes again.

Peter’s face was still impassive. His eyes were cold and hard; almost lifeless. He seemed unmoved by Stiles’ tenderness; by his attempt at closeness. He swallowed hard as Peter asked coolly. “Was that better for you, or can we do things my way now?”

Embarrassment at just how unmoved Peter was flooded through Stiles, but he refused to show that. He wouldn’t give Peter the satisfaction. If the alpha wanted to keep things impersonal, fine. Stiles would give Peter exactly what he claimed to want, and he hoped Peter choked on it.

Stiles brought his chin up again, still defiant, letting anger coat his next words like venom. “I think I’m going to end up hating you.”

“There, you see?” Peter flashed a smile that lacked humor and contained too many, too sharp teeth. “Emotion.”

Stiles honestly couldn’t fathom being that empty...or wanting to be. Despite wanting to act unaffected himself, he couldn’t help the next words from spilling out. “What’s the point in living if you’re going to cut yourself off from emotion? From everything that makes life worth living?”

“Power.” Peter replied, smooth and without hesitation. “And physical pleasure. What else is there?”

“God, you have a sh*tty attitude.”

Peter shrugged. “It’s served me well so far.”

Stiles scoffed, and a heartbeat later found himself flat on his back as Peter pushed him down fully onto the desk. An instant later, Peter’s claws had shredded the front of his graphic tee, making Stiles kick out at him while swearing softly and batting at Peter’s hands. “Stop it! What the f*ck, dude? I liked that shirt!”

“I didn’t.”

Stiles hissed again, smacking Peter’s hands away when they started tugging on the fly of his jeans. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What I always want to do when I’m around you.” Peter murmured, voice low and dangerous. “Ravishing you.”

“Yeah, that’s gonna be a no from me, Bob.” Stiles snarked, not impressed in the least by Peter in this moment. “I’m not in the mood, thanks.”

He pushed up onto his elbows, intending to sit fully so he could get off the damn desk and go back to his room and read more manuscripts. Maybe find something less-sh*tty than the one from earlier. Hopefully something less-sh*tty than that, anyway.

Except Peter’s hand pressed down on the center of his chest, pressing him back down onto the desk and pinning him in place. Stiles debated the merits of lashing out with magic - just for a moment - before deciding not to tip his hand on just how much power he had. He might need the element of surprise in that regard at some point, and this wasn’t dire. Not yet, anyway. Still, he glared at Peter, baring his teeth angrily.

“Don’t be stubborn, pet.” Peter smirked down at him, eyes flashing red for a moment. “We both know you want me, so why pretend otherwise?”

“Whether or not I’m attracted to you - generally speaking - has no bearing on whether or not I want to lay on your desk while you treat me like a cheap whor*.” Stiles’ voice was soft, and just as cold as Peter’s had been earlier. He knew anger wouldn’t serve him here, but disdain just might. “I said no and I mean it.”

“Is that so?” Peter tipped his head consideringly, eyes raking over Stiles for a long moment. Then that smirk was back, full of arrogance. “Why don’t we put that claim to the test, then?”

Stiles’ brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Peter finally removed his hand from Stiles’ chest, straightening up before purring. “Two minutes. If I don’t have you begging for my co*ck, you can leave. Not just my office, but entirely. We’ll consider your debt paid and you never have to see me again.”

Stiles blinked at Peter, unsure if this was some sort of trick. If Peter was trying to get him to let down his guard or something. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Either you beg...or you get to go home.”

Stiles licked his lips, but f*ck that was a tempting offer. Two minutes. All he had to do was resist Peter for two minutes and this whole thing was over. Decision made, Stiles pulled his phone out of his pocket and pulled up a timer, setting it for two minutes. He set it on the desk next to him - where both he and Peter could see it - then locked eyes with Peter as he pressed the screen to start the countdown.

Peter’s eyes flashed again, and then he was leaning over Stiles. He pressed their lips together, but Stiles didn’t part his. Didn’t let his mouth soften beneath Peter’s. Didn’t relent. After only a few seconds, Peter’s mouth moved on, skimming along his jaw and then down his throat. It was a mimicry of what Stiles had tried to do to Peter only minutes ago, and Stiles refused to let it affect him. His hands lay limp on the desk at his sides and he counted his breaths. In for four...hold for four...out for four. Counted them over, and over, and over. Let himself focus on that mantra, rather than the sucking pressure of Peter’s mouth on his collarbone.

Stiles stared at the ceiling as Peter’s mouth moved down to his chest, one hand joining his mouth in teasing at Stiles’ nipples. And it felt good - Stiles wouldn’t deny that; he couldn’t, not to himself - but he wouldn’t let that show or give in to it. Pleasure was all well and good, but it needed to be shared, not wielding like a weapon to make someone else feel inferior. So Stiles stared at the ceiling, and counted his breaths, and thought about the time he’d stumbled across a rotting deer carcass while hiking in the Preserve as a teenager to help keep his body under control.

As Peter’s mouth moved down his belly, Stiles felt fingers tugging at his fly once more. He let them, because Peter could try whatever he wanted. Stiles wouldn’t stop him. He just wouldn’t react. He flicked his eyes to the timer - a mere 30 seconds left, ticking away one at a time - as Peter pulled his half-hard co*ck out of his boxers. And Peter’s hand felt good wrapped around him - strong and hot and confident - but that wasn’t enough. Not in the face of Stiles’ determination.

He glanced down at Peter and saw him looking at the timer as well; at the way it was ticking away their remaining time together. Peter’s eyes flashed red again and then he was ducking his head down, closing his lips around the tip of Stiles’ co*ck. And that felt better than good. It was hot and wet and perfect, honestly. Peter’s tongue was teasing at the slit, his cheeks hollowing as he worked to get Stiles’ fully hard. To make him beg.

If he’d had more time, Stiles thought maybe this would have worked. If Peter had gone right for this tactic - just pulled Stiles’ out of his pants and spent the full two minutes sucking him off - he might have caved. Because Peter was really f*cking good with his mouth and the sight of him with his lips stretched around Stiles’ co*ck was probably the hottest thing Stiles had ever seen. But he’d waited too long. He’d been too co*cky; too certain that Stiles would not only break, but break easy. And now...now he was out of time.

Or nearly, anyway.

Stiles flicked his eyes back to the timer. 5 seconds left. He looked back down at Peter. Met eyes that were no longer arrogant, but rather surprised. No, defeated. Because Stiles was going to win. He was going to win, and he’d be able to walk out of this office - this house - and never look back. Peter would never get to touch him again.

Stiles pulled in a trembling breath, then lifted his chin, face set in stubborn determination. His lips parted and, still looking Peter in the eye, whispered. “Please f*ck me.”

As the words slipped off his tongue, the timer beeped. Stiles grabbed his phone to silence it, then looked back down at Peter, who had lifted his head and was now staring at Stiles uneasily. Because Peter knew as well as Stiles did that he could have won. It hadn’t been Peter - or anything he’d done - that had pushed Stiles to say those words. This had been Stiles’ choice. Staying with Peter - fulfilling his month-long obligation to the alpha - was Stiles’ choice. Peter couldn’t take that from him, and Stiles had made damn sure he knew it.

Peter was only in control because Stiles allowed it.

For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then Stiles tucked his fingers under the waistband of both his jeans and boxers and started shimmying them down. He quirked an eyebrow at Peter. “Well? Are you going to f*ck me or not?”

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Peter had underestimated Stiles.

It chafed a bit, to realize, but it was true and Peter had never been one to shy away from hard truths. When the timer had reached the thirty second mark, Peter had known he was well and truly f*cked. That he had made a mistake. Because Stiles was going to win and Peter was going to lose. Not merely the stupid wager he’d put forth, but Stiles. That because he’d been so damn focused on maintaining his usual distance - despite the fact that everything with Stiles had been nowhere near usual - he’d pushed Stiles away. He had foolishly thought he could make Stiles succumb to desire, the way he always did with his lovers.

Except Stiles was unlike any lover Peter had ever had.

Victory had been within Stiles’ grasp. After his complaints about Peter’s coldness and the way he’d called out Peter’s attempts at remaining unaffected by Stiles and what they were doing, Peter couldn’t blame the younger man for his desire to be free of Peter. He shouldn’t have offered Stiles the chance for that escape. He shouldn’t have been so goddamn co*cky. Should have realized that Stiles had been exceeding his expectations every step of the way, so why would this be any different?

But he’d underestimated Stiles and that was going to cost him this. Whatever this was or could have been, if he hadn’t been so foolish. Whatever it had the potential to be. All of it, gone.

Except Stiles had met his eyes and, with stubborn determination, whispered. “Please f*ck me.”

It wasn’t begging. Not strictly speaking, anyway. There was no plea in Stiles’ tone, regardless of the words he’d chosen. But then, that was the point, wasn’t it? Stiles said the words in the heartbeat’s time before the timer had gone off, and it was a deliberate choice. Peter knew it as surely as he’d ever known anything. Because yes, Stiles’ co*ck had hardened in his mouth, but that was purely a response to physical stimulation. Stiles’ hole wasn’t leaking this time, the way he had the other times Peter had touched him. He didn’t smell cinnamon-hot, or liquid-slick around the edges. He wasn’t needy, or desperate, or anything.

Stiles could have won.

More than that, he should have won. All he’d have had to do was wait another half a second and he would have been able to pack his bags and walk out of Peter’s house - and his life - forever. It had been less than a day since Stiles had shown up and Peter hadn’t even gotten to f*ck him properly again, and if Stiles had just waited half a second longer, then he never would have. Stiles could have gone back to his job and his boyfriend, and never seen Peter again. It would have been over.

Instead, Stiles had lost.

More than that, Stiles had chosen to lose.

Stiles had looked at the situation - had sidled right up to the edge of leaving - and chosen to stay. There was no way to deny it. No spin Peter could put on this moment that made it his choice instead. Peter had won, but not through any skill or merit of his own. Peter had won because Stiles had wanted him to.

On one level - the level where Stiles was choosing to stay with Peter for the next month - it was flattering. It was gratifying, even. On another level, it was humbling. Peter had tried to assert his dominance - his authority, and power, and control - and Stiles had proven that he was the one in charge. Stiles was submitting to Peter - that was part of the choice he’d just made, after all - but he was submitting only as much as he wanted to in any given moment, and Peter would never be able to forget that again. And on a third level, the whole thing was deeply disconcerting.

Peter had never known anyone like Stiles. Someone who would willingly submit to Peter; cede control to him; hand that kind of power over themself to anyone, let alone someone as dangerous as Peter. But Stiles had. And it was one thing, for someone to offer him submission in exchange for something else. Because then Peter was taking it. It was payment, not a gift. This wasn’t that. Stiles had a way out. He could have cleared the debt. Everyone else Peter had ever had in this position - where they owed Peter and were making good on that - would have taken the opportunity and run.

Though, to be fair, everyone else Peter had ever had in this position would have given in. None of them would have lasted two minutes against Peter’s touch. None of them had that kind of strength; that kind of willpower. Stiles was unique in so many ways, and it was endlessly fascinating for Peter.

So when Stiles started shoving his jeans and boxers down his long legs, it felt a bit like a suckerpunch. Then one of those eyebrows came up like a challenge and Stiles asked snarkily. “Well? Are you going to f*ck me or not?” And Peter was struck with the startling certainty that if he wasn’t careful, Stiles would be his destruction.

For a brief moment, Peter debated telling Stiles to get out. Declaring Stiles the winner they both knew he was, releasing him from his debt, and sending him on his way. Because Peter knew now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Stiles was dangerous. The safe bet was to put distance between them.

Instead, Peter’s fingers curled around skin-warmed denim and the cotton-and-elastic waistband of Stiles’ boxers, yanking sharply to drag the clothing down and off, tossing it to the side before running his hands possessively up Stiles’ creamy thighs. The touch had the desired effect, coaxing Stiles to spread his legs. It gave Peter the space to step forward. To stand flush against the desk, where Stiles was laid out so enticingly. But of course, Stiles didn’t stop there. No, Stiles was determined to drive Peter out of his goddamn mind, so why would he stop there?

No, instead, Stiles drew his knees up and set his heels on the edge of Peter’s desk. The move settled his thighs even further apart, making Peter spare a moment to wonder just how flexible Stiles actually was. He’d have to test it at some point, obviously. But for the moment, he was preoccupied by other things. Like the sight of Stiles’ pretty pink hole, now in full view. Although...

Peter frowned, realizing that Stiles still wasn’t aroused. Not properly, anyway. He was hard - had been hard since the moment Peter took him into his mouth during that disastrous attempt at a challenge - but he wasn’t slick and open the way he had been the first time Peter had f*cked him. Or the way he had been last night, when Peter had licked him open at the edge of the bath. Stiles also didn’t smell like cinnamon, the way he should. The way Peter wanted him to.

The way Peter needed him to.

And that wasn’t going to do at all.

The funny thing was, Peter knew exactly what to do to correct the situation. He knew, because Stiles had told him, and then Peter had elected to pick a fight over it rather than just...complying. Filing the information away as an ace up his sleeve. Using it.

He did so now, instead, because he wasn’t actually stupid, even if he sometimes acted like it. So he leaned down over his desk, hips pressed tight to the hard edge of the wood, and kissed Stiles. It wasn’t even their first kiss, because Peter had kissed him the first day they’d met, before bending him over the massage table, and he’d kissed him the night before, when Stiles had joined him in the bath. Peter liked kissing, in a general sense, and he liked it especially well when it was Stiles he was kissing, so it had, honestly, been a particularly idiotic thing to fight with Stiles about. To pretend he didn’t enjoy, just to...

...just to what?

To prove that Peter was the one in control, not Stiles? Well, that had backfired quite spectacularly. And for what reason, even? Because Stiles had demanded that Peter put in a little bit of effort to get him in the mood - effort Peter would enjoy, at that - rather than just falling over himself for the privilege of panting after Peter like a bitch in heat? As if Peter wouldn’t have found Stiles utterly boring if he’d been as insipid as everyone else. As if fully half (if not more) of the reason Peter found Stiles so goddamn fascinating wasn’t because of his resistance; his defiance; his obstinance.

And, again, as if kissing Stiles were somehow a hardship, when it certainly wasn’t. Not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. The feel of Stiles’ mouth against Peter’s was nothing short of delightful.

The whole thing was a bit of a kick in the teeth from himself, because it had caused a problem he hadn’t had just a short while ago. Now, because Peter had decided to act like an ass for no reason except stubborn pride, he’d gotten himself into a situation where Stiles held the upper hand. Regardless of their agreement - regardless of the way Stiles had promised Peter near-absolute submission - Stiles had managed to turn the tables on Peter and assert himself as an equal player in this game.

And f*cking hell, if Peter was screwed either way - if Stiles was going to be his downfall no matter how this all played out - Peter figured he ought to at least make it as pleasurable as possible in the meantime.

For both of them.

So he kissed Stiles. Kissed him hard, and fierce, and demanding. Curled the fingers of one hand around the front of Stiles’ throat, just under his chin, so he could press his thumb hard against the hinge of Stiles’ jaw. And Stiles’ mouth softened against him, going slack. Opening for Peter so perfectly. Peter licked past Stiles’ teeth the second he had access, forgoing things like restraint and control in favor of making a mess of the young man spread so obscenely across his desk.

The kiss wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t neat or skillful or anything close to nice. Instead, Peter made it deep and wet, in a way that was filthy-hot. Used his tongue to feed Stiles his spit, savoring the slick sounds their mouths made as everything got slippery. As saliva leaked from the corners of Stiles’ mouth, dripping down until Peter could feel it on his own skin where his hand was still snugged up against Stiles’ throat. Peter relished the feel of it as Stiles swallowed - wetly, so wetly - against his palm, taking absolutely everything Peter was giving him, without complaint or reservation.

When Peter lifted his head, possessiveness crashed over him like a wave. It left him feeling hot and flushed and he knew his eyes were burning red but he didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Not when Stiles was staring up at him, eyes glassy and dazed, lips parted as he panted. Petal-pink lips darkened by Peter’s own, kiss-bruised and swollen, glossy with a mixture of their saliva. The skin around his mouth was wet as well, down his chin and his cheeks, all the way to where Peter’s hand was still curled around the front of his throat. All of it glistening wetly with Peter’s spit, a visceral claim that made Peter want to throw back his head and howl.

And now Stiles smelled the way he was supposed to. Thick and syrupy-sweet, like warm honey, but dusted over with cinnamon-heat and that liquid edge that told Peter that Stiles was slick again. Just the way Peter wanted him to be.

Peter leaned in again, dragging his tongue through the spit-slick mess he’d made of Stiles’ face and neck. He lapped the worst of it all up, gathering it into his mouth before crashing their lips together again. Feeding it all back into Stiles’ mouth. Making Stiles swallow it all down; swallow more of Peter down.

And Christ, but Peter wanted to wreck Stiles. Wanted to leave the younger man an absolute mess when they were done. Wanted to lick the salt-sharp sting of tears from those flushed cheeks, then kiss Stiles with it still clinging to his tongue. Wanted to feed Stiles not just his spit, but also their come - the both of theirs, separately or together, he honestly didn’t care - as well as the slick Stiles produced. Wanted to coat his fingers in all of it and press them between those pretty lips, one after another, for Stiles to lick clean. Peter wanted to feed it all to him - make Stiles swallow it all down - then lick the taste back out of Stiles’ mouth.

Peter wanted to, but he knew he didn’t have the time. Not right now. Not here in his office, when anyone could come knocking and he had meetings scheduled and work to do. So until he could do all the rest of it - every depraved thing he had planned for Stiles - this would have to suffice. For today, it would be enough.

So he kissed Stiles until he was satisfied. Until he was sure he’d pooled enough spit into Stiles’ mouth - down his throat - to satisfy the wolf pacing beneath his skin. Then, Peter kissed him some more.

Stiles wasn’t idle beneath him, either. As Peter devoured that sweet mouth again and again, Stiles’ hands came up to clutch at Peter’s shirt. Slender fingers slid under white cotton, stroking tantalizingly over the part of Peter’s chest he could reach. And then Stiles was tipping his chin up, offering his mouth more fully to Peter’s demanding tongue, even as his fingers nimbly undid the buttons of Peter’s shirt. Once he had it open, Stiles carded his fingers through the dense curls covering Peter’s chest, tugging lightly. When Peter growled into Stiles’ mouth, Stiles let his thumbs glide teasingly over Peter’s nipples, seemingly determined to work him into a frenzy.

And that was fine then, wasn’t it? If Stiles wanted him wild, Peter would deliver. He let his own hand drop down between their bodies, undoing his belt and then yanking sharply at the fly of his pants. It didn’t take long for him to shift his clothing out of the way enough to pull his co*ck out. Took even less time to line himself up with Stiles’ slick hole, set as it was at the perfect height, just on the edge of Peter’s desk.

Peter pressed the head of his co*ck against that wet heat and, before Stiles could do more than pull in a shuddering breath, he slid forward. Stiles’ head dropped back, breaking their kiss so Stiles could pant out a quiet expletive even as his hands slid up, under the edge of Peter’s shirt, until they were hooked over Peter’s shoulders. Stiles’ nails bit sharply into the skin there as he cried out and clung to Peter, arching up into that first delicious thrust, hard and fast so he was fully seated before Stiles had a chance to brace himself.

Then there was slick, tight heat encasing Peter’s co*ck, and it was even better than he remembered from that first time when he’d taken Stiles over the massage table. Better, because he could look down at that gorgeous face, and those wide doe eyes that had gone golden, honeyed with desire. And Stiles was panting beneath him, pulling in shuddering breaths as Peter promptly started a punishing rhythm.

There was no gentleness here. Nothing light or easy. There was no slow slide into pleasure. Instead, this was quick and greedy. It was hard, and demanding. Peter was f*cking into Stiles so forcefully he was driving Stiles’ body across the desk with every thrust, so he pinned Stiles’ body in place with a bruising grip - one hand on Stiles’ shoulder, the other on his hip - to keep him from sliding further each time Peter f*cked back into him.

Stiles was crying out with every thrust and Peter might have been worried - might have wondered if Stiles’ cries were ones of pain - if not for the way Stiles wound his legs around Peter’s waist. He arched up into every demanding press of Peter’s hips, egging Peter on. Stiles’ bruised, spit-slick lips parted around words. Around pleas, because now Stiles really was begging.

‘More, I need more!’ and ‘Harder, f*ck me harder!’ and ‘Right there, f*ck...Peter, just like that...yes, please, don’t stop!’ dripped off of Stiles’ tongue like honey, sweet and dark and oh-so pleasing.

Peter, of course, obliged. Gave Stiles everything he asked for, just the way he wanted it. Wrung gasps and moans and pretty, keening whines from that slender throat.

Soon enough, Stiles was spilling sticky-wet heat all over his own stomach even as his body clamped down on Peter’s co*ck like a velvet vice. Stiles reared up, demanding fingers still clutching at Peter’s shoulders and shoving his shirt out of the way so that he could latch his mouth onto Peter’s shoulder, almost at his collarbone. It was just far enough away from Peter’s throat to not set off his wolf. For him to allow it.

And then, a heartbeat later, there was more than just Stiles’ damp lips pressed to that skin. There were teeth, human-blunt but with an aching pressure behind them as Stiles bit down, that seared its way along Peter’s nerves like a dozen or more burning points of pain.

Peter roared as Stiles’ teeth sinking into his skin - combined with the way Stiles’ body was still clinging to his co*ck in rhythmic little pulses - tipped him over the edge as well. He spilled himself inside of Stiles’ body, curling himself forward over the trembling young man and the desk beneath him. Peter’s forehead rested in the center of Stiles’ chest, panting as he caught his breath, every hot puff of air making Stiles shiver as it hit his oversensitive skin. He could hear Stiles’ racing heart as it began to slow; to steady itself. It was almost hypnotic to listen to.

It took several long minutes for both of them to settle. For their hearts to slow to a resting rhythm. For their breaths to even out. For them to stop shuddering and twitching with little aftershocks of pleasure. When he finally felt steady again, Peter straightened up and took three steps back. His co*ck slid out of Stiles with an obscene sound that sent color pooling to Stiles’ cheeks and had embarrassment flooding his scent. Peter’s lips twitched up at the corner in amusem*nt, though he didn’t laugh. Wasn’t sure he could laugh, given everything that had just gone down between them.

The sex had, of course, been phenomenal.

It was everything else that left Peter feeling uneasy even as he tucked himself away. He did up his pants, then hastily rebuttoned his shirt before sinking back into his chair. Stiles had sat up on the desk and was now slowly easing himself to standing, wincing a little as he did so. No doubt he was sore, giving how hard Peter had f*cked him. Or maybe it was Stiles’ hip that was bothering him, where Peter could see the skin was red and inflamed in the shape of his hand. Where there would be absolutely livid bruising by nightfall, Peter was sure of it. That sent a wicked curl of pleasure up Peter’s spine and he did his best not to smirk.

Instead, he watched silently as Stiles slid his boxers on, followed by his jeans. He scowled at the tattered shreds of his graphic tee, shooting Peter a frosty look but saying nothing. Instead, he turned and headed for the door, not even waiting for Peter to dismiss him.

Peter waited until Stiles’ hand was on the doorknob to speak.

“I don’t like the way you dress.”

Stiles shot him an annoyed look over his shoulder, fingers still curled around the knob but not yet twisting it. “So you mentioned. Twice. What’s your point?”

“I’ve arranged for a personal stylist to assist you. She’ll be here some time this afternoon. Ethan will let you know when she arrives. She’ll be able to direct you to more suitable options for the duration of your stay.” Peter couldn’t help smiling a little as he added. “You’re to tell her that you require an entire wardrobe, Stiles. Evening wear, swimwear, casual wear...the works.”

Stiles sighed, but inclined his head slightly, muttering. “Yes, alpha.” It sounded so damn begrudging that Peter had to bite back laughter.

Instead, Peter hummed softly, adding. “Oh, and Stiles? Tell her you’ll need something nice for tonight. I’ll be taking you out to dinner.”

Stiles said nothing, though Peter watched as his fingers tightened on the doorknob for a moment before he finally twisted it and slipped out, disappearing into the hallway.

Peter let him go, turning instead to look out the window at the gardens. The estate had a vast amount of property, especially considering they were in the city. The gardens were intricate, divided into sections that focused on different types of plants or themes. He had a small hedge maze, the novelty of it pleasing to him even if there was little purpose to the thing. There was even an entire section that was functionally a small forest, which appealed to the wolf in Peter.

The part outside the windows of Peter’s office was actually one of his favorites. There were rocks - white, rounded, polished to a gleam - that spilled across this section of the garden in a reckless tumble through the flowers and shrubbery. It was a bit like a waterless waterfall. Peter had always found it soothing to let his eyes trace the way the stones seemed to flow smoothly, despite never moving. There was a tranquility there; a peace of mind, if one only knew how to look for it.

It helped Peter put his wildly careening thoughts into some semblance of order.

He needed to deal with Stiles and that whole tangled mess, that much was certain. Needed to find some way to regain the upper hand. Some way to settle Stiles neatly into his allotted place in Peter’s well-ordered life. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by sex, no matter how good it was. Couldn’t afford to lose himself in Stiles, no matter how briefly. He had responsibilities. People who counted on him, for protection and order.

Stiles didn’t fit into Peter’s life. Not in any way that wasn’t surface-level and temporary. Peter needed to remember that. He had never been one for emotional entanglements and he wasn’t about to start now, at the age of thirty-five. Stiles’ obstinate defiance was intriguing, but the novelty of it would wear off and then Peter would be left with a willful, disobedient brat on his hands. He didn’t have the kind of patience necessary to deal with that sort of behavior. Didn’t have the temperament for it, honestly.

When Peter gave an order, he expected it to be obeyed without question.

Which reminded Peter...he also needed to deal with his damned nephew.

The fact that Derek had failed to bring Stiles to him - despite orders from both Stiles and Peter to do so - was a serious f*cking problem. Peter demanded obedience from all of his betas, something he considered perfectly reasonable given all he offered them in return. He expected perfect obedience from his heir. As important as it was that his betas do as instructed, it was doubly important that Derek do so. There was no room for doubt or uncertainty; not about this.

Peter needed to be able to trust that Derek would follow his orders without question, no matter the situation. He had thought they had that level of trust, in fact. If you’d asked Peter an hour ago, he would have said there was no order he could give that Derek wouldn’t follow. Except it was clear now, in the wake of last night, that that wasn’t the case. So Peter was going to have to figure out why.

Though, honestly, he had a theory.

So Peter would sit Derek down soon to sort the issue out - there was no point in leaving something like this any longer than absolutely necessary - but first, he would watch. Just for a few days, mind you. Just long enough to see if his suspicions were correct.

Then, he would handle it.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Stiles stripped out of his plaid overshirt and ruined tee, then flopped back onto his temporary bed, staring up at the ceiling. Peter was...complicated. He was dangerous, for one thing, but Stiles wasn’t afraid of him. Was confident, in fact, that Peter would never hurt him. At least not physically. Brushing his fingers lightly over the throbbing area on his hip, Stiles amended the thought.

‘Not with malicious intent.’

Peter might leave him scratched or bruised, maybe even bleeding a little, but it would never be in a way that Stiles didn’t enjoy. It would never be in a way designed to genuinely damage him. And it was strange, that Stiles was so certain of that so quickly, but he was. Peter was a dangerous man, but Stiles was safe with him. In truth, he thought he was probably safer with Peter than he had ever been in his life. Peter was the sort of man who protected what was his and - at least for now - that included Stiles.

His phone started buzzing and Stiles fished it out of his pocket with a sigh, though a small smile curved his lips when he saw it was Danny calling. Swiping to answer it, Stiles flicked the speakerphone on and hummed softly in greeting, offering around a yawn. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Not dead yet?” Danny’s voice filtered through the phone’s speaker, making Stiles snort. “That’s good. You all settled into the mansion?”

“I guess.” Stiles muttered, flicking his eyes to where his suitcase was laying - open - on the weird little backless chair stool thing with its little arms and decoratively curved wooden legs, snugged up against the bottom of the bed. He hadn’t bothered unpacking yet, having just rooted through the thing for something to throw on this morning.

“Meaning you’re not unpacked and you’re going to look like a wrinkled mess.” Danny chided, because after living together for three years, his best friend knew him, okay.

Stiles shrugged, despite the fact that Danny couldn’t see it, and changed the subject. “So how have you been since I’ve been gone?”

“It’s been like sixteen hours and I was asleep for half of them.” Danny’s laughter was still bright enough to make Stiles smile for real, even through the phone. “Have you seen Ethan since you got there?”

“Yeah, he gave me a tour this morning. This house is even bigger than it looks from the outside and that’s really saying something.” Rolling onto his stomach, Stiles’ mind suddenly went to the music room and the piano that apparently no one played. “There’s some weird sh*t going on here, too.”

“They are werewolves.”

“Yeah and I’m descended from witches.” Stiles couldn’t resist snarking. “I don’t mean magic-weird. I’m obviously used to that sh*t. I mean like weird-weird. Like, there’s this gorgeous piano that no one plays.”

There was a pause, then Danny snorted. “Dude, lots of rich people have sh*t in their houses that they never use. It’s to show off just how much f*cking money they have. That’s not weird.”

And Stiles wanted to argue - wanted to cite the strange way Ethan had responded to Stiles’ questions about the piano as evidence - but Danny had launched into some of the batsh*t stuff he’d seen in clients’ houses over the years and it just didn’t feel like the right time. So he listened to Danny talk about swords, and suits of armor, and vintage cars that no one drove. It didn’t feel like the same thing, but Stiles made snarky little comments and laughed in all the right places, because it was what Danny expected and Stiles didn’t know how to explain the way everything felt strange and tense.

Stiles trusted that Peter wouldn’t hurt him, but things weren’t right in this house and Stiles had never been very good at leaving well enough alone. And one thing he’d learned over the years was that poking at sh*t that seemed off was a good way to get yourself into trouble. That wasn’t going to stop him, of course, but Stiles figured it was good he was walking into sh*t with his eyes open, anyway.

When the intercom on the wall buzzed, Danny made a questioning sound. “What was that?”

“Intercom. Hang on...” Stiles clambered off the bed, carrying his phone with him as he crossed to the door and hit the button. “Stiles’ room. What’s up?”

There was a brief pause, then Derek’s voice crackled through. “Lunch will be served in the dining room at one, and your stylist will be here at two. You’ll meet her in the blue drawing room. She has a temper so don’t keep her waiting.”

Stiles snorted, but hit the button to reply. “Yeah, fine. Oh, and Derek?” Stiles paused for a few seconds - dramatic effect and all that - then continued darkly. “We are going to talk about the fact that you didn’t do what I asked last night. I’m not happy.”

“Whatever, Stiles.” Derek sounded tired and snappish. “Next time I’ll just dump your unconscious body at my uncle’s feet and leave you to his merciless nature.”

“I don’t need you to protect me from the very thing I agreed to.” Stiles snapped back, then huffed angrily. “You know what? I’m in the middle of a phone call so we’re not doing this right now, especially not over a goddamn intercom. But this conversation isn’t over. Understood?”

“Fine.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles stalked back to the bed, already apologizing as he flopped onto his back, setting the phone in the middle of his chest so he could talk with his hands without fear of accidentally flinging it across the damn room, as he’d been known to do. “Sorry, man. Obviously there have been a couple of little wrinkles since I got here.”

“Clearly.” Danny sounded amused but also a little worried and Stiles almost wished he hadn’t had Danny on speaker, or that he’d left the phone on the bed when he answered the intercom. “What did Derek mean about you being unconscious?”

“I just got a little drunk last night.” Stiles said dismissively. He didn’t drink often, but this was hardly his first rodeo and it wasn’t a big deal. “I was supposed to have a meeting with Peter and when I realized I was going to pass out, I asked Derek to just deliver me to his office. I figured Peter’s annoyance would be offset by his amusem*nt over being brought my unconscious body - his sense of humor seems a lot like mine - and then he’d have just dumped my ass into the nearest bed, assuming he didn’t just leave me passed out on the floor of his office. But like, no harm, no foul, right?”

“But Derek didn’t bring you to Peter.”

“Exactly.” Stiles said, clicking his tongue in annoyance while gesturing with both hands. “So this morning Peter started to chew me out over missing our meeting and I had to deal with that sh*t. Which I wouldn’t have, if Derek had just done what I asked. And he’s supposed to. They all are. You know, so long as I’m not asking them to do anything that goes against a direct order from Peter.”

“Weird.” Danny offered, and Stiles agreed but didn’t comment on it. He wasn’t in the mood to talk about whatever-the-f*ck bug had crawled up Derek’s ass. Seeming to sense his mood, Danny changed the subject. “Did I hear something about a stylist?”

“Ugggh.” Stiles groaned, though it was at least partly for show. “Yeah. Apparently Peter hates my clothes so he arranged for someone to come and, like, dress me or whatever. I don’t know.”

“...do you get to keep the clothes at the end of the month?”

Stiles frowned, considering. “I don’t know. Probably? I mean, if they’re tailored to fit me, it’s not like he’s going to be able to do anything with them. Why?”

“Just...if you get to keep them, make sure you get sexy stuff.” Danny’s laughter filtered through the phone and Stiles couldn’t help joining in. “You don’t own nearly enough, like, hot date clothes. Might as well fill out your wardrobe while someone else is footing the bill.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles huffed out another laugh, then asked teasingly. “Want me to try to sneak some stuff in your size onto the bill? Get you something pretty for Christmas...”

“Hell yeah.” Danny agreed, just as enthusiastic as Stiles had known he would be. “I want a cashmere sweater. Not that cheap blended sh*t, either. I want the real, name-brand crap. A hundred percent or whatever.”

“Yeah, alright.” Stiles snorted, rolling his eyes again. He didn’t know if he’d be able to swing that, but he wouldn’t know unless he tried. It was worth a shot, anyway. “I’ll see what I can do.”

As Danny launched into a tangent about work and how rich people were some of the worst f*cking tippers, Stiles closed his eyes and let the soothing familiarity of talking to his best friend wash over him.

~*~*~*~

Stiles ate his lunch - roast duck and a whole host of sides, which felt like way too much for lunch anyway - in the dining room, but made it a point to stick his head into the kitchen to inform Marin that he would not be doing that again going forward. She tried to argue, but Stiles pointed out that if Peter wasn’t eating with him, there was no reason to stand on formality. He would eat in the kitchen, and he’d eat normal people lunch sh*t, like sandwiches or a salad or a wrap. Maybe some soup, if he was feeling inclined. But not the massive meal she’d laid out for him. If she tried to ignore his wishes and continued to lay out fancy lunches in the dining room, Stiles warned her that he would simply come into the kitchen and make his own food anyway so it was better not to waste the time or effort she’d be expending pointlessly.

Marin had shaken her head, seeming baffled by his decision, but she hadn’t argued so Stiles was going to count it as a win. And it wasn’t that the food hadn’t been delicious, because it was. It was just also very heavy and there was a lot of it, and Stiles was eating it by himself. Which wasn’t going to work at all, because Stiles didn’t have the metabolism of a shifter. Unless Stiles wanted to gain a bunch of weight - or triple his casual workout routine - he needed to eat the way he always had. He was fully prepared to argue the point with Peter, if he had to, though he wasn’t convinced the man would actually notice his eating habits. Or that Peter would care, even if he did realize Stiles wasn’t taking huge meals in the breakfast or dining rooms.

But if he did, Stiles was ready for it.

In the meantime, he was sitting in the blue drawing room, waiting for the stylist to show up. When she did - at two o’clock on the dot - Stiles liked her immediately. Her dark hair fell in loose curling waves past her shoulders, but only on the left side. The right side - to about two inches from where her center part would be, if she didn’t have the rest of her hair pushed to the left - she had shaved it down to a buzzcut. The ear Stiles could see was heavily pierced. Not just the lobe or even the cartilage either, though there were multiple pieces of jewelry there as well. She also had a tragus piercing, and a daith. Her eyebrow was pierced as well, as was her tongue and the left side of her nose.

She was wearing a pair of knee-high stiletto boots in what looked like leather, and her legs were encased in fishnet stockings. She also had what looked like some sort of chainmail thing peeking out from under the very short hot-pink leather skirt she was wearing. The chains came down from under the bottom of the skirt and wrapped around her thighs...and also peeked out above the skirt, circling her just above her narrow hips like a belt. There was a little metal heart at the center of it all, just below her navel. And most of her torso was bare. Actually, most of her chest was bare, too.

Her shirt - if Stiles was being generous enough to call it that, given it hardly covered any of what a shirt typically covered - was black, a stark contrast to her lightly tanned skin. It had off-the-shoulder puff sleeves that went down past her elbows. It was a halter-top of sorts, cut so low between her breasts that there was only about two inches of fabric, right at the bottom of her sternum, before the shirt ended altogether. She was a willowy thing - nearly as tall as Stiles even without the heels - and whip-thin, but she curved very nicely and there was no denying she knew it, given how on display everything was. A black leather choker complete with silver O-ring circled her slim throat, and a black leather bracelet wrapped in thick chain links circled her left wrist. Both the collar and her skirt were studded with little silver eyelets that served as accents.

The whole effect - especially when paired with her smokey eye makeup and the dark lipstick she had slicking her full, sensual mouth - was badass. She wouldn’t have looked out of place at a rock concert, either in the audience or onstage, honestly. She was stunningly beautiful, in a dangerous sort of way. Stiles sort of felt like she might step on his balls if he got out of line...and he might be inclined to thank her if she did. That was just the sort of vibe she was giving off.

Stiles’ first thought - after taking in her overall appearance - was that it was a little odd she hadn’t been walked into the room by anyone. She seemed young to be in charge of Peter’s wardrobe - his own age, probably - but then, Stiles couldn’t imagine why Peter would’ve gotten him a stylist he didn’t trust, so maybe she was. It would explain her familiarity with the house, at least.

Still, politeness was a must so he drummed up a smile. “Hi, I’m Stiles. You must be the stylist Peter sent for. I’m sorry, no one mentioned your name...”

“It’s Cora. Cora Hale.” She grinned at him, her brown eyes flashing golden for a brief moment before she added teasingly. “And I know exactly who you are, Stiles. My brother told me all about you and why you’re here.”

“Oh.” Stiles swallowed hard, but did his best to keep the smile on his face. “Well, that’s...not awkward at all. One more thing to yell at Derek about, I guess.”

Cora laughed brightly, tipping her head to the side as she studied him. “Has he already pissed you off? Not surprising, I guess. Der-bear’s never been much of a people person.” She gestured to herself, then asked. “Did anyone bother explaining how this process works?”

“Uh...no.” Stiles admitted, shrugging. “Peter just said to tell you that he wants me to have a whole wardrobe. Like, everything from casual to formal stuff. Just...everything. Even swimwear.”

Cora hummed, gesturing for Stiles to stand. “Okay. That’s not surprising. Uncle Peter has some exacting standards for his companions.” She tugged him into the middle of the floor, then started circling him with a critical eye. “I can see why he likes you. It’ll be fun, getting to dress you up. Half my clients, it’s all about trying to flatter them but with you...it’s all about pleasing Uncle Peter, isn’t it? And I know what my uncle likes.”

She grabbed up a measuring tape from the bag she’d dropped on a chair when she walked in and started posing Stiles like a doll, still talking even as she measured. “So basically, I’m gonna take your measurements and then run around to a bunch of stores and designers and sh*t. I’ll pick out a ton of stuff - like, way more than you need, honestly - and I’ll bring it back to the house. You try it on, we see what sticks, and that’s the stuff you keep. I bill only for the stuff you keep - plus my time - but that’s all going to Uncle Peter, of course, so don’t worry about it.”

“Peter said he’s taking me out tonight.” Stiles blurted that out, wanting to make sure he didn’t forget to tell Cora so she could have something ready in time. “To dinner. I don’t know where, but you can ask. Or I can. Whatever’s easier.”

Cora nodded, still measuring, pausing only to input everything into her phone as she worked. “That’s fine. It won’t take me long to get something ready for tonight. I’ll bring everything else by...oh, either tomorrow or the next day, depending on how fast I find what I’m looking for.”

She stepped back, snapping a couple of quick photos, adding. “Sorry, I need a color-reference, for like...skin-tone and hair and eye color.”

“It’s fine.” Stiles sank back down onto the sofa when Cora gestured for him to do so, asking. “How’d you get into this, anyway? Being a personal stylist, I mean.”

“Went to school for fashion design.” Cora waved dismissively when Stiles opened his mouth, looking impressed, and continued. “No, don’t start talking about dream jobs or whatever. People always do that and it’s not the case with me. I mean, I like this, but...”

She shrugged. “Honestly, it was an objectively worthless choice, given my family. I ought to have gone for business, or law. But that’s why I picked it, because if I’m valuable to my mother, I’ll be dragged back home to California, which I don’t want. I like New York and I’d rather stay here. Uncle Peter couldn’t care less what I got a degree in, so.”

“Oh.” Stiles wasn’t sure what to say to that, honestly. But her mention of California was interesting. “Your mother is...” He trailed off, not sure how to fish for the information he wanted; trying to understand how these Hales were related to the ones in LA.

“Her name is Talia.” Cora said it easily, like it was nothing. “She’s...like Uncle Peter, sort of. Not really, though, because she was raised for it since she’s older than him, while my uncle just-” Cora cut herself off, shaking her head. “Not important. Anyway, yeah. Mom is an Alpha the same way Uncle Peter is an Alpha. And my sister Laura - that’s Derek’s twin - is her heir, the same way Derek is Uncle Peter’s heir. And I’m just...nobody. A spare kid the dynasty doesn’t need, so I get the esteemed privilege of being married off for an alliance.”

Talia Hale. The Alpha Wolf of Los Angeles. That was Cora’s mother. And Derek’s. And, based on what Cora had just let slip, Peter’s older sister. He’d thought maybe the East and West coast Hales were, like, distant cousins or some sh*t, not siblings. And their respective heirs were twins.

‘Talk about a f*cking empire,’ Stiles thought, unable to hold back a shiver. The whole thing was more than a little terrifying, actually.

Still, his heart ached for Cora, who was clearly trying her best to figure out where she fit into her family. Trying to cheer her up a bit, since she’d gotten somber at the end of her little rant, he offered. “I hear arranged marriages take a while, so at least you’ve got that going for you.”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” Cora rolled her eyes, huffing as she perched on the coffee table in front of where Stiles was sitting. “But no, in order to keep me here in New York - away from Mom - Uncle Peter had to put things in motion before I graduated. So I’ve got a fiance who I don’t really see at all and barely know.”

She closed her teeth around the shaft of her tongue stud, just under the ball, letting out a sharp hiss of breath before releasing it and muttering. “I sort of keep hoping that he’ll decide I’m not suitable, since I don’t look like all the other proper daughters from the big werewolf families, but Ian doesn’t seem interested enough to care what I look like or how I dress, so it hasn’t worked so far.”

She raked a hand through the long part of her hair, then shot Stiles a narrow-eyed look. “Are you fey?”

“Uh...no?” Stiles was a little taken aback by the abrupt shift in conversation, but he answered anyway. “Why would you think I am?”

“I don’t generally babble like that.” Cora explained, gesturing a little absently as she added. “Could be because you smell like Uncle Peter, I suppose, but I’ve been around his companions before and I’ve never let my guard down. There’s just...something about you. You sure you don’t have magic?”

“Never said I didn’t have magic.” Stiles admitted, laughing when Cora blinked wide eyes at him, lips parting in surprise. “My maternal line is all witches, going back...well, I don’t even know how far, honestly. A few hundred years, at least. But I’m not doing anything to you, I promise. I don’t use my magic very much.”

“Hmmm. Weird.” Cora tipped her head again, then shrugged. “Well, whatever. It’s not like there’s a lot you can do with what I told you. And if you’re going to be spending the next month with Uncle Peter, odds are you’ll find out way more sh*t along the way. He had you sign an NDA?”

Stiles nodded and she hummed again. “I thought so. He’s usually on top of things.” Cora glanced at her phone, then sighed. “Alright, well. I’m gonna go pester my brother for the information on where you’re going and at what time for dinner tonight and I’ll get you something suitable as quickly as possible.” She wiggled her phone, adding. “I have your number from Uncle Peter, so I’ll text you if I have any other questions.”

She was out of the room again before Stiles even had a chance to say goodbye, and he was left feeling a little like he’d just met a whirlwind in human form. It was a novel experience, for sure. Shaking his head, Stiles figured he might as well go and try to get some more work done since he had nowhere to be until dinner.

~*~*~*~

Stiles wasn’t sure how he felt about Cora’s choice for dinner, but he wasn’t about to fight. It wasn’t like he had another option at the moment, anyway. He didn’t own a full suit, so it was this or something that probably wouldn’t work for wherever Peter was taking him for dinner. So he slipped on the steel blue dress shirt, following the directions on the little note that had been pinned to the garment bag when it was delivered about leaving the top two buttons undone. He knew enough about werewolves to understand that Cora was trying to bare his throat; put it on display, as it were. Stiles didn’t mind; had been told by a few werewolves in college that his throat was quite appealing to them, so he’d halfway expected this at some point.

Stiles skimmed the slacks up his legs, marveling a little at the vibrant cardinal red of it. They fit him beautifully, hugging his ass and settling perfectly on his hips, and clinging to his slender thighs just enough to be enticing without being uncomfortable. A black leather belt slid through the loops, clearly more of an accessory than something functional since the slacks were so perfectly tailored to him. He pulled on the waistcoat next, a little amused by it. He’d never worn a waistcoat before. Though as he studied himself in the full length mirror hanging inside the armoire before he pulled on the jacket, he had to admit that it did a good job of accentuating his waist. It looked good. He looked good.

He slid into the new dress shoes Cora had sent over, then grabbed the brilliant red suit jacket. After a brief hesitation, Stiles shrugged and decided he’d put the jacket on when they were actually leaving the house and headed downstairs.

Ethan was in the entrance hall, and smiled brightly at him. “Hey there, Little Red. Cora’s got one hell of a sense of humor, doesn’t she?”

And Stiles had to huff out a laugh at that, because he hadn’t even thought about the connotation of the color choices because red was one of his best colors. He resisted the urge to run a hand through his hair, because he’d spiked it up so it looked all artfully tousled and he didn’t want to mess it up. “She’s something else, that’s for damn sure. I like her, though.” He glanced around, then asked. “Where’s Peter?”

Ethan hummed, shrugging one shoulder. “You’re running a little early, actually, so he’s not down here yet. You can wait in the White Room, though. It shouldn’t be long.”

Stiles shrugged, but wandered into the correct little living room - a parlor, maybe? - to wait. He wandered over to the stereo cabinet, fussing with things until classical music was trickling softly out of the speakers to fill the air around him. It wasn’t his favorite thing to listen to, but it was better than silence, especially in a room as stuffy and formal as the White Room. He was honestly a little uneasy about the idea of sitting on any of the pristine furniture, lest he scuff something.

A sound from behind Stiles had him turning, taking in the man who had just entered. Stiles didn’t recognize him, though he hadn’t met many of Peter’s staff yet so that wasn’t surprising. The guy was attractive, in a very wholesome sort of way. Brown hair with hints of red was cut short and neat. Big green eyes sat in a face that, combined with his athletic build, put Stiles in mind of Captain America. Clean-cut. All-American. Like he could model for Abercrombie and Fitch if he wanted to. But there was something about the way he was standing - having stopped only a few feet into the room - that was tickling at Stiles’ brain. One leg slightly back; hips turned a bit, right hand not-quite at his right hip, but almost. He was wearing a grey suit - nothing expensive, but nice enough and it fit him well - and he looked uneasy at seeing Stiles.

“I was looking for the Alpha.” His voice was soft; polite. Not smooth and cultured like Peter’s, but pleasant. “Aiden directed me in here...”

“It’s fine.” Stiles offered with a slight smile. “I’m waiting for him, too. You can wait with me, if you want.”

The man nodded, taking another half-step closer to Stiles, studying him intently. “You’re the Alpha’s new...” He hesitated for a long moment, and there was something in the pause that felt weighted; like every possible word the guy was considering was insulting and he was searching for one that wasn’t.

Finally, he settled on the same one Cora had used earlier. “Companion.”

Stiles opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by a threatening snarl from the doorway. He turned to see Peter standing there, fangs bared and eyes burning red. When he spoke, the words came out sharp and angry. “What are you doing here, Jordan?”

Jordan - apparently - turned to face Peter, hands held up peaceably and his head tipped a little one side, a deferential baring of his throat. “Aiden told me to wait in here.”

Peter snapped his fangs at the man, an unspoken threat. “The next time you walk into a room and see him-” Peter gestured to Stiles before continuing. “You turn around and you f*cking leave. Do I make myself clear?”

“Of course. Sorry.” Jordan said the words with the right tone - soft and obsequious - but there was something about the set of his shoulders and the tightness of his jaw that told Stiles he didn’t mean it.

And despite the way something about Jordan was still niggling at him, he wasn’t about to let the guy - or Aiden, who was Ethan’s twin brother - take the brunt of Peter’s temper when he’d played a part in whatever the hell this fiasco was. “Hey, it was my fault. He said he was looking for you so I told him he could wait with me.”

Peter rounded on Stiles, fangs tucked away now but eyes still as red as Stiles’ suit. “No one gave you permission to speak, Stiles. Do yourself a favor and shut up.”

And hell f*cking no. Stiles bristled up at that instantly. “I don’t need permission to speak, asshole.”

Peter snarled again, this time at Stiles, though there were still no fangs. Just those burning red eyes, and a dark anger twisting his handsome features into something almost frightening. “Yes, you f*cking do.”

“It wasn’t his fault, Alpha.” Jordan broke in, taking a half-step closer to Stiles and angling his body in a way that was almost protective; as if he was putting himself between Stiles and Peter. And f*ck, Stiles realized why Jordan’s body language had been bugging him now. The guy was a cop. “I’m the one who came in here-”

“You were told to come in here.” Stiles cut in sharply, because he didn’t like this situation anymore. Not at all. “And so was I. And, again, I’m the one who said you could stay.” He shot Peter a cold look. “If you want your orders followed, Alpha-” And there was nothing deferential at all about the way Stiles spat the honorific. “Then you need to make sure your orders are clearly communicated to all of your staff so sh*t like this doesn’t happen. Snarling at us doesn’t fix sh*t, because we didn’t cause the damn problem in the first place.”

Peter stalked past Jordan until he was less than a foot away from Stiles, glaring heatedly. He clearly didn’t appreciate Stiles’ attitude, but Stiles didn’t care. Peter wouldn’t hit him, that much Stiles was certain of, but there was a possibility that he might take a swing - or a swipe, claws and all - at Jordan, just to make a point. Jordan was insisting it had been his fault and that it wouldn’t happen again, but Peter ignored him.

All of his focus was on Stiles, voice a low rumble. “You will learn your place, Stiles. And you will never, ever speak to me like that again.”

Stiles stepped back, his chin coming up in defiance. His hands curled into fists at his sides and he was literally shaking with anger. Stiles took a measured breath even as Jordan muttered about coming back tomorrow and rushed from the room. Then Stiles took another one, because he knew if he didn’t get control of his temper, his magic was going to come to the surface and lash out. Since Stiles still wasn’t keen on tipping Peter off to just how much power he had at his disposal, he really didn’t want that to happen. But f*cking hell, he wasn’t some dog Peter could order around and he wasn’t a pretty doll who would only speak when his string was pulled.

Temper still sparking hotly, but at least mostly in control, Stiles snapped. “Listen here, you arrogant f*ck. If you ever speak to me like that in front of someone else again, I’ll walk out, arrangement be damned. You want to be a dick in private, that's one thing, but you will not publicly belittle me that way. I won’t stand for it.”

“I’ll speak to you however I like.” Peter snapped right back. “I own you.”

“I’m not property!” Stiles took a heaving breath, fingers curling tighter until his nails bit sharply into his palms, desperately trying to ground himself. “And you don’t own me, dammit.”

Peter lashed out, whip-quick, curling his hands around Stiles’ upper arms and indelicately hauling him closer, until he was very nearly pressed against the alpha. “Yes, Stiles, I do.”

His mouth crashed down on Stiles’ own, hard and fierce. His teeth caught Stiles’ lower lip, tugging sharply for an instant before his tongue soothed the sting away. And then Peter was licking past his teeth and Stiles’ head was reeling at how thorough and demanding the alpha was being. The kiss was full of anger, sharp and heated, and it fanned the flames of Stiles’ own temper into a blaze of desire.

When they both drew back long moments later, Stiles found himself blinking at Peter, a little dazed and achingly hard. They were both breathing raggedly and Peter’s blue eyes were no longer icy, but filled with a fiery mix of lust and hunger. He looked like he wanted to devour Stiles, who had never felt more like prey in his life. He wasn’t sure what it said about him, that he found himself liking it.

Peter’s lip curled up in a snarl and he gave Stiles a light shake, voice all gravel and growl as he said. “You wanted to see me lose control, didn’t you? Well, now you have.”

Stiles thought maybe Peter was trying to be cruel, or frightening. Thought maybe Peter expected him to recoil from the way he’d just acted. Except that this was the best of Peter. The part of himself that Peter kept locked away with his iron control. The part of him that Stiles had been glimpsing with each of their sexual encounters and craving more of. This wasn’t going to make him run. If anything, it was going to make him push until he got more of this; more of who Peter actually was, beneath the polished surface and the icy disdain he wore like a mask.

“Not a pretty picture, is it?” Peter sneered, releasing Stiles’ arms at last.

Stiles blinked up at him, all of the anger drained from him with that kiss, then murmured softly. “You shouldn’t talk to me like that in front of people.”

“And you shouldn’t disrespect me in front of my associates.” Peter bit the words out, and clearly his temper was still up, even if Stiles’ had cooled.

So Stiles just shrugged and pointed out. “I didn’t, though. All I did was apologize and take my share of the blame for what had upset you.”

Peter huffed, shooting Stiles an annoyed look even as he paced away from him and then back again. “You don’t understand. You’re my companion and you not only tried to soothe me in front of an outsider, you also tried to take the blame off of him. Whether you were in the wrong place at the wrong time or not, you cannot admit as much to an outsider. Everything you do has to be deliberate. Confident. Above questioning.”

When Stiles started to say something - to ask why the hell it mattered what he did, when this was temporary - he was cut off by Peter. “For as long as you’re at my side, you’re an extension of me. Of my authority. Of my power. Of my strength. Anything that makes you look weak, makes me look weak.”

Peter stopped in front of Stiles and caught his chin in a gentle grip, tipping his face so their eyes met. “My world is a ruthless one, Stiles. If someone believes I’ve gone soft, it’s an invitation to attack. If they think I’m soft on you, then you become a target as well.”

Stiles swallowed hard, but nodded as much as he could with Peter still holding his chin captive. “I didn’t think of it like that. It won’t happen again.”

“For all that you have magic, my little fox, you know nothing of my world.” Peter explained, and something like grief flashed across his face before he pressed on. “It’s better that you don’t know. That you’re not a part of it. You’re less valuable to my enemies this way.”

Stiles was all but choking on the words that wanted to bubble up, regarding his value to other supernaturals, but before they could spill over - or he could swallow them back down - Peter added in a whisper. “I won’t trade your innocent life for my worthless one, but I’d rather not have to make the choice at all. I need you to be safe, Stiles. Do you understand that?”

Stiles nodded, feeling a bit dazed at the fierce protectiveness Peter was exhibiting. Peter’s lips curved up into a small smile and he added softly. “Good. That’s very good, pet.”

Now that he had Stiles’ agreement, the look in Peter’s eyes shifted again. Gone was any hint of softness or caring or sorrow. All that was left was that same heat and hunger from earlier. That possessive demand. Stiles’ breath caught in his chest and his insides twisted with want. He was suddenly very sure that he was about to get f*cked.

Awesome.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

Stiles sucked in a sharp breath as Peter backed him over to the nearest sofa. Strong hands spun him around, then one pressed between Stiles’ shoulder blades, forcing him to bend at the waist. He wound up face-down over the back of the sofa. A small part of his mind went ‘oh god, it’s white...we’re going to stain it’ but the rest of his mind was occupied with thoughts of Peter and what was about to happen. He could feel Peter behind him; a heated pressure he wanted to arch back into.

Peter’s hands slid around his waist, deftly undoing his belt. The soft rasp of the leather being pulled through the belt loops sounded impossibly loud, the only other sounds in the room the soft classical music still playing in the background and Stiles’ panting breaths.

Peter leaned in as the belt fell softly to the carpet, murmuring heatedly in Stiles’ ear. “I don’t want you wearing belts. I’ll let Cora know.”

And then he was undoing the fly of Stiles’ slacks and tugging them down, along with Stiles’ boxer-briefs. One of Peter’s hands stroked over the curve of Stiles’ ass and he started to turn his head. Wanted to meet Peter’s eyes, or maybe kiss him again. But Peter gently turned his head back, then fisted his hand in Stiles’ hair to keep him facing away. The firm grip tugged just so on Stiles’ scalp and sent little jolts of pleasure racing up and down his spine, wrenching a throaty moan from Stiles’ lips. Made him arch his back the way he’d been thinking about doing since Peter bent him over.

As Stiles panted against the sofa, Peter’s wicked mouth found skin where the unbuttoned collar of his shirt exposed his throat. His tongue licked over Stiles’ collarbone, up his throat, along the sharp line of his jaw. Then Peter’s mouth found his ear, tongue tracing it, from the lobe all the way up around the upper curve.

His voice was still low and full of gravel when he husked in Stiles’ ear. “Tell me, pet. What does it feel like to be so beautiful? To be so f*cking tempting that men are helpless to resist you?”

When Stiles didn’t immediately reply, Peter yanked hard on his hair, earning another desperate moan even as he demanded. “Tell me, my little co*cktease. How does it feel to swan around knowing your hot, tight little ass is driving me crazy?”

Stiles huffed in disbelief, though his voice was wrecked when he answered. “I don’t believe for a second that you’re helpless to resist me.”

“No?” Peter growled, teeth closing around the curve of Stiles’ ear. “Then tell me why your ass is the only thing I’ve been able to think about since this morning.”

“Really?”

Peter’s hand found Stiles’ ass again, squeezing hard. “Just this, pet. All. f*cking. Day.”

Stiles moaned, arching into Peter’s touch; pushing his ass back. “God...f*ck me, Peter. Need your co*ck again...please, alpha...please.”

“Have you been thinking about it?” Peter asked, pressing one finger into Stiles’ slick hole. “About my co*ck being inside you, little fox? In your mouth? Or your hot little ass?”

Stiles made a pathetic sound, something caught between a whine and a keen, and Peter goaded. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to f*ck me. Hard.”

Peter chuckled against his ear, a second finger sliding inside of him and making him cry out again. “When?”

“Now!” Stiles demanded, canting his hips back greedily.

“Mmmm...where, pet?”

Stiles let out a frustrated little sob when Peter rubbed against his prostate with the two fingers he was still f*cking into Stiles with, choking out. “Here. Any-f*cking-where. I don’t care.”

Peter laughed again, dark and rich, then asked. “And why do you want that?”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could resist this - resist Peter - but the fingers inside of him were driving him wild and the head of his co*ck was leaking against the back of the sofa, and he knew what Peter wanted from him. What words it would take, to get what he wanted. ‘Because you own me.’

But Stiles had never been one to give in easily, so when he gave Peter the words, voice strained with frustrated desire, they were his words, on his terms. “Because I belong to you.”

Belonging wasn’t the same as owning, but Stiles had a feeling Peter wouldn’t quibble over terms. Not now; not when he had Stiles beneath him, slick and open for the alpha’s co*ck.

Sure enough, Peter’s next words sought further confirmation, rather than demanded an amended phrasing. “That’s right. Every. f*cking. Inch. Tell me this is all mine.”

“It’s all yours. I am all yours” Stiles agreed breathlessly, whimpering when Peter’s fingers slid out of him to smooth over the curve of his ass again. “f*ck me, Peter. I need your co*ck, please.”

Stiles wasn’t sure how Peter got his slacks undone so quickly - hell, maybe Peter had undone them while Stiles was distracted, he honestly wasn’t sure - but an instant later, Peter was sliding into him. Stiles all but sobbed at the feel of Peter stretching him open again. At how perfectly the alpha fit inside of him. If it had been any less amazing, Stiles might have been embarrassed at how it only took a handful of hard, driving thrusts before he was spilling himself - co*ck untouched - all over the back of Peter’s pretty white couch. But it was hard to be embarrassed by something that felt the way sex with Peter did and the alpha wasn’t far behind him, taking only a few more thrusts before he was once again filling Stiles with his release.

For a few moments, neither of them moved, just taking the time to catch their breaths. Finally, Peter pulled away from him, his co*ck sliding out with a wet sound. Stiles let out a miserably embarrassed little moan, half-muffled by the part of the couch he’d buried his face in, then started to straighten up. Except Peter’s hand came down between his shoulders again, forcing him to stay in place. Not sure what Peter’s goal was, Stiles chose to stay still anyway, even as his cheeks heated with a blush at the feel of Peter’s come leaking out of him, streaking the inside of his thighs. Stiles listened to the rustling of fabric as Peter tucked himself away, then the quiet hiss of his zipper as he redid his fly.

Then, Stiles jumped as Peter was suddenly shoving two fingers back into Stiles’ hole, making him whine and kick out, tender and oversensitive. Peter chuckled softly, stroking his other hand soothingly down Stiles’ flank as if he were a skittish horse. His fingers slid in and out of Stiles’ body several times, slowly enough that it made more of Peter’s come slide out around them. And then Peter’s sticky-wet fingers were rubbing it all over Stiles. His ass, the inside of his thighs...Peter even reached forward, slick hand briefly cupping Stiles’ now-soft co*ck and his balls, spreading the mess there. Peter’s fingers pressed inside of him one more time, then came up to smear the remnants of his come all over Stiles’ neck and behind his ears.

And as gross as it was, Stiles understood that the wolf in Peter wanted their scents to combine. Wanted to make sure that any supernatural they encountered would know that Stiles belonged to Peter. So he bore the whole thing with grace and a silent resignation, right up until Peter started tugging his underwear and slacks back up.

“Hey, whoa, no. I’ve gotta go wash up first.” Stiles protested, straightening up at last as he twisted around to try to get Peter to stop redressing him.

“Absolutely not.” Peter said, batting Stiles’ hands away and pulling his clothing back into place with a smirk. “You look and smell exactly the way I want you to. I want everyone that comes near you to know you’re mine.”

And while he knew it wasn’t smart to antagonize Peter, Stiles couldn’t resist snarking. “You sound like a dog marking its territory.”

Instead of being offended, though, Peter just smirked at him as he buttoned Stiles’ slacks, then tugged the zipper into place. “Exactly. I’ve left my scent on what I own.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, not refuting the claim this time but not acknowledging it, either. “Why don’t you just put a sign on me next time?”

Peter shrugged one shoulder. “It’s enough that they’ll smell me on you.”

Stiles shifted in place, grimacing at how wet and open he still felt. “I’m going to wind up with a wet spot on the back of these pants. Or, worse yet, on the chair at the restaurant.”

“Then so be it.” Peter said, and Stiles had to accept that this wasn’t a fight he was going to win. Peter backed up to survey Stiles with a critical eye, then nodded once, seemingly deciding Stiles’ appearance was satisfactory. “Have I told you that you look ravishing tonight?”

“Not in so many words, no.” Stiles smirked, adding teasingly. “But I did just have amazing sex, so it’s no wonder I’m glowing.” He settled one hand lightly on the center of Peter’s tie, looking up at him from under his lashes and adding softly. “You look pretty damn good yourself, alpha.”

Peter growled softly. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to bend you over the sofa again.”

“Feed me first.”

Peter hummed agreeably. “I suppose I should fatten you up before the feast, hmmm?”

Stiles’ nose wrinkled at that, not sure how he felt about the wording. “That makes it sound like I’m going to be on the menu tonight.”

Peter smiled, teeth a little too sharp. “You’re the special, all this month.”

And f*ck, Stiles really didn’t like being reminded of the fact that this whole thing came with a built-in expiration date. It felt like a slap in the face after the intimacy they’d just shared, though Stiles could tell that - this time - Peter hadn’t meant it as a dig. Still, Stiles fell silent as they put on their coats - Stiles tugging on the suit jacket, feeling warm enough to forgo a heavier winter coat on top - and met Peter’s staff in the hallway.

They took three cars - all with blacked out windows and a slightly elongated backseat though Stiles wasn’t sure they qualified as limos, complete with a tinted divider separating them from the driver - to the restaurant. Stiles and Peter rode in the middle one, as a security measure. In addition to Derek, who was driving the car they were in, there were two other men. Ethan was driving the first car in line, while his twin brother Aiden was driving the third. It seemed like an awful lot of precaution, especially for someone who was a werewolf and could heal from even extensive injuries. Also, it was a little amusing to Stiles, the way Peter seemed to treat Derek as a member of his security team and general staff, despite the fact that Derek was both his nephew and heir.

“This is an awful lot of security.” Stiles’ fingers danced lightly over the buttery leather of the seat beneath him, eyes locked on the ever-changing view outside the tinted window. “What are you so afraid of?”

“The only thing I’m afraid of is how much I constantly want you.” Peter teased, making Stiles roll his eyes even as an amused smile tugged at his lips. “Undo your pants and come here, little one.”

Peter patted his lap, his eyes heated, and Stiles made a face. “Dude, no. I’m trying to keep my pants dry, not do sh*t that’ll make them wetter. You can f*ck me later.”

Peter raised one eyebrow, something dark passing behind his eyes for a moment. “I’ll f*ck you whenever I like, as that was our agreement.” When Stiles flinched, Peter sighed and patted his lap again. “Do as I say, pet. I promise I won’t f*ck you.”

There was something in Peter’s expression that told Stiles he shouldn’t trust the man - that Peter had a plan and Stiles was walking directly into a trap of some sort - but he did trust that Peter would keep his word on any promise given. So despite his better judgment, Stiles obligingly undid the button and zip on his slacks before turning on the seat, sliding closer to Peter. He was trying to figure out what, exactly, Peter wanted - Stiles perched on his thighs like a kid on Santa’s lap? Or perhaps he wanted Stiles to straddle him - when the alpha grabbed him, yanking him into position while shifting himself to the center of the backseat.

This left Stiles laying across Peter’s thighs, face-down. One leg was off the seat and his head was hanging down on the other side of Peter. He had one hand braced awkwardly on the seat beside Peter’s hip while the other was clutching a little desperately at Peter’s ankle. His perch felt precarious and he couldn’t help imagining himself toppling to the floor if they stopped short or took a corner too hard. Though if that happened, he hoped Peter would prevent him from falling.

Peter’s hands were tugging up the back of his suit jacket and his shirt, untucking it from his slacks. For a handful of seconds, Stiles worried about wrinkles on the expensive fabric. Then Peter’s hand slid under the waistband of his slacks and his underwear, fingers finding his still-slick hole a heartbeat later and wrenching a strangled moan from Stiles’ throat. Part of him wanted to resist - this was definitely going to ruin his damn pants - but Peter’s fingers felt so f*cking good and he couldn’t resist canting his hips up into the touch.

The sound Peter let out at that wasn’t a growl, not really, but more of a low rumble. Stiles would have called it a purr had it come from someone not a werewolf, though it seemed apt enough even if he would never dare to call it that out loud. Regardless, the sound was clearly pleased and Stiles flushed at the fact that his needy behavior was being so thoroughly enjoyed by Peter. Still, he could feel the alpha’s erection trapped beneath him and wondered if they would have enough time before reaching the restaurant for him to get his mouth on it.

Stiles stopped worrying about it a few seconds later, as Peter slid his fingers in deeper, pressing up with one of his thighs at the same time and giving Stiles’ own arousal something to thrust against. Stiles moaned again, hips jerking as he tried to decide whether he wanted to rock forward against Peter’s thigh or back onto his fingers. The choice was made for him, though, because when Stiles shifted forward, Peter followed with a hard thrust of his fingers and he got the best of both sensations anyway. So Stiles focused on grinding himself against Peter’s strong thigh while Peter f*cked him mercilessly with his fingers. He panted wetly against Peter’s leg, cheek pressed to the man’s shin, and prayed he wasn’t drooling all over Peter’s expensive slacks. Though if he was, it was entirely Peter’s own fault and Stiles would refuse to be blamed.

His nails were biting into Peter’s ankle and his co*ck was leaking all over the inside of his underwear and his hole was so wet, slick dripping out around Peter’s demanding fingers. Stiles was a f*cking mess and he didn’t care that he was in the back of a moving car on the way to some fancy ass restaurant. All he cared about was the sparks of pleasure racing up and down his spine with every touch; every thrust; every greedy grind of his co*ck against Peter’s well-muscled thigh. All that mattered was the heat pooling low in his belly and the tension coiling around him like a spring wound too tight, ready to snap at any moment.

“That’s it, pet.” Peter’s voice was low and liquid, sliding over him like silk and making him keen loudly, uncaring if Derek could hear him from the front seat of the car. “You take pleasure so beautifully. I wonder how well you would take pain.”

Stiles made a choked-off, confused sound that melted into a needy whine when Peter’s other hand slid down, curling around the front of his throat in a silent, threatening promise. ‘Yes,’ he thought, mind going a little soft at the edges. ‘Yes, whatever you want. Anything.’

“Hmmm...perhaps another time.” Peter mused, voice still silken and seductive as he pushed Stiles’ body closer and closer to release. “Right now, we’re almost at the restaurant and I want you to come. Can you do that for me? Be a good boy and come on my fingers, darling.”

Peter’s words were like an electric shock to Stiles’ nerves and, with a sob, he spilled himself inside his underwear, adding to the mess of come and slick already there. Everything went a bit blurry as he shook through his org*sm, falling apart on Peter’s lap. When he finally managed a deep breath and to blink open his eyes, he was confused to find himself sitting properly on Peter’s lap, cradled against his chest. Stiles could still feel Peter’s erection under his ass, though he didn’t have the mental capacity to do anything about it just yet. He blinked a few more times, lashes sticking wetly together, and hastily reached up one hand to scrub at his tear-damp cheeks. Peter cooed soothingly at him and Stiles could feel his face flooding with mortified color as he realized Peter was using a handkerchief to wipe Stiles’ slick off his hand.

He watched in horrified fascination as Peter finished cleaning himself up, then folded the handkerchief down into a tidy triangle and slid it into the breast pocket of his black suit jacket, as if it were an ordinary pocket square. When he noticed Stiles watching him, he grinned toothily and murmured. “Now I smell like you as well, pet. Don’t you like that? A little claim of your own.”

Stiles swallowed hard, dropping his eyes, because yes, he liked that. Liked the idea that other supernaturals might know that Peter was taken. That he belonged to Stiles, at least for the moment. But then, Stiles had never been the best about sharing. He was greedy and possessive, which he knew perfectly well. It was why he disliked any reminder of how temporary things were with Peter. Stiles didn’t do well with temporary. When something was his, it was his, dammit. Except Peter wasn’t his. Not truly. He’d made that perfectly clear.

Stiles swallowed again, doing his best to choke down the feelings he was starting to have for Peter. It had only been a day since they’d started this whole arrangement and Stiles couldn’t afford to fall in love with someone who had no interest in an emotional entanglement or any sort of permanence. So he shoved it all down and locked it in a box, as a worry for future!Stiles. In a month, he would be allowed to fall apart, if necessary. In a month, he would be able to shatter, if that was what it took to let it all go and move on. For now, he needed to maintain the same sort of measured distance as Peter, at least on the surface.

So he mustered a smirk of his own, reaching out and smoothing the edges of the little pocket square. “Better than any fancy cologne, right?”

Peter chuckled, leaning in to nuzzle at the edges of Stiles’ sweat-damp hair, breathing deeply. “Absolutely. You smell divine, Stiles. Delightfully mouth-watering. It’s no hardship to carry that with me through our meal.”

Stiles struggled for a moment with how to respond to that, but before he could, Peter hummed. “We’re here.”

Stiles hastily shifted off of Peter’s lap, grimacing at the tacky-wet feel of his entire pants-situation. “Holy f*ck, how am I supposed to walk into a restaurant and sit down like this?” Stiles hissed the words with a glare tossed at Peter for good measure.

Peter chuckled. “You’re with me. No one will say a word even if you walk in with my come painting your pretty face white. You’ll be fine.”

Somehow that didn’t make Stiles feel any better. Still, he slid out of the car when the door was held open by Derek, refusing to let his chin drop in embarrassment or shame...but also refusing to meet Derek’s eyes. He still didn’t know if the man had been able to hear him and Peter through the divider, but Derek would definitely be able to smell what had been happening. Hell, Stiles could tell the backseat smelled like sex and he didn’t have a werewolf super-sniffer. Peter slid out behind Stiles, his hand settling at the small of Stiles’ back and guiding him towards the building in front of them.

Stiles was ushered inside, and then into an elevator. It took them all the way to the rooftop and Stiles felt a little thrill. Rooftop dining in New York City wasn’t cheap so he’d never gotten to experience it, but it seemed...god, it seemed amazing. The idea of having that kind of view while eating - of having the city spread out beneath you, like you were above it all - seemed impossibly lovely. Enchanting. Magical, in a way that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with modern fairytales and luxury. It was the sort of thing celebrities and royalty got to do, not people like Stiles.

And yet, there he was. Stepping out of an elevator onto a New York City rooftop that genuinely looked like something out of a fairytale. There was a vaulted glass ceiling above them that turned the entire rooftop into a conservatory. It housed a garden - there was greenery everywhere, and flowers, and the whole place smelled like rich earth and plants - but it was more than that. Honestly, he felt like he was standing on the edge of a hedge maze. There were tall bushes planted in raised beds and all Stiles could see was the hostess podium and plants, and the glass ceiling overhead.

Behind the hostess podium and a little to the left, there was a break in the hedges that had a sign above it, dark wood carved with elegant letters that were painted gold, gleaming in the light. The words there only served to convince Stiles he was right about it being a damn maze.

The Labyrinth

The hostess smiled at them, warm and welcoming. “Alpha Wolf.” She greeted, inclining her head while simultaneously tipping it to the side, baring her throat in greeting.

When Peter let out a soft growl, she straightened her head before stepping up to the break in the hedges, still smiling softly. “Welcome to The Labyrinth. Would you like to get a drink from the bar while your private table is readied?”

“That would be perfect.” Peter agreed, and her smile widened even as she turned and stepped into the maze, clearly expecting them to follow.

As Peter nudged Stiles after her, he noted that another young woman had taken the first one’s place at the hostess podium, though he wasn’t sure where she’d come from as he hadn’t noticed another break in the hedges that surrounded the elevator. Stiles shook the thought off, focusing instead on following the woman as she wound her way through the maze. There were turn-offs occasionally and Stiles wondered where they went, but didn’t dare go exploring. For one thing, Peter would surely stop him. For another, he didn’t want to get lost in a restaurant. That seemed extremely mortifying.

And then, suddenly, they stepped out into what had to be the center of the restaurant, though it extended off to the right a ways until it hit what was clearly the outer edge of the building, complete with glass wall and a stunning view. There was a bar made of dark wood settled close to a wall of flowering hedges, opposite where they entered the space. It had a trellis-roof above it that was covered in vines, the occasionally potted plant hanging down, dripping tendrils covered in leaves and flowers over the edges of their decorative pots. There was a fountain in the center of everything, made of black marble with gold veining. It was taller than Stiles by more than half, spitting water another two feet above in an elegant full-circle fan that fell down to the next level, then spilled down to another, before finally tumbling down into the wide, round base.

Stiles swallowed hard as he let Peter guide him to the bar itself. There were people here, in this part of the restaurant. Seated at the bar, or else at tables scattered amidst the plants and elegant statuary that made Stiles feel like he was in an actual garden maze rather than a restaurant. It was surreal, in the same way a really good dream was. Like he couldn’t quite believe this was his life right now.

Peter raised an eyebrow at Stiles when they reached the bar and he shrugged. “I don’t really drink.”

When Peter snorted, Stiles remembered that he’d gotten drunk the night before and shrugged. “I don’t, usually. I prefer sweet drinks, though.”

Peter hummed as if he didn’t quite believe Stiles, but ordered himself an Old-Fashioned and something he called Amaretto and Orange for Stiles. Then, he gestured to a table near the fountain. When they reached it and were seated - Peter having pulled out Stiles’ chair for him and everything - Peter murmured. “I noticed you admiring the fountain. I thought you might enjoy a closer look, before we’re moved to our table.”

“We can’t eat here?” Stiles asked, a little disappointed.

He liked the comfortable, throne-like chair he was seated on; couldn’t help stroking his fingers over the soft red velvet of the cushioned seat and back. Liked the massive fountain and the sound of the falling water. Liked the smell of honeysuckle, sweet on the air, twined with damp earth and a dozen other plants and flowers. Liked the view of the city off to one side, through the massive glass wall, all lit up and brilliant against the dark sky. Thought he could happily stay here for hours, just taking everything in, and not be bored for a second of it.

“I arranged a private table for us.” Peter said, studying Stiles intently. They were close together, nearly side-by-side at the small round table rather than across from each other, so they both had a lovely view of the fountain. “Private tables here are...quite intimate and in high demand.”

“Right.” Stiles sighed, shoulders dropping a little in disappointment, though he did his best to muster a smile for Peter because all of this effort was appreciated. “I’m sure it’ll be great.” He cast his eyes back to the fountain, deciding he better take it in for as long as he could, since they weren’t staying near it.

A waitress approached with their drinks, and Peter offered her a small smile. “We’d like to stay here for our meal, rather than taking the private table.”

Stiles’ head snapped around at Peter’s words, shock rippling through him.

“Oh!” The waitress seemed as surprised as Stiles, but she nodded quickly. “Yes, of course, Alpha Wolf.” She inclined her head in the same throat-baring way the hostess had, raising her eyes again only when Peter growled softly. “I’ll let the hostess know right away.”

She set their drinks down, then hurried off, disappearing back into the hedges. Stiles stirred his drink with the two little stir-straws tucked into it, glancing up at Peter from under his eyelashes as he murmured. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Peter shrugged, saying nothing as he watched Stiles over the rim of his rocks glass as he took a sip. Dropping his eyes, Stiles shifted in his seat, grimacing a little at how wet he still felt, muttering under his breath. “I’m going to ruin this chair, which is a damn shame considering how comfortable it is.”

“Do you like it?” Peter asked, tipping his head very slightly to one side. “I can have it sent to the house. Or to your apartment, if you’d like to keep it for good.” Lips twitching up, he added huskily. “Then it won’t matter if you stain it with your slick, will it?”

Stiles blinked, trying to understand what Peter was offering. After a moment, he asked haltingly. “Do...do you own this place?”

“In part.” Peter admitted, flicking his eyes around the place with a hint of pride. “I have a partner - Ariadne - who handles the day-to-day running of things, though I provided her with much needed capital to get it started and advised on the name and theme.”

“It’s lovely.” Stiles admitted, finally taking a sip of his drink. He was pleasantly surprised when it was sweet, going down smooth despite the underlying taste of alcohol it carried. “This is good.”

“You sound surprised.” Peter smirked when Stiles shrugged. “I can’t get drunk in the usual course of things, so how a drink tastes is a big part of why I choose it. Accordingly, I’ve tasted a good number of co*cktails, to determine which are palatable. You said you like sweet, so...”

Stiles nodded. “I like it.” He considered Peter again, then asked softly. “Would you really have the chair sent to my apartment, if I wanted? Just because I said I liked it?”

“Why not?” Peter asked, seeming confused by Stiles’ question. “It’s a little enough thing, after all. Just a chair.”

“Is it?” Stiles pressed, taking another sip of his drink and studying Peter all the while. “What makes it a little thing, then? A lack of cost? A lack of effort? It can’t be a lack of thought, as it’s almost purely that.”

Peter was frowning at Stiles now, though he didn’t seem angry or upset. Just...uneasy. As if Stiles had managed to throw him off somehow.

‘Good,’ he thought, satisfaction rolling through him. ‘I like him better when he’s off-balance.’

Still frowning, Peter asked. “Do you have to question everything? You please me, Stiles, but you also try my patience. Can I not be generous without you questioning it?”

“I suppose you can.” Stiles agreed, raising his glass towards Peter with a slight smile. “To generosity, then.”

Peter hesitated for a moment, then raised his own glass. As he touched it to Stiles’ with a soft clink, he offered. “To passion.”

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

“To passion.”

Stiles could have argued with Peter’s toast, but he let it stand, sipping his drink again with a soft hum of agreement.

Their waitress wandered back and Peter ordered without ever taking his eyes off of Stiles. Something he called garides saganaki, as an appetizer. Then three separate entrees - kotopoulo, paidakia, and arni giouvetsi - with a generous side of roasted lemon potatoes and asparagus. Stiles wasn’t sure what most of it was, but he was willing to trust Peter on this. In a worst case scenario, if the food wasn’t to his tastes, Stiles would just make something for himself when they got back to the house.

Their waitress, for her part, was shooting flirtatious looks at Peter the whole time he was ordering. And the thing was, Peter never spared her a glance. She might as well have been invisible, for all that Stiles was willing to acknowledge she was quite beautiful. It didn’t do much to quell the hateful rise of jealousy in Stiles’ chest, though he did his best to squash it down. Peter was with him. It was Stiles who carried the scent of sex and Peter on his skin. It was Stiles’ intimate scent that was soaked into the linen square tucked so neatly into Peter’s pocket, a tangible claim. Hell, Stiles was likely staining the chair he was sitting on with a combination of his own slick and Peter’s come.

Jealousy was not only unbecoming, it was frankly absurd.

Still, he knew the flush of it - angry and vicious at the edges - was staining his cheeks, because Peter’s eyes were tracing his face. Once the waitress moved away, he asked. “What’s got your face so red? Are you thinking naughty things, little fox?”

He was, but only in an effort to curtail the jealousy blooming in his chest before it colored his scent and gave away his feelings. A moment later, he startled when Peter’s hand landed on his thigh, slipping higher almost immediately until he was cupping Stiles through his pants and Stiles could feel himself firming under Peter’s touch. A strangled sound got caught in his throat and Stiles hastily curled his fingers around Peter’s wrist, pushing him away.

“Stop it!” Stiles hissed, glancing around anxiously as if someone might have seen that, despite the fact that none of the other customers were all that close to them. “We’re in public.”

Peter hummed, shooting Stiles an amused look. “Technically, we’re in my restaurant, which I own. If I wanted to, I could f*ck you on the table and no one could do a thing to stop me.”

“Okay, first off. I don’t think this table would support that kind of activity.” Because Stiles’ brain had always been a weird place and that was genuinely his first thought. “Second off, if you start f*cking someone in the middle of dinner service, I’m pretty sure your customers won’t come back.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Peter smirked, raising one eyebrow as he raked a heated look over Stiles. “I think a rather large number of people would pay good money for the privilege of watching me f*ck you.”

Stiles huffed, though he couldn’t help feeling a little bit pleased with the implied compliment in Peter’s words. Still, he rolled his eyes and snarked. “Yeah, still not letting you f*ck me in public.”

“A pity we’re staying here and not at the private table I originally arranged, then.” Peter murmured, soft enough Stiles barely caught it. “I would have enjoyed f*cking you between courses.”

Clearing his throat, Stiles hastily changed the subject. “I just wanted to give you a head’s up that I need to go to work tomorrow. Not for long or anything, I just have to swap out some manuscripts and make sure my boss doesn’t need anything additional or high-priority from me for the next week.”

“Of course.” Peter agreed, with an ease that had the tension leaving Stiles’ shoulders. A moment later, Peter spoke again and the tension came flooding back. “I’ll have Ethan drive you.”

“That’s not necessary. I can drive myself.”

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that.” Peter did sound genuinely apologetic, though Stiles wasn’t sure he believed him. “It’s a security concern. I can’t allow you to go anywhere unescorted, as it presents a kidnapping risk. Especially now that you’ve been seen in public with me.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed at that. “I don’t understand. You’re the Alpha Wolf of New York City. Surely anyone with half a brain would know that kidnapping me is a bad idea.”

“And yet, there are a fair number of people out there with less than half a brain and it’s an unfortunate fact of my life that I need to worry about them.” Peter took another sip of his drink, adding softly. “I would, of course, get you back if anyone dared take you from me - and they wouldn’t live to regret the choice - but you could be harmed in the time it would take me to rescue you. I wish it weren’t an issue, but I simply cannot risk your safety, Stiles. You are mine - at least for the moment - and that means you’re my responsibility.”

Stiles sighed, but he had to admit that Peter had a point. The last thing Stiles wanted was to get kidnapped. And sure, he could take care of himself, but there was no way for Peter to know that. The only way Peter would know as much was if Stiles told the truth about his magic. Which...no. No, Stiles didn’t think that was a good idea. Not now, anyway. Not with the way things were still unbalanced between them, despite how hard Stiles was trying to level everything out. It just wasn’t the time.

So he nodded instead. “Alright, fine. But I’m not rolling up in a limo. There’s no way I could possibly explain that to anyone and I’m not interested in trying. So we can take my jeep and Ethan can just...I don’t know, listen to the radio or whatever while I’m inside.”

“He’ll go in with you.”

“No, he won’t.” Stiles corrected, not amused in the slightest by Peter’s demand. “I’m not bringing a damn bodyguard into my office. Because, again, there’s no way I could explain that.”

Peter was frowning at him now. “Does your boyfriend work with you?”

“What?” Stiles blinked in confusion, then shook his head. “No. And he’s my ex-boyfriend anyway so, even if he did, it wouldn’t matter. I wouldn’t be doing this with you if I still had a boyfriend.”

“Then why are you so opposed to Ethan’s presence? Has he done something to upset you?”

Stiles groaned, shooting Peter an annoyed look. “God, no. I told you, I’m not going to try to explain a f*cking bodyguard to my coworkers or my boss, okay? So Ethan can come, but he can wait outside, in the jeep while I run inside for all of twenty minutes.”

Peter considered this for a moment, then said. “He will walk you to the door, then go back to the jeep to wait. You’ll text him when you’re ready to leave and he’ll meet you at the door, to walk you back to the jeep.”

“f*cking hell, why are you so difficult?” Stiles demanded, annoyance rising.

“Because you cannot guarantee that the door will be within immediate sight of the jeep. Parking isn’t exactly plentiful in the city.” Peter gave Stiles a shrug when he narrowed his eyes at the alpha. “He doesn’t need to walk you to the door, just within sight of it. Will that suffice?”

“I guess.” Stiles groaned again, then added waspishly. “If my coworkers see him, I’m going to be pissed.”

Peter’s next words were dry but amused. “I’ll convey that to him.”

After a moment of oddly tense silence, Peter softly inquired about Stiles’ work. He allowed the not-quite subject change, talking about the manuscripts he’d read and ones he’d chosen that had done well. He talked a little about his coworkers, and why he enjoyed what he was doing. The way it sometimes felt like he was helping people achieve their dreams, and how good that made him feel. When Peter asked if Stiles was a writer himself, he shook his head. When Peter asked if he wanted to be, Stiles just laughed and shook his head again. That had never been his dream; it wasn't something that called to him. He liked what he did and wasn’t planning to try his hand at writing the great American novel.

“I like the flexibility of my job.” Stiles explained, lips curved up as he talked about it. “I like that I can work from home if I need to. But I like the stability, too. The financial security of it. I want children one day. A family. So that’s important to me.”

Peter grimaced at that, which Stiles wondered at. Did the alpha not want children? He knew Derek was Peter’s heir...was that a choice Peter had made, or one he’d fallen into? He wasn’t that much older than Stiles, especially considering werewolves had longer lifespans than humans. Plenty young enough yet, to find someone to settle down with and have children, if he wanted them.

If.

A really big if, and one Stiles could guess was actually a no, based on Peter’s reaction to Stiles’ own desire for children. He thought that was a little strange, as werewolves had a tendency to have large families. Part of Stiles wanted to ask about it; to pry into what made Peter tick. But it seemed like a tender spot to poke at and a restaurant was a poor choice of location for that sort of prodding.

So Stiles let it go, asking instead. “What about your work? You own the restaurant, you said, at least partially. Do you have a lot of other businesses, too?”

Peter’s face smoothed out into relaxed amusem*nt. “Are you trying to get me to incriminate myself?”

“Are your businesses illegal?” Stiles shot back, grinning when Peter simply smirked at him. “I mean, I was asking more about legitimate businesses, like the restaurant.”

Peter’s eyebrow rose. “Who said this was a legitimate business?”

Stiles’ eyes widened at that, then he laughed. “Is it not? What is it, then?” When Peter shrugged, Stiles nudged him under the table with his leg; a gentle, teasing bump. “C’mon, tell me. Is it money laundering? I’ve ever been in a front before - at least, not that I’m aware of - but I don’t think they’re normally this fancy.”

“If you’ve never been in one, how would you know?”

“Fair point.” Stiles agreed, shooting Peter a small smile and a look from under his eyelashes. “You know, you’re not half as scary as I was led to believe. Hell, the way my ex reacted when he found out it was you I’d made a deal with had me half-convinced you were the devil himself.”

“Who says I’m not?” Peter asked, tipping his head to one side and studying Stiles. “What did your boyfriend tell you about me, then? That I’m a monster? A murderer? That I ate my own heart and that’s why I’m so cold?”

Stiles shook his head. “He didn’t say anything, except that your last name was Hale, which I didn’t know. Though being from California originally, I’m familiar with your sister.” Stiles rolled his glass between his palms, careful not to spill the still mostly-full drink. “He was just visibly shaken, that’s all. Though there was a general sort of ‘oh no, supernaturals are dangerous’ edge to the conversation, before I admitted I’ve got magic myself.”

Peter said nothing and Stiles took a small, careful breath before admitting softly. “I already knew you were a killer, because I know all about how a werewolf becomes an alpha. The fact that you also became the Alpha Wolf of New York City at the same time just drove home how dangerous you are.”

“And yet, you still bargained with me.” Peter murmured, and he seemed genuinely confused by Stiles and the choices he’d made. “Knowing what I am. What I’m capable of. Knowing I’ve killed to become what I am. You still placed yourself in my hands.”

Stiles shrugged, taking another sip of his drink before looking at Peter again. “I don’t know how much I actually understood before I made this deal. I know more, now.”

“Do you know better?”

Stiles didn’t flinch from the icy curiosity in Peter’s eyes. He just shrugged again. “Maybe I should, but I’d make the same choice again, honestly. You gave me back my brother. I don’t know that there’s a price I’d consider too steep, in the face of that.”

“A dangerous thing to say, to someone like me.” Peter murmured.

“Maybe.” Stiles agreed. “But I don’t think you’ll hurt me, despite how cruel you can be. How cruel you have been.”

Peter’s eyebrow rose again. “It is cruel, then, when a cheetah outruns a gazelle and kills it?”

“The cheetah only kills when it’s hungry.”

Peter’s sensual mouth curled into a dangerous smile, his icy eyes growing heated even as he leaned into Stiles’ space. “There’s more than one type of hunger, pet.”

Stiles dropped his eyes, asking softly. “So you don’t feel guilty for what you’ve done? Not even a hint of remorse for those you’ve hurt?”

“Be assured, little fox.” Peter was still leaning in close to Stiles, voice low and dark. “Anyone who might have perished at my hands deserved nothing less. I don’t knock on the doors of ordinary people. Everyone in my world understands the rules on the day they enter into an agreement.”

Stiles wondered for a moment if that included him. Had he understood the rules? Stiles didn’t think so. Wasn’t sure he understood them now, honestly. But then, Peter seemed determined to keep Stiles separate from his world, at least as much as possible. Maybe that was why.

Some of Stiles’ uncertainty - his doubt - must have shown on his face, because Peter caught his chin, tipping Sitles’ face up and adding softly. “Just because I say it, doesn’t mean it isn’t true. There are rules in your world, just as there are in mine. It’s only that breaking the rules in my world comes with a higher cost.”

“Maybe.” Stiles murmured. “Not many things in my world come with a death sentence, anyway.”

Before Peter could respond to that - though Stiles wasn’t sure he was going to, honestly - the waitress approached with their appetizer. Garides saganaki was, as it turned out, shrimp. Or maybe it was prawns. They were big, anyway, and Stiles wasn’t actually sure what the difference was between the two. He made a mental note to look it up later, because he’d always been driven by curiosity. Regardless, the shrimp - he was going with shrimp until or unless he found out otherwise - looked delicious. There was a light glaze-type sauce - tomato-based, if the color was any indicator - and feta cheese crumbled on top.

Peter plucked one from the dish by the tail, biting lightly onto it and pulling to detach the tail and the end of the shell from it, which he dropped onto a small dish that had been placed on the table as well, apparently for that purpose. Following Peter’s lead, Stiles picked one up. Peter watched as he bit down on it, yanking to remove both tail and shell. He chewed as he dropped the unwanted part onto the plate, humming as the distinct taste of black licorice popped across his tongue. He swallowed, then shot Peter a questioning look.

“Anise?” Stiles asked, nodding at the shrimp.

“Ouzo, in the sauce.” Peter agreed, eyes heated as he watched Stiles lick said sauce from the tips of his fingers before selecting another shrimp. “Do you like it, then?”

“It’s very good.” Stiles dragged his next selection through the sauce to coat it more thoroughly, adding. “A bold choice, though, for a werewolf.”

“I can handle anise.” Peter chuckled. “I smoke anise-laced cigarettes, after all.”

Stiles hummed, popping the second shrimp into his mouth and de-shelling it with a quick twist and pull. It was truly delicious and he wasn’t thinking much about it as he swallowed, then slid his thumb into his mouth to lick the glaze-like sauce from his skin. He wasn’t thinking much about it...until Peter growled softly. Stiles froze, eyes flicking to Peter’s, thumb still tucked between his pursed lips. He blinked slowly at the hungry look in Peter’s eyes, wicked heat curling in his stomach. He slowly slid his thumb out of his mouth, tongue chasing it despite the fact that he’d already cleaned all remnants of the sauce from it, and Peter’s eyes flickered red.

Oh. Oh.

Well, that was delightful, wasn’t it? That something so simple could rile Peter up. That he seemed to want Stiles just as much as Stiles wanted him. Stiles had never been the best at resisting temptation, so it would have surprised absolutely no one who knew him that he immediately reached for another shrimp, intentionally letting his fingers touch the sauce as he selected one. He chewed quickly, then met Peter’s eyes again as he licked delicately at the long, slender digits to clean them again.

Peter’s breathing had deepened, that same soft growl pouring out constantly, like the low rumble of a well-tuned engine. He nudged the dish of shrimp closer to Stiles, attention utterly focused on Stiles’ hand and mouth, a clear invitation for Stiles to continue what he was doing. And really, who was Stiles to resist such a generous offer? He wanted to tease Peter...and Peter clearly wanted to be teased. So Stiles kept eating, shooting Peter coy looks from under his lashes every so often. He made soft, pleased sounds as he licked his fingers clean after each shrimp.

There were only a couple of shrimp left when Stiles got a little too enthusiastic about the whole thing, oversaturating the shrimp he chose. As he sank his teeth into it and pulled the shell off by the tail, sauce ran down his fingers all the way to his palm. He made a surprised sound even as he flicked the shell onto the plate, then sucked in a startled breath when Peter’s hand caught his wrist in a hard grip.

Stiles blinked at Peter, eyes wide and lips parted in shock. The alpha stood, pulling Stiles with him. He stumbled after Peter, wrist still caught in an iron grip, as Peter led him away from the table and into the maze of hedges, with all its twists and turns. It seemed Peter knew exactly where he was going, as it didn’t take them long to reach the bathrooms. Peter dragged Stiles into the men’s room, flipping the little lock on the door.

“This is a multi-person bathroom.” Stiles pointed out, a little breathlessly. “I don’t think you’re supposed to lock the door like that.”

“Ask me if I care.” Peter growled, dark and heated. Stiles’ face flushed and he tried to pull his wrist free from Peter’s grip; tried to take a step back. But Peter held fast, murmuring. “What’s the matter, my little co*cktease? Isn’t this what you wanted? To drive me crazy with lust?”

“I-”

“You enjoyed tormenting me, didn’t you?” Peter cut Stiles off, dragging him closer by his wrist. “Do you like knowing I’m aching for you? That all I can think about is ripping that sinful suit off of you so I can sink my co*ck back into you?”

“I was just eating.” Stiles managed, still feeling breathless, head spinning with desire for this impossible man. He wanted whatever Peter would give him; wanted him all the time. “I can’t help it if you get turned on by something as simple as me eating, can I?”

Peter snorted, dragging Stiles’ hand up to his face. His tongue came out, dragging over the sensitive skin of Stiles’ still-sticky palm as he met Stiles’ eyes with ones that burned red. “I can tell when you’re lying, pet. Werewolf, remember? Do you know how hard I am because of you?”

He caught Stiles’ other hand, dragging it forward to press against the front of Peter’s pants. And f*ck, he wasn’t lying. His co*ck was a hard line of heat, even through his slacks. Stiles took a trembling breath, then did his best to sound innocent as he offered. “Oops?”

“Oops?” Peter growled, the edge of his fangs pressing into Stiles’ palm for the span of a few seconds before his tongue came out again, though Stiles was sure there was no more sauce on his palm. “You think you can tease me like that and not be punished?”

Heat pooled low in Stiles’ belly as he answered in a whisper. “No, alpha.”

“Good boy.” Peter murmured, leaning forward enough to press his lips to Stiles’ temple in a brief kiss. He breathed deeply, adding. “You smell divine. It’s maddening.”

Before Stiles could think of a reply, Peter’s mouth was back on his hand, this time taking two of Stiles’ sticky fingers into his mouth. He sucked lightly, tongue slipping between the digits in a way that felt dirty but also amazing. He moaned softly as Peter dutifully licked every bit of the anise-based sauce from his hand, the both of them panting softly by the time he was done. And then Peter’s hand finally released Stiles’ wrist, instead sinking into his hair and pulling.

Stiles mewled, hands clutching at the lapels of Peter’s suit jacket even as his head fell back. Peter’s lips descended on his own, kissing Stiles hard. His teeth caught Stiles’ lower lip, biting down hard enough to make it throb with wicked heat, but Stiles didn’t care. Couldn’t care, when everything felt hot and close and perfect.

He moaned and tried to press closer to Peter, whispering heatedly against the alpha’s mouth. “f*ck me, alpha...please, I want you...need you...”

“Hmmm...you do tempt me.” Peter murmured, lifting his head and studying Stiles with those red eyes that Stiles probably shouldn’t have found so sexy. “But no. Not yet. I want you as frustrated as I am first.”

Stiles gasped when Peter spun him around, Peter’s fingers working open Stiles’ pants as he was moved over to the counter that held a row of sinks. He watched himself in the mirror as Peter bent him over the counter, even as he shoved Stiles’ slacks and underwear down. There was something delicious about it. About seeing his own face flushed with desire, eyes wide and dark and hungry, with Peter looming over him from behind. Something about the way Peter’s eyes were locked on the curve of Stiles’ ass, and the way he snarled when Stiles slipped out of one of his shoes so he could step out of one side of his pants and underwear and spread his thighs. So he could bare his messy, f*cked-out hole to Peter’s heated gaze.

The door rattled as someone tried to open it, then knocked. Peter snarled that the bathroom was occupied and Stiles couldn’t quite bite back a whimper at his tone, low and threatening. Whoever was on the other side of the door gasped, sounding offended, then half-shouted that they couldn’t do that and he was going to complain. It was a laughable threat, though the man obviously couldn’t know that. After all, Peter owned the restaurant. So Stiles ignored the man, much the way Peter seemed to be, and focused instead on the item Peter had just pulled out of his pocket.

It was a black silicone plug, with a pretty red jewel set into the base. It wasn’t overly large, but something about the way it looked in Peter’s hand felt like both a threat and a promise.

“Peter, please...” Stiles breathed, not sure if he was pleading for Peter to put it away...or put it in.

“Hush, pet.” Peter murmured, leaning in to nuzzle at Stiles’ hair, now damp at the edges with sweat.

He met Stiles’ eyes in the mirror as his hand disappeared from view, and a moment later the plug was sliding easily into Stiles’ ass. He keened softly, head dropping down as he panted against the cool marble counter he was bent over. Peter rumbled soothingly at him and Stiles squeezed his eyes shut as Peter’s hands guided him back into his clothes - and his shoe - before helping him straighten up. He blinked at his reflection in the mirror as Peter pressed against his back, arms encircling Stiles’ waist as he buttoned and zipped Stiles’ fly. He looked...

f*ck. He looked wrecked. His hair was a disheveled mess from Peter’s hand fisting in it. His lower lip was puffy, swollen and kiss-bruised, still sore from Peter’s teeth. His whole face was flushed, sweat dripping down the side of his face from his temples. The smooth, elegant lines of his suit were rumpled now, wrinkled and creased in places it shouldn’t be. His eyes were still dark; still hungry. They were also glassy and a little unfocused, something Stiles knew had nothing to do with the alcohol he’d been sipping and everything to do with the man behind him.

Peter, who still managed to look cool and composed, though Stiles was pleased to note that the edges of his suit jacket were wrinkled from Stiles’ fingers clutching at it. One of Peter’s hands slid into his pants’ pocket and Stiles cried out when the plug inside him gave a vicious jolt before falling still again.

‘Oh f*ck me, it’s a vibrator,’ Stiles thought, gaping at Peter in the mirror, something that was equal parts desire and horror rising in him at the realization. ‘...and Peter has the remote.’

There was another knock on the door, which rattled ominously before someone shouted. “If this door isn’t open in the next thirty seconds, we’re calling the police!”

Peter huffed, rolling his eyes even as he crossed to the door and flipped the lock. Stiles stepped up behind Peter right as the man opened the door. The staff member who had been yelling only a moment earlier froze at the sight of Peter, then began issuing a hasty stream of apologies. Peter waved them off, not seeming angry in the least. In fact, he offered the man a hundred dollar bill before taking Stiles by the hand and leading him back through the hedges to their table.

When Stiles sat, he couldn’t even care about the fact that their food had arrived because Peter immediately began torturing him with the vibrating plug. He varied the speed and intensity of the vibrations - sometimes constant, sometimes coming in pulses - while feeding both himself and Stiles lamb and chicken and lemon potatoes. Stiles ate on autopilot - opening his mouth for each offered bite - but he could barely taste any of it. He was desperately trying not to cry out; not to moan and whine and beg Peter to f*ck him again; to let him come. Peter was ruthless.

But then, so was Stiles.

Because he wasn’t going to be the one to break first, so he channeled all of his desire into comments on everything he wanted to do to Peter. He whispered heatedly between bites, about how desperately he wanted to suck Peter’s co*ck. How he wanted Peter to f*ck his throat raw; until he couldn’t speak the next day. The closer he got to org*sm, the filthier his words got.

And then, right when he was on the edge, Peter turned the damn thing down to a low, intermittent pulsing. It wasn’t enough to send him over the edge, no matter how Stiles rocked his hips, but it was enough to keep him poised on the brink of it. He bared his teeth at Peter, frustration and need clawing at his throat from the inside, and Peter simply smirked.

“Do you want dessert? They have a positively sinful galaktoboureko.” Peter murmured as the staff was clearing the table. “It’s a sort of custard pie, soaked in honey-syrup.”

Stiles had never wanted anything less in his life and said as much, in a choked voice. Peter’s lips curved up wickedly, but he asked for their check and that was all Stiles cared about.

By the time they made it back outside and into the car, Stiles was ready to launch himself at Peter the moment the door closed. Instead, he found himself pinned in place in the seat, Peter’s hand curled tightly around the front of his throat.

“Patience, pet.” Peter murmured against his ear, fingers giving a threatening squeeze before releasing again. “We’ll be home soon enough.”

Panting, Stiles nodded as much as he could. Peter hummed, looking like he was debating something. For a moment, Stiles thought maybe Peter would stay like this for the whole ride, just holding Stiles in place by his throat. A few heartbeats passed with rising tension, but then Peter’s hand slipped away and Stiles did his best to act like he wasn’t disappointed. There was something compelling about being under Peter’s control; about submitting to Peter’s will. Stiles knew he’d have to analyze that eventually, but not now. At the moment, all he cared about was getting back to Peter’s house so they could finish what they’d started at the restaurant.

~*~*~*~

When they entered the house, Stiles was a little surprised that Peter dragged him into his office, rather than one or the other of their bedrooms. But Peter growled and gestured to his desk. “I want you there again. It was all I could think about while I was working.”

And god, that was hot. Too hot for Stiles to even pretend to argue with. “Yeah?” Stiles murmured, sliding his arms around Peter’s neck and brushing their lips together in a tease. “Then help me out of this damn suit. I don’t care if you rip it off me, I just want to be able to feel you against every inch of my skin.”

Stiles honestly wasn’t sure if Peter ripped the suit or not. Couldn’t have said how it came to rest on the floor, between the door and the desk. Didn’t really care, either. All that mattered was that, in short order, he was being set on Peter’s desk, the wood cool against his feverish skin. The remote for the vibrator clattered as it hit the desk next to Stiles’ hip. And Peter’s hands were pressing him down, urging him to lay on his back, with his head hanging over the edge nearest to Peter.

“Let me...” Peter murmured, his hands yanking at his own fly; pulling his co*ck out. “Let me f*ck your throat, sweet boy. Let me see how well you can take me.”

“Yesss...” Stiles hissed, letting his mouth fall open, lips slack and tongue sticking out just a bit. Stiles had watched enough p*rn to know it would be better this way than if he was on his knees; that Peter would have full access to his throat in this position. And f*ck, but he wanted that.

“Spread your legs.” Peter murmured even as he dragged the sticky-slick head of his co*ck over Stiles’ parted lips and the tip of his tongue.

Stiles moaned and obeyed, mouth watering at the brief taste of Peter’s precome bursting across his tongue. And then Peter was pressing forward, the head of his co*ck gliding smoothly over Stiles’ tongue until it was pressing into his throat. It invaded Stiles’ senses in a way he hadn’t expected. Not just the taste of it - skin, and sweat, and the bitter-sharp wetness leaking from the slit - but the scent of it, musky and rich. The stretch of it, an ache in Stiles’ jaw starting up almost immediately as he worked to keep his mouth as slack and open as he could. The way spit was already pooling in his mouth and leaking from the corners as Peter started f*cking into his mouth, slow and deep and demanding. The texture of it - silky smooth skin made slick with spit and precome - and the feel, hot and hard and heavy against his tongue and soft palate.

“Look at you..." Peter murmured, withdrawing until only the tip of his co*ck was resting on Stiles’ tongue and then pressing forward again, as deep as he could with a low groan. “Taking all of me. f*ck, I’m balls deep in your sweet little mouth. You’re doing so good for me, my pretty boy...”

Peter’s hips began to move faster, f*cking into Stiles’ throat with more force. “Suck me, that’s it...”

Stiles did his best to obey, hollowing his cheeks each time Peter’s co*ck withdrew, sucking in greedy lungfuls of air before his thick co*ck pressed back in and hindered Stiles’ breathing. Suddenly the vibrating plug in Stiles’ ass sped up and he was keening around the length invading his mouth and throat, hips arching off the desk in a filthy grind against nothing. His co*ck throbbed, desperately seeking a friction that wasn’t there, and still Peter was f*cking his face, demanding and all-consuming.

“That’s it, baby.” Peter crooned at him, hips still pistoning forcefully while Stiles clawed at the back of Peter’s thighs, nails biting into skin even through the fabric of his pants, desperate to anchor himself. “Sucking me so good, just like that...gonna fill your stomach with my come, pet. Be a good boy and swallow it all.”

For the second time, Peter roared through his org*sm, the sound screaming alpha werewolf in a way little else could have. It was heady, sending Stiles’ head spinning even as his own org*sm crashed over him. He spilled across his own stomach and chest, co*ck untouched, while Peter spilled down his throat, forcing Stiles to swallow every drop of his release. When Peter slid wetly from his mouth at last, Stiles sucked in air greedily, his whole body shaking with pleasure, the vibrator inside him still sending aftershocks through his body, each one so good it was very nearly painful.

Peter reached for the remote, pressing buttons to turn the thing off at last, and Stiles all but melted into the desk, though his body was still trembling. His muscles felt like jello. His throat ached and he was torn between wanting hot tea with honey to soothe it, and wanting to chug a massive glass of ice water to quench his thirst. ‘Water first, then tea...’ he thought absently, a soft sigh slipping past his lips. ‘And a shower...’

He was just about to ask Peter to join him for the shower - liked the idea of getting to stroke his hands over the alpha’s well-muscled body, especially when it was soap-slick - when Peter’s voice cut through the air, hard and ice cold. “I have work to do, Stiles. That means I’m going to need my desk.”

It was as if Peter had doused Stiles in ice water, the way it shocked him out of the languid haze he’d been in post-org*sm. Stiles almost asked what was wrong. Almost asked if he had done something wrong. Because a moment ago, Peter had been warm and soft. Passionate, yes, but mouth full of praise for Stiles as well. And he’d been teasing Stiles all evening. Had been...not kind, exactly, but gentler at least. More relaxed. Now it was like the wall between them had come slamming down, ruthlessly shutting Stiles out again. It was like being slapped in the face with the hard truth that Peter didn’t want to let Stiles in.

To Peter, this was just sex. It would do Stiles some good to remember as much.

Stiles slid carefully off the desk, then crossed the room on legs he pretended weren’t shaking. He could have stopped to dress. Could have, at the very least, gathered up the pieces of his suit. But he didn’t want to be in the same room as Peter for a second longer than he had to. Not right now. He slipped out of the room without a word or a backwards glance, moving as quickly as he could from Peter’s office up to his room on the third floor. He was grateful he didn’t run into anyone on the way, though he was feeling just tender enough - physically and emotionally - that he wasn’t sure he would have cared even if he had.

It was that heartsick feeling that had Stiles pulling on the shirt he’d stolen from Peter’s room the night before after a quick shower to rinse the worst of the evening’s activities from his skin. He curled up in the center of the massive bed Peter had assigned to him, not bothering to crawl under the blankets. Too tired for the effort it would have taken, minimal as it was.

He was asleep almost instantly.

~*~*~*~

Stiles had always been a light sleeper, so Peter entering his room woke him up. He wondered what Peter wanted - if the man was there to f*ck him again - and resisted the urge to hold his breath. That would only give away that he was awake, after all. Instead, he forced his breathing to remain deep and even - counting his breaths slowly and carefully to ensure a steady cadence - and waited. He could feel Peter’s presence beside the bed. Could feel the weight of the alpha’s eyes on him. He heard it as Peter set something on the nightstand, and then the man was leaving again, just like that.

Except before he reached the door, Peter turned and moved back to the bed. Stiles let his body stay limp - dead weight - as Peter lifted him, cradling Stiles against his chest for a moment before setting him back down, this time against cool sheets. The blanket was pulled over him a heartbeat later, and Peter’s lips found Stiles’ forehead in the dark. The unexpected tenderness was almost enough to have Stiles reaching out, a plea for Peter to stay, please clinging to his tongue. But Peter’s earlier coldness was still fresh in Stiles’ mind and he restrained himself; continued to feign sleep until he heard the door close behind Peter. He waited, counting to a hundred to be sure Peter wasn’t going to come back.

Then - and only then - did he open his eyes, looking to see what Peter had left on the nightstand. The first thing he noticed was his cellphone, which he’d left in his pants pocket on the floor of Peter’s office earlier. The second was a credit card, with a small note explaining that it was for Stiles to use...and that it had a $10,000 limit. Stiles knew it was an apology of sorts, very likely the only kind Peter knew how to give. It was intended to make Stiles forgive Peter for his behavior.

Closing his eyes again, Stiles told himself he was fine with that. And if the heavy-sick feeling in his stomach made that feel like a lie, it was no one’s business but his.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Monday, November 26th, 2018

Stiles had never been much of a breakfast person, honestly. He didn’t like to eat when he first woke up and the fact that he woke up feeling off - not nauseated, not truly, but just with a heavy feeling in his stomach - had him brewing a cup of coffee for himself and then heading back to his room to do some work. Stiles’ plan was to go into the office in the afternoon, so he needed to try to get through a couple more manuscripts before then. He pushed through, reading for a couple of hours until his eyes were hurting and he had to give in and dig out his reading glasses or risk a migraine. And then, as he was settling back in, Stiles’ phone went off.

Danny: why did a fancy ass throne just get delivered to our apartment

Danny: Stiles where did this chair come from

Danny: is this a present for me? I love it!

Don’t sit on it! Stiles hastily sent the text, wincing when his phone almost instantly started ringing. With a sigh, he picked up. “Yes, Danny?”

“Why can’t I sit on the chair, Stiles? What’s wrong with the chair?” Danny paused a second, then gasped loudly before continuing in a scandalized tone. “Did you f*ck on this chair?”

“No!” Stiles protested, feeling his face heat up with a blush even though Danny couldn’t see him. He groaned, scrubbing his hand over his face, then dragging it through his hair. “I...had sex before sitting in the chair. And then I was...I mean, I wasn’t allowed to, uh...clean up. So.”

“Jesus f*cking christ, Stiles.” Danny’s voice was equal parts exasperated and amused. “Are you telling me that you sat on this chair while covered in ji*zz?”

Stiles snorted at that, rolling his eyes. “I wasn’t covered in it, Danny, what the f*ck. I was leaking it. I didn’t think Peter was serious about sending it to the apartment, though.”

“Hmmm...it’s a very nice chair.” Danny said, sounding mostly amused now. “I’m surprised he was willing to give it up, though I suppose he can buy another one.”

Stiles hummed, sliding his fingers under the edge of his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose. “It came from the restaurant, so they have more.” When Danny made a questioning sound, he added. “Peter took me out to eat at a fancy restaurant he owns last night.”

There was a pause, then Danny’s voice came through the phone, once again sounding scandalized. “You sat in a restaurant, leaking ji*zz? Dude, that’s obscene.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Stiles mumbled, sighing before letting his hand drop back to the desk, glasses settling back into place on his nose. “Like I said, Peter wouldn’t let me clean up so I didn’t exactly have a choice. I told him I was going to ruin the damn chair and he said he’d have it sent to me so it wouldn’t matter, but I didn’t think he was serious about that.”

Stiles frowned when a deep inhale came through the speaker, then choked when Danny said. “He must’ve had it cleaned before sending it over. There’s no stain and it doesn’t smell like you.”

“Did you just sniff the f*cking chair?” Stiles screeched, mortified. “Dude, why? Why would you do that?”

Danny was cackling in his ear now. “It’s not like you smell bad, Stiles.”

“It’s so weird that you know what my slick smells like.” Stiles muttered.

“It’s weird that you make slick.” Danny retorted, and Stiles had to admit that his friend had a point. “And I can’t help it that my sense of smell is so good.”

“I know, I know. Side effect of being a human born to werewolves.” Stile sighed, slumping down over the desk in his room. “It really doesn’t smell like me? Or Peter?”

Danny hummed consideringly. “I mean...I’ve never smelled Peter when he was aroused, but I don’t think so? It definitely doesn’t smell like you. Just smells like a chair, really.”

Stiles sighed again. “Alright, you can sit on it then, I guess. Since he must’ve gotten it cleaned.”

“I was going to sit on it anyway.” Danny admitted, wringing a tired laugh from Stiles. “Also, I bumped into Ian at the coffee shop this morning. He was asking about you.”

Stiles...wasn’t sure what to do with that information, honestly. “Should I text him? Let him know I’m fine, or whatever? Or is that too weird?”

“Depends if you want to try to get back together with him when this is all done, I guess. Or at least try to stay friends with him.” Stiles could clearly picture the way Danny was shrugging as he said that. “Up to you, really. Just don’t lead him on if you think it’s over for good.”

“Right, right.” Stiles groaned again, glancing at the clock. 10am. “Alright, I have to get some more work done before I head into the office, but like...we need to make plans to hang out soon, okay? I miss your face.”

“I miss your face, too.” Danny agreed. “Text me when you’ll be free and we’ll set something up.”

Stiles agreed, murmuring a goodbye before ending the call. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he shot off a quick text to Ian.

Danny said you were asking about me. Wanted to let you know I’m fine but I don’t think it’s good for either of us to talk until this is all over and I know for sure what I want - and what I can offer - going forward.

Then Stiles turned his phone on ‘Do Not Disturb’ mode and went back to his work.

~*~*~*~

By the time lunch rolled around, Stiles was starving. He scarfed down a massive sandwich before grabbing Ethan and heading out in the jeep. They lucked out with parking, finding a spot only a couple of doors down from his office which meant Stiles was able to convince Ethan to stay in the car while he walked himself in. Swapping his stack of read manuscripts for new ones didn’t take long, but he got pulled into several conversations on his way in and back out, by various coworkers. And Stiles got it, really. It was an interesting story - his brother going missing on the far side of the world, but being found and returned safely not long after - and if it had happened to someone else, Stiles would have been asking all sorts of questions, too. And no one at his work even knew the half of it, because none of them knew about Peter or what Stiles had agreed to.

Stiles was planning to keep it that way, too.

It didn’t take too long before Stiles was slipping back out of the building, heading quickly back up the block to where Ethan was waiting by the jeep. Not in the jeep, but rather next to it, leaning against it casually while still managing to look threatening.

“I told you to wait in the jeep.” Stiles hissed angrily even as he tossed his bag into the backseat before climbing behind the wheel.

Ethan shrugged, getting into the front as well. “You did, but I was feeling cooped up. Wasn’t sure how long you’d be and I wanted to stretch my legs. I didn’t get any closer than I was, I promise.”

Stiles grumbled under his breath even as he pulled out of the parking space and headed back towards Peter’s house. “You know, Peter said his staff was supposed to listen to me, but none of you do. Maybe I need to have a word with him about that.”

“Oh, come on.” Ethan complained, shooting Stiles a wide-eyed, pleading look that Stiles pointedly ignored. “I didn’t disobey! I stayed right next to the jeep.” When Stiles hummed noncommittally, Ethan asked curiously. “Who hasn’t been following your orders?”

Stiles didn’t answer, and Ethan sighed. “Fine, be like that. Next time you want to go out, Derek can take you. Then I won’t have to put up with this silent treatment.”

“I’ll go out alone first.” Stiles muttered, annoyance lacing the words.

“Oh-ho.” Ethan twisted in his seat to face Stiles better. “So Derek’s the one who hasn’t been listening. Peter’s not going to like that if he finds out.” When Stiles twitched a little at that, Ethan sucked his teeth. “Peter already knows, doesn’t he? I don’t envy Derek right now, that’s for sure.”

“Let’s talk about something else.” Stiles suggested, in a tone that said it wasn’t a request. “Tell me about you. Do you have any hobbies? A significant other? Kids?”

Ethan snorted, rolling his eyes. “Hobbies? Sure. I like sports. And reading. I’m a little young for kids, and also painfully single. No boyfriend at the moment.”

“Hmmm...” Stiles thought it was interesting, the way Ethan made it clear he liked men with his phrasing. He thought about the way Ethan always asked after Danny and wondered if there wasn’t something there. “Got your eye on anyone?”

Ethan’s cheeks flushed with color and Stiles barely restrained his smirk as the werewolf stammered. “I, uh...I mean, I don’t...not...exactly? I’m not, like...you know, actively pursuing anyone.”

“But someone’s caught your eye?” Stiles pressed, and the way Ethan’s blush spread down his neck was answer enough, though Ethan also nodded slightly. “Maybe you should pursue them.”

Ethan sank down a little in the seat, lips turning down at the corners. “He, uh...he’s not interested. At least, I’m pretty sure he’s not. He doesn’t think of me that way.”

‘Maybe not yet...’ Stiles thought to himself as he let Ethan change the topic to baseball, but he was reasonably confident that Danny was the guy Ethan liked. And Stiles knew Danny better than almost anyone. If there was anyone who could help Danny see Ethan differently, it was Stiles. He just needed a plan.

~*~*~*~

Cora rolled up to the house around 7pm. Stiles wasn’t surprised - Ethan had told him to expect her when they’d gotten back to the house earlier - but he was a little anxious. Cora hadn’t been real forthcoming on what to expect, clothing-wise. She’d just promised it would all be to Peter’s tastes...and flattering. Which, actually, Stiles figured probably fell under the category of Peter’s tastes as well.

Still, Stiles liked Cora, so it wasn’t a hardship to sit down with her and go through the purchases. There were several full suits - more than Stiles really knew what to do with, if he was being honest. There were also dress pants and button-ups that weren’t part of the suit-sets. An array of ties and pocket squares. Jeans in several colors and an array of shirts - polos, tees, and long-sleeved henleys. There were socks - dressy and casual - and several pairs of both dress shoes and sneakers, as well as a variety of boots. There were five - five - different swimsuits, varying from board shorts to a speedo Stiles was certain he would never wear. There were work-out clothes, and loungewear far nicer than the ratty sweatpants and threadbare tees Stiles normally chilled in when he was being a lazy homebody. There were even pajama sets - some silky and some that seemed snuggly-warm.

There were boxers and boxer-briefs and even bikini-briefs in a multitude of colors, and Cora spent a little time explaining about which ones ought to be worn with which outfits, to keep the lines of said clothing smooth. There were soft, plush sweaters that Stiles was sure would dwarf him but which looked so cozy. And then there were the leggings, which Cora suggested pairing with the cozy sweaters for a ‘relaxed look.’ Stiles had never worn leggings before, but he supposed they looked comfy enough. And they were soft to the touch, which was nice. There were also what looked like club clothes - leather and studded fabric and mesh and all manner of things like that - and while Stiles wasn’t big on clubbing, he thought at least some of them looked like they might be fun to wear. And he wouldn’t mind dressing a little sexy, if the opportunity arose.

And then, of course, there was an entire stack of boxes full of lingerie, which had made Stiles’ entire face flame up when he opened the first one.

“You know I’m not a girl, right?” Stiles asked, after slamming the lid back on a box full of lace.

Cora gave him an exasperated look. “Guys can wear sexy lingerie, Stiles. Everything I got for you is made for men, including the lingerie. I wouldn’t expect you to cram your dick into a pair of women’s panties. That would just be cruel. They’re all cut with room in the front for that.”

“Lovely.” Stiles muttered, lifting one of the lids to take another peek at the items in question. “But like...why? I’ve never worn anything like this...”

Cora shrugged. “Uncle Peter likes pretty things. He likes to look at pretty things, and he likes to touch pretty things, and sometimes he likes when his pretty things are wrapped up in other pretty things.”

Stiles huffed out a small sound halfway between amusem*nt and annoyance. “Not sure I like the idea of being a pretty thing.”

“Can’t help what you are.” Cora pointed out. “You don’t have to wear them, obviously. But I know what Uncle Peter likes to see on his companions and I purchased accordingly.”

Stiles hummed, closing the box again. “Well, lingerie aside...it’s all gorgeous. Not all to my tastes, mind you, but I can’t deny how beautiful it all is. So thank you.”

“Well, it is my job.” Cora joked, though she was smiling fondly at Stiles. “It’s not like it was a hardship to go shopping for you. You really are lovely, you know, which makes it a bit like picking out clothes for my own personal Ken doll.”

“Really, though.” Stiles surveyed his room - where Cora had directed Peter’s staff to carry all of the boxes and bags she’d brought with her - and couldn’t help teasing her a little. “Do you want to be my sister? I always imagined this is the kind of a thing a sister would do. Fashion help, I mean.”

Cora laughed at him, her eyes bright as she teased back. “I can’t be your sister, but if you play your cards right - put on some of that lingerie I picked out, for instance - you might be able to make me your niece.”

Stiles groaned, because he’d walked right into that one. Still... “I think we both know it’d take a lot more than some lace panties to make Peter commit.”

“Oh there’s more than just lace panties in those boxes.” Cora stuck out her tongue at Stiles when he shot her a bitchy look, then added. “But hey, a girl can dream, right? It’d be nice to see Uncle Peter settle down.”

Stiles didn’t dignify that with a response, instead changing the subject. “So, I noticed you’ve got a whole bunch of piercings-”

“No sh*t.”

“Don’t interrupt me, it’s rude.” Stiles said, ignoring Cora’s amused snort as he pressed on. “And I was wondering, do you have any tattoos?”

Cora sighed, sprawling herself across the chaise. “No. I wanted to get a triskelion, but I’ve been told it’s not appropriate, given my engagement.”

When Stiles made a questioning sound, Cora explained. “Big families like ours, we have symbols. Not crests or anything, exactly, but...symbols, that everyone knows are ours. The Hunters have them, too. For us Hales, it’s a triple-spiral triskelion. It’s tradition to get your family’s symbol tattooed on you. Derek’s, for instance, is between his shoulder blades. Laura has hers at the small of her back.”

Stiles desperately wanted to ask if Peter had one - and, if so, where - but he wasn’t quite willing to admit that he hadn’t done a thorough enough study of Peter’s body to know the answer. So, instead, he asked. “Why can’t you get one, though?”

“Because I won’t be a Hale forever.” Cora explained, something pained underlining the words. “I’ll be dragged off to Boston to live with my fiance’s pack and so I should wait and get their symbol tattooed on me.”

“But you were still born a Hale.” Stiles murmured, and Cora shrugged as if that didn’t matter, though he could see on her face that it did, at least to her. “Why haven’t you just...gone and gotten it done?”

Cora flashed him a small smile at that, looking amused again. “Tattooing a werewolf isn’t that simple. If you use regular tattoo ink, our body absorbs it and it has to be burned back to the surface. Doing it that way is considered barbaric and savage, though, so we use special ink that’s infused with magic.”

When Stiles just tipped his head at her questioningly, she huffed and admitted. “Emissaries make it. But no emissary is going to make it for someone who isn’t in their pack...and Marin has been forbidden from providing me with ink, since getting the triskelion on me might piss off Jason enough to break the marriage agreement.”

Stiles frowned at that. “I thought your fiance’s name was Ian.” It had been easy enough to remember, considering it was Stiles’ ex-boyfriend’s name as well...but maybe he’d heard her wrong?

“It is.” Cora said, rolling her eyes. “Jason is his older brother, and the Alpha Wolf of Boston. He’s the one who made the arrangement with Peter.”

“Oh.” Stiles sighed, flopping back onto his bed. “Well, that sucks. You should be allowed to get a tattoo if you want, especially one that means so much to you.”

Cora hummed softly. “Life is rarely that simple, especially for those born into families like mine. We don’t really get to do what we want. We have to do what’s best for the family; for the pack; for peace in the territory. Even Derek got the short end of the stick, first because he was Laura’s second and now because he’s Peter’s heir.”

And that intrigued Stiles enough that he pushed up onto his elbows to squint at her. “What do you mean?”

“Derek’s an artist.” Cora explained, the words heavy and laced with resignation. “There’s art done by him throughout the house, actually. You can look for it. He’s...amazing, honestly. Crazy talented. But he can’t pursue that, because he has duties and responsibilities. He’s always had duties and responsibilities, so he always knew he’d never be able to follow his heart on this. But it still sucks, watching the people you love hide away the parts of themselves that make them who they are because it’s expected.”

Stiles wondered what parts Peter was hiding away, but he didn’t dare ask.

~*~*~*~

Tuesday, November 27th, 2018

Stiles wasn’t sure if Derek had been avoiding him or if it had been coincidence that had him not running into the man after he’d made it clear he and Derek were going to talk about what had happened his first night in Peter’s house. Whichever it was, it was lunchtime on Tuesday before he managed to pin the man down.

Stiles had spent his morning working, then elected to take a swim before lunch. He’d actually intended to use the sauna after swimming but had started feeling ill - dizzy and just generally unwell - while showering off after his swim and decided he’d better go and eat something before he passed out. He hadn’t eaten breakfast again - simply hadn’t felt hungry when he first woke up - and wondered if maybe his blood sugar was low or something as he toweled off and started pulling on clean, dry clothes. Nothing fancy, but it was clothing Cora had given him, as she’d made it clear that Peter wouldn’t be pleased to see him in his own clothing now that he had the stuff from Cora.

Standing in the changing room, Stiles skimmed into a simple pair of cotton briefs, followed by skin-tight leggings so soft he couldn’t help petting over them once he had them all the way up. They were a deep forest green with a pattern of gold and red leaves on them; very seasonally appropriate, really. Glancing at the full-length mirror on the one wall, Stiles had to admit they made his legs and ass look fantastic. And really, early in high school, Stiles had befriended a group of drag queens from his hometown, so he wasn’t exactly a stranger to wearing things that crossed gender boundaries. He shrugged on a sweater next. It was a deep, rust-orange color, with a cowl neck that showed off his throat and collarbones, the color making his eyes almost glow. It was soft and warm and fell to mid-thigh, loose around his body in a way that was somehow flattering.

He sat back down on the bench, pulling on a pair of boots Cora had brought him. They were a reddish-brown leather, supple and practically molding to his calves when he started tightening the laces. They weren’t heeled, though a few of the pairs she’d brought him were, but had a low, one-inch platform sole and Stiles figured they were safe enough, even given how clumsy he tended to be. They came up to an inch or so below his knee and he genuinely liked them. He liked a lot of the clothing Cora had brought him, actually. The more he tried on, the more he found himself approving of what she’d brought him.

He still wasn’t quite ready to put on any of the lingerie, but...well. Maybe eventually.

A noise from the doorway had Stiles turning his head, still curled forward to tie the laces of his second boot. He met Derek’s eyes, the beta seeming startled at the sight of him. Derek took a half-step backwards, muttering. “I’ll come back later.”

Stiles straightened up quickly, surging all the way to his feet, lips parted to call Derek back. He wasn’t sure if he was going to berate the other man or if he was going to simply let Derek know he was done in the pool, but he didn’t get a chance to do either. The whole room spun sickeningly around him and Stiles felt his legs give out under him even as his vision went black at the edges and he struggled to remain conscious.

He heard Derek shout in alarm. Felt it as strong arms caught him before he could hit the floor. Whimpered miserably as his stomach lurched at the movement as Derek swung him into a bridal-carry, cradling him against his chest. He could hear Derek’s footsteps echoing as the man carried him out to the elevator, but Stiles kept his eyes closed until he felt everything in him start to settle down. Thankfully, it was only a minute or so later that Stiles’ stomach and head both seemed to calm and he sighed softly, letting his eyes open.

He blinked at the tense line of Derek’s jaw, only inches from his face, and muttered. “Stop clenching your teeth before you break them.”

“My teeth are fine.” Derek bit out, not bothering to look down at Stiles. “I’m taking you to your room and calling a doctor for you.”

“No.” Stiles protested immediately. When Derek didn’t acknowledge him, he smacked Derek in the chest and snapped angrily. “I said no, dammit. I just need to eat something. I stood up too quickly when I was already feeling dizzy from skipping breakfast. Bring me to the kitchen.”

“Stiles-”

“You will not disobey me again.” Stiles said coldly, clamping down on his magic when he felt it start to make the air around them crackle with static, reining it back in quickly. “If you try to take me to my room, I’ll scream until Peter comes and we’ll have it out with him present. I don’t think that’s what you want, so. Kitchen. Now.”

Growling, Derek reached out and smacked the first floor button, just before they reached it. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” Stiles offered dryly, sighing again when Derek stepped off the elevator before adding. “I can probably walk to the kitchen. I’m not feeling dizzy anymore.”

“I’ll carry you.” Derek muttered, already heading in that direction.

Since Stiles felt like he’d won this round, he didn’t argue further. Just let Derek carry him into the kitchen, where Marin was watching them with wide eyes. He smiled at her even as Derek set him down on a stool at the breakfast bar, asking softly. “Would you mind making me tea and a bowl of soup?”

“Of course.” Marin agreed, immediately bustling around the kitchen to get everything she needed. “Are you feeling unwell? I can make you a potion, I’m sure.”

“Just waited too long to eat, that’s all.” Stiles promised, stifling a yawn against the back of his hand. “Got a bit lightheaded and Derek panicked.”

“He fainted.” Derek snapped, already heading towards the door.

Stiles sucked in an annoyed breath between his teeth, then said. “Don’t you dare leave this kitchen or I swear to god I’ll follow you, lunch be damned.” Derek froze and Stiles added sharply. “We need to discuss your nasty habit of trying to ignore my orders. I know Peter told you - told everyone - to obey me unless I’m contradicting one of his orders, so what the f*ck is your problem?”

Derek spun around, eyes glowing blue, and snarled. “I am trying to protect you.”

“I didn’t ask you to protect me.” Stiles said, the words low but firm. “I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself. I’ve been doing it for years, thank you very much. So from now on, when I give an order, you will obey it or I’ll bring it to Peter and demand he handle it. Are we clear?”

Derek was clenching his jaw again, teeth grinding together. Stiles could see the muscle in his jaw twitching from across the room. But Derek nodded once, short and curt, and that was enough of an agreement for Stiles, at least for now. “Good.”

After a tense pause, Stiles sighed and added softly. “I don’t want us to be at odds, Derek. I’m only going to be here for a month. Less, now. I’d like it if we could at least try to get along. Please.”

Derek’s shoulders slumped, eyes back to normal as they dropped to the floor. He sounded resigned and weary when he answered. “Fine, Stiles. Can I go now?”

Stiles studied his defeated posture for a long moment, but finally nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

Derek was gone a heartbeat later and Stiles turned back to Marin just as she was sliding a cup of tea across the island to him. “Drink. Your soup will be done soon.”

With a sigh, Stiles did as he was told.

~*~*~*~

Thursday, November 29th, 2018

Stiles felt like the credit card from Peter was burning a hole in his pocket when he knocked on the door to Peter’s office after lunch. When Peter called out for him to enter, Stiles opened the door and stepped inside, though he didn’t go far or shut the door behind himself. When he didn’t speak - or come further into the room - Peter finally looked up, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Did you need something, pet?”

“I have some errands to run.” Stiles explained. “I’d like to leave now, if possible.”

He’d meant to say something the night before, but after having dinner alone, Peter had found Stiles in the library, dragged Stiles to Peter’s room, and then f*cked Stiles until he fell into an exhausted slumber. He’d woken up alone in his own bed this morning, Peter nowhere to be found. So Stiles hadn’t had a chance.

Peter tsked softly, frowning at his desk calendar. “I don’t believe Ethan is available to take you right now.” Which Stiles knew; that was why he was going now. “I suppose I can ask Derek-”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Stiles said simply, though his tone was deliberately even. “I haven’t quite forgiven him yet, so I’d prefer someone else.”

Peter sighed, but nodded. “Very well. Jeremy is available. Do you want to take the jeep, or is one of my cars acceptable this time?”

“One of the cars is fine.” Stiles debated with himself for a moment, then crossed the room and leaned down to brush a light kiss over Peter’s lips. He ignored the way the alpha startled, drawing back after only a few seconds and murmuring. “Thank you. I appreciate you arranging this on such short notice.”

Peter blinked at him in confusion, but nodded again. “Of course, pet. It’s no trouble.”

“It’s some trouble, I’m sure. So really, thank you.” Stiles slicked his tongue slowly over his lower lip, thrilling when Peter’s eyes tracked the movement, then murmured huskily. “I’ll thank you properly tonight, alpha.”

Peter growled softly, his eyes flashing, and Stiles asked quickly. “How soon will Jeremy be ready to go? I’ve got a few stops to make, so...”

Peter huffed, but allowed Stiles to step back without complaint. “I’ll tell him to have the car ready in fifteen minutes. Go on, then. I’ll see you tonight for dinner.”

Stiles smiled brightly at that, pleased at the idea of not eating another meal alone. “Awesome. I’ll see you tonight, Peter.” He slipped out of the office quickly, not giving Peter a chance to change his mind. He had places to go and things to buy, after all.

~*~*~*~

Jeremy was what Stiles would have thought of, if he’d been asked to picture a bodyguard/driver for a mob boss. He was a few years older than Stiles and just as well-muscled as the others Stiles had met, but he was more...distant, Stiles supposed was a good word for it. He kept the divider closed between the front and back portions of the car while driving, not bothering Stiles with conversation or small talk. He asked only what was necessary for him to get Stiles to where he wanted to go, seemingly uninterested in why Stiles was giving him those specific stops.

Derek was always a bit gruff - a bit terse, even - but Stiles put that down to the tension between them, stemming from his choice to disobey Stiles that first night. Ethan, of course, treated Stiles like a friend. And really, Stiles preferred that, most of the time. But for today, fewer questions was better. So Jeremy was fine. He seemed committed to the job, anyway, following only a few steps behind Stiles as he moved through the various stores they went to, alert and watchful and protective. Stiles didn’t think he could ever be used to having a shadow like this, but there was something oddly comforting about it.

Stiles had been protecting himself for most of his life. His parents had made sure he could, each in their own way, and Stiles loved them both for that. For the confidence it had given him; the self-assuredness of knowing he could handle himself. He had never needed anyone else to protect him. And still, there was something about it that made Stiles feel a little warm; a little pleased. Because Peter was determined to keep Stiles safe, and that was why he was shopping with a bodyguard.

Still, Stiles did his best to get through his various errands as quickly as possible. Peter hadn’t given him a time-limit beyond saying he would see Stiles for dinner, but he didn’t want to push his luck. His final purchase pushed his luck a bit as it was. He had to go to three different shops before he was able to convince someone to sell him what he wanted, and it required a lot of fast-talking and a higher price than he would have liked, but it wasn’t as though Peter’s credit card couldn’t handle it.

Still, the whole thing made him a little anxious as he slid back into the car for the final time, telling Jeremy they could head back to the house now. More than that, Stiles felt...drained. Exhausted, in a bone-deep way, despite the fact that he’d slept well the night before. Groaning, he kicked his shoes off, rubbing absently at his aching feet and ankles through his socks before laying down across the wide, comfortable leather seats. The car’s engine was a low rumble and the vehicle’s movement was soothing. Stiles let his eyes close, certain Jeremy would let him know when they reached the house. Surely a little car-nap wouldn’t hurt.

~*~*~*~

Stiles woke up as he was lifted into someone’s arms, grumbling and instinctively struggling a little. A deep rumble had him settling down even as he registered Peter’s scent, nuzzling sleepily into the man’s chest. Peter’s voice was low and soothing when he spoke. “That’s it, little one. Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmm...” Stiles hummed softly, then slurred. “My stuff...”

“Jeremy has already brought your purchases to your room.” Peter told him, and Stiles felt it as the man began climbing the stairs. “Rest. I’ll have dinner brought up to your room in a couple of hours. Then, if you’re not too tired after you eat, you can come find me. Otherwise I’ll let you rest tonight. I sometimes forget how delicate you humans are. I’ll try not to wear you out this much again.”

Stiles wanted to protest. He’d never tired easily - had played lacrosse all through high school and college - and he was perfectly capable of keeping up with Peter. A little sex wasn’t going to wear him out. But his mind was hazy, and his limbs felt heavy, and he was being pulled down into unconsciousness before he could make his tongue form the words.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

Friday, November 30th, 2018

Stiles woke up feeling a bit better. Less exhausted, anyway. He had woken up the evening before when Marin brought him dinner, before falling asleep again almost as soon as he’d finished eating. Now, as he stretched himself awake, he wondered if maybe he was coming down with something. Or hell, maybe Peter was right and he’d just been pushing his body too far recently. He’d been making use of Peter’s personal gym and the pool every day, after all, determined to maintain some sort of fitness routine while he was being treated like a pampered pet by the alpha. As he stood and stretched further, Stiles let out a hiss of discomfort when his abdomen protested. He curled forward, pressing his hand lightly to the aching skin of his belly.

It was tender to the touch, like a bruise, though there was no discoloration there. He rubbed gently to try to soothe the ache away, frowning down at the slight curve below his navel, just above the jut of his hips. It wasn’t much, and there was no softness there, but Stiles reminded himself to cut back on the carbs a little. He wasn’t used to the rich foods Marin liked to make and clearly not even his attempt to increase his exercise level with daily workouts was enough to combat the extra calories entirely.

After a quick shower, Stiles dressed in another pair of leggings and a soft sweater before heading down to the kitchen. He ate a small dish of plain yogurt with a little granola and some raspberries sprinkled on top, because after his almost-fainting episode on Tuesday, Marin had become extra-demanding about him eating breakfast. He had learned quickly that it was easier to just appease her by eating something small, rather than trying to argue or sneak past her for his coffee.

After breakfast he retreated back to his room for the rest of the morning, devoting himself to his work. And when he strolled into the kitchen again at lunchtime, it was with some of his purchases from the day before.

He sat at the island, offering Marin a wide smile. She smiled back, small and enigmatic. “Hello, Stiles. You seem in good spirits this afternoon.”

“I am.” He assured her, before sliding a long, flat, rectangular object, wrapped in pretty gold foil paper across the island’s countertop towards her. “I got you a present.”

Marin blinked at him, lips pulling down into a small frown even as she reached for it. “Why?”

“For being kind to me.” Stiles explained, shrugging when her eyes shot back to his face, wide and stunned. “You didn’t have to, but you’ve been really welcoming. I appreciate it, so.”

Marin carefully slid her nail under the edge of the paper, peeling up the tape. She unwrapped it carefully - Stiles imagined she wanted to keep the paper - and revealed a black velvet jewelry box. She brushed her fingers over the top, shooting Stiles an uncertain look. “Stiles, I don’t-”

“Just open it.” He said gently, lips still curved up into a sweet smile. “Please. It’ll hurt my feelings if you try to refuse it, after I spent so much time picking it out.”

Marin swallowed hard, but obligingly lifted the lid. Her gasp filled the kitchen, one hand flying up to press against her mouth, which had dropped open in surprise. And while Stiles couldn’t see inside the box from where he was sitting, he knew exactly what she was seeing. He had bought it, after all. A diamond tennis bracelet. A single row of square-cut diamonds, set one after the other in fourteen karat gold. Slender enough that the overall piece was delicate, but with each diamond large enough to glitter brilliantly. He was sure it would look beautiful on Marin; was sure it would look beautiful on anyone, honestly.

Marin let her hand drop, fingers brushing lightly over the piece of jewelry before she shut the lid and slid the box back towards Stiles. “I can’t accept this.”

“Yes, you can.” Stiles nudged it back towards her. “It’s a gift. A thank you, as I said. You don’t want to hurt my feelings or offend me by refusing, right?”

Hesitantly, Marin opened the box again, this time going so far as to lift the bracelet out of the box. “I...I’ve never owned something like this. It’s beautiful.”

Grinning, Stiles circled the island so he could help her clasp the piece of jewelry around her wrist. “There.” he said, once it was in place. “It fits well. I had to guess at the length. And the jeweler said he could adjust it if necessary, but I’m glad I seem to have gotten it right on the first try.”

Marin brushed her fingers over it again, then shot Stiles a puzzled look. “When you said you had a gift for me, I assumed it would be something magic-related. A book, perhaps, or a rare ingredient. I certainly wasn’t expecting jewelry.”

Stiles shrugged. “You’re an Emissary. I figured people buy you magic crap all the time and it probably gets really frustrating that that’s all anyone ever seems to see of you. Just your magic, I mean. But you’re more than your magic so I wanted to get you something else. And I figured, who doesn’t like something sparkly every now and then, right?”

Huffing out a laugh, Marin nodded to the stool Stiles had been sitting on. “Go on and sit, then, while I make you something to eat.” She touched his arm lightly, adding. “And thank you. It’s nice to be seen as more than just an Emissary. As you said, it doesn’t happen often.”

Pleased with himself, Stiles sat.

~*~*~*~

Ethan had wandered into the kitchen while Stiles was finishing up his lunch, and he’d waved an envelope at the man, laughing when Ethan grabbed for it much more eagerly than Marin had with her gift. Ethan’s blushing face when he saw that it was a gift certificate for six massage sessions from Indulgence - specifically with Danny - told Stiles he’d made the right choice with this gift. It was Danny that Ethan had a thing for, just like he’d though. And Stiles was sure that getting to put his hands on Ethan’s naked, muscular body would have Danny looking at the werewolf in a whole new light. None of which he said, but Stiles felt like the wink he gave Ethan while he was stammering out his thanks had conveyed the point well enough.

~*~*~*~

Derek was harder for Stiles to pin down, despite the fact that the man lived in the guest cottage on the grounds and was - presumably - around more often than not. Stiles actually went actively looking for Derek after lunch, forgoing his daily swim in light of his recent exhaustion. He traipsed all over the house - aboveground and below - but couldn’t find him. Finally, he walked himself across the grounds, through the garden, towards a stretch of wooded area. The guest cottage was there and Stiles admired it on the approach, knowing from his research that it had once been a carriage house that had been converted around the time when cars had started becoming more popular than carriages. That was when the multi-car garage had been built, closer to the house for convenience’s sake, and the carriage house had become a guest cottage instead.

Stiles thought it was sweet, that Peter let Derek stay in the cottage rather than the main house, ostensibly to give the both of them their own space and privacy. It kept his heir close without forcing them into each other’s pockets all the time. Cora, Stiles knew, kept an apartment in Manhattan, though she had a room in Peter’s house as well and had told Stiles she sometimes spent a night or two there, when the mood struck or if Peter was hosting any sort of event. Stiles knocked on the door of the cottage, humming softly to himself while he waited. He let his eyes wander over what he could see of the garden - tidy flowerbeds, mostly slumbering this late into autumn, but with the occasional spill of color from late-blooming flowers that weren’t afraid of the frost. A large pumpkin - uncarved, so clearly not a remnant from Halloween but rather just a nod to the season in general - was sitting to one side of the cottage’s front door. It was a cheery pop of bright orange that made Stiles smile.

When a few minutes had passed, Stiles tried pressing the bell. He could hear the pleasant chime of it ring through the cottage, but there was still no response from inside. With a sigh, Stiles placed the green gift bag he’d been carrying down on the top step, close to the door but not blocking it. He fussed for a moment with the white tissue paper sticking out of the top, then decided it was about as perfect as it was going to get and forced himself to leave it alone. He hoped Derek would like the art supplies he’d picked out - an expensive set of charcoals and several pads of paper specifically designed for said charcoals - and he would’ve liked to give it to the man personally, as a gesture of goodwill between them, but it was what it was.

With a soft sigh, Stiles turned and headed back towards the house, shivering a little at the bite in the air that often heralded snow. He wasn’t sure he was ready for snow; thought it was a bit too early for that still. He hunched his shoulders against the chilly wind, quickening his steps so he could get inside faster and cursing himself for not having grabbed a jacket before wandering outside. His sweater was plenty warm enough when he was inside, but it was no match for the autumn weather. Fallen leaves - red, orange, golden-yellow, and brown - danced around Stiles’ feet as he hurried along the garden path. The sky overhead was grey and miserable, full of heavy clouds that threatened rain.

‘Or snow,’ Stiles thought again as another shiver chased itself down his spine and he sped from a brisk walk to almost a jog, determined to get inside.

As he glanced up at the house, Stiles realized that the lights he could see in some of the second-floor windows were in Peter’s bedroom. A shadowed figure passed by one of the windows and Stiles shivered once more. Ducking his head, he slipped into an all-out run; a sort of mad dash for the warmth of the house, suddenly desperate to be out of the cold. He stubbornly ignored the voice in his head reminding him that very little about Peter’s house was any more welcoming than the frigid air of the garden.

~*~*~*~

Stiles was hanging out with Cora in the den when dinner rolled around, and Cora waved off Marin’s offer to cook in favor of ordering Chinese. Stiles liked Cora. He liked her a lot, honestly. She was sarcastic and snarky, but also sweet and funny. She teased Stiles, and they liked a lot of the same movies and tv shows and music. He sort of hoped they’d be able to stay friends, even once things with Peter were over. And he was having a blast, watching her critique The Devil Wears Prada while tearing through a frankly obscene amount of food. He forgot sometimes, just how much shifters could eat.

Non-supernaturals often didn’t realize just how many calories it took to sustain any sort of magic, but it was a lot. It was something Stiles had needed to account for, on the rare occasions he actually used his magic, especially if he was doing something that took more power. But Cora was a werewolf, so she had a more constant sort of magic usage that required a higher caloric intake. It wasn’t just things like popping claws or dropping fang, either. It was all of the little ways her inherent magic burned calories. Things like her naturally extended lifespan and her body’s healing factor. Things like her heightened senses, and her increased speed and strength.

As the credits rolled, Stiles figured now was as good a time as any to give her the gift he’d picked up. He tapped her arm, holding out the little purple-and-black gift bag with a grin.

Cora squealed as she took it, immediately pawing through the tissue paper. “Oh my god, you got me something? I don’t even care that it’s not my birthday. What is it?”

Stiles watched her brow furrow as her fingers curled around the small bottle, drawing it out of the bag. “Stiles, what is thi-”

She cut herself off with a gasp, head snapping up to meet Stiles’ eyes even as she clutched the little bottle of magical tattoo ink to her chest. “H-how...?”

Stiles shrugged, not wanting to admit that he’d made it himself. “Does it matter how? You deserve to get your family’s symbol tattooed on you. Now you can.”

Cora’s eyes filled with tears and she threw herself forward, hugging Stiles tightly. “You’re amazing. You know that, right? You’re...f*ck, you made me cry, and I don’t even care. Thank you.”

Stiles hugged her back, rubbing his cheek against the top of her head in a light scenting gesture. “You’re very welcome. Just...promise me we’ll stay friends, okay?”

Sniffling wetly, Cora drew back to scrub at her damp cheeks. “Why wouldn’t we stay friends?” When Stiles just gave her a pointed look, Cora huffed and rolled her eyes. “Oh f*ck off with that. I’m not going to suddenly stop speaking to you when Uncle Peter stops sticking his dick in you.”

“You’re so charming and ladylike.” Stiles deadpanned, making Cora laugh and hit him lightly with one of the throw pillows. “Seriously, though. No matter how badly it ends with him, promise we’ll stay friends.”

“I promise.” Cora said softly, before a mischievous smile curved her lips and she added teasingly. “Though I still say the best plan is to convince Uncle Peter he wants to keep you forever.”

Stiles’ heart ached at the thought, though he forced his voice to remain light as he replied. “Peter’s not interested in any sort of commitment or permanence. You know that as well as I do.”

Cora sighed, but nodded. “I know. You’re just the only one of his companions I’ve ever been able to stomach being around for more than a few minutes. And Uncle Peter is...I don’t know. He’s different with you, somehow. So forgive me for getting my hopes up.”

“No hope here.” Stiles admonished, as much to himself as to Cora. “For my sake. But we’re staying friends so it doesn’t matter.”

“I suppose.” Cora agreed, resting her cheek against his shoulder as she curled into his side. “C’mon, it’s your turn to pick a movie.”

Stiles picked up the remote and another spring roll, flicking through the options on Netflix while biting into it. Cora snorted, muttering. “You eat as much as a werewolf. I thought you said you don’t use your magic?”

“I don’t.” Stiles mumbled around his mouthful of cabbage, settling on Sleepy Hollow. “I’m just hungry today. I don’t normally eat this much.”

Cora just hummed agreeably and Stiles started the movie.

~*~*~*~

Peter stuck his head into the room before Depp had fainted for the second time in the movie. Cora paused it, tipping her head at him. “Yes, Uncle Peter?”

“I’m taking Stiles out tonight. He’ll be meeting me at Venom around eleven, though I’ve got to head out sooner.” He flicked his eyes to Stiles, then back to Cora. “Can I trust you to dress him in something suitably alluring, dear niece?”

“Of course.” Cora said, inclining her head in agreement. “Do you have any specific requests?”

Peter hummed consideringly, finally murmuring. “Cover his throat. I know that’s not normally my preference, but given the setting...”

Cora nodded again, something calculating passing behind her eyes and making Stiles wary as he flicked his gaze between her and Peter. “I understand. I’ll make sure he’s ready.”

“Thank you.”

Peter was backing out of the room when Stiles muttered. “God forbid you acknowledge me.”

Cora tensed beside him, but Peter paused, leveling him with a heated look. “No need to get nasty, pet. I’ll give you all the attention you desire later.”

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, raising his chin and leveling Peter with a frosty look. “Keep blowing hot and cold with me and you’ll see just how nasty I can get.”

Peter hummed consideringly, then flashed a toothy smile at Stiles, eyes flashing red. “Trust me, my little fox, that’s not a fight you want to start. I’ll see you tonight.”

He was gone before Stiles could say anything else, and Cora was whirling on him with a horrified look. “Are you insane? You can’t talk to him like that!”

“Clearly I can.” Stiles pointed out, rolling his eyes. “Peter has an attitude problem and I’ve got no intention of putting up with it.”

“You’re gonna die.” Cora warned, though there was a smile pulling at the corner of her lips so he wasn’t exactly quaking in his boots at her words. “Seriously, though. Uncle Peter is used to getting his way. Nobody pushes back at him the way you just did.”

Stiles shrugged, grabbing the remote and unpausing their movie. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He told her, keeping his eyes trained on the TV when she opened her mouth to say something else. “Let’s just finish our movie, okay? I’ll worry about dealing with Peter later.”

Cora closed her mouth and settled herself back against Stiles, but he knew this conversation wasn’t over. All he’d done was buy himself some time before she brought it up again. Still, it was better than nothing and he’d take the delay gratefully.

~*~*~*~

“Jesus why are these so tight?” Stiles griped as he did his best to pull the only vaguely stretchy PVC shorts up his thighs and over his ass. “Cora, there’s no way these are going to fit.”

Cora snorted from outside the bathroom door. “Of course they will. Everything I purchased is perfectly sized to you, Stiles. Do you need help?”

Stiles huffed in annoyance, but had to admit defeat. “Apparently yes.”

Cora was laughing as she walked in, and then she was rolling her eyes and turning on her heel immediately. She was back before Stiles could question it, holding a scrap of red lace and ribbons, which made him tense up. “No, absolutely not.”

“The shorts won’t fit if you aren’t wearing the right kind of underwear.” Cora said pointedly, gesturing to where his boxer-briefs were scrunched up against the PVC shorts. “Exhibit A. Quit bitching and just put this on.”

Still muttering under his breath, Stiles shucked both the shorts and his underwear, taking the ones Cora was holding out. He tried to tell himself it was just like the jockstrap he’d worn when playing lacrosse, only lace instead of cotton. And it was, sort of. A lace jockstrap somehow felt a lot different than a sports one, though, and Stiles honestly wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Not until he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror. Because red had always been Stiles’ color and the cut of the underwear framed his ass in a truly spectacular way. He couldn’t help twisting around to study it a bit, pleasantly surprised by the visual.

“See?” Cora teased, watching him preen at his reflection. “I know what I’m doing. Now put the shorts on. They should go up smoother this time.”

With an agreeable hum, Stiles skimmed the shiny black shorts back up his legs. They still clung to his thighs, but this time they went all the way up, with no bunching fabric to catch against. They weren’t long at all; they came only a couple of inches down his thighs, in fact. But they did cover his ass entirely, so that was a small favor. They sat low on his hips and he frowned as he fussed with the laces that closed the fly, trying to sort them out.

Cora’s hands brushed his away, untangling the laces with ease and pulling them closed. She frowned as she did so, straightening out the little placket of fabric that covered him under the laces. “Have you gained weight since I measured you?”

“Uh...maybe a little?” Stiles said, frowning. “Not more than a couple of pounds, though.”

“Hmmm.” She finished with the laces, tipping her head to the side as she studied Stiles intently. “I had to leave the laces a little looser. You seem a little thicker around the hips.”

Stiles frowned down at himself even as he took the shirt Cora was offering to him - another black PVC piece, with a zipper that went from the neckline to just between his shoulder blades in the back. It was a crop-top with no sleeves, but had a mock-turtleneck. After unzipping it and pulling it on, Stiles realized it also had an oval cutout in the front that bared the top of his chest, though thankfully his nipples were still covered. The bottom edge of the shirt stopped just at the bottom of his sternum and he couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy about just how much of his skin was on display.

“Turn and let me get the zipper.” Cora told him, and Stiles obliged. The shirt pulled snug across his chest as she zipped it up and he blushed a bit at how little the outfit left to the imagination.

Cora’s hands settled on his waist for a moment as she circled back to the front of him, her head tipped curiously to one side. “Damn. You’re thicker in the waist, too, not just the hips.” Her lips pursed as she considered him for a long moment before finally sighing and shaking her head. “It’s not much, so it should be fine. Uncle Peter probably won’t even notice it. But let me know if you put on more than, like, another five pounds, because I’ll have to swap some of your stuff out for different sizes.”

She glanced up at Stiles’ face, her brow furrowing, before her whole expression softened. “C’mon, don’t smell like that. You look amazing, okay? A few extra pounds hasn’t ruined your figure, I promise. But some of the stuff I picked out is really form-fitting and there’s no spare room for even that little bit of difference, that’s all.” She nodded at the door, adding. “Time for accessories.”

Stiles followed her back into his bedroom, letting her help him into a pair of silk socks and then a positively gorgeous pair of thigh-high boots made of the same black PVC as his outfit. They zipped up the inside of his leg, but also had a series of silver buckles on them and Stiles had to admire how long his legs looked in them. They had a slight heel, but it was a sort of platform wedge, with an inch of added height at the front and two inches at the back, so he felt relatively stable in them. Cora wound a belt around his hips - black, with two rows of square silver studs decorating it - explaining that it was just an accessory so it didn’t matter that there were no belt loops on his shorts.

He let Cora put eyeliner on him, and a soft silvery eyeshadow as well. He also let her style his hair into artfully tousled spikes. She slid silver bangles onto both of his wrists - fifteen or so on each - and griped about his unpierced ears, but Stiles wasn’t about to let her go shoving metal into him, especially not on the fly, so it was what it was and Cora finally declared him perfectly dressed.

As he moved to walk out of the room - he had to head to the club, and Cora would be heading home - she suddenly ran back to Stiles’ closet. “Wait, wait! It’s freezing out, you need a coat...”

She came back out of the walk-in closet with a black leather trench coat that would cover Stiles all the way down to his knees, though she refused to hand it to him. “You can put it on downstairs. I won’t get to see Peter’s reaction to your outfit, so at least let me see everyone else’s.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Stiles said, rolling his eyes when all Cora did was shrug. Still, it was a little enough ask, so Stiles followed her out of his room and into the elevator.

When he followed Cora out of the elevator and into the foyer, it was to find Derek and Ethan waiting. Ethan let out an approving wolf-whistle right away. “Wow, Stiles! Peter’s jaw is gonna hit the floor when he sees you. Give us a turn, yeah? Show off the whole thing.”

Laughing now, delighted at Ethan’s teasing, Stiles obligingly did a little spin. Ethan’s lighthearted cheering had him smiling widely as he came to a stop, which only made the dark look on Derek’s face more of a shock. Stiles’ throat felt tight all of a sudden as he met Derek’s glowing blue eyes, wondering what he’d done that had put such a stormy look on Derek’s face.

“Everything okay?” He asked, forcing the words out past the lump in his throat.

“Sure. Everything’s fine.” Derek growled, his eyes returning to their normal color as he scowled fiercely at Stiles and added. “Just didn’t realize you were going out practically naked.”

Stiles’ cheeks flooded with embarrassed color even as Cora snapped. “Don’t be a f*cking asshole, Derek. Stiles looks amazing, and he’s perfectly dressed for a club. Take the stick out of your ass and apologize.”

Derek met Stiles’ eyes again for just a moment, then looked away and muttered. “My apologies. Cora knows more about fashion than I do, so I’m sure she’s right.”

Cora huffed in annoyance, but turned to help Stiles into his coat, telling him softly. “Ignore my brother. He’s emotionally constipated, as are many of my family members. He doesn’t mean to be offensive.”

Stiles wasn’t so sure about that, but he didn’t want to argue with Cora so he forced a smile and gave her a quick hug goodbye. Still, he didn’t look at Derek again as he followed Ethan and Derek out to the car, sliding into the backseat when Ethan opened the door for him. As Ethan slid behind the wheel - Derek beside him in the front - and pulled away from the house, Stiles elected to close the divider between himself and them. He didn’t normally do that when Ethan was driving him, but he didn’t think he could deal with Derek again tonight. Then, taking several deep breaths, Stiles forced all of the negativity from his mind. Stiles rarely went out to clubs and he was determined to have a good time tonight. No matter what.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

Stiles hadn’t been to a lot of clubs, but none of the ones he had been to had been quite like Venom. It was - a bit unsurprisingly, considering Peter’s tastes - upscale. The sort of place where you might bump into a celebrity in the regular section of the club...and would bump into one if you managed to get into the VIP area. It was Derek who walked Stiles inside, right past the line outside the door that went clear up the block and disappeared around the corner. The bouncer inclined his head at Derek and moved the velvet rope so they could go inside and Stiles wanted to preen. It was a little amazing, being treated the way he was thanks to Peter.

The club had a long bar, a frankly massive dance floor, and a DJ who was up on a stage. There were flashing colored lights and a fog machine and music that was loud and driving and made Stiles want to dance. He really loved dancing, honestly. And he was good at it, something he was eager to show Peter. There were also tables and booths around the edges of the dance floor, and a second floor loft that looked down over the whole club.

Derek walked Stiles right over to the VIP section, of course. Another bouncer inclined his head respectfully and another velvet rope was moved, this one blocking off a spiral metal staircase. Stiles followed Derek up the stairs, to the VIP lounge - the loft-area that kept the VIPs above everyone else, both literally and figuratively. There was another bar up on this floor, and more tables, and little alcoves with comfortable couches and privacy curtains that could be drawn if someone wanted. The music was a little softer up here; the lighting a little less aggressive. Stiles imagined it was easier on Peter’s heightened senses, though he didn’t doubt Peter’s control was good enough that he could handle being down on the dance floor if he wanted to.

Derek led him over to one of the private alcoves, where Peter was seated on a large sofa made of red velvet. He was dressed in a picture-perfect pair of grey slacks with black pinstriping and a matching suit jacket, but in place of the expected button-up was a shirt made of black...mesh? Fishnet? Stiles wasn’t sure what to call it, only that the holes were wide and served to show off nearly all of Peter’s torso. Peter had been relaxing back into the couch when they walked up, but as soon as his eyes locked on Stiles, his face went sharp and watchful.

“Hello, alpha.” Stiles greeted as he stopped in front of the couch. “You look very nice tonight.” Then, he undid the front of the trench coat Cora had insisted on, shrugging it off his shoulders even as he asked. “Is there somewhere I can hang this, do you think?”

Peter’s eyes burned red and a low rumble spilled from his throat even as Derek stepped forward to take Stiles’ coat from him, hanging it on a hook at the entrance of the alcove before setting himself up to stand guard just outside of it.

Stiles let a wicked smile curve his lips, doing a quick little pirouette in front of Peter before asking coyly. “Do you like my outfit? Cora picked it out just for you.”

“You look positively sinful.” Peter murmured, eyes still moving over him in avaricious sweeps from head to toe and back again. “Good enough to eat.”

“Mmmm...maybe later.” Stiles sank onto the - very comfortable - cushion next to Peter, crossing his legs the way the drag queens had taught him to, so he didn’t squish anything but still looked elegant. “This is a very nice club. Do you own it?”

“I don’t.” Peter said, nudging a drink that was on the low table in front of them - something very nearly electric blue, blended into an icy slurry, with a little umbrella in it - towards Stiles. “A friend does.”

“Ah.” Stiles picked up the drink and took a sip, smiling at the fruit-sweet taste. “This is good.”

“Non-alcoholic, as you’ve said you don’t drink often.”

‘Well, isn’t that sweet?’ Stiles thought, studying Peter’s profile over the rim of his glass as he took another sip. It seemed like every time he thought he had Peter figured out, the man did something to surprise him, in one direction or another.

The silence built between them for a few minutes, broken only by the ambient sounds of the club. Finally, Peter spoke. “I understand you’ve been bribing my pack. To what end, Stiles? Trying to turn them against me?”

“What?” Stiles set his drink down a little harder than intended, wincing as the slushy liquid came dangerously close to spilling over the rim. “I’m not trying to bribe them. What the hell, Peter. I’m thanking them. Expressing my gratitude and friendship to those who’ve been welcoming and kind to me.”

Peter made a sound in the back of his throat that seemed agreeable but which somehow conveyed an almost insulting level of disbelief. “When I buy someone an expensive gift, it’s deemed corruption and bribery.”

“Then you’re clearly not doing it right.” Stiles retorted, unable to stop the way his words had gone a little sharp at the edges, offended as he was at the outright accusation in Peter’s words.

Peter turned his head, studying Stiles in silence for a long moment. Finally, he said. “I’ve increased the spending limit on your credit card.”

“To what?” The words slipped off Stiles’ tongue before he could rein in the curiosity.

“Something outrageous.”

Stiles scoffed at that non-answer. “What’s considered outrageous?”

Peter flashed a smile at him, teeth a little too sharp for it to be nice but somehow still sexy. “Get there and I’ll let you know.”

“No, seriously. I’ve never been someone’s f*cktoy before and I’ve no idea what’s considered over the top.” Stiles pressed despite the anger that flashed across Peter’s face, because heaven knew he’d never been good at knowing when the f*ck he should stop talking or asking questions. “How much is a f*cktoy worth on today’s market?”

Peter’s voice, when he answered, was low and dark and dangerous. “You should learn to quit while you’re ahead, rybko.”

The word startled Stiles. He remembered enough Polish from his childhood - both his mother and grandparents had spoken it fluently, after all - to know it meant little fish and he wasn’t sure he liked being called that. “That’s a weird thing to use as an endearment.”

“Is it?” Peter asked, raising one eyebrow even as he picked up his glass. “I thought it was rather fitting. To you, rybko. My own little fish.”

Peter held out his glass in toast and Stiles touched his own to it lightly before taking a small sip, still not quite sure if he liked the pet name but not willing to pick a fight over it. Not here and now, anyway. Instead, Stiles drummed up a smile and asked. “Dance with me?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t dance.”

Just that. No explanation; no apology; not even an excuse. Just a refusal. And f*ck, but that smarted. Stiles swallowed down the disappointment, about to ask if he was allowed to go and dance by himself when a couple approached their alcove. Since Derek did nothing to stop them, Stiles figured they must be friends. Or, barring that, they at least weren’t enemies.

The man was, quite possibly, the most beautiful person Stiles had ever seen. He had thick brown hair and gorgeous blue eyes and bone structure that would make a greek god weep. His jaw and cheekbones could have cut glass. The fact that he was also tall and well-muscled in addition to being almost devastatingly pretty seemed like some sort of cosmic injustice. The woman at his side was almost as stunning as he was. She had long red hair that fell in loose curls around her angelic face. Her eyes were a deep green, her skin was milkmaid-fair, and she had the kind of body that no doubt made men ache with wanting her. Both were dressed a little more elegantly than Stiles would have expected for a club - the man in a suit, the woman in a pretty green co*cktail dress - and neither looked as if they were older than Stiles himself.

Peter stood to greet them, lightly rubbing cheeks with each of them in turn, as was customary among werewolves with those who were considered close to them. Stiles stood as well, unsure what he was meant to do. Thankfully, Peter settled a hand at the small of Stiles’ back and nudged him forward just a bit, offering introductions.

“Stiles, pet, this is Jackson Whittemore. He owns Venom and happens to be something of a business associate and protégé of mine.”

Jackson held out his hand and Stiles shook it, then Peter continued. “And this is his lovely new wife, Lydia. Lyds, Jackson...this is Stiles, my current companion.”

Stiles smiled at Lydia, who made no move to offer her hand, glancing between her and her husband for a moment before murmuring. “It’s so nice to meet some of Peter’s friends.”

Peter sat back down, Jackson moving to sit on the other side of him from where Stiles had been, the two of them falling into easy conversation. Stiles was about to sit as well, when Lydia spoke. “I’m going to the bathroom. Stiles, would you escort me?”

He flicked his eyes to Peter for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure. I’ve got no idea where it is, though, so you’ll have to lead the way.”

“Of course.”

Lydia turned on one stylish heel and Stiles fell into step beside her. She led them not to the normal bathrooms, like Stiles had expected, but rather to what seemed to be her husband’s private office - she opened the door with a code typed into a number pad on the wall - and a private bathroom. Stiles hesitated outside the bathroom door, but Lydia rolled her eyes and gestured for him to follow.

“Relax. I’m just touching up my hair and makeup.” Lydia explained as she stepped up to the sink, with its counter and mirror. She opened her purse, pulling out things to fuss with her appearance, though her eyes met his in the mirror. “I’ve never been introduced to one of Peter’s companions before. You’re quite beautiful.”

“Uh...thanks.” Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly, dropping his eyes. “You are, too.”

Lydia hummed softly and when Stiles looked back up, she was reapplying her dark red lipstick. When she finished, she turned to him, leaning back against the counter. “It would be an insult, to introduce me to a companion, normally. Peter knows that and would never do so. I’ve seen a couple of them. Been in the same room, and even talked to them a little in a passing, conversational way. But I’ve never been introduced. So it’s interesting that he chose to introduce us, considering. You must be special.”

“So I’ve been told.” Stiles muttered, though he wasn’t convinced of that. “I’m not...this is just a temporary sort of thing. With Peter, I mean.”

“Hmmm.” Lydia smirked at him, seeming amused. “Yes, from what Jacks has said, Peter has a marked preference for temporary and no intention of settling down. And still, things with you are different. I find that to be very interesting.”

“So you’ve said.” When Lydia didn’t respond to that, Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly, then asked. “How long have you known Peter?”

Lydia studied him for a moment before answering. “Not long. Less than a year, as we met shortly after Jacks began courting me. Jacks, however, has known Peter for years.”

“Ah.” Stiles wasn’t sure what else to say. He had a thousand questions, but no idea how to ask them.

Lydia sighed, some of her icy demeanor seeming to thaw the longer she stared at Stiles. “On the day Jackson asked me to marry him, he warned me of how dangerous it would be to become his wife. When I said I didn’t care - that I wanted to marry him anyway - do you know what he told me?”

Stiles shook his head and Lydia’s smile softened as she continued. “He told me that if anything ever happened to him, I was to go to Peter. Only Peter. He told me I could trust Peter completely. That he would protect me with his life, if need be.”

Stiles didn’t doubt the veracity of that statement, though he had to wonder at just how close Peter and Jackson must be, for that to be the case. “I’m sure he would.” Stiles said at last, not sure what else he could say.

“Tsk.” Lydia clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “You’re new to this, Stiles, that much is clear. But you’ll have to learn - and quickly - if you’re going to keep your place at Peter’s side.”

Stiles’ throat felt thick, his tongue heavy, but he forced out the words anyway. “I told you, this is only temporary.”

“Maybe that was true once.” Lydia murmured, tipping her head a bit as she looked at him, as if she were listening to something only she could hear. “But things are different now, aren’t they? Because of-”

Before Lydia could finish her thought, the door opened and Jackson was standing there. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, babe, but something’s come up. We have to go.”

Lydia hummed, turning back to Stiles. “You and I should meet up soon. For brunch, perhaps. I’ll call Peter to set a date and a place.”

Stiles agreed softly, though privately he didn’t think it would actually happen. Why would it? He had nothing in common with Lydia. The whole thing was absurd. Still, he followed her and Jackson back through Jackson’s office and out into the club. Jackson whisked Lydia away into the crowd and Stiles slowly worked his way back across the VIP lounge, to where Peter’s chosen alcove was.

~*~*~*~

When Stiles made it back to Peter, it was to find that the alpha still wasn’t alone. Though instead of Jackson, Peter was now joined on the couch by a woman wearing even less than Stiles himself was. A red lace top - Stiles could see her nipples through it - and a skirt that barely covered her at all, and the matching red lace panties she was flashing to anyone who bothered to look and a pair of black leather ankle boots covered in small metal spikes and red fishnet stockings. Stiles wouldn’t have cared what this random woman was wearing, normally. He wouldn’t have cared if she was running around the club completely naked, in fact. That was her business and her choice and Stiles respected bodily autonomy too much to think otherwise.

But this bitch was sitting on Peter’s lap and that changed things.

Except it didn’t because Stiles wasn’t naive enough to blame this random woman for shooting her shot with a sexy guy in a VIP lounge. It wasn’t her fault, because she couldn’t possibly be expected to know that Peter was there with someone. It was Peter’s responsibility to explain that. To tell anyone who came over to hit on him that he had someone. Except he didn’t have someone, did he? Not really.

No, Peter didn’t have someone. He had a f*cktoy. And Stiles was getting really sick of having his position thrown in his face, in the worst ways. Peter met Stiles’ eyes as he stopped across from them and patted the couch cushion beside him, a silent command for Stiles to sit. To join him and his new...friend.

The funny thing was, Stiles could have done it. He could circle the low table where his drink was still sitting and settle himself beside Peter. He could act unaffected, as if the sight of this woman on Peter’s lap didn’t matter to him in the least. Stiles had one hell of a poker face when he wanted to and he knew it. He could also throw a fit. He could scream at Peter - or the woman - and hurl insults. He could cry if he wanted to - the tears of hurt and embarrassment were just under the surface and it would take no effort at all to let them fall - and play the injured party, acting utterly heartbroken and devastated. He could spin this whole thing out into some sort of dramatic public display and force Peter to react in some way.

Stiles could.

Except it wouldn’t accomplish anything, except to piss Peter off and drive them further apart. So what was the point of it, then? Peter clearly wanted a reaction from Stiles. And that was fine; Stiles would give him one. Just not the one he was looking for.

Stiles smiled, sweet and unassuming, ignoring Peter’s suddenly narrowed eyes and saying. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He met Peter’s eyes and added simply. “Goodbye, alpha.”

Then, Stiles turned on his heel and walked away. He dodged Derek as the man reached for him, not interested in being manhandled for Peter’s amusem*nt; forced to stay and be subjected to that level of public humiliation. He didn’t have it in him, and he wasn’t interested in letting Peter break him, either. If this was how Peter was going to act - if Peter was going to flaunt other conquests in front of him - then Stiles was done. Stiles had read their damn legal agreement word-for-word and for all that it was primarily an NDA, it had included a small list of other clauses as well, turning it into more of a contract, albeit one complete with an exhaustive NDA. An exclusivity clause had been one of those additional clauses listed and the wording never said it was only Stiles who was bound by it. So if Peter wanted to f*ck around, then Stiles was free to grab his sh*t and leave Peter’s house for good.

Fuming silently that Peter would choose to end things like this, Stiles walked briskly over to the staircase. He descended quickly, drumming up a tight smile for the bouncer who removed the velvet rope so he could exit. As he headed for the exit, Stiles wondered if maybe Peter didn’t realize Stiles had read the whole contract. Maybe he thought he could get away with doing whatever the f*ck he wanted, because he didn’t think Stiles would know any better. If that was the case, Peter was in for a rude awakening.

As Stiles passed the edge of the dance floor, someone grabbed his arm. Whirling around - ready to tell Derek he could either take Stiles back to the house or f*ck off, whichever he preferred - Stiles froze when he realized it was a stranger who had stopped him. Forcing his lips to curve into another fake smile, Stiles said simply. “Excuse me, I’m leaving.”

“Oh no, gorgeous, c’mon. You can’t leave.” The man smiled, but it was douchey rather than charming and made Stiles want to bear his teeth or take a shot with his magic. “You haven’t danced with me yet.”

And normally Stiles wouldn’t have considered it. The guy’s vibe was all wrong and Stiles’ drag queen friends had taught him early on how to shut this sort of asshole down. But Stiles’ pride was still smarting from Peter’s behavior upstairs, and his temper was up at the callous way he’d been treated, and he felt a little tender and bruised around his heart even if he didn’t want to admit it.

f*ck Peter.

Stiles forced his mouth to soften into a sweeter, darker smile. Let his lashes drop teasingly as he took a half-step closer to the guy. Made his voice breathy and eager as he replied. “Yeah, okay. Let’s dance.”

The guy half-pulled Stiles onto the dance floor, settling himself behind Stiles as they both fell into the music. Stiles let the man settle his hands on his waist. Stiles let him press his hips forward, grinding against his ass. He reached back and up, hooking his arm around the guy’s neck as he let his body writhe against this stranger, sinuous and obscene in a way that was only acceptable in public because of their setting. The guy was panting in his ear, damp and heavy, and Stiles forced himself to focus on the music instead. He liked dancing, even if he’d prefer dancing by himself to the way this guy was pawing at him, one hand sliding forward to press against Stiles’ lower belly, just above his belt.

Everything in Stiles bristled up at that and he was a half-second away from elbowing the guy to get him to back the f*ck off when he felt the heat of the guy get ripped away from him. Stiles spun around just in time to see Peter deck the guy. People in the crowd backed up, several women screaming, even as the stranger dropped to the floor like a rock. Lights and music and artificial fog continued to swirl around them even as the crowd eased back a little further, no doubt in response to the dangerous aura around Peter. Stiles swallowed hard at the cold, blank look on Peter’s face even as the alpha held out his hand to him.

Stiles swallowed hard, then offered hoarsely. “You don’t dance.”

Peter’s expression didn’t change as he replied. “There’s a first time for everything, rybko.”

Stiles let himself be turned back around, Peter’s chin hooking over his shoulder as he was settled back against the heat and strength of Peter’s body. Peter’s hands settled on his hips, his pelvis the perfect cradle for Stiles’ ass as they began to move in time to the music. And Stiles was hit with the realization that Peter moved beautifully. He kept time with the music with ease, and even when Stiles began to let his whole body roll and arch along with his hips, Peter had no trouble moving with him.

It felt like acid burning his throat as he rasped out. “You lied.”

“I said I don’t dance.” And Stiles had to appreciate - at least a little - that Peter didn’t pretend to not understand what he was accusing him of. “I didn’t say I couldn’t.”

As they continued to dance, Stiles asked softly. “Do you think that guy is okay?” Not because he cared all that much about the man, but because he didn’t like the idea that his fit of temper had resulted in permanent damage to a bystander, no matter how douchey.

“No.” Peter murmured in his ear, continuing when Stiles tensed up. “He’ll always be an asshole.”

Huffing and rolling his eyes, Stiles let Peter take his hand and spin him around. He did an elegant twirl - three full circles, with his and Peter’s hands lightly touching the entire time - and then settled back against Peter’s body, this time facing him. Curious now, because that had been a proper dance move - ballroom style, in fact - Stiles couldn’t help asking. “Where did you learn to dance?”

“We were taught.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed even as he settled his arms over Peter’s shoulders, locking his wrists loosely behind the alpha’s neck. “Who’s we? And taught by who?” When Peter didn’t clarify, Stiles muttered in annoyance. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to, my curious little pet.” Peter leaned down, nuzzling against Stiles’ hairline near his temple. “That door is closed. All we have is this; just here and now.”

And f*ck, that still hurt, no matter how many times Peter said it. “If that’s true - if there’s nothing after this is said and done - then why can’t you tell me more about you? You’ve got nothing to lose, right?”

“Ah, little fox.” Peter drew back enough to meet Stiles’ eyes, his expression softer now and tinged at the edges with regret. “Don’t you know the king is never killed by his enemies, but rather by his courtiers; by the people he trusted with his secrets.”

“So you think I’d betray you?” That hurt almost as much as Peter’s repeated assertions of how temporary things were between them.

“I don’t know.” Peter murmured, his body falling still as he focused all of his attention on Stiles, neither of them paying any mind to club security, who were now removing the man Peter had punched. “What do you think, little one? If someone was pulling out your fingernails one by one, could I still trust you?”

Stiles dropped his eyes, admitting softly. “No, probably not.” He didn’t bother to mention that his magic would take out anyone who tried something like that; it wasn’t relevant right now.

Peter’s lips curved up as he finally released Stiles, stepping back from him now that they’d stopped dancing. “I’m glad you were honest, rybko. I prefer an honest coward to a lying hero.”

Stiles didn’t bother to be offended by the word coward. He’d given the answer he’d given for a reason, and he couldn’t quibble over how Peter saw him in light of that choice. Instead, Stiles reminded himself that if this was all he was going to have of Peter, then he’d take as much as he could. Greedily. Selfishly. And he’d handle the fallout when the time came.

“Take me home, alpha.”

Peter’s eyes flashed, but he tangled his fingers with Stiles’ own and headed for the exit.

~*~*~*~

The car ride back to the house seemed to take ages, especially because Peter didn’t touch Stiles the entire time. He might have worried he was reading things wrong if not for the heated way Peter was watching him. Part of Stiles wanted to sulk about it - it wasn’t as if they hadn’t already gotten intimate in one of Peter’s cars, after all - but there was something to be said for the anticipation of it all. The rising tension in the air between them, the closer the car got to the house. The way Stiles felt increasingly on edge, desperation making every nerve stand at attention, longing for the slightest touch.

When the car finally pulled to a stop near the front steps, Peter took Stiles by the hand and led him inside. Silently, Peter led Stiles up the steps to his room. The room Stiles had yet to spend an entire night in, despite the number of times Peter had f*cked him in that massive canopy bed. Every time he’d fallen asleep there, he had awoken in his own bed. And Stiles understood that werewolves - especially alphas - didn’t sleep easy next to others. It took a lot of trust to be that vulnerable with someone else. But he couldn’t help wanting that.

Still, the moment they were in the room, Peter was all over him. Stiles found himself pressed against the door as it shut, closing it with a resounding thud even as Peter devoured his mouth. Stiles gave as good as he got. Kissed back for all he was worth, hands sliding under Peter’s suit jacket, shoving it off his shoulders. As soon as it was clear, Peter set to work divesting Stiles of his trench coat, leaving him in just his club clothes. And then Peter’s hands were on Stiles’ lower back and his sides, petting over where the crop top bared his skin. Stiles’ own hands were on Peter as well, savoring the heat of Peter’s skin through the long-sleeved fishnet top the alpha was wearing.

Lips still locked together, barely parting long enough to suck in greedy gasps of air, Peter’s strong hands guided Stiles backwards towards the bed. As he moved them, his hands slipped up the slender expanse of Stiles’ back, fingers finding the zipper at the back of his neck and lowering it. Peter finally broke their kiss, just long enough to peel the PVC off of Stiles’ body and over his head, before letting it fall to the floor.

Peter caught Stiles’ lips in another fierce kiss, then slid his mouth along Stiles’ jaw, murmuring heatedly against Stiles’ flushed skin. “I’ve missed having access to your throat, pet.”

Stiles might have made a snarky remark - something about how Peter was the one who insisted on covering his neck up in the first damn place - but before he could get a word out, Peter’s lips and tongue and teeth set to work on the newly exposed skin. And Stiles knew he ought to protest this, since Peter had to be leaving marks with the way he was sucking and biting at Stiles’ throat. Stiles should stop him. He shouldn’t let Peter do something so goddamn possessive.

Instead, Stiles moaned and slid his hands into Peter’s hair, gripping it tightly. Then, he used the grip he had on those thick, chestnut waves to press Peter’s mouth more firmly to his throat. Stiles keened when Peter bit harder in response, arching up into the sucking pressure that followed, encouraging him. Stiles knew he shouldn’t, but he liked the possessiveness in Peter’s touch. He liked knowing he would bear marks from Peter for days after this; that there would be a tangible claim written across his skin.

Because maybe he couldn’t keep Peter, but in this moment - right here, right now - Stiles was his. And he would cling to that with everything he had, for as long as possible.

It was several minutes later - after leaving what were sure to be some truly spectacular bruises on both sides of Stiles’ throat - that Peter finally drew back. He stepped back from Stiles, pulling his own clothes off hastily. It was a plan of action Stiles could get behind and he quickly slipped off the stacks of silver bangles Cora had encased his wrists in, letting them fall to the floor with a pleasant metallic jingling. Then he sank down to the edge of the bed and reached for the top buckle on his left boot, intent on following Peter’s example and stripping completely.

Peter’s hand caught Stiles’ wrist before he could undo more than that first buckle. He looked up, unsure, to meet heated blue eyes.

“Let me.”

And then Peter - gloriously nude; muscled and aroused and achingly beautiful - dropped to his knees at Stiles’ feet and set to work on the buckles. Once they were all out of the way, he unzipped each boot and slid it carefully off, then stripped off Stiles’ socks as well. He pressed his lips to the side of each of Stiles’ calves as he let each sock drop to the floor, and Stiles’ breath caught in his throat at the intimacy of it all.

When he was done, Peter lifted himself up higher on his knees so he could press Stiles down onto his back. And Stiles went willingly, letting himself be caged in against the mattress as Peter followed him onto the bed. He loved this; loved the feeling of being under Peter. Of being surrounded by him. He slid his hands back into Peter's hair, drawing the alpha's mouth down to his for another kiss.

As Peter’s tongue teased at the seam of Stiles’ lips, he let his mouth go slack. Let his lips part fully, open and soft and waiting beneath Peter's. Wordlessly inviting Peter to kiss him the way they both know Peter liked best. Deep and wet and messy. And Peter did, just like Stiles knew he would. Licked hard into Stiles’ mouth, too much tongue and too much spit, and Stiles didn’t mind in the least. Relished, in fact, the way Peter kissed him like he wanted to consume Stiles. Like he’d crawl down Stiles’ throat if he could and make a home there, inside Stiles’ skin. Found something intoxicating about being wanted that way, if he was being honest.

As Peter kissed him, Stiles ran his palms over the strong expanse of Peter's back and shoulders, savoring the play of skin over muscle with every small movement the alpha made. And really, Peter's body was a testament to his nature. The alpha was a predator - strong and deadly - and Stiles found himself more than willing to play the part of prey for this man. But prey didn't mean helpless and it didn't mean passive, so Stiles dug his nails into Peter's shoulders and dragged them down Peter's back, sharp and demanding. Hard enough to raise welts. Maybe even hard enough to draw blood, and Stiles liked the idea of that, too. Of putting his own mark on Peter, no matter how temporary.

Peter broke the kiss with a snarl, eyes burning red, and snapped his fangs at Stiles in rebuke. It ought to have been frightening, or at least intimidating, but it wasn’t. Not to him; not like this. So Stiles met Peter’s eyes unflinchingly, tipping his head back and baring his throat to the alpha in an act that was equal parts supplication and demand. He was offering submission not out of fear or weakness, but because what he wanted - what he craved - was Peter’s dominance.

Peter studied him for a moment, then leaned in and pressed his lips to the center of Stiles’ throat, directly over his Adam's apple. It was light. Tender. And still, there was an implied threat to it; to having a predator’s teeth somewhere so vulnerable. Peter continued kissing his way down the front of Stiles' throat. He wasn’t marking Stiles this time, but somehow it still felt like a claim. Like possession. When he reached the center of Stiles’ collarbone, Peter paused for only a heartbeat before continuing down the center of Stiles’ chest.

With every brush of his lips, Peter murmured against Stiles’ skin. “Do you have any idea how utterly maddening you are? You’re an impossible mix of softness, cleverness, and ferocity.”

At those words, Stiles looked down the length of his own body, amber eyes meeting blue even as Peter pressed another kiss to his skin, this time just at the bottom of Stiles’ sternum, before continuing. “It's seductive and infuriating by turns and I’m never quite sure if I want to kiss you...or choke you.”

“Technically, you’ve already done both.”

The words tripped off Stiles’ tongue before he could stop them, and Peter growled in reply. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble one of these days, rybko, if you keep running your mouth like that.”

Stiles’ lips curved up into a smirk even as Peter’s lips brushed a soft kiss just above his navel. “Maybe that’s what I’m hoping for.”

Eyes flaring red again, Peter surged up to catch Stiles’ mouth in another deep kiss. One of his hands was yanking at Stiles' belt and Peter broke the kiss long enough to mutter into the shared air between their lips. “I told you no more belts, didn’t I?”

Panting, Stiles defended himself. “It’s just an accessory.”

“I don’t believe I made any mention of exceptions to the rule.”

Peter managed to get the buckle undone, tugging sharply to free the length of the belt from beneath Stiles. Once it was off of him, Peter shifted so he was kneeling above him, straddling Stiles’ waist now. He quickly fed the free end of the belt back through the buckle, creating a loop. And then Peter was pinning Stiles' hands above his head with one of his own before deftly slipping the leather loop around both of Stiles’ wrists. In the seconds it took for Stiles to understand what was happening, Peter had cinched the belt tight, pressing Stiles’ wrists snugly together.

“If you insist on wearing a belt...” Peter murmured as he used one claw to punch a hole in the leather, allowing him to properly secure the tongue of the buckle with it pulled so tight. “You’ll wear it like this.”

‘I’m going to wear a belt every damn day.’ The thought bubbled up, unbidden, and Stiles barely managed to bite his tongue before the words spilled out. No reason to give Peter that much truth, after all.

Once he was sure Stiles was held secure - and Stiles tried separating his wrists or slipping a hand free, just to see if he could - Peter manhandled Stiles around on the bed. It was a little thrilling, how easily Peter was able to shift Stiles around, until he was exactly where Peter wanted him. Once he had Stiles lying properly on the bed, with his hands up near the carved wood of the headboard, Peter carefully looped the excess length of the belt twice around one of the carved curlicues.

It wasn’t secure. Stiles could tell, just from looking at it, that if he pulled for more than a moment or two, he’d be able to get himself free from the headboard, if not from the belt itself.

Except Peter met his eyes and ordered softly. “Keep your hands there for me.”

“Okay.” Stiles managed around a shuddery exhale, continuing breathlessly. “Promise, alpha. I promise.”

“That’s my good boy.” Peter praised, the words washing over Stiles like a warm wave. He softened, going slack against his bindings, all but melting into the bed.

Peter slid down Stiles’ body, nudging his way between Stiles’ thighs. His hands went to the laces on Stiles’ shorts even as he dropped more kisses to Stiles’ belly and hips, nuzzling into Stiles’ flesh.

“You smell so good, pet.” Peter pressed the words into Stiles’ skin with more kisses even as he got Stiles’ shorts undone and started pulling them down. Except before he’d gotten them lowered more than an inch or two, Peter suddenly froze above him.

For a few, confused seconds, Stiles wondered what was wrong. Then - and only then - did he remember the underwear Cora had forced him into, so the damned shorts would fit. And he knew, even without looking down, what Peter was seeing, there in the open V at the front of his shorts.

Red lace.

Licking his lips and swallowing in an attempt to moisten his suddenly dry mouth, Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and tried to drum up some semblance of confidence and he forced out a single word.

“Surprise?”

It came out as more of a question than not, but before Stiles could worry about it, Peter was all but ripping the shorts off of Stiles. He actually wasn’t completely sure there hadn’t been claws involved, which would be a damn shame since the shorts had been rather flattering. And Peter’s lips found Stiles again, but not on his stomach or his hips. No, this time Peter’s face was pressed against the red lace that was barely covering Stiles’ erection.

Peter nuzzled against the edge of the lace, where Stiles’ thigh and groin met, then mouthed along the length of Stiles’ co*ck through the fabric. Peter was rumbling now, deep in his chest, a sound Stiles knew meant the alpha was pleased. Peter’s lips and tongue were teasing at him. His tongue was lapping at Stiles’ co*ck; dampening the fabric and Stiles’ skin beneath it. Peter’s breath was hot as he worked Stiles over through the lace, pausing to suck at the head where Stiles knew he was leaking, his co*ck aching with need.

And it wasn’t enough, dammit.

It was maddening, and Stiles couldn’t seem to catch his breath properly, panting heavily and letting out desperate whines as he pleaded with Peter for more. He had managed to hook one leg over Peter’s shoulder and his heel was digging into the alpha; trying desperately to egg Peter on. His other thigh had fallen open, splayed wide to one side. And Stiles’ co*ck wasn’t the only thing leaking, because Stiles could feel the slick that was all but dripping out of his hole. He was probably staining Peter’s bedding, actually, because the damn panties were built like a jockstrap so there was no back to them, just a couple of red satin ribbons framing his ass, so there was nothing to soak up any of the slick, or even help contain it.

Suddenly, Peter's mouth slid lower, down over Stiles’ balls and then lower still, his tongue stroking a teasing line of wet heat down over Stiles’ perineum. Strong hands cradled Stiles' hips, fingers pressing bruises into his fair skin even as Peter canted Stiles’ ass up off the bed. His co*ck was still trapped by the lace - wet now from Peter's spit and his own precome - and it was chafing in a way that almost hurt. But also it felt so f*cking good, especially when Peter's tongue was suddenly pressing into his slick hole. Peter was licking him open, everything slick and wet and still not enough.

Stiles was begging now, tears spilling over, desperation driving him. “Please...please, alpha, m’good, so good for you, please....f*ck me, need you...”

Then Peter's mouth and hands were suddenly gone and Stiles cried out brokenly, because no. Because that was the opposite of what he wanted. Because he was empty, and aching, and only Peter could give him what he needed; could fill him up again. Except Peter was surging up Stiles’ body again, covering Stiles with his own between one heartbeat and the next, and then Stiles’ hands were freed from the headboard, though not the belt.

Peter tugged so Stiles’ still-bound hands looped around the alpha’s neck, bringing them together. Then Peter dipped his head, licking wetly at the tears on Stiles' face before murmuring in his ear. “Hold tight, rybko. This won’t be gentle.”

And that was true.

As Peter’s co*ck pressed into him, it wasn’t gentle. Peter took Stiles hard and fast, immediately setting an unrelenting pace as he f*cked into him, over and over. But for all that it was neither soft nor sweet, it wasn’t rough or painful, either. Peter was using Stiles - was chasing his own pleasure with increasing speed and force - but he wasn’t hurting Stiles. And the way Peter made sure to hit Stiles' prostate with every thrust proved he cared about Stiles' pleasure as well as his own.

It was a demanding race to the finish, though Stiles honestly couldn’t have said if it lasted seconds or minutes or hours. Peter forced Stiles up to the peak and over the edge with unerring precision, and all Stiles knew was that he loved every second of it. And when Stiles finally spilled himself into the lacy prison still confining his untouched co*ck, Peter followed him over the edge only seconds later.

With his brain hazy from org*sm, Stiles only dimly registered the feel of Peter freeing his wrists from the leather belt and sliding his ruined panties off of him. By the time Stiles' brain had rebooted enough for even semi-coherent thought, Peter was laying on his back with Stiles cradled against his left side. Stiles’ head was resting on Peter's chest, his ear pressed to Peter’s heart. It beat in a steady rhythm, though Stiles’ own had yet to settle properly from their activities.

After managing a somewhat steady breath, Stiles offered. “Give me a minute to catch my breath and I’ll go.” ‘It’s better,’ Stiles thought to himself, almost bitterly. ‘Better to go on my own, than to let him remove me himself the way he has been.’

Except Peter’s next words filtered in, dark and serious. “I want you to stay.”

It was a first, and it set Stiles’ heart to racing again. He swallowed against the emotions that welled up, instead distracting himself by teasing his fingers through Peter’s chest hair. It was quiet for so long that Stiles felt himself being dragged down into sleep.

When Peter finally spoke, his words were just as low, but somehow gentler; almost teasing. “Tell me why you really bought that bracelet for Marin.”

Stiles turned his head enough to meet Peter’s eyes, blinking slowly as he asked. “Why is it so difficult for you to believe I’m being honest about my motives? Your staff has been kind to me. I wanted to thank them. It’s that simple.”

Peter’s brow furrowed as he searched Stiles’ face as if looking for some clue that would help him understand. “Are you really that generous, for no reason at all?”

And Stiles might have taken offense, had Peter not seemed so baffled. “Why do you find that so extraordinary?”

“No one I’ve ever been with would have done something like that.”

Stiles sighed, turning his head again so his cheek was once again resting on Peter’s chest. He let his eyes close before murmuring sleepily. “Sounds like you need to find someone better to be with.”

Just as he slipped into sleep, Stiles felt lips press against the top of his head. “Perhaps I have.”

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

Saturday, December 1st, 2018

Stiles woke with a gasp, body jerking upright as he desperately gulped down air. The room around him was dark enough that he knew the sun wasn’t quite up yet, though the greyish light filtering through the curtains said dawn wasn’t far off. Stiles was shaking all over, and dripping sweat. He could feel it on his forehead - just at the edge of his hair - and at the nape of his neck and even gathered at the small of his back. But he wasn’t just shaking; he was shivering. Felt cold all the way through to the bone, in fact. There was a jarring sort of disconnect between the two things and it made his head swim sickeningly, his vision blurry at the edges. It was only when a sob caught itself in his throat - tangled up at the back of his tongue - that Stiles realized it was tears blurring his vision, not the disorientation.

Before Stiles could even begin to get his bearings, strong arms were wrapping around him; drawing him down to the heat and strength of a well-muscled chest. “P-peter?” Stiles managed, teeth chattering even as the warmth of the body beneath him started to sink into him.

“Shhh, pet. It’s just me.” One of Peter’s hands stroked slowly down Stiles’ spine in soothing repetition. “Was it a nightmare?”

“I...” The word, short as it was, shivered at the edges, weak and broken. Forcing his breathing into a steadier pattern, Stiles finally murmured. “Yes, a nightmare.”

“What was it about?”

Peter’s words weren’t demanding; just sleepily curious. And still, Stiles hesitated, not sure he wanted to know what had left him feeling the way he did. Except it was silly, wasn’t it, to be so frightened of a dream?

So, after a moment, Stiles tried to recall what had roused him from sleep. Whatever it was, it had left him feeling uneasy and distressed; that much he knew. There was a lingering sense of dread and foreboding clinging to the edges of his sleep-hazy mind, but nothing else. No remnants of what the dream had been about, or who had been in it. Nothing to tell him why he had awoken the way he had. No reason for his sweat-damp palms, or the way his body trembled against Peter’s like a leaf in a windstorm.

Nothing at all.

Stiles swallowed hard, then whispered against Peter’s skin. “I don’t remember. All I know is...I was afraid. The kind of fear that clings to you, even once you wake up. The kind you can’t shake off.”

Peter hummed softly, then pressed a kiss to Stiles’ forehead and said. “You don’t need to be afraid. You’re safe, rybko. Nothing will hurt you as long as you’re mine.”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut at that, not finding Peter’s words very reassuring.

‘As long as you’re mine.’

They might have been more comforting if they didn’t have a built-in expiration date. Because the fact of the matter was, Stiles would only belong to Peter for a little over three more weeks. On Christmas Eve, their time together would run out and Stiles would no longer be under Peter’s protection.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Stiles reprimanded himself harshly even as he took another deep breath, desperately trying to keep it steady. ‘You don’t need his protection, especially not from a dream you can’t even remember.’

Doing his best not to let his voice shake again, Stiles finally managed to rasp out a reply. “I’m fine. It was only a dream.”

Peter only hummed again, hand still stroking soothingly up and down Stiles’ spine. His heat slowly seeped into Stiles’ chilled body and the shivers stopped, tense muscles relaxing at last. Determined to get at least a couple more hours of rest, Stiles closed his eyes and willed his body to go back to sleep.

~*~*~*~

Stiles woke up for the second time far more gently. He stretched before slowly blinking open his eyes, struggling for a moment to understand what was going on. When it hit Stiles, it was like a slap to the face.

He was alone...and he was in his own bed.

‘Gain an inch, lose a whole damn mile,’ he thought bitterly, part of him wishing he could just stay in bed and sulk for the next few hours.

Except he couldn’t, of course, so Stiles dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom for a shower instead. He had plans for the day that didn’t involve moping in bed. He was having lunch with Danny, something they’d both been looking forward to all week. He wasn’t going to let this ruin his f*cking day. The fact that Peter still felt the need to remove Stiles from his bed - even after they’d spent most of the night sleeping together - wasn’t going to send him spiraling into despair. He was stronger than that, dammit.

It didn’t matter that Stiles had thought, since Peter asked him to stay, that he would actually be allowed to stay until morning. It also didn’t matter that Stiles was faced with an increasing desire to be more to Peter than a temporary f*cktoy. There was no point in pouting about being forced to confront the reality of the situation, because that wouldn’t change anything.

Stiles turned on the taps so the water could heat, then stripped with sharp movements, thinking to himself, ‘The truth is, we don’t always get what we want.’

If he was going to have any chance at coming out the other side of this whole mess without being completely shattered, he needed to remember that.

~*~*~*~

Stiles had barely managed to get to his feet when he was being pulled into a warm, tight hug. Laughing as his feet left the floor, Stiles hugged back just as tightly. As he was set back on his feet, Danny nuzzled into his neck, scenting him, and Stiles gently rubbed his cheek against the top of his best friend’s head. He knew Ethan was watching them, but Stiles couldn’t bring himself to care. He wasn’t going to feign indifference towards Danny, or insist they limit their normal physical affection, just because Peter’s bodyguard might not approve. He was allowed to hug his friend, dammit.

Except that as he caught sight of Ethan’s face over Danny’s shoulder, Stiles realized Ethan didn’t look disapproving or judgmental. In fact, his bodyguard was smiling softly, looking fond. As if he found Stiles and Danny’s friendship to be endearing. And that was a good thing, even if it made Stiles feel guilt for his prickly mood and snappish thoughts, despite not having voiced them out loud. He imagined it was the interrupted sleep he’d gotten the night before that was making him so testy today, especially when coupled with the fact that Peter had booted Stiles from his bed again.

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles murmured as Danny finally drew back, doing his best to focus on his best friend and not their audience or his own temperamental mood. This lunch date was about getting to see his best friend and he wasn’t going to let anything spoil it, not even himself. “I missed you, too.”

“You look different.” Danny said even as he turned to greet Ethan as well. “Good to see you again.”

“And you.” Ethan agreed, leaning in to rub his cheek against each of Danny’s in turn, the affection in the gesture clear to see. “What do you mean, Stiles looks different? He looks the same to me.”

Danny snorted even as he took the seat across from Stiles at the square table Stiles and Ethan had been waiting at for the last ten minutes, having arrived first. “I’m sure he does, but you don’t know him as well as I do. And I’m telling you, he looks different.”

They were at a restaurant Danny and Stiles had been frequenting for a couple of years, ever since they first got their apartment together, because it was close by and reasonably priced, with good food and good staff. Ethan didn’t sit, instead standing behind Stiles’ chair as if he were a sentry.

“Either you sit or you wait in the car.” Stiles told him after a moment.

With a sigh, Ethan sank into one of the two empty chairs left at their table, though he didn’t look pleased. “I’m not here to eat or socialize. I’m here to protect you.”

“An unnecessary precaution, but one I’m allowing for Peter’s peace of mind.” Stiles agreed, nudging a menu towards Ethan. “On the condition that your bodyguard services are discreet. Which means not standing a half a foot behind my chair like a Secret Service member.”

Ethan muttered something under his breath, but obligingly picked up the menu, so Stiles ignored him and turned back to Danny. “What looks different about me?” Allowing a teasing smirk to curve his lips, Stiles added. “Is it the way I’m glowing from all the fantastic sex?”

Ethan coughed, clearly trying to disguise a laugh, but Stiles ignored him in favor of watching the way Danny rolled his eyes and deadpanned. “Yes, Stiles. Clearly what I’ve noticed about you is how well-f*cked you look.”

Snickering, Stiles said. “No need to be sarcastic. So what is it, then?”

“Your face.” Danny admitted, tipping his head to one side and sort of squinting at Stiles for a moment. Then, Danny lifted one hand and brushed his fingers along the edge of his own jaw, adding. “It’s this part of your face, I think, and maybe along your cheeks a little, too. You just seem a little...I don’t know. Fuller, maybe? Or just softer, somehow, I dunno.”

Ethan was staring at him now as well and Stiles could feel his face flushing, so he picked up his glass of water and gulped more than half of it down before replying. “I mean, I’ve put on a few pounds, I guess? Cora mentioned my hips and waist being thicker when she was lacing up my shorts last night, so I guess it’s possible I’m carrying a little of that weight in my face, too. Nice of you to point that out, by the way.”

“I’m sorry, when she was what?” Danny asked, sputtering a little and making Stiles laugh. “Also, you’re f*cking gorgeous and you know it, so don’t even start with that crap, like you couldn’t gain another thirty pounds and still be just as attractive.”

Stiles rolled his eyes at the compliments, ignoring that in favor of answering Danny’s question about Cora. “She’s the stylist I told you about, remember? She was helping me dress to go out with Peter last night.”

Stiles clicked his tongue against his teeth when he remembered his gift for Danny, lips curving up as he lifted the gift bag he’d brought off the floor and slid it across the table, adding. “Which reminds me...I got you a little something. Cora helped me pick it out. She sized it based on pictures of us together, but I don’t know how accurate that method is. If it doesn’t fit, we can get a different size, but she seemed pretty confident, so.”

Danny hummed, tugging the bag closer to himself, though he didn’t open it yet. “I didn’t realize personal stylists literally dressed you.”

Stiles snorted, rolling his eyes again. “I told you, Cora is Peter’s niece, so she’s a bit more hands-on than she would be normally.” He swallowed down the last of the water in his glass in a few gulps, then cast his eyes around for the waiter, since he was still thirsty.

With narrowed eyes, Danny nudged his own glass across the table. Stiles flashed him a grateful smile before downing most of it in one go, sighing a little as he set it back down, feeling better. Except Danny was still staring at him and it was making him itchy and uncomfortable. “Dude, what?”

“How have you been feeling?” Danny asked, and something about his tone had Stiles on high alert. “Like, in general? Anything weird going on with you?”

“I mean, yeah, but I’ve been under a lot of stress the last few weeks.” Stiles shot Danny a confused look. “Why the third degree? It’s not like you don’t know how I get when I’m stressed and anxious.”

“Humor me, Stiles.” Danny’s tone was gentle but worried. “Symptoms, now. Anything unusual.”

When Stiles hesitated again, Danny gave him a pleading look, complete with wide eyes, and added softly. “Please, Stiles? For me?”

“Okay! Okay, fine, you win.” He groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to give me the kicked puppy look.”

Pushing down his annoyance because he knew Danny was just worried about him, Stiles dragged his index finger through a condensation ring on the formica tabletop as he cast his mind back over the last few weeks for anything unusual, as Danny had put it. Stiles couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy as he realized just how many things there had been.

“Intermittent nausea. Tiredness.” Stiles listed them off, counting on his fingers as he went to help keep track of them all. “Fluctuating appetite, so I’m either starving or the thought of food makes me want to hurl. Muscle soreness, but I’ve been working out a bit more since I’ve put on a little weight, like I said, so that’s probably from that.”

“You fainted.” Ethan pointed out, shrugging when Stiles shot him a bitchy look, because he hadn’t asked for input from the peanut gallery, thank you very much. Not that Ethan seemed to care, since he continued. “What? Marin mentioned it. Since I’m your guard most of the time, she wanted me to know.”

“I didn’t faint. I just...got a bit lightheaded, that’s all.” Stiles couldn’t help the defensiveness that crept into his tone, giving his words a sharper edge than he intended. “I was overheated and I hadn’t eaten since the night before. It wasn’t a big deal. Derek blew it out of proportion and got her worked up, too.”

Ethan shrugged again and Stiles let out a huff of annoyance before turning his attention back to Danny. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just the stress. You know how I am.”

“Right.” Danny was still looking at Stiles weirdly but, after glancing at Ethan, he forced a smile to his lips and reached for the gift bag. “So, what did you get me?”

Stiles watched as Danny pulled out the black-and-white cashmere sweater and cooed over it, hands stroking over the softness. He had a feeling Danny was going to push about his health at some point when they didn’t have an audience, but that was okay. Stiles would reassure him later that everything really was fine. For now, he just wanted to enjoy their lunch. Talk about work, and friends, and Christmas plans. Normal sh*t. Not the insanity that Stiles’ life had spiraled into, and the way it was negatively impacting his health.

He could handle it for three more f*cking weeks.

~*~*~*~

When they were done eating and the check was paid, it was nearly three hours later. Which was unsurprising, since they’d been talking the whole time and had lingered over their meals, neither Danny nor Stiles in any sort of rush and content to spend as much time together as possible. Surprisingly, Ethan agreed to leave Stiles with Danny while he went to get the car, giving them a little time to talk alone. He had only agreed on the condition they would stay inside the restaurant - in its little lobby - until he pulled up out front, but that was fine. It was more than Stiles had expected, honestly.

“So, now that we don’t have an audience who’ll probably report everything we say back to his boss...” Danny said, his tone teasing. “How are things really going with Peter?”

Stiles shrugged jerkily, not sure he wanted to answer but unwilling to lie to Danny about something so important. “I mean, the sex is great, but I knew it would be because it was the first time. The rest...” He swallowed hard before admitting tiredly. “The rest of it f*cking sucks. Peter blows hot and cold, and he switches at the drop of a hat. I never know what I’m going to get with him. Honestly, it’s like living with Jekyll and Hyde.”

Danny studied him for a long moment, intense and probing. Stiles would have squirmed if it had been anyone other than Danny, but his best friend and roommate already knew him better than anyone else did so there was no point in trying to hide anything from him.

Finally, Danny said. “You’re falling in love with him, aren’t you?”

“Honestly?” Stiles’ words came out hoarse around the lump forming in his throat. “I’m trying not to. I act like I’m in control, but I’m f*cking terrified of how this is going to play out.”

“Is the idea of loving Peter really that bad?” Danny asked, still staring at him intently.

“No.” Stiles admitted, and he couldn’t have hidden the tremor in his voice even if he’d tried. “It’s worse. It feels like I’m in an elevator and someone’s cut the cables. I want out - I want to flee - but I can’t do a damn thing to stop the crash I know is coming.”

Shaking his head, Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly and added. “It is what it is, though, right? This is what I signed up for. Nothing to do now but wait it out.”

They both fell silent for several heartbeats, then Danny spoke. “I understand why you’re staying.” His voice was low and earnest. “I promise I do. But you know I miss you, right?”

“I miss you, too.” Stiles admitted, though he mustered a reassuring smile for Danny, determined not to let their visit end on a sour note. “But hey, I’ll be home before you know it, right? Only three more weeks.”

Danny gave him a funny look. “I don’t think that’s true.”

Stiles frowned, not understanding. “What do you mean? My agreement with Peter was for one month.”

“Yeah, but...Stiles, you can’t tell me you haven’t realized.” When Stiles just stared at Danny blankly, he groaned, then looked around quickly before leaning in and whispering fervidly. “Stiles, you’re thickening at your waist and hips. Your face has softened at the edges. You’re having muscle soreness, and I’m willing to bet it’s your stomach that’s been feeling tender.”

Stiles startled at that, because he hadn’t specified before. “I...yeah? But what’s that got to do with anything?”

“You’re eating more, drinking water like a fish, and you said you’re more tired than usual.” Danny rattled off. “You have intermittent nausea. You’ve got dizzy spells. Do you have swollen feet and ankles, too?”

Stiles started to say no, then stopped because actually...

Danny clicked his tongue triumphantly, though his face was still a mask of concern. “I thought so. Stiles, put all of those together and what does it sound like?”

When Stiles just stared again, Danny hissed in annoyance before asking. “If Cora told you she was having those symptoms, what would you assume it was?”

His mind whirled for a few seconds, then Stiles’ knees just about gave out on him. In truth, it was only Danny’s quick reflexes that kept him from sinking down to the tile floor. “Jesus, Stiles...really?”

“Oh my god.” Stiles said, panic edging his voice higher. He looked up at Danny, tears filling his eyes, and f*ck but that wasn’t helping, was it? Because he’d been crying more readily lately, hadn’t he? And his temper had been up as well.

‘Moodiness is another symptom,’ he thought, hysteria clawing at his throat, desperately wanting to escape in either wild laughter or sobs; he wasn’t sure which. ‘I’m so f*cked.’

“Okay, don’t panic.” Danny hissed, tensing up as he glanced outside. “Ethan just pulled into the no-parking zone out front so you need to pull yourself together. Tell him you need to run into a pharmacy for something personal so he doesn’t come with you, grab a damn test, and then go back to the house and pretend everything is f*cking normal because you’re supposed to take them first thing in the morning so you need to wait until then before you start panicking.”

“Danny, I can’t, I f*cking...” He was going to hyperventilate; he could feel it in his bones. “He won’t let me. I can’t go anywhere alone.”

Danny glanced at the doors again, then swallowed hard. “Okay, scratch that. I’ll pick up the test, and I’ll come by the house first thing in the morning. Like, 9am, I’ll be there. You’ll pee, I’ll hold your hand, and if you are, then we’ll figure it out together. I promise.”

The little bell over the door jingled softly as Ethan came in, frowning at them both; at the way Danny was still supporting Stiles with an arm around his waist. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Danny said, forcing a smile for Ethan’s sake. “Stiles is just a little dizzy again. It happens sometimes, nothing to worry about. He just needs to rest and he’ll be fine.”

Ethan frowned at Danny, like he wasn’t sure he believed him, but Stiles knew Danny had perfected the art of keeping his heartbeat steady while lying years ago. A necessity, really, given he’d grown up in a family of werewolves. So Ethan sort of had to believe Danny.

And Stiles was a master at distraction, so he reached for Ethan, asking weakly. “Take me home, please? I just want to lay down.”

“Of course.”

Ethan didn’t hesitate, scooping Stiles up into his arms and heading for the car. Danny got the restaurant door for them, then the car door, and within a couple of minutes, Stiles was safely ensconced in the backseat of one of Peter’s cars while Ethan drove them back to the house. Stiles had put the divider up, telling Ethan he was going to try to rest during the drive. Not a lie, precisely, and Stiles’ heart was already rabbiting away in his chest quite unsteadily, so Ethan believed him. And now, as the car carried him back to Peter, Stiles pressed one shaking hand against the firm curve that had developed just below his navel.

Pregnant. He might be pregnant.

Stiles had no idea what he wanted here. No idea whether he wanted Danny to be right, or wrong. He had always wanted children, that was true. And part of him - the part trapped in that plummeting elevator car, more than halfway in love with Peter already and falling faster all the time - thrilled at the idea of a child with Peter. Except Peter didn’t want children. He didn’t want a mate. He didn’t want Stiles. Not for anything more than sex, and even that was on a time limit.

And the worst part was, Stiles already knew Danny was right, even without taking the damn test. Now that he was looking for it, Stiles could feel the way his magic was wrapped protectively around the child growing inside him. He could feel the way his magic was instinctively shielding the baby, which was probably the only reason none of the werewolves around him had noticed the baby’s existence. A fetal heartbeat would have been hard to miss, especially for Peter, but Stiles’ magic was hiding it.

No doubt at least part of the reason his magic was doing so, was because Peter’s life was dangerous. The alpha had enemies - some known, others not - and a single misstep could bring ruin. Could bring death. The other part was likely because Stiles had spent his whole damn life hiding his magic. Forcing it down; forcing it to give nothing away, unless his life was on the line. His magic was so used to secrecy that it was no wonder it had acted of its own accord to hide this as well.

And really, what the hell was Stiles supposed to do now?

Even if Peter took the news of Stiles’ pregnancy well, was this what Stiles wanted for his child? A lifetime of bodyguards and danger and fear? He didn’t even know if the baby was a werewolf like Peter, or if it was more like Stiles himself. And either way, there would be secrecy, wouldn’t there? Either way there would be risks. It was just a matter of figuring out how he wanted to do this.

Did he really want to raise a child alone? Did he really want to raise one with Peter?

Until he knew the answer, there was only one thing Stiles could do. And, thankfully, his magic was already doing it for him. As he let his eyes drift closed, palm still pressed protectively to the faint curve of his belly, Stiles told himself he was doing the right thing.

‘After all, what’s one more secret?’

~*~*~*~

Stiles couldn’t help falling a little more in love with Peter’s house when he walked inside to find it decorated for Christmas. There was pine garland - real pine garland at that - strung up everywhere; draped along banisters and around doorways. There was holly, all glossy leaves and bright red berries, on chandeliers and wall sconces. There were red velvet bows tied around the railing supports, and LED candles in all of the many, many windows, and Stiles counted no less than three towering, fully decorated Christmas trees - all real, too, of course - just on the main floor. And he hadn’t even checked all of the rooms!

There were real pine wreaths on the front doors. All of the bushes out front and the trees lining the driveway had been wrapped in lights that Stiles had no doubt would look stunning when it got dark. There were nutcrackers lining mantles and sideboards, and little snowmen and snowflake decorations scattered around. There were sleigh bells, and reindeer, and Santa Clauses dressed in velvet and fur. Everything was positively lovely - high quality, much of it looking to be antiques or heirlooms of one sort or another - and Stiles loved it all.

He found himself hoping for snow as he took it all in, flitting from one room to the next in a bid to see it all right away. There was so much to look at, after all. So many small details to take in. He was sure it would take him days, if not weeks, to take note of everything. He couldn’t resist picking things up; running his fingers delicately over the various decorations as he admired them. Stiles had always loved Christmas and the whole thing put him in a fantastic mood, even with all of his worry. He couldn’t wait to see it all lit up once the sun went down, all twinkling lights and flickering flame bulbs, and maybe he could even convince the staff to lay out a fire in one of the fireplaces.

It simply wasn’t possible for Stiles to be in a bad mood when he was surrounded by all of this. Peter’s staff must have worked their asses off while Stiles had been out of the house, to have decorated the place so completely in just a few short hours. Especially given the size of Peter’s house.

Still, Ethan was watching Stiles like a hawk as he moved from one room to the next, so he forced himself to stop after only a few rooms and head upstairs.

To lay down, as he’d told Ethan. He’d have said anything, honestly, to get Ethan to stop staring at him like he thought Stiles might collapse at any moment. He couldn’t afford to have any of Peter’s staff be suspicious, but especially not Ethan. The last thing Stiles wanted was for the beta to go running to Peter, talking about Stiles’ dizzy spell this afternoon. He wasn’t sure if Derek had mentioned his last one to Peter or not, but he didn’t want the alpha to have any more information than absolutely necessary. Danny had put the pieces together far too quickly; Stiles didn’t need Peter doing the same.

If Peter found out about the baby, it would be because Stiles had decided to tell him. And since that hadn’t been decided yet, it was crucial that Peter be kept in the dark about Stiles’ symptoms.

Once Stiles was closed in his room, he stripped down to his underwear and slipped into bed, curling up on his side and texting Danny. Don’t need a test; I can feel it with my magic.

After a few seconds of debate, Stiles sent off a second text as well. Not sure how I want to do this, so please keep this between us for right now.

It didn’t take long for him to get a reply.

Danny: of course

Danny: you’ll tell me if you need anything?

Stiles huffed out a soft laugh even as he typed back. Don’t I always? And thank you.

Danny: no thanks needed

Danny: you’re my best friend

Danny: love you

Love you, too. Stiles wiped at his damp eyes, then added. Gonna take a nap; ttyl.

Danny sent back a string of emojis - hearts and kisses and the like - and Stiles let out another soft laugh before setting his phone aside. He snuggled down under the blankets, one hand once again resting protectively over the spot where his unborn child rested. It was more than a little surreal, the idea that the subtle weight beneath his skin was a tiny human in the making. Surreal...but amazing.

And while there was so much about this that Stiles was still unsure of - so many questions he didn’t have answers to - there was one thing he did know, with absolute certainty.

Stiles loved this baby, and he would do whatever was necessary to protect it.

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

Sunday, December 2nd, 2018

Stiles had never been to a...symphony concert? He thought that was what it was called, anyway, when you went to see an orchestra play live. It was a fancy sort of thing to do, like going to see the Russian ballet. Or going to watch an opera live. It wasn’t the sort of thing Stiles had ever imagined himself doing. It was, however, the sort of thing he could easily picture Peter doing, so it wasn’t overly surprising to find out they were going. It was a little annoying that he was told by Ethan, rather than Peter. But Stiles was starting to get used to the fact that Peter seemed to prefer having his staff relay messages to Stiles, rather than telling him anything personally.

Stiles ate a light dinner, making a promise to himself that he would eat again after the concert. Calories were important - especially since his magic was supporting a pregnancy - but if he ate a big meal, all he would want to do was curl up and take a nap. And since he couldn’t do that, it was better to eat enough to prevent nausea or a dizzy spell, but not enough to induce a food coma.

Marin eyed him consideringly as he ate his salad at the kitchen island. “You’re certain I can’t make you something a bit more...substantial?”

“This has plenty of substance, thanks.” Stiles snarked back, and though there was no real heat behind the words, they still came out sharp. He knew her question came from a place of concern, not judgment, but it still rubbed him the wrong way to have his food choices questioned, as if he were a child.

When Marin only stared at him, Stiles sighed, shoulders drooping as he added in a softer tone. “I’ll eat something else when I get home after the concert, I promise. For now, this is good. Perfect, even.”

And really, the salad did have substance. The base was a mix of romaine lettuce and baby spinach. It had cherry tomatoes and grated carrot and little discs of sliced Persian cucumber in it, as well as croutons and diced chicken breast and paper-thin slices of almonds. He’d sprinkled fresh, minced mozzarella over it as well. And while Stiles was normally the sort to drown his salad in ranch, he’d restrained himself and used half his usual amount of the salad dressing. Because while calories were important to sustaining the magic he was now using constantly, he also needed to think about what the baby needed. Not to mention what his body needed to support the pregnancy, outside of the magical aspect of the whole thing. Building a new human from scratch wasn’t an easy task, and it was only made harder because Stiles was male. His body was less equipped for this, and there was only so much his magic could do.

It was a lot to have to consider; a lot of things to balance. But Stiles was determined to do the best he could, and that included eating as healthy as he could stand to.

Marin hummed consideringly, but didn’t protest. “If you’re sure. I just wouldn’t want you to have another one of your fainting spells.”

“Dizzy spells, not fainting ones.” Stiles corrected around another mouthful of salad. “I never lost consciousness, which I think is an important distinction to make.”

“Still, probably best not to do it in front of Peter.” Marin tipped her head at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I don’t think he would be as easily put off from calling a doctor for you as Derek was. He doesn’t take orders nearly as well.”

“Considering how poorly Derek takes orders, that’s a truly daunting thought.” Stiles admitted, earning a soft laugh from Marin. “Thank you, really, but I’m fine. I’ve got a condition, but it’s nothing life-threatening and I can manage it really well.”

Marin tsked softly as if she didn’t quite believe him, but she didn’t argue and turned back to the bread dough she was kneading, so Stiles was going to count it as a win.

~*~*~*~

Stiles dressed for the evening with great care. After his shower, he rubbed a salve he’d made over his belly, to help with both the tenderness and the stretch marks he knew were coming. He knew the sooner he started with it, the better. Then, he put on the simple black suit Cora had directed him towards when he’d texted her to ask her advice on what to wear for the evening. He chose to forgo a belt because, as pleasurable as that experience had been, he wasn’t keen on a repeat performance just at the moment.

He did put on a waistcoat, black as well, over his white dress shirt. He wore no tie, as that was Peter’s preference for him. Stiles also chose to leave the top few buttons undone, baring his throat...and the mottled bruises lingering there from Peter’s mouth. He knew it wasn’t exactly polite to parade around with hickies on display, but Peter was a possessive bastard and Stiles had a feeling that would win out over any sense of propriety, at least when it came to this. Simple black socks and dress shoes completed the outfit. Since Stiles felt he’d be fine going from building to car and back again with only his suit jacket, he headed downstairs to meet Peter without further delay.

He found Peter waiting in the foyer for once, which was a bit surprising as Stiles normally had to wait for the alpha to make an appearance. Peter, who was also wearing a full suit, complete with his own waistcoat. All black, just like Stiles, though Peter’s dress shirt was black as well. The only color breaking up all of that starkness was a tie as red as the alpha’s eyes. He looked devastatingly attractive, as always, with his thick chestnut hair perfectly styled and his blue eyes warmer than usual.

Peter caught Stiles’ hand in his own, lifting it to his lips so he could brush a kiss over the knuckles while he murmured to Stiles about how beautiful he was. Stiles swallowed past the lump of panic in his throat, forcing a smile to curve his lips upward in reply. He hadn’t seen Peter for more than a minute or two in passing since he’d awoken from his nightmare in the early hours of Saturday morning, and there was something nerve-wracking about being in his presence now. Because a child - Peter’s child - was growing inside of Stiles, and there was so much that could go wrong here, between them. So much that could ruin everything.

Forcing the worry and anxiety aside, Stiles allowed Peter to tuck his hand into the crook of Peter’s elbow, so he could escort him from the house. Peter was studying Stiles’ face at the same time, brow furrowing. “You seem uneasy, rybko. What’s wrong?”

“I’ve never been to a symphony concert.” It wasn’t an answer - wasn’t even close to one - but it was the truth, and Stiles had always been good at deflection. “Are there rules? Etiquette? No one gave me a handbook and I never attended finishing school. I’d hate to embarrass you.”

Peter chuckled at Stiles’ nervous babble, leading Stiles out the front doors and to the waiting car, even as he gently reassured him. “There is some etiquette around an event like this, mostly involving not disturbing those around you or disrupting the performance, but we won’t have to worry about that unless you do something utterly crass like shout at the musicians.”

“If you think that’s the only way I can disturb the people around me, you clearly haven’t been paying enough attention.” Stiles muttered, sliding across the seat so Peter could follow him into the car.

“I have a private box.” Peter explained as the door was shut behind them, still looking amused. Honestly, Peter was the perfect picture of relaxed elegance as he added soothingly. “You’ll be fine, pet.”

Stiles nodded, saying nothing else. He half-expected Peter to prod at him or question his sudden reticence to speak, but the alpha seemed introspective himself. The rest of the drive was made in silence.

~*~*~*~

Stiles had never been in a private box at a theater. Hell, he’d only been to a theater at all a couple of times, and none of those theaters had been as nice as this one. It was an interesting experience, if he was being honest.

They went up a bunch of stairs, then down a hallway to the right, where there was a series of doors at even intervals along one wall. The opposite wall had bathrooms, so at least he wouldn’t have to go far if he had to pee, something that was increasingly likely these days. Peter guided Stiles to a door about halfway down the hall, opening it and gesturing for Stiles to enter ahead of him. Peter followed him inside and, before the door closed behind the alpha, Stiles saw that Derek was stationing himself outside of it, as a guard. Thinking about Lincoln and assassinations, Stiles figured it was a good idea to have someone on watch. Just in case.

Ignoring Peter for the moment, Stiles wandered further into the space, exploring the small room they were in. It had four chairs in it - all of them plush, tufted, and upholstered in red velvet - but two of them were tucked into one corner, back against the wall the door was set in. In contrast, the other two were nearer to the box’s open front, set only a few feet back from the low half-wall that formed the front of their balcony-esque space.

Stiles moved that way - there wasn’t really anywhere else to go unless he left the room - and leaned against the curved front of the box, looking down over the audience and stage below. They were high, Stiles realized, situated well up on the right wall of the theater. It afforded a fantastic view of the rest of the theater. There were carved columns and woodwork decorating the outside framework of the boxes - theirs, and all the others Stiles could see from his vantage point - and the walls between them. There were also heavy red velvet curtains that could be used to close the front of the box, though they were currently tied back with thick, braided, golden ropes, complete with tassels on the ends. Everything about the box screamed elegance and class and privilege. It was almost overwhelming, being in it.

Peter chose to sit on one of the two chairs closer to the front of the box, watching Stiles with interest as he examined everything. It was a little unnerving to be watched so intently, and Stiles’ fingers twitched with the urge to place a protective hand over his lower stomach. As if doing so would shield the baby from Peter’s gaze. Except Peter didn’t know about the baby, and such an action would only draw attention to the way Stiles’ body was slowly changing shape. It was better to just ignore Peter’s eyes on him. Better to pretend everything was the same as it had been two days ago, before Stiles had known the truth himself.

“Do you like classical music?” Stiles asked as he finally wandered over to the seat beside Peter, doing his best to seem as normal as possible.

He sank down onto the plush cushion, noting the seat was just as comfortable as it looked, and wider than he would have expected a theater seat to be. Though Stiles imagined that was another privilege of being in a private box. After all, if you were paying for privilege, you would want it to be a luxurious privilege. “Or is this one of those things rich people just go and do because it’s expected?”

“I’d imagine some people come simply because it’s the thing to do. To see, and be seen, by their peers.” Peter said, easing his chair over to Stiles, until the two pieces of furniture were so close they might as well have been connected, though the wide seats meant there was still some space between Stiles and Peter’s bodies. “I, however, enjoy classical music, particularly when it’s performed live.”

“You don’t find it boring?” Stiles asked, genuinely curious now.

“Not in the least. It’s powerful. Moving. It reaches into your soul and evokes feeling.”

“Hmmm.” Stiles hummed noncommittally, not sure he agreed with Peter about that. He liked all sorts of music well enough, of course. He had even enjoyed listening to classical now and then, when the mood struck. But he didn’t consider it any sort of experience, the way Peter seemed to. Thankfully, Peter seemed content to let the matter rest and didn’t press the issue.

It wasn’t long before the lights dimmed and a hush fell over the audience. The curtain over the stage lifted, revealing the rows of musicians and their instruments. When the music began, it started out light. Lilting. Sweet, in a way. Then, as more instruments joined in, adding their voices to the mix, the music built as well. Not merely in volume, but in strength and complexity. The instruments seemed to layer over each other, deepening the sound until it was almost impossible for Stiles’ untrained ear to pick out any individual instrument. It rose and fell like the tide. It swelled to fill the huge space of the theater and then receded, like a wave sliding back to rejoin the ocean, before doing it all again.

And Stiles was forced to admit that Peter was right.

It was powerful. It was moving. Something about it coiled around Stiles, deep into the center - the heart - of him, wrenching out emotion in a way that was so strong it was very nearly painful. Stiles knew he loved to dance; he was used to music making him want to move his body. But this...this was something more.

It was deeper, in ways Stiles hadn’t anticipated. In ways he wasn’t even sure he could explain. It thrummed through his body, making him feel like an exposed nerve; raw and overwhelmed.

Peter’s hand found his and Stiles savored the contact; the simple feel of skin-on-skin grounding given how cast adrift he felt on the waves of music cascading over them. A moment later, he sucked in a stunned breath when Peter dragged Stiles’ hand into his lap. The heat of Peter’s co*ck radiated against Stiles’ palm, even through the layers of fabric covering it. Then Stiles tensed as Peter rocked both their hands against his length, groaning so softly that Stiles barely caught it above the rise and fall of the music.

Stiles’ tongue came out, moistening his lips before he whispered breathily. “Peter, we can’t.”

“We can.” Peter murmured, leaning in so his voice rumbled against Stiles’ ear, his words low and dangerous and so f*cking tempting. “We’re in a private box, rybko. No one will know.”

Stiles knew he should say no - he’d never been an exhibitionist and he didn’t plan to start now - but blood was rushing south, reason fleeing with it. He managed a trembling breath, reaching for some semblance of control and logic, then offered a compromise. “Close the curtains.”

“No.”

Stiles swallowed hard, turning to level Peter with a cool look, hissing. “I’m not doing this with the curtains open so anyone can see!”

Peter leaned in, tongue tracing the curve of Stiles’ ear. “Everyone is watching the stage. So long as you’re quiet, that won’t change. Don’t you want to make me feel good, pet? I promise I’ll make you feel good, too.”

And f*ck, but Stiles did want that. He was hard now, and leaking slick, and he hadn’t stopped rocking his palm against Peter’s still-covered co*ck. He wanted. His eyes went to the open front of the box; to the curved edge of their private balcony, just a few feet in front of them. He glanced across the way and had to admit that he could barely see the people there, and he certainly couldn’t make out any details. Which meant that, once again, Peter was right.

No one would know.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles’ hand slid out from under Peter’s, a little surprised when Peter let him. He didn’t go far, shifting his fingers just enough to tug at the button on the alpha’s slacks. A flash of red eyes let Stiles know Peter was pleased even before he caught the low rumble Peter was making, deep in his chest. He got Peter’s fly undone quickly, eager now. His hand burrowed under the layers of fabric a heartbeat later, seeking out the silken heat of Peter’s skin. He found it and Peter groaned, his arm winding around Stiles’ waist and hauling him closer, until he was snuggled up against Peter’s side.

Stiles greedily pressed his face into Peter’s throat, breathing shakily, taking in the alpha’s scent. Stiles wasn’t a werewolf, of course, but he loved the way Peter smelled - woody, and dark, and slightly sweet - like the forest, with all of its darkness and decay. And then, because this new position was uncomfortable, Stiles adjusted the way he was doing things. He pulled his right hand out of the awkward position it was caught in, trapped as it was by his own body and Peter’s clothing, sliding his left hand beneath Peter’s clothes instead. Stiles curled his fingers around Peter’s leaking co*ck, thumb teasing its way beneath the foreskin. He gathered the wetness beaded at the tip and dragged it down the heated length of Peter’s co*ck as he stroked, easing the glide just a bit.

Peter was breathing raggedly above him, hips twitching up into Stiles’ touch. “That’s it, rybko. Just like that, my sweet boy.”

Stiles whined softly at the praise, his own hips moving eagerly as he rubbed himself against Peter’s thigh. Except the angle was wrong, not letting him get proper friction on his own aching co*ck. It wasn’t enough to satisfy him; none of it was. Stiles didn’t want to feel Peter spill over his fingers. No, he wanted to feel Peter spill inside of him; wanted to feel Peter filling him up. Didn’t think he’d ever get enough of that feeling, honestly.

With another quick glance at the open front of the box, Stiles made a decision. Casting caution to the wind, he pulled away from Peter. He ignored the growl and flash of red eyes he got in response in favor of shimmying out his pants and underwear, kicking his shoes off in the process. Sure enough, that was enough to stop Peter’s nonverbal protests, just as Stiles had expected. Peter’s eyes widened in surprise, then grew dark and heated as Stiles settled himself once more.

Stiles wound up kneeling on the ridiculously plush chair he’d been sitting on, one hand braced beside Peter’s left hip and the other gripping Peter’s right thigh for support as he curled his body down. He eagerly lowered his mouth onto Peter’s co*ck, greedy for the weight of it on his tongue. Peter’s fingers threaded into Stiles’ hair, his wide palm cradling the back of Stiles’ head as his hips pressed up, into the slick heat of Stiles’ mouth. Stiles let him, dropping his jaw as far as he could and relaxing his throat so he wouldn’t gag or choke as Peter’s co*ck f*cked deeper with every thrust. It was delightful, having this again. The musk-sharp scent of Peter’s arousal flooded Stiles’ head, the bitter-salt taste leaking across his tongue exactly what he was craving.

And still, it wasn’t enough for Stiles. So he arched his back, spreading his knees as much as he could while keeping them both on the furniture, and whined softly around the thick flesh filling his mouth. Saliva was already spilling from the corners of Stiles’ mouth, dripping down Peter’s co*ck and Stiles’ own chin, making everything wetter; hotter; perfect. Stiles could also feel the slick dripping from his hole, sliding down the inside of his thighs, and he canted his hips up, presenting his ass - his hole - further.

Peter groaned, but seemed to understand what Stiles wanted. His left hand slid up the back of Stiles’ right thigh, touch confident and, for once, not teasing. It glided swiftly over the curve of Stiles’ ass, pausing only long enough to give that supple flesh a firm squeeze. And then, mere seconds later, two fingers were sinking into the hot, slick clutch of Stiles’ body. As Peter’s fingers pressed into him, hard and deep, Stiles moaned around Peter’s co*ck, grateful for the soaring music that helped smother the sound.

Peter huffed in amusem*nt, fingers pressing deeper even as his other hand tightened in Stiles’ hair. “You just can’t help yourself, can you, sweetheart? You want me inside you any way you can get it. You’re so hungry for it, aren’t you? Such a greedy little slu*t.”

Stiles lifted his head at that word, the hungry thing inside him turning suddenly ravenous. He straightened up on his knees and Peter let him, though Stiles knew it wouldn’t have taken any effort at all for the alpha to keep Stiles’ mouth on his co*ck. Part of Stiles thought he would have enjoyed the struggle of it - being forced to swallow Peter’s co*ck back down when he was trying to move away - but mostly he wanted Peter buried in his ass instead.

When Stiles shuffled away from Peter on his knees, Peter let his fingers slide out of Stiles as well. He didn’t protest, or ask Stiles any questions. Instead, he watched to see what Stiles would do next. And Stiles liked that almost as much as he liked when Peter took charge. Liked knowing he was calling the shots here; that he was the one who decided how far this would go, and when. Stiles stood on trembling legs, stepping closer to the alpha. Then he turned, facing the front of the box, and slowly lowered himself onto Peter’s lap. He knew words would help, if he could just force his lust-dazed mind to form them; knew Peter would give him exactly what he wanted, if he could just manage to ask.

Thankfully, Peter seemed to have caught on to what Stiles was trying to do, since he could feel Peter’s co*ck - held in place by Peter’s own hand, no doubt - as it nudged against his slick hole. And yes, that was precisely what Stiles wanted; what he needed. Peter’s co*ck, thick and long, filling him up just right. So Stiles greedily pressed himself down onto it, panting heavily as inch after inch sank into the wet, willing heat of his ass. When Stiles was fully seated at last, his back pressed to Peter’s chest and Peter’s co*ck buried to the hilt inside of him, Stiles let his head drop back against Peter’s shoulder, baring his throat to the alpha once more. One of Peter’s hands slid up to his waist, unbuttoning his waistcoat to spread the fabric wide, then rucking up his dress shirt, nearly to the bottom of his ribs.

“C’mon, alpha.” Stiles taunted, breathless and flushed from exertion, and desire, and all the damn layers clinging sweatily to his skin, though the way Peter had shifted his clothing to bare more skin was helping somewhat. “f*ck me. Please.”

It was the plea that did it; Stiles knew Peter well enough now to be sure of that, especially when Peter murmured against his ear. “You beg so pretty, don’t you? My sweet little co*ckslu*t...”

And Stiles couldn’t help keening as Peter spread his feet and braced them on the floor, hands settling on Stiles’ hips as he f*cked up into him. A second later, one of Peter’s hands was curled around the front of Stiles’ throat, grip just firm enough to be threatening. “Hush, rybko.” Peter’s breath was hot against his ear, his voice a low rasp. “Quiet, remember?”

Stiles sank his teeth into his lower lip, desperately trying to muffle his cries of pleasure as Peter continued to f*ck up into him, hard and fast and unrelenting. He felt the thin skin split under the pressure of his teeth, copper exploding across his tongue when he instinctively released the torn flesh and licked over it, trying to soothe the sharp sting and only making it worse. The ragged moan that spilled from his lips was cut off by Peter’s fingers as his hand shifted upwards from its place around his throat, two fingers slipping into Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles’ head went soft - blurry - as Peter’s fingers slid deeper, stroking over his tongue. His head lolled against Peter’s shoulder as he sucked greedily on Peter’s thrusting fingers, saliva running down his chin and the front of his throat. He could feel the driving thrust of Peter’s co*ck as it speared into him over and over, slamming into his prostate with demanding precision. Could feel his own co*ck, throbbing as it bounced against his stomach, leaking wetly all over his belly as he grew closer and closer to the release he so desperately wanted. The music rose to a crescendo around them as Stiles’ pleasure finally crested, then broke.

He spilled untouched, painting his belly with sticky-wet heat as the hot clutch of his body tightened around the heated length still f*cking into him. As Stiles’ org*sm finished, Peter’s fingers thrust into his mouth one last time, deep enough to make him choke, and he shuddered with another wave of mind-numbing pleasure. Then Peter’s fingers withdrew and Stiles’ chin dropped down to his chest as he gulped down air, the aftershocks milking Peter’s co*ck. As the alpha once again filled Stiles with his release, he muffled his own cry of pleasure by biting down on the now-exposed nape of Stiles’ neck, the bruising ache of it barely registering through the sex-drunk haze filling Stiles’ head.

Stiles came down lazily from the high of his org*sm with Peter whispering sweetly in his ear about how good he was; how perfect. He watched the rest of the concert from Peter’s lap, with Peter’s half-hard co*ck still nestled inside of him. He drifted sleepily in and out of the edges of unconsciousness, secure in the knowledge that he was safe in Peter’s arms. And when the concert drew to a close, but before the lights came back up, Peter carefully redressed Stiles and carried him from the box, then out of the theater and all the way to the car.

It was only when Derek fell into step beside Peter as he left the box that Stiles remembered the beta had been guarding the door. He wondered briefly if Derek - with his superior werewolf senses - had been able to hear what they’d gotten up to, even with the music and their attempts to be quiet. As Peter settled the both of them into the backseat - Stiles still cradled on Peter’s lap, in his arms - Stiles decided he didn’t want to know. He wasn’t sure he could survive the humiliation of it all, so he was going to pretend - for the sake of his own dignity - that Derek hadn’t heard.

When they arrived at the house, Peter carried him inside, finally setting Stiles on his feet in the foyer. Stiles frowned at that, not sure what was happening. He’d expected Peter to carry him to his bedroom. Had expected Peter to take him again, in that big canopy bed, as he had nearly every night that Stiles had been there. Instead, Peter took a half-step back from Stiles, then another, putting space between them that felt far bigger than it was.

“Is everything okay?” Stiles asked, voice coming out small against the tightness in his throat. Peter seemed off all of a sudden; it was almost as if he was looking through Stiles, rather than at him.

“I have a lot of work to do.”

Peter had said those exact words to Stiles often enough over the last week for him to have grown almost numb to them, but they had always sounded dismissive and cold. They were clearly a way to push Stiles away when things got too intimate for Peter’s liking. Now, however, they were distant. Almost absent, in fact, as if Peter’s mind was somewhere else entirely.

“But I thought-”

“Go to bed, Stiles.” Peter’s words were whisper-soft, but the command behind them was unmistakable. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Swallowing against the emotions making his throat feel thick and sticky, Stiles forced out a reply. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

When Peter said nothing else, Stiles turned and slowly climbed the stairs. He knew he had promised Marin he would eat again before bed, but he was no longer hungry. Blinking back the tears that burned the backs of his eyes, Stiles silently cursed his fluctuating moods and the hormones causing them. Peter’s dismissal tonight had been far less cold - far less cruel - than many of the others Stiles had received in the last week. In truth, it had been soft and gentle, if a bit hollow. It seemed silly, to take tonight’s dismissal harder than he had when Peter was acting like an outright asshole.

And still, something about this particular instance stung.

Unable to muster the energy to do things properly, Stiles simply let his clothing drop where it pleased as he stripped on his way across the room to his bed. Once there, he slid naked under the covers and let himself fall into a fitful sleep.

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

It wasn’t much more than an hour later when Stiles was pulled from sleep with a gasp. He sat bolt upright in bed, eyes wide, heart pounding, palms sweaty. ‘Another nightmare,’ he thought as the sleep-hazy panic receded enough for logic to return, struggling to take even, measured breaths with the pressing sense of dread still clinging to him. ‘It was just a dream.’

And yet, Stiles felt like someone was watching him. Like there were eyes on him, intense and heavy with focus. He swiveled his head, first one way then the other, but the room was empty. Shadowed, of course, given the late hour, but definitely empty. He was alone, and there was nothing to fear. Not in Peter’s house.

As he shifted on the bed, Stiles’ bladder protested and he groaned, but obligingly got to his feet and trudged to the en suite. He couldn’t be bothered with turning on any lights, choosing to pee and wash his hands with only the soft illumination offered by the fake white taper candles that had been put in every window in the house, including the two in Stiles’ bathroom. After shaking his hands dry, Stiles let out a jaw-cracking yawn before heading back into his room. He was still tired, but his stomach was also rumbling at him and he was debating grabbing something from the kitchen as a late-night snack.

Still thinking about food, Stiles grabbed the plum colored silk dressing gown that was hanging on a hook on the back of the door. It was not a bathrobe, which Cora had been adamant about, having explained that since it wasn’t absorbent, it shouldn’t be worn if Stiles was wet. He slipped it on, crossed the two sides over his middle, and belted it snugly enough that it hopefully wouldn’t slip open. It was long, the hem trailing on the floor, fanning out around his feet in a circle. It gathered at his waist, obviously, thanks to the belt, but it gathered at his knees as well, making the bottom even wider. It had large puff sleeves at the shoulders - Stiles found them a bit unusual, but not bothersome - and then the sleeve was nearly form-fitting from just under his bicep down to a couple of inches past his elbow, at which point it flared out into a wide bell, the bottom edge of which ended past his knees.

Stiles had thought it was a bit over-the-top when Cora had first shown it to him, but he’d grown to like it in the days since. He loved the color, though it did wash him out a bit, making him look even paler than normal. And he was rather fond of the dramatic flair the robe had, feeling a bit like he ought to be draped across a fainting couch and calling for his smelling salts whenever he was wearing it. And while it wasn’t a particularly warm garment, it at least made Stiles decent so he could grab something from the kitchen. He was feeling much calmer as he exited the bathroom, caught up in wondering what sort of cookies they had.

Except that as he stepped back into the bedroom, Stiles caught movement from the corner of his eye. He whipped his head towards the door just in time to see a flash of something - black fabric, if he wasn’t mistaken, wispy and flowing - disappear from view. The door was no longer tightly shut, but rather open about six inches, and Stiles tensed all over at the idea that someone had been creeping around his room just now. Had they been inside when he’d woken up? Was that why he’d felt like he was being watched?

In a split-second decision, Stiles snatched the plastic Christmas candle from the nearest window and sprinted to the door, wrenching it open and rushing into the hall. There was no one there, at least not that Stiles could see, not even when he lifted the fake candle with its LED flicker bulb and held it out to further illuminate the hallway. The freezing cold hallway, actually. Stiles shivered a little as he cautiously padded down the hall, towards the main staircase, alert for any sound or movement.

There was a sound behind Stiles - like a creaking floorboard beneath an unwary foot - and he whipped around, heart racing, candle held aloft. There, at the far end of the hall - deeper into the house than Stiles’ room, which was the furthest he’d wandered since Ethan had given him the initial tour - was another glimpse of smoke-like black, disappearing around a corner. Stiles didn’t hesitate to follow, his insatiable curiosity driving him to find out who had been in his room...

...and why.

He turned the corner where he’d seen the flash of fabric vanish and frowned, seemingly having come across a dead end. It was a short hallway - too deep to be an alcove, as it extended a good four feet from where it met the hallway Stiles’ room was in - but there was nothing in it except a painting on the wall directly in front of Stiles and some wall sconces on the left and right walls. Frowning, Stiles moved forward, candle lifted for more light, and studied the walls intently. This was an old house - a very old house, in fact - and for all the updates and renovations it had seen over the years, old houses often carried secrets, built into their very bones.

Sure enough, the wallpaper on the wall behind the painting had seams, despite the fact that it was only the width of the hallway - a mere four feet across - and should therefore have been papered with a single piece. It had two seams, in fact, about a half a foot or so from each of the corners. They were discreet - hidden well by the green and champagne stripes of the wallpaper’s pattern, each one carefully placed between two stripes. And once Stiles looked closer, he realized the seams continued down, each one running right through the decorative molding that separated paper from wainscoting and then disappearing between two of the dark wood boards that made up the lower half of the hallways’ walls.

‘Suspicious,’ Stiles thought, running his hand along the right seam, starting as high as he could reach and sliding slowly downward, pressing firmly as he went. ‘And well-hidden...’

When he reached where the molding was, he switched the candle to his other hand so he could do the same on the left-hand seam as well. As Stiles’ fingers pressed firmly about two inches above the molding, there was a faint click and the wall shifted under his touch. With a trembling breath, Stiles pushed the wall harder, swinging what was very clearly a secret door inward. Stepping into the dark space, Stiles was grateful for the soft light provided by the Christmas candle, using it to look around.

He wasn’t in a room, or even another part of the hallway. Instead, he was on a slightly elongated landing, at the top of a very narrow flight of stairs, which twisted and wound their way down and out of sight, disappearing into darkness after only a few risers. Stiles moved forward the handful of steps necessary to reach the top of the staircase, peering down into the dark, wondering where the stairs let out. Chewing nervously on his lower lip, Stiles debated going back to bed. Except whoever he’d followed to these stairs - the old servants’ stairs, if Stiles was remembering his history correctly - had been in his room, possibly while Stiles was still asleep.

He needed to know who it was.

‘Except it took me a few minutes to find the stairs,’ Stiles reasoned with himself, still poised at the top of the steps, uncertain and uneasy in equal measure. ‘They’re probably long gone.’

Just as he decided f*ck this, turning to go back to his room, a gust of bitterly cold air rushed up the stairs, slamming the secret door shut. Stiles startled, swearing softly under his breath, then moved closer to the door to inspect the mechanism for opening it. There was a handle, which he dutifully pulled on, except the door didn’t budge. With a frown, Stiles yanked on it harder.

It still didn’t move.

“Okay, there’s gotta be a latch or something...” Stiles muttered, using the candle to examine the area around the handle, and then the edge of the door.

There was nothing. No latch. No lock. No button or catch or release. Which meant Stiles was stuck on this weird little landing with only three choices.

One, he could wait quietly in the hopes someone would use the stairs, or that he would be able to figure out why the door was suddenly stuck.

Two, he could start screaming and hope this little stairwell wasn’t soundproof, despite the house having been owned by a series of werewolves for at least the last hundred years, if not longer.

Or, three...he could go down the stairs, in the hopes that he’d be able to get out on another level. Alternately, he could go up as well, since there were more steps going up a little to the right of the ones going down, but Stiles knew the fourth floor of the house wasn’t used so he figured it was more likely a lower door would be openable than the one on the top floor of the house.

So, with a heavy sigh, Stiles turned and headed back to the top of the stairs. If going down didn’t work, he could always just start screaming. All he’d be out was the time it took to go down, and it might spare him the humiliation that would undoubtedly accompany having to scream for help. Plus, there was more likely to be staff on the first floor, so that would be the best place to be if he did have to shout for assistance. All of that had to be worth the effort of trying, right?

With a deep, steadying breath, Stiles clutched the fake candle tighter in his left hand, braced his right hand on the wall, and carefully began his descent.

~*~*~*~

Stiles really didn’t like the servants’ stairs. They were narrow and twisting, doubling back on themselves every few risers with sharp turns. He had to slide sideways around each corner to continue downward, and he was constantly touching one wall or the other, and sometimes both at once. He was also scrunched down, to avoid hitting his head, as apparently no one tall was expected to use this hidden stairway. On top of all that, the steps themselves were steep, with each riser being about the height of a normal stair plus a half. It was unnerving and deeply disorienting to make his way down.

When he reached what was clearly the second floor - there was a small landing, as there had been at the third floor entrance - Stiles quickly pulled on the wall, trying to get out. But, just like on the third floor, the door didn’t seem inclined to open and, once again, Stiles couldn’t seem to find a latch or a release or any sort of mechanism to unstick the door. He didn’t understand what good servants’ stairs were if you couldn’t get out of them, once you were inside. How lovely that you could go from one floor to the next, but how did it help if the passage only opened from the outside? There had to be a trick to it.

‘Or...’ Stiles thought to himself as he continued down to the first floor. ‘No one has used them in so long that the mechanisms are all rusted.’

Except Stiles had gotten inside with very little trouble, and so had whoever it was Stiles had followed.

He reached the first floor and was surprised to find the entrance wasn’t shut like the others had been. ‘They must have gone out this way, too,’ he thought, cautiously approaching, in case whoever it had been was lingering outside the stairwell. Odds were, they hadn’t expected Stiles to follow, so they might not have gone far. Strangely enough, Stiles could hear music as he neared the exit.

Carefully, he peeked out into what seemed to be an empty hallway. Breathing a sigh of relief, Stiles pulled the secret door open further before sliding out into the hall. He used the ledge-like molding to pull the wall shut behind himself, satisfied when he heard a distinctive click that he’d gotten it shut properly. The music was louder in the hallway and Stiles was curious enough to follow it. He passed several rooms, winding his way through the back of the house on silent feet. He shivered whenever he had to pass over patches of hardwood floor where there were no runner rugs, the floors icy beneath his bare feet, but he refused to be deterred.

Finally, Stiles found himself outside the music room. He could hear the music much louder now, even through the wood of the closed French doors. It was clearly a piano, and Stiles was almost positive it wasn’t a recording. No, someone was playing the instrument Stiles had been assured was for show only. Taking a steadying breath, Stiles carefully reached for the handle of the right-hand door. He lowered it slowly - carefully - until the catch was released and he could push the door inwards. It moved on silent hinges, revealing a room swathed in shadows and candlelight.

Not merely faux candlelight, either, though of course the windows in this room had the same LED Christmas candles as all the others in the house. And, of course, there was the Christmas tree in one corner, with all its many strings of lights, casting its own glow on part of the room. But there were real candles lit on the mantle, and there were several tall, standing candelabras - four of them in fact, each holding 5 candles and standing as tall as Stiles’ shoulder - near the piano itself, casting light over the sheet music perched on the built-in stand.

Seated on the piano’s bench, playing with a passion and fervor Stiles could feel, was Peter. His hands danced gracefully over the keys, notes pouring out in a tortured spill of sound that wrapped itself around Stiles’ heart and squeezed. Stiles had no idea what Peter was playing, but it was achingly beautiful. Peter’s face, which Stiles could see only in profile, was relaxed. His eyes were lightly shut and yet he never missed a note; played so perfectly it was clear he had done so many times before; this was muscle memory at its finest. Stiles had never seen Peter look as peaceful as he did sitting at the piano, pouring his soul into the music he was playing.

Stiles’ throat felt tight with emotion as he watched, unable to resist taking a small step closer. He ached for this version of Peter, in a way he hadn’t known he could. There was so little he knew of this man, who Stiles had allowed into his bed and his body. Who had unknowingly sired a child with Stiles. And Stiles ached, because he wanted to know Peter. Not just his body, but his soul. All the parts of himself he kept hidden from the world. Stiles needed to know all of Peter, so he could decide if he was going to tell the alpha about the baby.

Because this man, playing the piano? This man was a stranger.

Stiles took another half-step closer, wincing when the floor creaked in response to his shifting weight. Peter’s hands froze on the keys, his body going still even as the final notes played lingered in the air. Stiles held his breath and Peter’s head turned, burning red eyes locking on Stiles’ suddenly trembling form. Peter’s face was no longer peaceful, instead twisted with fury. There was so much hostility in that look that Stiles couldn’t help taking a hasty step back, shocked at the sudden change in Peter’s demeanor.

“What do you want?” Peter’s voice dripped cold menace, icy and dangerous. There was a threat to the words, somehow, and Stiles felt sick with it.

Shakily, Stiles whispered. “I woke up hungry. I was going to get a snack when I-” He cut himself off, suddenly not sure he wanted to mention the shadow he’d followed into the servants’ stairs.

But Peter was still staring at him, the sneering twist of his mouth demanding an answer, so Stiles pressed on, offering a partial truth. “I heard the music and I wanted to know where it was coming from. I didn’t know...I mean, I didn’t realize-”

Stiles cut himself off, because Peter’s expression hadn’t softened at all. There was no understanding there on Peter’s face and Stiles was suddenly very sure he wanted to be anywhere but where he was. Swallowing hard, Stiles offered hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Then, turning on his heel, he ran from the music room. He tore through the house, not daring to look back, hating the silence that followed him where there had been music only a few minutes ago. He cursed his curiosity as he darted across the foyer’s icy marble floor, gathering his dressing gown in the same hand still clutching the LED candle, his other lightly skimming up the banister as he alighted the two flights of stairs necessary to reach his room on the third floor. Once inside his room, Stiles shut the door, debating briefly if he should lock it.

He had never locked the door before. Peter was meant to have access to him at all times, so why would he? But Peter had been different just now. For the first time since coming to this place, Stiles felt afraid. His fingers hovered near the lock, but in the end he couldn’t bring himself to turn it. He backed away from the door, chest heaving, wondering if Peter had even followed him. Perhaps the man had stayed in the music room, or gone to his own room instead. Except that, right as Stiles reached the bed, the door to his room flew open.

Stiles gasped, trying to take another step back and finding himself up against the bed. He flailed, the LED candle falling from his hand to the thick carpet with barely a sound as Stiles tumbled backwards onto the bed. He scrambled backwards across the mattress as Peter slammed the door shut before stalking across the room. Stiles’ voice was trapped in his throat, an apology tangled up in his tongue, refusing to spill off no matter how much Stiles willed it to.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Stiles hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d simply been walking through the house, an activity he was definitely allowed to do regardless of the time, and had entered an unlocked room he’d never once been told he couldn’t enter. So why did he feel like he’d done something wrong; something he needed to apologize for? Why was he so afraid, when there was no reason for Peter to be angry with him?

Peter reached the side of the bed and Stiles yelped as a strong hand curled around his bare ankle. A second later, Stiles was being dragged across the mattress, closer to Peter. His dressing gown rode up, its voluminous length bunching around his legs as he was unceremoniously hauled back towards the edge of the mattress. When Peter released him, Stiles’ heels rested on the edge of the bed with his knees bent, yards worth of plum colored silk pooling around his hips and thighs and keeping him decent. His arms were up above his head, his posture as unthreatening as he could make it, given Peter’s foul mood.

Peter bullied his way between Stiles’ raised thighs, hands coming down on either side of Stiles’ ribs, leaving Stiles caged beneath Peter’s form.

Peter was still partially dressed from their night out, though he’d shed most of his layers. Suit jacket, waistcoat, and tie were nowhere to be seen, leaving Peter in black slacks and a black dress shirt and nothing else. Stiles’ chest heaved as he stared up at Peter, amber eyes wide and sheened with tears born of fear and uncertainty and - if he was being perfectly honest - hormones. Peter was breathing heavily as well, eyes still burning red, face twisted into a furious snarl, though Stiles was relieved there were no signs of Peter’s shift beyond his alpha-red eyes.

One of Peter’s hands shifted, curling around the front of Stiles’ throat. He tipped his head back, submitting to the demanding press of palm and fingers as they settled on that vulnerable column of flesh. Peter growled at him, fingers and thumb tightening on the sides of Stiles’ neck even as he leaned down and caught Stiles’ lips in a fierce, demanding kiss. Stiles let his mouth soften, opening to Peter’s tongue immediately and Peter took full advantage as he licked past Stiles’ teeth. As the alpha continued to kiss him, Stiles’ head swam dizzily, and a second later panic screamed through him.

He twisted his face away from Peter’s, one hand clutching at Peter’s wrist as he whispered tearfully. “Don’t.”

Peter released his throat immediately and relief flooded through Stiles as proper oxygen-flow was restored to his brain. Peter was staring down at him now, eyes no longer red, and something between confusion and regret swimming in his eyes. Stiles wanted to reassure him; to remind Peter that he had been perfectly fine when Peter had choked him previously. That he liked it, even. But he couldn’t explain why he wasn’t okay with it now unless he wanted to tell Peter about the baby.

So Stiles said nothing, only pressing a kiss to Peter’s palm, light and sweet. The closest he could come to reassurance in that moment.

Peter leaned down to kiss him again, slow and deep, the hand that had been on Stiles’ throat instead cupping his face; angling him how Peter wanted. Stiles opened to it as he had before, letting Peter stake a wordless claim on his mouth. Next, Peter licked the tears from Stiles’ cheeks before scraping his teeth along the edge of Stiles’ jaw. He shifted to Stiles’ throat next, sucking bruises down the slender line of it. And Stiles allowed this as well, head tipped readily to one side to grant Peter unrestricted access.

Gasps and whimpers and soft moans filled the air around them as Peter sucked and bit bruise after bruise after bruise into Stiles’ skin, easing the front of Stiles’ dressing gown open to reveal more and more milk-pale skin for the alpha to mark. Peter littered bruises up and down both sides of Stiles’ throat before scattering them across the tops of Stiles’ shoulders. His fingertips pressed more to Stiles’ wrists while his lips and teeth created a circlet of purple-red blossoms around each of Stiles’ nipples, which were teased into swollen, aching torment as well. A waterfall of color was poured down the risers of Stiles’ ribs, red turning purple and blue as it trickled over the dips between bone.

A flood of wine-like splotches were spilled up the inside of Stiles’ thighs. Darker color bloomed on Stiles’ hips where Peter’s fingers gripped tight to hold Stiles in place as the alpha worked his way beneath waves of bruise-colored silk, mouth moving higher and higher up Stiles’ legs. Stiles gasped in air like a drowning man as Peter continued to paint his skin with unspilled blood, higher and higher, until he reached the apex of Stiles’ thighs.

There, where Stiles’ co*ck ached like each of the bruises Peter had bestowed upon him; throbbing with the same heartbeat that pumped blood to each livid pool of color decorating Stiles’ porcelain skin. There, where Stiles was slick with wanting, desperate and greedy to be filled by the only man who had ever done so; the man who had claimed Stiles in every way it was possible to do so.

‘Please...’ Stiles thought, though he couldn’t bring himself to voice the plea. Couldn’t bear to break the silence sitting so heavily between them, in a way it never had before, so instead he wished with everything he had, ‘You’ve claimed me, now please...please keep me...”

Stiles didn’t know if he’d made some sound, or if Peter was simply as lacking in patience as Stiles himself, but for once he didn’t linger there. Didn’t tease Stiles with his tongue, or even his fingers. Instead, the alpha surged up Stiles’ body, caging him in against the mattress once more. For a long moment they stared at each other and then Peter was flipping him over. Stiles keened softly at being manhandled so abruptly, but didn’t resist when Peter’s hands dragged his hips up, simply arching his back and spreading his knees as far apart as he could. Peter’s hands rucked up the yards of plum silk, gathering it onto Stiles’ back until it spilled down, surrounding his body and head like a tangible shadow.

And then Peter’s co*ck was pressing into him, sliding inexorably deeper until Stiles could feel Peter’s hips pressed against his ass. For several heartbeats’ time, Peter stayed like that. Pressed as deeply into Stiles as he could be, unmoving. A heated pressure claiming him from the inside out. Forcing Stiles’ body to make room for him; to accommodate Peter where he’d allowed no one else to trespass.

Finally, Peter’s hips drew back nearly all the way before slamming forward again. Stiles’ body rocked with the thrust, which was followed quickly by another, and another. Stiles rocked his hips back into the next thrust, and then there was one more before Peter was suddenly grinding deep and roaring, just above Stiles’ head.

Stiles tried to blink through the haze clouding his brain with lust. He pushed down the aching want coiling in his belly as Peter’s co*ck slid out of him, the heat and strength of the alpha’s body retreating. Stiles was certain now that Peter had come, but the alpha had never before left Stiles wanting. Peter had always made sure Stiles reached org*sm, usually more than once. This departure from the expected was...unsettling.

Carefully, he pushed himself up to sitting, turning to face Peter. Stiles’ dressing gown spilled down once again to conceal his still aching co*ck even as one side of it slid from his shoulder. The fabric pooled at his elbow, baring his shoulder and a good portion of his chest where it had been spread wide by Peter’s avaricious hands.

Baring any number of the bruises Peter had left all over him.

Peter, who was watching Stiles, breathing heavily, eyes burning red. Stiles didn’t know what to say. What to do. He had no idea how to act in that moment, or what Peter wanted from him.

In the end, it was Peter who spoke first. “Take off your robe.” His voice was low; gravelly in a way it usually wasn’t, as if Peter were choking on some emotion or another and the words were being forced past it. “Then get yourself off.”

Stiles felt like he’d been doused in ice water. The desire that had pooled low in his belly cooled and hardened so it felt like a ball of lead. “No.” The word came out on a breath of air. It was less than a whisper, but it seemed to fill the air between them as completely as if Stiles had shouted it.

“You think you can disobey me?” Peter snapped. “Do as I say, now!”

Stiles flinched at the anger in Peter’s voice, but met Peter’s eyes and shook his head slowly. “I won’t. I’m allowed to refuse you, if it’s something I don’t want. You agreed to that.”

“You expect me to believe you don’t want to org*sm?”

“Not like this.” Stiles offered softly, still holding Peter’s gaze. “Not when it feels like a punishment. I didn’t do anything wrong and I won’t let you treat me like I did.”

Peter’s shoulders dropped and the alpha raked one hand through his hair. As Stiles watched, Peter stood and, for a moment, Stiles thought he was going to leave. Instead, Peter quickly shed his clothes before turning down the blanket and sliding between the sheets. Then, with an imploring look at Stiles, Peter gently patted the space beside him. Stiles took a measured breath, but obligingly undid the knotted belt barely holding his robe closed. He shoved the mountain of plum silk to the floor, then crawled across the mattress to slide beneath the covers with Peter.

He let Peter position him so he was the little spoon, savoring the heat and strength of Peter’s body as it curled around him from behind. Stiles couldn’t help how sheltered it made him feel. How safe. How protected.

As Peter’s chin hooked over Stiles’ shoulder, the alpha’s voice rumbled past his ear, low and soothing despite the harshness of his next words. “Don’t ever come look for me when I’m in that room again.”

Stiles nodded, throat too tight to manage any words, but it seemed to be enough for Peter, who pressed a kiss to Sitles’ temple in response. Closing his eyes, Stiles focused on the comforting feel of Peter holding him close as he sank back into dreaming.

It wasn’t enough - not nearly - but for tonight it would have to do.

~*~*~*~

Monday, December 3rd, 2018

Peter woke in the morning to find he had slept clean through the night in Stiles’ bed, curled protectively around the younger man. It was the first time he’d done more than doze in Stiles’ presence and he was shocked that he’d managed it at all, let alone last night.

Last night, when he had been vulnerable and exposed. Raw. So much so, in fact, that he’d barely managed a half-dozen thrusts into the wet, willing heat of Stiles’ body before spilling himself like some inexperienced teenager half Peter’s age. It was mortifying, is what it was. He hadn’t even gotten Stiles off - a first for their encounters - and if that didn’t smart Peter’s ego, nothing ever would. He considered himself a damn good lover. The night before had been...unusual.

Peter hadn’t been at his best. Not anywhere near it, in fact. He should never have taken Stiles to the concert, knowing what he was like after such things. Knowing he would feel compelled to play, an urge he normally kept firmly under control. But Stiles had gone to bed early, and he’d been so fatigued lately - had slept so soundly through so many nights, even when Peter carried Stiles from his bedroom to Stiles’ own - that Peter had foolishly believed himself safe.

When the scent of Stiles had filtered through the music clouding Peter’s mind, he’d first believed it was a figment of his imagination. Instead, he’d turned at the sound of a creaking floorboard to find the younger man standing there, looking like an impossible dream come true. Face open and awed and so goddamn beautiful that it hit Peter like a suckerpunch, leaving him winded and reeling. He’d shut down, the way he always did when he was in a position of vulnerability; of emotional intimacy. The way he’d been taught to, because it was how you kept yourself alive. Letting someone in meant trusting them with your life while endangering theirs.

And Peter had sworn never to do so.

So he’d gone cold. Gone hard. Gone mean. He was good at it, after so many years of practice. So good at it, in fact, that Stiles had fled, something he hadn’t done even in the face of Peter’s fierce temper.

The smart thing to do would have been to let Stiles go. He’d undoubtedly lock himself in his room for the night, perhaps sulk and pout for a day or two, but he’d have been fine. If necessary, Peter could have appeased any lingering hurt with a gift or two.

Instead, Peter had followed Stiles. Had slammed his way into Stiles’ room and marked the human, in a way he’d had no business doing. He’d pressed ownership into Stiles’ skin with every bruise that marred its creamy perfection and he had no right to do so. Stiles wasn’t his. Not truly. Peter had made damn sure of that, several times over. He had pushed Stiles away at every turn. Had done unforgivable things that would ensure Stiles would never be his and told himself that was what he wanted.

Told himself temporary companionship was enough.

The insistence tasted like ash in his mouth now, but there was nothing to be done about it. No way to make things right, or undo what had been done. Peter had coerced Stiles into the bed he’d made and now they would both have to lie in it.

Peter slipped out of Stiles’ bed, pausing for a moment to look down at the young man who was so much more than Peter could have dreamed possible. Took in all of the bruising - blue and red and purple - that mottled his fair skin, as if someone had splashed him with paints.

He was gathering himself to leave - to head to his own room for a shower and to dress for the day - when Stiles blinked open those long, tawny eyes.

For a moment, Peter expected to see fear there. Expected Stiles to recoil from him. But Stiles had a habit of doing the opposite of what Peter expected, so that full mouth curved up into a sleep-lazy smile and the words that spilled past his lips were honey-sweet and drenched in fondness and appreciation.

“You stayed.”

Peter nodded slowly - no point in denying the obvious truth, after all - and Stiles stretched his long, lithe body, heedless of his own nudity, though his roving eyes said he was enjoying Peter’s.

“Mmmm...” Stiles’ voice was still syrupy; sticky-warm with sleep and sweetened with an affection Peter didn’t know how to handle. “I’m glad. You have work this morning?”

It wasn’t any sort of request. There was no expectation to the words; no hidden demand or secret plea. It was simply Stiles asking after Peter’s plans for the day, out of mild curiosity and a soft but genuine interest.

Somehow, it lit a fire in Peter’s belly. In an instant, he was back on the bed, hauling Stiles into his arms even as he caught that smiling mouth in a fierce, demanding kiss. Stiles was soft against him. Pliant and willing; utterly unresisting. He had never had such perfect submission from a partner, though he’d been with plenty of people who were meeker than Stiles. But perhaps that was what made Stiles’ submission feel so perfect. The fact that Stiles wasn’t meek, or simpering, or obsequious. Stiles was loud. He was brash. He was determined, and defiant, and downright rebellious. He ceded no ground he didn’t want to cede. He surrendered only when he wanted to.

Stiles gave nothing due to outside pressure, but only because he desired to give it.

There was nothing sweeter, Peter was sure of it. Nothing better than for someone with such strength of will and conviction to place himself in Peter’s hands, to do with as Peter pleased.

Peter had never claimed he wasn’t greedy or selfish. He had never claimed to be a good person. He wasn’t, and he knew it full well. So he would take what Stiles so willingly offered. He would take as much as he could for as long as he could, without apology. Peter would take, because there would come a day - far too soon - when Stiles was no longer his to claim or mark or have, and he would have to live with that.

Every day, for the rest of his life, Peter would have to live with that. So Peter took...

...and Stiles gave.

Chapter 18

Chapter Text

Wednesday, December 5th, 2018

Stiles sat bolt-upright in bed, jarred from sleep in the worst way. His palms were damp and his lungs burned as he fought to remind them of the correct way to breathe. He’d been waking up this way for nearly a week now and it was getting old fast. As soon as he felt steady enough, Stiles slid out of bed, padding to the bathroom to pee before doing anything else. When he finished in the bathroom, he headed for the doors that led to the balcony, scooping his dressing gown up from the back of his vanity chair as he walked past and shrugging it on. He belted it loosely around his waist before stepping out onto the balcony.

It was cold, but Stiles ignored it as he padded barefoot over to the railing. While the second-floor balcony wrapped around nearly the entire back half of the house, on the third - and fourth - floors, there were only smaller balconies, attached to specific rooms. Which meant Stiles couldn’t pace the way he would have liked, since he had only a small stretch of space to work with. Instead, he leaned against the balustrade and looked down over what he could see of the gardens and grounds. The wood beneath his feet was cold and his breath plumed the air like smoke...

...or like the misty fog that was drifting through the air. Not so thick he couldn’t see through it, but dense enough to soften the edges of the world around him. To make everything blurry.

Stiles watched the shadowed outline of a gardener pushing a wheelbarrow along one of the paths and thought about the dream that had woken him up once again. A figure...a shadowy figure. A woman. Thin - terribly thin - and always shrouded in shadows. Thick, like black smoke. Stiles hadn’t been able to see her face, but he was growing ever more certain of her identity.

His mother. Claudia Stilinski.

She had been dead since Stiles was only eight, and not once in all that time had her spirit ever come calling. Not in dreams, and not when he was awake, though he’d wished she would in those early days, when his grief was still new. Eventually, he’d figured that was that. If she had been planning to visit, surely she would have done so right away. When he was still young and in desperate need of his mother. But she never had and, eventually, Stiles had accepted that she never would.

Except now she had. Now she was. And Stiles had no idea to what end.

He wished he could recall more from the dream than just a sense of dread and foreboding. Moreover, he wished she would come to him when he was awake, so he could get more information from her. A better understanding of what she was trying to tell him.

What she was trying to warn him about.

And it was a warning. The way he woke each day sick with dread - clammy and unsettled - told Stiles that much for certain. She was warning him about something.

“New life...”

The words whispered through him, as gossamer as a spider’s web. The voice - though it could scarcely be called that - was worn and thin; threadbare. It lacked substance, as if there were no air behind it. And still, he couldn’t deny what he’d heard.

‘New life...well, that was about as unambiguous as it could be, wasn’t it?’ Stiles thought, pressing his hand against the faint curve of his belly. ‘Whatever Mom wants...it’s about the baby.’

He swallowed hard, an unsteady breath shivering out to hang suspended in the air in front of him before drifting away as a chilling breeze whistled past. It bit into him, cold and sharp, and Stiles shivered beneath the thin silk of his dressing gown. Stiles knew he couldn’t stay out in this cold; it wasn’t good for him. And what wasn’t good for him, wasn’t good for the baby. So he slipped back inside, closing the French doors firmly against the wind and the biting cold it brought with it.

As Stiles dressed for the day, he pondered why his mother’s spirit might be visiting him now, when it had been so many years since her death. Though he supposed it was common enough for expectant witches to receive visits from deceased family members. And while Stiles himself wasn’t a witch, his mother had been. As had so many generations before Claudia. So, really, it wasn’t a stretch to think his mother would follow the tradition with Stiles himself.

And still, there was the certainty he had that her words were a warning of some sort. A message of forewarning he was meant to heed.

‘Am I meant to tell Peter about the baby,’ Stiles wondered as he made his way downstairs for breakfast. ‘Or am I meant to keep it to myself?’

Stiles wasn’t sure what the right answer was, though Peter’s continued coldness towards him since the concert wasn’t inspiring a lot of confidence in Stiles with regards to the future of their relationship once Christmas rolled around. In the end, Stiles knew all he could do was wait. If his mother continued to come to him, perhaps he could gain more insight on what he was meant to be doing. And, if not, well...perhaps Peter would give him the answer he needed, one way or the other.

~*~*~*~

Friday, December 7th, 2018

Since the night in the music room, Peter had been ever more distant and cold. It was clear that, despite the way Peter had marked him that night - and despite the fact that he’d spent the entire night in Stiles’ bed - Peter hadn’t forgiven Stiles for what the alpha considered an invasion of his privacy. It didn’t matter that Stiles hadn’t done it on purpose; Peter had made his feelings on the matter perfectly clear. And although he was sure he could have, Stiles made no move to change things between them. If Peter wanted distance then Stiles would oblige him. He simply didn’t have the energy to chase after a man who was so damn determined to keep Stiles at arm’s length, if not further.

Besides, Stiles had developed a routine in the last five days. He woke up in the morning, had breakfast - sometimes in his room, but sometimes with Marin and Ethan in the kitchen - and then put in a few hours of work. He took a swim before lunch, then worked until dinner, which he ate alone. At some point after dinner, Peter would track Stiles down wherever he was in the house and bring Stiles to one or the other of their rooms. And no matter which bed they fell asleep in, Stiles woke each morning in his own bed.

Alone.

Because that was what things had been reduced to with Peter. Sex. And sure, it was fantastic sex - Stiles couldn’t deny that - but that was all it was. There had been no more outings. No fancy restaurants, or clubs, or trips to the theater. Not a single meal together, in nearly a week. Nothing but frantic, desperate sex. It was as if Peter was convinced each time would be the last and was determined to make it count.

If Stiles was being honest, it was slowly killing him. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could carry on the way things were.

Except he didn’t really have a choice. Stiles had agreed to a month with Peter and he was bound by that promise. It sucked with the way things were, but he couldn’t leave before 9pm on Christmas Eve.

So Stiles found himself in his room after dinner, dicking around with his phone. Playing Candy Crush in fact, though he was debating about switching to something else when his phone rang. Seeing that it was Isaac, Stiles rolled onto his stomach and picked up, forcing himself to sound as cheerful as he could.

“Hey, little brother.” Stiles was sure his upbeat tone was falling flat, but he pressed on, stubbornly determined to pretend everything was fine. “Have you and Dad put up the tree yet?”

“Stiles...” Isaac’s voice filtered through the phone’s speaker, small and choked and miserable.

Stiles was sitting up in an instant, pulse racing. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Is Dad hurt? What happened? Do you need me to come home?”

Stiles was already mentally preparing his argument to Peter for why he had to go - and debating if he could get away with using the credit card from Peter to book the necessary flights, or if he was going to need to dip into his savings again - when Isaac answered him.

“Bones died.”

“Oh.”

Stiles breathed the word out, deflating in an instant. He couldn’t fly to California - couldn’t possibly convince Peter to let him go - because their dog had died. And still, it was like a vice around Stiles’ heart, to think of the beloved King Shepherd being gone. Tears welled up in his eyes, spilling over in an instant. Stiles couldn’t quite stifle the sob that broke free, and Isaac was sobbing in his ear through the phone, and then suddenly they were crying together, despite the three thousand miles between them.

Finally, after several long minutes, Stiles thanked Isaac for telling him.

“I wish you could be here.” Isaac’s voice was hoarse from crying, low and tight and miserable. “But I know you can’t afford to come home again so soon. We’re gonna bury him in the yard, though, so you’ll be able to say goodbye the next time you’re here.”

“You’ll take pictures?” Stiles asked weakly, feeling wrung out and exhausted from his crying jag. “Of whatever marker you put up, I mean. I’d like to see it.”

“Yeah, of course.” Isaac promised, sniffling wetly. “Anyway, I’ve gotta go help Dad dig the hole. Do you want me to call you when it’s all done or...?”

“No. No, you don’t have to call. I know you’ll be tired after everything.” Stiles reassured him, though his throat was tight with tears still and he desperately wanted to say yes instead. “Just the pictures is fine. But if you need to talk, I’ll be around, okay?”

“Okay. And Stiles? I love you.”

“Love you, too.” Stiles murmured. “Go on, then. Go help dad. We’ll talk soon.”

After hanging up, Stiles curled up on his bed, around one of the many pillows, and let himself fall into a restless, fitful sleep, tears still dampening his cheeks.

~*~*~*~

Stiles was dragged from his doze by the intercom going off. He wasn’t sure how long it had been, but his head was throbbing. His eyes were swollen and tender as well and he was sure he’d been crying in his sleep. He groaned when the intercom buzzed again, dragging himself out of bed and across the room to answer it.

“Yes?”

Peter’s voice came through, dark and demanding, even with the faint crackle of static behind it. “Come to my office, rybko. I want you on my desk again.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose, tears filling his eyes and spilling down an instant later. His throat squeezed around the misery that welled up around his broken heart and he hit the button to speak, choking out his reply. “Now isn’t a good time.”

A growl filtered through the speaker with another burst of static, then Peter’s voice, sharp and angry. “That wasn’t a request, Stiles. Come to my office. Now.”

Stiles hit the button, a small sob spilling past his lips even as he bit out harshly. “I said no, Peter. So take a cold shower or go f*ck yourself, but either way, leave me out of it.”

He spun the volume dial on the intercom, effectively silencing any reply Peter might have made, then slunk back to the bed. A glance at the clock on the bedside table showed he’d been resting for less than an hour. Since his head still hurt and the tears didn’t seem inclined to stop, Stiles figured he might as well lay back down and try to sleep a little more.

Stiles was once again curled around one of the pillows, crying softly as he grieved for Bones, when the door suddenly slammed open.

Jolting upright, Stiles blinked wetly at Peter, mouth trembling and cheeks damp as tears continued to fall. For a long moment, they simply stared at each other. Then Stiles curled in on himself, heartbroken sobs shaking his whole body. None of this was fair and Stiles didn’t have the energy to rein in his emotions anymore. He felt gutted by everything that had happened in the last few weeks, and Bones’ death was simply the straw that sent the whole thing crashing down around him.

“Oh, rybko...what’s wrong?” Suddenly, Peter was on the bed with Stiles and then Stiles was on Peter’s lap, cradled against his chest while Peter rocked him. The alpha pressed a kiss to Stiles’ hair, then crooned softly. “Tell me what’s the matter, pet, and I’ll fix it for you.”

“You c-can’t fix it.” Stiles sobbed, turning his face into Peter’s chest, greedily soaking up the comfort the alpha was offering him. “He’s dead.”

Peter went very still, then asked softly. “Who’s dead?”

“Bones!” Stiles all but wailed the name.

There was a long moment of silence, though Peter’s hand was stroking soothingly over Stiles’ flank and he was still rocking Stiles slightly. Finally, Peter asked. “Who is Bones?”

Sniffling wetly, Stiles answered. “Our family dog.”

“Your...dog.” Peter’s words were flat with confusion, as if Stiles had something particularly baffling. “You’re crying like this over a dog?”

When Stiles nodded against Peter’s shoulder, the alpha hummed softly. “I could buy you a new dog, if you like. A purebred puppy of whatever breed you prefer.”

Stiles jerked back, out of Peter’s arms and onto the bed. He was glaring at Peter, anger rising hot and sticky in his chest. “Who says something like that to a grieving person?” Stiles demanded, chest heaving with his raggedly indrawn breaths, hands clenching into fists in his lap. “Would you tell someone their dead family member was replaceable?”

“Of course not.” Peter said, brow furrowing.

“Then don’t imply that Bones is!” Stiles spat the words, fresh tears welling up though these were born as much of anger as they were grief. “He was a member of our family. I loved him. I’m allowed to grieve without you being dismissive of my feelings.”

Peter’s face twisted into something remorseful, and a moment later he was standing beside the bed rather than sitting on it. “You’re right. That was thoughtless and callous of me. I’ll leave you to your grieving.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Peter leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of Stiles’ head, murmuring. “If you need me, rybko, I’ll be in my office.”

Stiles watched as Peter walked out of the room, swallowing down the desire to call the alpha back. He wanted Peter to stay, dammit. Wanted Peter to wrap him up in strong arms again. To pull Stiles into his lap; cradle Stiles against his chest. Make him feel safe, and comforted.

Make him feel loved, if he was being honest with himself.

And wasn’t that stupid?

“He doesn’t love me.” Stiles muttered bitterly as he thought about the distance Peter had so determinedly kept between them since the start of their little arrangement. Pressing his palm protectively to his lower belly, Stiles wondered if Peter would love the baby.

He thought back to the night Peter had taken him to dinner at The Labyrinth. To the conversation they’d had, when Stiles had foolishly said Peter wasn’t half as scary as he’d been led to believe. Thought back to the words Peter had said when Stiles mentioned how distressed Ian had been, upon hearing Peter’s name.

‘What did your boyfriend tell you about me, then?’

Peter had seemed amused at the idea, but also cold. Unmoved by the possibility that people were afraid of him. Almost smug about it, in fact. As if it pleased him in some way, while also annoying him.

‘That I’m a monster?’

And he was, wasn’t he? Hadn’t Peter proven that fact, purely by being who he was? Hadn’t he taken a moment where Stiles was weak, and vulnerable, and desperate, and exploited it for his own gain? Wasn’t that the whole damn reason Stiles was in this house, in this bed, in this predicament, in the first place?

‘That I’m a murderer?’

Well, Stiles had known that already, hadn’t he? He’d even said as much that night, in the restaurant. Because you didn’t just become the Alpha Wolf of a city, unless you were inheriting the kingdom the way Peter’s sister Talia had with Los Angeles. No, it was a role that was taken, typically by force. Peter had taken it by force. So was it surprising, really, that he was so callous about life and death? Why should it shock Stiles that Peter could disregard the importance of Bones’ death to Stiles, when he knew full well that Peter was capable of murder?

He thought again of the dreams he’d been having. Of the warning his mother was clearly trying to give him, about the child growing inside of him. Stiles had begun to wonder if she was urging him to tell Peter about the baby; if maybe he was being selfish by keeping it from Peter.

‘That I ate my own heart, and that’s why I’m so cold?’

But maybe the secret wasn’t the selfish part. Maybe it was that Stiles was even considering telling Peter about the baby that was selfish. After all, why was he thinking about it? Because this was the kind of life he wanted for his child? Because a man who was so cold and rigid - who paid attention to people only when he wanted something from them - was the sort of father Stiles wanted for his child? Or was he considering it because he wanted Peter, despite all of the reasons he shouldn’t? Was he thinking about it because this child had the potential to bind Peter to him in some irrefutable way?

And that was selfish. It was the very height of selfishness, in fact. To consider it, despite all of the reasons why he knew he shouldn’t. To consider it based on some foolish hope that Peter wasn’t as cold and callous and awful as he seemed. That maybe the glimpses of warmth Stiles had seen were indicative of the man Peter was, underneath everything else. Because Stiles was - had always been - tenderhearted. And he couldn’t help hoping that if he could just care about Peter enough...

Hard enough. Deeply enough. Well enough.

...then maybe - just maybe - he could thaw the alpha’s icy exterior.

But the sad truth was, all Stiles had managed to get was shut out. Peter had no desire to soften; to thaw; to let Stiles into his heart. And while Stiles might have been willing to subject himself to a lifetime of only those scraps of affection, he had no right to do that to a child. And if he was forced to choose between the child inside of him and Peter, well...

...it was no choice at all, really.

Stiles curled up beneath the blankets, once more at the center of his big, cold bed in Peter’s big, cold house and swore he would stop trying. His child came first; it had to. So he would get through the next two weeks with his secret intact, and then he would never see Peter again. Hell, maybe he’d go home to California; to Beacon Hills, and his father, and Isaac. Or maybe he’d go somewhere new. He had options, after all. A whole world of them, if he really wanted.

So f*ck Peter Hale. Stiles would be better off without him.

...now all Stiles had to do was convince his heart.

~*~*~*~

Peter didn’t want to leave Stiles. But he’d spoken without thinking and hurt the younger man in the process, and this was his punishment. It had to be Stiles’ choice, if he wanted comfort from Peter or not, no matter how much Peter wanted to give it. He left Stiles’ room, a little wounded when he wasn’t called back - wasn’t invited to stay; to soothe - but he understood. It wasn’t as though Peter was known for being particularly warm or comforting, even at the best of times. And he’d been nothing but cold and distant to Stiles for days.

It was no wonder Stiles had told him to go f*ck himself. Honestly, the fact that Stiles hadn’t already tried to break their agreement and leave was sort of shocking to Peter. Not that he would have allowed it, of course - he wasn’t planning on letting Stiles leave until he absolutely had to - but he’d half expected Stiles to try.

Really, though, Stiles had made a habit the last two weeks of doing the exact opposite of what Peter expected. He was unpredictable. And not in a bad way, either. As Peter wandered back into his office, he pondered the many ways Stiles had surprised him. All of the times when Peter had expected Stiles to retreat from him, only to be met with acceptance and enthusiasm. The ways Stiles had chosen to submit, and the ways in which he was defiant and stubborn. Stiles’ growing friendship with Cora, and the way he tried with Derek, though Peter had to admit Derek wasn’t making it easy on him. But then, Derek was smart enough to be wary of Peter, which was undoubtedly why he was keeping a careful distance between himself and Stiles. Hell, even Stiles’ friendly overtures with Ethan and Marin had been an unexpected surprise.

Stiles had blindsided Peter, every step of the way. He seemed to go out of his way, in fact, to keep Peter off-balance and out of sorts.

Peter would be lying if he said he didn’t like it, despite how much it frustrated him. And it did frustrate him, to an almost maddening degree. It just also delighted him, in at least equal measure.

With a sigh, Peter poured himself a glass of anise-laced alcohol. Not his usual preference, but his goal right now was drunk and that required certain sacrifices be made. In this case, taste. He settled behind his desk, both drink and bottle coming with him. No point in having to walk back-and-forth, after all. ‘Work smarter, not harder.’ That had long been Peter’s motto.

Smarter.

Yes, that was the problem here, wasn’t it? That Peter wasn’t being smart enough about the whole damn mess. He wanted Stiles, didn’t he, so why shouldn’t he have him? Why shouldn’t he keep him? True, Peter had never considered taking a mate before, but then, he’d never met someone like Stiles before. A human, yes, but a magic user, however limited his power was. The child of a witch. That made Stiles supernatural, by birth and his very nature, so it wouldn’t cause too much of a stir for Peter to elevate his status.

Stiles was perfect. Not only was he breathtakingly beautiful, he was also clever and sweet and full of all the warmth that Peter’s life had been lacking for...well, for forever, honestly. The Hale pack wasn’t known for its warmth, after all. One didn’t rise to the sort of power Talia now commanded by being warm. His sister loved her children - loved Peter, even - but it was in the way a king loved his vassals. They were pieces in the chess game Talia had been raised to play. Important chess pieces, and Talia would defend them if need be, but she also wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice them - or their happiness - if that was what would best serve her end goal. Peter knew this, because he had been taught the same lessons.

And hadn’t he done the same thing, in his own way? Peter had bound Derek to his side as heir, for all that he granted his nephew more leeway and freedom than he’d had under Talia’s control, raised to be Laura’s second. He had pressed Cora into a marriage he knew she didn’t want. And yes, he had done it to keep her out from under Talia’s control, like he had with Derek, but at what cost? Would she fare better under the command of Jason Lowell, the Alpha Wolf of Boston? Would she be happier there, mated to Ian and ripped away from her own pack? Would she have more freedom as Ian’s wife, or less?

Peter honestly didn’t know. He hadn’t really thought about it, though he was thinking about it now, even as he finished his first drink and poured himself a second one.

Stiles would have thought about it, though. Stiles would have talked to everyone involved. Would have assessed the situation and figured out the best way to make Cora happy. To make Derek happy. He would have analyzed more than alliances and territory borders and pack strength. He would have considered the human element of it all, even for the non-humans involved. Because Stiles had the biggest heart of anyone Peter had ever met. Stiles wasn’t weak, but he was soft and vulnerable and willing to let people in.

To let Peter in.

Because Peter wasn’t stupid, even if he sometimes acted like it. He knew Stiles cared for him. Thought Stiles maybe even loved him, or at least that he could. It was baffling to Peter, considering the way he’d treated Stiles, but it was gratifying as well. To think that maybe Stiles could see the best in Peter, even when he was locking it all up the way he’d been taught. It made him think that maybe he could keep Stiles.

But only if he was smart about it.

Peter had to be certain. He had to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Stiles had what it took. Peter had to know that Stiles would stand by his side, no matter what. Peter had to be sure that no matter what happened - no matter what he had to do to protect his territory and pack - that Stiles would stay loyal. Unflinchingly; unerringly; unwaveringly. As Peter’s mate, Stiles would need to be a pillar of strength and support.

He had to be able to trust Stiles, no matter what.

Peter downed the rest of his second drink before pouring himself another glass, rolling it between his palms. He knew there was only one way to be sure; one way to know if he could trust Stiles. He knew what he had to do. He just really didn’t want to.

Because this only ended one of two ways. Either Stiles proved himself and Peter would have something - would get to keep something - that he’d never dared to dream about. Or - and this was a very big or - Stiles would fail and Peter will have destroyed any good will between them forever.

He was tempted - very tempted - to wait out the next two weeks before doing what needed to be done. It would hurt less, he reasoned, to lose Stiles when their contract reached its natural conclusion. It would be far worse to have to keep Stiles with him for the next two weeks by force. Chained at his side, like a feral animal that would turn on him if it could. And Peter already knew, with absolute certainty, that no matter how Stiles responded to his test, he wouldn’t let Stiles leave. Not until their agreement was over, anyway.

Not until he absolutely had to.

Better, then, to wait. To bide his time. To eke out what happiness he could, just in case it was all shattered in the end. Except Peter had learned early on that it was always better to know the truth, even if it hurt. Even if it destroyed you. And hadn’t Peter known, from the very beginning, that Stiles might be his destruction?

No point in drawing it out. No point at all.

Peter slammed back his third drink, then climbed a little unsteadily to his feet. As he left his office and headed back to Stiles’ room, Peter let himself do something he hadn’t done in years.

Hope.

Chapter 19

Chapter Text

Stiles couldn’t help wanting comfort, even if he knew Peter wasn’t a good source of it. Blame the hormones. Blame his soft, broken heart. Blame the fact that he’d never been good at quitting, whether he was ahead or behind. It all amounted to the same thing, in the end. Stiles wanted comfort, and he wanted it from Peter. So after a half hour of wallowing in his bed, Stiles gave up the pretense that he could weather this grief alone. He slipped out of his room and down a single flight of stairs. Let himself into Peter’s room, rather than going to Peter’s office, because somehow it felt less desperate than bothering the alpha when he was undoubtedly working.

So Stiles shucked off his clothes and pulled on one of Peter’s shirts. Then he crawled into the massive canopy bed, curling his body around the pillow that smelled the most like the alpha and letting himself drift into a doze.

He wasn’t sure how long it was before the door opened, but he lifted his head to peer sleepily across the dimly lit room. Peter was standing in the doorway, backlit by the hallway lights, and Stiles’ heart lodged itself in his throat, beating far too quickly.

“You’re in my bed.” Peter said, the faintest bit of a slur running the words into each other, just at the edges. “I wen’ to find you but you weren’ in your room and now you’re here.”

‘Well, f*ck,’ Stiles thought as he watched Peter cross the room, swaying a bit unsteadily on his feet and feeling himself soften at the confused but pleased look on the alpha’s face as he stopped next to the bed. ‘I’m in love with him.’

And wasn’t that a kick in the goddamn teeth? Because he’d just accepted that when this was all said and done, he was going to have to let Peter go. He’d just accepted that it was stupid and selfish to keep trying to get more from Peter when it was clear the alpha only wanted sex. He’d just committed to the idea of raising their child alone, because it was what was best for everyone. But he loved Peter, didn’t he? He loved Peter and he genuinely didn’t know if he was willing to give that up without a proper fight.

Swallowing the emotion down, Stiles focused on Peter. The alpha was clearly drunk - or, at the very least, a bit past tipsy - and as endearing as it was to see Peter blinking softly at him in the dim room, Stiles knew he would need all of his attention to handle the situation. He would figure out the big picture tomorrow. For tonight, he would just worry about Peter.

“Why don’t you undress and get in bed?” Stiles coaxed, pushing up onto his knees so he could help Peter with the row of little buttons on his shirt.

“M’kay.” Peter mumbled, watching as Stiles’ fingers deftly pushed buttons through stitched holes, one after another. “I like your hands.”

“Do you?” Stiles asked, smiling a little at the admission. Peter was sweet like this. Softer. Blurry at the edges, just like his speech. “That’s nice. How much did you have to drink?”

“Mmmm...three glasses.” Peter admitted. “Quickly, though. With anise.”

Stiles hummed consideringly. “I figured with anise, since otherwise you’d be stone cold sober no matter how fast you drank. Three’s not too bad, though. That’ll clear your system quickly enough.”

Peter shrugged his shirt off when Stiles finished with the buttons, making no move to help as Stiles’ hands dropped to his belt and the fly of his slacks next. Though he did ask softly. “How are you feelin’?”

“I’m okay.” Stiles murmured, though he was pretty sure he would’ve answered differently before Peter came into the room. He did feel better now that Peter was here, if only a little. “Sad, but...okay.”

He finished undoing Peter’s belt and slacks, and the alpha shoved them down along with his underwear. He stepped out of them, then tipped his head to one side to study Stiles’ face. “Is this workin’ for you?”

Stiles blinked at the non-sequitur, then asked dumbly. “Is what working for me?”

“This.” Peter said, stressing the word a bit more and gesturing between himself and Stiles. He started to climb onto the bed, and Stiles hastily shifted backwards to give the alpha room.

When Peter had settled himself next to Stiles on the mattress, the covers draped loosely over both of their laps, he qualified further. “What we’re doing...is it working for you?”

Stiles swallowed past the lump in his throat, but admitted softly. “No. No, it’s not.”

When Peter only blinked at him with wide, puzzled blue eyes, Stiles sighed and did his best to explain. “I...care about you.” Because like hell was he admitting he loved Peter while the man was drunk and making sad puppy eyes at him; what he was admitting was bad enough. “But you keep pushing me away and shutting me out. So no, it’s not working for me.”

Peter’s head tilted inquisitively to one side while his brow furrowed. “You care for me?”

“Yes.”

“How can you possibly care for me?” Peter asked, and there was a note of genuine distress underlining his words that made Stiles want to soothe him. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”

Stiles shrugged. “I do, though. Not as much as I’d like to, but I know enough.” He met Peter’s eyes unflinchingly. “I know you love your niece and nephew. I know you play the piano beautifully. I know you’re protective of anyone you consider to be yours. I know you’re smart, and dangerously clever. And I know that, when you want to be, you can be sweet and funny and charming.”

Again, Peter just blinked at Stiles, his lips parted softly in surprise. Stiles sighed, then muttered. “So yes, Peter, I care about you. Probably more than I should, considering the circ*mstances.”

“Do y’know what your problem is?” Peter asked as he leaned towards Stiles.

Stiles shrugged again because he could list a dozen things, probably, and he had no idea which of them Peter might mean. The alpha hummed softly, then said. “You’re wound too tight. It makes you anxious all the time.”

Lips twitching up at the corners because, honestly, Peter wasn’t entirely wrong, Stiles asked. “Think you can help me with that?”

Peter tsked softly even as he pressed Stiles down onto his back, so he was caged beneath Peter’s body on the mattress. “People can’t change who they are, pet. If you’re uptight then you’ll always be uptight. It can’t be helped, I’m afraid.”

He leaned down, teeth teasing at the edge of Stiles’ jaw, then murmured. “But if you’ll let me, I can make you feel good. And that may be enough.”

“Yes.” Stiles agreed, already tipping his head to grant Peter better access to his throat.

Peter rumbled at him, low and pleased, promptly sucking a fresh mark onto Stiles’ neck, amidst all the still-healing ones that already littered his skin. He parted his thighs, making space for Peter’s hips between them and panting softly as their bodies rocked together. Peter cupped Stiles’ face in one hand before capturing his lips in a deep, languid kiss. It was drugging, the way Peter moved with such deliberation; such purpose. Slow and syrupy-sweet, like honey.

“That’s it, my darling boy.” Peter murmured against Stiles’ lips before kissing his way down Stiles’ throat, to his shoulder. He set his teeth there, chuckling when Stiles’ hips stuttered in their shared rhythm, crooning. “Easy now, pet. I’ve got you.”

“This doesn’t feel relaxing.” Stiles said around a moan, grinning teasingly when Peter lifted his head to give Stiles a bland, unimpressed look. “Feels like you’re winding me tighter, actually.”

“Is that so?” Peter asked, leaning down to nip teasingly at the tip of Stiles’ nose before adding. “Perhaps you ought to try something else, then.”

“Oh?” Stiles asked even as his nails bit into the sweat-slicked skin of Peter’s back, his hips still chasing the friction of Peter’s co*ck sliding against his own.

He wondered absently what it would take to convince Peter to f*ck him rather than letting the both of them succumb to the slow-building pleasure of their grinding.

“Mmmm...a massage?” Peter’s tongue licked a bead of sweat from Stiles’ temple and he growled softly before continuing. “Or meditation, perhaps, like your brother does?”

For a moment, Stiles was distracted by the way Peter’s hips had changed angles so that his co*ck was no longer grinding against Stiles’ own aching arousal but rather sliding down, through the slick leaking steadily from Stiles’ hole. For a moment, all he could think about was how badly he wanted Peter to f*ck him.

And then Peter’s words registered.

“Wait-” Stiles said, hands pressing against Peter’s chest; forcing some space between their bodies even as Peter’s hips fell still. The alpha was watching him, blue eyes cold and blank. “How did you know that?”

Peter said nothing. He simply stared down at Stiles dispassionately, the silence between them more damning than anything the alpha could have said.

Stiles felt like he’d been dunked into an ice bath. His stomach churned sickeningly. His tongue felt thick and clumsy in his mouth, like he had to forcibly unstick it from his palate so he could speak. When he managed it, the words came out raspy and jagged. “You...you took him, didn’t you? You kidnapped my brother.”

Peter’s head tipped a little to one side, but he at least had the courtesy not to lie to Stiles’ face now that the truth was out. “I did.”

Tears stung the backs of Stiles’ eyes, hurt and rage warring in his chest. Before he could decide which would win out, Peter leaned down, breath hot against Stiles’ ear.

“Tell me, rybko...” Peter’s voice was soft and warm and somehow so cruel. “Do you still care for me?”

The rage won.

As fury welled up in chest, Stiles screamed. No words, just a sound of anger and hatred pulled from deep inside of him, spilling past his lips with piercing volume. His hands flew up, fingers curled as he clawed at Peter’s face. The alpha swore softly, jerking back, and Stiles’ nails continued down the sides of Peter’s throat and the top of his chest. Bit in, harsh and unforgiving, deep enough to draw blood for all that Stiles knew Peter would heal in a matter of minutes. That just made him angrier. Made him want to hurt Peter even more.

And then Peter was kneeling between Stiles’ thighs, strong hands curling like manacles around Stiles’ wrists. He yanked Stiles’ arms above his head, pinning them there with one of his own, the other supporting his weight as he stared down at Stiles with a sneering look of contempt. As if Stiles’ fit of rage was nothing but a child’s temper tantrum; pointless and undeserving of his attention. A nuisance and nothing more.

Screaming again - still wordless, because Stiles was a little afraid of what he might say if he let himself put words to his anger - Stiles kicked out with his feet. Less effective than it would have been in other positions or if he was wearing shoes, but that wasn’t the point. Stiles focused on twisting his lower body around, determined to get a knee between Peter’s thighs if he could. It wouldn’t do any more damage than his nails on Peter’s face had - not really; not in the grand scheme of things - but f*ck did Stiles want to bruise Peter’s balls, however temporarily.

Peter’s lips pressed into a narrow line of annoyance and a heartbeat later Stiles found himself flipped onto his side. Peter’s body was a strong line of heat behind him - his back pressed snug to Peter’s chest; his ass cradled by Peter’s pelvis - and Peter’s arms and legs were wound around him. Immobilizing him. Stiles was caught, as firmly as a rabbit in a snare. He could struggle, but to what end? Peter was far stronger than him and he wouldn’t get free; they both knew it.

For a moment - just a moment - Stiles debated blasting Peter on his ass with his magic. He could do it quite easily. Wouldn’t even break a sweat, or strain himself. But the fact of the matter was, he had no idea how Peter would respond to such an attack. At the moment, he wasn’t hurting Stiles; he was only restraining him. If Stiles hurt him - really, actually hurt him - there was no telling what Peter might do. It wasn’t a risk Stiles was willing to take. There was more at stake here than just himself, after all. If Peter felt threatened, he could do serious damage to Stiles...or the baby.

Seething but doing his best to rein in his temper, Stiles bit out sharply. “Let me go, you bastard!”

“Or you’ll do what?” Peter asked, sounding almost bored.

Stiles squirmed furiously for a moment, freezing only when Peter’s voice hissed in his ear. “Keep rubbing against me, rybko, and this will turn into something else entirely.”

“Over my dead f*cking body.” Stiles replied, though he fell still because like hell was he tempting fate...or Peter. “Let me go!”

Peter sighed, warm breath ruffling Stiles’ hair. “Are you done trying to hurt yourself then?”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt myself in the first place.” Stiles snarked, temper straining at the edges of his admittedly fraying self control. “I was trying to hurt you, you arrogant f*cking prick.”

“Tch.” The dismissive noise infuriated Stiles, especially coupled with the way Peter nuzzled at his cheek, and he bared his teeth in response despite knowing the alpha couldn’t see his expression from his position behind Stiles. “If you hurt me, pet, then I’ll have to hurt you. I don’t want to do that. So I’m going to ask you again. Are you done?”

Stiles let himself go limp in Peter’s arms. Let the rising tide of his heartbreak wash away the worst of the anger; let it cover the boiling rage with numbing grief for what might have been. Voice thick with tears and damp at the edges from the same, Stiles managed. “You’ve already hurt me.”

With a quiet sigh, Peter released Stiles. The alpha rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. Stiles pushed himself to sitting. He twisted around so he could stare at Peter, tears spilling down his cheeks and lips trembling. He was a little shocked there wasn’t blood spilling from his mouth, honestly. Found it hard to believe something could hurt this much and not kill him. Because Peter had lied to him, every step of the way. Peter had tricked Stiles into his life; into his bed.

Stiles had fallen in love while Peter was playing out a goddamn con.

“I hate you.” Stiles whispered, even as his traitorous heart cried out for Peter to...

...to...

...to what, exactly? To apologize? To pull Stiles into his arms and swear things were different now; that Peter was different now? To fix this? As if that were even possible. As if anything could undo what Peter had done, or make it right.

Peter studied him, then shrugged. “You say that now, but you’ll get over it.”

Stiles bristled up at that and Peter continued calmly. “You’re like a child, Stiles. Fussing because you’ve stubbed your toe or scraped your knee. Some silly little hurt, barely more than imagined. By tomorrow it’ll be nothing but a memory and you’ll be soft and warm and willing again, just as you have been.”

Staring at Peter, Stiles was suddenly aware of the impossible distance between them. Like a crack in the foundation of everything Stiles had foolishly hoped they were building that went so far down Stiles wasn’t sure it had a bottom. It was deep and wide; a treacherous, yawning chasm filled with heartache and despair. There was no way across it. No easy way to get to where Peter was without sacrificing who he was in the process. And maybe, if he tried hard enough, Stiles could fill it in. Or maybe he could build a bridge, in the hopes that Peter would meet him halfway.

But did he even want to anymore?

For a long moment, there was only emptiness. Stiles felt cold and blank and hollow, in the worst way imaginable. It was like he’d been gutted. Like all of the warmth and affection and, yes, love that he’d felt for Peter had been yanked out of him, leaving nothing behind. For the span of several heartbeats, that was all there was inside of Stiles.

Nothing.

Then the pain rushed in, bright and burning. Stiles was off the bed in an instant, fleeing from Peter’s room. He half expected to be stopped, or called back, but he wasn’t. He made it up the single flight of stairs and into his room without issue. And, once there, he knew what he had to do.

Grabbing his suitcase, Stiles set it on the bed, unzipping it quickly. He started grabbing things from the dresser and closet, barely paying attention to what he was shoving into the bag. Did it even matter? Was there anything in this house he cared that much about, that it would make the slightest goddamn difference if he left it behind? Deciding the answer was no, he simply crammed as much clothing into the suitcase as he could before zipping it shut.

Next, Stiles slid his laptop into its case, shoving his work stuff in with it before closing that as well. Then he skimmed a pair of leggings on, stepped into the first pair of shoes he spotted - a pair of slip-on boat shoes - and yanked on a hoodie he’d had since high school. His phone, charger, and wallet got shoved in the kangaroo pocket at the front. His keys he clutched tightly in one hand as he slung his laptop bag over one shoulder and grabbed the handle on his suitcase.

He left his room - Peter’s guest room - and headed for the elevator. He pressed the button to call the car, but nothing happened. He pressed it again, but the elevator remained still and silent. Stiles jabbed his finger into the button several more times in rapid succession, but the stupid little light that showed the car was coming wouldn’t even light up.

‘Fine, whatever. f*ck this stupid elevator,’ Stiles thought as he headed instead for the stairs. ‘I can take one stupid suitcase down two goddamn flights of stairs. I’d walk down a hundred if it meant getting out of this f*cking house once and for all.’

When he reached the second floor, Stiles couldn’t help looking at Peter’s bedroom door. It was closed now, though Stiles hadn’t bothered to shut it behind him when he’d left. Stiles continued down the stairs, half expecting Peter to stop him. Except he didn’t. Peter was just...letting him go. Like Stiles leaving didn’t matter to him at all.

As he continued down the stairs, the tears started up again. Stiles could barely see through them and he figured that was at least halfway to blame for what went wrong. He was only a couple of steps from the bottom when it happened. He stepped down but his foot slid along the edge of the stair rather than landing flat on it, his ankle twisting sharply. He lurched, struggling to keep his balance, but the pain in his ankle wouldn’t let him resettle his foot properly. Then Stiles’ laptop bag slipped down off his shoulder, slamming into the back of his knees, and that was that.

The whole world pitched sideways and Stiles was falling.

He slammed into the marble floor of the entryway with a pained scream that was honestly more panic than actual pain. His laptop bag went skidding across the floor. His suitcase tumbled down the final few steps with a series of clatters and thuds. His keys flew out of his hand and landed somewhere to the left with a discordant jangle of metal-on-stone. And Stiles...

Stiles was done.

He curled into himself, right there on the cold floor, and sobbed. Buried his face in his arms, let the tears soak through the cotton sleeves of his hoodie, and bawled like the child Peter had compared him to. The alpha had to have heard him fall, but he still didn’t appear. Because Stiles was apparently so goddamn unimportant that Peter couldn’t even be bothered to check if he’d broken his neck in the fall.

When a hand landed on his head, stroking through his hair soothingly, Stiles hiccoughed weakly and lifted red-rimmed eyes to see Marin kneeling beside him. He sniffled wetly, dragging his damp sleeve across his face to try to clear some of the mess, and Marin just sighed.

“Where does it hurt?” She asked softly, fingers still petting through his hair.

“My heart.” Stiles answered honestly, though when he shifted himself up to sitting, tucking his legs to one side, he winced and added. “And my ankle.”

“Ice for that, I think.” Marin gently urged Stiles to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you taken care of and back to your room so you can rest.”

“No.” Stiles said petulantly, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at her. “I’m leaving. I’m done with all of this, okay. I’m going home.”

“Tch.” Marin sucked her teeth lightly, shaking her head. “That, I’m afraid, isn’t allowed. If you try it, you won’t make it more than a dozen steps past the front door before someone drags you back inside. Kicking and screaming, if necessary, though I hope you’d be more dignified than that.”

Stiles glanced at the door, then back at Marin. “I was told I wasn’t a prisoner. And anyway, Peter lied when defining the terms of our agreement. That makes it void. I can leave if I want to.”

“You really can’t.” Marin’s tone was apologetic even as she tried to nudge Stiles towards the kitchen again, one hand on his arm and the other on the small of his back. “Peter is the only one who can authorize you leaving. Come on, Stiles. I’ll make you some tea.”

Stiles wanted to balk. Wanted to dig his heels in and refuse to be coddled or soothed. Wanted to test her claims that he would be stopped if he tried to leave. He could force it, if he wanted to. He could flick his fingers, summon up the magic that rested beneath his skin, and go, if only because he could make it far more trouble than it was worth to try to stop him.

But to what end?

If what Marin said was true and Peter wasn’t prepared to let him go gracefully, then it would be a fight until they resolved the terms of their little arrangement. Better, then, to stay and sort it out. To convince Peter to release him, or else to simply wait out the duration as best he could. He might not be able to leave, but he could refuse Peter’s advances. That was allowed. That had been agreed on.

So fine, then. He’d ice his ankle, and drink some tea, and retreat back to his room - his temporary prison cell - to regroup and find the best path forward from here.

Ignoring the items still scattered across the floor of the foyer - no doubt someone would fetch them all and return them to Stiles’ room - Stiles let Marin guide him to the kitchen. He was limping a little, his left ankle refusing to take his full weight without sharp pain and the threat of giving out under him, but he was steady enough on his feet as long as he was careful.

When he was sitting in the breakfast nook, ankle up on the bench with a bag of crushed ice wrapped in a tea towel settled on his ankle, Marin made them both tea. When she had it ready, she settled across from him and slid him a mug. Stiles curled his palms around it, blowing across the top to cool it a bit so he could take a sip. Marin merely tapped her own cup lightly with one nail before bringing it to her lips and drinking. It was a nifty little parlor trick, and one Stiles could have replicated if he’d wanted to, but he was savoring the heated press of the ceramic against his palms and didn’t bother.

“I should be able to leave.” Stiles muttered, giving Marin a cross look. “Peter entered into our arrangement under false pretenses.”

“Did he?” Marin asked, raising an eyebrow as she took another sip of her tea. “Your agreement was for the return of your brother, was it not? One month in exchange for your brother. Did Peter not deliver?”

“Peter took him in the first place!” Stiles protested, bristling up again. “I agreed to a month in exchange for his help finding my brother, not as a form of ransom payment.”

Marin shrugged. “Is there that big of a difference, that you think you can quibble over terms? Peter arranged for your brother to be taken, true enough. But the terms he laid out with you have nothing to do with that. When you agreed to spend a month with him, Peter sent men to retrieve your brother and return him to you, exactly as you wanted him to do. Does it really matter if he knew where your brother was the whole time? Does calling it a ransom somehow make it worse than if you were calling it a finder’s fee instead?”

Stiles took an unsteady breath, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. “It’s wrong.”

“Ah.” Marin smiled placidly. “A rather childish view, don’t you think? After all, wrong is somewhat subjective.”

“It’s really not.”

“Isn’t it?” Marin tsk’d softly. “For all that you have magic, Stiles, you weren’t raised in our world. And it’s a very different world. The rules aren’t the same.”

Stiles’ mouth twisted and bitterness laced his words. “Peter said that to me once.”

Marin gave a gallic sort of shrug. “Peter’s alpha status was gained by killing the man who held it before him. In your world, that’s murder. In your world, this house and much of what’s in it as well as a large number of businesses now under Peter’s control would all have passed in some legal fashion to the heir or heirs of Deucalion. But, in our world, things are different. Those things belonged to the Alpha Wolf of New York City so when Peter claimed that title, he claimed everything that went with it.”

“Murder is murder.”

“If Peter hadn’t killed Deucalion, his niece - Laura - would be dead. That he obtained power and wealth and status in the process of saving her is simply a part of our world’s rules as well. To hold that against him is unfair.”

Stiles sniffled a little, not sure how to respond to that. Was it fair to call Peter a murderer when all he’d done was protect his niece? Was it fair to blame him for what he’d gained, when that had never been his intention? It was a complicated mess, made moreso because of the werewolf factor.

“It’s not the same.” Stiles protested, fingers drumming restlessly against the mug he was still cradling between his palms on the table. “Isaac isn’t a part of the supernatural world. I am not a part of the supernatural world.”

“In Peter’s eyes, it wasn’t wrong to take your brother so that he could have you. He never intended to harm either of you, so what was so wrong with gaining a little leverage?” Marin stared at Stiles in that unnervingly calm, measured way she had. “Your brother was simply bait placed on a hook to catch a fish he wanted.”

Rybko.

Little fish.

Stiles felt sick, hating how Peter must have laughed at that. A joke Stiles was too ignorant to understand the punchline to.

“That’s supremely f*cked up.” Stiles muttered, bringing the mug up so he could blow on it again. Though with the way his stomach was churning, he wasn’t sure he would be able to drink it even once it was cool enough. “You realize that, right?”

“Peter’s rules are different from yours.”

“So that makes it okay?” The words came out fast and sharp, like the crack of a whip.

Marin shrugged. “Peter has made his bed and now he’ll have to lie in it. Do you honestly think it was an accident that you found out what he did?”

Stiles froze at that, setting his mug back down before asking hoarsely. “What do you mean?”

“Peter has secrets inside, Stiles. A great many of those, he’ll carry to his grave.” Marin’s voice was soft, but somber enough that it carried enormous weight. “You will never know all of them, not even if you spend a lifetime with him. Trust me when I say that if you’ve found something out, it was only because he wanted you to know it.”

That hit Stiles like a slap in the face. Hurt washed over him like a wave, leaving him reeling. “Of all the ways he could’ve ended things, this is how he chose? And if he wants me gone so badly, why the hell is he holding me hostage?”

“I forget how young you are, Stiles. How sheltered and naive.” Marin reached across the table, taking one of Stiles’ hands in both of her own. “It’s not fair, expecting you to understand a man like Peter, but I need you to try. He doesn’t want you gone.”

“I don’t understand.”

Marin huffed softly in amusem*nt, though she squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Has it occurred to you that it’s actually the opposite of what it seems? Perhaps Peter wants you too much. Perhaps he’s afraid of being hurt by you.”

Stiles frowned at her, insisting. “I would never hurt Peter.”

“No?” Marin raised an eyebrow at him even as she released his hand and picked up her tea again. She took a sip, studying him over the rim, then asked. “So I didn’t just catch you running for the door the moment you found out something you didn’t like?”

“That...that’s not...I wasn’t-” Stiles cut himself off, because...well, because he had been, hadn’t he? But he’d been hurting, dammit. Hurting and so angry. He floundered for a moment, finally managing the barest defense of his actions. “It’s complicated.”

“These things usually are.” Marin gave him a sad smile. “If you can’t handle the darker aspects of his nature, what good are you to him? He needs a strong mate at his side. Someone he can trust, no matter what happens.”

Stiles scowled down at the table. “Why? Because he’s an asshole and a criminal?”

The look Marin leveled him with was unimpressed and a little cold. “I know you’ve seen more of him than that. Peter is usually quite good at compartmentalizing - at showing people only very specific sides of himself - but he’s wavered with you. Shown more than he ever intended to. You’ve seen some of his softness. Some of his vulnerability.”

Stiles thought of the way Peter had looked when he’d played piano. Thought of the way Peter touched him; as if he were desperate for the feel of Stiles’ skin beneath his palms and the taste of Stiles on his tongue. Thought of Peter changing his plans so Stiles could sit near a fountain in a restaurant, and the way he’d never felt safer than he did in Peter’s arms. Little things; small moments. What did they add up to? A man who was more than the worst he’d shown Stiles of himself.

“I’ve seen...something.” Stiles admitted, unable to deny the truth of. “But...I don’t know what. And I don’t know if it’s enough.”

“Perhaps it’s not. Not for you, anyway.” Marin watched him carefully as she continued. “What you’ve seen of Peter isn’t the whole of him. He may never show you that, in fact. But you’ve glimpsed what’s behind the mask he puts on to survive and that’s more than any companion has ever gotten. But that man? The man Peter truly is? He needs a mate he can trust - someone who will love him no matter what - because he has deep wounds only they can heal.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Stiles asked.

Marin sighed, then nodded to Stiles’ mug. “Drink your tea before it’s cold.”

Stiles frowned, but obligingly lifted the mug and took a mouthful. He blinked at the taste - strong, almost bitter, and a little grassy, but sweetened with rich honey. He took another careful sip, then asked. “What kind of tea is this?”

“Raspberry leaf.”

Stiles felt like he’d been suckerpunched; like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. His lips parted in surprise and the mug clattered as he clumsily set it back on the table. “W-why...”

“Do you not like it?” Marin asked, her tone as calm and level as ever. “I can fix you something else, if you prefer. But it’s good for you, isn’t it? Or am I wrong?”

Stiles swallowed nervously, eyes flicking between the mug and Marin’s placid face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hmmm. Of course you don’t.” Marin huffed out another laugh, shaking her head even as a small smile played across her lips. “Cora and I would like you to stay, Stiles.”

Stiles blanched. “Does she-”

He cut himself off, not wanting to admit to anything, but Marin seemed to understand. “Don’t worry, Stiles. I don’t discuss tea choices with Cora. Or anyone else.”

When Stiles said nothing, she shook her head and sighed. “I believe you can reach his heart, but only if you’re willing to commit to this path. You’re the first person I’ve ever believed could do so, in fact.”

“How am I supposed to forgive this?”

“It won’t be easy for you. The path ahead is a thorny one.” Marin reached out and squeezed his hand again. “But it’s worth it, don’t you think? To fight for love.”

Stiles scoffed, sharp and disbelieving. “Peter doesn’t love me.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps not yet.” Her dark eyes bore into Stiles. “But you love him. And isn’t that how it starts? Someone always has to love first, after all.”

Stiles chewed on his lower lip, restlessly toying with his mug though he couldn’t bring himself to take another sip. It felt too much like an admission he wasn’t yet willing to make. “What if you’re wrong? All he’s done is shut me out, over and over again. What if he won’t let me in?”

Marin rolled her eyes, her tone growing a little sharper now. “Then you need to stop letting him take the position of power. Every time you push back - every time you refuse to be weak - you put more cracks in the wall he keeps around himself.”

“Yeah, but what if-”

“An eagle doesn’t fight a snake on the ground, Stiles.” Marin cut off his protest, her eyes hard and glittering as she continued. “If it tried, the snake would win every time. But in the air, the eagle’s victory is assured.”

Stiles snorted at that, muttering. “I don’t know how to fly.”

“Well then you’re just going to have to learn, aren’t you?” Marin retorted. Apparently done with the conversation, she stood, gesturing to his mug. “Are you going to drink that?”

Stiles hesitated but ultimately shook his head. Marin hummed, but gathered up both their cups, bringing them to the sink. Over her shoulder, she added. “Go upstairs, Stiles. Get some sleep. Perhaps in the morning things will seem clearer.”

Stiles rose as well, limping carefully over to the sink and passing Marin the makeshift ice pack and towel he’d been using. Softly, with his eyes on the floor, he said. “So...what we’ve talked about...”

“It stays between us.” Marin assured him. “Regardless of what you choose to do. But Stiles...” She angled her head to catch his eyes before continuing. “I hope you’ll choose carefully. There’s so much at stake here, after all; so many lives tangled up in the outcome.”

“I’ll think about it.” Stiles promised, and he meant it.

As he turned to leave, Marin called after him. “The elevator should be turned back on now. Don’t press your ankle with the stairs.”

Stiles nodded. “Thank you. Goodnight.”

Marin waved him off and he made the trek back up to the third floor in brooding silence. Stiles wasn’t sure if he could forgive Peter for what he had done, but he knew that a part of him wanted to. He also wanted to find out if Marin was right. If it was possible for Peter to love him. If there was a happy ending option for all of them, including the baby. It wasn’t a choice Stiles took lightly, or one he would rush.

‘I have two weeks to figure this out,’ he thought as he stripped and slid into his cold bed. ‘Two weeks to see if there’s any hope for something more and figure out if that’s something I even want.’

After that...

Well.

...only time would tell.

Chapter 20

Chapter Text

Saturday, December 8th, 2018

Stiles enjoyed getting lunch with Danny, even if they couldn’t do it more than once or twice a week between their respective schedules. He missed sharing meals with his best friend every day. Missed hanging out, watching tv and talking sh*t about their work even though they both loved what they did. He missed Danny. So as much as he was still angry and upset with Peter - and as much as he was worried about the baby and the dream-warnings from his mother - Stiles was actually in a reasonably good mood when he sat down across from Danny.

“You look chipper.” Danny greeted him, tipping his face up to Ethan in greeting as he added. “You, on the other hand, seem a bit tense.”

“That’s because I ordered him to stay in the car.” Stiles admitted before scowling at Ethan when he moved to sit at their table. “Oh no. Not today. Today, you sit all the way on the other side of the goddamn restaurant.”

“Stiles-”

“Don’t.” He bit out, narrowing his eyes at Ethan. “Do not push me, Ethan. Not right now. I’m trying really hard not to take my temper out on the rest of you. Please don’t make it any harder than it already is.”

Ethan sighed, but obligingly moved to take a seat as far from Stiles and Danny’s table as possible. Danny raised an eyebrow, looking concerned. “That was different. What happened?” Eyes widening, Danny leaned in as much as he could with a table between them and whispered. “Did you tell Peter?”

Stiles hissed in annoyance, then flicked his fingers to muffle their conversation from prying werewolf ears because he didn’t trust Ethan not to run back to Peter with whatever he heard. “Geez, a little louder for my werewolf bodyguard, why don’t you?”

Danny winced. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Stiles waved it off, mostly because Danny hadn’t actually given anything away. “There’s a muffling barrier up now, so it’s fine. And no, I didn’t tell Peter I’m pregnant. Which is a good thing, considering I found out last night that he is the one who kidnapped Isaac. And Scott.”

“What?” Danny’s voice had gone high and panicky, making Stiles extra-glad he’d thrown up the muffling magic. And then Danny paled, a forced smile coming to his lips. “H-hi! Sorry, we...we’re not ready, are we, Stiles?”

Stiles glanced up at the waiter, who was giving the both of them a very strange look, though Stiles wasn’t sure if it was because he’d overheard what Stiles had said, given he was inside the barrier Stiles had put up...or because Danny was suddenly acting weird. It could honestly have been either.

“Sorry.” Stiles offered the guy the most innocent smile he could muster, putting his famed Bambi eyes to work. “I got caught up in telling my friend about the new game I’m playing and we haven’t looked at the menu yet. Can you give us, like, ten minutes to decide?” He paused then added. “Though I will take a glass of orange juice.”

“Me, too. Thanks.” Danny agreed quickly.

The waiter seemed to relax marginally, making Stiles think the guy had overheard at least part of what Stiles had been saying. But he was smiling a little now, shoulders more relaxed. “Two glasses of orange juice, and a few more minutes to decide. Not a problem.”

When the waiter walked away, Stiles opened his menu. Danny did the same, muttering. “You are freaky good at that, you know.”

“Mmmm...comes from being a sheriff’s kid.” Stiles shot Danny a smirk. “Pick some food, asshole. I have no idea how long we have before Peter orders Ethan to drag me back to the house.”

“And you’re okay with going back?” Danny asked even as his eyes slid over the menu. “I mean, I know you’re supposed to have two more weeks, but-”

“He won’t release me from our agreement.” Stiles explained, sighing when Danny made a concerned sound. “He isn't hurting me, okay? He’s just not letting me leave. I can wait out the next two weeks.”

Danny closed his menu, concern etched across his face. Stiles sighed again. “You’re supposed to be deciding what to eat, not staring at me like I’m the saddest orphan you’ve ever seen.”

That got a smile, at least. Stiles was counting it as a win.

“I’m having a burger.”

Stiles grumbled about Danny’s predictability, though he was debating a burger for himself. Except...

“Why the hell do I want fish?”

Danny shrugged. “No idea, but here comes the waiter with our O.J. so if you’ve decided...”

When they’d both placed their orders - Stiles getting catfish even though he’d never been much of a fan of any sort of fish outside of crustaceans - and the waiter was gone, Danny turned to Stiles again. “Hey, do you think the baby wants fish?”

Stiles’ brow furrowed. “Why would the baby want fish?”

“Fish is full of omega3’s and those are needed to help build the baby’s brain.” Danny explained, sipping his juice before adding. “And I think I read somewhere once that pregnant people crave things based on specific nutrients the baby needs for that stage in development.”

“Huh. I...didn’t know that.” Stiles rolled his glass between his palms, nervous energy combined with ADHD meaning he needed to do something with his body or he’d crawl right out of his damn skin. “I’m gonna need to find a cryptomedical specialist at some point. Sooner is probably better than later, though for obvious reasons it’ll need to wait until my time with Peter is up.”

Danny cleared his throat awkwardly. “You’re really not going to tell him?”

“He kidnapped my brother.”

Danny held his hands up peaceably. “Not arguing! Just...asking. We both know you’ve been developing feelings for him. I just want to check in, okay? Make sure that you’re sure.”

“I’m not.” Stiles shrugged when Danny made a what the hell gesture. “Well, I’m not. I’m in love with Peter, which is really f*cking inconvenient, considering. But I need to think about what I can reasonably expect from him, if I tell him that I want more. Or if I tell him about the baby. And I need to think about what’s best for the baby, before I make that choice. What kind of life do I want my child to have?”

Danny hummed thoughtfully. “Surely Peter would take care of the baby - and you - even if he doesn’t want a relationship with you, right?”

“But at what cost?” Because this was something Stiles had been thinking about for days now. “And not just at what cost to me, but at what cost to our kid? Do I want them to be raised as the heir to an alphadom? Do I want a life like that for them, full of private security and the constant threat of violence?”

There was a pause, then Danny asked softly. “What would make it worth it?”

Stiles huffed out a laugh at that, mirthless and defeated. “If Peter loved me back. Or if I could at least believe there’s some hope that he could. But if I don’t have that in the next two weeks...”

“Okay.” Danny reached across the table, squeezing Stiles’ hand and giving him an earnest, supportive look. “Hey, whatever you decide, I’m there. Every step of the way. I’m in your corner, no matter what.”

Stiles’ next breath shivered unsteadily past his lips and his eyes filled with tears, but he managed a wobbly smile for Danny. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

Danny gave his hand another squeeze, then asked. “And you’re really okay, staying with Peter for the next couple of weeks?”

“You already asked me that.”

“And we were distracted by the menus and ordering, so you didn’t answer.” Danny said pointedly. “At least not properly. What happens when he wants sex?”

Stiles shrugged. “I say no.”

“And he’ll respect that?”

“Jesus, Danny.” Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face, then shot Danny an exasperated look. “I know Peter’s kind of a criminal overlord, but he’s not a rapist. If I say no, it’s no. He’s never failed to respect that and I don’t see him starting now.”

Again, Danny held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. It’s just that I know the agreement was for sex, so I had to ask.”

Stiles flashed his teeth in a dangerous, wicked smile. “Oh he won’t be happy if I say no, but he’ll respect it. So he’s going to earn my forgiveness or he’s going to have a really lonely two weeks. Either way, I win.”

Danny was still laughing when the waiter brought over their food, and their conversation shifted to the baby. As Stiles happily discussed nursery themes and a baby shower with his best friend, he realized that this was exactly what he’d needed after last night. Because he might not get to do this with Peter - only time would tell - but he wouldn’t be doing it alone. He had people who loved him, who would be there to help and support.

‘No matter what happens,’ he thought, one hand rubbing small circles over his still mostly-flat belly, discreetly hidden by the table. ‘No matter what, we’ll be okay, baby. Daddy’s got you.’

~*~*~*~

Sunday, December 9th, 2018

Stiles was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a coward. Cautious, when circ*mstances called for it, sure. But he was never cowardly. When something had to be done, Stiles did it. Even if it was scary. Even if it was hard.

So as much as he didn’t want to, Sunday afternoon found Stiles calling his brother. Because Stiles couldn’t even consider doing this unless Isaac knew everything. It wouldn’t be fair.

“Beacon County Morgue. You stab ‘em, we slab ‘em. How can I help you?”

Stiles couldn’t hold back the snort of laughter that escaped, though he worked hard to suppress the subsequent giggles that bubbled up. “Dude, you can’t just answer your phone like that.”

“Sure I can. Cell phones have caller id.” Isaac’s voice was cheerful as it filtered through the phone speaker. “It’s not like I didn’t know it was you.”

Stiles hated to burst that bubble of positivity, but he needed to ask. “Are you doing okay?”

There was a moment of silence, then Isaac sighed. His voice, when he answered, was a little softer and more somber, but steady. “I’m alright. Still sad, obviously, but it’s okay.”

“Right. I’m glad you’re hanging in there.” Stiles blew out a slow breath. “So, uh...I won’t be able to come home for Christmas, because I’ve got, um-” He winced, trying to figure out the best way to word things without actually lying. “I have some contractual obligations, up through Christmas Eve. But I was thinking, if you wanted, maybe you’d like to come out here afterwards? For New Year’s or something, maybe.”

“Seriously? New Year’s Eve in New York City? Hell yeah!” Isaac sounded excited, which Stiles was going to count as a win, even if it might not last. “You’re not spending Christmas alone, right? Cause that would suck.”

And, well...that was an opening, right? So Stiles took it. “Maybe? I’m...not a hundred percent sure yet. I’ve been seeing someone. Sort of, it’s...complicated. And I could maybe spend Christmas with him, if...if things go well. If not, then, uh...I don’t know. Guess it depends what Danny is doing.”

“If what things go well?”

Stiles had expected questions - it was why he’d started this conversation, after all - but that didn’t make answering them any easier. “If he wants things to be more serious between us. And if I do. I’m not really sure on either of those counts right now.”

Isaac snorted in his ear. “So you’ve just been f*cking this guy?”

“Dude, don’t be crass.” Stiles admonished, rolling his eyes. “And also, my sex life is none of your business.” When Isaac made a dismissive sound, Stiles huffed out a small laugh. “Okay, yes. We’ve been...intimate. But it’s gotten really complicated and I don’t...I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“I love how you just said been intimate like an old man or something. I’m not Dad; I’m not gonna judge you for hooking up with someone.”

Stiles made a noncommittal sound and Isaac asked gently. “So...complicated how?”

And this - this - was the part Stiles had been dreading.

“Do you remember how I asked someone for help with finding you, when you went missing?”

“Yeah, of course.” Isaac’s tone was still soft, though it had an edge of confusion now as well. “Peter Hale, right? I did some digging, just to see who I owed my thanks to. He’s an Alpha Wolf, right? Like Talia is here in Los Angeles.”

“Yeah, she’s actually his sister.” Stiles admitted.

“Huh. That’s kind of cool.” Isaac sounded almost bored, though; like his thoughts weren’t completely on the conversation at hand. “I know Dad was upset you asked for his help, but I’m grateful. What’s he got to do with the guy you’re hooking up with?”

Stiles’ throat was tight with anxiety and he couldn’t figure out how to answer; what he was supposed to be saying in a situation like this.

Thankfully, Isaac had always been pretty smart.

“Oh.” Isaac’s voice was low but shocked. With his next words, a veneer of impressed coated everything else. “Oh sh*t, for real? Is he, like, your sugar daddy? If you marry him, do you get to help run New York?”

Stiles couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up, though it was a little wet around the edges. Unsurprising, given he cried at the drop of a hat these days, but a little inconvenient. “I wouldn’t call him my sugar daddy, but uh...he does buy me pretty things and take me to fancy places.”

Isaac let out a low, impressed whistle and Stiles laughed again. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I don’t know if he wants...you know, more from me. Or if I want more from him. So I’m trying to work that out. And I...I needed to talk to you about it.”

“M’kay. Why?”

Stiles swallowed hard, then whispered. “I needed to know that you’re okay with it. I c-can’t...I can’t even think about doing this if you’re not.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” And Isaac sounded so baffled that Stiles could perfectly picture his confused face; lips pursed into a thoughtful moue and brow furrowed low over his big eyes. “You’ve never asked me for my opinion on someone you were seeing before. And I don’t even know this guy.”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, but forced the words to spill past his lips. “He’s the one who arranged for you and Scott to be taken. And I didn’t know, Isaac, I swear. I only just found out. But now that I know, I can’t unknow and I feel like the worst big brother in the world because I-”

His voice cracked and Stiles stopped talking, not sure he wanted to finish that thought.

In the end, Isaac did it for him.

“You love him, don’t you?”

There was no judgment on the words - no anger or condemnation - but the tears Stiles had been holding back broke free anyway. He sobbed and then Isaac was crooning in his ear. “Hey, no. C’mon, bro, don’t cry. It’s okay, I promise. Seriously, please don’t cry. You know I’m a sympathetic crier and I don’t want to start.”

“I’m sorry.” Stiles sniffled, taking several measured breaths to get himself under control. “I don’t...I shouldn’t even be considering this. He kidnapped you. I should...f*ck! I should turn him into the police, or-”

“With what evidence?” Isaac asked, sounding amused. “I’m betting you don’t have a recording of him admitting to orchestrating it, right? So what would be the point?”

When Stiles made a miserable sound, Isaac sighed in his ear. “Look, there’s no reason to beat yourself up. You didn’t know, right? You couldn’t have been expected to know. And I don’t expect you to magically fall out of love with someone because they held me hostage for a few days.”

“I feel like that’s a reasonable thing to expect.” Stiles muttered darkly.

“Maybe.” Isaac sounded unconcerned. “But I wasn’t hurt. Didn’t have a scratch on me. Neither did Scott. They didn’t even let us get dehydrated. I think if I’d been hurt, it would be different.”

And that was true. If Peter had hurt Isaac, Stiles would have killed him. He doubted he would have even hesitated before doing it, warm feelings be damned.

“Still...” Stiles said.

“Still nothing. Though, I do have one question, actually.” Isaac admitted, curiosity lacing his voice. “Why did he take us in the first place? It seems like a weird thing to do.”

For a moment, Stiles debated lying. Or just not answering. Except that wouldn’t be fair to Isaac. His brother had a right to know why he’d been taken. Especially given the circ*mstances.

“Peter, um...he’d met me. Before that, I mean.” Stiles took an unsteady breath, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut to try to stave off more tears. “We...we had...it was just the once, but I-”

“You boned?”

Stiles cringed at the laughter in Isaac’s voice, but... “Yes.”

Isaac snorted. “Okay. So you and the hot alpha crime boss do the do, and...that somehow leads to me being dragged into a van on the other side of the world?”

“It was one time. One time, Isaac, months ago. It was a...a chance meeting. An unexpected hookup. I never planned on seeing him again. But Peter, he...he wanted me again.” Stiles was shaking a little, and he pressed a hand to his belly to try to steady himself before the curve beneath his palm reminded him of what, exactly, that one-time hookup had resulted in.

Another unsteady breath and Stiles pressed on. “When I didn’t call or come to him, Peter got...I don’t know, impatient, I guess. He arranged to have you - and, by extension, Scott - taken. In my desperation to get you back, I asked him for help. It was his way of getting me back into his grasp.”

“So, what, after he found me - I’m making air quotes, by the way - you were so grateful that you went on a date with him? Fell into his arms and his bed?” Isaac’s amusem*nt was still coming through loud and clear, and this was one misconception Stiles didn’t want to correct.

Instead, he deflected. “He didn’t need to bother. That’s the ironic part. If he’d waited another few weeks, I probably would’ve shown up on his doorstep anyway.”

Isaac made a questioning sound. “How come?”

Swallowing hard, Stiles admitted the truth. Because it was Isaac; his baby brother. “I’m pregnant.”

There was a long, drawn-out moment of silence. Stiles didn’t want to be the one to break it - wanted to give Isaac time to process what he’d just said - so he chewed nervously on his thumbnail while he waited. Finally, Isaac asked softly. “I’m gonna be an uncle?”

Laughing tearily, Stiles nodded despite the fact that Isaac couldn’t see him. “Yeah, you are.” He licked his lips nervously. “Peter doesn’t know. I...I haven’t told him. I only just realized I was pregnant and then I found out Peter had kidnapped you and I just...I don’t know what to do.”

Voice breaking around the words, a sob building in his chest, Stiles whispered desperately. “Tell me what I should do, Isaac. Please...”

“Oh, Stiles...” Isaac’s voice was soft, the words wrapped up in sympathy and love. “You love him. You’re pregnant with his baby. I think that, if there’s any chance he loves you back, you’ve gotta tell him. Get that fairytale happy ending everybody dreams of.”

“But-”

“Don’t even go there.” Isaac cut him off, voice going sharp at the edges. “You will not use me - or my kidnapping - as an excuse not to try. I refuse to be the reason you walk away from someone you love.”

Stiles sighed softly. “It wouldn’t be just that, Isaac. There’s so many reasons why this is a bad idea. Why the baby and I would be better off if I just...walked away. If he never knows.”

The scoff in his ear was loud enough to make Stiles flinch away from his phone, derisive and a little rude. “The only reason you should be walking away is if you genuinely believe Peter doesn’t love you and never will. You asked me what you should do and I’m telling you. You’re clever, Stiles. So figure out if he cares for you and, if he does, get your happily ever after.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

There was a tense silence as Isaac seemed to mull over Stiles’ question. Finally, he answered. “Then you walk away knowing it’s his loss. And you come home, so Dad and I can help with the baby. Okay?”

Stiles sniffled again, but whispered back. “Yeah. Okay.” He cleared his throat, then added. “You know I love you, right? More than anything?”

“I know. I love you, too.” Stiles smiled and Isaac added. “If there’s no more earth-shattering revelations, I’m gonna go. I’ve got plans with Scott.”

“Tell him I said hi.” Stiles said. “And give Dad a hug for me, and tell him I’ll call him soon.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bye, bitch.”

Snickering, Stiles said. “Bye, slu*t.”

Isaac laughed in his ear, loud and bright. “Pretty sure you’re the slu*t, not me, Mr. I got knocked up by my one night stand.”

Primly, Stiles retorted. “For your information, it wasn’t a one night stand. I was knocked up in the middle of the afternoon.” When Isaac dissolved into laughter again, Stiles added. “Go have fun with Scott. We’ll talk soon.”

“Bye, Stiles.”

Stiles ended the call feeling a bit lighter. He still didn’t know how things were going to play out with Peter. He wasn’t sure if he could forgive the alpha, or if Peter would - if Peter could - ever want more from Stiles than their stupid agreement allowed for. Stiles hadn’t decided yet if he was willing to raise a child with Peter; with allowing his child to be raised in Peter’s world. But with Isaac’s blessing, Stiles knew it would be okay if the answers to those questions turned out to be yes.

~*~*~*~

Monday, December 10th, 2018

Stiles had never been the sort who hated Mondays, but after such an extended time working from home, he was finding it difficult on the one day he had to go into the office. And it wasn’t like he was even working in the office; he was just swapping manuscripts. And still, it was taxing, being around people from his pre-Peter life. Especially people who didn’t know what was going on. He trudged through it, though, getting what he needed as quickly as possible and heading out again with barely more than cursory greetings to the coworkers he encountered. He liked his coworkers, he just...wasn’t sure how to talk to them. Not now; not yet.

The rest of his day was spent working, with a break for lunch and a quick swim, mostly because Stiles was determined to stay as active as possible as his pregnancy progressed. It wasn’t until dinner time that he stopped working and allowed himself to relax, at least a little.

He hadn’t seen Peter since Saturday night, though he’d seen the light on in Peter’s office in the evenings. Stiles wasn’t sure if Peter was giving him space or avoiding him in the hopes of letting Stiles’ temper cool, but either way it amounted to the same thing. A lot of time alone, during which Stiles was able to think - and overthink - to his heart’s content. Discontent.

Whichever.

Now, it was late in the evening - nearing 9pm - and Stiles was sprawled out on one of the comfy leather recliners in the small, private movie theater on 2L. He had a big bowl of buttery, salty popcorn on the chair next to him and was half-watching the movie being projected onto the massive screen. Though, honestly, half-watching was being a bit generous. He wasn’t even sure what he’d turned on and he was in no way following the plot. He was honestly mostly just dozing at this point, in the dark and cool of the theater while a story he had no interest in, played out on the screen.

He was roused from his not-quite slumber by someone lifting him up. His foggy brain registered the earthy, woodsy scent of Peter even as the alpha sat down in Stiles’ place. Given he was in Peter’s arms, that meant Stiles wound up cradled on Peter’s lap. The werewolf nuzzled at his hair, breathing deeply as if savoring Stiles’ scent, and part of him wanted to just burrow into the heat and strength of Peter’s chest. That sleep-hazy part of his brain wanted the comfort and affection Peter was offering.

But as Peter’s lips brushed his temple, then down over his cheek to follow the line of his jaw, Stiles remembered all of the reasons why this was a bad f*cking idea. He hadn’t made a choice regarding Peter yet. Hadn’t been able to, given he hadn’t even seen the man, let alone spoken to him, so he’d had no way to even attempt to assess Peter’s feelings towards him. And as promising as Peter’s present softness and affection were, Stiles was smart enough to know that - at least for the moment - sex would only complicate things further without offering any sort of beneficial insight into the situation to balance it out.

So, struggling against the lethargy weighing him down, Stiles pushed against Peter’s chest. “Stop it.”

Peter went still, lips still pressed to the spot just behind Stiles’ ear. “What was that, pet?”

“I said stop.” Stiles repeated, voice a little firmer as he forced himself into a more wakeful state. “I don’t want you touching me, Peter.”

“You agreed-”

“I agreed to stay with you.” Stiles countered sharply, not letting Peter finish. “To wear what you wanted me to wear, and eat when you wanted me to eat. I agreed to be your companion. To live in your home, and go out with you when you requested. I’ve delivered on all counts.”

Peter growled, annoyance coating the words that followed. “And to sex. You agreed to sex, Stiles. Blanket consent, or have you forgotten?”

Stiles swallowed hard, but he had read the contract he’d signed, dammit, and he wasn’t going to be steamrolled over this. “I know what I agreed to, Peter. And you agreed that I had the right to refuse at any given time. So this is me refusing. This is me saying no.”

Taking a measured breath, Stiles added softly. “I can’t stop you if you won’t respect that because we both know you’re stronger than me, but I promise you that if you f*ck me when I’ve said no, I’ll find a way to remove your ability to do so.”

Peter snarled this time, the sound dangerous enough that it sent an instinctive shiver down Stiles’ spine. A moment later, he found himself back on the recliner, Peter standing a foot or so away, glaring. “I’m many things, Stiles, including a literal monster. But I’ve never forced myself on someone and I don’t plan to start now.”

Stiles blinked up at him, then nodded. “Good. I didn’t think you would, and I would’ve been annoyed if I’d been proven wrong.” When Peter simply stared at him, Stiles asked. “Did you need something else?”

Peter snapped his fangs at Stiles in annoyance, then bit out. “How long do you plan to deny me?”

Stiles tipped his head to the side, studying Peter carefully. “I don’t know.” It was the only honest answer he had and, given Peter was a werewolf, lying would have been pointless. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay with you touching me again. I just know I’m not okay with it now.”

Without another word, Peter turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. Glancing back at the movie he was now hopelessly lost on, Stiles sighed and decided it wasn’t worth the effort of even pretending to watch the end of it. All he wanted was to curl up in his bed and go to sleep. With that goal in mind, Stiles got to his feet so he could shut everything off and tidy the room back up. The sooner he started, the sooner he could be done and head upstairs. It had been a long f*cking day.

~*~*~*~

Wednesday, December 12th, 2018

Stiles groaned when Cora wandered into the kitchen. She stuck her tongue out at him, so Stiles lobbed a spoon at her. Unfortunately, she just caught the damn thing and popped it into her mouth, licking off the remnants of hot fudge that had been clinging to it, which was unfairly cool of her. Especially considering he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with her. Marin had said Cora wanted Stiles to stay; to be with Peter, fully and completely. Her presence here now when he was still holding himself back from Peter - especially since he didn’t have plans to go out with Peter, at least as far as he knew, meaning there was no need for an outfit consultation - didn’t bode well.

With a heavy sigh, Stiles gave Cora a cross look. “If you’re here to eat ice cream and bitch about how awful men are, you’re welcome to pull up a seat. If you’re here for literally any other reason, I’m locking myself in my room so you can’t bother me.”

“Rude.” Cora replied, but she pulled a tub of double chocolate brown fudge swirl ice cream out of the freezer and then joined him in the breakfast nook, where an assortment of toppings were laid out.

“You stole my spoon.” Stiles said with a pout, which made Cora roll her eyes. But she also got back up and grabbed another spoon, even being nice enough to give him the clean one, so he let it slide.

As she started tossing toppings right into the tub of ice cream - not bothering with a bowl or a cone or anything of the sort - Stiles shoved a mouthful of hot fudge and whipped cream topped mint chocolate chip into his mouth, moaning softly around it.

Cora snorted even as she shoved a mouthful that was at least as much sprinkles as it was ice cream into her own mouth, saying around it. “So, have you decided you don’t want to be my uncle, then?”

“Nope. Nuh-uh. We’re not talking about this.” Stiles muttered, jabbing at his ice cream with a scowl. “I’m not having this conversation with you, especially if you’re going to try to guilt trip or manipulate me.”

“Hey.” Stiles glanced up at the word, catching a mix of hurt and anger on Cora’s face. “Not cool, Stiles. I was trying to make a joke to lighten the mood, not guilt trip you. What Uncle Peter did was supremely f*cked up and I don’t blame you for being angry. I won’t blame you if you walk away, either.”

Stiles swallowed hard, shoving another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth to buy himself a minute before he needed to answer, so he could really think about what he was going to say.

Finally, he said. “I thought you wanted me to be with Peter.”

Cora sighed, rolling her eyes even as she carved some sort of design into the top of her ice cream. “I do. I want it because I think you and Uncle Peter are good for each other. But if you can’t forgive him, or if being with him is going to make you miserable, than forget it.”

She nudged him lightly under the table with her foot, adding. “But I will hold you to your promise that we’ll stay friends. I don’t want to lose you, Stiles.”

“I’m sorry.” Stiles whispered, refusing to blink in an effort to stave off the tears threatening to spill over. “I thought maybe Peter had sent you to convince me to forgive him.”

“Oh, he did.” Cora admitted, utterly shameless. “But I’m not interested in doing his bidding. Uncle Peter did something incredibly stupid. And I understand why he did it, don’t get me wrong. I definitely get it. But we were all taught to consider the possible consequences before doing anything, and to weigh if we felt those consequences were worth whatever we were going to gain from doing the thing. Peter made his choice and now he’s going to have to live with whatever those consequences are.”

She met Stiles’ eyes and added softly. “Even if one of them is losing you.”

Cora’s support was unexpected, but it meant the world to Stiles. “Thank you.”

“What are friends for, right?” Cora nudged him with her foot again, giving him a small smile. “Want to hear about my tattoo plans?”

Appreciating the olive branch Cora was offering him with the subject change, Stiles nodded quickly. “Absolutely. Did you decide where you’re going to get it? Did you book an appointment yet? Want me to go with you?”

As Cora launched into a detailed report of her tattoo-related decisions, Stiles let himself relax a little. This was just what he’d needed; a distraction.

~*~*~*~

Thursday, December 13th, 2018

Stiles knew Peter had secrets. Even before Marin had pointed out as much, Stiles had known that. You couldn’t be the Alpha Wolf of a large territory without having secrets. He just hadn’t expected to find one on the fourth floor of the man’s house, in a random bedroom that clearly hadn’t been used in a very long time, judging by the sheets draped over most of the furniture.

Most, not all, as there was one piece of furniture conspicuously lacking a sheet covering it.

The funny thing was, Stiles hadn’t been looking for secrets. Hadn’t been looking for anything, really. He’d just wanted to check out the servants’ stairs again, on all the floors they accessed. Partly to see if he could figure out how the latching mechanism worked from the inside. And partly because he was still being unsettled by nightly, ghostly visits from his mother, so he figured he might as well burn off some of the nervous energy constantly thrumming through him. Exploring the house - especially going up and down the steep, narrow stairs hidden behind the walls - had seemed like a reasonable enough way to do that.

He’d actually taken the time to wedge the third floor door open, choosing that one as his starting point since he only knew where two of the doors were from the outside and the third floor one was less likely to be disturbed by a staff member than the first floor one. Except he hadn’t needed to prop it open, because all of the doors had opened easily from the inside this time. He wasn’t sure what he’d been doing wrong the first time, but he had no trouble letting himself out on the first, second, and fourth floors. And once he’d been confident he could get back out on another level if necessary, Stiles had tested the third floor one from the inside as well and had no issues.

He didn’t understand it, but that was fine.

Interestingly, he’d also discovered that the stairs on the first floor had another outlet, though he wasn’t sure where as he hadn’t followed the passageway when he’d found it, instead choosing to head back upstairs to try the fourth floor door as well. Something else to explore another day, perhaps, if he was bored again.

For the moment, he was peeking into the various rooms on the fourth floor, just getting a general feel for the house as a whole. Up until the current room, the most interesting thing Stiles had found - among all the unused bedrooms and bathrooms - was a nursery that looked like it hadn’t housed any children since at least the first half of the 20th century. He’d spent a little time peeking under the dust-cover sheets, touching the various toys and detritus left behind by whomever those last children were. Wooden blocks painted in primary colors and picture books with simple text and half-used crayons next to scribbled drawings. He’d run his fingers over the rocking chair and cradle, both of which looked like antiques. The kind of hand-made, sturdy things that lasted through generations, passed down from parent to child time and again.

When his throat had gone tight with longing - for what, Stiles wasn’t entirely sure - he’d left the nursery and resumed peeking into the other rooms.

Which had led him to where he currently was.

Standing a few steps into another unused bedroom, staring at the only piece of furniture that didn’t have a sheet draped over it, protecting it from dust.

A chair.

Except it wasn’t just a chair. It was a throne-like chair, with a beautiful red velvet cushioned seat and back. A chair Stiles was far too familiar with. A chair that was supposedly sitting in Stiles’ apartment.

Except it wasn’t.

And Stiles was now certain - completely, absolutely, irrevocably certain - that the chair in his apartment was not the chair he’d sat on when Peter took him to The Labyrinth. He should’ve been more suspicious, when Danny said the chair didn’t smell like him. He should’ve known. Or, at the very least, he should have suspected. Because of course Peter had kept that chair for himself. That was utterly unsurprising, given the lengths he’d gone through to secure Stiles’ presence in his bed. Why wouldn’t he keep a chair that had been thoroughly scented with both his own come and Stiles’ slick?

And still, it was infuriating. Because here was another thing Peter had lied about. And while it was sweet that Peter had had any version of the fancy, comfortable chair sent to his apartment just because Stiles had said he liked it, he couldn’t help being hurt and angry that Peter had lied. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t have understood, if Peter had said he was keeping the chair for himself and sending Stiles a different one. The scented chair would mean more to Peter than to Stiles, given Peter’s heightened sense of smell, and Stiles understood that. It wasn’t the action that upset him, but the lie.

It was the fact that Peter hadn’t thought he could trust Stiles with the truth. Whether that was because the alpha thought it made him look too vulnerable or because he thought Stiles would react poorly to it, Stiles wasn’t sure. It amounted to the same thing, in either case.

Peter had made it perfectly clear, more than once, where he and Stiles stood. He wasn’t sure why he was still torturing himself, hoping for something to change; for Peter to suddenly want more. He’d let Marin and Cora’s words give him hope where there clearly wasn’t any.

Stiles’ father had taught him that when a person told you who they were, you should believe them. And Peter had told Stiles who he was, loud and clear and more than once.

It was time for Stiles to listen.

Chapter 21

Chapter Text

Friday, December 14th, 2018

It was after dinner and Stiles was reading quietly in one of the parlors. There was wood crackling merrily in the fireplace and a Christmas tree twinkling in the corner. It was cold outside, the wind howling bitterly, but Stiles was cozy where he was curled up on the couch in leggings and fuzzy socks and a thick cable knit sweater. A soft microfleece throw blanket was draped over his lap and a cup of tea - half-drank - sat on the coffee table along with a plate of pan stelle cookies.

When Peter walked into the room, Stiles didn’t bother looking up from his book. Instead, he kept reading, sure that Peter would say something if he required Stiles’ attention.

When Peter suddenly tried to tug the book from his hands, Stiles tightened his grip, narrowed his eyes, and asked coldly. “Can I help you?”

Peter raised an eyebrow, tugging harder on the book. Stiles let him have it only because he was worried that playing tug-o-war would tear the pages. When Peter moved to set it aside, Stiles added sharply. “Don’t you dare lose my page.”

Peter sighed, but obligingly used the dust jacket to save Stiles’ place before setting the book down on the coffee table. Then, he tucked his fingers under Stiles’ chin, tipping Stiles’ face up to his. Stiles let him, blinking wide, tawny eyes at Peter and waiting. Just waiting. Waiting to see what Peter would do next. To see what the alpha might have to say that was so important he was demanding Stiles’ full attention.

When Peter leaned in to kiss him, Stiles was weak enough to allow it. Just for a moment, he savored the touch of Peter’s lips on his own. Let himself enjoy the warmth of it, and the closeness. The way Peter’s palm curved along the edge of Stiles’ jaw, cradling his face. The way Peter’s lips parted just enough to share breath with him. The way Peter’s tongue teased its way along the seam of Stiles’ lips, begging entrance.

When Peter angled his head and tried to deepen the kiss, however, Stiles drew back and twisted his face away, sucking in an unsteady breath. Peter’s lips skimmed along the edge of Stiles’ jaw even as Stiles brought his hands up to Peter’s chest, palms pressing firmly.

Peter went with the motion - allowed Stiles to ease him back - though he looked vexed. “Are we still doing this, rybko?”

“Don’t call me that.” Stiles bit out, slipping off the couch and past Peter. He moved towards the fireplace, staring into the flames. “I’m not interested in being toyed with, alpha.”

Stiles spit the honorific like it tasted bad and Peter snapped. “I upheld my end of our bargain.”

“I didn’t sign away my right to consent.” Stiles pointed out, because it was the only bargaining chip he had left. “I have complied with every other command you’ve given, and I’ll do so until our arrangement concludes. I’ll wear what you tell me to, eat what and when you tell me to, go where you tell me. But my body is my own and you won’t touch me unless I say you can.”

Peter growled from directly behind him. “You agreed-”

“And you lied.” Stiles offered flatly. “So I’m sure you can understand why I’m not keen on letting you f*ck me right now. Especially given your lack of remorse.”

Peter caught Stiles’ chin in a tight grip - painful, but not bruisingly so - and forced Stiles to look at him, snarling viciously. “I will not apologize for how much I want you.”

Stiles couldn’t help the dark thrill that went through him at Peter’s words, but he refused to give an inch on this. “I don’t have a problem with you wanting me. It’s your methods I take issue with.”

Peter snapped his fangs at him, and Stiles tsked in annoyance, snapping. “Don’t bare your teeth at me. I’m not afraid of the big, bad wolf and you won’t intimidate me into bending over for you. You can’t bully or threaten me into compliance. And I won’t be bribed, or bought, or even begged back into your bed.”

Peter glared heatedly at him for a long moment and Stiles glared right back. Finally, Peter’s face smoothed out into a look of frosty disdain. “Fine. But you’re mine for another week. And since you won’t let me f*ck you, you can make yourself useful in another way.”

“What way?” Stiles felt a flash of concern, worried that perhaps Peter would make some demand on his magic despite how careful he had been to keep the level of his power a secret.

Instead, Peter explained. “I’ve decided to host a masquerade ball for Christmas. The responsibility for planning it now falls to you.”

Stiles gaped at Peter. “I have no idea how to do that.”

Peter shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “That sounds like a you problem, doesn’t it?” He turned and headed for the door, pausing at the last moment to add over his shoulder. “You have brunch with Lydia tomorrow. I expect you to be on your best behavior with her. Don’t disappoint me.”

Stiles was left reeling in the wake of Peter’s departure, not sure how to process whatever the f*ck had just happened. Every time Stiles thought he had the upper hand, Peter found a way to knock him off balance. But okay; fine. If Peter wanted a masquerade ball, Stiles would find a way to deliver. No matter what.

~*~*~*~

Saturday, December 15th, 2018

Lydia Whittemore was a force of nature. It hadn’t take Stiles long at all to realize that. Ethan drove Stiles out to Staten Island for brunch with her, dropping him outside the Richmond County Country Club. Like magic, Lydia had appeared at the door and Stiles had followed her inside. He’d never been in a country club before and hadn’t been entirely sure what to wear. In the end, he’d elected to text Cora rather than risking Peter’s wrath if he wore something inappropriate.

Stiles was meant to be on his best behavior, after all.

He was wearing black slacks, and a button-up dress shirt in a deep red. He’d left the top couple of buttons undone, mostly because Cora hadn’t bothered providing Stiles with any ties and buttoning it all the way up without a tie looked weird. He had on a wool peacoat as well, which was left with the coat check on their way to the dining room. Stiles spent the walk admiring Lydia, who was quite possibly the most exquisite young woman he’d ever had the pleasure of looking at.

Her hair - not quite true red but with almost too much red in it to still be called strawberry blonde - was pulled up into an intricate braided crown that wound around her head. Her milk-pale skin was flattered by the deep navy blue of her dress. It stopped just above her knees, clinging to the curves of her body in a snug sheath. It was sleeveless, with a sheer capelet attached at the collar, which was decorated with delicately embroidered silver beadwork. She was holding a small silver clutch in one hand and had diamond and sapphire earrings spilling like little waterfalls from her ears, to match the diamond and sapphire tennis bracelet she wore. Her engagement ring and wedding band were the only other jewelry she wore, both wrought with delicate beauty and clearly wildly expensive, especially given the size of the diamond on the engagement ring. A pair of wicked stiletto heels in the same navy blue as her dress, the front decorated with matching silver beadwork, accented Lydia’s long, slender legs and Stiles was equally impressed that she was walking so easily in them.

When they were seated in the dining room, Lydia leveled him with her gorgeous green eyes and said. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

That startled Stiles. “I, uh...why? I can’t imagine many people refuse you.”

Lydia’s lips - slicked with a soft pink shell color - curved up into an amused smile. “They don’t. But you’re not exactly the typical person, are you? I was pleasantly surprised when I realized you were actually coming.”

In the interest of honesty, Stiles admitted. “Peter would never have allowed me to refuse. And it’s not that I wanted to refuse, it’s just that it wasn’t an option.”

“Hmmm.” Lydia tipped her head to one side, then shot the waiter who came over a dazzling smile. “A mimosa for me. Orange juice for my friend, but in a matching flute. We’re celebrating.”

The waiter was gone in an instant and Stiles was left gaping at Lydia, who said. “I’d have preferred we each have a mimosa, but given what we’re celebrating that’s not really possible so we’ll just have to make do.”

Stiles felt like he couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t possible for Lydia to know. No one knew. No one except Stiles himself, and Danny, and Isaac. Stiles hadn’t even told his dad yet.

And Marin.

Except Marin wouldn’t have told Lydia, of all people. If she was going to tell anyone, it would’ve been Peter. Or, barring that, Cora. Someone who was family; pack. Not the new wife of Peter’s business protege.

Clearly seeing his panic, Lydia sighed and nudged one of the glasses of ice water on the table closer to Stiles. “I take it Peter didn’t explain what I am.”

Stiles took a slow sip of the water, then murmured. “I didn’t ask.”

“An oversight on your part.” Lydia’s tone was gently chiding. “You should always be aware of what powers those around you have. I, for instance, am a banshee.”

And, well, that explained her absolutely stunning looks, didn’t it? Banshee were fae creatures, after all. It also explained her knowing things she really shouldn’t. And still...

“As interesting as that is, I don’t see why it’s relevant. Or what it is you think we’re celebrating.” Stiles kept his voice as level as he could, aiming for calm and casual though he wasn’t sure he managed it.

“Oh, honestly.” Lydia rolled her eyes, exasperation edging her words. “Play dumb all you want, but I don’t need you to confirm what I know. Have you told Peter yet?”

Stiles wasn’t sure what his face did, though he was fairly sure that what little color he had, had drained away, because Lydia was suddenly swearing softly under her breath.

“Dammit...” She clicked her tongue, then reached across the table and grabbed Stiles’ hand, squeezing. “You will stop whatever you’re freaking out about right now, Stiles. I’m not having you faint in the middle of my country club, do you understand?”

“I-” Stiles gulped down air, then pulled his hand free of hers and tried to get to his feet, despite how unsteady he felt. “I have to go.”

“You’re not going anywhere when you look like you’re about to fall apart.” Lydia’s tone said she meant business and since Stiles felt like his legs were about to give out, he sank back onto the chair without arguing.

With a sigh, Lydia closed her eyes and rubbed at her temples, muttering. “Too many voices...” After a moment, she opened her eyes again and offered softly. “I won’t tell Peter, if that’s what you’re worried about. I didn’t mention it to Jax, either. I don’t make a habit of spilling secrets, you know. Especially not the secrets of my friends. And I’d like us to be friends, Stiles.”

Stiles licked his lips anxiously, then muttered. “I’m done with Peter in a week. Bit hard to be friends with someone you’ll never see again.”

Lydia tipped her head to one side, then hummed again. “We need food, I think. Then you can tell me everything, the way friends do. We’ll go from there.”

‘Lydia would make a good name for a hurricane,’ Stiles thought to himself, though he followed Lydia over to where the brunch buffet was laid out so they could make their selections. ‘A force of nature, indeed.’

~*~*~*~

“Well, I can’t say I blame you for kicking him out of your bed.” Lydia gestured with her knife and it wasn’t quite threatening, but it was intimidating. “I’d have done the same. But there’s the child to consider.”

“I don’t need Peter for that.” Stiles said, shrugging when Lydia narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t. I’ve got family and friends who’ll help, and a good job. I’m perfectly capable of dealing with this by myself. And Peter doesn’t want children.”

Or me.

The words were unspoken, but Stiles knew Lydia had heard them as clearly as if he’d said them out loud. Her sigh was proof enough of that.

“If the child is a wolf-”

“Odds are it won’t be.” Stiles cut her off, shrugging when she narrowed her eyes at him again. “I know the odds for a human-werewolf couple, but it’s more complicated for me. And I’m telling you, the odds of the baby taking after Peter are the least likely option. It’s practically a guarantee that the baby’s human.”

“Even so.” Lydia steepled her fingers, staring at Stiles over them. “It’s Peter’s child. You say he doesn’t want children but you don’t know that for sure. Would you deny the child its father? The birthright it would inherit from Peter, even if it can’t inherit the alphadom because it's human?”

Stiles restlessly tore apart a croissant, littering his plate with little scraps of flaky pastry. “I’d deny them a lifetime spent in a gilded cage. I’d deny them bodyguards, and impossible expectations, and the weight of a legacy built on blood and death. I’d give them the chance to be whatever - whoever - they want. The freedom to follow their dreams without responsibility and duty holding them back. It’s a fair tradeoff.”

“Is it?” Lydia’s face was soft and open; free of judgment. “You say you want freedom for them, so they can make their own choices. But you’re choosing for them...and for Peter. How is that any different from what you say you want to protect them from?”

Stiles didn’t have an answer for that. Didn’t know how to explain that he was trying. He was trying to do the right thing, he just...didn’t know what that was. Finally, he asked. “Can we talk about something else? Please?”

“Alright.” Lydia took a sip of her mimosa, then gestured at Stiles. “I won’t press about this, and I’ll keep your secrets so long as I don’t believe they pose an imminent threat to someone’s life.”

When Stiles drummed up a grateful smile, she continued. “Now, what would you like to talk about?”

“Uh...Peter’s throwing a masquerade ball, for Christmas.” Stiles said, wincing when Lydia squealed and clapped her hands excitedly. “Yeah, great, except I have to plan it, apparently, as punishment for barring Peter from my bed, and I have less than no idea what I’m doing.”

“I’ll help!” Lydia’s enthusiasm made Stiles laugh and she grinned back. “No, really. I love planning parties and galas and events but Jax isn’t big on hosting them so I don’t get to do it very often. This is perfect!”

“Honestly? I’ll take all the help I can get.” Stiles admitted. “Please, plan away.”

Lydia launched into talking about catering and decorations and themes, and Stiles let himself get swept up in the whirlwind of her enthusiasm. It was a distraction, anyway.

And if a small part of him was hoping he would get to keep her as a friend, no matter how this all played out, then Stiles would keep that to himself. At least for now.

~*~*~*~

Sunday, December 16th, 2018

Stiles sank his teeth into the hotdog he was holding, humming happily as he chewed. Danny snorted from his spot next to Stiles on the bench they were sitting on in Central Park. “You know those are objectively awful, right? Aren’t pregnant people supposed to eat healthy?”

“Ask me if I give a f*ck.” Stiles snarked, taking another vicious bite before grinning at Danny around his mouthful, all narrowed eyes and bared teeth.

Ethan was standing a few feet away, but Stiles had placed a sound muffling barrier around himself and Danny again, so he wasn’t worried about the werewolf overhearing.

Danny held up his hands in a peaceable gesture, then asked. “So, how are things going with Peter? I’m guessing not good, since you’re still keeping Ethan at a distance and putting up silencing spells.”

“I’m not Harry-f*cking-Potter and it’s not a silencing spell.” Stiles muttered, rolling his eyes when Danny just grinned and shrugged at him. “It’s...fine. Tolerable, since I’ve barely seen Peter. He seems to have accepted the distance I’ve put between us, which...honestly, hurts. I thought-”

Stiles cut himself off and Danny grabbed his hand, twining their fingers together. “You thought maybe he’d fight for you and you’d have proof he cared.”

It was Stiles’ turn to shrug and Danny sighed, squeezing Stiles’ hand supportively. “I’m sorry he’s being a dick. Has he talked to you at all?”

“Not really?” Stiles shrugged again, not meeting Danny’s eyes as he admitted. “He tried to initiate sex. Twice. I shut it down, of course, which seems to have pissed him off since then he said I have to plan a Christmas masquerade ball. Thankfully this banshee chick, Lydia, is going to help me.”

“Wait, Lydia Martin?”

Danny’s question brought Stiles’ head up and he frowned, shaking his head. “No, Lydia Whittemore.” Then Stiles remembered something and added. “Actually, she’s newly married and I’m pretty sure Whittemore is her husband’s last name. So...maybe?”

“Gorgeous redhead?” Danny asked. When Stiles nodded, Danny let out a low, impressed whistle. “Yeah, that’s Lydia Martin. I knew she’d married but I didn’t catch her married name. Her mother was the appointment I couldn’t cancel, when you covered for me with Peter.”

“No sh*t? It’s a small f*cking world.” Stiles slumped against the back of the bench, letting his head loll to one side so he could squint at Danny. “So, hey...you want to come to a masquerade ball? Because I could absolutely do with another friendly face and if I’m planning the damn thing, I get to invite anyone I want.”

“I could probably come. When is it?”

“Saturday. So the twenty-second. I know it’s sort of short notice, but I blame Peter for that.”

Danny nodded. “Yeah, I guess I can swing by.” After a brief pause, he asked. “What am I supposed to wear to a masquerade ball?”

Stiles snorted, mostly because he’d already texted Cora that exact question. “Don’t worry, I’ll have Cora send something over for you.”

“On Peter’s tab?”

“He kidnapped my brother.” Stiles said pointedly. “I’ll be putting whatever I want on his tab for the rest of the damn week, believe me.”

“Okay, fair enough.” Danny was snickering and Stiles kicked him lightly in retaliation. “Ow! You’re a brute.”

Stiles snorted again. “I barely tapped you, you big baby.” He squeezed Danny’s hand, then added softly. “Can we just...sit here quietly for a few minutes?

Danny’s arm curled around Stiles’ shoulder and he was pulled against his best friend’s side where he snuggled in gratefully. Danny pressed a kiss to the top of Stiles’ head and he closed his eyes, savoring the silent support and strength he was being offered. He had one more week to get through and then it would all be over. Stiles and the baby would start a new life together, somewhere far away from New York City, and this whole month would become nothing but a distant memory. He just had to get through the week.

~*~*~*~

Tuesday, December 18th, 2018

Cora had spread herself out across a section of the ballroom’s floor, papers and sketches and magazine pages scattered in a chaotic sprawl around her as she worked on Stiles - and Peter’s, and possibly her own - costume for the masquerade. Stiles, Marin, and Lydia were on the other side of the room, huddled together. They’d already finished taping off where the dance floor would be, as well as the live musicians and the DJ who would play when the musicians were eating or taking breaks. Lydia had also already put together a guest list comprised of the Who’s Who of NYC’s supernatural world and sent out the invitations, and now they were discussing catering and decorations and the possibility of an open bar.

“It’s actually way cheaper to do an open-bar event with supernaturals than with humans.” Lydia explained to Stiles, though she was watching Marin, who was flipping through the menu one of the caterers they were considering had sent over. “Since most supernaturals can’t get drunk without specialized drink options, they tend to just sip on something they enjoy the taste of, which means less alcohol consumption overall.”

“This one is the best.” Marin admitted when Lydia pausedf, though she still didn’t seem satisfied. “But I don’t like the lack of options for our special-diet guests. I suppose I can provide some dishes for them...”

Lydia clicked her tongue. “No, you’re Peter’s emissary. And I know you’re also his chef, but that’s because you have a love of cooking. It’s not good optics for you to be handling anything food-related at an event like this.”

For a moment, both women were silent and Stiles let them think. Finally, Lydia said. “Let me email them and see if they can accommodate. If not, I’ll ask if we can have one of the specialty restaurants provide a few dishes to be served with their catering, by their staff. With everything clearly labeled, of course, and distinctive serving utensils, to ensure absolutely no cross-contamination.”

Unable to rein in his curiosity, Stiles asked. “So when you say special diet-”

“Wendigos and vampires and the like.” Lydia explained, waving her hand in a fluttery movement as if shooing away any concerns about the topic. “Obviously we don’t want anyone who doesn’t require blood and human flesh as a staple of their diet to accidentally consume it, so we’ll take care with labeling and serving. But we also want to make sure we have food available for all of our guests, lest we offend anyone.”

“Right. Human flesh canapes, why not?” Stiles dragged a hand roughly through his hair at the tense, tight sound of his own voice, then muttered. “Excuse me, I’m going to go talk to Cora.”

Cora watched him approach and Stiles knew she’d heard the exchange. Taking care not to disturb any of her things, Stiles sank to the floor beside Cora, sitting cross-legged beside her. She gave him a considering look, her long brown eyes studying him intently before she murmured. “I don’t think I ever considered what it would be like for a human to come into our world as an adult. Things we accept as normal that would be shocking or horrifying...things that will never make sense, no matter how hard you try to understand. It’s a lot to ask.”

“I’m not human.”

Cora’s lips curved up, eyes softening. “But you were raised human. Even with your mother being a witch, you weren’t a part of our world. And once she died, you were raised entirely human. You belong in our world - by birthright, it’s your world, too - but so much of it is foreign to you.”

She twirled a pen restlessly between her fingers, brow furrowed and mouth drawn into a frown. “I’ve spent so long being resentful of the way my marriage has been arranged, but...what was the other option? Go about my life and fall in love with someone who - statistically speaking - is probably a human? Someone who will never fully understand my life, assuming they even try and don’t just run for the door screaming the second they hear something like human flesh canapes in passing conversation.”

Stiles swallowed hard, trying not to think about his own hurried flight-attempt, and Cora continued broodingly. “I don’t like the way things were done, but I don’t know if my heart could take it if the person I loved wasn’t able to accept me. All of me, I mean, even the inhuman parts. So maybe this really is the way it has to be done. Maybe there aren’t any other options.”

“I refuse to accept that.” Stiles said, and he wasn’t sure why except that it felt so wrong. “If they love you, a human can accept anything. If they love you, they won’t care that you have fangs and claws and glowing eyes. Or if you drink blood, or eat flesh, or hover in your sleep, or speak to the dead, or anything else. If someone loves you, none of that matters.”

“I think we both know that, sometimes, loving someone isn’t enough to accept certain things.” When Stiles made an aggrieved noise, Cora offered him a sad smile. “I’m not judging you for that. This should have been your world, Stiles, but it’s not. And I think I’m starting to understand all of the reasons why you might not want it to be.”

Stiles didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know how to explain because yes, he was struggling with aspects of Peter’s world. Cora was right that Stiles had been raised essentially human, even before his mother had died. So of course there were things he was struggling with. Things he was having trouble wrapping his head around, or accepting. It didn’t mean he didn’t love Peter.

‘Does it mean I don’t love him enough?’

Stiles honestly didn’t know.

Swallowing hard, he changed the subject. “Have you figured out the costumes yet?”

“Mmmm...mostly, I think.” Cora graciously answered his question and let the previous topic of conversation die. “I plan to put Peter in a tux. Full black, even his shirt. A knee-length cape. And a black half-mask, but not across both eyes. It’ll cover basically all of the right side of his face.”

“Hmmm...a little Phantom-y but alright.” Stiles nodded, leaning in to see the mask options she had laid out. “The metal ones are cool.”

Cora hummed, nodding as well. “Your mask is white and silver, because I want you in a white gown and-”

“I’m not wearing a gown.” Stiles broke in, giving her an exasperated look when she narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m not, and I will fight you on this. You know I’m fine with blurring gender lines with my outfits, but I’m not interested in wearing a full-on ball gown. So. Adjust.”

“What about a mock-dress?” Lydia’s voice came from over Stiles’ shoulder and he jumped a little as he twisted to look up at her in surprise. He hadn’t realized she’d crossed the room.

Cora frowned, flipping to a clean page in her sketchbook and already starting to rough out the lines for a new design. “Mock how? Like a jumpsuit where the legs are wide enough to give the illusion of a skirt?”

Lydia shook her head, crouching down beside Cora and shuffling through her papers. “No, more like...okay, see this top? How it’s almost a jacket and almost a corset and almost a waistcoat but it’s not really any of them, so it’s sort of all of them?”

Cora tipped her head to look at what Lydia was showing her, nodding slowly even as she adjusted what she was drawing to incorporate the new elements being suggested. Then she tilted the page towards Lydia. “Okay, so you’re thinking something like this for the top, but how is that a mock-dress?”

“It’s not. But-” Lydia grabbed the pencil from Cora and started adding lines to her page. “If you give it a sort of train at the back - maybe a little at the sides, too, depends how full you want it to look - and bring the front a little lower, down around his hips, and put him in something like breeches-”

“-then you get the illusion of a gown without it actually being one.” Cora broke in, taking the pencil back and quickly refining what Lydia had added. “It’ll move and flow like a skirt would, especially since it’ll be built into his top, but he’ll have all the ease of movement afforded by the breeches. Especially if we confine it to the back and don’t wrap around the sides.”

Cora’s pencil was flying over the paper now, face scrunched as she concentrated. “And if I gather the train into a sort of bustle, it’ll keep a lot of the fullness and volume without having it come around to the front.”

Lydia considered the drawing, then glanced at Stiles. Her eyes flicked briefly to his waist, then back to Cora’s drawing. Finally, she said. “It should come to the sides, I think. You can still give it a slight bustling effect to add volume, but I think it’ll be better to have it wrap around his hips.”

“Really?” Cora frowned at Lydia, then looked at Stiles assessingly for a moment. “I dunno. Stiles is really long and lean, and I think keeping the train fully in the back will suit it better.”

Stiles swallowed hard, thinking about the way his middle had thickened further in the last week; wondering how he’d hide it from Cora, with this outfit she was designing. Lydia, however, clicked her tongue. “We want the ball gown look, don’t we? Bringing the train around his hips will give a better effect.”

Cora sighed, but nodded and started adjusting her sketch again. “That’s true. It’ll obscure his waistline a little, but the overall effect should be good.”

“Yes, I agree.” Lydia leaned over, pointing to part of the sketch. “If you do a Queen Anne neckline, you can bring the back up in a high, fanning collar that’ll frame his throat.”

“A Queen Anne is typically done with an almost sweetheart curve to the front which wouldn’t be good...” Cora mused, though her pencil was still moving so she was clearly working through it. “But if I do a sort of V instead of rounding the lines, it might work.”

She flicked her eyes to Stiles even as she turned the sketchbook, showing him what she’d roughly mocked up. “I’ll need to fine-tune this, obviously. Work out all the proper measurements and materials and decorative accents and such. But, overall...what do you think?”

“Breeches are pants, right?” Stiles asked.

“They’re sort of like fancy leggings for men.” Cora explained. “Think David Bowie in Labyrinth and you’ve got the general idea.”

Stiles nodded slowly, eyes moving over the design she and Lydia had come up with. “Alright. Then yeah, sure. It looks fine.”

“Great. White and silver, like I said before. To contrast Peter’s all-black.” Cora was back to fussing with the sketch already, clearly determined to make it perfect. “I’ll have to put a rush on this, but Peter’s never been one to quibble over costs so we should be fine.”

“Great.” Stiles sighed, then forced himself to his feet when Lydia rose. “Back to menus and decorations then, I presume?”

“I’m afraid so.” Lydia agreed, giving him a sympathetic smile.

Stiles groaned, but took her hand when she held it out and let her drag him back across the ballroom. As far as Stiles was concerned, the sooner this was all over, the better.

Chapter 22

Chapter Text

Thursday, December 20th, 2018

Stiles thought pregnancy might be fun, if he wasn’t trying to hide it. But he’d woken up and immediately realized that overnight his body had betrayed him. His belly had popped. There was no denying that the distinctive curve to it now looked like he was pregnant. It was so much bigger than it had been the night before; like the baby had decided to announce, ‘I’m here!’ regardless of how Stiles felt about the whole thing. And he knew he could use magic to hide it, if he was willing to expend the extra energy. But between the masquerade ball and being pregnant, Stiles didn’t really have any energy to spare.

So he’d shuffled himself into a pair of leggings and a sweater far too big for him, drowning himself in the plush knit fabric in a bid to hide the truth. As he twisted first one way and then the other in front of the full length mirror hanging on his wardrobe door, Stiles figured it was good enough. He only had to make it through five more days and then he’d be able to stop hiding this.

Five days.

It was nothing, really, in the grand scheme of things. And still, it felt daunting. Like it was an impossible task, having to get through these last days. He was almost free and with every passing hour, Stiles felt more and more like he might not make it that long. Like something was lurking around every corner; a trap set somewhere, ready and waiting to spring shut the second he stepped into it.

Sighing, Stiles deemed his outfit acceptable and decided to focus on more pleasant things. Like the ball itself, which he was hoping would be fun. It had better be fun, after all the work he’d put into it. And like the baby, who Stiles found himself loving more and more every day.

It was better to focus on the positive and ignore all the less pleasant aspects of the whole pregnancy thing. Like how he had to pee so much more often these days. Or how any strong smell made him feel like he was going to hurl. Or how he was so. f*cking. Horny. Just...constantly. And Stiles knew it was a symptom of the pregnancy. He knew that it was just because of all the extra hormones that he was so revved up all the damn time and nothing seemed to satisfy him; to scratch the maddening itch under his skin.

The worst part was, Stiles knew what - who - could. Would, if Stiles swallowed his pride and asked.

He’d always had too much goddamn pride for his own good. And even if he’d been willing to choke it down for the sake of getting a little relief, there was no way Stiles could let Peter put his hands all over him. It was too dangerous to risk Peter realizing what the changes to Stiles’ body meant.

Still, as the day wore on and Stiles’ patience grew thinner - as he ached and craved and needed something to soothe the hunger inside him - he began to formulate a plan. One that would give him exactly what he wanted while minimizing the odds of Peter figuring things out. By dinner time, he was confident he’d planned out how to make it happen.

After all, Stiles had always been clever.

~*~*~*~

The last thing Peter expected to smell as he approached his bedroom was Stiles. And not just Stiles, but Stiles in an aroused state. The liquid-slick, cinnamon heat of it was unmistakable...and something Peter had sorely missed since he’d told Stiles the truth about their second not-so-chance meeting and the circ*mstances surrounding it. He had expected Stiles to be angry and upset - he wasn’t stupid, so of course he had - but he’d also hoped that he’d be forgiven by now. Peter had begun to think that Stiles really did care for him - perhaps even loved him - and that his feelings for Peter would be enough for Stiles to overlook the inauspicious way things had begun between them. He had hoped - despite being taught all his life that hope was for fools - that Stiles would prove to be every bit as loving and loyal as Peter believed him to be.

Now, with less than a week left of their contracted time, Peter was beginning to think he’d miscalculated.

Stiles had not forgiven him. And Peter knew that if he tried to ply his little fox with gifts at this stage, it would only anger Stiles more rather than soothing him. If Peter was being honest, he had no idea what would soothe Stiles, though he had a pretty good idea of what things might piss him off more.

And the kicker was, he wanted to soothe Stiles. He wanted to keep Stiles. He wanted Stiles not merely in his bed, but at his side, for as long as he could manage. Which, if things continued on as they were, was going to be a grand total of four more days. And Peter hated that fact. He wished he’d gone about things differently. Wished he had orchestrated a way to bump into Stiles somewhere public, perhaps, so he could ask him on a date. Or that he’d spent the weeks following their initial meeting sending flowers and gifts to Stiles daily, before showing up in a limo to sweep him off his feet. Stiles seemed like the sort to appreciate a grand gesture.

Just not the sort of grand gesture Peter was in the habit of making, like kidnapping his brother in order to draw Stiles back into his bed.

But then, Peter had never dreamed he would want more than Stiles temporarily gracing his bed.

Part of Peter wished he was the sort of man who could just...tell Stiles all of this. How he was feeling. All the things that had changed since that first meeting. What he wanted from Stiles now. But Peter had been taught to keep those sorts of things leashed behind his teeth. To guard his heart, not wear it on his sleeve or gift it to someone. To never show the soft, vulnerable underbelly of himself to anyone. He didn’t know how to let Stiles in.

All he’d been able to do was offer Stiles the truth he’d been keeping from him.

Honesty.

It wasn’t love - wasn’t his heart - but it was a form of trust. It had been Peter trusting that Stiles would honor their agreement, even once he knew the truth. And while Stiles had - while he was - there had been a moment, before Marin had interceded, when Stiles had been willing to break it.

Peter would have let him.

He wouldn’t now. By morning, Peter had changed his mind on that, in fact. But that night? If Stiles hadn’t fallen - if he had made it out the front door and into his jeep - Peter wouldn’t have stopped him. He’d have told the guards to open the front gate. He’d have let Stiles leave.

Not because it was what Peter wanted, but because it was what Stiles had wanted. As much as it would have hurt, Peter would have let Stiles go.

Now...now, he was doing everything he could to forestall that hurt. To ward it off, for just a little while longer. He knew he was losing Stiles. He knew he was running out of time and when the clock ran down on Christmas Eve, Stiles would be out the door and out of Peter’s life and there was nothing he could do to stop it from happening because he had caused this. His choices had led them here.

Peter had made his bed, dragged Stiles into it, and chained him there. And Peter knew that the second those chains were lifted - the moment Stiles had fulfilled the terms of their agreement - he would be gone and Peter would be left to clean up the mess he’d made of things, alone.

Always alone.

When Peter had become an alpha, Talia had met with him to discuss heirs and the line of succession for the power he’d inherited. She’d explained that people in their position were not allowed to follow their hearts. As if Peter hadn’t known that from the time he was ten, when he’d been dragged from Beacon Hills to Los Angeles so he could learn to be Talia’s second. As if he hadn’t had everything he’d ever loved or wanted for himself ripped away, time and again, for the sake of duty and responsibility and pack. Becoming an alpha had only further cemented that lesson in Peter’s mind.

Peter had taken Derek as his heir and accepted he would never have a mate, because what was the point when he wouldn’t love them? He’d been prepared to break all the rules for Stiles. To thumb his nose at propriety and expectations and everything he’d ever been taught. But before he could make the offer, he’d needed to know he could trust Stiles. That what Peter felt for the younger man wasn’t blinding him in a way that could hurt the pack and territory Peter had sworn to protect when he’d accepted the mantle of Alpha Wolf of New York City.

So he’d told Stiles the truth and prayed it wouldn’t break things. He’d told the truth, desperately hoping that Stiles would stand by him anyway. He had believed that Stiles was strong enough to withstand the darkest parts of Peter’s world; of Peter.

He’d been wrong.

Stiles had rebuffed Peter every moment since.

His one solace had been the bittersweet knowledge that while he’d been wrong about this, he had been right about something else.

Stiles would be his destruction. And somehow, not even that was enough to make Peter regret meeting Stiles; knowing him; loving him.

Except now, Peter was standing outside his bedroom door and he could smell Stiles even through it. When he pushed the door open, he was graced with the sound of Stiles’ heartbeat and the sight of him curled up in Peter’s bed, reading a book, as if this were a common occurrence. As if his presence in Peter’s bed was so expected as to be unremarkable.

He would have thrown back his head and howled his elation to the heavens, if not for one thing.

Sitting in the middle of Peter’s bedroom floor was a chair. And not just any chair. No, it was the throne-like chair Peter had requisitioned from The Labyrinth after he took Stiles there. The one whose seat had been saturated with Stiles’ slick and Peter’s spend. The one he had told Stiles he would get for him, but which he had instead kept for himself. Though he had sent a chair to Stiles’ apartment.

He just...hadn’t been able to resist the allure of having the chair, given what it smelled like. Who it smelled like. And Peter had never been good at resisting temptation. It had seemed harmless enough, keeping this small token of his time with Stiles. Something to remember him by.

Peter wasn’t sure when Stiles had found the chair, which he had tucked away on the fourth floor. And he didn’t know why - or how - the chair had come to be in the middle of Peter’s bedroom. But he did know that Stiles smelled like need and want and must have which seemed promising.

“Hello, pet.” Peter said as he stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind himself before draping his suit jacket over a nearby chair.

He began unbuttoning his shirt starting with the wrist cuffs, eyes never leaving Stiles, who was now closing his book and sitting up on the edge of Peter’s bed. Long, tawny eyes met Peter’s and Stiles offered softly. “Hello.”

“I wasn’t expecting you.” Peter shrugged out of his shirt, letting it fall carelessly to the floor as he walked closer to the bed. “But this is definitely a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Stiles’ lips curved up wickedly, eyes bright and burning with desire as he stood, moving over to the chair. He let a hand trail seductively over one of the arms of the chair, then up over the top of the back as he circled to stand behind it. “I found this when I was exploring last week.”

Peter was a little surprised Stiles had held his tongue about the chair as long as he had, but he wasn’t about to admit that. Instead, he moved closer still to Stiles. To the chair.

Stiles tipped his head at the seat, then said. “I’d like you to finish stripping, alpha, and sit.” He ducked his head a little, peeking up at Peter from beneath his lashes. “Will you do that for me?”

“I’ll do whatever you want, pet.” Peter moved until he was standing in front of Stiles, only the chair between them, and began undoing his belt. “All you have to do is ask.”

Stiles pulled in an unsteady breath, something flashing across his face that told Peter he didn’t quite believe the alpha’s words. But Peter meant them, wholeheartedly. If it would help Stiles give him - give them - a chance, he would do anything; give anything. If Stiles would just tell Peter what he wanted, Peter would move heaven and earth to give it to him. He didn’t care if that made him an idiot, or a fool, or weak.

If he could keep Stiles, Peter knew it would be worth it.

When he tugged his belt free, Stiles silently held out his hand. Peter passed him the strip of black leather without hesitation, watching as Stiles stroked over it with his long, slender fingers. When Stiles nodded to the chair again, one eyebrow raised expectantly, Peter skimmed out of his slacks and boxers. Then he turned and sank onto the chair’s blood-red seat, the velvet cushion soft and plush beneath his bare ass. Peter rested his hands lightly on the arms of the chair and closed his eyes, savoring the strength of Stiles’ and his combined scents while he waited for Stiles’ next move.

He startled, eyes snapping open and burning red, when smooth leather cinched tight around his left wrist, binding it to the arm of the chair. He snarled instinctively and Stiles went still, glancing up at him. Stiles wasn’t afraid, seeming perfectly placid as he knelt at Peter’s feet, hands poised to lock the belt he’d just tightened securely around Peter’s wrist. His heartbeat was steady as he met Peter’s eyes...and waited.

It felt like a test.

Stiles was asking Peter to surrender to him. To willingly hand Stiles all of the power during this encounter. It would be nothing for Peter to yank hard enough to break either the belt or the arm of the chair; to free himself. Stiles was asking him not to. Stiles was initiating contact - initiating sex, based on how slick and hot his scent was - but this was the caveat. If he refused, Peter had no doubt that Stiles would leave, even if it meant the both of them remained unsatisfied.

Peter flexed his clawed fingertips against the wooden arm of the chair, then forced himself to relax. Claws and fangs slipped away and his eyes cooled from red to blue.

“Alright, pet.” Peter agreed softly, unable to deny Stiles even something as dangerous as this.

True, he could free himself quickly if he had to, but once he was restrained, it would be easy for Stiles to dose him with wolfsbane. If he was fast enough, Stiles wouldn’t even need the poison to end Peter’s life. This was an exercise in trust, for both of them. Stiles was trusting Peter to willingly submit; Peter was trusting Stiles not to hurt him. He had never trusted someone this way before, but with Stiles, it came easily.

‘If this is how he destroys me, so be it.’

Peter watched as Stiles finished securing his left wrist with the belt. Then Stiles pulled another belt out from under the chair and proceeded to bind Peter’s right wrist to the other arm of the chair. And the thing was, Peter recognized this belt. It was one Cora had purchased for Stiles. More specifically, the one Stiles had worn the night they’d gone to Venom. The one Peter had used to bind Stiles, in this very room.

There was something almost poetic about seeing it wound around his own wrist.

When he was done, Stiles got to his feet. He stared down at Peter, eyes wide and so golden they were almost glowing. His tongue came out, a flash of pink that left his lower lip shiny and wet. When he spoke, his voice was low and husky. “If you free your hands, I stop.”

When Peter nodded, murmuring his agreement, Stiles leaned in and whispered in his ear. “I’m going to let you inside of me, but on my terms. You get only what I allow. Do you understand?”

Heat coiled low in Peter’s belly, erection throbbing almost painfully at Stiles’ words. He could feel his co*ck leaking messily and he was panting in an instant. “Yes.” He agreed readily; eagerly. “Take what you need from me, pet. Use me for your pleasure.”

Stiles whined, high and needy, and then his hands were rucking up the hem of the long, hunter green sweater he was wearing, pooling the thick, knit fabric around his waist. Peter watched avariciously as Stiles’ fingers hooked into the waistband of his leggings, shoving them down his long, pale legs. As Stiles pushed the leggings down and then kicked them off, the sweater dropped back into place. It covered Stiles to mid-thigh and Peter growled his displeasure, wanting to see every inch of his beautiful lover.

Stiles smirked at him even as he sauntered closer. “Awww...does the big, bad wolf want to look at me?” The words were cooed sweetly at Peter, but they were dripping condescension.

A heartbeat later, Stiles was leaning in, not touching Peter anywhere but bringing their faces close enough that they were sharing breath. His smile turned sharp and dangerous as he bit out coldly. “You get what I choose to give, alpha, and nothing more.”

Peter growled again, already frustrated, but nodded. Stiles straightened up, then turned his back to Peter. The hem of Stiles’ sweater inched upward again, baring the firm curves of Stiles’ gorgeous ass. As Stiles backed up, one hand reaching behind himself to curl around Peter’s co*ck and hold it steady as he lowered himself onto it, Peter could see the way Stiles’ inner thighs were shiny and damp with slick. The visible evidence of Stiles’ arousal was nearly as thrilling as Stiles’ hand curled around his aching length.

And then the head of his co*ck was pressing against the slick, soft give of Stiles’ hole. Peter fought the urge to buck his hips - to bury himself inside the welcoming heat of Stiles’ body - unwilling to do anything that might result in Stiles ending this. Thankfully, Stiles didn’t seem to be in the mood to tease, because a heartbeat later he was sinking down onto Peter’s co*ck. Peter growled, the chair creaking ominously as Peter gripped the arms and fought his body for stillness.

Stiles laughed, high and breathy, melting into a moan at the end as he settled himself fully on Peter’s lap with the alpha’s co*ck buried completely inside of him. “f*ck, I forgot how big you are...”

“Flattery-” Peter cut himself off with a groan when Stiles lifted himself up and dropped back down quickly, then panted huskily. “Flattery will get you everywhere, pet.”

“Mmmm...s’not flattery if it’s true.” Stiles offered, then fell silent as he focused on riding Peter.

Well, not silent. But wordless, anyway. Moans and whimpers and keening cries continued to spill from his lips as he used Peter like a toy, chasing his own pleasure and delivering Peter’s as well. Peter, for his part, did the only thing he could, which was to whisper a steady stream of filthy praise in Stiles’ ear. When Stiles angled his head, Peter dipped his own enough to tentatively set his mouth to Stiles’ throat. Cautious; testing.

When no rebuke came and Stiles continued riding his co*ck, Peter began pressing kisses and sucking bruises into Stiles’ shoulders and throat. The scooped cowl neck of his sweater bared plenty of mole-dotted skin to Peter and he made the most of it. Savored the salt-sharp taste of sweat on Stiles’ skin, and the weight of Stiles on his lap, and the slick heat of his body surrounding Peter’s co*ck. Drank up everything Stiles had been denying him - denying them both - for the last two weeks, greedy in the way he’d only ever been with Stiles.

When Stiles tensed above him, body clamping down on Peter’s co*ck as he pumped sticky-wet heat onto the floor at their feet, Peter let himself slide over the edge as well. He roared as he spilled himself inside of Stiles, teeth sinking possessively into the top of Stiles’ shoulder, though he was careful not to draw blood. As Stiles went limp on his lap, Peter slowly relaxed his jaw, panting damply against the skin his mouth was still pressed to.

“God, I needed that.” Stiles sighed at last, stretching languorously before easing himself off of Peter’s co*ck with a groan and getting to his feet.

Peter watched as Stiles picked up his leggings, pulling them back on quickly and efficiently before turning to face the alpha once again.

Stiles stepped closer, fingers skimming lightly over one of the belts before he murmured. “I ought to leave you like this. Make you sacrifice the damn chair to free yourself as punishment for your many lies.”

The idea of destroying the chair pained Peter, but he said nothing. He wouldn’t beg Stiles. Not for this, and not for anything else. He had too much pride for that. If he hadn’t, Peter would have been on his knees at Stiles’ feet the moment he’d realized he was in love with Stiles. But Peter wouldn’t ask for mercy...or forgiveness, or love, or anything else.

He couldn’t.

It went against everything he’d been raised to be.

So Peter met Stiles’ eyes levelly and waited to see what he would do. After a long moment, Stiles leaned forward and caught Peter’s lips in a deep, drugging kiss. It was slow and heated and hungry, in a way Peter had feared Stiles no longer felt. It soothed a part of Peter he would never have admitted was hurting, to know Stiles still wanted him this way. To know he hadn’t lost this, at least not yet.

It gave him hope, even when Stiles drew back and murmured into the close, damp air between their lips. “This changes nothing, Peter. I haven’t forgiven you.”

‘Haven’t, not can’t.’ It wasn’t much, but it was more than Peter had expected to get. Combined with the rest of this unexpected encounter, it was everything. Choosing his words with care, Peter replied. “If you do - if you find that you can - promise you’ll tell me.”

Stiles blinked at him, seeming startled. “Does it even matter at this point, if I can or not?”

Peter somberly vowed. “More than I can say.”

Stiles' tongue came out, wetting his lips, but he nodded. “Okay. I promise.”

A moment later, Stiles’ nimble fingers were tugging on first one belt and then the other, releasing Peter in a matter of seconds and then hastily stepping back, as if Stiles half expected Peter to lunge at him. Instead, Peter flexed his fingers and rotated his wrists, stretching everything out again. But he stayed seated; made no move to grab Stiles or pull the younger man back onto his lap or into his arms. Again, Stiles seemed puzzled, brow furrowing in confusion.

“I assume we’re done here.” Peter said, voice soft and even. “Unless you’d like to stay the night?”

Stiles lips parted, tongue curling around a reply, then he bit the lower one as if second guessing whatever he’d been about to say. Finally, Stiles drew in a deep breath. “I should go.”

“Of course.” Peter rose from the chair at last, heedless of his nudity as he crossed to his en suite, stretching as he went. “You can see yourself out, I’m sure. Goodnight, Stiles.”

The only reply was the sound of his bedroom door closing. Peter told himself he wasn’t surprised, or hurt, by Stiles’ choice.

Somehow, despite being a skilled liar, he didn’t quite believe himself.

~*~*~*~

Friday, December 21st, 2018

Stiles was running up the servants’ stairs. He was...chasing? Being chased? He wasn’t sure, actually. But he was running, as quickly as he could, a fistful of the rich plum silk that made up his dressing gown clenched in his left hand and lifted high enough so he wouldn’t trip. In his right hand he held a candlestick. Not a fake one, but one with dripping wax and a guttering flame that tossed shadows wildly around as Stiles frantically pulled on the wall to open it, nearly falling as he rushed into the third floor hallway. His breath was puffing in front of his face in frozen plumes as he flew down the hallway and into his temporary room.

He slammed the door shut behind himself, twisting the little metal lock under the handle and backing towards the bed. His heart was racing, palms sweat-slick, breath coming so hard and fast that his chest was heaving with every desperate lungful.

He shakily placed the candlestick on the nightstand and thought, oddly calm, ‘Being chased, then.’

He sank onto the edge of his bed even as the lock twisted itself back around with a click that was ominously loud in the surrounding silence. He watched the door handle twist up-and-down a few times, slow and steady but never quite far enough to release the door-catch. Stiles’ heart was racing, hands clutching at the bedspread beneath him as he watched the door handle dip again, further this time, at last releasing the catch. The door swung inward and Stiles flinched, catching only a glimpse of black smoke before he squeezed his eyes shut.

Stiles felt frozen, perched there on the edge of the bed. His ears strained to hear past the way his heart was thudding in his ears and his desperate, frightened breathing.

He jumped, whimpering in fear, when a bony hand cupped his cheek. His eyes flew open and he found himself face-to-face with a black skull. It was coated in a thin layer of black smoke, as was the rest of the skeletal figure before him. It swirled around the ghastly spirit in thin, spiraling tendrils that disappeared when they drifted more than a couple of inches past the skeletal form. She was draped in a long dress and while it was as black as the rest of her, Stiles knew it had once been white, as it was her wedding gown. He remembered it from pictures, and because it was what she’d been buried in. A gossamer lace veil - now black as well - draped itself down her long, dark hair which fell in loose waves around bony shoulders.

And while Stiles had briefly thought her nothing but bones, he could see now the thin layer of skin - black, nearly all of her was black as pitch - stretched over her skeleton framework. And set in that almost skull were eyes, the only thing about her that wasn’t black. Instead, golden. As golden as his own, which was unsurprising given he’d inherited them from her.

For all that there was nothing soft or warm about this spirit’s appearance, Stiles felt himself calm when he looked into those eyes. Regardless of her appearance, Stiles knew she would never harm him. She was his mother. She loved him. Nothing - not even death - could change that.

Taking a trembling breath, he asked softly. “Why are you here?”

‘A warning, my little fawn.’ Claudia’s mouth moved, her desiccated lips and tongue forming the words, but her voice was in Stiles’ head and not the air around them. It was soft and sweet, lilting with the stubborn remnants of Polish that had clung to her tongue always; a reminder of her heritage...and his. ‘A witch is permitted this. To pass a warning to their expectant offspring, if it is needed.’

“I remember.” Stiles knew the lore; the rules that had governed his mother’s magic, and her mother’s before her, on and on, back hundreds of years. Witches - a long line of them - with only Stiles to break rank in all those generations. “What warning? What risk or danger is there? What can I do to stop whatever’s coming?”

The hand cupping his cheek stroked tenderly for a moment, then dropped to Stiles’ belly. His huge belly, swollen far past what it should have been. When he looked back up, Stiles realized they were no longer in his bedroom at Peter’s house but rather in a wooded area, standing knee-deep in snow. Claudia let her hand rest on the too-full curve of Stiles’ belly for a long moment before withdrawing. When she did, Stiles gasped as pain ripped through him, doubling over from it. As it faded, his belly deflated, leaving him feeling hollow in the worst way.

Claudia’s voice rang through his mind, strong and stern, but somehow gentle, too. ‘You, my little fawn, have a choice to make. Defend the new life you’re making...or lose it forever.’

Stiles was trembling now, tears spilling over as he looked up and met his mother’s eyes, so like his own in shape and color; the only familiar thing about her in this form. “Lose it?”

Suddenly, a baby’s cry rang out, sharp and clear. Stiles straightened and spun in place, first one way then the other, searching frantically and trying to pinpoint the sound as it began to echo eerily around him.

“Where’s the baby? Mom...” Panic rose up inside of Stiles and he turned back to Claudia, poised on the verge of hysteria. “Please, you have to help me find my baby!”

‘Your magic can be a gift, or it can be a burden.’ Claudia cupped his cheek again, her other hand pressing to his belly, where Stiles once again felt the heaviness he’d come to associate with his unborn child, relief washing over him so suddenly it was dizzying. ‘Only you can decide which it is.’

When his head stopped spinning, Stiles realized they were back in Peter’s house; back in Stiles’ bedroom. Claudia was standing a few feet away, hands clasped demurely in front of her as she studied him intently, her next words ringing ominously through Stiles’ head. ‘Choose wisely, Mścisław, for it is you who will have to live with the consequences.’

With a sharp gasp, Stiles sat bolt-upright in bed. Heart racing, Stiles pressed one hand anxiously to his belly, relieved by the firm roundness he encountered. ‘Safe; still safe.’

As he finally recalled the entirety of his sleeping visit with his mother, dread sat heavy in Stiles’ stomach, making him feel sick.

‘...but for how long?’

Stiles got out of bed, shivering in the lingering cold of the room, no doubt caused by his mother’s visit. He hastily pulled on fleece-lined leggings in a wine-dark red and a cozy black sweater whose scooped cowl neck just barely rested on the edges of his shoulders. He grabbed his phone, stopped in the bathroom to pee, then headed downstairs. He didn’t have time to dwell on her warning; not today. There simply wasn’t time.

~*~*~*~

Stiles spent the day overseeing last-minute decorating and cleaning. He left the caterers to Lydia, but everything else he’d been briefed thoroughly on how to handle and Lydia had declared him more than capable of doing it himself. Now, after dinner, Stiles was walking through the ballroom a final time for the night. He’d go over it all again in the morning, of course - how could he not - but, for tonight, this would be it.

The chandeliers dripped gleaming crystals, all polished to a shine. The floor was freshly polished as well, gleaming and lovely. The round tables were draped in alternating red and green tablecloths, the chairs bearing slipcovers in silver and gold. There was garland everywhere, mistletoe - fake, to avoid any chance of poisoning - hung at select intervals, and each table’s centerpiece consisted of a white-and-gold pillar candle with holly at its base. There was gauzy white fabric hung across the ceiling and down the walls, bound into streamer-like formation with gold satin ribbons that spiraled perfectly around them. The tables were set with fine white china edged with gold, real silverware, and real crystal stemware.

Everything was perfect, like something out of a storybook or movie. Stiles couldn’t help feeling a little awed by all of it, including the massive nine-foot tall pine tree settled in one corner. In addition to the lights giving it a lovely glow, it was draped in strings of white pearls. Icicles made of delicate spun glass hung from the branches, along with baubles in the same green and red as the tablecloths, accented with gold and silver. The tree topper was a gorgeous crystal star that Stiles didn’t even want to think about the value of, knowing it had to be something outrageous. The scents of pine and cinnamon hung in the air, but lightly; unobtrusively.

Stiles sighed, pacing absently around the room, mind wandering now that all the details had been seen to for the evening.

He cast his mind back to yesterday. To Peter, and how he’d submitted to Stiles’ will. How he’d willingly surrendered control to Stiles. He hadn’t been sure Peter would; hadn’t known if desire would outweigh the alpha parts of Peter or if he would snap and break free. But the alpha’s control had been ironclad, allowing Stiles to take what he wanted - what he needed - from Peter.

His mind flitted to Peter’s words, next. The invitation to stay the night in Peter’s bed, which had taken Stiles by surprise and tempted him more than he could say. But he’d had to refuse, of course. Still couldn’t risk Peter’s hands anywhere near his belly, for fear he’d figure out that Stiles was pregnant. It was increasingly obvious, after all, and Peter wasn’t stupid. Thought, too, about the way Peter had somberly stated the importance of Stiles’ forgiveness; something Stiles had never expected. He’d honestly thought Peter was irked because Stiles had been denying him sex, not because the alpha gave even a single f*ck if Stiles was angry or upset with him.

But Stiles couldn’t deny the truth of Peter’s words. The alpha wanted Stiles’ forgiveness. And that gave him hope, in a way nothing else this past month had. He still wasn’t sure it was enough - especially in the face of his mother’s dire warning and Stiles’ own inability to pinpoint the exact nature of the looming threat - but it was something for Stiles to think about, anyway.

As Stiles flipped the lights off - plunging the ballroom into darkness - he promised himself that, after the masquerade, he would make his choice and follow through. No more waffling; no more hand wringing; no more hesitation. Come Sunday, he would either tell Peter about the baby...or he would start the preparations to move back to Beacon Hills as soon as possible.

Either way, it would be done.

Chapter 23

Chapter Text

Saturday, December 22nd, 2018

Stiles was terrified of moving.

The time had come for guests to start arriving, and Lydia had posed Stiles at Peter’s side in the foyer. A receiving line, of sorts. They would greet guests this way for the first wave - Lydia said about half an hour or so - before moving downstairs to the ballroom. At that point, hired staff would continue to direct newly arrived guests downstairs while Stiles and Peter would mingle and dance and eat and oversee the ball itself. In the meantime, Lydia herself - clad in a gorgeous ball gown in sapphire blue with silver beadwork decorating it and a half-mask to match - and her husband, Jackson - dressed in a simple black tux with a black and silver half-mask and a black knee-length cape like Peter’s - were overseeing the ballroom guests as they trickled down after greeting Peter. And, by default, Stiles. Peter’s own mask - which, as Lydia had told Stiles, covered the entire right side of his face and most of his forehead - was wrought of black metal filigree, delicate in an unexpected way even as it cast twisted shadows on the skin underneath.

Lydia had promised to send Derek up when it was time for them to come down as well and Stiles was silently praying for it to happen quickly.

Because he was, as stated, terrified of moving.

Cora was still getting ready, having gotten caught in traffic on her way to Peter’s house, but she would hopefully join them shortly. Because of Cora’s lateness, Lydia had helped Stiles dress. Which was possibly for the best, given how visible his pregnancy had become. Then, when Lydia had posed him at Peter’s side, she’d arranged Stiles just so and he didn’t want to undo the effect she’d been aiming for.

The skin-tight white breeches Stiles had on - over a pair of white lace boyshorts he was inordinately fond of - were made of a slightly stretchy satiny material, all silken shimmer and shine. He had on a pair of knee-high - not heeled, thank goodness - lace-up white leather boots. All of the stitching was done in silver, as were the laces. They were topped with silver-tipped white fur and Stiles was determined to keep them when this was all over. The top of his outfit was everything Lydia and Cora had planned out earlier in the week.

Made of white taffeta, there were spiral steel bones settled around Stiles’ waist. It had slipped on Stiles like a jacket would, solid at the back. The front panel had attached on the right side of his bodice with dozens of tiny hooks - a large part of why someone had needed to help Stiles into it - before silver braided cording laced it snugly around him. Lydia had been careful about how tightly she secured it, much to Stiles’ relief.

The neckline was nearly straight across above the lacing, then came up at an angle that narrowed the closer it got to his throat. And then, when it got to just above his collar bones, the collar went up, into a fan-shaped collar that framed his throat and head, coming up nearly to the crown of his head at its highest point in the back. It was shaped almost like a spider web, with scalloped edges and a silver wire frame stitched in that supported it. It was made of the same taffeta as the rest of the top but with a delicate silver lace overlay. The sleeves were puffed at the shoulders, much like his dressing gown, then snug all the way down to his wrists, where they tapered to points over the back of his hands, secured around his middle fingers with a bit of silver elastic.

In the front, the bodice came down to a point just above his crotch, though it had deep hip gores that allowed him freedom of movement. It had the benefit of hiding the curve of Stiles’ belly, as Lydia had hoped it would. At the sides, it fell to the floor in a flowing faux-skirt, widening into a train at the back, where it was gathered at the center in a sort of mock bustle. Every edge on the top was trimmed in silver, and the bodice itself was embroidered with silver threads and beadwork - silver and white and clear glass (or maybe crystal) in a delicate, intricate swirl that somehow gave one the impression of frost. The entirety of the faux-skirt was shot through with more silver embroidery, though there was only beadwork along the hemline and at each of the front edges.

The whole thing weighed more than Stiles had realized it would, honestly, and he was sure he would be exhausted by the end of the night from lugging so much fabric around with him for so many hours. There was a ribbon-loop Stiles could use to keep the train off the floor when he was moving, but Lydia had arranged it in a lovely spill of fabric when she’d settled him at Peter’s side to greet guests and that was why he didn’t dare move. He had no desire to f*ck up the elegant way Lydia had arranged the fabric around his feet.

Another group of guests stepped in, bringing with them a welcome burst of snow-flecked wintery air. As they greeted Peter cheerfully, Stiles forced his lips to curve into another polite and charming smile. The white half-mask on his face was overlaid with delicate silver filigree and studded with glittering crystals. It was also adding to the uncomfortable flush suffusing Stiles’ face and he only hoped the thing was at least covering how red he was sure his cheeks were. He felt overheated; almost suffocatingly so. And Stiles knew it was the pregnancy - the hormones had been giving him hot flashes for days - but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with.

When Derek appeared, signaling that they could head downstairs, Stiles damn near wilted with relief. Derek was studying him, a slight frown on his face, as Stiles fumbled with the yards of fabric that made up his train, trying to find the damn ribbon so he could walk without tripping or ruining the lovely white fabric. It all rustled noisily as he searched, growing increasingly frustrated with every passing second. Peter had already headed for the elevator, not yet realizing Stiles wasn’t at his side, and for some reason that made Stiles want to cry.

Suddenly, Derek’s hands were closing over Stiles’ own, gently prising the fabric from his clenched fingers. He blinked at the beta in surprise as Derek deftly located the ribbon-loop, then slid it over Stiles’ hand, settling it on his wrist. Blue-grey-green eyes met his and Derek offered a dazzling smile, complete with dimples. “Better?”

Stiles nodded, speechless and a little breathless as Derek’s thumb stroked lightly over his palm, wondering what the hell was going on as Derek continued softly. “You look lovely, Stiles. Would you consider saving a dance for me?”

Before Stiles could answer, a low growl had Derek dropping Stiles’ hand and taking several rapid steps backwards, baring his throat quickly in submission. “Uncle. I was just helping Stiles with his train.”

“And you couldn’t have managed that without all of the touching?” Peter asked, voice ice-cold as he leveled a red-eyed stare at his nephew. “We’ve had this conversation, Derek, and I don’t like repeating myself. Keep your hands off things that belong to me.”

Part of Stiles bristled up over being spoken about like he was property.

And part of him was sort of reeling over the way Derek was blushing and averting his eyes, shifting uncomfortably as he murmured. “Yes, Uncle. It won’t happen again.”

Because since when did Derek...what, exactly? Find Stiles attractive? Have feelings for him? Whatever the case, it was news to Stiles and really, shouldn’t he have known? How long had Peter known? Casting his mind quickly back over various interactions he’d had with Derek in the last month, Stiles wondered how he’d missed this. Derek’s protectiveness. The way he’d refused to deliver an unconscious Stiles to Peter’s office. The times he’d been weirdly distant and snappish. It all suddenly made sense.

But that was all shoved down - marked unimportant, at least for the moment - when Peter met his gaze and silently extended a hand to Stiles. Swallowing hard, Stiles placed his hand in Peter’s, allowing the alpha to lead him towards the elevator. When they’d ridden down in silence to 2L, Stiles settled his hand on Peter’s elbow and allowed himself to be escorted into the ballroom. Stepping into the holiday sparkle and splendor of the masquerade he’d helped plan - even if Lydia had done most of the heavy lifting on that front - Stiles felt everything else fade away. It was like a fairytale, or a Hallmark Christmas movie, or a romance novel.

It was perfect. And Stiles was determined to enjoy the night, regardless of what tomorrow held.

~*~*~*~

Dancing with Peter - proper ballroom dancing - was dizzyingly wonderful. Stiles had been shocked when Peter had asked him to dance, but he’d eagerly agreed. And now, after several dances, he’d been forced to excuse himself, desperately in need of a drink and to be off his feet for a few minutes. So Peter had whisked him to his chair at the head table - all of the tables had assigned seating, of course, carefully arranged by Lydia according to various treaties and alliances and feuds - while the alpha left him with a kiss to the back of his hand and a promise to return quickly with ice water.

Stiles had tried to demure - there were waiters circling and one would have wandered over soon enough - but Peter had insisted and Stiles was just enchanted enough to give in and allow the doting behavior.

He hadn’t been seated for more than a minute or so when Cora appeared beside him, looking sulky and angry. And gorgeous, though that almost went without saying. She was wearing a sheath gown in a brilliant red that looked like someone had coated it in diamond dust with the way it shimmered and glittered. It was a halter, the neckline coming all the way up in the front until it met a gleaming gold collar, though how they were attached to each other was a bit of a mystery to Stiles. The back was cut low, below her shoulder blades, with delicate red organza falling from that point down into a sheer cape of sorts. Gold cuffs encircled each of Cora’s wrists, attached to specific points on the organza cape, so it moved when Cora’s arms did. It gave the cape an almost wing-like effect.

More jewelry, in the form of twisting spirals of gold, encircled each of her upper arms. Her hair had been twisted and wrapped and curled, all of it piled in such a way that you couldn’t readily tell that a third of her head was shaved and held in place with gold-and-ruby hair ornaments. Ruby teardrops hung from her ears on delicate golden chains, which danced up the curve of each of Cora’s ears in a spiderweb of tiny links, connecting her various piercing holes. Her half-mask was made of red silk, overlaid with the same delicate metal filigree as Stiles’ own, albeit in gold rather than silver, and studded with glittering red crystals. Or perhaps rubies; Stiles wasn’t sure. Her full lips were slicked with a deep red that matched her dress.

“Not enjoying yourself?” Stiles asked, genuinely curious but also kind of concerned she might murder someone, based on her scowl.

“My fiance is supposed to be here but he’s not.” Cora fidgeted with a spoon, lips still pulled into a sulky sort of moue. “And it’s not that I want to see him because I barely know him. But it’s a little like being stood up, isn’t it, if he says he’s coming and then doesn’t?”

She stopped her fruitless effort to balance the spoon on its tip, letting it fall to the table as she gave Stiles a pleading look. “Am I being ridiculous? Tell me if I’m being ridiculous about this.”

“You’re not.” Stiles settled his hand over hers, giving a gentle squeeze when she turned her own palm-up under his and laced their fingers loosely together. “I’d feel stood up, too. If he wasn’t going to come, the polite thing to do would be to call you and let you know. Or at least send a text or something. It’s a bit like he’s snubbing you - and the whole pack, really - by not coming to Peter’s masquerade.”

Cora nodded, eyes flashing golden as she exclaimed. “See, that’s what I thought! Peter invited him and it’s f*cking rude that he said he would come and now isn’t here.”

Stiles was honestly angry on Cora’s behalf, knowing how she felt about her betrothal, but he had a sudden thought and tried to be reasonable, asking. “But also, like...are you sure he’s not just running late? Traffic’s always a bitch and a half in the city this close to Christmas.”

“Maybe.” Cora sighed, deflating a little as the anger drained out of her. “But like, what am I supposed to do? Sit around and watch the door, hoping he comes in? If he was running late, he still could’ve texted.”

“True.” Stiles squeezed her hand again. “And nobody said you need to sit and wait on him. Go have fun! Dance and mingle and enjoy yourself. If he comes in, let him see you not caring that he’s late as f*ck. And if he doesn’t, well, at least you enjoyed the party, right?”

“That is a very good point.” Cora suddenly smirked, leaning in to kiss Stiles’ cheek and murmuring. “Peter’s on his way back, so I should excuse myself anyway. Enjoy the rest of the night, Stiles!”

As Cora disappeared into the swirling, glittering crush of bodies filling the ballroom, Peter took the seat beside him, setting a crystal wine glass full of ice water in front of Stiles. He also set down a plate, laden with a variety of the canapes that were being circulated by the catering staff. Guests could sit and have food brought to their table so they could eat while sitting down, but there were plenty of finger-food options as well. It seemed like Peter had grabbed at least two of everything in that category that was on offer.

“What’s all this, then?” Stiles asked, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Peter picked up what looked like a spinach puff, holding it to Stiles’ lips. “Refreshments, for my ravishing companion. Taste, pet.”

Stiles parted his lips, letting Peter feed him one bite at a time. He couldn’t help how warm and soft he felt, here like this with Peter. Like Cinderella at the ball, getting to know Prince Charming. Everything felt enchanted and Stiles could easily understand how the magic of a night like this one could wrap a person up in a spell of Happily Ever After promises. Wondered, even as he laughed at Peter nibbling curiously on one of the canapes designed for their hematophagous guests, if this was the sign he’d been waiting for. Hoping for, if he was being honest. Wondered if this could be his life, provided he was bold enough to grab hold with both hands and not let go.

Wondered if he would be able to forgive himself, if he didn’t at least try.

~*~*~*~

Stiles was cursing the way the baby was curled around his bladder as he struggled to fix his costume before leaving his en-suite. While there were of course bathrooms on 2L, as well as on the main floor, they were being made available to guests and Stiles hadn’t been keen on either waiting in line or having anyone see him struggle with the massive train on his outfit. Or the snug breeches. Finally satisfied with how everything was sitting, Stiles grabbed the ribbon-loop to lift his mock-skirt and headed back downstairs. The elevator was locked for the event, traveling only between 2L and the main floor, to ensure no guests wandered anywhere Peter didn’t want them. There was security guarding the various staircases as well, to further ensure no one wound up on a floor they didn’t belong on. This was a party, but that didn’t mean everyone present was a friend or even an ally.

Better safe than sorry.

Stiles smiled at Aiden - Ethan’s twin - as he passed by him at the base of the main staircase. Aiden gave a tight smile and a curt nod in response, but Stiles didn’t take it personally. He was close to Ethan, but not his brother, and that was fine. And then, as Stiles crossed the entrance hall towards the elevator, he heard a voice behind him at the front door.

“I know I’m late, but the traffic is awful. Especially since it’s started snowing.”

Stiles spun around, heart racing. His mouth was dry, his palms were sweating, and he was a little worried he might faint. Jeremy - who was manning the door - was holding out his hand as he asked flatly. “Invitation?”

“It’s fine!” Stiles called out loudly, quickly rushing back towards the door. Jeremy turned to stare at Stiles in confusion, no doubt because of the edge of panic in Stiles’ voice so he did his best to smooth it out when he continued a little breathlessly. “I know him. I’ll escort him down to the ballroom, since I was heading back down there myself.”

Jeremy scowled, but all of Peter’s staff knew better than to argue with Stiles. So he nodded, stepping back from the doorway and allowing the man entrance. Stiles drummed up a smile, gesturing for the man to follow him. “Right this way, sir.”

The man fell into step beside Stiles readily, looking effortlessly elegant in his black tux and knee-length cape and half-mask. It was fairly standard wear for the men at the party, though a few others had done something bolder, like Stiles had. Not the same type of bold, but still. The black mask was stark against emerald-bright eyes and golden hair was beautifully styled and Stiles was shaking he was so angry.

As soon as they’d rounded the slight corner to the elevator, Stiles grabbed Ian’s wrist and dragged his ex-boyfriend down the nearest hallway and into one of the parlors. As soon as they were inside, Stiles whirled on the man. “I cannot believe you! What the hell were you thinking, trying to sneak in here? If I hadn’t happened by when I did, do you know what would’ve happened?”

“Stiles, calm down.” Ian held up his hands imploringly. “Let me explain.”

“Explain? You want to explain why you were trying to sneak into a private event at the home of the Alpha Werewolf of New York City?” Stiles scoffed, torn between fury at the sheer audacity and fear over what could have gone wrong. What still might, if he didn’t get Ian out of Peter’s house, and quickly. “You know what? As much as I’d love to hear whatever bullsh*t excuse you’re going to give me, I don’t have the time or the energy to deal with this - or you - right now. You need to leave.”

“Stiles-”

“Don’t!” Stiles took a shuddering breath, then leveled Ian with a pitying look. “I told you I wasn’t going to speak to you again until I was done with Peter and I expected you to respect that. This? This is unacceptable, Ian. You can’t just show up here and expect me not to be upset, or angry. It’s wildly inappropriate.”

Ian swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I can see how it would seem that way to you, Stiles, but if you’d just give me a minute to-”

“No.” Stiles shook his head, cutting Ian off again. “No, I can’t. I can’t give you a minute. Not now, and not tomorrow, and - honestly - not ever. I should’ve told you sooner, but we’re over. For good. I can’t ever be with you again, Ian. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. I’m sorry.”

Ian was staring at him now, lips parted in shock and green eyes wide behind his half-mask. “You...why? Stiles, why the hell-” Ian cut himself off to pull in an unsteady breath, then asked in a tight, broken voice. “Stiles, are you in love with Peter Hale?”

Stiles could have lied. It might have been kinder to do so. But Stiles had never been a fan of lying unless it was a matter of life or death, and this wasn’t that. So, instead, he nodded. “I am. But that’s not why I can’t-” Stiles stopped, too close to a lie for comfort, then continued. “Or it’s not all of it, anyway.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, I’d imagine you don’t.” Stiles turned on his heel, pacing away from Ian and then back again as he spoke. “This has to stay between us, Ian. I need you to promise me. Swear it.”

Ian stared at him for a moment, then finally said. “I would never betray your confidence, Stiles. I swear, whatever you say to me, it stays between us.”

Stiles licked his lips nervously, then flicked his fingers to throw up a privacy charm. Just in case. Once he was sure no one would overhear what he was about to say, Stiles turned back to Ian. “I love Peter, but I don’t know if anything will come of it after our agreement ends. And it honestly doesn’t matter whether it does or not because, either way, I can’t be with you.”

“Why not?”

Stiles chewed on his lower lip for a moment, then forced the words to spill off his tongue. “Because I’m pregnant, Ian. I’m pregnant, and I’m keeping the baby, and I would never ask you to be okay with that.”

“You’re pregnant? So soon?” Ian had gone ghost-pale and was swaying a bit unsteadily on his feet. “I don’t understand. How do you even know?”

“I was pregnant when I met you.” Stiles whispered, flinching when Ian made a hurt sound. “I didn’t know! I swear, Ian, I didn’t know until very recently. But about a month before we met, I...I met Peter for the first time. We had a stupid, impulsive-”

“I don’t need the details, Stiles.”

Stiles flinched again, but nodded. “You’re right. Anyway, I...I had no idea I was pregnant. But I am. So it...god, it would never have worked between us, Ian. Don’t you see? We were doomed before we even met.”

“I’m starting to see that.” Ian rasped, misery clear on his face beneath the mask.

Stiles opened his mouth, not entirely sure what he was going to say next, when there was a sound from the hallway. Ian went still and Stiles gestured for him to shift closer to the wall, so he was more in the shadows. Then Stiles eased over to the doorway and peeked out just in time to see Peter sweeping down the hallway. Stiles desperately wanted to follow him.

With that in mind, he turned back to Ian and hissed lowly. “Now that you understand why we have to be over, you need to leave. Do you understand?”

Ian nodded and Stiles jerked his head towards the doorway. “I have to go, so I can’t walk you back out, but promise me you’ll leave.”

“I promise.” Ian’s words sounded hollow, but Stiles figured that was fair enough.

Without another word, Stiles slipped out of the parlor and headed up the hallway after Peter. For a long moment, as he hurried along, Stiles wondered if Peter was looking for him. He’d been absent from the masquerade for longer than expected, after all. Maybe Peter had gotten worried. But why, then, would he be wandering the main floor rather than heading upstairs? He’d known Stiles was planning to use his own bathroom, after all. It didn’t make any sense. Quickening his steps, Stiles carefully peeked into each room he passed, trying to figure out where Peter might have gone.

When the first, haunting piano notes filtered through the still and silent house, Stiles almost turned around and went back to the elevator. But he was nearly at the music room, and he desperately wanted to see Peter playing again. To see the man beneath the icy mask Peter wore, just once more. And maybe this was the perfect opportunity, to ask Peter if there was a chance they could be something more. The alpha had been so open all night, after all. Warm, and attentive, and lovely.

Loving.

So Stiles pressed on.

He reached the door of the music room and gently eased it open, swallowing hard and blinking back tears when the music was no longer muffled, washing over him fully. It was just as achingly beautiful as the first time he’d heard Peter play. Just as soul-touching. Just as heart-wrenching. It reached inside of Stiles and wound itself around every part of him. It made Stiles feel as if he could see the truth of who Peter was, at long last.

Stiles stepped into the room, planning to close the door behind himself and ask Peter if they could talk. His lips were parted, tongue already curling around the request, when a discordant spill of notes screamed through the air and made him jump.

Peter had slammed both hands down on the keys, vicious and violent in a way Stiles hadn’t anticipated. A heartbeat later, Peer was standing and stalking towards Stiles, fury etched across his face beneath the twisted metal of his mask.

“Peter, I-”

“What did I tell you?” Peter snarled, sweeping out one hand and sending a lamp crashing to the floor. Stiles flinched, backing away from Peter with quick, graceless steps that had him stumbling over his train. “What did I say, dammit, about when I’m in this room? Why can’t you listen?”

The last word was punctuated with bared fangs and a low growl and Stiles’ breath hitched uncomfortably in his chest as he backed himself into the side of the French doors that was still closed. Even as his heart raced with fear, Stiles tried to explain. “I w-wanted to talk. To you. T-to ask you, if...i-if...”

Peter threw his head back and roared, the sound loud and furious, then glared at Stiles with burning red eyes. “It’s not about what you want, Stiles. You should know that by now.”

“But, I-”

“Out!” Peter shouted, before roaring again. Stiles fumbled for the half-open door beside him even as Peter continued furiously. “Get out, dammit!”

Stiles managed to fling the door open fully, tears spilling over as he gasped out. “With pleasure.” Then, he tore off up the hallway.

Part of him wanted to run for the front doors, but he couldn’t be sure that Jeremy and Aiden wouldn’t stop him if he tried to leave. And he had no desire to try to navigate the stairs with his train again, especially not while crying, which didn’t leave him with a lot of other options. As he ran past his favorite parlor, Stiles made a split second choice and threw himself into the room instead of going past it. He crossed to the doors that led outside, to the veranda. And beyond that, the gardens.

Stiles just needed some air. A little space. Just to clear his head, that was all.

He yanked open the door and ran outside, not bothering to pull the door properly shut behind him. The latch didn’t catch, but Stiles honestly didn’t care. He was halfway down the length of the veranda a heartbeat later, distress fueling his hurried flight. Stiles hurried down the first steps he came across, ignoring the biting cold of the air and the snow drifting down into his hair as he half-ran into the gardens, following a stone path as it wound between sculpted hedges and sprawling flower beds.

As he fled, the wind rose around Stiles in a screaming howl that almost sounded like his name.

He ignored that, too.

Chapter 24

Chapter Text

Peter considered himself something of a strategist. He was always planning. Always thinking ahead. Always trying to figure out everyone else’s moves so he could make his own accordingly. With Stiles, it was harder. More complicated. In part because of his feelings for Siles, but largely because Stiles was complicated. And wildly unpredictable. Every time Peter thought he had Stiles figured out, the younger man would do something Peter never would have been able to guess.

Still, Peter couldn’t help planning anyway.

The masquerade had been a clever decision, he thought. It had ensured Stiles spent more time with Lydia Whittemore, who Peter had correctly deduced Stiles would get along with. Her request for a brunch date had given Peter the perfect opportunity and he’d made sure to drop the masquerade in Sitles’ lap beforehand, trusting Stiles to complain about it. Lydia had volunteered to help, as Peter had known she would, and the two had bonded quickly. It had also served to give Stiles more time with Cora and Marin, both of whom he’d already expressed a marked fondness for.

Additionally, it gave Peter one last, grand chance to woo Stiles. To charm him. He made sure to be attentive and admiring all evening. He danced with Stiles, knowing the younger man enjoyed dancing. He brought Stiles food and water - he’d noted it was Stiles’ preferred drink - and made it a point to hand-feed Stiles. Peter was complimentary and affectionate. He introduced Stiles around, praise spilling off his tongue with ease all the while.

Peter wanted to dazzle Stiles. To show him what their life could be like, together, if Stiles would just allow it. He could - and would - give Stiles a lavish life. As close to royal as one could get without a literal crown, in fact. Peter knew Stiles wasn’t easily swayed by material things, but layering his wealth over all the rest surely wouldn’t hurt when Peter was trying so hard to sell Stiles on a life spent at his side.

When Stiles excused himself to go to the bathroom, Peter figured he had a good fifteen minutes before his young lover returned. After all, Stiles had cited the complexity of his costume when explaining he would be using the bathroom in his own room, so he’d have to go all the way up to the third floor and come back down. When twenty minutes had passed, Peter tried not to worry. Security was tight, and no one would have let Stiles leave the house without Peter’s presence or his express permission.

When twenty minutes bled into thirty, Peter was forced to accept that Stiles wasn’t coming back down. And it was silly to get worked up about it, really. Siles had spent hours with him, and Peter knew the human tired somewhat easily. It was fully possible that Stiles had sat down - or even laid down - in his room, thinking to just rest his feet or his eyes for a few minutes and had fallen asleep. If Peter went up to check, he would most likely find Stiles curled up on his bed or the chaise in his room, sleeping soundly, still fully dressed in his costume. Hell, his mask would probably still be perched on his face.

It was an adorable mental picture.

And still, Peter’s mood soured. His house was full of people - something he absolutely detested and had only allowed as the means to an end - and, without Stiles by his side, it was setting Peter’s teeth on edge. He needed to be alone. To safely - and privately - vent the feelings rising inside him.

With that purpose in mind, Peter directed Derek and Cora to play host and hostess in his absence and took the stairs up to the main floor. He walked quickly and with great purpose, ignoring everything around him in favor of focusing on his destination and the peace awaiting him there.

The music room.

It was Peter’s sanctuary, and had been from the moment he’d inherited the house. It was his favorite room, though he seldom made use of it. The piano, specifically, was for special occasions and emergencies only. Peter had been taught restraint and self-control in all things from the time he was ten. This was forbidden, and not even ten years as an alpha in his own right had been enough to fully shake off the lessons of a lifetime.

Peter settled himself at the piano, not bothering with sheet music. There were plenty of pieces he knew by heart, of course, but he didn’t play any of them. Instead, Peter simply let his hands move as they wanted. Let the notes flow, one into another. Imperfect, with sounds that sometimes clashed rather than flowing prettily, but that was alright. Impossible to replicate, even if he wanted to, this was impulse and emotion at the base of it. This was Peter existing in the moment.

When the scent of Stiles hit him, Peter knew - he knew - that the younger man had entered the room. And with his emotions so close to the surface, he didn’t stop to think, or plan. He just reacted.

Slamming both hands down on the keys, Peter ignored the discordant spill of notes in favor of throwing himself off the piano bench. He stormed towards Stiles, fury rising inside of him. He had placed very few limits on Stiles, during their time together. He had allowed Stiles to refuse him, when no one had dared before. He had allowed Stiles to argue with him, and had given into the younger man’s wishes on more than one occasion. He had allowed Stiles to go to work as needed and go out with his friend, Danny. Things no companion of his had ever done, as Peter preferred to keep them at his beck and call. But he’d never had a companion for an entire month before, so he’d made exceptions. Allowances.

One of the only rules Peter had set, was that Stiles not enter the music room if Peter was playing. It was a small thing, really. Very small.

And still, Stiles defied him.

Used to unquestioning obedience because of his status, Peter’s temper boiled over at this blatant disregard for his authority.

“Peter, I-”

“What did I tell you?” He cut Stiles off, not interested in platitudes or excuses.

Peter swept out his hand, gesturing to the room and intending to remind Stiles of his rule regarding the music room. As he did so, he knocked a lamp off a nearby table. It crashed into the floor, undoubtedly breaking, and Stiles flinched before backing away. He was stumbling, tripping over his costume, eyes wide and panicked.

And dammit, how dare he act afraid of Peter? He had never physically harmed Stiles, not once. He had given Stiles no reason to fear him. In fact, he loved the way Stiles was so brave and reckless around him, as if Peter wasn’t dangerous in the slightest. This...this was unacceptable.

And still, he tried to continue as he’d planned; reminding Stiles of his promise to Peter, regarding this room and Peter’s privacy. “What did I say, dammit, about when I’m in this room? Why can’t you listen?” He finished his admonishment with an annoyed showing of his fangs, a soft growl emphasizing it.

Stiles’ scent went sour-sharp as his fear increased, his breath tangling in his throat as he backed himself into one of the doors. Peter could hear Stiles’ racing heart, underlining the waver in his voice. “I w-wanted to talk. To you. T-to ask you, if...i-if...”

This time, Peter cut Stiles off with a roar, his temper exploding. Because Stiles had promised to respect his privacy in this matter. Had promised he wouldn’t come looking for Peter, if he was in this room. And now, because he wanted something - wanted to talk when he’d been ignoring Peter for two weeks - Stiles had decided that promise meant nothing. That he could do whatever he wanted, regardless of Peter’s feelings or the reasons why he had asked Stiles to stay out of this room when he played.

Glaring at Stiles with eyes he knew were alpha-red, Peter snarled. “It’s not about what you want, Stiles. You should know that by now.” It was a cruel thing to say, but Peter was too angry to think clearly.

That pretty mouth opened, tongue curling around an excuse Peter didn’t want to hear. “But, I-”

“Out!” The word ripped itself from Peter’s throat, anguished and aching. He roared again, his wolf far too close to the surface thanks to the full moon. He felt his claws come out, knew his fangs hadn’t properly receded either, and feared his control was too tenuous to hold. Terrified he might hurt Stiles, he shouted. “Get out, dammit!”

He watched with red-tinted vision as Stiles yanked the door open fully, chest heaving as he managed two breathy words. “With pleasure.”

As Stiles fled, taffeta rustling noisily and footsteps fading fast, the salt-sharp scent of tears washed over Peter and he realized what he’d just done.

f*ck. “f*ck!” Peter scrubbed his hands roughly over his face, then dragged them through his hair, before surging into motion once more.

“No...no, wait...” Peter threw himself into the hallway, following his lover’s stricken flight up the hallway. “Stiles, wait, I didn’t mean it!”

He thought, for a moment, that Stiles might make for the front doors. That he would take Peter demanding he get out as permission and just...leave. That he would simply flee, leaving Peter - leaving all of this - behind. And could Peter blame him, given what had just happened?

No.

It was a cold burst of wintery air that drew Peter’s attention to one of the rooms he was passing. He whipped around, noting the door to the veranda had blown inwards, bringing with it cold and snow. The door shouldn’t have been open, which meant...

Peter crossed the room in a blink, wincing as he stepped out onto the veranda. The snow was coming down harder now, the wind blowing it onto the veranda despite the roof shielding it. The air was frigid, biting into Peter through his tux. The thin cape he wore with his costume did nothing to protect him from the cold, and the metal of his mask was swiftly becoming painful against his face. He ripped the thing off, throwing it to the ground even as he peered through the dark, looking for Stiles.

A flash of flowing white - barely visible against the falling snow, but standing out starkly against the backdrop of tall, dark hedges - showed Peter where Stiles had exited the veranda and was now disappearing into the garden. Peter shouted Stiles name, using his alpha voice to lift the sound above the rising storm, but Stiles didn’t stop or pause or falter at all. Peter watched Stiles disappear into the hedge maze, wondering for a moment if he should let him go. It wasn’t as if he could get off the property from that direction, and Stiles was entitled to a moment to compose himself after their...altercation.

Except the storm was worsening and Stiles’ costume, though lovely, was far from warm. Peter knew he would never forgive himself if something happened to Stiles. So, with a determined stride, Peter followed Stiles. Into the garden, and into the maze.

The thing about the maze was, Peter could have found the center while blindfolded. He’d walked it so many times that the various paths were ingrained in his memory. Which was useful on a normal day, but did him absolutely no good now. Because Stiles didn’t know the way to the center, so there was no telling which way he might have run. It was a complication, much as many things involving Stiles were.

Taking careful breaths through his nose, Peter ignored the way the cold stung his nose and the way snow was falling down inside his collar, melting against his too-warm skin and leaving him feeling wet. Clammy. A dangerous thing, given the fast-falling temperature and rising wind. The only thing worse than outright cold was wet and cold, which only compounded the problem. Peter thought again about Stiles’ costume and knew he needed to hurry, since the human didn’t run nearly as hot as Peter did.

He forced himself to focus only on Stiles’ scent. To narrow down to the lush, green growth of it. The rich, dark earth. The burning lick of ozone. He filtered out the garden smells, and the winter storm ones. Then, he followed his nose. Let it lead him down dark paths. And as much as speed was important here, Peter didn’t allow himself to rush. Tracking had to be done properly or it was pointless. So Peter trudged carefully through the slowly accumulating snowfall - grateful it wasn’t yet deep enough to cause issues, given he was wearing dress shoes and not winter boots - and took the time and care necessary to properly follow a scent as faint as Stiles’ was in these conditions. He didn’t worry about where in the maze he was headed, because if Stiles hit a dead end then he’d double back and run into Peter anyway, so what did it matter? Besides, Peter knew the maze well enough to find his way out again from any point.

So when he stepped into a clearing that was more of an alcove than anything else, Peter knew it had only the exit he’d just come through and looked around for Stiles. Not seeing him, he frowned and scanned the area again a second time. Unless the younger man had learned to fly - or burrow through the earth - he had to be here. There was literally nowhere else for him to have gone.

It was on his eyes’ second pass of the area that Peter spotted him.

Stiles was curled up on his left side on a low stone bench, tucked up against the base of the hedge wall, shadowed and nearly hidden. It was the spill of frothing white that made up Stiles’ train that had finally caught Peter’s eye, flowing as it was down one side of the bench to pool against the snow-covered ground. Stiles’ lashes curled against his pale cheeks like dark fans, a stark contrast. His right hand was over the edge of the bench, hanging down, fingers not quite touching the snow. Stiles’ mask had slipped off, lying on the ground beside his fingers, a light dusting of snow already covering it. Snow was dusted across Stiles as well. Not only on his costume and in his hair, but on his milk-pale skin as well.

Combined with the utter stillness of his body and the bluish tint of his full lips, Peter felt fear squeeze his heart. He could hear Stiles’ heartbeat from where he was - steady, but very slow - and knew he needed to get Stiles inside and warmed up as quickly as possible.

A heartbeat later, he was at Stiles’ side. Half a second after that, he had Stiles gathered into his arms and was striding back the way he’d come. He marched along determinedly, refusing to listen to the voice in his head that was panicking because Stiles hadn’t yet roused.

‘He’ll wake when he’s warm,’ he told himself, even his internal voice stern enough to squash any arguments his own fear might have made. ‘I just need to get him warm.’

Peter didn’t bother exiting the hedge maze, instead heading for the center of it. Once there, Peter laid Stiles down on another bench long enough to furiously turn a crank that was set discreetly into the base of the fountain. With the soft groaning of pulleys and the creaking protest of turning gears, part of the fountain lifted up, revealing a stone staircase that disappeared into the ground. Peter scooped Stiles up again and hurried down them, using his elbow to hit the release button to drop the fountain back into place behind them when he reached the bottom. It was still cold down here, but less bitingly without the wind raging around them.

Peter strode determinedly into the tunnel, his alpha eyes allowing him to see despite the near perfect dark. When he reached what seemed to be a dead end - his way blocked by a stone wall - Peter balanced Stiles carefully against his chest and used his somewhat free hand to slot his claws into a bit of decorative grating in the wall to his left, twisting his wrist to release the lock as soon as he felt his claws slip properly into place in the mechanism. The wall in front of them opened and Peter continued through, knowing the wall would close behind him on its own in a minute or so. He continued through the tunnel and then up a short flight of stairs, relieved when the air began growing warmer with every step he took.

And then, as Peter reached the top of the steps and came upon the wooden interior wall he needed to open next, Stiles finally stirred in his arms.

Peter looked down, meeting wide golden eyes, and felt relief wash through him like a wave. He leaned down and kissed those still faintly discolored lips, needing to reassure himself that Stiles was truly okay. When he lifted his head a moment later, Stiles murmured breathlessly. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“I was.” Peter admitted, because he’d never been one for lying unless it was necessary. “I’m not anymore. I’m just glad you didn’t freeze to death.”

Stiles nodded, and suddenly his whole body was wracked with shivers. Even his teeth were chattering, quite loudly in fact. And both things relieved Peter even more, because they meant Stiles’ body was once again trying to warm itself up. It was a very good sign.

“Come on, love. We need to get you warm.” Peter murmured, nudging the wall open and stepping out into a hallway near the music room. And it was back to the music room he headed, knowing a fire was burning in there, bright and hot and just what Stiles needed.

Everything else could be dealt with after Stiles was warm.

~*~*~*~

It didn’t take Stiles long to realize the hedges surrounding him were Peter’s hedge maze. He’d known Peter had a maze, but he hadn’t taken the time to explore the grounds and gardens properly, given the winter weather, so he’d never actually been in the maze before this. It wasn’t long after he realized he was in a maze that he realized he had no idea how to get back out of it. He hadn’t been paying attention as he’d run and now he was surrounded by tall hedges with no way out. He came upon an intersection and spun in a circle, debating his options before hastening down the left hand path.

It wasn’t much further before Stiles realized he’d hit a dead end. He was in a small, recessed area. Surrounded on all sides with only the opening he’d come in through as an exit. There were some planters that undoubtedly hosted flowers in the warmer months, and a bird bath that was presently empty except for a dusting of snow, and a couple of stone benches. Shivering, Stiles sat on one of the benches, stumbling a little as he went. He just needed a minute to reorient himself so he could figure out the best way out of the maze. He shivered again, rubbing his hands against his arms to try to create some friction - and thus some warmth - but it didn’t help much. His mind felt sluggish; like he was on the edge of sleep.

Sleep.

Surely a little rest would help clear his mind. He wanted to go back inside the house, where it was warm and safe and comfortable, but he was tired.

So tired.

His limbs felt heavy. Exhaustion gripped Stiles tightly, urging him to lay down. Close his eyes. Sleep. He let himself tip sideways on the stone bench, one arm curled beneath his cheek. His mask was digging into his cheek and his arm, though, so Stiles reached up and tugged it off his face. His fingers didn’t want to cooperate, though, and it slipped from them. Stiles imagined it had landed on the ground, but it seemed a distant concern. Nothing really worth worrying about.

His eyes drifted closed and now that he was laying there, he was starting to feel warmer. And wasn’t that wonderful? He’d stopped shivering, even. His whole body felt heavy now, and flushed, and he almost wanted to take off his costume because surely that would help but he couldn’t seem to muster the energy to do so. He couldn’t even manage to open his eyes. And really, that was alright. A little nap would do him some good and when he was more refreshed, he’d worry about his costume.

The dark crept over his mind slowly, by degrees. Stiles sank into it as if it were a bath, warm and welcoming.

When Stiles opened his eyes again, the light had changed. It was dark. Shadowed. There was no longer a snow-bright sky above him, giving an almost unnatural light to the night sky. Instead, there were close walls and a low ceiling and Peter. Peter, who was staring down at him with burning red eyes. Peter, who Stiles knew was angry with him because he’d once again entered the music room when Peter was playing. Peter, who had yelled at Stiles to get out. Peter, who was cradling Stiles against his chest, something that looked like relief painting itself across his handsome face.

A moment later, Peter lowered his head and caught Stiles’ lips in a kiss. It was soft, and warm. It was reassuring and full of care, and it made Stiles’ heart trip sluggishly over itself. When Peter lifted his head, Stiles couldn’t help giving voice to his confusion, the words coming out soft and uncertain. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“I was.” Peter’s words might have made Stiles flinch, if they hadn’t been said so softly. And then Peter continued, every word low and laced with a desperate sort of relief. “I’m not anymore. I’m just glad you didn’t freeze to death.”

Stiles nodded at that, remembering the garden and the hedge maze and the way he’d felt dangerously lethargic, unable to get himself back to the warmth and safety of Peter’s home. As if the memory of the cold caught up to Stiles, he was suddenly shivering. His teeth chattered and his body shook and Stiles was suddenly very aware of how cold his skin felt compared to the air around them. He could feel how hot Peter was, comparatively, even through the layers of their respective costumes, but he didn’t seem to be leeching any of that heat into himself. It was as if Stiles was so cold it was creating a barrier between them.

Peter made a soft sound - not quite a growl, but similar - even as he nudged open the wall next to them, murmuring. “Come on, love. We need to get you warm.”

Stiles took a long moment to sit with that - with those words - while Peter carried him to the music room. Once they were there, Stiles was set on a rug in front of the fireplace, where flames were crackling merrily. He curled into himself, arms wound around his torso to try to hold in any heat he could. A moment later, Peter was wrapping a blanket around him.

A heartbeat after that, Stiles found himself pulled onto Peter’s lap, right there on the floor. Peter’s arms wound around him, his head tucked beneath Peter’s chin. Between the heat of the fire and the heat from Peter’s body, Stiles finally felt some of that warmth start to sink into him, chasing away the chill.

After several long minutes, Stiles’ shivers were mostly gone though the occasional aftershock was still chasing itself down his spine and then out through his limbs. His teeth had finally stopped chattering, too.

And still, when he spoke, Stiles’ voice was little more than breath; too much air and too little voice. “You called me love.”

“I did.”

Stiles blinked at that, untucking his face from Peter’s throat so he could gape at the alpha werewolf. He’d been expecting Peter to deny it, honestly. To tell Stiles he had misheard. Or, barring that, that it didn’t mean anything. He hadn’t expected casual confirmation.

“Why?”

Peter’s eyes were blue now as they met Stiles' own, and somber. Serious. Not cold, or blank, or hard, the way they so often were. Just serious. His hand came up, cradling Stiles’ cheek, and a smile that was almost sad curved Peter’s sensual lips for a moment before he murmured his answer.

“Because I love you.”

Stiles sucked in a sharp, startled breath. “What?”

Peter’s lips twitched up at the corners, his eyes a little brighter now with his amusem*nt, though there was still enough uncertainty - in both his face and his voice - to convince Stiles he was being honest. “I love you, Stiles. I didn’t expect to, but I do. I love you, and I was so scared I’d lost you just now.”

Lips pressed to Stiles’ forehead, then Peter whispered. “I’m afraid I still might.”

Tears stung the backs of Stiles’ eyes and he had to swallow twice before he could force words out. “You screamed at me. You told me to get out. I was trying to talk to you. I w-wanted to tell you how I felt, but you-”

“I know.” Peter’s arms tightened around Stiles and he rocked them both a little, slow and soothing. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, love. I was hurt that you’d broken your promise, but I should have listened to why. I should never have yelled at you that way.”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the tears spill over, and rasped hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to break my promise. I just wanted to talk to you so badly. To tell you that I-”

“Shhh.” Peter soothed, cutting Stiles off again. “Not now, love. Not when you’re tired and cold and recovering. Not when it’s been such an emotional night.”

Peter’s lips pressed to Stiles’ forehead again and he added softly. “Tell me tomorrow, if you still want to. For tonight, just...let me tell you something.”

Stiles swallowed hard again, but nodded. “Okay.” He let his cheek rest on Peter’s shoulder again, tucking his face back against Peter’s throat. “Tell me.”

He could hear the way Peter’s next breath - deep and slow and long - shivered at the edges with emotion. When Peter spoke, his voice was deep and rumbling and tight at the edges. “I taught myself to play the piano when I was four years old. I still lived in Beacon Hills back then, and the house there had an upright piano. Old, but well cared for and kept tuned. I loved it. From the first time I sat down with one of the beginner books, I loved it.”

Stiles could picture it. A small Peter, kneeling on a piano bench and painstakingly learning what keys corresponded with what notes. Learning to pick them out, one after another. Playing simple songs, one key press at a time, slow and halting and uncertain. Imagined his sweet, little boy face furrowed in concentration as he worked it out, getting better every time he played. Knew by now the peace it brought Peter to play, and imagined it must have felt the same to the child he’d been.

“When I was ten, my father ordered my mother to bring me to Los Angeles.” Peter was tense now; Stiles could feel it easily because of the way he was cradled in Peter’s lap, but he didn’t interrupt. “It was time for me to learn how to be Talia’s second. I didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to leave my school, or my friends, or the only home I’d ever known. I barely knew my father, or my sister. But my mother explained my responsibilities to me. My duty. So I knew I had to go.”

And god, that was heartbreaking. To think of Peter being ripped away from everything and everyone he’d ever known, because it was expected of him. Because he had a purpose to serve in his pack. It didn’t matter that he’d been a child still, because it was what he’d been born to do. Stiles couldn’t imagine how that must have felt. What it must have been like, to have so many expectations placed on you at such a young age.

Peter continued and there were so many emotions in his voice now. So many things Stiles wasn’t sure he could identify, not even if he had a year to analyze them all.

“I asked my mother if the house in LA had a piano. When she said it didn’t, I asked if we could bring ours. Or buy one for the LA house. All I wanted was to play.” Peter let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “My mother explained that piano playing was frivolous, and I’d have no time for hobbies anymore. She warned me not to ask my father for a piano and told me to focus my energy on my new lessons.”

Peter’s cheek rubbed against the top of Stiles’ head a couple of times and Stiles knew Peter was scenting him as a way to soothe himself; to make this conversation easier. “When I was fifteen, Talia took over as Alpha Wolf of Los Angeles. The first thing I did was ask her for a piano. She was my alpha, yes, but she was also my sister. Surely she, of all people, would understand why I needed the outlet.”

When Peter fell silent, Stiles whispered. “Did she?”

Peter laughed again, still sharp and unpleasant. “In her own way. She bought me the piano, anyway. But she had such disdain for it. For the weakness it revealed in me. I played only a few times before the weight of her judgment was too much. Then I didn’t play again until I became an alpha myself.”

“That’s awful.” Stiles said, lifting his head to meet Peter’s eyes. His own were wide and damp, his heart aching for what Peter had been through. “I’m sorry they did that to you. That they took something so beautiful, that you enjoyed so much, and made it into something you had to hide. I’m sorry they tried to rip it out of you the way they did even though it’s obvious how much it means to you.”

Peter’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t look away from Stiles’ eyes. “I don’t let people hear me play because I’ve been told so many times that it makes me too vulnerable. Emotional. Weak. It’s an indulgence I was told over and over again I couldn’t afford. And still, I couldn’t give it up for good. The second I could, I ran back to it. I gave in to that weakness in myself. But it’s my weakness, and I’ve done my best to keep it that way.”

“Nothing about your playing is weak, Peter.” Stiles freed one of his hands from the blanket Peter had wrapped him in and used it to cradle Peter’s cheek with his palm. “You are not weak. Your music is powerful. It makes me feel things in a way I didn’t know music could. It wraps itself around my heart and squeezes. There’s strength in the ability to make people feel something. Don’t ever let anyone tell you differently.”

Peter sighed, turning his head to press a tender kiss to Stiles’ palm. “I’m so sorry I yelled at you, love. It was an instinctive reaction to someone seeing me while I was so vulnerable, but that doesn’t excuse it.”

But Stiles was calmer now as well, and he admitted softly. “I shouldn’t have broken my promise. It doesn’t matter what my intentions were, or that I thought I had a good reason. I’m sorry.”

“Broken promise or not, I shouldn’t have yelled like that.” Peter leaned in for another kiss, pressing this one to Stiles’ lips rather than his forehead or his palm. “Can you forgive me?”

Taking a trembling breath, Stiles met Peter’s eyes and murmured. “I already have. For everything.”

When Peter kissed him again, it was hard and fierce and everything Stiles had ever wanted. Against his lips, Peter murmured. “I love you, pet. More than I realized I could love someone. And if you feel the same way tomorrow, I want to talk about what that means. For you, and for us.”

Heart soaring, Stiles nodded. “Okay. Tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He kissed Peter again, and again, and again, before asking breathlessly. “Take me to bed?”

Peter huffed a laugh against his lips, but nodded as well. “Alright, love. But only to sleep. You need it after the night you’ve had. Anything else can wait until tomorrow.”

And as happy as Stiles was, he was also exhausted, so he didn’t argue. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

Chapter 25

Chapter Text

Sunday, December 23rd, 2018

Stiles knew he had a bad habit of catastrophizing. His brain would latch onto the worst possible outcome and refuse to let go, leaving him in a state of hypervigilance and panic. He struggled with the urge to brace himself for the fallout of every situation well before anything went wrong. With Peter, he’d actually found it somewhat helpful, given how poorly things had gone at various intervals. Except now that Peter had told Stiles he loved him, he was wondering if he’d been making things worse the whole time without meaning to.

He’d done that in the past, viewing someone’s every action and word in the worst possible light. Refusing to give someone a chance to prove themself because he’d already made up his mind.

If Stiles was being honest, it was why he hadn’t told Ian about his magic even after two months of dating. He’d convinced himself it wouldn’t go over well. That Ian would either freak out and leave, or else he’d make demands of Stiles and his power. And while things with Ian had obviously ended on a particularly sour note, Stiles had to admit that Ian had barely batted an eyelash at finding out Stiles had magic. It made him wonder why the hell he’d put it off for so long.

The thing was, Stiles usually knew when his anxiety was driving him. He was actually pretty damn self-aware. And because he could tell when it was his anxiety trying to take over, Stiles had gotten really good at controlling the impulses. Years of practice allowed him to recognize the compulsive behaviors for what they were and redirect his energy and focus away from any that were self-destructive.

Packing everything up in his room at Peter’s house was...complicated.

Because Peter loved him.

And Stiles loved Peter, obviously. He even planned to tell Peter as much. He was actually going to tell Peter about the baby, too. He wanted to tell Peter the truth. He wanted to stay with Peter, and Stiles truly believed Peter wanted that as well. Stiles was staring at his very own Happily Ever After come to life and he didn’t think he’d ever been happier, even if he knew it would take some adjusting on his part. He would need to live in the supernatural world and that came with a whole new set of rules and expectations. But Stiles was certain that a life with Peter would be worth it, so he was going to do his best.

None of which was enough to stop Stiles from packing everything up. He filled his suitcase and dufflebag first, then stacked garment bags full of designer clothing on top of the fainting couch. Shoes, clothes, underwear...all of it was gathered in case it needed to be loaded into his jeep. And Stiles knew it was his anxiety driving the actions. He knew it was his brain preparing for the worst possible outcome in the only way it could. But, as far as compulsive behaviors went, this was hardly the worst. After all, even if things went perfectly with Peter, Stiles would need to move his stuff into the master suite. So packing made sense no matter how it all played out.

There was nothing wrong with being prepared.

And as he packed, Stiles planned.

After all, he wanted the conversation with Peter to go as smoothly as possible.

~*~*~*~

Peter would have liked to spend the entire day with Stiles. But, unfortunately, he was dragged from sleep by a phone call, explaining a small situation he needed to go and handle. A rogue omega werewolf was in his territory and causing problems, and it was always best if Peter handled such things himself. Preferably before the damn Hunters got involved. The last thing Peter wanted was some damn Hunter questioning his control over his portion of New York City right when he was finally planning to take a mate. He was going to be under enough scrutiny as it was and he didn’t want to make it any worse.

So Peter had kissed Stiles, promised to be back as soon as he could, reiterated his love, and left.

Peter’s only consolation was his increasing certainty that Stiles loved him back and was going to stay. That made it much easier to go and do what needed to be done.

When he finally got home, it was well after dinner time and he went immediately to his bedroom. He would’ve liked to seek out Stiles first, but he desperately needed a shower and that came first. While there would undoubtedly come a day when Stiles would see him covered in blood, Peter didn’t think today needed to be that day. That could wait until they were on more steady footing and their relationship wasn’t quite as new.

So Peter scrubbed himself clean, taking extra care to make sure there wasn’t a drop of blood anywhere. He didn’t want anything to ruin their night. When he was finally done, he wandered out into his bedroom again, still nude and debating what to wear when he went to find Stiles. He was toweling the excess water out of his hair as he walked, steam from the bathroom swirling around him as it seeped out into the much cooler air of the bedroom, which was why it took him a moment to realize he wasn’t alone.

Glancing up, Peter’s eyes found Stiles and he froze, the towel slipping from his fingers to land on the floor near his feet.

Jesus f*cking Christ.

~*~*~*~

Stiles had asked Peter’s staff to inform him when the alpha got back. So, when his intercom buzzed and Ethan’s voice spilled through the little speaker, Stiles hastily dressed with great care. Black, thigh-high fishnets topped with two inch bands of delicate black lace encased his long legs. They were held up by thin black straps that connected them to the black lace garter belt encircling Stiles’ narrow waist and stretching over the ever-growing curve of his belly. He was wearing a pair of lacy black panties as well, which were...well, Stiles wasn’t sure what they were, actually but a delicate triangle of lace sat just above his ass, then narrowed down to a thin strip of material that settled between his cheeks. It left the firm curves of his ass bare. Stiles thought it might be a thong but he wasn’t actually sure what the difference was between a thong and a g-string so he couldn’t say for certain.

What he did know was that the garter belt helped disguise the curve of his belly - though nothing that wasn’t baggy could hide it entirely at this point - and the fishnets emphasized his long, slender legs, while the panties put his ass on display. And since his legs and ass were arguably his best features, Stiles was pleased. He finished the look off with a smidge of eyeliner and some golden eyeshadow - to highlight his eyes - and a pair of strappy black heels that made his ass look even more fantastic.

Once he was ready, Stiles shrugged into his dressing gown and headed down to Peter’s room. He knocked, entering only when he didn’t get an answer after a couple of minutes. Once he was inside, he realized Peter was in the en suite. Most likely the alpha was showering, given he’d been gone all day doing alpha things. And really, that was fine. Stiles didn’t mind a few extra minutes to set the scene.

He stripped off his robe, draping it over a nearby chair. Then, he debated where to wait. The bed was the obvious choice, of course, but it wasn’t the only one. There was a velvet chaise - a sort of fainting couch, honestly, with a very old Hollywood feel to it - where he could pose himself, if he wanted. The rich, dark green velvet would look fantastic against Stiles’ coloring and the black lace he was wearing. There were several other pieces of furniture that could work, too. The desk in one corner, while not as impressive as the one in Peter’s office, would surely hold Stiles’ weight if he wanted to perch atop it to wait. Though cold wood against his bare ass would be less than ideal, if Stiles was being perfectly honest.

And, in the end, there was really only one choice.

So, when Peter emerged from the bathroom a short while later, bringing a cloud of steam with him, Stiles was seated - with one knee crossed over the other and his hands resting lightly on the wooden arms - on the chair Peter had taken from The Labyrinth after their dinner date.

He watched as Peter noticed him. Watched those blue eyes bleed red. Watched the towel slip from Peter’s fingers with a soft sound. Watched the way Peter’s lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them unconsciously. Watched the way Peter’s fingers twitched at his sides, as if he was nearly overcome with the sudden, all-consuming desire to touch.

It was heady in a way Stiles didn’t think he’d ever get used to.

Standing slowly, Stiles walked slowly across the room. He bypassed Peter, who was still standing halfway between the bathroom door and the bed, and instead made his way to the bed. When he reached it, Stiles turned to look at Peter over his shoulder and raised one eyebrow.

“Well?” He asked, voice low and breathy in the way he knew Peter really liked. “Aren’t you going to join me?”

Peter was behind him in a heartbeat’s time, his hands spanning Stiles’ still-narrow waist - it was only in the front that he’d curved with the baby, the rest of his figure remaining intact - even as his mouth found the nape of Stiles’ neck. Stiles sighed softly, pressing back into the heat and strength of Peter’s body. He savored the wet, sucking pressure of Peter’s mouth as it slid from his nape to the side of his throat, then along the top of his shoulder. He relished the way Peter’s hands slid from his waist down to his hips, settling there with a grip just firm enough to make Stiles certain he’d have bruises in the shape of Peter’s fingers.

“You look positively sinful.” Peter murmured the words against Stiles’ skin, a low rumble underlining them. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever called mine.”

“Mmmm...” Stiles smiled at Peter’s possessive words, knowing they were backed by love. “Do you want to keep me, alpha? Make me yours forever?”

“Yes.” Peter agreed, even as he urged Stiles to bend over the side of the bed. He obliged, bracing his forearms on the mattress and snickering when Peter growled behind him at the sight of his ass, properly presented in his new position.

“You are mine.” Peter swore darkly as he pressed his hips against Stiles’ ass, his leaking co*ck and Stiles’ dripping hole letting his arousal slide slickly against Stiles’ skin. “No one else will ever touch you. Only me.”

“Yes, only you.” Stiles keened as Peter tugged the thin strip of fabric guarding his hole to one side and pressed the head of his co*ck there, where Stiles was so wet and open. “Please...please, Peter...alpha...my alpha-ah-ngggh...”

Peter’s co*ck robbed Stiles of his words, only breathy sounds full of need and desperation spilling from his lips as the alpha f*cked into him. It was hard and fast, the way Stiles and Peter both liked best. And part of Stiles had wondered if Peter would f*ck him slow and sweet this time, in the wake of his professed feelings, but he was glad that wasn’t the case. Because as much as Stiles would enjoy a proper lovemaking session - and he was sure they’d have one, eventually - this was what he was craving.

The hard, driving thrusts of Peter’s co*ck inside of him. The way he hadn’t been worked carefully open, or even properly kissed. The heat of it, and the need. The way there wasn’t anything slow or easy about it. Because nothing between Stiles and Peter had been slow, or easy. They’d been a flash-burn, from the moment they met, and Stiles liked that. He liked the passion that existed between them. The push and pull of it all, even when it was making things complicated. He loved Peter, just as he was. Even the sharp edges of him; the dangerous parts; the parts that were more animal - more wolf - than not.

He didn’t want to change Peter, or their dynamic, except to insist that Peter make room in his life for Stiles outside the bedroom. And, as Peter’s mate, that was pretty much a guarantee.

So this hard and fast push towards org*sm was exactly what he wanted.

Stiles savored it, arching back into every demanding thrust. He keened at the way the wet lace encasing his co*ck was chafing, an edge of pain underlining all of the pleasure as Peter f*cked into his prostate over and over again with unerring precision. And then, just as Stiles was cresting that final peak, eager for the shattering freefall on the other side, Peter’s hand fisted in his hair. His head was turned and then Peter’s lips were meeting his, sloppy and a little off-center but somehow still lovely.

Still perfect.

Stiles moaned into Peter’s mouth while spilling sticky-wet heat into the panties still covering his co*ck. At the same time, Peter ground his co*ck deeply inside Stiles and spilled himself there.

In the wake of his org*sm, Stiles’ legs tried to give out under him and it was only Peter’s quick reflexes that had him on his back on the bed rather than in an ungainly heap primarily on the floor. He hummed in a gratified way when Peter slipped the heels from his feet, then slid his messy panties down his legs, dropping them to the floor. The towel Peter had been drying his hair with only a short while ago was used to wipe them both down and Stiles was a little amused when Peter left the garter belt and fishnet stockings on him.

Not that Stiles minded. They were reasonably comfortable, at least for the moment.

As Peter slipped onto the bed beside him, Stiles couldn’t hold the words back anymore. “I love you, Peter Hale. I think I started falling in love with you the first time we met. It just...took me a little while to realize, that’s all.”

Peter smiled up at him even as he settled himself against Stiles’ side, his head resting on Stiles’ stomach. It was a lovely smile, too. Sweet, and real, and full of so much joy. “I love you too, rybko. More than anything.”

Stiles hummed, pleased, and carding his fingers through Peter’s thick hair, stroking soothingly. He liked the weight of Peter’s head on his belly. Loved the way Peter was unknowingly resting on their child. And he wondered how to broach the topic of the baby. How to tell Peter they were going to be more than just a mated pair; they were going to be a family.

Before he could figure it out, Peter turned his head and pressed a kiss to the lace covered curve and murmured. “I love how you’ve thickened here. My wolf is well satisfied with how well we’re providing for you.”

And, well...Stiles couldn’t have asked for a more perfect opening than that.

After taking a slightly unsteady breath, Stiles managed to speak in a somewhat steady voice. “You’re definitely providing for me, but it’s...it’s more than that, Peter. It’s more.”

“Oh?” Peter raised an eyebrow at him, confusion lacing his words. “More in what way?”

Stiles swallowed hard, then told himself, ‘Do it quick; like ripping off a bandaid.’

“I’m pregnant.”

~*~*~*~

Jesus f*cking Christ.

Peter felt his eyes bleed red as he scanned over Stiles’ form. He pulled in several breaths through his mouth, tongue darting out to taste Stiles - and his arousal - on the air. His fingers twitched with the need to get his hands on his pretty little lover.

Stiles was seated on the red velvet cushion of the throne-like chair he’d commandeered from The Labyrinth after he’d taken Stiles there. He had his arms resting on the arms of the chair, his hands curled lightly around the carved ends. One leg was crossed over the other and both of them were encased in black fishnets that went all the way up to his slim thighs. There, two inch bands of black lace topped the stockings. The leg he could see more of - the one crossed over the other - showed slim black straps attached to the top of the stockings and Peter was certain they were connected to the black lace encircling Stiles’ slender waist, though he couldn’t see to be sure.

Then, of course, Stiles stood and Peter got a much better view. Of the garter belt around his middle, and the lace panties covering his co*ck, and the way the strappy black heels on his feet made his legs look even longer than they usually did. In that moment, Peter was certain he’d never seen anything even half as lovely as Stiles dressed for seduction. His mouth watered and his co*ck throbbed and his gums itched because all he wanted was to pin Stiles down, f*ck into his sweet little body, and sink his fangs into that perfect porcelain skin.

He wanted to claim.

Except that was something Peter would never do without consent, so he knew he had to control himself. Not easily done, since it was only a day out from the full moon, but this had to be Stiles’ choice.

Stiles walked past where Peter was standing, all but rooted in place, pausing at the side of the bed. Peter watched him the whole way, admiring the firm, pert curves of his ass. Whatever glorious panties Stiles had on were showing only as a triangle of black lace right at the base of his spine, like an arrow pointing to the place where Peter wanted to bury his co*ck. And f*ck, but Stiles knew how to do a seduction right.

If he hadn’t had to maneuver Stiles back into his bed, Peter might have worried the younger man had somehow planned their entire relationship with the intention of seducing his way into Peter’s heart and becoming Peter’s mate. Others had certainly tried, both when he’d been Talia’s second and since he’d become an alpha in his own right. Peter had resisted them all in a way he’d been incapable of doing with Stiles. But, given the convoluted way they’d come together, Peter knew he could only thank fate for bringing Stiles into his life.

When Stiles looked at him over his own shoulder, those tawny eyes hit Peter like a suckerpunch. Long and golden, outlined now with black and sporting a metallic shimmer on the eyelids, those eyes would bring a lesser man to his knees. They might even bring Peter to his, if Stiles asked.

Instead, Stiles arched one eyebrow and asked breathily. “Well? Aren’t you going to join me?”

That was all the invitation Peter needed.

Quick as a blink, Peter was pressed against Stiles’ back. His hands settled on the lace covering the narrow span of Stiles’ waist and his lips settled on the back of Stiles’ neck. He parted his lips, tasting the salt-sting of sweat gathered there, at the base of Stiles’ hairline. Stiles let out a soft, pleased sound even as he melted back into Peter’s naked form. He easily took the bulk of Stiles’ weight even as he licked and sucked a wet path from Siles’ nape to the side of his throat, savoring every inch of his delectable skin.

As he continued along the top of Stiles’ shoulder, Peter let his hands skim down Stiles’ sides, from his waist to his hips. There was more to grip here; more softness and give to Stiles’ body than elsewhere. Overall, Stiles was long and lean and faintly muscled. Even the soft, sweet curve of his perky little ass was solid enough with muscle. And it wasn’t that Peter didn’t like that, because he did, but there was something to be said for the give under his fingers as he pressed bruises into the softer flesh of Stiles’ hips. It was a newer development, as Stiles’ hips had been leaner when he’d arrived at Peter’s house a month ago, and it was one Peter was very fond of.

Knowing Stiles responded well to praise, Peter pressed words into Stiles’ skin along with his kisses. “You look positively sinful.”

His wolf was rumbling, pleased and a bit smug as it paced beneath his skin. It was closer to the surface this soon after the full moon, so Peter loosed the sound to appease that part of himself as he continued. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever called mine.

Stiles’ scent went sweet in a way that told Peter he liked the alpha’s words. Stiles confirmed that a moment later, murmuring. “Mmmm...do you want to keep me, alpha? Make me yours forever?”

“Yes.”

The word spilled off Peter’s tongue without hesitation. And, while he knew it wasn’t an invitation to claim, Peter’s wolf was urging him on anyway. Since Stiles smelled cinnamon-hot and slick with arousal, he didn’t hold back. A hand pressed between Stiles’ shoulder blades encouraged him to bend at the waist, over the edge of the bed. With his heels on, Stiles was tall enough that his ass was raised quite a bit once he settled on his forearms and Peter couldn’t help taking a moment to admire the view.

Peter ignored the soft snickering Stiles let out when his wolf growled at the sight.

“You are mine.” Peter insisted, pressing his hips against Stiles’ ass. “No one else will ever touch you. Only me.” His co*ck was leaking steadily and Stiles’ hole was just as wet as it always was around Peter, so his erection slid easily along the curve of Stiles’ ass.

“Yes, only you.”

And f*ck, but Peter’s wolf wanted to howl at Stiles’ ready agreement; wanted to throw their head back and bay victoriously. Because no one else would ever f*ck Stiles again. He was Peter’s now; would remain Peter’s. There was a satisfaction in that fact and it settled deep in Peter’s bones.

It was only compounded by the way Stiles keened, high and needy, when Peter used one thumb to catch the soaked fabric between Stiles’ cheeks and tug it to one side so he could press his co*ck into that slick, hot space. The way Stiles arched back against him was its own form of satisfaction as well, as were his next pleading words.

“Please...please, Peter...alpha...my alpha-ah-ngggh...”

Stiles’ pleas melted into high, greedy sounds of lust and pleasure as Peter pressed his co*ck into him, hard and fast and demanding. He loved the way Stiles’ words vanished, leaving behind only keening whines and wordless cries for more. But then, there wasn’t much about f*cking Stiles that Peter didn’t love.

As he f*cked into Stiles over and over again, Peter marveled at how beautifully - how eagerly - Stiles took everything he was given. Part of Peter had wanted to do this differently. To go slowly. To savor every second of their bodies coming together. To take Stiles apart, slow and sweet. Another - darker - part of Peter wanted to shatter Stiles; to reduce him to tears; to blur the line between pain and pleasure until Stiles could no longer tell them apart.

Peter was confident he would eventually do both of those things, of course.

He was equally confident that Stiles would love each of them, when the time came.

For now, Peter let himself be satisfied with this middle ground. With the wild, driving thrusts of his co*ck into the slick, tight heat of Stiles’ body. With the way Stiles clung to the bedding, slim fingers twisting Peter’s sheets, gathering them against his palms before releasing them again, a heated little loop of nearly involuntary motion that Peter doubted Stiles was even aware of. With the way Stiles’ spine arched so prettily as he pressed back into every thrust, as if he was so eager for Peter’s co*ck he couldn’t wait for the alpha to give it to him and nevermind that Peter was f*cking him harder and faster than any human could have.

Peter had learned Stiles’ body so well by now, that he knew when his lover’s org*sm was approaching. He could see it in the tense line of Stiles’ back. Could hear it in the altered pitch to Stiles’ keening cries. He could feel it, in the way Stiles was suddenly clamping down around his co*ck in rhythmic little pulses. So he took one hand off Stiles’ hip and slid it into Stiles’ sweat-damp chestnut hair, yanking. He dragged Stiles’ head around, curling himself down over Stiles’ body at the same time so he could crush their lips together.

It was...inelegant, at best. They couldn’t quite line their mouths up properly at this angle, and there was too much tongue and spit, though Peter certainly didn’t mind and he was pretty sure Stiles didn’t, either.

Then Stiles’ body clamped down hard around his co*ck and Peter was licking a moan out of his mouth as the bitter-sharp, salt laced scent of Stiles’ climax flooded his senses. And knowing Stiles had ruined another pair of panties - that he had spilled himself, untouched, and soaked the black lace covering his co*ck - was all Peter needed to follow him over the edge as well. He thrust as deep as he could, grinding himself into the - hotslicktight - clutch of Stiles’ body, and filled Stiles with his seed.

It wasn’t a proper claim, but it was - for the moment - enough.

When Stiles collapsed beneath him, Peter caught him with a self-satisfied smirk. He had made Stiles’ knees go weak; he had turned Stiles’ legs to jelly. He slid his co*ck out, ignoring the whimpered protest from Stiles because it had to be done, then carefully laid Stiles on his back on the mattress. He spared a moment to tug Stiles’ black high heels off, admiring them even as he let them fall to the floor, then turned his attention to the panties clinging wetly to Stiles’ co*ck.

f*ck, it was a pretty sight.

And, much as Peter would have liked to savor it, he knew it had to be uncomfortable for Stiles. So he tugged the panties down, then used his discarded towel - still damp from his hair, thank goodness - to wipe away the worst of the mess from both their bodies. Stiles thanked him for the aftercare with a pleased little hum and didn’t complain when Peter left the garter belt and stockings in place.

And really, who could blame him? Stiles looked so goddamn gorgeous like that, all f*cked out and sleepy and more undressed than not with the black lace of the garter belt and the wide black mesh of the fishnets a delectable contrast to all of his porcelain pale skin.

Peter slipped onto the bed and Stiles - eyes still closed, with a satisfied smile curving his full lips - murmured. “I love you, Peter Hale.” There was a weight to the words - a somberness that said they were absolute truth - even as he blinked open those amber and gilt eyes of his, meeting Peter’s own as he continued softly. “I think I started falling in love with you the first time we met. It just...took me a little while to realize, that’s all.”

Peter couldn’t have kept the grin off his face even if he’d wanted to. Not that he tried. He was far too happy to bother containing the emotion. Besides, there was no one here but Stiles. His mate, for all that it wasn’t yet official in any capacity. Peter and his wolf had decided, and Stiles would surely agree. After all, he loved Peter.

And Peter loved him back. So he settled his cheek on Stiles’ stomach, snuggling into Stiles’ side, and offered back. “I love you too, rybko. More than anything.”

Stiles let out another pleased little hum, his fingers sliding into Peter’s hair to stroke soothingly through it. Peter loved this, honestly. The quiet intimacy of the moment. The weight of Stiles’ hand in his hair, and the tenderness as Stiles carded his fingers through it. And the curve of Stiles’ belly beneath his head, just as new as the softness around his hips...and just as pleasing, too. True, Stiles wasn’t soft here the way his hips were - the curve was firm and solid under Peter’s cheek - but there was something about it that Peter’s wolf liked.

Unable to resist voicing that pleasure, Peter turned his head so he could brush his lips against the lace covering Stiles’ curvy little tummy. His next words were a little muffled, but still discernible. “I love how you’ve thickened here. My wolf is well satisfied with how well we’re providing for you.”

Peter had hoped the pleasure - and the edge of lust - in his voice would be enough to keep Stiles from getting self-conscious about his compliment, since Peter knew humans could get funny about their weight. Stiles’ scent, however, went sour and warm at the edges almost immediately.

Except the change to his scent wasn’t embarrassment or displeasure, the way Peter had half expected. Rather, it was something caught somewhere between fear and excitement. Nerves that weren’t all good but weren’t all bad, either. Peter honestly wasn’t sure what to make of the scent, or how to ask Stiles what had caused it.

It was Stiles who broke the sudden silence - and the growing tension - between them. He took a slow breath that shivered a little unsteadily, then spoke in a voice that only shook a little at the edges. “You’re definitely providing for me, but it’s...it’s more than that, Peter. It’s more.”

“Oh?” Peter raised an eyebrow at that, because what the f*ck? That wasn’t an answer, or an explanation. With a growing sense of unease, Peter asked. “More in what way?”

Stiles swallowed hard, his throat clicking dryly. The sour part of his scent spiked and Peter wrinkled his nose, not liking it in the slightest. Distracted as he was by Stiles’ shifting scent, it took a moment for Stiles’ next words to register in his brain.

When they did, it was like a suckerpunch.

“I’m pregnant.”

Chapter 26

Chapter Text

Pregnant.

Pregnant.

Pregnantpregnantpregnant.

The word chased itself around Peter’s mind for a long moment. He was sitting now, with a good foot of space between himself and Stiles on the bed. Peter didn’t know when he had moved - he had no memory of having done so - and yet, there they were.

Separated.

Stiles was sitting up now as well, unease settling into the lines of his body as he dragged Peter’s blanket over his lap. Amber eyes were moving frantically over Peter’s face as if he was searching for an answer. Except Stiles hadn’t asked a question, had he?

No.

No, he’d stated a fact.

Pregnant.

Peter felt cold. All the way through to his core, he felt cold. Like his heart had turned to ice and leached all the heat from his body in the process. Numb. And, more than that, hollow. His wolf was snarling now, and Peter knew that if his composure cracked it would take his control with it, and he would lose himself to the wolf.

Break.

Shatter.

Go feral.

The wolf was mad with grief right now and that madness was clawing at Peter’s human mind. The icy numbness that had settled over Peter was all that was saving him.

Hadn’t Peter just been thinking about all the people who had done their best to seduce their way into his bed - into his heart - so they could have the privilege of calling themselves his mate? Hadn’t he stupidly put Stiles in a separate category from all of those people - those greedy, grasping, clawing social climbers - because he had been the one to pursue Stiles? Hadn’t he just convinced himself that this - that Stiles - was everything he’d ever f*cking wanted and thanked fate for delivering him such a perfect mate?

Except Stiles had lied. He had planned, and tricked, and schemed. Stiles had done the unforgivable - the one thing Peter had never suspected he would do - and then strung Peter along until the alpha believed this whole thing was his idea. Stiles had expertly baited the trap, waited for Peter to get into position, then slammed it shut. And it had almost f*cking worked.

Almost.

Except Peter wasn’t some dumb prey animal, was he? And he’d chew off his own f*cking leg before he let himself get tricked into claiming someone unworthy.

So he clamped down on the hurt, and the betrayal. He clamped down on the grief, and the heartbreak, and the madness. He pinned his wolf in place, bullying it into submission, and dug deep for the icy disdain and prized self-control that he’d been raised to embody.

“Get out.”

~*~*~*~

“I’m pregnant.”

The words hung heavily between them. Heavier than Stiles had expected, honestly. But it was a lot to process, so Stiles didn’t panic when Peter didn’t say anything right away. And he didn’t panic when Peter sat up, drawing away from Stiles. After a long moment of silence that stretched out between them, growing more tense with every passing second, Stiles slowly sat up as well. The longer Peter was silent for, the more the fear started to set in.

With nerves twisting his stomach into knots, Stiles carefully dragged part of Peter’s bedspread over his lap. He felt uncomfortably exposed all of a sudden. Vulnerable. Part of him wanted to ask Peter what he was thinking as he sat there, eyes empty and cold and staring at nothing. But that hollow, fifty yard stare wasn’t promising, and neither was the red flickering at the edges of Peter’s brilliant blue irises. Stiles’ magic was recoiling; urging Stiles to run, dammit! It said that Peter was dangerous right now.

But that was absurd.

...wasn’t it?

Suddenly, Stiles wasn’t so sure.

Only five minutes ago, Stiles would have sworn that Peter would never hurt him. Peter loved him. Peter was going to make Stiles his mate. And sure, he hadn’t asked Stiles yet, but Stiles knew how werewolves worked and he knew it was coming. Peter wanted Stiles to be his, forever. And Stiles would say yes, and they would be a family. The baby was just one more layer to that.

Except Peter’s eyes stopped flickering, settling on a blue so cold it was frightening. Stiles had seen Peter like this once before, the day he’d asked the alpha to help find his brother.

That day, Stiles had looked into Peter’s piercing blue eyes and seen a cold, bright universe going on forever, so pitiless - so ruthless - that he’d wondered how he could even consider submitting to Peter’s will. He had wondered how he could belong to such a man, even for a short period of time. He had agreed, against his own better judgment, for Isaac’s sake.

And Stiles had gotten to know Peter since then. He had seen beneath that icy mask, to the heart of Peter. To the warmth of him, and the generosity. The softness. The kindness. The enormous capacity for love. He had seen the truth of Peter and dismissed this version as inconsequential, because it was for others. Surely, now that Peter loved him, he would never have to face down that terrifying, dangerous version of Peter.

Surely not.

Except that’s exactly what was happening.

Here, in Peter’s bedroom - in Peter’s bed - Stiles was suddenly face-to-face with The Alpha Wolf. Not Peter. Not the man he loved. No, he was suddenly in bed with a ruthless, coldblooded killer.

A monster.

Peter met his eyes at last, a sneer twisting his beautiful mouth into something ugly and hateful. “Get out.”

Stiles blinked, recoiling slightly in shock. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get. Out.” Peter bit the words out, disdain dripping from each one, and Stiles felt ill.

“I don’t understand.” He whispered, tears welling up between one blink and the next. “Why are you suddenly angry? Is it-”

Stiles cut himself off, not sure he could give voice to the thought that had bubbled up. Except he had to know, so the words spilled off his tongue anyway a heartbeat later. “Do you not want our baby?”

“Our baby?” Peter sneered at him, a derisive click of his tongue making Stiles flinch. “I think I’d remember if I’d participated in a fertility ritual. I don’t know who you conned into knocking you up before you started your time with me, but I won’t have a whor* in my bed. Not knowingly, anyway.”

CRACK

Stiles wasn’t sure who was more surprised by his hand connecting with Peter’s face - himself, or the alpha. But as Peter’s lips twisted into a furious snarl, Stiles spat coldly. “f*ck you.”

He clambered off the bed, snatching up his dressing gown and shrugging into it, all but vibrating with fury. On the bed behind him, Peter growled. “You’re lucky I don’t believe in striking a pregnant person, or you’d pay for having hit me.”

“I’d love to see you try.” Stiles snapped back, glaring at Peter as he belted his dressing gown. “I’ll put you on your ass so fast, your head’ll spin.”

Peter scoffed and Stiles’ fury rose even higher. “You’re so f*cking stupid, Peter. You know that, right? You’re going to regret this and come crawling back to me, and I’m going to laugh in your f*cking face.” Tears streaming down his cheeks, Stiles bared his teeth at the alpha. “I will never forgive you for this, and you will never see your child. Not so long as I draw breath.”

“That is not my child!” Peter roared, his claws and fangs coming out. The sound of the bedding - possibly even the mattress - rending under them would have been a dead giveaway, even if Stiles hadn’t been able to see the vicious gleam in Peter’s mouth.

Stiles considered just walking out. Not saying anything else; not giving Peter the goddamn satisfaction. But he’d sworn to himself that he would do this, so he was going to do it, dammit. Even if Peter was being a complete f*cking asshole.

“I’m in my twentieth week of pregnancy.” Stiles watched Peter’s eyes widen and added coldly. “Yeah, go ahead and do the math on that one when you’re calmer, but here’s a hint - I conceived the very first time you decided to stick your dick in me. Isn’t that f*cking hilarious, Peter? You didn’t need to kidnap my brother, because as soon as I realized, I would’ve come to you.”

Stiles laughed wetly, dashing at the tears on his cheeks before whispering. “I would’ve come to you. I would have...I would have. You didn’t need to do anything, so I forgave you for what you did do. But it doesn’t matter, does it? I guess maybe it never did. Because you never would’ve wanted us, would you? Not for real. Not when it’s not happening on your terms.”

Peter was shaking his head, flashes of grief and rage warring with each other. “No. No, there was no magic. Even if you’d taken something to make yourself able to conceive, there’s still ritual magic that would’ve had to happen during the coupling. You’re lying.”

And Stiles knew there were other ways he could do this. He could’ve tried to explain what he was and how this was possible. He could’ve offered Peter a show of power, as proof that what he was saying was true. He could’ve done a dozen different things, really.

Instead, he met Peter’s eyes and offered simply. “If it makes it easier for you to think that, fine.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the room. He closed it softly behind himself, despite wanting to slam it. Then, he walked upstairs to his room and changed into leggings and a sweater. He chose the softest one, not caring in the least that it clung to his belly. What did it matter now? He slipped into a pair of boat shoes, grabbed his keys, and then hit the intercom button.

“Yes, Stiles?”

‘Of course it’s Derek...’ Stiles thought with a groan, but he forged ahead anyway. Hitting the button to talk, he spoke softly but firmly. “I need someone - or a couple of someones, really, since there’s so much - to load my things into the Jeep, and bring it around to the doors. I’ll be down with my keys in a couple of minutes.”

“Stiles...” And for f*ck’s sake, Stiles could hear the sigh in Derek’s voice, even through the intercom. “Your contract doesn’t end until-”

Slamming the talk button, Stiles cut Derek off. “Peter told me to get out, so I’m getting out. Have someone come carry my stuff to my Jeep, dammit!”

Not waiting for an answer, Stiles stormed out of the room and headed for the foyer. If Derek wanted to argue further, he could do it face-to-face.

~*~*~*~

Derek Hale was a lot of things. He was quiet, a lot of the time. His sisters called him broody but the truth was, he was just an introvert. People didn’t expect him to be one, because he was attractive and athletic and a werewolf but he was. He could be charming, when he was really trying and he’d had enough time to mentally prepare himself for it, but it didn’t come naturally to him. He was awkward around people he didn’t know very well and, when he spoke, it showed. So he was quiet. He stuck to his art, and his books, and his work-out routine. He shadowed Peter, first because his purpose in life was to be Laura’s second the way Peter was Talia’s and then because his new purpose was to be Peter’s heir the way Laura was Talia’s.

This wasn’t the life he would have chosen for himself, but it was the one he’d been born into. He understood his duties and responsibilities. He’d spent his whole life doing as he was told, regardless of his feelings.

So when Stiles said he was leaving, Derek did what he was supposed to do. He called his uncle.

“What, Derek?”

Peter’s snappish tone didn’t bode well for this conversation, but Derek forged ahead anyway. He was used to his uncle’s temper. “Stiles is trying to leave the house.”

“Let him.”

The phone beeped in his ear and Derek frowned at it before realizing the call had disconnected. He rang Peter again, barely flinching when Peter snarled down the line at him. “What, Derek? What is so damned important you need to bother me right now?”

“You said not to let Stiles leave before his contract was up. He’s got another day and-”

“I know what I said. Now I’m saying this. Let him leave. In fact, get him out of my home as quickly as possible. I never want to see him - or hear his name mentioned - ever again. Are we clear?”

Derek wanted to question this new edict. He might not have understood why, but he knew Stiles loved his uncle and he was equally certain that Peter loved Stiles. It had been a surprise, realizing it, but he couldn’t deny the truth even if it hurt. And really, he couldn’t blame Peter for it. After all, Derek had found himself falling more in love with Stiles with every interaction they had. And he wasn’t stupid, okay. He knew Stiles didn’t think of him that way, because Stiles loved Peter. Derek had known he had no chance even before Peter had started rubbing it in his face by making him stand guard - or drive them around - while he was f*cking Stiles.

And Derek didn’t take that personally, or blame Peter for it. Werewolves were possessive, alphas even moreso, and it was far less about Derek than it was about Peter himself and Stiles. None of which made it hurt any less, but Derek didn’t hold it against his uncle, anyway. He understood. And while Derek couldn’t help how he felt about the younger man, he wanted Stiles to be happy.

Even if that happiness meant Stiles being with Peter, forever out of Derek’s reach.

So he wanted to question what was happening. Wanted to demand f*cking answers, because what the hell was Peter doing? Why was he pushing Stiles away? Peter had told Derek earlier that day - expressly, in no uncertain terms - that he was planning to make Stiles his mate, provided Stiles agreed. And Derek was sure Stiles would agree, because - again - he loved Peter.

So what in the actual f*ck was happening?

But Derek knew better than to question Peter. He’d learned that at a very young age, in fact. So he swallowed down the questions he knew Peter would never answer and murmured. “Yes, alpha. I understand.”

This time, when the call disconnected, Derek just shot off a text to the staff members he needed and headed for the foyer.

Peter wouldn’t answer questions, but maybe Stiles would.

~*~*~*~

Stiles hadn’t been in the foyer for more than a couple of minutes when Derek walked in with Jeremy - who was possibly Stiles’ least favorite of Peter’s betas - at his side. Stiles scowled, lips parting to repeat his demands, but Derek cut him off.

“Give Jeremy your keys so he can bring the Jeep around. Ethan and Aiden are getting your stuff.”

Oh.

Stiles dropped the keys in Jeremy’s palm, watching as the man headed out the front door and to the garage. His attention was brought back to Derek when he cleared his throat. He turned and realized Derek’s gaze was locked on his stomach. Flushing, Stiles bit out. “My eyes are up here, dude.”

Derek’s eyes snapped up to his, and something that felt far too much like pity was scrawled across his handsome face. It made Stiles’ stomach churn, even as Derek asked lowly. “Is this why Peter told you to get out?”

Stiles ground his teeth together, but nodded jerkily. What was the point in lying, when Peter would undoubtedly tell his heir exactly why he’d booted Stiles, from the house and his life.

Derek studied him for a long moment, then sighed and offered gently. “I’m sorry. I wish you and Peter had met sooner, so you could’ve had a chance.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed, because...what? “I don’t understand.” He spoke slowly, not sure if he was missing something or Derek was, but certain at least one of them was. “How would meeting Peter sooner have changed anything about him not wanting this? Not wanting us?”

“I meant if you’d met him before you were pregnant.”

And yeah, okay. That clarified nothing.

He gave Derek a baffled look. “I did meet Peter before I was pregnant. You were there, dude. Remember? I was here to give him a massage?”

Derek was looking about as confused as Stiles, who was honestly starting to feel like he was in one of those old comedy skits. Whose On First or whatever, and no one had given him his lines.

“Right, but you two didn’t, you know, connect. Before you were pregnant, I mean.” Derek seemed earnest, anyway, like he was genuinely trying to get some point or another across to Stiles and it was - at least to him - a very important point. Stiles was mostly just lost. “I was just saying that if the two of you had connected before the pregnancy happened, I think you could’ve made it work.”

Squinting at Derek, Stiles ignored Jeremy coming back into the house and heading upstairs, probably to bring down Stiles’ stuff. “Dude, what the hell are you talking about? Peter and I did connect that first day. That’s how I f*cking got pregnant. From us connecting.” Stiles refused to feel bad about using bunny quotes around the word connecting because it felt necessary to convey his point. “I don’t think anything would have changed the fact that Peter stopped wanting me the second he found out we’re having a baby.”

Throat suddenly growing tight, Stiles rasped out damply. “That I’m having a baby.”

Because it really was him, wasn’t it? And suddenly it didn’t matter that Stiles had been considering doing this alone for the last couple of weeks, because he hadn’t chosen this. Stiles had chosen Peter, and then Peter had rejected him. Rejected both of them. Peter had made his choice, and it wasn’t Stiles. He didn’t think anything had ever hurt quite as much as that did. Stiles had offered Peter his heart. He had been willing to give up his life - his world - for Peter’s and he’d been turned down flat, because Peter didn’t want the baby growing inside of Stiles.

‘No,’ Stiles thought a moment after, with a new wave of agony and heartbreak washing over him. ‘It’s worse than him not wanting our baby. He doesn’t even believe me that the baby is his. It’s easier for him to think I’m a lying whor* than the truth.’

Derek was gaping at him now. “Wait, it’s Peter’s baby?”

What the actual f*ck.

“I’m sorry, did someone tattoo slu*t on my forehead when I wasn’t looking?” Stiles snapped, bristling up like a cat and then wincing when the sound of a snort from the stairs let him know they were no longer alone.

He turned to see Aiden, Ethan, and Jeremy carrying his things down the stairs. Refusing to let his embarrassment show, Stiles said levelly. “Just put everything in the back of the jeep however it fits. I’m not worried about it being in there any sort of special way. Except for my messenger bag and laptop case. Those can go on the front passenger seat.”

When the betas nodded, Derek grabbed Stiles’ arm and - gently - pulled him into the nearest parlor. It wasn’t much, as far as privacy went, but it was something. Derek’s gaze was focused; intent. “I need you to be serious for a minute, Stiles. You’re saying it’s Peter’s baby?”

“I was being serious.” Stiles dragged one hand roughly through his hair, shooting Derek a bitchy look from under his eyelashes. “I was a virgin when I met your uncle. I’ve never slept with anyone but him. So yeah, Derek, it’s his goddamn baby. Either that or we need to alert the church about the Second Coming.”

“How did you get pregnant?” Derek was still staring at him like Stiles was a slide under a microscope; like he was studying Stiles. “Peter would never have done the necessary ritual.”

Stiles considered lying. Or deflecting the question. Or, honestly, just leaving. He didn’t owe Derek a single goddamn thing, including an explanation of his pregnancy. But the part of him that had wanted to explain to Peter - to defend himself in the hopes Peter would listen and it would change things - was loud and demanding.

Stiles paced away from Derek and back again - across the width of the parlor - with sharp, agitated steps. After two passes, he whirled on Derek and held his arms out, stating. “I’m a magic user. I don’t advertise that fact, for a lot of reasons, but I am. A fact Peter has been aware of since we first met, mind you.”

“Right, we all know that your mother was a witch.” Derek’s impressive eyebrows were furrowed and pulled low over his multicolored eyes. “But that doesn’t change the fact that a ritual is required for male conception, and Peter would never have participated in one.”

“It does change that.” Stiles muttered, knowing Derek would hear him anyway. “I don’t need a ritual to conceive, as evidenced by the baby’s existence.”

Derek was shaking his head before Stiles even finished speaking. “No, Stiles. All human males require specific rituals to conceive.”

“I’m not human.”

Derek scoffed. “Maybe not technically because of your magic, but witch-kin are still considered-”

“I’m not a witch-kin, either.” Stiles broke in, because he was tired of this damn conversation. He just wanted it to be over so he could go home. “I get why people assume I am, and I don’t correct them because I don’t even like telling people I’m a magic user let alone the specifics, but I’m not. I’m-”

Stiles cut himself off, shaking his head and muttering. “You know what? No. I’m not doing this. I’m not going to defend myself because I shouldn’t have to. I told Peter about the baby - I told him it’s his - and he made his f*cking choice. So.”

He took a step back from Derek, then another. “Look, Derek, you’re a good man. But I’m beyond done with Peter and this f*cking house. I’m leaving and if anyone tries to stop me, it won’t be pretty.”

He shot Derek a cold look, complete with glowing eyes that swirled like molten gold, satisfied when Derek took a hasty step backward himself. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”

Turning on his heel, Stiles walked out of the parlor. Then, he crossed the entrance hall and walked out of both the house and Peter’s life. He hadn’t been lying when he told Derek he was done with all of this. As he climbed behind the wheel of his jeep, Stiles silently cursed the alpha for his stubbornness; for his refusal to listen. He followed the long driveway until he reached the gate that marked the end of Peter’s property. Rolling down his window, he hit the button to be let out.

As he idled there for a long minute, waiting, Stiles wondered what he would do if the gate didn’t open. If Peter once again refused to let him leave. Wondered if he would simply blast the gate out of his way, or if he’d take the few extra minutes to finess it open with care. Or if he’d turn around and go back to the house, and give Peter one last chance to talk it over. Wondered whether, if Peter was willing to listen, he would feel compelled to explain himself, despite all the reasons why he knew he shouldn’t have to.

In the end, it didn’t matter either way.

The gate slid open and Stiles was faced with a choice he’d never wanted. He pressed one hand to the curve of his belly, squeezed his eyes shut, and considered the options. He could swallow his pride and the tattered remnants of his dignity, go back, and beg Peter to believe him. He could offer all the explanations and truth he had and hope Peter would listen and change his mind.

Or...

He could go home.

Not just to his apartment, either. He could go home. To Beacon Hills. To his dad and Isaac. To the house he’d grown up in, at least temporarily. He could get a new job, if Fey wouldn’t agree to let him work remotely. He could find someplace to live in the town he’d called home for more of his life than not. An apartment, or maybe even a small house, if his budget would allow.

Stiles had some savings, after all. And if he was careful and smart, he knew he could make some quick money selling his magical services before he got the hell out of New York City and headed back to the West Coast. He’d never do something like that if he wasn’t leaving, of course, since it put him at risk, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Hell, if it came down to it, he had a jeep full of designer clothes and shoes and accessories, many of which had never been worn and the rest of which had only been worn - at most - a handful of times. It wasn’t like he’d need them in Beacon Hills and there was certainly a market for resale, thanks to the internet.

Behind Stiles was Peter, and the life he’d briefly hoped would be his. Ahead of Stiles were the tattered remains of the life he’d been willing to leave behind for love, and a future he hadn’t planned on.

Opening his eyes, Stiles made his choice.

Chapter 27

Chapter Text

Monday, December 24th, 2018

Stiles woke up with a strong body wrapped around his own in a comforting embrace. One large hand was pressed protectively to Stiles’ belly and he could feel hot-damp puffs of air against the back of his neck. For his part, Stiles’ eyes were dry and scratchy, his throat was a little sore, and his face felt like the skin was too tight. All of which was unsurprising, given he’d cried himself to sleep the night before after hours spent sobbing out his grief and rage and heartbreak. Lips pressed to the nape of his neck, soft and comforting.

“Stay in bed and I’ll make you some tea, okay?”

Stiles smiled, twisting in Danny’s arms so they were face-to-face. Softly, voice a bit hoarse anyway, Stiles said. “Tea sounds fantastic, but I want to shower.”

“Alright. Shower first, then tea.” Danny pressed his lips to Stiles’ forehead, murmuring. “He’s an idiot. You know that, right? An absolute idiot for not wanting you and-”

“Danny.” Stiles cut his best friend and roommate off with the gentle admonishment. When Danny fell silent, he murmured. “I appreciate the support, but I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not at the hate him stage yet.”

Danny nodded, pulling Stiles snugly against his chest and squeezing carefully. “Okay. But the second you are, you let me know and we’ll have a big old bash-fest.”

Stiles laughed at that, and if it was a little damp at the edges then that was okay because it was still laughter. With a sigh, he gently extracted himself from Danny’s arms. “Alright, c’mon. Might as well start our day.”

Danny snorted, though he sat up and stretched without complaint. “Because we have such a busy, demanding schedule. It’s Christmas Eve and you weren’t supposed to be home until after eight tonight. It’s not like we have any plans.”

“Well, we’re gonna make plans.” Stiles decided, getting to his feet. He kept talking even as he headed towards the bathroom, knowing their apartment was small enough that Danny could still hear him easily. “I need to unpack and decide what I’m keeping versus what I’m selling. And we should eat junk food and watch Christmas movies”

“Thought movies and junk food is what we were doing tomorrow.” Danny’s voice was right behind Stiles as he turned the taps in the tub, and he glanced over his shoulder to see his friend grabbing toothpaste and his toothbrush from the cabinet behind the mirror. “Also, I need you to know how much I f*cking hate the idea of you selling any of the designer sh*t you got out of this mess.”

“Yeah, but I need to sell the designer sh*t. At least some of it, anyway. That way I can buy baby stuff.” He gave Danny a pointed look as he stripped off the t-shirt he’d been sleeping in, gesturing to his belly. “You know, for the other thing I got out of this mess.”

“Fair.” Danny managed around a mouthful of toothpaste. “But also, it still sucks.”

Stiles hummed agreeably even as he shoved down his boxers and stepped into the tub, pulling the curtain shut behind him. “Never said it didn’t, man. Never said it didn’t.”

~*~*~*~

QUACK

QUACK

QUACK

Stiles groaned, stretching himself long-ways across his bed to grab his phone. Danny was ignoring his theatrics in favor of meticulously unpacking all of Stiles’ new things. Stiles used his thumb to unlock his phone, then sat up with a strangled noise.

Danny dropped the boots he was studying with twin thuds and whirled on Stiles, concern etched into every line of his face. “What? Is it Peter? Did he say something awful or is he begging for forgiveness?”

“No, it’s not Peter.” Stiles stared down at his phone, unease clawing at his insides and making him feel vaguely nauseous. “It’s Cora.”

“Oh.” Danny sat down on the mattress next to Stiles and asked softly. “Is that okay? Because you know it’s okay if it’s not okay. You don’t have to talk to her if you don’t want to.”

“No, I know.” Stiles chewed on his lip for a moment, then admitted. “I don’t know if I want to.”

Danny nodded. “You don’t have to decide right now. You can just...ignore it.”

Stiles considered that for a long, silent moment. Finally, he said. “I like Cora. We were becoming really good friends, and I don’t want to lose that. In fact, I promised her that we would stay friends, regardless of what happened between Peter and I.”

“I hear a but.”

“But...” Stiles agreed, offering Danny a wan smile. “I don’t know if I’m ready to talk to her. I don’t blame her for what Peter said, or what he’s chosen. That’s between us, obviously. But I don’t know what he’s told her and, even if she believes me, I don’t think I can deal with it right now.”

Danny hugged Stiles, asking against his hair. “Do you want to tell her that, or do you want to just ignore her until you’re ready?”

“I want to ignore her.” Stiles sighed and opened his phone again, since it had gone dark while he’d been considering his options. “But I won’t because it would be rude and cowardly. So.”

He opened the text this time, because if he was going to answer Cora, he needed to see what she had said.

Cora: Uncle Peter is a f*cking moron. I believe you, and I want to know my cousin. I’m hoping you’ll be okay with that, but I understand if you’re not.

Stiles’ eyes filled with tears and his throat felt thick and sticky even as he typed out a reply. Of course you can know the baby but everything is so fresh right now and I need a little space.

It wasn’t long before his phone quacked again, letting him know that Cora had replied. Even as he pulled up the text thread, more messages came in.

Cora: I understand

Cora: whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here

Cora: and I’ll help however I can

Cora: but also I wanted to give you the name and number of our cryptomedical specialist

Cora: she’s the best, and she’ll charge Uncle Peter if I tell her to and he doesn’t pay enough attention to his expenses to even notice so

Cora: and even if he did she would never tell him anything about you or the baby

Stiles sat with that information for a few moments, finally texting back. I don’t know how I feel about that. I appreciate the offer, but I don’t need anything from Peter and I just...I don’t know.

Cora: I’m sending you a picture of her card anyway and letting her know that if you decide to see her, we’re paying for it. If you choose to see someone else, I understand, but you should have the option of the best without worrying about the cost. It’s the LEAST Uncle Peter can do, considering.

Cora: I’ll leave you alone now, but let me know when you’re ready to talk

Stiles didn’t bother replying to that. Instead, he put his phone to sleep and tossed it back on the other side of the bed before turning his attention to Danny. “Alright, we’ve still got a f*ckton of stuff to get through. Where did we land on the boots - sell or keep?”

“Keep.” Danny said, not pushing Stiles to talk about the texts from Cora because he was the best friend anyone could ask for and he knew when to leave something alone. “Those are clearly the ones you were wearing every day, since the heel is more scuffed than any of the others.”

“Oh. I do like that pair.” Stiles agreed, flicking his eyes to the boots. “I mean, I know there’s very little difference between the, like, four or five pairs of ankle boots in terms of style, but those were the most comfortable to walk in which is why I was wearing them so much.”

“Like I said, keep.” Danny nudged them further into the closet with his foot, already looking at another pair of boots with a critical eye. “This pair is the same, but brown instead of black. Since they’re so comfortable-”

“Sell.” Stiles cut in, rolling his eyes when Danny pouted at him. “Sell, dude. I don’t need two pairs of boots that are identical except for the color, and the black goes with basically everything anyway.”

Danny grumbled, but he put the boots back in their box and stacked it with the other shoes Stiles had decided he was selling rather than keeping. And if he had a little pang of regret every time he added something to the sell pile, Stiles ruthlessly squashed it down. He didn’t have the luxury of, well, luxury. He had a baby to think about, and babies were expensive. If selling some of the beautiful, expensive, designer things Peter had bought him could cover some of those costs, it was worth the loss.

~*~*~*~

Wednesday, December 26th, 2018

Stiles laughed as Isaac dropped his suitcase handle in favor of throwing himself at his big brother. He pulled Isaac in, squeezing him tightly and not caring in the least that they were standing on a stretch of sidewalk outside the airport’s pickup area. When Isaac finally drew back, he immediately set both hands on Stiles’ belly. “God, look at you! You sure it’s just the one in there?”

“I mean, as sure as I can be without an ultrasound.” Stiles said, reaching for Isaac’s suitcase and being batted away with a scowl. “Alright, alright. Sorry!” He laughed, rolling his eyes at Isaac. “Put your sh*t in the jeep and let’s go. I don’t want to stand out here in the cold any longer than necessary.”

As Stiles was pulling the jeep away from the curb so they could begin the arduous process of navigating out of JFK, Isaac said. “So, what I’m hearing is, there’s a chance you’re having twins. Also, why the hell haven’t you been to see a doctor yet? That’s, like, priority number one!”

Siles swallowed hard, focusing for a long minute on changing lanes before he answered. “I was waiting to go see someone until I either told Peter or my time with him was up.”

“Okay.” Isaac twisted halfway around in his seat, so his back was against the door and he was facing Stiles. “So, you told him, right? You said you were going to and that he loves you and you’re gonna be his mate. I’m excited to see the house, by the way. I want to explore the secret passages.”

Stiles winced, then admitted. “We’re, uh...not going to Peter’s house. We’re going to my apartment.”

For several minutes, the inside of the jeep was silent except for the sound of the engine and the ambient street noise from outside. Finally, Isaac asked. “Did you decide not to tell him?”

Tightening his hands on the wheel until his knuckles turned white, Stiles fought not to blink because if he did, he knew he would start crying. Hoarsely, Stiles said. “I told him.”

Again, the silence stretched between them for a few minutes. Finally, Isaac’s hand found his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “So I guess I’m not buying a plane ticket back to Cali, then.” Stiles laughed damply and Isaac added. “But hey, brothers’ road trip! That’ll be fun. We can see, like, the world’s biggest rubber band ball or whatever.”

“I’ve got stuff to do before I can leave.” Stiles pointed out. “I’m selling some stuff and it’ll sell better here in New York than it will in Beacon Hills. And I need to talk to Fey, to see if I can keep working for her remotely or if I need to ask for a letter of recommendation.”

Stiles didn’t mention the magical services he was planning to offer to select high bidders before they left, because he didn’t want Isaac to know about that. It wasn’t illegal to freelance magic, but it was something that had been extremely frowned upon in their family, which was a large part of why Stiles had never made what he was - what sort of magic he had - known. And while Isaac had become Stiles’ brother after Claudia’s death, he had heard all the stories and knew how Claudia had felt about magic. How Noah still felt about magic.

Some things were better off not talked about. Stiles would do everything he could to obscure his identity from the people who hired him, and then he would vanish. No one would look at a single dad in a small town like Beacon Hills and think they were hiding the sort of power Stiles had. He would be safe there, and so would the baby. It was what would be best for everyone.

Isaac didn’t seem worried about Stiles’ timeline. “I’ve got nowhere specific to be until the fall. So we’ll wrap up everything here and then drive home.” He gave Stiles a stern look, adding. “You do need to see a specialist as soon as possible, though.”

Stiles shrugged. “I figured I’d wait until we were home to do that. No point in seeing someone here when I won’t be sticking around, you know?”

“Yeah, no.” Isaac glared when Stiles just shrugged. “Dude, don’t do that. You’re almost twenty-one weeks. You need to see someone as soon as possible.”

Stiles huffed even as he parked the jeep in his assigned space. He and Isaac climbed out, Isaac grabbing his things from the back, and they headed for the building. Finally, Stiles muttered. “Cora - Peter’s niece - sent me information about their family’s specialist. Said she would make sure Peter paid for it, even.”

“Good.” Isaac’s voice was firm, and a little cold. Colder than Stiles had ever heard, in fact. “I don’t know what happened. And I’m not going to push you to tell me, because it’s not my business, though I’m happy to listen if you decide you want to talk about it. But he has a responsibility to the baby. The least he can do is put some of his money to good use, for the baby’s sake.”

“That’s what Cora said.”

Stiles didn’t bother explaining that Peter didn’t think the baby was his. He wasn’t in the mood to cry again right now, so he didn’t want to talk about it.

“I’d like to meet her before we leave.” Isaac said as Stiles unlocked the apartment, letting them both in. “She seems really f*cking cool.”

That brought a smile to Stiles’ lips. “She is. You’ll like her.” He was careful not to agree to a meeting, because he wasn’t sure he’d be ready to see Cora before they left. But maybe. Changing the subject, he gestured to the hallway and added. “You can put your stuff in my room. Sharing a bed with me will be way more comfortable than sleeping on the couch, though you’re welcome to do that if you’d prefer.”

“We can share.” Isaac headed off up the hall, calling back over his shoulder. “You should make that appointment right now. The soonest they have available!”

Stiles grumbled, but he knew his brother wouldn’t let it go so he pulled up the picture Cora had sent him of the business card with the cryptomedical specialist’s information. As Isaac walked back into the room, he added. “You should also see if Cora can recommend someone for once we’re back home. Her family is originally from Beacon Hills and her mom is based in LA, so she might know someone. Maybe she can get Peter to pay for all the medical stuff, you know?”

Stiles froze, thumb hovering over the call button. “Dude, no. I’m not even planning to let them charge Peter for this visit, let alone anything else. I’ve got insurance.”

“Yeah? For how long, if you have to leave this job?” Isaac was glaring again, arms folded over his chest. “And your insurance isn’t even that good! Do you know how expensive a cryptomedical specialist is for a male pregnancy? I looked it up. You don’t have that kind of money, Stiles. But Peter does.”

Grinding his teeth, Stiles bit out. “I don’t need anything from Peter Hale.”

“Liar.”

“Excuse me?” Stiles gasped, shocked at his normally sweet and agreeable little brother’s sudden attitude.

“You don’t want anything from Peter, which is different.” Isaac said pointedly. “But you’re going to be raising a baby by yourself, and clearly Peter’s not planning to contribute anything, so you’re going to be smart instead of spiteful and you’re going to take whatever you can from Cora, because she is clearly willing to take money from Peter and pass it to you, at least in some capacity, and you need that money.”

Stiles swallowed hard, but nodded. Because dammit, Isaac was right. Stiles had spent the last two days ruthlessly deciding to sell the vast majority of the things Peter had bought him, hadn’t he? He hadn’t allowed sentiment to get in the way of what he needed, no matter how much it hurt. Hell, the mask he’d worn to Peter’s Christmas ball was studded with Swarovski crystals, and the metal was real silver. And as much as he wished he could keep the thing as a reminder of the night when he’d thought he would get a fairytale ending - the night Peter told Stiles he loved him, and wanted him forever - Stiles had made the pragmatic choice and set it aside for sale as well.

If he could do that, despite the way it was breaking his heart in half all over again, then Stiles knew he could do this, too.

Taking a slow, measured breath, Stiles pressed call on his phone. Isaac sat next to him on the couch and held his hand the whole time.

‘It’s going to be okay. I can do this.’

Stiles was hoping if he said it enough, it would be true.

~*~*~*~

Thursday, December 27th, 2018

QUACK

QUACK

QUACK

Stiles groaned when he opened his phone to see it was a text from Derek, of all people. He thumbed it open, scowling at the three word message.

Derek: I believe you.

“Everything okay?” Isaac asked, looking up from where he was f*cking around with his phone. They were going out to lunch with Danny soon and were just waiting for him to get back from a massage appointment with one of his clients so they could leave.

“It’s Peter’s nephew, Derek.” Stiles explained, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “You know, the heir he actually wants.”

Isaac snorted at that, shooting Stiles an amused look. “That’s not Derek’s fault, dude. Also, you said the baby is probably human so it can’t be Peter’s heir anyway.”

Stiles sulked at that, because it was true but that didn’t mean Stiles had to like it. Still annoyed - and chafing now at Isaac’s gentle admonishment - Stiles typed out a reply and hit send.

fan-f*cking-tastic but I don’t care. you want a f*cking cookie or something?

It didn’t take long for Derek to reply.

Derek: The only thing I want is to know my family. I understand if you don’t want that and I’ll respect your choice, but I’m asking you not to punish me for Peter’s mistake.

Stiles considered the message - and how he wanted to respond - for a long time. Long enough that Danny came home and they all headed out to get lunch. Long enough that they ate lunch and went home again. Long enough that he was, in fact, ready for bed before he finally answered. Which was also long enough that his temper had cooled and he was able to respond with some level of calm and rational thought.

I appreciate your honesty, and I don’t want to punish you for what Peter has decided.

But you’re his heir.

Your loyalty is to him, first and foremost.

And I respect that, but it means I don’t know how much I can trust you.

I’m not saying no. I’m not saying you can’t be a part of the baby’s life. I’m just saying that I need time, to figure things out and decide how involved I’m willing to let you be.

Once he’d sent off the flurry of texts, Stiles put his phone down and curled up beside Isaac to sleep. He now had two Hales interested in the baby, neither of whom was the one he wanted to be interested. And wasn’t that a kick in the damn teeth, to realize that - despite everything - he still wanted Peter to show up and apologize and fix things between them. So was it wrong - was it selfish - to consider letting Peter’s family be involved? Was he using Cora and Derek as a sort of pale substitute for Peter and everything he couldn’t have? Or would it be selfish to shut them out, in an attempt to push down everything he still felt for Peter? Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying went. Which was worse? Which was the right thing to do?

Stiles didn’t know.

And since he wasn’t likely to figure it out while exhausted and staring at his ceiling in the dark, Stiles forced himself to go to sleep. He’d asked for time, and that was what he would take. Time to figure out what he wanted and what he needed and what the best course of action was.

Once he’d figured that out, he would let the Hales know. Until then, everyone would just have to be patient.

~*~*~*~

“He’s not going to agree.” Derek muttered darkly, not even wincing when his younger sister kicked him under the table. She’d kicked hard, but he was used to her nonsense.

“You don’t know that.” Cora said, giving him an exasperated look when he ignored her. “Seriously, Der. You won’t know until you ask. And I think it’s worth asking.”

Huffing, Derek grabbed his phone and shot off a quick text.

I believe you.

“There. Done.” He glared at Cora even as he set his phone back on the table. “Happy now?”

“No, because I highly doubt you actually asked him anything.” Cora lunged for his phone, but Derek snatched it up first, making her pout. “You didn’t, did you?”

Derek shrugged. “I’m...easing into it. It seems rude to start the conversation off with a request.”

Cora squinted at him, then snatched a french fry off his plate. Derek could have stopped her, but he was basically done with his food anyway so he didn’t actually care. If Cora hadn’t been randomly stealing the remaining fries, he’d have let the waitress take the plate ten minutes ago. She bit the fry in half, then pointed at him with the remains. “I’m going to give that one to you because it’s a valid point, even though I think you’re stalling.”

Derek’s phone chimed softly and Cora gave him an exasperated look. “I can’t believe you still use the default tones for everything on your phone. You’re like an old man.”

“Maybe I like the default tones.” Derek muttered even as he opened his phone.

“Maybe I like the default tones.” Cora repeated, high and nasal and irritating before leveling him with an unimpressed stare. “Or maybe you have no idea how to change them, which seems far more likely.”

Pointedly ignoring his sister, Derek pulled up the new text he’d gotten.

Stiles: fan-f*cking-tastic but I don’t care. you want a f*cking cookie or something?

Derek winced, then sent another text, figuring honesty was the best course of action here. The only thing I want is to know my family. I understand if you don’t want that and I’ll respect your choice, but I’m asking you not to punish me for Peter’s mistake.

Setting his phone down, Derek mumbled. “I asked.”

“Hmmm.” Cora tipped her head at him but Derek refused to meet her eyes and instead focused on trying to glare a hole through the chipped formica tabletop in their booth. Finally, she said. “I believe you. And I believe Stiles will agree. Maybe not immediately, but with time. He has a big heart.”

“Too big, if he loves Peter.” Derek snarked under his breath, wincing when Cora kicked him again, this time with real force behind it. “What? You can’t tell me Stiles doesn’t deserve better than this.”

Cora huffed out a laugh. “I mean, yeah, obviously. Uncle Peter’s being a complete asshole.” Her smile fell and she shrugged uncertainly. “And don’t get me wrong. I believe Stiles that it’s Uncle Peter’s baby. But Derek, how? We all know it shouldn’t be possible. We all know Uncle Peter would never have done the necessary ritual. So how is Stiles pregnant? And how could it have been an accident? Because it has to have been on purpose. Only if it was on purpose, why did he stay away for so long after their first meeting. And why did he keep threatening to leave, and pushing Uncle Peter away.”

She shifted in her seat uncomfortably. “So it can’t have been an accident because of what’s required for it to even happen, but if it was on purpose then what the hell was Stiles’ plan? None of it makes any sense.”

Derek didn’t have an answer for that, at least not fully. All he had was half of an explanation from Stiles and his own theories based on that. “Ask Stiles. Which is what Peter should have done, instead of assuming the worst and kicking out the person carrying his child.”

Cora popped another fry in her mouth, chewing aggressively as she rolled her water glass between her palms while frowning at it. Finally, she muttered lowly. “I’m not asking him. It feels too much like not believing him to ask for an explanation. I don’t need an explanation, okay? I believe him.”

She glanced up at Derek, brown eyes wide and dark and troubled. “I believe him, Derek, even if I don’t understand how it happened. But I get why Uncle Peter thought the worst. I get why he needs an explanation. Why he can’t accept this without understanding it. Especially considering-”

“We don’t talk about that.” Derek snapped, cutting her off. Cora held her hands up in surrender and Derek growled for a moment before softening his tone. “I’m not saying I don’t understand why his mind went there, because of course I do. I’m just saying he should have kept a lid on his damn temper and asked Stiles to explain, rather than calling him a slu*t and kicking him out of the house.”

Cora gaped at him. “How do you know he called Stiles a slu*t?” She leaned forward on the table and hissed. “Did Uncle Peter tell you what happened? If he did and you didn’t immediately tell me-”

“Calm down, for f*ck’s sake.” Derek rolled his eyes at her. “I don’t know if he called Stiles that. Not, like, for sure. I just know Peter. And his temper, which was undoubtedly affected by the moon. And when I was surprised that Peter was the father, Stiles got offended and demanded to know if someone had tattooed slu*t on his forehead when he wasn’t looking.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s not promising.” Cora caught her tongue stud between her teeth, holding it for a moment the way she did when she was thinking hard about something. Finally, she released it and asked. “Did Stiles let anything else slip, when you talked to him?”

For a minute or two, Derek didn’t say anything. Wasn’t sure he should say anything. Stiles hadn’t finished his explanation, after all, so Derek didn’t have a proper confession. Or proof. But this was Cora, and Derek finally decided he needed to share his suspicions with someone. And since Peter wasn’t listening...

“Stiles isn’t a witch-kin.”

Cora blinked at him, lips parted in a small O of surprise. Her brow furrowed and she said. “But...his mother is a witch and he has some magic.”

Derek shrugged. “All I know for sure is that Stiles said he’s not a witch-kin. Like, he outright said those exact words to me.”

Cora seemed to be struggling to wrap her mind around that. Which was fair, because Derek had been grappling with the same thing for days and he was only just coming to terms with what he was now certain was the truth, no matter how improbable it had seemed at first. “But he has to be.” Cora protested. “He’s not human. He has magic, Derek.”

“I don’t think he does.” Derek murmured, voice as low as he could make it while still ensuring Cora could hear him from across the table.

“What the hell are you talking about?” The look on Cora’s face clearly said she thought he was crazy. “Marin saw him use magic.”

“So did I.” Derek admitted, shrugging when Cora narrowed her eyes at him. “But you’re not hearing me properly. I don’t think Stiles has magic.”

Cora’s sharp inhale told Derek she’d finally picked up what he was putting down. All the color drained out of her face and if her eyes were any wider, Derek thought they might fall out of her head. She shook her head, a little frantically, and Derek nodded back, slow and measured.

“I can’t prove it.” Derek added, still soft and careful with his words so they couldn’t be overheard. “But it’s the only thing that makes sense. And if I’m right, then this did happen accidentally. Stiles didn’t plan any of it. And Peter’s made an even bigger mistake than we thought.”

When Cora finally found her voice, she managed only two words but Derek had to admit they summed the whole thing up rather nicely.

“Well, f*ck.”

Chapter 28

Chapter Text

Friday, December 28th, 2018

Peter growled when his desk intercom went off. “What?” He barked after hitting the button to talk. “I’m working and said not to disturb me.”

“I understand, boss, but Lydia Whittemore is here and she’s determined to see you.” Ethan’s voice came through the intercom. “I can send her away, but Jackson won’t appreciate it if you’re rude to her so I figured I’d check if you want to deal with him having a tantrum or if you’d rather just see her.”

Peter swore softly, pinching the bridge of his nose before he answered. “Fine. Open the gate. I’ll meet her in the foyer personally.”

Peter left his office, making his way downstairs to wait for Lydia. It wasn’t long before her driver dropped her at the doors and she came inside, looking as perfect as always. Her hair was down for the day, falling in loose curls around her shoulders, and she was dressed for the snowy weather they’d been having. Black snow boots trimmed with black fur, leggings in a deep sapphire blue, and a black wool peacoat. Her scarf was a deep blue as well, while a black fur hat was perched on her head. She stripped off her jacket, hat, and scarf and passed them to Ethan, who whisked them away. The black cashmere sweater-dress she was wearing over her leggings hugged her curves enticingly, and Peter could easily understand how Lydia had captured Jackson’s attention.

After handing over her outerwear, Lydia turned, raked Peter over with piercing green eyes, and said bluntly. “Hello, Peter. You look like crap.”

“Lydia.” Peter said dryly. “Always a delight. To what do I owe this sudden and unplanned visit?”

Lydia’s smile was sharp and dangerous. “Invite me in, Peter. Offer me a seat. Some tea, perhaps, or even a glass of wine, though it’s early enough in the day that I’ll refuse. Be hospitable. I’m here to save you from your own stupidity, after all. The least you can do is be polite and grateful.”

“I wasn’t aware I’d done anything stupid recently.” Peter gestured towards the nearest parlor, adding. “But please, have a seat. I’ll have Ethan bring us some tea and cookies.”

“Have Marin bring it.” Lydia corrected as she walked into the parlor, taking a seat on one of the dainty white couches. “I’ll undoubtedly require her presence at some point anyway. Might as well start with it.”

Peter growled in annoyance even as he crossed to the intercom and requested Marin personally deliver tea to the parlor. He didn’t like being given orders under any circ*mstances, let alone in his own home, but he knew Lydia well enough by now to know this would be over sooner if he cooperated. If he wanted his peace and quiet back, it was best to just do what she asked.

He sat down on a wing chair near her and raised an eyebrow. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“There’s nothing humble about your house, Peter. Or you.” Lydia tipped her head to one side. “Tell me what happened with Stiles.”

Peter bared his fangs at her. “Don’t mention his name in my presence, Lydia.”

Lydia leveled him with a supremely unimpressed look. “I’m married to a bigger bad than you. Posturing will get you absolutely nowhere. Now tell me what happened so I can help you fix it. I already know some of it, but you know my sources can be a bit...confusing, to listen to. So I’d like to hear it from you.”

When Peter said nothing, stubbornly setting his jaw, Lydia leaned back on the couch and shrugged. “I have nothing else to do today, Peter. Shall we see which of us can sit here for longer?”

For a moment, Peter simply ground his teeth and continued to say nothing. But Lydia’s placid face made it clear which of them would win this particular battle of wills, and he had no desire to draw it out. Tersely, he offered. “I found out Stiles is pregnant.”

Lydia’s head tipped to one side. “Okay. So why isn’t Stiles sitting at your side as your claimed mate while I plan a baby shower?”

“What.”

“Honestly, Peter. The man’s head over heels in love with you and carrying your child.” Lydia both looked and sounded utterly exasperated with him. “So why is he elsewhere when he should be here, with you?”

Peter blinked at her, suddenly uneasy, but offered softly. “It’s not my child.”

Marin sighed from the doorway where she’d appeared, pushing a tea cart. “Thank god you’re here, Lydia. Do you see what I’ve been dealing with? The sheer stubbornness and lack of logic?”

“Somehow I doubt you tried very hard to convince him of the truth.” Lydia remarked dryly, though she smiled when Marin sat beside her on the couch and passed over a cup of tea. “You druids and your vows of neutrality can be quite bothersome that way.”

Marin shrugged, sipping at her own cup of tea. “If he had been willing to listen - if he’d asked me the proper questions - then my position as his Emissary would have allowed me to provide him with all the information he needed. Instead, he’s been sullen and petulant and refused to discuss the matter. I can’t push, which you know as well as anyone. Which is why I’m grateful you’re here.”

“Hmmm.” Lydia took a sip of her tea, then set it on the table beside her. “Fair enough.”

She turned those intense green eyes back to Peter and said. “The baby is yours. So whatever you did because you thought it wasn’t, undo it. Stiles is a reasonable person. A forgiving one, too, especially when his heart is involved, so I’m sure if you grovel properly you can sort this mess out.”

Peter frowned, flicking his eyes between Lydia and Marin. “I didn’t participate in a ritual. I don’t know whose child Stiles is carrying, but it’s not mine.”

“No one said there was a ritual.” Marin offered simply.

“I’m sorry, do you think my education was in some way lacking?” Peter snapped, unamused. “I know what it takes to impregnate a witch-kin.”

Lydia snorted, earning her a glare as well while Peter demanded. “Is something about this funny to you?”

“Stiles isn’t a witch-kin.”

Her words sat heavily between them, the air thick with rising tension. Finally, Peter rasped. “Of course he’s a witch-kin. His mother was a witch and he has magic.”

The look Lydia gave him was soft; sympathetic. “You’re smart enough - and educated enough - to know that there are more options for the male child of a witch than human and witch-kin.”

All of a sudden, Peter felt sick. Dread sat heavy in his stomach, and grief tangled with regret as they wrapped snugly around his heart. Because there was another option, of course. There was one other possibility, for the magical male child of a witch. Just one. Peter hadn’t considered it, because it was so rare. Because there were so few in the world. And because Stiles had been raised human. But if it was true...

If Lydia was correct - and Peter had a healthy respect for Lydia’s ability to be unfailingly right at all times - then Peter had made a grave mistake.

“You mean, he’s-” Peter cut himself off, unwilling to voice the possibility, as if saying it out loud would somehow make it more true than if he didn’t.

In the end, Lydia said it for him.

“He’s magic-born.”

And there it was. Peter’s world lay shattered, scattered in a million pieces at his feet. Because magic-born didn’t have magic the way witch-kin - or even witches - did. They were magic. Stiles wouldn’t have needed a ritual to conceive after all. He wouldn’t have needed anything except sex, which Peter had so willingly provided.

It really had been a goddamn accident.

“He didn’t tell me.” The words were ragged; torn from Peter’s throat with a desperation that couldn’t be understated. “I thought he was a witch-kin. I thought-”

Lydia winced. “You thought he was lying about it being yours. That he’d gotten pregnant by someone else to try to trick you into making him your mate.”

“What was I supposed to think, when he never said he was magic-born?” Peter asked, an edge of hysteria lining his words now. “I couldn’t have known he had that kind of power! Why wouldn’t he tell me that? It’s not as though it’s a bad thing. If he had just told me, I would have believed him. I would have understood.”

Marin hummed, then murmured. “I don’t think Stiles likes people knowing how much power he has. I’ve not met many magic-born, of course, given how rare they are, but as an Emissary, my studies covered them. Magic-born use magic like breathing. It’s instinctive. It comes to them easily, and they tend to do so almost constantly. Stiles, on the other hand, uses magic so infrequently that most people probably never notice he has any.”

“His mother was the same, for all that she was a witch.” Lydia murmured, eyes unfocused in the way they got when she was listening to the other side. “Claudia was a very powerful witch, and in her youth she found herself in a situation where she was forced to use her magic in ways she didn’t want to. In ways she struggled to forgive herself for, for the rest of her life. After that, she moved far away and refused to let herself - her magic - be used by anyone again. She passed that caution to Stiles, though I don’t believe she meant to.”

Peter thought about how young Stiles had been when his mother died. Thought about how a young mother - a witch whose magic had been used to cause harm, against her will - might have handled having a child who was magic-born. Stiles’ power was nearly limitless. Even as a child, he would have been capable of things other magic users couldn’t do even with decades of training. How great must her fear have been, that Stiles would meet the same fate she had? That someone would use her child’s power for their own benefit?

It was easy to see that secrecy about his magic had been all but bred into Stiles, because of that fear. Peter could understand it, even if he didn’t agree with her choice.

The trouble now, of course, was that Peter had called Stiles - the man Peter loved, and who was carrying Peter’s child - a liar and a whor*.

So that was bad.

Meeting Lydia’s eyes, Peter said the only thing he could, given the circ*mstances.

“How do I fix this?”

~*~*~*~

Stiles had never been more grateful for his support system than he was in this moment. The cryptomedical specialist’s office looked much the same as any doctor’s office, with only a few differences. Like the fact that the anatomical posters on the walls detailed a wide array of supernatural creatures. And how some of the rooms the nurse had led Stiles past on the way to this exam room were clearly set up for non-humans. It was scary and intimidating, largely because Stiles had only ever been to see human doctors before. He’d never had any reason to see a cryptomedical specialist.

Thankfully, he had both Isaac and Danny with him. They were like twin pillars of support, helping to keep him stable throughout this ordeal. Isaac helped him fill out his paperwork while Danny helped distract him from his anxiety by talking about throwing Stiles a baby shower before he and Isaac headed back to California.

Still, by the time the doctor walked in, Stiles felt like he might throw up.

She was a rather small woman - not much above five feet tall - and slim, but she looked muscular. Her long, sable hair was pulled back in a neat braid and her eyes were big, and wide, and so dark of a brown he could barely tell where the iris ended and the pupil began. Her face was sweet and she looked to be in her thirties, but Stiles knew supernaturals were a lot harder to pin an age on so he couldn’t say for sure.

“Hello. I’m Dr. Selt. Ava Selt.”

She held out her hand and Stiles shook it carefully, offering her a small smile. “I’m Stiles. My legal first name is in my paperwork, but it’s nearly impossible for most people to pronounce so just Stiles is fine.”

Ava smiled at that even as she started flipping through the paperwork Stiles had filled out. She hummed thoughtfully. “I see that you’re pregnant.”

“Yeah, twenty-one weeks today.” Stiles offered.

“Mhmmm.” Ava clicked her pen, turning those wide, dark eyes on him. “And who was your doctor before now? I’d like to request those records from them.”

“I, uh...I wasn’t seeing anyone. I haven’t seen anyone, I mean. About the pregnancy.” Stiles squirmed when Ava’s eyes narrowed and he mumbled. “I was already nineteen weeks along when I found out, so.”

Ava blinked slowly, then flipped a couple of pages in his paperwork before bringing her gaze back to him. “Stiles, you left your species blank. What are you?”

Stiles swallowed nervously, glancing at Danny and Isaac for a moment before looking back at Ava. “I...don’t really like telling people.”

Frowning, Ava said. “I’m not just a person, Stiles. I’m your doctor. In order to properly treat you - and the baby - I need to fully understand you and your magic.”

Stiles swallowed again, mouth feeling unbearably dry all of a sudden. Everything in him said he shouldn’t answer her, but he knew it was just his learned caution regarding his magic. Isaac squeezed his hand and whispered. “Do you want me to tell her?”

Squeezing his eyes shut against the panic rising in his throat, Stiles nodded. Isaac squeezed his hand again. “My brother is magic-born.”

“Oh. Well, then.” Ava’s mild tone eased some of the tension filling Stiles’ body and he slowly opened his eyes to find her smiling at him. “Your care will be much easier, in some ways, as your magic will do a lot of the heavy lifting for us.”

“That’s good.” Isaac grinned at him. “Easier is better, right?”

Stiles mustered a weak smile for his brother, then a more grateful one for Danny when he suddenly pressed a small cup of water into Stiles’ hand. “Thanks.”

“You’re alright.” Danny promised, rubbing gently at Stiles’ back. “We’ve got you, okay? And I’m sure Dr. Selt isn’t in the habit of telling people private information about her patients.”

Ava’s lips curved up but her tone was serious. “Of course not. I take my patients’ confidentiality very seriously. I do need to ask...if you aren’t in the habit of telling people about your magic, how often do you use it?”

Stiles finished the little cup of water, cleared his throat awkwardly, and admitted. “Not often. I, uh...there’s a spell I used a few times when I was younger that wound up sort of, um...permanent. That one gets some use pretty regularly, but it’s not something I focus on. It just happens. But other than that - and the magic maintaining the pregnancy, of course - I think in the last month I’ve used magic...I don’t even know. Twice, I guess? Or maybe three times. I’m not entirely sure.”

“Hmmm. That is a little concerning.” Ava set Stiles’ chart aside and stepped closer to him, gently shooing the other men back a bit even as she settled her stethoscope in her ears. “When we don’t use a muscle, it weakens. If we don’t use it for long enough, it atrophies. Now, because you’re magic-born, your magic can’t atrophy, but it can become harder to use. I strongly recommend you do at least one or two small acts of magic every day going forward, to ensure you’re working that muscle, so to speak. We want it strong for delivery.”

Stiles nodded, holding still as Ava slipped the stethoscope under the hospital gown he’d put on, listening to his heart. Next she listened to his lungs, from both the front and the back. When she finished with that, she looped her stethoscope around her neck. “Alright, lie back for me on the table. I’m going to check your fundal height, to help confirm how far along you are. We’ll properly confirm once we do an ultrasound, of course. And I’d like to do a doppler today, so we can check on baby’s heartbeat.”

Stiles laid back, allowing Ava to ruck up the hospital gown and bare his belly, but felt the need to speak. “The only options for how far along I am are seven weeks, or twenty-one weeks.”

Ava laughed softly, though she sobered quickly when Stiles didn’t laugh as well. “Oh. You have a precise window for conception, I take it?”

Ignoring Danny and Isaac - who both knew the truth anyway - Stiles nodded. “I only had sex the once, nineteen weeks ago, and then nothing until five weeks ago.”

Ava hummed agreeably. “And before nineteen weeks ago?” When Stiles shook his head, she pressed. “Not at all, or not for a while, or not all the way, or...?”

“Not ever.” Stiles murmured, earning him a nod of acknowledgement from the doctor.

He sighed as Ava palpated his belly before measuring carefully. She hummed, brow furrowed slightly. She palpated his belly again, then measured again. Stepping back, she asked. “Do you know the exact conception date, or at least a ballpark?”

“August seventeenth.” Stiles answered without hesitation, not bothering to sit up since Ava had said she wanted to do a doppler.

When she didn’t say anything else, Stiles turned his head to see Ava spinning some sort of cardstock contraption in her hands, brows pulled together and low, with a frown tugging at her full lips.

Throat tight, Stiles asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Not wrong, necessarily.” Ava’s lips curved up into a reassuring smile, though it didn’t do much for the nerves twisting Stiles’ stomach into knots. “You’re certain conception happened on August seventeenth? I mean absolutely certain, with no room at all for doubt?”

“I’m positive.” Stiles reaffirmed, because he was. “I was a virgin and that was the only time I had sex until the end of November.”

“Alright.” Ava set the cardstock aside and picked up a small device, about the size of an old-school Nintendo Gameboy, or a walkman, which had a funky little thing attached that looked like a small, plastic microphone of the sort one would find on a kid’s karaoke machine.

She stepped up to the exam table again, but Stiles wasn’t keen on letting her proceed when he didn’t understand what had just happened. “Why are you concerned about the conception date? What’s wrong?”

“Again, nothing is definitively wrong.” Ava set the device down on a small rolling table-tray thing that was set up next to the exam table, and turned those dark eyes on Stiles. “Your fundal height is just a little higher than we’d normally expect at twenty-one weeks.”

Stiles licked his lips, desperately trying to bring some moisture to his mouth, and croaked out. “What does that mean for the baby?”

“Honestly?” Ava shrugged, looking unconcerned which was at least a little reassuring. “Probably nothing. You have a long torso, which might account for the extra couple of centimeters. Or you might have a slightly higher volume of amniotic fluid. Possibly, because you’re male, the baby might just be riding higher than it would if you were female, since the placement of your temporary magical uterus is a bit less exact than the placement of a standard-issue biological one. All I can rule out right now is the possibility that you’re further along than you think you are.”

“But the baby is fine?” Isaac asked from where he was perched on the very edge of his chair, looking a bit like a bird ready to take flight at the slightest provocation.

Ava smiled at Isaac, then turned back to Stiles as she answered. “I’m going to do the doppler now to check on baby’s heartbeat, and we’ll schedule both an ultrasound and some bloodwork. Once we do that, I’ll have a better idea of what’s going on in there and can say for sure, one way or the other. But you and baby aren’t currently showing any signs of distress, so let’s not borrow trouble. Without any other signs of concern, I’m not worried about a few extra centimeters.”

“Okay.” Stiles rasped the word, though he was doing his best to keep his breathing slow and steady. Ava was the doctor and if she said he shouldn’t worry just yet, he was going to trust her.

She squirted some gel on his belly, then picked up the doppler and flicked it on. She pressed the wand into it, then began by making a few quick, broad sweeps in a circle around his belly to spread the gel. Once she’d done that, she moved the wand to the upper curve of his stomach and began making smaller, slower circles there. There was a faint sort of staticky sound coming from the device as she moved in ever broadening circles.

She circled his whole belly several times, then frowned at him. “I don’t want you to panic, Stiles, but I’m not finding a heartbeat. I’m going to make another few passes and if I still can’t locate it, I’m going to do an ultrasound right away so we can try to figure out what’s happening.”

For a moment, fear seized Stiles’ heart. Then, he snorted and relaxed, going limp like overcooked spaghetti. Ava shot him a baffled look. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, sorry. It’s, um...” Stiles snorted again, rolling his eyes. “It’s my magic. It’s been hiding the pregnancy from the start. That’s why you’re not finding a heartbeat. Just...give me a second and I’ll rein that particular spell in. It’s been doing it on its own which is why I didn’t think to turn that bit of protection off.”

Ava blinked at him in surprise, then huffed out a small laugh. “Well, that’s a relief. Go on and let me know when I can try again.”

Stiles closed his eyes and focused. His magic was cooperative, as a rule, and this was no exception. It only took him a moment to coax it into lowering the masking barriers it had put up. When he opened his eyes, he noticed Ava’s nose was twitching and winced. “Sorry, I’d imagine my scent just shifted quite a bit.”

“It did, but that’s alright.” Ava nodded at his stomach. “Are we good to try again?”

When Stiles nodded, Ava began moving the wand in sweeping circles again. And this time, when she skated the wand over the left side of his belly, a rapid fluttering sound started.

whumpwhumpwhumpwhumpwhump

“So, there’s baby’s heartbeat.” Ava said, pausing with the wand in that spot and smiling down at Stiles even as he teared up. “And before you ask, yes. It’s supposed to sound that fast. Unborn babies have a heart rate that’s about double that of an adult. It sounds strong and perfect.”

Stiles let out a watery laugh, hastily scrubbing at his cheeks. “It’s like hummingbird wings, isn’t it? Just a constant sort of thrumming.”

Ava smiled, moving the wand in a large, sweeping circle again, the rapid heartbeat fading into that fuzzy static once more. Then, as she passed the right side of Stiles' belly, the sound started up again. She paused, head tipped to one side as she listened, and Stiles did the same, savoring the sound of it again.

whumpwhumpwhumpwhumpwhump

“I want to listen to that all day.” Stiles admitted with a tearful laugh. “You can buy a doppler, right? Like, if I went online, I could probably find one of those machines for sale?”

“Undoubtedly.” Ava agreed, her tone a little distracted as she swept the wand back to the opposite side of Stiles’ belly again. “You could pick one up at a medical supply store, too.”

As the heartbeat sounded again, Danny suddenly spoke up. “Excuse me, Dr. Selt...should the baby be big enough for you to hear the heartbeat from both sides like that?”

Stiles froze, eyes flicking from Danny to Ava and then down to his own belly several times in rapid succession as he tried to process what his best friend had just asked.

“A clever observation.” Ava said, and it was only the amusem*nt in her voice - and the wide grin curving her lips upwards - that kept Stiles from panicking as she continued. “And no, absolutely not.”

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asked, pushing up onto his elbows a little so he could get a better look at his stomach. “Why can you hear it on both sides?”

“I can’t.” Ava laughed, grin widening when Stiles just shot her a confused look. She swept the wand to one side of his stomach and offered. “Heartbeat, yes? You can hear it, of course.”

Stiles nodded, then watched as she slid the wand back to the other side, pausing for a moment before saying. “And, of course...heartbeat. You can hear it quite clearly as well.”

“But you just said you can’t hear the heartbeat from both sides.” Stiles protested. “I don’t understand.”

Ava’s dark eyes met Stiles’ amber ones and she nodded towards his stomach. “I can’t, and neither can you. They’re not the same heartbeat.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the rapid heartbeat pouring out of the doppler as Stiles - and probably Danny and Isaac, too - struggled to understand what Ava was saying.

When he finally did, the truth hit him like a freight train.

Twins.

Chapter 29

Chapter Text

Stiles sank onto the couch in his apartment, still feeling a bit numb. He was grateful he’d had Isaac and Danny with him at the appointment because he’d sort of blanked out after learning he was pregnant with twins. Hell, he knew he’d scheduled a sonogram before leaving the office - as well as a follow-up visit for after the sonogram - but he couldn’t have told you when either one was, even if someone had offered him a million dollars to do so. He was reasonably sure he saw Isaac take some of those little appointment reminder cards from the receptionist, though, so that was good.

Isaac sat down next to him while Danny walked over to the kitchen to make them something to eat. It was a bit early for dinner, but Stiles was always up for a snack so he didn’t protest. A little comfort food could go a long way, after all.

“Guess it makes sense.” Isaac said, resting his head on Stiles’ shoulder. When Stiles hummed questioningly, Isaac elaborated. “You having twins. Cause Peter’s niece and nephew are twins, right? They must run in the family.”

Stiles made a non-committal sound and Isaac was silent for a minute before asking softly. “Are you going to tell him?”

“No.”

Isaac sighed. “What happened?”

For a long moment, Stiles didn’t say anything. Finally, he mumbled. “He didn’t believe me when I said the baby was his.”

Isaac sat up quickly, gaping at Stiles. “I’m sorry, what? Why the hell not? You’re not exactly the town bike. You were a virgin when you met him!”

“He...doesn’t know that.” When Isaac narrowed his eyes at him, Stiles shifted uncomfortably and shrugged. “I just didn’t see any benefit in being like oh by the way, you took my virginity, you know? Besides, virginity is a puritanical social construct that equates ignorance with purity and elevates it to a virtue.”

“Dude, don’t go off on a rant about the patriarchy and try to distract me.” Isaac snarked. “But like, even if he didn’t know you were a virgin when you met, why did he just assume it’s not his?”

Stiles swallowed hard, then admitted. “Because we didn’t do a conception ritual.”

Isaac blinked, long and slow. Danny stuck his head through the pass-through window between the kitchen and the living room/dining room combination that was the bulk of their shared space in the apartment. “I’m sorry, did you just say what I think you said?”

Stiles shrugged and Isaac narrowed his eyes again. “Stiles, you don’t need a ritual to conceive.”

“I know.”

Isaac huffed, annoyance lacing his next words. “Okay, so why would Peter think you did?”

Stiles shrugged again. “You know people assume I’m a witch-kin. Obviously Peter did, too. So when I told him I was pregnant, he put that together with us not doing a ritual and decided he’s not the father.”

Danny came all the way back into the room, scowling now. “I mean, yeah, sure, okay. That makes sense. But once you explained that you’re not a witch-kin, he still didn’t believe you?”

Once again, silence descended on the group. Finally, Isaac whispered in horror. “Oh Stiles, you didn’t.”

“I don’t owe him an explanation!” Stiles exploded, surging to his feet and beginning to pace. “I don’t owe anyone a f*cking explanation, okay. I said he’s the father and that should be good enough!”

“I mean-”

Danny stopped, wincing, when Stiles whirled on him with a glare, then continued. “Look, I get what you’re saying, okay. You want to be believed on your own merit. But Stiles, you’re asking him to believe something that - as far as he knows - is literally impossible. That’s not fair.”

“Especially since you’re lying to him.” Isaac pointed out. When Stiles turned his glare on his brother, Isaac met it unflinchingly. “Well, you are. You’ve been lying to him about what you are from day one, right? And you lied to hide the pregnancy, once you knew about it. And I’m not saying I don’t understand why, okay? I get it. But why should he trust you when you keep lying?”

“Except I’m telling the truth about him being the father!” Stiles pointed out, anger and hurt making his voice hoarse even as tears filled his eyes. “I’m telling the truth and he doesn’t believe me.”

“Because of a lie you let him believe before this.” Isaac’s words were firm, but his face was soft and full of sympathy as he looked up at his older brother. “In a perfect world, maybe he would’ve believed you without needing to know the how of it. But Danny’s right. It’s not fair to expect that of him. And it’s not fair for you to keep him from his children because you’re afraid to tell him what you are.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Isaac scoffed and Stiles bristled up. “I’m not!”

“And I repeat-” Isaac scoffed again, louder this time. “Stiles, you’ve been afraid of people knowing you’re magic-born for longer than I’ve been your brother. You didn’t even want to tell the doctor. How many years were you roommates before you finally told Danny?”

“Three.” Danny offered, shrugging unapologetically when Stiles glared at him. “Well, it’s true. You guard that secret like nothing else.”

“Because it’s dangerous for people to know.” Stiles snapped. “The amount of power I have is something others will want to take advantage of and use if they can.”

Isaac leveled him with a steady look. “And you’re more than powerful enough to stop them. I know Claudia was hurt because people wanted to use her magic, but Stiles, you’re not her. You’re not some measly witch.”

“Mom was powerful-”

“Not as powerful as you.” Isaac cut him off, not letting him finish his argument. “Not even half as powerful. There is no one on this earth who could cage you, or force you to use your powers for them. And if there is, it’s because they’re the same damn thing you are and they wouldn’t need you in the first f*cking place.”

Stiles set his jaw, refusing to meet Isaac’s eyes. His brother sighed and added softly. “If you want to spend your life hiding what you are and pretending to be less, I can’t stop you. No one can. But this secret is hurting you right now and I think it’s really cowardly of you to let it keep Peter from his children.”

A sob choked Stiles, the tears spilling over, and a heartbeat later he was being dragged down onto the couch and into Isaac’s arms. As his brother held him, rocking him and murmuring soothing things against his hair, Stiles wondered if maybe Isaac was right. Maybe he had let his fear drive Peter away. Maybe he was being selfish and cowardly, by not telling Peter the truth.

Maybe.

~*~*~*~

Saturday, December 29th, 2018

Stiles groaned when the buzzer requesting building access went off, but got up to answer it. “Yes?”

The little intercom crackled, then Ethan’s voice filtered through. “Hey, I’m just...here to pick up Danny.”

And of course Stiles had known that Danny had a date with Ethan. He’d been excited about it, even, because he honestly thought the two of them were perfect for each other. He just wasn’t sure he was ready to see one of Peter’s betas. Still, he couldn’t just make the man wait outside since he wasn’t quite sure how long Danny would take to finish getting ready and Stiles wasn’t that rude. So he hit the button to open the building’s main door, then walked over to crack their front door so Ethan could come in. Then he sank back down onto the couch next to Isaac, scowling at the TV.

When Ethan came inside a couple of minutes later, it was with a sheepish smile. “Hey, Stiles. And this must be your brother, Isaac. Nice to meet you, kid.” He held out his hand, which Isaac shook.

“Yeah, same. Stiles has told me all about you.” Isaac grinned, adding cheekily. “So has Danny.”

Ethan’s cheeks flushed and he looked down, but he was smiling in a pleased way. “Hopefully all good things.” After a brief pause, he glanced at Stiles and added softly. “Hey, so...about Pet-”

“Don’t.” Stiles said sharply. When Ethan tensed, Stiles took several slow, even breaths before continuing in a quieter tone. “Just don’t, okay? I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Okay.” Ethan agreed, both palms held up in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry. I won’t bring him up again. And, you know, just so you know, I won’t tell him anything you say to me. Or, like, that Danny says about you. I just want you to know that I would never betray your trust that way.”

Stiles deflated a little at that and managed to drum up a tired smile for Ethan. “Thank you. I appreciate that. I’m just...not ready to talk about him, or the situation.”

Just then, Danny came up the hall from his room, looking a little anxious but mostly happy. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” He glanced at Stiles. “Everything good here?”

“Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine.” Stiles promised. “Go. Have fun.”

Danny nodded. “Call me if anything comes up, okay? I’ll come right home if you need me.”

Isaac waved him off. “I can take care of him for the evening, man. Seriously, go have fun on your date.”

“I don’t need a babysitter!” Stiles griped, kicking Isaac lightly and ignoring it when Isaac stuck his tongue out in retaliation. “I’m a grown man, and I’m pregnant not a f*cking invalid.”

Snorting, Danny ushered Ethan out the front door. Stiles called after him teasingly. “Make good choices!”

Just before the door shut, Danny called back. “Never!” Then he and Ethan were gone, and it was just Stiles and Isaac.

And, of course, the twins growing inside of Stiles.

Stiles rested one hand lightly on his belly and nodded at the TV. “Alright, c’mon. Pick a movie already. You’ve been deciding for at least twenty minutes.”

“It’s been like five, you bitch. I’m gonna pick a chick flick just because you’re rushing me.” Isaac snapped, sneering when Stiles flipped him off. “I should make you watch The Notebook and laugh when you cry.”

“f*ck you.”

“So original.” Isaac snarked back, and then the both of them were giggling like small children.

And f*ck it felt good, just to hang out with his brother and bicker like they always did. Even if everything else in his life was confusing and turned upside-down, at least this was normal.

~*~*~*~

Sunday, December 30th, 2018

Stiles was woken up by his phone going off. Isaac grumbled next to him, then dragged a pillow over his head and kicked at Stiles while sleepily whining.

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles managed around a yawn, blearily opening one eye as he swiped open the call and tapped the speakerphone icon. “-’lo?”

“Were you still sleeping?”

Lydia’s voice piping through the phone’s speaker had Stiles sitting bolt upright, eyes wide, heart racing. He stared at his phone for a long moment, until Lydia spoke again. “Stiles? Are you there?”

“Uh...yeah. Yeah, no. I’m here.” He scrubbed his hand roughly over his face.

“Is everything okay? You sound a little odd.”

Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly, not quite sure how to politely explain that he wouldn’t have picked up if he’d realized it was her. So he just muttered. “I was asleep.”

“Sorry.” She didn’t sound particularly sorry, but Stiles appreciated the apology regardless. “I didn’t think about the fact that the baby is probably making you tired. Do you want me to call back later?”

For a few seconds, Stiles thought about saying yes so that he could not answer when she called later. But that felt almost inexcusably rude so he didn’t. “No, it’s fine. I’m up now. What did you need?”

Lydia hummed softly, then said. “I was just calling to see if you’re coming to my New Year’s Eve party. I haven’t gotten your RSVP, despite the party being tomorrow. It’s at our club, Venom, which I’m sure you remember from our first meeting. You’d be on the VIP list, of course, since you’re such a dear friend of mine.”

Stiles winced, knowing he’d left the invitation on the dresser in his room at Peter’s house. “Yeah, sorry. I meant to reply but some stuff happened and I just...didn’t. Um, I have plans, actually. My younger brother is visiting from California, so I’m spending New Year’s Eve with him.”

“Well, he’s welcome at the party.” Lydia sounded unconcerned about the possibility of Stiles bringing along a plus one she didn’t know, even if it was Stiles’ brother. “I just need his name so I can put him on the VIP list as well, since I assume you’ll want to be able to bring him into the lounge with you.”

Isaac was peeking out from under the covers, one eyebrow raised. Stiles widened his eyes at his brother and Isaac shrugged, saying without words that he was fine with going to a party at a club. But Stiles was thinking about Lydia’s husband, Jackson. Peter was Jackson’s mentor, and there was a less-than-zero chance that Peter would be at this party. Stiles wasn’t sure he could handle seeing the man, and he didn’t want Isaac anywhere near Peter. Not while he was still sorting out his feelings and trying to decide what to do. Isaac might take it upon himself to tell Peter the truth, and Stiles didn’t know if he was ready to deal with the fallout that would entail.

He really liked Lydia, but he couldn’t. Maybe not ever but, at the very least, not yet.

“That’s sweet of you, really.” Stiles forced as much sincerity into his voice as he could, though the face Isaac made told him he might have fallen short. “But Isaac is looking forward to doing the whole Times Square thing, with the music and the ball dropping and all that. So.”

“Oh, ew.” Lydia sounded properly horrified, and Stiles honestly didn’t blame her. Anyone who had lived in New York for longer than a year knew that Times Square on New Year’s Eve was a special kind of hell. “Well, I wish you all the luck in the world with that because it’s going to absolutely suck. And we’ll have to do lunch soon, okay? I’d love to meet your brother, if possible.”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, though he knew Lydia couldn’t see him. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’m sure we can manage something this week, before he heads back home.” And part of him meant it, because Stiles really did want to stay friends with Lydia but part of him was already trying to figure out how soon he could do everything he needed to do so they could get the hell out of New York.

And it didn’t matter that he was still considering telling Peter everything - as Isaac hadn’t let the matter drop, bringing it up every few hours to ensure Stiles never stopped thinking about it for long - because being here f*cking hurt. There was too much of his life that had gotten tangled up with Peter’s in the last month, and all Stiles wanted was to untangle things. If he changed his mind later, he could always come back. Or he could reach out to Peter from California and then leave the ball in the alpha’s court, so to speak. Let Peter decide if he wanted to make the next move, once he knew everything.

Lydia was still chirping away, talking about lunch plans and restaurant options, but Stiles was over the whole damn conversation so, uncaring if he was being rude, Stiles cut her off. “Hey, Lyds? Super excited about lunch and you can text me the details on that when you figure them out, but I’m still really tired so I’m gonna go and try to catch another couple hours of sleep, okay?”

“Oh. Yeah, of course. I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean to ramble.” Lydia did sound apologetic this time, anyway. “I’ll text you about lunch in a couple of days. Get some rest.” She made a kissing sound, then disconnected the call.

Stiles tossed the phone back onto the nightstand, staring at the ceiling and trying to ignore the weight of Isaac’s eyes on him. Finally, he snapped. “What?”

“Nothing.” Stiles glanced over in time to see Isaac shrug. “Just wondering why you lied about our plans. I could’ve sworn we were staying here to watch the ball drop on TV and a club party sounds way cooler.”

“Peter is her husband’s mentor.” Stiles muttered. “Which I know you know because I know I told you. And since there’s a good chance Peter will be at that party, I would very much like to not be.”

“Still being a coward, then.” Isaac said around a yawn even as he stretched. “Fine. But I refuse to be a part of lying to your friends. So either we’re actually going to Times Square, or you’re going to have to tell her we didn’t when she inevitably asks about it at lunch.”

Stiles stared at his younger brother for a long moment, then dragged a pillow over his head, saying in a muffled voice. “That is a problem for future Stiles to worry about. Present Stiles is going back to sleep.”

“M’kay.” Isaac poked him in the side. Stiles didn’t emerge from under the pillow, though he did kick blindly at Isaac, who laughed when he missed. “I’m gonna go take a shower. I’ll wake you up when I’m done, for breakfast.”

Stiles gave a thumbs up, still hidden under the pillow. He didn’t remove it from his face until he was sure his brother had left the room. Then he curled up on his side, one hand petting soothingly over his belly as he thought about his options.

~*~*~*~

Monday, December 31st, 2018

It was still morning when the buzzer for the building’s door went off. Stiles was brushing his teeth so Isaac offered to answer it, since Danny had run out to get them bagels for breakfast. He wondered if maybe Danny had forgotten his key card for the main door, though he wasn’t sure it had been long enough for Danny to get to the bagel place and back again.

‘Maybe he jogged...’ Stiles thought as he wandered out of the bathroom. Seeing Isaac standing at the apartment door talking to someone, he reevaluated. ‘Or maybe not.’

“Hey, who was at the-”

Stiles cut himself off when Isaac turned, revealing Peter.

He immediately grabbed Isaac’s arm, yanking his younger brother behind himself. Ignoring the way Isaac yelped as he was forcibly moved, Stiles put himself between him and Peter. “Why did you open the door?”

Isaac blinked slowly, then looked at Stiles like he was crazy. “I wanted to thank him for the care his people took not to hurt me or Scott when they had us.”

“I’m sorry, do you understand how insane of a thing that is to thank someone for?” Stiles demanded, a bit hysterically. “He shouldn’t have taken you in the first f*cking place!”

“Well, yeah, obviously.” Isaac rolled his eyes, then shot Peter - Peter! - a sympathetic look. “Sorry, he gets a bit agitated about supernatural stuff, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. But anyway, I appreciate that you had your people be gentle with us even if I wish you’d just sent my brother flowers and chocolate like a human would’ve.”

“Hindsight.” Peter agreed, inclining his head to Isaac in acknowledgement. “I mistakenly assumed that because Stiles is a supernatural - albeit one with a human father - that he would have a basic understanding of our world and how things are done. Obviously I was mistaken and had to address the issue head-on by confessing and allowing him time to hopefully come to terms with it.”

Isaac snorted. “Yeah, he still hasn’t fully calmed down, as you can see.” Stiles bared his teeth at Isaac, who shrugged. “Well, you haven’t. Honestly, Stiles. I’m the one who was kidnapped and you don’t see me getting all worked up about it. You should relax. Stress isn’t good for-”

“Yes, thank you, Isaac. I’m aware.” Stiles cut his brother off before he could let the twin situation slip, glaring his brother into silence. “Go wait in the living room while I deal with this.”

Isaac opened his mouth - probably to protest - and Stiles snapped. “Now, Isaac.”

“God, you’re a bossy bitch.” Isaac sighed, turning to Peter and offering a sweet, cherubic smile. “Good luck dealing with him. You’re probably going to need it.”

“Jesus f*cking christ...go!” Stiles shoved Isaac through the doorway into the living room. A laugh badly disguised as a cough had him whirling around with a heated glare. “Can I f*cking help you with something or are you just here to instigate a fight between me and my family?”

“Now, now, Stiles. No need to be so hostile.” Peter chided, still looking far too amused for Stiles’ tastes. “I came here because we have something to discuss, and I thought it only polite to allow Isaac to say his piece to me. He’s a remarkable young man. Very resilient.”

Stiles clenched his teeth, biting out. “We have nothing to discuss, Peter. I said I was pregnant, you called me a whor*, and I never want to see you again. Goodbye.”

Before Stiles could get the door shut, Peter stepped forward, into the doorway. Stiles swore softly, taking a hasty step back before stopping and squaring his shoulders. “I will put you on your ass to get you out of my way so I can close the damn door.”

“I’ve no doubt you could.” Peter agreed amicably, a faint smile still flirting with his lips. “But I wouldn’t stay on my ass and then we’d have a separate issue to deal with when I rip your door off the hinges, wouldn’t we? So let’s not take things to that level.”

“I don’t want to take things to this level!” Stiles was shaking now as his temper rose; he could feel his face flushing and was sure he was bright red, which wasn’t the best look on him. And that shouldn’t have mattered, but it was Peter so of course it f*cking did. “I don’t want there to be a f*cking level at all. Just...go.”

Peter tsked softly. “Ah, pet. I wish I could give you what you want, but I can’t. You lied to me.”

“Did I?” Stiles asked, refusing to give an inch.

“By omission, if nothing else.” Peter said, tone rather more agreeable than Stiles liked considering how worked up he felt. “You knew I believed you were a witch-kin and you did nothing to correct that misconception.”

Stiles sneered at that. “Don’t worry, I lie to everyone about what I am. You’re not special.”

Peter winced before his usual mask of emotionlessness slipped into place. Stiles would have thought he’d feel good about that - about wounding Peter - but he didn’t. It just made him feel sick to his stomach, like all his insides were twisting up on themselves. Part of him was a little glad to see the smug amusem*nt vanish, but it didn’t outweigh how awful he felt about hurting someone he loved. And he did love Peter, regardless of anything else.

“Perhaps not.” Peter murmured, eyes flashing red for the briefest moment. “But you’re carrying my offspring. So we are going to talk, whether you like it or not. Whether we do so civilly, like this, or with lawyers in a courtroom is entirely up to you.”

“I hate you.” Stiles hissed, tears stinging his eyes as fear wrapped itself around his heart. Because he couldn’t afford a long, drawn-out custody battle and, even if he could, there was no guarantee he would win. “I f*cking hate you and I don’t want you anywhere near me or my offspring, you sanctimonious f*ck. How’s that for f*cking civility on the matter?”

The funny part was, Stiles wasn’t even telling the truth. Part of him - a rather large part - was thrilled that Peter knew the truth and wanted to be involved. He didn’t like the threat of lawyers, of course, because that implied that Peter wanted the babies - baby, as far as Peter knew - and not Stiles, but it was hard not to wonder if that might change, if he could just figure out the right thing to say. Staring at Peter and knowing he wanted any of this made it so hard for Stiles not to hope that maybe Peter still wanted him, despite everything that had gone wrong between them.

Then Peter tipped his head, studying Stiles for a long moment before finally saying. “You’re in breach of contract.”

Stiles froze. He wasn’t sure what the hell Peter was talking about now - or why the subject had been so abruptly changed - but every instinct he had was telling him he had just become prey in some way. “Excuse me?”

“You’re in breach of contract.” Peter repeated, slowly and carefully. “You were contractually obligated to spend a full month with me. You left before that arrangement was concluded.”

“You told me to get out!”

Peter shrugged, looking nonchalant. “As I had several times before, none of which meant I was terminating our arrangement early, as you very well know.”

“No. No.” Stiles protested, because he would not be blamed for whatever level of f*ckery this was. “No one stopped me from leaving. Your betas loaded my damn jeep!”

“Be that as it may, my betas had no authority to release you from our contract early.” Peter’s smile this time was tight-lipped and a little annoyed. “Also, me not stopping you doesn’t equal tacit permission for you to leave. You’re in violation of the terms of our contract, Stiles.”

Stiles curled his hands into fists, feeling his nails bite sharply into his palms. Because f*ck Peter for reducing what had happened between them down to a f*cking contract. “I only left a day early. One day. You’re seriously going to quibble over twenty-four hours?”

Again, Peter shrugged. “A day is a day, pet. And the fact remains that you owe me.”

“You and your f*cking ego.” Temper sparking again, Stiles snarled. “Okay, fine. You want a day? I’ll give you a goddamn day. When do you want it?” Stiles pulled out his phone and flicked open the calendar as he spoke. “I’m busy today but I’ve got the rest of the week free, so let’s go. Pick a f*cking day and we’ll get this over with.”

Peter was silent for long enough that Stiles looked up from where he was glaring down at his phone, studying the dates and thinking about everything he had to get done on top of this new nonsense. When he finally did look up and meet Peter’s eyes, they were shockingly different from the icy blue Stiles was used to. Instead, they were dark and heated. Peter’s voice, when he spoke, was low and deep and seductive.

“I want your last day.”

For a long moment, Stiles wondered if he’d heard Peter correctly because that hadn’t made any sense. Feeling wrong-footed and unsure of himself, Stiles asked. “...excuse me?”

Peter’s lips were once again curved up into a smug little grin, like he was enjoying this. “Your last day, Stiles. I want the last day of your life.”

Stiles didn’t know what to do with that. As far as declarative statements went, it was almost maddeningly uninformative. Was it a threat? Was Peter genuinely threatening to kill him right now? It didn’t feel like a threat, but what else could it mean? And if it was a threat, then what about the baby? Babies, though of course Peter still didn’t know that. But still, if he was planning to kill Stiles, he’d probably wait until after Stiles had given birth, since he was now interested in his child. Children. Except Peter didn’t seem angry. He didn’t seem threatening either, outside of his strange statement.

Honestly, it was all giving Stiles a bit of headache.

Pinching the bridge of his nose to try to relieve some of the building pressure in his head, Stiles muttered. “I don’t understand.”

“You owe me a day, pet. And because you’re in breach of contract, I’m allowed to choose when you make that time up to me.” And yeah, Stiles already knew that because he had read the damn contract before he signed it, but it didn’t clarify anything for him.

Peter’s patient tone of voice - as if he was explaining something simple to someone who wasn’t very bright - wasn’t doing Stiles’ temper any favors either. “So that’s the one I’ve chosen. Your last day.”

“How the hell am I supposed to give you my last day if I don’t know what it’ll be?” Stiles demanded, before swallowing hard and giving voice to the only possibility he’d come up with. “Are you planning to kill me?”

Peter rolled his eyes, which reassured Stiles in ways no words could have. Then - ignoring Stiles’ question about murder - Peter leaned in and murmured. “You can’t know when your last day is, but that’s still the one I want. So I’ll just have to keep you for every day between now and then, won’t I, love?”

Stiles promptly burst into tears.

Immediately, Peter made a sound of distress and pulled Stiles into his chest. Lips pressed to his hair as strong arms closed around him, and Peter murmured. “I’m sorry, love. I shouldn’t have teased you. That was mean of me, I know. But hearing you say you hate me got my temper up.”

Stiles sniffled, nuzzling Peter’s chest and mumbling against it. “I don’t hate you. I love you. I do kind of hate how f*cking smooth that was, though, because it was also unforgivably corny.”

Peter chuckled, kissing the top of Stiles’ head again and giving him a little squeeze. “And I hate that I almost lost you because you lied to me.” Surprisingly, there was no anger in Peter’s voice; just a gentle admonishment.

Lifting his head, Stiles met Peter’s eyes and asked. “Can you forgive me?”

“Oh, rybko...” Peter leaned in and brushed a light kiss over Stiles’ mouth. “I already have.”

Stiles took a shuddering breath, then whispered. “In the interest of honesty...”

When Stiles trailed off, Peter’s brow furrowed with concern. “What is it, pet? Is everything alright with you and the baby? We have a family cryptomedical specialist, Ava Selt. She’s amazing. You’ll see her from now on.”

Stiles laughed wetly at that. “I’m already seeing her. Cora set it up, actually, so you paid for my initial visit.”

Peter blinked, then snorted. “Clever little bitch, my niece.” He shook his head, a fond smile curving his lips. “I’m glad, honestly. So is everything alright, then?”

“Yeah. Yeah, no, everything seems fine, though I haven’t had a sonogram yet.” Stiles reassured him, pleased when the line between Peter’s eyebrows smoothed out. He swallowed hard, then said as quickly as he could. “Ava said both babies have strong heartbeats.”

Peter blinked at him. “Did you just say both babies?” Stiles nodded, and Peter breathed his next words. “Twins? It’s twins?”

Stiles nodded again, and then suddenly Peter was kissing him breathless. When they finally broke apart for air, Peter pressed rapid kisses over every inch of Stiles’ face, murmuring between them. “You’re amazing, love. You’re so goddamn amazing. My perfect mate.”

Stiles huffed out a tearful laugh, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. “Do you mean that? You really want me to be your mate, after everything?”

“I do.” Peter promised, kissing him again. “I want you, rybko, and I want the children you’re carrying. Hell, I want more children from you. As many as you’ll agree to give me, because god knows I’ll never be able to keep my hands off of you.”

“Let’s deal with these two first before we start talking about more.” Stiles said, laughing when Peter shrugged. With his voice fond, Stiles added. “Yes, Peter. Yes, I’ll be your mate.”

Peter kissed him again, murmuring against his mouth. “How quickly can you pack? I want to take you home, strip you down, and-”

“Whoa there, cowboy.” Stiles cut Peter off with a hand over his mouth, ignoring the pointed way Peter was wiggling his eyebrows at him. “I mean, obviously I’ll move in with you. But I wasn’t lying when I said I was busy today. I have plans with my brother.”

He dropped his hand and Peter sighed, but nodded. “Right, of course. You’re taking Isaac to see the ball drop.” He studied Stiles’ face for a moment, then offered. “Let me make it easier for you. One of the privileges of being my mate is that you have access to all the same things as me. There’s a VIP section with bathroom access that will make tonight less hellish for you.”

Raising his voice slightly, he added. “Consider it an apology.”

And Isaac - who was apparently eavesdropping, because of course he was - called back. “Apology accepted! I love me some bathroom access, after all.”

Stiles couldn’t help laughing even as he rested his forehead against Peter’s chest. Peter stroked soothingly over Stiles’ back even as he asked. “How soon?”

“Oh, lord.” Stiles sighed, lifting his head again. “A couple of days, okay? I’ve got to pack up all my stuff and figure out what I’m doing with all my furniture and talk to Danny because he’s going to need a new roommate.”

“Leave your furniture.” Peter said, shrugging when Stiles narrowed his eyes at the alpha. “Or, if you really want it, you can store it in the attic. Let me know when you’re packed and I’ll send over some of my betas with a truck to haul everything.”

He settled one hand on the side of Stiles’ belly, adding softly. “You’re not to lift anything, my love. Alright?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, but he was smiling again. “Yes, alpha.” When Peter growled and playfully snapped his fangs at Stiles, he laughed and stepped back, out of Peter’s embrace. “Go on, then. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

“Be quick about it, rybko.” Peter said, finally stepping back out of the doorway and into the hall. “I’m not known for my patience.”

Somehow it felt more like a promise than anything else.

Chapter 30

Chapter Text

Friday, January 4th, 2019

Stiles had only moved twice in his life. Once when he was eighteen and headed from Beacon Hills, California all the way to New York City for college. And then again after his and Danny’s freshman year of college, when they’d decided they absolutely could not take another year of dorm living - especially since who knew if their new roommates would be as awesome as each other or if they would completely suck - and had instead found an apartment together. Packing up everything he owned - minus the things he’d never bothered to bring from Beacon Hills to New York - was a task he wasn’t prepared for.

He had found himself dumping piles - Piles! - of papers into big black garbage bags, because why the hell did he still have sheafs of notes from not only college, but high school. Isaac and Danny had cooed over all of Stiles’ new clothing, which was no longer being split into piles for selling versus keeping, much to their mutual pleasure. Stiles was pleased as well, but it was more fun to pretend to be exasperated while bitching that they needed to do more helping and less fawning. He did make a mental note to have Cora pick out some things for Isaac’s birthday, based on the things he seemed to like the most from Stiles’ wardrobe.

God, but that was going to be fun.

And by that, Stiles meant seeing Cora again.

Because Stiles was nothing if not mischievous, and he’d made Peter swear not to tell anyone that he and Peter had patched things up. Peter, of course, had pointed out that Lydia was likely to know anyway, so Stiles had nipped that potential leak in the bud by making her promise not to tell anyone else, either.

So now all of Stiles’ things had been packed up into boxes and bins and such. Isaac’s things were loaded into the jeep, along with Stiles’ work stuff and laptop, as well as an overnight bag and a few hand-selected pieces of his new wardrobe. Danny was supervising a few of Peter’s betas as they loaded everything else - including all of Stiles’ bedroom furniture except his desk, which he was leaving behind at Danny’s request - into a small box truck. And Stiles had to admit, it was nice not to have to worry about lifting anything.

Which left Stiles and Isaac in their present situation. Namely, in Stiles’ jeep, pulling up outside the massive gate that guarded Peter’s driveway.

“That’s a big f*cking gate.” Isaac said, eyes wide as he tried to peer up the winding, tree-lined driveway to catch a glimpse of the house. Stiles ignored him, knowing from experience that it wasn’t possible. “You gonna buzz the house to be let in? Cause that’ll ruin the surprise, right?”

“Hush; I have a plan.” Stiles snarked, already typing away on his phone.

Just pulled up to the gate; think you can open it without alerting the masses?

‘The masses’ being Cora, Derek, Ethan, and Marin. All of whom were gathered in one of the parlors, because Peter had informed them he had ‘an important announcement to make.’

QUACK

QUACK

QUACK

“You have the stupidest ringtone.” Isaac muttered.

Stiles stuck his tongue out at his brother even as he thumbed open the series of replies still flooding in. “It’s f*cking adorable and you know it.”

Peter: perks of being the boss

Peter: I don’t have to tell anyone anything or give a reason

Peter: all I have to do is text the beta on gate-duty to open the gate and...

Stiles laughed when, only a few seconds after he finished reading the text, the gate opened in front of them. “See, I told you I had a plan.” Stiles pulled the jeep through the gate, heading up the twisting driveway. The moment he cleared the treeline and the house came into view, he heard Isaac’s sharp intake of breath. And yeah, that was a pretty fair assessment. Stiles remembered the first time he had seen the massive manor house, and he’d only been there to give a massage. Isaac was going to be staying here with Stiles until he returned to California, something they hadn’t even picked a date for yet.

It was a lot to take in.

Stiles pulled the jeep up in front of the doors, turning it off but leaving the valet key in the ignition for whichever beta wound up pulling it into the garage. As he got out, Stiles told Isaac. “Leave your stuff. Someone will bring it inside in a few minutes.”

“That’s insane.” Isaac said, sounding awed. He waited for Stiles to circle the jeep, then followed him up the front steps to the doors. “Okay, what happens now? Is someone going to open the doors or do we get to ring a gong-like doorbell or what?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, then admitted. “Now...I get to be a dramatic bitch.” He ignored Isaac muttering under his breath about how that was nothing new.

Stiles reached for the doors, which he knew were unlocked because Peter had said they would be. Throwing open both sides of the door with a loud BANG, Stiles stormed into the entrance hall. Raising his voice to a full, angry shout, Stiles let his words fill the entrance hall, echoing loudly through the house.

“Peter! Where the hell are you?”

Within seconds, Cora, Derek, and Ethan all came rushing in from the left. Marin and Peter were behind them, though neither looked even half as confused or alarmed as the beta wolves. For a moment, everyone was silent and staring. Then, Cora crossed the room to Stiles’ side, hissing. “What are you doing? You can’t just rush in here like this!”

“The hell I can’t!” Stiles snapped back, shaking off Cora’s touch and moving closer to the center of the entrance hall, glaring at Peter all the while. “You! Do you know what you’ve done?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.” Peter drawled, and Stiles didn’t miss the way the alpha’s eyes raked heatedly over his form.

Stiles fought the urge to smile, determined to see this through, though he was glad Peter seemed to like his outfit and the way his garnet-colored sweater and black leggings hugged his long legs and the ever-growing curve of his belly.

Peter raised an eyebrow, looking bored, and drawled. “Now tell me, rybko...was there something you wanted from me or are you just going to shout and stomp your feet like an unruly child?

Stiles narrowed his eyes, letting them glow just a bit as he snarled. “Oh yes, alpha, there’s something I want from you. I want your heart on a silver platter!”

He heard Cora suck in a sharp breath, then breathe out in horror. “Oh my god, I think he’s going to kill Peter.” A second after that, Derek started to move forward.

But Peter was faster, and a moment later he was standing directly in front of Stiles, with only a few inches between them. When Peter spoke, his voice was a seductive growl. “It’s already yours, my beloved.”

Stiles finally broke character, his head falling back as he laughed, loud and bright. When he lifted his head again, his eyes were no longer glowing and a soft smile curved his lips upward. “You’re still corny.” He chided Peter, even as he allowed the alpha to pull him in for a kiss.

“And you’ve got a flair for dramatics.” Peter replied, kissing him again. “I do like your outfit, though.”

Stiles laughed again even as he stepped back out of Peter’s arms, turning so he could beckon Isaac into the house even as he said. “I’m sure you do. Also, my massive belly is the thing you did, you asshole. Almost nothing f*cking fits me anymore, all because of your damn offspring.”

“Mmmm...” Peter’s arms wound around Stiles’ waist from behind, his lips finding Stiles’ throat even as his hands settled possessively on the sides of Stiles’ belly. “But you carry so beautifully, love.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere when my damn pants don’t fit.” Stiles snarked as Isaac stopped next to him.

Peter shrugged without releasing Stiles. “Are pants truly necessary?” Stiles pulled away from him to glare at Peter, and - when he snorted - at Isaac as well. Peter smirked and added. “Calm down. I’ll buy you new pants.”

“You’d better.” Stiles muttered under his breath, still annoyed that absolutely none of his pants fit except for his leggings and sweatpants.

“I’m sorry, what the f*ck is going on right now?”

Stiles winced at the half-confused, half-angry words, then turned to Cora with a big smile. “Peter and I made up, so I’m moving back in. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Cora repeated, looking unamused. “Is this the big announcement Peter gathered us here for? And why the hell was it staged as a f*cking live telenovela?”

“Well, that and he’s pregnant with twins.” Isaac piped up from his spot near Stiles’ elbow.

“That, too.” Stiles agreed, nervously smoothing out his sweater before opening his arms to Cora. “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t resist having a little fun with my return. Forgive me?”

Cora ran into his arms, squeezing him tightly and sighing even as Stiles rubbed his cheek against the top of her hair, scenting her. “Yeah, I forgive you. But only because you’re pregnant.”

Stiles kissed her hair. “Fair enough.” When she sucked in a deep breath through her nose, he asked. “Oh, do I smell different? I keep having to check so I can remove the masking magic since it seems to want to stay in place no matter how many times I take it down.”

“You smell different.” Cora reassured him, stepping back and tipping her head before adding. “And I can hear the heartbeat. Heartbeats, I guess, if it’s twins, though I can’t really separate them.”

“That’s because of how fast they are, and where Stiles is in the pregnancy.” Peter explained, even as he gestured for everyone to move back into the parlor. “In another few weeks, it will be much easier to hear them as two distinct heartbeats instead.”

“Cool.” Ethan leaned in as Stiles passed him, rubbing their cheeks together and whispering. “You’re an asshole and I’m telling Danny.”

Stiles shot him a toothy grin. “Who do you think helped me plan the whole thing?”

Ethan laughed and Stiles sank onto the loveseat. Peter sat next to him, immediately pulling Stiles into his side and settling an arm around Stiles’ waist. As Stiles rested his cheek against Peter’s chest, the others sat as well. And Stiles couldn’t help noticing Derek’s sour face. “Problem?” He asked softly.

Derek shrugged. “Just wondering if Peter actually has a big announcement or if it’s just your return - and the fact that you’re having twins - that we were all summoned for.”

“I’ll be officially making Stiles my mate as soon as possible.” Peter said, dropping a kiss to the top of Stiles’ head before he continued. “I’ve already spoken to Lydia and we’ll do both his Presentation and the baby shower at the same time.”

Derek’s jaw clenched; Stiles could see a muscle there jumping as he clearly ground his teeth for a long moment before finally biting out. “When am I expected to return to LA?”

Cora froze beside her brother, eyes wide and lips parted in shock while Peter made a confused sound. “Why would you be going to LA?”

Derek’s eyes flashed blue for a moment, then he muttered. “You have a new heir. Hell, you have two of them - an heir and a second, just like Mom had.”

“Oh...” Stiles sat upright, giving Derek a sympathetic look. “Oh, Derek. No. I mean...we haven’t confirmed it yet, obviously, but statistically speaking, the babies will most likely be human. The flip-side of being magic-born is that my children are basically pre-destined to have no magic. It’s just how the scales balance.”

Peter hummed, adding. “Even if that’s not the case - even if Stiles gave me a dozen werewolf children - it wouldn’t be a matter of sending you back to LA. You would remain my second-in-command until such a time as my new heir was old enough to take on the role. And if something were to happen to me, it would fall to you to run things while they grew up. Besides, Laura has had a new second training with her for years.”

“Your place is here.” Stiles promised, and he meant it most sincerely. “No one is sending you away.”

When Derek didn’t say anything, Stiles asked hesitantly. “Unless...do you want to go back to LA?”

“No!” The protest was swift and a bit loud, and Derek blushed before continuing more softly. “No. I want to stay in New York. I just wasn’t sure that would be allowed.”

“If this is where you want to be, then this is where you’ll stay.” Stiles said simply.

“Stiles is crazy protective.” Isaac chimed in, looking amused. “So you can bet he’ll fight anyone who tries to take you away.”

When everyone turned to look at him, Isaac waved and added. “I’m Stiles’ brother, Isaac. Hi.”

Cora raised an eyebrow at him. “I hear you were kidnapped.”

Isaac raised an eyebrow right back. “I hear you’re being married off like it’s medieval times.”

Cora snorted, then they both started laughing. “Oh, I like you. This will be great fun.”

“Oh, god.” Stiles groaned. “On that note, I’m going to give Isaac a quick tour of the house and then go take a damn nap. Making tiny human beings is f*cking exhausting.”

Marin stood when Stiles did, moving close enough to kiss each of his cheeks in turn, murmuring. “Congratulations on learning to fly. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get started on dinner.”

“I’m afraid I have some work to do.” Peter admitted, standing as well and giving Stiles a quick kiss. “Get some rest, my love. I’ll see you later.” He and Marin walked out together.

Ethan stood next, when Isaac did. “Why don’t you go take a nap, Stiles, and I’ll give Isaac a tour. I gave yours when you first got here, remember?”

“I do.” Stiles sighed, but nodded. “Alright. Whenever my stuff gets here, have it brought to Peter’s room. Our room, now. Isaac can sleep in my old room while he’s here.” He gave his brother a quick hug. “If you need me for anything, let me know, okay?”

“I think I can survive a house tour without you hovering.” Isaac laughed, squeezing Stiles tightly. “Go take your nap and when your sh*t gets here, I’ll help you unpack. Okay?”

“Okay.” Stiles gave Cora and Derek both a tired smile. “Thank you - both of you - for your support during the past week. I know I wasn’t the most gracious, but it meant a lot to me.”

“You’re family.” Cora said simply, and Derek nodded from beside her. “Family is everything.”

And really, Stiles couldn’t have agreed more.

~*~*~*~

Saturday, January 5th, 2019

Stiles felt like he was settling back into Peter’s home really well. After his nap on Friday, Isaac had helped him unpack things. Peter’s bedroom had a dressing room. It was basically a second walk-in closet that was a small room all on its own, lined with shelves and rods to hang things on and even some drawers. It also had several mirrors, and a vanity, and some comfortable seating that was something between a bench and a fainting couch. It was connected to the master bedroom, much the way the master bath was, and Peter had explained that it was intended for the mistress of the house. Which was, technically speaking, now Stiles. So his clothing and shoes and many accessories had all been put away in there, the old and the new, with room to spare.

The furniture he’d chosen to keep was all tucked away in a room in the attic, though Peter promised that if Stiles wanted to use any of it, he could. Which was kind of laughable, considering how much nicer everything in Peter’s house was, but Stiles appreciated the offer. He’d mostly chosen to hang onto it all so that, when the time came, he could offer it to Isaac for his first solo apartment, wherever that wound up being.

After eating dinner with Isaac and Cora, they’d hung out watching movies until Cora declared she was too tired to drive home and retired to her room in Peter’s house. Stiles, for his part, had passed the night in Peter’s arms, though all they’d done was sleep. Part of Stiles wondered if Peter wasn’t attracted to him anymore, because of the pregnancy, but he dismissed that based on everything he knew about werewolves. Especially alphas. If anything, Stiles was likely to become increasingly irresistible to Peter the more his pregnancy progressed.

He imagined it was just because of their temporary separation, and how everything between them still felt a bit like a fresh bruise. Sort of tender and aching, particularly if pressure was applied. Stiles was committed to this course of action, of course. He wanted Peter, and Peter wanted him, and they both wanted the babies. But there had been nastiness and unpleasantness between them; it would take a little time for the swelling to go down.

And even so, Stiles knew Peter wouldn’t wait long to make things official between them, since he wanted the baby shower to double as Stiles’ Presentation. Stiles, for his part, wanted the baby shower to happen before Isaac went back home to Beacon Hills. And of course Isaac was insisting his schedule was wide-open for months and saying he could stay as long as necessary, but his brother had a life back home - friends, and their dad - so Stiles didn’t want to keep him for too much longer.

God only knew what Noah was eating without either of his sons there to keep an eye on him, and the last thing Stiles wanted was his dad having a damn heart attack because of one too many bacon cheeseburgers.

And now it was Saturday, and Peter had things to do - Stiles wasn’t sure what because Peter hadn’t offered details so Stiles hadn’t asked - and Isaac was begging Stiles to show him the secret passages.

“God, you’re like a child.” Stiles griped, mostly because it was expected.

But he obligingly took his brother up to the fourth floor and opened the correct section of wall, revealing the hidden staircase behind it. He knew Isaac would want to see the whole thing, so it made the most sense to start at one end and work their way to the other.

“This goes all the way to the first floor?” Isaac asked once they were on the landing inside the servants’ stairs. He was peering down at where the steps twisted away into the dark, the flashlight feature on his phone only doing so much to penetrate the sheer lack of light inside the walls.

“Further, technically.” Stiles admitted. “There’s a passageway on the first floor that leads underground and then out past the house, to the gardens.”

“Well, let’s go!” Isaac pressed, and before Stiles could say anything, his brother had disappeared down into the dark, taking his phone light with him and leaving Stiles to fumble for his own phone, swearing softly under his breath as he scrambled to follow.

“Dude, don’t just take off!” Stiles hissed as he began carefully easing himself down the dark, narrow stairs, his growing belly throwing off his center of balance and making it feel even more treacherous. “These stairs are dangerous, dammit.”

Isaac snorted from somewhere below him, voice carrying through the dark between them. “Dude, they’re stairs and they turn every few steps. Even if I fell, I’d hit a wall in a matter of seconds and stop falling.”

“Don’t f*cking sass me.” Stiles muttered, still making his way downwards with extra caution. “Some of us have extra passengers and don’t want to fall even a few steps.”

When Stiles emerged onto the third-floor landing, it was to find Isaac looking sheepish. “Sorry, I didn’t even think about the babies f*cking up your center of gravity.” He reached out and patted Stiles’ belly lovingly, as he’d taken to doing during the last week, crooning. “I’ll go slower for you guys, okay?”

Stiles sighed, swatting away Isaac’s hand so he could stroke his own soothingly over the curve. “Ignore your uncle, children. He’s an idiot.”

Isaac snorted even as he gestured for Stiles to take the lead down the second flight of stairs, so he could set the pace for them. As he followed Stiles down, he declared confidently. “Please, they’re going to adore me. I’m going to be their favorite uncle.”

That made Stiles roll his eyes. “You’re their only uncle.”

“Uh, no I’m not.”

Stiles turned to shoot Isaac a baffled look. “The hell are you talking about? I don’t have any other brothers floating around, dude.”

“No, but Peter has a sister who’s mated.” Isaac said slowly, as if Stiles were a bit slow on the uptake. “Derek and Cora’s father? He’s definitely their uncle, too.”

Stiles stopped moving, wincing when Isaac ran into his back. “What the hell, Stiles! Warn a guy if you’re gonna stop on the damn stairs. For f*ck’s sake, I could’ve knocked you down.”

“I don’t know Talia’s mate’s name.”

Isaac squinted at Stiles through the near-dark surrounding them, illuminated as their surroundings were by only their respective phone flashlights. “What?” He sounded genuinely confused, and Stiles couldn’t blame him, really, given how distraught his voice had been on his previous sentence.

Knowing Isaac never let something go once it had caught his attention, Stiles did his best to explain as he once again started down the stairs. “I’ve known Talia’s name for most of my life, because she was the Alpha Wolf of our area, and the Hale wolves originated from Beacon Hills, long before there was even a town.”

“Okay. So what?”

“So, I don’t know her mate’s name. They were mated before I was born, and I’ve known her name for ages, but I have no idea what her mate’s name is.” Stiles knew he sounded a bit hysterical and he started moving faster, desperate now to reach the next landing so he could breathe because he suddenly felt like he was suffocating in this narrow stairwell.

When he stepped onto the landing a minute later, he immediately braced his hands on his knees and leaned forward, doing his best to take even, measured breaths through the panic.

“Stiles, you need to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.” Isaac insisted, even as he rubbed Stiles’ back in slow, soothing circles. “What does it matter if you don’t know Talia’s mate’s name? It’s Dominic, by the way. I did some research when you told me you were pregnant, just in case we needed information. But like, so what? I don’t think anyone is expecting you to memorize the Hale family tree.”

Stiles finally got control of his breathing and lifted his head, staring at Isaac with tear-damp eyes. “Mates don’t matter, Isaac. No one gives a flying f*ck about who an Alpha Wolf’s mate is. I’m going to spend the rest of my life being less than the person I’m with.”

For a long moment, Isaac just stared at Stiles. Then, he snorted. “Well, that’s a crock of sh*t.”

“Excuse me?”

Stiles gaped at his brother, who was normally so sweet, even if he sometimes got on Stiles’ nerves the way he imagined all little brothers did. Except that during this visit, Isaac had seemed different. Sharper, though not necessarily mean. Just...less soft around the edges than Stiles was used to. He wondered if Isaac had changed that much since Stiles had moved to New York, or if maybe Isaac was just more confident and assertive now that he was an adult. Maybe some of that softness - that sweetness and agreeability - had been a lingering fear that he’d be sent to foster care - or worse, hurt again - if he was too much trouble.

And as much as Stiles was glad Isaac didn’t feel the need to walk on eggshells around him - something he would never want his brother to do - he wasn’t enjoying the tough love routine Isaac seemed to be favoring.

“You’re f*cking magic-born, Stiles.” Isaac sounded both exasperated and frustrated with Stiles. “And maybe you don’t fully understand what that means because you’ve been so busy hiding it that you haven’t done the f*cking research, I don’t know. But there’s never more than, like, five of your kind in the entire world at any given time and most of the time it’s less. On record there are two, but you’re not on record, so three. Which means you’re one of the three most powerful magic users in the world. You’re not less than anyone and if you’d stop being so goddamn scared of your own power, you’d know that.”

Stiles’ throat got tight and the tears he’d barely been holding back spilled over. “Isaac, I can’t. Mom said-”

“Claudia was scared.” Isaac cut him off, voice firm but less harsh; less cutting. Stiles’ mom had been a tender subject the entire time Isaac had been part of the family, after all, and he knew to take care when talking about her in any way. “And I know you and Dad loved her and took her at her word when she said people would want to use your magic the way they used hers, but she was a witch. And you were a child. You’re not anymore. You’re an adult with more power in a single drop of blood than most magic users have in their entire bodies. Stop hiding who you are and embrace it.”

Stiles sniffled wetly, scrubbing at his cheeks as he choked out. “I don’t know how. I’ve spent my whole life containing this part of myself, Isaac. Carefully controlling how many people saw me use magic, and how much I let them see. I don’t know how to just...let it out.”

Isaac pulled Stiles into a hug and Stiles marveled a little at how much taller than him his brother was, given he was able to tuck Stiles’ head under his chin. “Not saying it’ll be easy, at least not at first. But I do think it’s the only way you’ll ever stop being afraid. Once you realize how powerful you are - how untouchable - I don’t think anything will ever scare you again.”

“Maybe.” Stiles murmured, thinking back to the dream-conversation he’d had with his mother.

“Your magic can be a gift, or a burden. Only you can decide which it is.”

He’d spent his life believing it was a burden; a weight he was forced to carry through life whose few perks didn’t come close to outweighing all the bad. But maybe that didn’t have to be true. Maybe it could be a good thing, if he let it. If he was willing to put in the effort to unlearn a lifetime of fear.

“If you let yourself accept the power that’s yours by birthright, I think you’re going to see very quickly that Peter is the envy of every Alpha - wolf or otherwise - who hears about it. About you.” Isaac gave him a good, hard squeeze and added. “You’re not less than, and I don’t believe that Peter sees you that way. I don’t think he ever did, even before he knew the truth, but he respects power too much to think it now, for sure. It’s up to you if anyone else does.”

Stiles sighed, drawing back from Isaac at last. “I’ll think about it.” He promised, before stepping towards the next set of stairs. “C’mon. If I’m going to show you the whole damn passageway, we should keep moving.”

After a pause, he added. “Though I can’t let us out onto the grounds, because I’m not a werewolf and Peter said it takes claws to open the mechanism, so.”

Isaac hummed consideringly as he followed Stiles down once more. “You sure you can’t magic up a set long enough to open it?”

“I mean...” Stiles shrugged, then admitted. “The last time I magicked something to do with my body, I wound up with a permanently self-lubricating asshole, so I’d rather not try. The last thing I want is to get stuck with claws on one hand that pop out randomly.”

Isaac snorted from behind him. “I’m pretty sure you had to do that spell more than once before your magic decided to make it permanent, you pervert.”

“I admit nothing.” Stiles smiled to himself as Isaac’s laughter filtered down to him through the dark, adding. “Like I said, not worth the risk. I’ll see about getting Cora to take you through at some point, alright?”

Isaac agreed, then changed the subject to Stiles’ upcoming baby shower. And really, that was perfectly fine with Stiles. He’d had more than enough heavy conversation for one afternoon.

~*~*~*~

Stiles was already in bed when Peter came in. He looked exhausted and Stiles noted there was blood on both his suit and his skin, though it looked like he’d at least tried to clean the latter. “Rough day at the office?” Stiles kept his voice light and his words soft, trying not to pry but wanting Peter to know he would listen if Peter wanted or needed to talk.

“Finally caught the rogue that’s been causing trouble.” Peter said with a faint smile, though his brow was furrowed as he added. “Second one in a month, and this one was basically feral.”

“That’s odd.”

“Very.” Peter agreed, rolling his shoulders as he headed for the bathroom. “I’m going to shower the day off, pet, and then I was thinking about heading down to the bathhouse for a soak. Any interest in joining me?”

Stiles opened his mouth, planning to ask Peter not to go, because he wanted the Claiming over and done with already and he’d been planning to ask Peter to do it tonight. The uncertainty of the situation was weighing on him and he’d feel better once it was completed. Once he was truly Peter’s mate. Except Peter looked exhausted. Worn down at the edges by his responsibilities as an Alpha Wolf. And Stiles didn’t want to add to that burden by demanding Peter claim him now, when it was clear all the alpha wanted to do was relax.

So, Stiles adjusted. He was good at that, normally.

“Absolutely. Shower off the ick and then come down. I’ll go and make everything nice for you.” Stiles leaned over the edge of the bed, tipping his chin up, and Peter obligingly pressed a light kiss to his lips before disappearing into the en suite.

As soon as Stiles heard the water rush through the pipes, he scrambled out of bed and snatched up his dressing gown. He pulled it on, covering his nakedness, then slipped into his dressing room. He pulled open the doors housing the shelves he’d conjured in the wardrobe-like space to house his spell ingredients and magical artifacts, as he didn’t like to leave them lying around. A habit from his teenage years when using magic was...not forbidden, because his dad had never gone that far, but definitely not something he could be open about. And while Stiles was definitely careful about who saw him using magic - and how much - he’d taken courses during college and learned all he could. For all that he didn’t use his magic often, Stiles had made it a point to hone his craft - in private - just in case. Stiles preferred to be prepared for any eventuality, so he had quite the stockpile, all things considered.

Stiles quickly gathered up the things he wanted, noting that he’d need to stop by the kitchen and see if Marin had the couple of things he didn’t. If not, he’d make due - Stiles was good at improvising magical ingredients - but he’d rather have his first choices if it was possible. He tucked the things he needed into a bag he had long ago spelled to keep everything from jostling around and possibly getting broken, then closed the wardrobe back up and flicked his fingers to lock it before slipping back out into the bedroom.

Stiles considered putting on something seductive, but he was going to be getting into the bath with Peter so what was the point, unless he wanted to have to strip again before getting in the damn water. Because he was not going to wear lingerie in the bath, no matter how sexy he was trying to look. That felt a little too over the top p*rno to him and that wasn’t the vibe he was going for.

Still, a little bit of oomph that wouldn’t get f*cked up by the bath water wasn’t a bad idea.

With that in mind, Stiles quickly lined his eyes with the high quality, waterproof black eyeliner Cora had gotten him when she’d picked out his wardrobe. Nothing wrong with making one of his best features really pop.

Then, knowing Peter would only be in the shower for so long, Stiles grabbed his supplies and headed for the elevator, riding it down to the first floor. Once there, he hurried to the kitchen. Marin was there - as she had seemed to be nearly every time Stiles had entered the room during his month with Peter - but otherwise the kitchen was empty.

Stiles shot Marin a quick smile even as he opened the hutch where she stored her spell ingredients. “Hey, I just need to borrow a couple of things. If I use the last of anything, I’ll pick you up more in the next couple of days, I promise.”

“No worries.” Marin offered placidly from the breakfast nook where she was sipping a cup of tea and reading a book. “Take whatever you need. And you don’t need to replace it, so long as you let me know what you’ve used so I can get more. It’s all for household use and, as Peter’s mate, you’re going to be in charge of the household, so.”

“Am I?” Stiles asked, a bit absently, as he quickly scanned the labels on the various jars and vials and little boxes that filled the hutch. “I’ll have to talk to Peter about what that entails.”

Having located the rest of what he wanted, Stiles slipped everything into his bag and offered Marin another smile as he closed the hutch back up. “Anyway, I’ve got things to do. Could you do me a favor and let the rest of Peter’s staff who are on duty tonight know that 3L is off limits until Peter and I return to our room?”

“I’ll make sure his security detail knows.” Marin promised, a small smile curving her lips upward. “Would you like me to shut the elevator off, as an added precaution?”

“No. No, thank you. That’s not necessary.” Stiles nodded at the door. “Anyway, lots of things to do, as I said, and a limited time in which to do them, so. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Stiles.”

Stiles called back his own goodnight as he hurried from the room and back to the elevator. When he hit the call button and the doors slid open, Stiles breathed a sigh of relief as he was apparently still ahead of Peter. He pushed 3L, tapping his foot restlessly as he waited for it to reach the bottom. When it did, Stiles moved quickly, knowing he was racing against Peter to accomplish his goals.

Thankfully, it was the work of only a moment to open the control panel hidden in the wall of the entrance. During his month with Peter, Stiles had learned all the ins and outs of working the various amenities the house boasted and this floor was no exception. Stiles quickly set the water temperature for the bath and pressed all the correct buttons to have it fill since, unlike the pool, it was drained when not actively in use. He then put on Peter’s preferred soothing music, which was a lot of woodwinds and a bit new age-y for Stiles’ tastes but was tolerable enough, all things considered.

Once he’d finished with that, Stiles hurried through the changing room and into the bathhouse itself, pleased to see the bathing pool was filling itself with steaming water. He was always half afraid he would f*ck up the controls somehow and break Peter’s fancy, automated house. Relieved that he hadn’t, Stiles knelt beside the bath and started pulling things out of his bag to add to the water. He hummed softly to himself as he worked, occasionally adding in a tongue click or other sound as needed.

He added valerian oil to the water first, then dried skullcap. He rolled a handful of fresh mint leaves between his fingers before tossing them in. A sprinkle of phoenix ash, red rose petals, and a splash of lilac oil went in as well. Stiles curled his hand around a few mermaid scales and focused his magic on powdering them as he hadn’t brought a mortar and pestle down, then uncurled his fingers and blew the iridescent dust into the bathing pool, where it gave the water a sort of purple-blue-green sheen on top. It wouldn’t cling to the skin, thankfully, or Stiles wouldn’t have used it this way, regardless of its other properties.

Lastly, Stiles added the smallest amount of anise to the water, careful not to let the licorice scent overpower the other, more soothing ones he’d added first. A quick flick of his wrist stirred the water for a few moments before he let it settle back down.

Just in time, too, as he heard footsteps echoing through the changing room.

Hastily, Stiles shoved everything back into his bag before flicking his fingers to send it over to one of the hooks on the wall. Then, with a measured breath to settle his nerves, Stiles turned to face the doorway and wait for Peter to join him.

Chapter 31

Chapter Text

Peter was pleased Stiles had agreed to join him in the bathhouse. Most days, Peter couldn’t be bothered with more than a normal shower, but the bathhouse was a luxury he enjoyed having when the mood struck him. It was even more of an indulgence when he had someone to share the bath with, and Stiles had proven to be a lovely bath partner during the time they’d spent together. Peter couldn’t wait to get his hands on Stiles again, while the both of them were slick and wet. He had missed his little lover while they’d been apart, something he’d never imagined feeling before Stiles. It was new, and not wholly welcome, but since Peter had no intention of spending any length of time away from Stiles ever again, he figured it was fine.

You couldn’t miss what was never gone, after all.

Peter stripped, tossing his ruined suit down the laundry chute in the bathroom, knowing it would be properly disposed of by his staff. Then, he got into the shower.

He took his time washing up, since bathing with Stiles was less about getting clean and more about relaxing and intimacy. He made sure to scrub all of the blood off of himself, even going so far as to let his claws out so he could clean them as well. He washed his hair twice and didn’t stop lather-rinse-repeating his skin until he could no longer smell the coppery tang of blood, not even faintly. Only when he was positive he’d gotten it all did he step out of the shower.

He paused at the sink to brush his teeth, then dropped fang and brushed those as well, just to be sure. He’d lost control with Stiles enough for a partial shift before, and he didn’t want to ruin a potentially sexy moment with bloody fangs. Besides, hygiene was important and that included taking care of the wolfy parts of himself that he normally kept tucked away.

Finally deeming himself clean enough, Peter slipped on a plush white bathrobe and made his way to the elevator, seeing no point in dressing only to strip again in a few minutes. He rode down to 3L in silence, smiling when he stepped out and realized Stiles had turned on the floor’s sound system. He walked directly into the changing room, trusting Stiles had properly set up the bath. Once there, he stripped off the bathrobe and hung it on one of the many hooks lining the room before continuing on to the bathing room.

The first thing he noticed when he walked in was, of course, Stiles. His beautiful mate-to-be was standing beside the bathing pool, barefoot and wearing the plum colored silk dressing gown Cora had chosen for him. He ought to have looked ridiculous, drowning in so much purple silk, between the puffed shoulders and the wide bell sleeves and the yards of gathered fabric swathing his body from the waist down. Instead, he looked lovely. Delicate and ethereal. The color flattered his fair skin and wide, golden eyes. Eyes, Peter noticed, that were lined with black that only made them stand out more. He couldn’t see the curve of Stiles’ belly because of the way the dressing gown was cut, but just knowing the younger man was pregnant was driving Peter wild.

The second thing Peter noticed was the combination of scents in the air.

Normally, this entire sublevel of the house smelled like jasmine. There were several discreet dispensers scattered around the place, spitting out the scent every so often, after all. It was a scent that worked well with the warm, humid air of the bathhouse, and which didn’t clash too horribly with the faint chlorine-sting that went hand-in-hand with the pool. The many potted plants lending their rich loam and lush, green, growing-things scents to the air also worked well with the exotic floral one.

That was not what the bathhouse smelled like at the moment.

Mostly, it smelled like mint, but there were other scents as well. Lilac, which was pleasant enough as far as floral scents went, if less exotic than jasmine. Something earthy and pungent that took him a moment to place as valerian. Rose, faintly. A sooty, burning smell he couldn’t quite place, and something that reminded him of the salt-sharp tang of the ocean. And the barest hint of licorice, which Peter knew had to be anise.

Stiles’ scent was laced through everything else, and Peter was pleased to note it was cinnamon-hot at the edges, though it lacked the liquid notes to it that came from his lover being slick. That was alright, though. Peter had no doubt that all it would take to correct that was for him to get his hands on Stiles.

He started across the room, but stopped when Stiles held up a hand. When he raised an eyebrow, Stiles said. “In the water, Peter, not to my side.”

Willing to indulge Stiles, Peter obligingly veered away from Stiles and got into the bathing pool. He noticed with interest that the water was swirling with an iridescent sheen and that it felt silky to the touch even as he took a seat on the long, curved bench that went around the edge of the bath. It was soothing, immediately leeching tension from his muscles, and Peter marveled at the subtle magic Stiles had woven into the water, that he could feel so immediately relaxed even after such a hellish day.

Once settled, Peter watched with hooded eyes as Stiles’ hands dropped to his dressing gown’s belt and began untying the knot there.

Stiles wasn’t putting on a show or anything - there was nothing coy or practiced about his actions - but there was something undeniably erotic about watching the front of the gown part, revealing Stiles’ lithe frame. He watched avidly as Stiles shrugged the plum silk from his shoulders, letting it pool on the marble floor in a spill of color. Then, bare as the day he was born, Stiles slipped into the water as well.

Peter hummed happily when Stiles immediately settled onto his lap, his hands moving to card through Peter’s hair, which was still wet from his shower only minutes earlier. “Careful, rybko. You’ll spoil me.”

“Nothing wrong with a little spoiling.” Stiles offered softly, and Peter warmed at his words. “I love you, so why shouldn’t I spoil you a bit? You like spoiling me, don’t you?”

“Mmmm...that I do, pet. That I do.” Peter let his hands settle lightly on Stiles’ hips, thumbs stroking gently along the lower curve of Stiles’ belly. “You deserve the world.”

Stiles looked a little uneasy at that, just for a moment, before he smoothed out his face and murmured. “You deserve better than me, but I’m going to do my best to be a good mate. I promise.”

And that was a statement he couldn’t leave; couldn’t let be. Peter lifted one hand to catch Stiles’ chin, forcing him to meet Peter’s eyes as he said firmly. “There is no better for me than you. No one I’ve ever known - not in all my thirty-five years - has ever made me feel the way you do. You are unique in all the world. That you love me in return is a gift I will never stop being grateful for.”

Stiles’ eyes grew shiny and damp, his plush lower lip trembling as he stared at Peter with longing and desperation etched across his gamine face. “Only me?”

Then, as if clarifying his own words, Stiles pressed. “For you, there’s only me? Do you mean that?”

“With every fiber of my being.” Peter swore, finally releasing Stiles’ chin so he could capture those full lips with his own, kissing Stiles possessively before adding. “Only you, my love. If we’d never met, I would never have taken a mate, because it could only have ever been you.”

Stiles pulled in an unsteady breath, then whispered. “Will you claim me?”

Peter’s heart tripped over itself before doubling its pace. His hands, which had settled on Stiles’ hips once more, were suddenly tipped with claws and his gums itched with the desire to release his fangs. His eyes, he was sure, were burning alpha red. Every instinct Peter had was demanding he shift. That he take on his - admittedly monstrous - alpha form and f*ck Stiles until no one - least of all Stiles himself - could deny who the younger man belonged to.

But Peter knew he couldn’t do that, and he reined his wolf in. Stiles was carrying twins; there was no way Peter would do anything that might harm any of them. And with as large as Peter was in his shifted form...

No.

It wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.

Which did leave him with a bit of a quandary, as the most common way for an alpha to claim a mate when they were magical - like Stiles - and cement their mate bond was by taking said mate while shifted. If he couldn’t do it that way - and clearly he couldn’t - it made things a bit more complicated.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Peter murmured.

Stiles leaned in until their foreheads touched, rubbing the tips of their noses lightly together. “I trust you.”

Peter huffed in amusem*nt, then rolled his eyes. “As flattering as that is, love...I take it you don’t know what’s involved in a claiming.”

Stiles frowned, sitting back on Peter’s thighs. “It’s a bite, isn’t it? You bite me?”

“Oh, my sweet, naive rybko...” Peter sighed, but he couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “There is biting involved, yes. But, as an alpha, the easiest way would be for me to shift into my alpha form and take you that way. Then, at the pinnacle of things, so to speak, there would be biting.”

“Your...alpha form.” Stiles blinked, eyes growing wide. “You...you have an alpha form, then? Like, a real one?”

“I do.” Peter agreed, tipping his head to one side. “I know not all alphas do, of course, but mine is...quite impressive. More wolf than not, and very large. Standing upright, I’d say I’m close to eight feet tall. My sister, overachiever that she is, can turn into a proper wolf and some people find that more impressive, but I’d argue that my alpha form could rip hers to pieces with little effort. So really, which of us is more impressive is certainly a debatable point.”

The color drained from Stiles’ cheeks, his scent souring quickly, and Peter hastened to reassure him. “I’m not going to take you like that, love. You’re pregnant and I don’t know if it would be safe for the babies.”

“Oh.” Stiles swallowed hard, one hand dropping between them to rest on the curve of his belly. “That’s...good. But if you can’t take me while shifted, then how...?”

He trailed off and Peter considered the options. “There are a few ways. And, really, it depends on how bonded you would like us to be. There are several levels of bond we can choose from, and the claiming method will reflect the level that’s chosen.”

Stiles groaned, irritation flashing across his face. His eyes narrowed and his lips pinched as his frustration visibly mounted. “I hate how ignorant I am. I hate how I just...don’t know things about your world.”

“Hush, love.” Peter soothed, pulling Stiles close and encouraging him to rest his head on Peter’s shoulder. “I’ll pull some books from the library tomorrow for you, so you can start to learn. For tonight, I’ll explain as best I can and, if you want to do more research before making a choice, then we’ll wait. Alright?”

He felt Stiles’ sigh and relax against him, sinking a bit lower in the steaming, fragrant water. Which was good, as the water was deeply soothing. And Peter had to acknowledge once again that Stiles had done a damn good job with the bath; with the magic Peter could feel swirling around him with the water. It had rapidly eased all of the tension in his muscles, and now apparently it was working on Stiles’ muscles as well.

When Stiles finally nodded against his shoulder, Peter pressed a kiss to his hair and resettled them both so that Stiles was seated sideways across his lap rather than straddling it. Only once he had them both settled more comfortably did he speak again.

“A marriage bond is what would be used if my mate were human.” Peter began his explanation. “When I believed you were a witch-kin, it’s what I assumed we would be doing, albeit with a little added ritual magic, given witch-kin are magic-using humans. It would be similar to the bond I have with each of my betas, give or take a little extra depending on the specific version used. We would likely be able to share emotions through it, though it would be low-grade.”

When Stiles said nothing, Peter continued. “Mating bonds are the next step up, usually used for shifter-to-shifter claimings, though they can be used for other non-humans as well. Taking you in my alpha form would result in one of those, unless certain elements were in place to elevate the bond to a higher level. Mating bonds are stronger and have a few added benefits, such as stronger emotion sharing and the ability to track each other through the bond. And, again, depending on the specific version used, there’s the potential for memory sharing as well.”

This time, Stiles made a small sound of acknowledgement. Peter pressed another kiss to Stiles’ hair before finishing the explanation. “The highest level are life or life-mate bonds. They are seldom used, if I’m being honest, unless one of the involved parties is something like a dragon, where there is a massive lifespan disparity involved.”

Stiles made a small, questioning sound, then lifted his head. “Why would that matter?”

“If you’d allow me to finish explaining...” Peter teased, laughing when Stiles stuck his tongue out in response before obligingly settling himself against Peter’s chest once more.

Rolling his eyes, Peter snarked. “As I was saying, life-mate bonds are generally only used when one party has a much longer natural lifespan. Dragons, as I mentioned. Naga. Certain fae creatures. Those bind the life-force of both parties together, which extends the lifespan of the lesser one to the longer lifespan of their partner. It also elevates the bond itself to near-telepathy and sometimes - though not always - allows for power-sharing. Though it’s not without drawbacks.”

“Oh?” Stiles queried, this time without lifting his head from Peter’s shoulder. “What kind of drawbacks?”

“If either party should die, the other will as well.” Peter explained softly. “It’s done because the longer-lived party can’t bear the idea of living without their mate for the extended length of their life, but the caveat is that neither can live without the other once they’re bonded. If death claims one, it will claim both.”

“Oh.” Stiles sounded shocked, which Peter supposed was understandable. “That’s...a lot of devotion. But also, what a terrible risk. I mean, look at me. I’m pregnant. Imagine someone killing you and wiping us all out in a heartbeat; that would be horrific.”

Peter made a grief-stricken sound at the mere thought of losing Stiles and the babies, his arms tightening around the younger man almost without his permission. “Don’t even think about it, love. First off, the bond wouldn’t harm a pregnant person. They would live until the baby or babies were weaned. Only then would the magic of the bond claim them. But it doesn’t matter, because we won’t be using one of those. It’s not an option”

And Peter meant it, too. He couldn’t imagine asking Stiles to do such a thing; to tie his life to Peter’s. Because Peter was the Alpha Wolf of New York City. His life was in constant danger. And while Peter couldn’t imagine living without Stiles now that he’d met him, he wanted Stiles to live a long life, even if he himself was gone. He wanted to know that Stiles would see their children grow up, and their grandchildren. He had made peace with the possibility of his own death years ago, back when he’d still been Talia’s second. He was not ready to make peace with Stiles’ death.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Peter added. “We can use a marriage or a mating bond, though. Whichever one you prefer.”

Stiles sniffled softly, then whispered. “I understand. You have a pack and territory to consider. You can’t risk dying just because you’re mated to a weak, fragile human.”

The worst part, Peter decided as soon as Stiles’ words registered, was that Stiles believed them.

“You’re not weak, nor are you human.” Peter corrected sharply. “With your magic to protect and heal you, you’re no more fragile than I am. Perhaps even less so. But I am a constant target because of my position. And, as I believe I told you once before, I am not willing to allow my life to cost you yours. I couldn’t bear it.”

Stiles lifted his head, those whiskey eyes of his bright and burning when they met Peter’s, his stubborn little mouth set firmly with determination. “Do you think I could bear it, if I lost you?”

“You would have our children.” Peter pointed out. “And their children after them. You would have a whole life ahead of you, free of the supernatural, even, if that’s what you want. You could have everything I’m not capable of giving you, because of who and what I am.” Softly - very softly - Peter explained. “If I die, I want you to have that. I want you to have whatever you want.”

Something - Peter wasn’t sure what - passed behind Stiles’ eyes. Some flicker of emotion, there and gone in an instant. And then Stiles’ chin lifted and he said simply. “I’ve spent my whole life pretending I wasn’t supernatural, but the truth is, I am. This isn’t your world, it’s ours. I’m magic-born, and I don’t know if you know this, but that means I’m going to live for a very long time.”

“Stiles-”

“Don’t interrupt me.” Stiles snapped, bristling a little now as he glared at Peter. Biting his tongue, Peter nodded for Stiles to continue. He could always argue his case when Stiles was done.

Except Stiles’ next words rocked Peter to his core. “There are only three magic-born in the world right now, and I’m one of them. Isaac did some research, you know. The other two? One of them is two hundred and twelve years old, Peter. Two hundred and twelve. And the other is apparently closer to five hundred than four, though the records on her are more imprecise because of her age. She’s nearing the end of her life, supposedly, but how close is anyone’s guess.”

Stiles’ face softened and he cupped Peter’s cheek with one hand, explaining softly. “Do you think I want to live without you for hundreds of years? Because I don’t. And yes, it’s scary to think that if something happened to one of us, the other would pay the price. That’s terrifying. But it’s not even half as scary as the idea of watching you grow old and die while I’m still young. Of knowing I will lose you, and even if it’s not for sixty years, that’s still only, what? A fifth of my life, if not less? And the rest I’d be alone for.”

In a whisper, Stiles finished. “The rest, I would grieve for.”

“I didn’t know.” Peter admitted, because he wanted Stiles to understand that. “I assumed you would have a typical human lifespan. But Stiles, the risk-”

“All of life is a risk.” Stiles said vehemently. “But I know that you’ll fight harder to stay alive if you know your death will cause mine. I know you’ll fight to return to me, if anything should happen, because you want me to live.”

Peter watched as Stiles’ shoulders dropped, his eyes lowering as he added. “I can’t force you to bind your life-force to mine. So if you truly don’t want that, we’ll do one of the others. But you asked what I wanted and it’s this. It’s you, for the rest of my life. And there’s only one way I can have that.”

There was nothing in the world that Peter could deny this man; nothing. Not even this.

“Alright, pet.” He brushed their lips together, murmuring into the soft kiss. “Anything you want.”

Stiles took a trembling breath, then asked. “Now?”

For a moment, Peter almost said yes. But, in the end, he shook his head. “Not in the bath, love. There are several layers to the ritual, all of which I’ll need to be inside of you for. Best we do it on a bed.”

Stiles nodded. “Okay, but...now? Like, we can go upstairs and do it now?”

Peter’s heart warmed at the eagerness Stiles was showing. “You don’t want to wait? Prepare a bit?”

“No.” Stiles shook his head now, quickly. “No, I just want it done. I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine.” He bit his lip, then admitted in a small voice. “And I don’t want you to have time to change your mind. Which I know is selfish of me, but it’s the truth.”

Peter thought maybe he should be annoyed or upset or something, because Stiles was willing to press for it to be now so that Peter would have no way of reconsidering, but he wasn’t. He understood selfish desires. He understood doing something while you could - while you had the advantage - because you couldn’t bear the thought of not being able to do it if you waited and conditions changed; became less favorable. At least Stiles was being honest about it, which was really all Peter could ask for. And when the thing Stiles wanted so much that he was willing to press every advantage he had to get it was Peter himself, well...

...it was a bit hard to be mad, really.

So he dropped a light kiss on Stiles’ bitten lips and murmured. “Now, then. For your peace of mind. And because you deserve to be a little selfish sometimes. Heaven knows I have been.”

Stiles gave Peter a confused, somewhat wary look, so Peter clarified. “It was selfish of me, wasn’t it, to take Isaac so I could have more time with you? And when I realized that you didn’t understand that it was me who had taken him, the way other supernaturals would have, it was selfish of me to set a price on his return anyway. It was selfish of me to finally tell you the truth, because I knew it would hurt you but I couldn’t bear the lie any longer.”

Peter took a small, steadying breath, and added. “I have been selfish where you’re concerned from the day we met, so willing to uproot your life - to take you from the world you’ve always known and bring you into mine, which is so often crueler and harsher - just because I wanted you in a way I had never wanted anyone before. So I won’t begrudge this bit of selfishness on your part, love.”

Stiles laughed damply, then murmured. “Haven’t I been selfish, too? I never insisted on condoms, even knowing I had the potential to conceive, and why? Because if I had, I would have had to tell you I was magic-born. I never bothered with alternate contraception because that would have meant acknowledging my magic and its potential, which I’ve avoided doing for most of my life. I was willing to keep your children from you rather than tell you the truth about what I am. I would have built a life with you on lies, even when you had proven you were unwilling to do the same.”

Stiles cupped Peter’s cheek again, asking in a whisper. “Why do you love me? How can you want me, when I can be so awful?”

Peter’s heart nearly broke at the shattered sound of Stiles’ voice on that question. Determined to reassure Stiles, he curled his fingers around Stiles’ chin and forced Stiles to meet his eyes. Only once their gazes locked did Peter begin to speak.

“I love you for all of the things you are, and all of the things you aren’t.” Peter vowed, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever meant any words as much as he meant these. “I love the part of you that bought my Emissary a bracelet with no strings attached, and the part of you that wept for the death of a pet.”

Stiles tried to drop his chin, but Peter wouldn’t let him, fingers still holding him in place as he continued. “I love the part of you that tied me to a chair because you wanted me and hated me in equal measure, and the part of you that stood toe-to-toe with me and wouldn’t back down, even in the face of my fury.”

When Stiles lowered his eyes, Peter gave his chin a little shake to bring them back up so he could go on. “I love the part of you that fears your own power, and the part of you that I can see wants to learn how to embrace it, despite a lifetime of that fear. I love you when you’re generous, and when you’re selfish, and when you’re being a stubborn brat. I love every single part of you, even the ones I don’t know yet.”

His thumb caught the first tear as it slid down Stiles’ cheek and Peter finished solemnly. “You can be awful, but so can I. You can also be wonderful. And I’ll happily take all the worst parts of you if it means I can have all the best parts, too.”

“Is it lame if I just say same?”

Peter laughed at Stiles’ sheepish reply, shaking his head. “Maybe a little, but I’ll allow it. After all, how can you be expected to come up with something to match such a perfect admission of love?”

Stiles kissed him, laughing into it before murmuring sarcastically. “I love how modest you are.”

“I was recently informed that there is nothing modest about me.” Peter admitted shamelessly. “And I’ve decided to embrace that. I’m afraid you’ll just have to accept that particular shortcoming.”

Stiles giggled, and it was a little wet at the edges, but Peter still thought it was one of the most lovely sounds in the world. “I guess I can do that.” Stiles said, still giggling. “Since I love you and all.”

“Mmmm...good.” Peter leaned in to rub their noses together, then asked. “Do you still want to do this tonight?”

Stiles murmured his agreement, so Peter nodded towards the steps out of the bathing pool. “Then we should head upstairs. Come on, pet. Time for bed.”

He watched as Stiles exited the pool, following close behind. Watched Stiles flick his fingers to dry himself - startled a little when he, too, was suddenly dry - before pulling on his dressing gown. Peter then led the way out to the changing room, where he grabbed his own robe and slipped it on. Then, with the both of them as attired as they were going to get for the night, Peter held out his hand to Stiles. When their fingers were laced together, Peter gently tugged Stiles out of the changing room, and then into the elevator. He pressed the button for 2 and, as the car began to rise, thought about the ritual they were about to do.

There was more than one life-mate bonding ritual, of course - there were multiple forms of all three types of mate bonds - but Peter already knew which version they would be doing. In truth, he hadn’t had to think about it at all before deciding. Once Stiles had said he wanted their life-forces tied together, Peter had made his choice. And maybe it would be better - fairer - if he gave Stiles all the options and let him choose which one he wanted them to do. But if Stiles got to be selfish and insist on a life-mate bond, then Peter was allowed to be selfish about how, exactly, he would be making that claim.

He honestly couldn’t wait.

~*~*~*~

Peter stripped off both their robes the second his bedroom door - their bedroom door, now - was closed behind them. It didn’t take much for him to sweep Stiles into his arms, or to set his lover on the massive canopy bed. He took a moment to admire the look of Stiles there, pale against Peter’s dark bedding. Because he had never intended to take a mate or have children, Peter had never before considered the way pregnancy changed a person’s figure. Now, with Stiles’ body thickening at the hips as his belly curved outward, Peter marveled at how enticing it was, to know that his seed had taken root in Stiles’ womb. To know that he had been the cause of all the changes Stiles’ figure was undergoing.

He followed Stiles down onto the mattress, immediately caging Stiles in beneath his body. Their lips met, hands wandering as skin pressed to skin from thigh to chest. Peter wished he could go slowly. He wished he could savor this reunion; the coming together of their bodies after having been apart. But the truth was, Peter didn’t have the patience for it. Not when he knew what this would culminate in; not when his wolf was straining at the edges of his control, eager to claim Stiles as theirs. Not when he knew that this - a claiming, and a life-mate bond - was what Stiles wanted above all else.

Peter never had been very good at resisting temptation.

So it was both sooner than Peter would have liked and also not nearly soon enough when he finally turned Stiles onto his side and settled himself along his lover’s back. He lined himself up with Stiles’ slick hole and pressed forward, sliding inside in one smooth motion that had Stiles keening and arching back into him. Once his co*ck was fully seated inside the - hotslicktight - clutch of Stiles’ body, Peter lowered his head and pressed a kiss to the nape of Stiles’ neck, panting there for a moment as he fought the urge to f*ck into Stiles over and over again until they were both satiated.

There was a purpose to this union of their bodies, after all.

“Now for the magic portion of our show...” Peter murmured when he finally felt more in control, smiling when it made Stiles snort in amusem*nt. “Ritual words, love. I’ll say them first, then guide you through saying them as well, alright?”

“M’kay.” Stiles agreed breathlessly, his hips making small, circular movements as he f*cked himself ever so slightly on Peter’s co*ck. Peter allowed it since it wasn’t enough to break his concentration, or to get Stiles off before it was time for that.

Pressing another kiss to Stiles’ nape, then nuzzling at his damp hair, he offered the pledge that would allow his magic - and Stiles’ - to form the mating bond between them. Blood would be needed to tie their lives together, but these words were the start of it all and they were words Peter had memorized as a child, when he’d been young enough to still believe in love and happily ever after. He was grateful beyond measure to have found Stiles, so he could say them at last.

“I claim you as my own.” Peter’s voice was low, the faintest rumbling of his alpha voice underlining it all. “I will call you pack from this day forward, because you are my heart. I promise to protect you, and provide for you, and cherish you until my last breath. I tie my life to yours because I cannot bear the thought of being apart. You are mine, now and always.”

Stiles breath hitched as Peter began slowly f*cking him again, and he murmured against Stiles’ ear. “Your turn now, pet. I claim you as my own...”

He trailed off, allowing Stiles to find his voice through the panting and soft sounds of pleasure he was making. “I c-claim you as m-my own.”

“I will call you pack from this day forward...” Peter encouraged, keeping his thrusts smooth and even; designed to drive Stiles higher but not send him over the edge yet.

“I w-will call you pack from th-this day forward, because you are my heart.” Stiles managed more of the words than Peter had offered which pleased him. His clever little mate had been paying attention when Peter said his vows, and remembered at least some of the words. “I promise to...to, uh...to provide fo-”

“Protect.” Peter corrected gently with a rumble against Stiles’ ear. “To protect you, and provide for you, and cherish you until my last breath.”

Stiles moaned softly as Peter’s co*ck slid over his prostate, then managed in a breathy, gasping voice. “I promise to protect you, and provide for you, and cherish you until my last breath.”

“Good, love. You’re doing so good.” Peter praised, speeding up his thrusts, just a bit. “I tie my life to yours because I cannot bear the thought of being apart.”

Stiles keened, one hand clawing at the sheets even as he choked out the next words. “I t-tie my life to yours, bec-cause I cannot bear the thought of being a-ah-apart.”

Peter let his eyes burn red, flexing his jaw as he prepared to let his fangs drop. “You are mine, now and always.”

“You are mine.” Stiles swore, and even through the pleasure that made his words come out thick and syrupy, Peter could hear the fierce possessiveness on these final words. “Now and always.”

Finally f*cking into Stiles in earnest now - sending the both of them hurtling towards release - Peter panted. “I’m going to bite you now, love. It’s probably going to hurt, at least for a moment. Once I’ve done that, you need to bite me as well.”

“Where?” Stiles gasped.

“I’ll give you my wrist.” Peter promised, nuzzling at Stiles’ hair again. “It’s got to be hard, pet. You need to draw blood, because you need to swallow blood. Do you understand?”

Stiles nodded, but that wasn’t enough for Peter; not now. This had to be done correctly or it was all for naught; it wouldn’t take if Stiles didn’t do this. “I need more than that, Stiles. You must drink after you bite. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Stiles gritted out the word, nodding his head again almost frantically. “Yes, yes. Just do it.”

Peter kept f*cking into Stiles even as he angled his head and let his fangs drop. He shifted Stiles slightly - rolled him almost onto his stomach and nudged his head down to bare the back of his neck - before setting his fangs delicately against Stiles’ nape. He focused for a moment on hitting Stiles’ prostate with his co*ck, gratified by Stiles’ pleasure-soaked keening. Peter was hoping the endorphins would help mute the worst of what he was about to do, but it had to be done regardless, so.

Peter closed his eyes, then closed his jaw.

His fangs slid into Stiles’ flesh with terrifying ease. Stiles’ breath caught in his throat, his heart thrumming like a humming bird’s wings, and Peter knew it must hurt. Carefully, he slid his fangs back out and pressed his lips around the ring of small wounds, letting the coppery tang of Stiles’ blood flood across his tongue. He let it pool in his mouth, not yet swallowing. Then, Peter swiftly moved his arm around Stiles’ body, pressing his wrist flush against Stiles’ lips.

Peter felt Stiles’ lips part, soft and a little damp. Then he startled as he felt fangs - fangs Stiles most definitely did not have - press against the thin skin of his wrist. They pierced flesh a heartbeat later and the only reason Peter didn’t swear at the pain was because his mouth was otherwise occupied. He shivered when they slid back out a moment later, replaced by Stiles’ sweet mouth. He sealed his lips around the bite, sucking and swallowing quickly, which Peter took as his cue to do the same.

And as he swallowed that first mouthful, Peter felt something come over him. The magic of the ritual, no doubt, though he hadn’t expected it to feel like this. His vision burned red and he craved. He drank more deeply, feeling Stiles do the same at his wrist, and it was euphoric. He felt dizzy with it, even as his hips drove his co*ck into Stiles’ body over and over again.

Stiles, who was drinking just as deeply. Stiles, whose hand had come up to clutch at Peter’s arm, pulling his wrist harder against Stiles’ mouth. Stiles, who was suddenly clamping down around Peter’s co*ck, his whole body going taut with pleasure as he spilled himself across the sheets. Peter followed him over the edge, grinding his co*ck deep as he felt his knot swelling for the first time in his life.

Because alpha werewolves only knotted when they were shifted...or during a claiming. And as Peter had never claimed a mate - nor had he ever engaged in shifted sex - this was a pleasure he had never known. The way he swelled within Stiles’ body. The way the pleasure seemed to magnify. The way he began spilling his seed in the moment after he realized he could no longer thrust, because they were well and truly stuck.

And as he shivered through what seemed to be a near-endless org*sm, Stiles’ mouth finally released from Peter’s flesh and his mate - his mate - instead panted weakly against the spit-damp skin of Peter’s now-scarred wrist. A heartbeat later, Peter realized there was no more blood filling his mouth. He swiped his tongue over the nape of Stiles’ neck to be sure, and could feel the healed - but scarred - skin there.

He could also feel Stiles. Not physically, though of course he could feel him that way as well, but rather their mating bond. It was strong. The strongest bond Peter had ever felt, to be sure. This was no mere thread of magic tying them together, the way Peter’s bonds with his betas were. In truth, it felt as if it were made of a thousand individual strands of magic, all braided intricately together to form something nigh unbreakable. An instant later, Peter realized it was unbreakable.

Life-mate bonds were the only type of mating bond that were permanent. Once two life-forces were bound together, they could never be unbound. Stiles was his now. Forever.

Pressing a kiss to the scar on his mate’s neck, Peter murmured lovingly. “Mine.”

Stiles hummed sleepily, then murmured. “Yours.” A few seconds later, he added. “Any idea how long you’re gonna be stuck inside of me for? Cause I’m exhausted and I don’t think I can sleep like this.”

Helpless to do anything else, Peter promptly burst out laughing. Stiles was nothing if not authentically himself, and Peter wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

~*~*~*~

By the time Peter’s knot went down - a full fifteen minutes later - Stiles was feeling sore and sticky, in addition to being supremely tired. He knew it was because of how much magic he’d used. Not only by preparing Peter’s bath and drying them both afterwards, but during the ritual itself. He hadn’t anticipated growing fangs, but it had made biting deeply enough to draw blood much easier so Stiles wasn’t about to complain. And he was certain his body had done something to mute the pain of Peter’s bite, which had only stung for a second or two before fading into the heated, demanding need to bite in return, and then to drink.

Yawning, Stiles knew he didn’t have the energy to get up and shower off the sex-related ick. He also didn’t have the patience to wait while the sheets were changed, but the wet spot under him was beyond uncomfortable. So, despite the fact that he knew he’d likely have a magical hangover in the morning, Stiles pushed things a little further and pulled up his power again.

Besides, a headache and tiredness that would fade as soon as he got enough calories into himself was a small price to pay for a good night’s sleep. And Dr. Selt had said he should be using his magic more regularly, in preparation for the twins’ delivery.

He heard Peter make a startled sound from where he was still wrapped around Stiles from behind as Stiles cleaned the both of them - and the bedding - with a small flick of his fingers. The magic was a bit more abrasive than it would have been if Stiles had been less drained, but it wasn’t terrible. Not sandpaper rough as it washed over them, but more like a natural loofah. ‘Exfoliating,’ Stiles decided, even if it had been unintentional.

Around a jaw-cracking yawn, Stiles mumbled. “Talk tomorrow. Sleep now.”

Peter sighed in his ear, his breath ruffling Stiles’ hair, and then Stiles felt him nod. “Alright, love. Tomorrow.”

That was all the permission Stiles needed. His eyes drifted closed and, feeling safe and loved in Peter’s arms, he slipped into sleep with ease.

Chapter 32

Chapter Text

Sunday, January 6th, 2019

Stiles shivered violently even as he forced himself to keep moving forward. The snow was so deep around him - up to his knees, with some drifts even deeper - that it made moving difficult. But he knew he couldn’t stop. Not here; not now. Not unless he wanted to die. The wind bit into him, tearing easily through the thin, plum-colored silk of his dressing gown. He could no longer feel his toes. Or the rest of his feet, for that matter. More snow was falling in fat flakes that landed in his hair and peppered his dressing gown. He thought they ought to be melting when they landed on him but they weren’t.

He knew that wasn’t good. Knew it meant he was far too cold.

He had one hand thrown out for balance, the other cradling the enormous curve of his belly. Carrying twins was no small feat, and Stiles knew he would be moving far faster if not for the added weight. Not to mention the awkward way he had to work to counterbalance his very altered center of gravity. But it was for the twins that he pushed on; that he knew he couldn’t just give up. He had to fight through this deadly cold; this terrible snow; this god-awful storm that was swirling around him.

As he moved between the trees - desperately seeking the safety and warmth of Peter’s house, which he knew he would find if he could just reach the edge of the wooded area - something niggled at the back of Stiles’ mind. A memory of some sort that he couldn’t quite grab onto. Something that was off about the moment he found himself trapped in, miserable and afraid and with mounting desperation to save both himself and his children.

‘And Peter,’ his mind supplied, rather unhelpfully, in Stiles’ opinion, since he had quite enough pressure on him already, thank you very much. And still, his mind added anyway, ‘If I die, Peter dies. If I die, we all die.’

Suddenly, one of his frozen feet caught on something under the snow. A rock, perhaps, or a tree branch. Hell, it might have been a gopher hole, for all Stiles knew. Whatever it was, it sent him pitching forward, onto his hands and knees. He stayed that way for a long moment, panting heavily as his heart jackrabbited in his chest, his face mere inches from the snow. The one upside to his suddenly racing heart was that he felt a little warmer as he forced himself back to his feet so he could keep going.

Stiles managed two steps before realizing something was missing.

He froze, both hands frantically patting his suddenly flat belly. He whirled in a circle, heedless of the snow and the wind and the cold. Caring only about the twins. ‘Where have they gone?’ he wondered, panic clawing at his throat even as some part of his mind said this was all feeling eerily familiar. ‘Where are my babies?’

Suddenly, he heard them crying. Stiles spun again, trying to pinpoint where the sound was coming from. It seemed to echo around him, tossed by the frigid wind. Except it wasn’t echoing, was it? Because there were two babies. He had twins and they were in different places. He turned in place, not sure which way to run; which cry to follow. He wanted to go to both of them, but he couldn’t. He wished Peter was with him, so they could each go to one of the babies, but Stiles was alone.

He had never felt so helpless.

Except that he had. Stopping in place, Stiles struggled to place the growing sense of deja vu. The babies wailed louder for a moment and Stiles thought, ‘They shouldn’t be able to. They should be inside of me. I haven’t given birth yet, have I? Why can’t I remember?’

And then he did remember.

Remembered snow, up to his knees. Remembered a sharp pain in his belly; stabbing and frightening and all things terrible. Remembered his baby gone, before he’d ever known there were two of them. Remembered his mother’s presence at his side, and the way he’d begged her to help him. She had restored the baby to him, then, with just a touch.

‘That was a dream,’ his mind supplied, the truth of it settling over him in the same way it had the last time. ‘And so is this. It has to be. Just a dream.’

And still, the sound of his children crying out tore at his heart, and Stiles wished he knew what the dream was trying to tell him. There was no one to ask this time. His mother was nowhere around, and neither was anyone else. He was alone. Alone in the seemingly endless expanse of snowy forest that stretched across parts of Peter’s property. Though those woods were far from endless - at least not in real life - caged as they were at the edges by the city that had sprouted up around the estate.

And then, as the wind swirled and shrieked around him, and the twins’ cries continued from somewhere in the nameless distance, Stiles heard another sound.

A howl.

It started in a staccato, cutting in and out as if filtering through a bad connection. It gained strength and clarity as it went on, but not as much as Stiles would have expected. Something about the sound was too high, somehow. As if there were a whine buried under the sound somewhere. Fear closed around his heart as he wondered what could make Peter - and it had to be Peter, didn’t it? - sound like that. As if he were afraid, or perhaps in great pain.

Before Stiles could pinpoint the howl, the fear closing around his heart had him startling into wakefulness.

He sat straight up in bed, panting and shaking all over. A heartbeat later, Peter’s arms were around him as the alpha murmured soothingly in his ear. Stiles’ hand crept down to his belly, pressing against the curve of it. Life, safe as ever beneath his skin. He let himself sink into Peter’s embrace, still trembling, and squeezed his eyes shut as he fought to bring his breathing back under control. He was safe. The babies were safe. Peter was safe.

It had only been a dream.

And still, as Stiles’ racing heart slowed, part of his ever-busy mind was cataloging the details of the dream. So often, a dream was full of nonsensical things. But prophetic dreams - dreams of warning, specifically - were often full of clues, if one knew how to spot them. And Stiles had always had a sharp and analytical mind.

One hand still resting protectively over his belly, curled tightly against Peter and held secure in the alpha’s arms, Stiles knew he had to figure this out as quickly as possible.

‘I will protect you,’ he vowed silently, to both the twins and Peter. ‘At all costs.’

~*~*~*~

Tuesday, January 8th, 2019

Lydia was directing some of Peter’s betas - and f*ck but Stiles was probably going to have to learn all of their names at some point, now that he was Peter’s mate - in decorating the ballroom. It was less elaborate than what had been done for the masquerade ball, but every bit as elegant. There were twisting lengths of blue and pink gauze, wrapped with satin ribbons of the opposite color to bind them in their narrowed shape, draped across the ceiling like streamers at a middle school dance. There were cream-colored and silver and gold balloons up near the ceiling, scattered as if they were stars in the night sky. And there were also going to be pretty centerpieces made of some miniature variety of white roses and baby’s breath on each table, though they wouldn’t arrive until the morning of the shower.

In the meantime, there was also a chair - large enough that it could have been classed as a throne if it had been made of anything other than wicker - that was painted white, with a plush white cushion on the seat. There were more balloons - once again cream, and silver, and gold - secured to the chair. A balloon arch made of the same colors and wrapped with alternating stripes of blue and pink satin ribbon was being placed at the entrance, while a second one - perfectly identical to the first - was being placed just behind the wicker not-throne. Stiles had asked about the longevity of the balloons - concerned they would deflate between now and then - and Lydia had explained that Marin had placed a stasis-charm on them that would prevent both popping and deflation. This would allow them to set up everything in advance, which would be less stressful for everyone.

The entire room looked lovely, and Stiles had every faith that the food - including the cake - would be equally perfect, come Saturday. Lydia was nothing if not meticulous in her planning.

Stiles wouldn’t have bothered her while she was working on things if it hadn’t been so important.

“Is everything alright?” Lydia asked, setting down her clipboard on a nearby table and giving him the full measure of her attention. “I thought maybe you were just peeking in out of curiosity, but you don’t care enough about things like decorations to hover like this so it must be something else.”

“I...wanted to talk to you. About something.” Stiles admitted haltingly. “Privately, I mean. And I need you to promise that it’ll stay between us. I don’t want Peter - or anyone else - to worry.”

Lydia’s brow furrowed, green eyes piercing into Stiles’ own for a long moment before she said. “I promise. But a ballroom full of werewolves isn’t the place for a private conversation. I don’t have much left to do here and then I’m free for the afternoon. We should go to lunch.”

Stiles considered that for a moment, then admitted. “Peter’s likely to send a guard with us. Well, with me.”

“Probably.” Lydia agreed, lips curving up smugly. “But I can order the guard to maintain an unobtrusive distance and I know you can set up a privacy spell. So we should be fine.”

When Stiles nodded, Lydia scooped her clipboard back up and nodded towards the door. “Go on, then, and let Peter know we’ll be going out. I’ll come and find you when I’m done and we’ll go.”

So Stiles went.

~*~*~*~

“Dreams of portent aren’t something I’d normally expect from someone magic-born.”

Stiles shrugged, listlessly pushing his salad around his plate with a fork. “I’m expecting. Deceased witches often send warning dreams to expectant descendents, if there’s danger coming.”

Lydia hummed consideringly, studying Stiles over the rim of her glass as she sipped her wine. Finally, she said. “I’ll give you that one. And since we know this dream was sent to you, specifically, by your mother, I have to ask. What do you think it means?”

“That the babies are in danger.” Stiles admitted, fear making him feel vaguely nauseous. “Originally I thought maybe she was warning me away from Peter, and now...”

When he trailed off, Lydia pinned him with those piercing green eyes of hers. “Now?”

“Now, I’m almost certain of it.” Stiles swallowed hard. “The dreams stopped completely when I left Peter’s house, and they’re back to being nightly now that I’ve returned.”

Lydia nodded slowly. “I suppose that’s one way to interpret that. But Stiles, Peter has a lot of enemies. It’s possible that the dreams don’t mean you should be away from Peter, but just that the danger is stemming from the fact that Peter is the father of your children. So of course when Peter was denying the babies, that danger would all but vanish, and thus so would the dreams.”

Setting his fork down, Stiles said. “That’s what I’m saying, Lyds. Clearly she’s warning me to stay away from Peter, because being with him puts the babies in danger.”

For a long moment, there was silence. Finally, Lydia asked. “Are you planning to leave?”

“No!” The word burst out with such vehemence that Lydia’s eyes widened in surprise, and Stiles felt his cheeks suffuse with embarrassed color even as he muttered. “No. I just don’t know what to do. I want to understand the warning better so I can be prepared for whatever’s coming.”

There was another stretch of silence, then Lydia tipped her head at him. Softly, she asked. “What are you really afraid of, Stiles?”

Blinking back tears, Stiles admitted thickly. “If Peter thinks, for even an instant, that proximity to him is putting us in danger, he would send us away. I know he would. And I can’t bear that. I can’t. So I need to figure this out on my own. I need to know how to protect us. All of us.”

Lydia took a slow breath, but nodded. “Alright. Dream portent isn’t exactly my forte, but it’s not far off, so I’ll do the best I can. You said there was snow, right?”

“Yeah.” Stiles agreed. “A lot of it. Knee-deep, at least, though it had been blown into deeper drifts in places so it’s hard for me to say exactly.”

Lydia tapped her perfectly manicured nails against the tabletop for a moment, then sighed. “You were pregnant at first and then not?”

This time, Stiles nodded. “Heavily pregnant, and then not.”

“And your due date?”

“May tenth.”

Lydia hummed again, brow furrowing in thought. “We’re unlikely to have snow that far into spring. And you stop being pregnant in the dream. Maybe you won’t have to worry until next winter, then.”

“That’s a pretty advanced warning.” Stiles pointed out. “Maybe it’s a two-part danger?”

“You mean like you have a first encounter when there’s snow, and then it becomes danger-danger after the babies are born?” When Stiles nodded, Lydia sighed again, shrugging. “Possible, I suppose. Could also be the reverse, where you encounter right after the babies are born and then there’s no proper danger until we have snow again next winter.”

Stiles braced his elbows on the table, rubbing soothingly at his temples where a headache was building. “It’s not just the babies, either. The way Peter was howling in the dream sounded so wrong. Like he was in pain.”

“And you’re certain it was Peter?” Lydia asked, still frowning. “I’d be more inclined to think the howling was coming from the threat, rather than Peter.”

“It was layered with the twins crying.” Stiles explained, trying to help her understand his logic. “So it makes the most sense that it was Peter.”

“I dunno.” Lydia swallowed the last of her wine, looking uneasy. “Something about it doesn’t sit right with me. And while I’ll keep my promise, I’ll add that I think you should tell Peter. Maybe he’ll see something we’re missing, or something will mean something to him that it just doesn’t to us.”

Stiles nodded, tongue curling around the words he knew Lydia wanted to hear. “I’ll think about it.”

And while that was undoubtedly true - with the dream coming nightly again, he thought of little else - Stiles also knew he wouldn’t tell Peter about it. The warning was for him, so he would handle it.

Somehow.

~*~*~*~

Thursday, January 10th, 2019

Stiles didn’t like to make the same mistake twice. His preference, as a general rule, was to make entirely new mistakes. Because mistakes, in his opinion, were how you learned. So making them wasn’t inherently bad, unless you were repeating them. If you were making the same mistake again, it meant you hadn’t learned. So Stiles typically did his best not to repeat mistakes.

Sometimes, however, there were exceptions.

He was curled up in one of the many parlors - or were they drawing rooms or morning rooms or some other sort of room entirely? Stiles wasn’t sure - with a book and a mug of raspberry leaf tea, and a plate of dry cookies that were perfect for dunking. He liked this particular room because it was done in deep, autumn tones and those tended to suit his coloring. In fact, Stiles liked it so much that he was considering asking Peter if it could be his room. Not his bedroom, obviously, but his drawing room. As in, a room that was just his for when he needed space, and peace and quiet. Or to entertain in, if he chose to have company.

At the moment, it was peace and quiet that Stiles was enjoying. Isaac was using the gym facilities downstairs, and Stiles had elected to take the opportunity to relax a little. Unwind. Chill.

When the door opened, he raised his eyes slowly from his book, wondering who it was and whether they wanted the room, or Stiles himself.

He met green eyes set in a handsome face he remembered quite clearly, then watched panic wash over the man’s features. “S-sorry.” He stammered, already taking a half-step backwards, towards the doorway he’d just passed through. “I’m leaving.”

“Wait.” Stiles said, setting his book aside quickly even as he swung his legs off the couch so he was sitting properly instead of sideways. “It’s Jordan, isn’t it? I’d like to talk to you.”

“I’m not supposed to be around you.” Jordan took another half-step back, looking uneasy. “The Alpha Wolf made that perfectly clear.”

Stiles’ lips curved up into a humorless smile and he said. “Yes, well. Circ*mstances have changed. And I’d really like to speak to you.” He gestured to a chair near him, adding. “I don’t think upsetting Peter’s pregnant mate is a good idea, so if you don’t mind...”

Jordan blanched at that, but he shuffled closer. He sank down onto the chair, tipping his head in the same deferential way he had to Peter the first time Stiles had met him. Looking uncomfortable, he mumbled. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be alone with you.”

“I’ll deal with Peter, if it comes down to it.” Stiles said, waving off Jordan’s concern. “Is Jordan your first name, or your last?”

“First.” Jordan cleared his throat, wiping his hands on his suit. The same one he’d worn the last time Stiles had met him, which made Stiles wonder if it was the only nice suit Jordan owned. “My last name is Parrish.”

Stiles nodded slowly. “Ah. I’m Stiles, though I’m sure you’re already aware of that.” Tipping his head to one side and keeping his voice soft and nonthreatening, Stiles asked. “Is Peter aware you’re a cop?”

Jordan’s head snapped up and Stiles offered him a small smile along with an explanation. “I noticed the first time we met. You stand like a cop, which was obvious to me because my dad’s a sheriff.”

“Oh.” Jordan shifted restlessly, but nodded. “He knows. He, uh...seems to be amused by that fact, when he’s not being annoyed by it.”

“Hmmm. You don’t really see supernatural cops.” Stiles said, because it was true. “But I can’t see Peter allowing a cop into his house unless they were supernatural, so.”

Since supernaturals were outside the jurisdiction of all police forces except the Hunters, there was no reason for the police to concern themselves with supernaturals or their affairs. Some still tried, of course, but as a rule they left each other alone. So there tended to be a very strict divide that resulted in a noticeable lack of supernaturals becoming cops.

Jordan shrugged, still looking uncomfortable. “I wasn’t born supernatural. I became a cop before I realized my status had changed. I didn’t want to quit, so.”

“Makes sense.” Stiles allowed, still studying Jordan carefully. “I’m curious about what you’re doing all tangled up with the Alpha Wolf of New York City. Are you a werewolf?”

Jordan shook his head. “No. No, I’m a hellhound.”

Stiles blinked rapidly in surprise, his lips parting on a soft gasp. Hellhounds were almost as rare as magic-born were, and Stiles had never expected to meet one. “Well. That’s...impressive, honestly. Why are you here?”

Another restless change of position, then Jordan admitted. “I keep Peter informed about certain things.”

That made Stiles sit up straighter, his eyes narrowing. “Why?” Because Jordan didn’t seem like the sort of person who would be a dirty cop, and Stiles had never liked things he didn’t understand.

Jordan’s mouth opened, tongue curling around a response. Before he could speak, however, a sharp voice from the doorway interrupted. “You’re not supposed to be near him.”

Jordan jumped to his feet and turned, his cheeks suffusing with a deep blush and his eyes flashing a strange orange color. Voice little more than breath, he managed a single word. “Sorry.”

“I requested his company.” Stiles said, getting carefully to his feet as well, since his ever-growing belly made him even clumsier than usual. “That’s not a problem for you, is it?”

Derek scowled at Stiles, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s going to be a problem for Peter. Which you know just as well as I do.”

Stiles shrugged. “I’m not worried about Peter.” He flicked his eyes back to Jordan, whose eyes were darting between Derek and the floor. It was as if he didn’t want to be caught looking but couldn’t help himself. Even more intrigued now, Stiles asked. “Jordan, I assume you know Derek?”

The blush that had mostly receded from Jordan’s cheeks came back in an instant and he nodded, eyes firmly locked on the floor now.

Interesting.

Stiles looked at Derek, who was studiously looking at a spot just a little to the left of Jordan as he said tersely. “I was sent to tell you that Peter is ready for you. He’s in his office.”

“Of course.” Jordan turned and offered Stiles a quick bow. “Alpha-Mate Hale. I hope I was able to answer your questions to your satisfaction.”

“All but the one we were interrupted on.” Stiles agreed, shooting Derek an annoyed look before adding. “But I’m sure we’ll speak again in the future. Best not to keep Peter waiting, so I’ll let Derek take you up to his office.”

Derek growled softly, stopping only when Stiles glared at him with glowing gold eyes. “I’m not taking him to Peter’s office.” He snapped, looking petulant. “Jordan knows the way.”

And that was interesting, too. Pressing, Stiles said. “Surely Peter doesn’t want Jordan wandering the house unattended, Derek. You should escort him.”

Derek’s eyes flicked to Jordan before darting away again. Scowling, he muttered. “No.”

Stiles clicked his tongue in disapproval, though his mind was racing. Derek hadn’t disobeyed a direct order from him since the day Stiles had gotten dizzy after swimming. And this was a very strange one for the beta to dig his heels in over. “Allow me to rephrase that. Either you escort him, or I will. And if I do it, I’m going to take the time to explain to Peter why.”

Derek - much to Stiles’ surprise - actually bared his fangs at Stiles. His eyes were burning blue as he rasped. “Do what you have to.”

A heartbeat later, Derek was gone. Stiles blinked, then muttered. “Well. Someone’s testy.”

“He doesn’t like to be around me.” Jordan whispered, looking a bit anguished over that fact. He drummed up a weak smile for Stiles and finally answered his last question. “I help Peter because Derek saved my life, an action he now seems to regret.”

Shaking his head as if to clear it, Jordan added. “You don’t need to take me up to Peter’s office. I really can see myself there. And I’d never force my presence on Derek, so please don’t be too hard on him for refusing to do as you asked.”

“Right.” Stiles studied Jordan for another few seconds before shaking his head and waving the man towards the doorway. “Go on, then. Peter isn’t known for his patience, after all.”

Jordan offered another bow before leaving the room. Stiles watched him go thoughtfully. He still didn’t understand everything that had just happened, but one thing was certain: Stiles had a lot to think about.

~*~*~*~

When Peter joined Stiles in bed, the expression on his face told Stiles all he needed to know. Because of that, he started the conversation differently than he’d planned to. “You should know I’m a curious person.”

The scowl Peter wore softened into something less angry and a little more confused. “I’m aware of that, yes. We need to talk about-”

“So you can imagine how I felt.” Stiles broke in, not wanting to give Peter a chance to chastise him before he was able to explain. “When I realized Jordan was a cop during our first meeting.”

Peter’s lips parted slightly, his brows smoothing out. “You...figured that out. I thought he was only in the White Room with you for a few minutes that day.”

“Not even.” Stiles agreed, shrugging. “He’d only walked in like a minute and a half before you showed up. But he holds his body the way my dad does, so it wasn’t hard to figure out.”

“I see.” Peter sighed and began stripping off his suit, carefully draping the various layers and pieces over a nearby chair. “Is that why you chose to speak to him today, despite knowing I wouldn’t like it?”

“Is that why you don’t like it?” Stiles shot back. When Peter simply raised an eyebrow at him, Stiles deflated a little and admitted. “I was worried about you, okay? I wanted to know why a cop was talking to you. So when I saw the opportunity to question him...”

Peter sighed, and his next words were both weary and exasperated. “You just couldn’t resist. But honestly, Stiles, you need to be more careful. The reason I don’t want Jordan near you is because I don’t trust him.”

“Why not?”

Peter raised a sardonic brow, saying dryly. “He’s a cop. Moreover, he chose to remain a cop even once he realized he’d become a supernatural being. He’s chosen the human world over ours.”

And really, that was enough to explain to Stiles how Peter felt about Jordan. Because if there was one thing Stiles knew, it was how Peter felt about supernaturals who held themselves apart from the supernatural world. It was something that had been a small point of contention between them when Peter had believed Stiles was merely a human who had a small measure of magical ability. A witch-kin who chose to live wholly in the human world had irked Peter, but not much.

A hellhound, on the other hand...

Well, that was a bit like Stiles doing it as a magic-born. And Stiles damn well knew how Peter felt about that. It was a good thing, honestly, that Stiles had decided to take Isaac’s advice and embrace both his magic and the supernatural world he should always have been a part of, because Peter would have been exceptionally unhappy if Stiles had continued trying to hold himself apart from it all. Deciding he needed to try a different tactic, Stiles approached the conversation from a new angle.

“He told me Derek saved his life.”

Peter sighed, approaching the bed - nude - and sitting on it, beside Stiles. “He did. Though, in Derek’s defense, he had no idea Jordan was a cop at the time.”

Stiles frowned at that. “I’d hope Derek wouldn’t have let someone die just because they were a cop.” When Peter shrugged, looking unbothered, Stiles huffed in annoyance and pressed. “How did he save Jordan’s life?”

Something strange passed behind Peter’s eyes, catching Stiles’ attention. ‘There’s more here...much more...’

“Peter, c’mon...” Stiles asked softly, making his eyes wide and pleading. “Help me understand.” When Peter looked like he might refuse, Stiles added. “No more secrets, remember?”

Peter growled lowly, but nodded. “Have you seen Derek’s wolf-eyes?”

Stiles frowned at the question, but nodded. “Uh...yeah? More than once. Why?”

“A werewolf’s wolf-eyes are reflective of...certain things.” Peter explained, and he looked almost sad. “Their color, specifically.”

Stiles blinked slowly, then asked. “Is this about why Derek’s eyes changed color? Because the day I came here to give you a massage, Derek’s wolf-eyes were a golden color, like Cora’s. But they’ve definitely been blue every time I’ve seen them since our month started.”

“They’ll remain blue until the day they burn alpha-red.” Peter said. “It happens when a werewolf kills. No one really knows why - there are several different theories about it - but it’s irreversible.”

Stiles swallowed hard, thinking about the fact that sometime in that three month window between Stiles’ first meeting with Peter and the start of their month together, Derek had killed someone. It was a heavy burden to carry, no matter why it had happened. Stiles imagined it weighed quite heavily on Derek’s mind. It helped explain why he wouldn’t want to be around Jordan, too. If he had killed someone while saving Jordan’s life...

...how did you even begin to reconcile those two things? How did you weigh one against the other? It was a lot to have to carry.

When Peter stayed silent, Stiles pressed again. “Peter, please. Just tell me what happened.”

Peter blew out a slow breath, then shrugged. “Derek was leaving a show at a gallery. It was late, and he’d chosen to drive himself rather than take one of my cars. I’ve asked him not to do that, but he’s stubborn.”

Stiles made a small sound of acknowledgement, and Peter continued. “He’d had to park a short walk from the gallery, because...well. You know how parking is in the city. He stumbled across Jordan and another man, who had stabbed Jordan with a silver knife.”

“Silver?”

At Stiles’ curiosity-laced inquiry, Peter nodded. “Silver won’t kill a hellhound, you understand, but it does send them into a death-like slumber, for as long as it stays within their body.”

“Jesus.” Stiles muttered. “Why was this guy after Jordan in the first place?”

“Supposedly Jordan doesn’t know.” Peter’s tone said he didn’t fully believe that. “Said he saw the guy skulking around in the alley and, being a cop, went to ask questions. The guy shot him and then, when Jordan revealed himself as a hellhound, the man stabbed him with the silver knife.”

“The hell was he walking around with a silver knife for?” Stiles asked, because that was highly suspicious behavior for anyone who wasn’t actively hunting something that was damaged by silver. “Like, if he wasn’t targeting Jordan specifically, why have that? But if he shot Jordan, he obviously didn’t know he was a hellhound, so then why carry the silver blade?”

“All questions I’d like the answer to myself.” Peter admitted, a disgruntled look on his face. “Anyway, Derek managed to slit the man’s throat before he was able to get another shot off, which was a good thing because it turns out the gun was loaded with wolfsbane bullets. He thought he was too late to save Jordan until he pulled the knife out and Jordan woke up.”

“Lucky Jordan.” Stiles murmured. “So why does Derek have his panties in a bunch about the whole thing?”

Peter shrugged. “Derek is an enigma, Stiles. He is frequently broody and over-sensitive about things that are of little consequence. Things like the color of his wolf-eyes. Accordingly, I’ve done my best to keep Jordan and Derek apart but they do run into each other now and then.”

Stiles hummed, still turning the puzzle of it all over in his mind.

He was drawn from his thoughts a moment later by Peter’s lips on his neck. And really, things with Derek and Jordan would keep for the moment. So he let Peter pull him into his arms, giving into the desire the alpha always made him feel.

Chapter 33

Chapter Text

Friday, January 11th, 2019

Stiles was sitting on a stool at the island, sipping one of his two daily cups of raspberry leaf tea and watching Marin cook. She was quick and efficient and Stiles liked watching her work. She never seemed to mind an audience, either; never shooed him out or complained about his presence. They didn’t always talk when sharing the kitchen, often falling into a companionable silence, and Stiles enjoyed her company. Isaac was still asleep, which was unsurprising given it wasn’t yet eight in the morning. Stiles himself was barely awake, his thoughts drifting sort of aimlessly in the bacon and egg scented peace of the kitchen. Because of that, the sound of Marin’s voice startled Stiles out of his head.

“-sorry, what?” He asked, shooting her an apologetic look. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s alright.” Marin was drying her hands on a dish towel, looking faintly amused. “I ought to have made sure I had your attention before asking you a question. I am fully aware of how your mind tends to wander.”

Stiles snorted at that. “Yeah, well.” He sipped his tea again, then asked. “So what was the question?”

Marin offered him a small smile, then asked mildly. “I simply wondered when you were planning to relieve me of my duties.”

“What?”

“As emissary.” Marin clarified, raising an eyebrow at him. “I know it won’t be right away, obviously. You need time to settle into your role as Peter’s mate first. And of course I’d expect you to wait at least until the twins are born, if not weaned. But if you give me a rough timeline, we can tailor your training to match. There’s more to being an emissary than magic, after all.”

Stiles was gaping at Marin. He knew he was. He could feel his mouth hanging open, and how wide his eyes had gotten. He just wasn’t sure what the hell he was supposed to say. Or do. Or anything.

Marin stared at him, concern creeping slowly across her face. Finally, she asked. “Stiles? Are you alright?”

“I, uh...” Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly, then admitted. “I’m not sure.”

Marin’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Licking his lips nervously, Stiles said. “I wasn’t planning on being anything other than Peter’s mate. That already feels like a huge adjustment. When you add the twins on top of it...well, I just don’t think I want any added responsibilities.”

“Oh.” Marin’s eyes seemed impossibly sad in that moment, but she nodded. “I understand. Thank you for being honest with me.”

Uneasy now, Stiles asked. “Do you not want to be Peter’s emissary? If you want to quit...”

When Stiles trailed off uneasily, Marin’s lips curved up, but her eyes were still dark and sad. “Being an emissary is a large commitment. Our magic helps tether the alpha - and thus the pack - to their humanity. We can’t simply give notice and quit. Not unless we want to risk the pack going feral. And since all emissaries take a vow to help maintain the balance of magic and nature, we simply can’t take that sort of risk.”

She sighed wearily, rubbing at her forehead for a moment before offering him another sad smile. “I was gratified when Deucalion was killed, as he’d become increasingly unhinged in his last few years. I did what I could to control him, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. And in my gratitude, I offered my services to Peter. Temporarily, you understand. Just until he found a suitable replacement, which he agreed to since he said he didn’t trust me. I had been Deuc’s emissary, after all.”

“I’m sure Peter trusts you now.” Stiles interjected. “You’ve been his emissary for years.”

“Yes, over ten.” Marin agreed. “I offered because Peter was a new alpha, and it was extremely important that he be stabilized and tethered to his humanity with an emissary. I was grateful to be free of Deuc, and I didn’t want Peter to go feral. So a temporary post seemed like the best thing for everyone. Except Peter has never found a replacement for me, and I cannot just leave, as I said.”

“But you want to.” Stiles whispered, something in him smarting a little at that. He considered Marin a friend, and it hurt to know she wanted to leave even if the logical part of him knew it had nothing to do with him.

“I have family.” Marin explained, shrugging. “A brother. Parents. Being emissary to the Alpha Wolf of New York City was a prestige I couldn’t turn down, but it took me away from everything and everyone I had ever known. And so long as I am Peter’s emissary, my place is here. But I miss them. I miss my home. I won’t risk Peter going feral, but when I realized you had magic - and just how strong it was - I hoped...”

She trailed off, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. If you don’t wish to become his emissary, there’s nothing else to be said about it.”

Stiles felt guilt coil around his insides. He couldn’t be Peter’s emissary - didn’t want the expectations and duties that came with such a position - but maybe he could help Marin anyway. “I’ll talk to Peter. See if we can find a replacement for you. You shouldn’t be forced to stay if you don’t want the position anymore.”

“I took a vow.” Marin said, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did; maybe Stiles just didn’t understand this any better than he understood most of the supernatural world. “And Peter distrusts everyone else even more than he distrusts me. He hasn’t found a replacement in more than ten years. I doubt he’ll do so now.”

“Right.” Stiles murmured. And he understood what Marin was saying. But still, this bothered Stiles and he knew he couldn’t leave it alone. He would just have to approach the matter carefully, that was all.

And hey, Stiles had always liked a challenge.

~*~*~*~

Saturday, January 12th, 2019

Stiles was dressed with the utmost care. He allowed Cora’s fussing largely because he understood that there were a great many things he didn’t understand. So he let her dress him as she liked. Slipped on the black maternity pants without protest. Accepted the alpha-red sweater with its high turtleneck and pulled it on without complaint. The color mattered, she’d explained while helping him put on his boots because bending over to put on shoes was no longer an easy task. There was tradition to consider, or so she said.

No one else would wear red to this event, unless they were also an alpha’s mate. Not because of the baby shower, but because it was also serving as Stiles’ Presentation. Alphas would wear black; their mates would wear red. No one else would wear either color. It was a tangible show of solidarity; a way to let Stiles know who in the room shared his position. And it was rooted in tradition that dated back hundreds of years; tradition that Stiles was now a part of.

“It seems like an awful lot of fuss.” Stiles murmured as he rode the elevator down to 2L with Cora. “I don’t know any of these people, after all. I’m not part of this world.”

“You are now.” Cora said, giving him an encouraging smile when he turned wide, panicked eyes on her. “You’ll be fine, Stiles. One of us will be at your side at all times. Myself, Uncle Peter, Derek, Lydia, Marin...none of us will leave you unattended. Mostly all you’ll need to do is sit in a big chair and smile graciously as everyone offers you their congratulations. And you get to open gifts.”

“Gifts.” Stiles managed hoarsely as the elevator came to a stop.

“Yeah, for the babies.” Cora gestured for Stiles to exit the elevator car first. “It is a baby shower, after all. I’m pretty sure those feature gifts in the human world, too.”

Stiles swallowed hard, stopping outside the ballroom doors. He was arriving late, so to speak. Cora would slip inside, then Stiles would enter a few minutes after. Peter would be waiting for him just inside the doors and would lead Stiles to the chair Cora had mentioned. It was all very nerve-wracking. “We don’t even know the babies’ genders yet.”

“Wouldn’t matter if you did.” Cora said, shrugging. “Wolves don’t tell anyone outside of the immediate family and inner circle of the pack until after the children are born. You’ll likely get things for both genders as well as plenty of neutral stuff. Anything that doesn’t work for the twins will be expected to go to future children. As a rule, we only have baby showers for the couple’s firstborn, so.”

Stiles managed a single, trembling breath, then shot Cora a somewhat frantic look when she reached for the door, grabbing her arm and half-shouting. “Wait!”

Wide eyed, Cora turned back to him. “Jesus, Stiles. Breathe, would you?” She pried his hand off her arm, then gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s going to be alright. I promise. Peter will make sure of it.”

Stiles wished that was more reassuring. And it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Peter to protect and take care of him, because he absolutely did. It was just that this was Peter’s world. Nothing about it was frightening to Peter in the way that it was to Stiles. This was normal for Peter. Expected. He had probably been to a dozen Presentations and just as many - if not more - supernatural baby showers. And true, he had been a guest rather than a host at those events, but he still had a far better idea than Stiles did of how this was going to play out.

And hell, Peter had been around these things for nearly his whole life, even before becoming an alpha. He’d been around them before he was even Talia’s second, when he’d been just a child himself. He would have been present when Talia’s mate - Dominic, Stiles reminded himself - had his Presentation. And he would have been there when Talia had her baby shower for her twins.

Still, Stiles didn’t protest again when Cora moved towards the ballroom doors. He watched her slip inside, doing his best to control his breathing and his heartbeat. It wouldn’t do to walk into a room full of supernaturals while in the midst of a full-blown panic attack. He reminded himself that Peter would be with him when he entered the ballroom, acting as his escort. He reminded himself that Cora would be there, and Marin, and Ethan, and Danny, and Lydia, and Isaac. He had a support system. He wasn’t alone.

Stiles had exchanged vows with Peter. He had made further promises - implied though they might have been - to Peter when exchanging those vows. Because Peter was the Alpha Wolf of New York City, and Stiles was now his mate. It was a role Stiles had willingly accepted, and that included all that the role entailed. So as much as this was absolutely terrifying, Stiles was just going to have to put on his big boy panties and deal with it.

The door opened and Peter was standing there, dressed in a black-on-black suit. The only color was the burning alpha red of Peter’s eyes. Stiles knew Peter would maintain that partial shift until Stiles was seated, as a show of authority and power. Peter held out his hand to Stiles, silent but with a single raised eyebrow.

The challenge in that eyebrow was enough to spur Stiles into motion. He settled his hand in Peter’s and allowed himself to be led into the ballroom. The guests were gathered to either side, forming an aisle of sorts for Stiles and Peter to pass down. Stiles kept his chin up, allowing his own eyes to glow golden as he walked at Peter’s side down the length of the ballroom. The balloon-laden wicker chair seemed miles away when there were so many pairs of eyes locked on him, but Stiles refused to be cowed. He refused to appear weak.

It was one thing for Cora - or even Peter - to know that he was anxious. It was another thing entirely for all of these many strangers to know. That, Stiles would not allow. He would never shame Peter in such a way. All any of these people would see was the haughty tilt of Stiles’ chin, and the proud set of his shoulders, and the glowing power lighting his eyes. They would see that Peter’s chosen mate - the bearer of his children - was strong.

They would see that Stiles belonged at Peter’s side, and they would see none of his doubts about if that were actually true.

When they finally reached the chair, Stiles allowed Peter to turn him so they were facing their guests. He stayed standing, knowing Peter was supposed to present him before he sat.

Peter raised their joined hands, dropped fang, tossed his head back, and howled. The sound echoed eerily through the cavernous ballroom for several excruciatingly long seconds.

Then, all of the guests erupted in a cacophony of sound.

In truth, Stiles had been expecting mild applause. Some polite clapping, really; the sort people gave during golf tournaments. He had not expected cheering, or howling, or the loud wolf-whistles. He hadn’t expected the sheer volume of sound that crashed around them like a wave, as if every person present had been personally vested in Peter taking a mate.

Peter leaned in, his breath hot against Stiles’ ear, and whispered. “Lydia received much the same reaction at her Presentation. Love matches are rare in our circles, and so are widely celebrated.”

Stiles felt his cheeks flush, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. Forget looking haughty and proud; Stiles was happy, dammit. Because Peter loved him, and everyone in the ballroom knew it. He didn’t think there could be anything better than that.

~*~*~*~

Stiles was allowed to sit and relax as everyone mingled and ate canapes and hors d’oeuvres. Peter stayed with him for a bit, softly pointing out other alphas - and their mates - and explaining who they were. What species each of them were - because they weren’t all wolves - and what parts of the city - and its outlying suburbs - they controlled, or what city they were from if they weren’t from the immediate area. There were several from nearby cities, after all. Philadelphia, for instance, and Boston. Hartford and Providence. There were even a couple of Alpha Wolves, specifically, who had made the trip from further out - Detroit and Chicago and Indianapolis - as a sign of respect for Peter’s position. One had come all the way from New Orleans for the occasion.

Another had come from Daytona, though that Alpha was actually Peter and Talia’s cousin, so Stiles figured it at least made sense that she had traveled so far.

Then, when Stiles’ stomach rumbled, Peter dropped a kiss on the top of his head and promised to track down all his favorites from among the food offerings. He left Stiles seated in his designated spot and Stiles would have been more nervous except he knew that no one was supposed to approach him until a bit later, when he and Peter would receive personal congratulations from each guest. That would be after the cake was served, but before Stiles and Peter opened the gifts. Cora and Lydia had run through the itinerary with him several times, so Stiles was reasonably confident about the timeline, at least.

Of course, the rule about people approaching him didn’t include family, or those who were considered inner circle in either Stiles or Peter’s lives. So when Lydia approached, Stiles greeted her with a wide smile, full of all the genuine warmth he felt for her. She looked radiant in her red dress, her hair pulled up into an elegant pile of curls on top of her head and a pair of five-inch red heels on her feet. Her red-slicked lips were curved into an equally warm smile as she leaned in and rubbed cheeks with Stiles.

“You look lovely.” She told him as she straightened up. “Red suits you.”

Stiles huffed in amusem*nt. “It suits you, too.”

Lydia shrugged. “Not as well as blue or green, but it’s alright.” She cast her eyes around the room, pausing on her husband and nodding towards him. “Jackson loves when we come to a Presentation, though. Says there’s something about seeing me in red - the public declaration of myself as his mate - that scratches a primal itch for him. I’d imagine Peter feels much the same way about you today.”

Stiles hummed agreeably. “Probably. You know, I have to admit, I didn’t realize Jackson was an alpha. But then, I realized this morning that I don’t actually know what he is.”

“Ah.” Lydia’s lips curved into a smile that was more amused, her green eyes twinkling. “Jackson is a very specific breed of shifter known as a kanima. Which, not to put too fine a point on it, means that he was turned by a werewolf but - due to who he is at his core - he has a shift that took on a different form. In Jackson’s case, his base form is reptilian, though he’s mastered it - and himself - and now has some wolf traits as well.”

“Oh.” Stiles wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that. “So how does a kanima become an alpha, then? Is it the same as for a werewolf?”

“No. They do it by dying and then coming back.” Lydia said, shrugging when Stiles’ lips parted in shock. “As he explained it to me, there was some sort of chrysalis-like stage involved as well. I didn’t know him yet when all of that happened as he was quite young at the time. And regardless of how it happened, he’s an alpha. And a very powerful one at that.”

Stiles nodded agreeably. He let his eyes drift over the room, noting that Isaac seemed to be having a very good time talking to various people. He spotted Danny and Ethan talking with a few of Peter’s other betas, and saw that Peter had been waylaid from his food-acquisition by another of the alphas in the room so it was likely to take him a bit longer to make his way back to Stiles’ side. And that was fine, really. Stiles understood that Peter had certain social responsibilities, after all.

Speaking of social responsibilities, Lydia was excusing herself from Stiles because Jackson had beckoned her over, apparently so he could introduce her to the black-clad alpha he’d been speaking to. Stiles waved her off, knowing they’d speak again soon enough even if they didn’t have a chance today.

He let his eyes drift back over the room, finally catching on Cora. She was strikingly clad in a gold dress that hugged her slim body. Her dark hair was once again styled in a way that hid the shaved parts of her head and he wondered briefly why she did that. She had claimed part of her wild appearance was to convince her fiance she was unsuitable for marriage, yet she clearly did her best to conform to a socially acceptable appearance at events like this one and Peter’s Christmas ball.

He made a mental note to ask her about it later even as he took in the look on her face. She seemed amused - she was laughing, anyway - but there was something about the line of her back and the set of her shoulders that told Stiles she was stressed about something. He let his eyes shift to the person she was talking to, curious about who had created the strange, contradictory emotions in his friend.

The man was - as so many of the guests were - shockingly gorgeous. He had golden-blond hair cut to only a couple of inches in length and artfully tousled. He was built much like Derek - tall and muscular - and his face was equally lovely. He looked a bit like the sort of man one might see gracing the cover of a romance novel. His all-black suit told Stiles the man was an alpha, though nothing else. The unknown alpha and Cora were far enough away that Stiles couldn’t make out the color of the man’s eyes, but he thought they were a lighter color - blue, or grey, or perhaps green.

When Cora noticed him looking, Stiles tipped his head questioningly since she was too far away for him to do much else to convey his curiosity. Cora’s lips pursed, her brows drawing together in annoyance, but she nodded at Stiles before saying something to the alpha. Then, much to Stiles’ surprise, they both headed towards him.

Stiles sat up a bit straighter on his wicker throne, wondering why Cora was bringing a stranger over. Guests weren’t supposed to approach him yet.

Except that before he could work himself up over it, Cora was in front of him, smiling tensely. “Stiles. I suppose it’s time you meet Alpha Lowell, since we’re all going to be family.” Her words came out politely enough, if a bit clipped as she gestured to the handsome man at her side. “Jason is the Alpha Wolf of Boston, and older brother to my fiance.”

“O-oh.” Stiles stammered. Because of course Cora’s fiance - and, by extension, her fiance’s brother - was considered immediate family. Which meant he could approach Stiles, even this early into the event.

Jason smiled - all teeth and polished charm - and took Stiles’ hand, leaning down to brush a kiss over his knuckles, in true gentlemanly fashion. “It’s a pleasure to meet the man who has managed to capture Peter’s heart, a feat which so many had deemed an impossible task.”

“Yes, of course. How nice to finally meet you, Alpha Lowell.” Unthinkingly, Stiles added. “Will I be meeting your brother as well?”

Jason’s charming smile grew tight at the corners, though his words and tone were mild when he replied. “I was just telling Cora that my brother is running late - he got caught in traffic, apparently - but that he’s on his way and should be here within the hour.”

“That’s great.” Stiles forced himself to say, even though he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to meet Cora’s fiance in the first place. Especially since neither party seemed overly pleased about the proposed union.

Jason’s lips maintained their polite smile as he sketched a brief bow. “If you two will excuse me, I see someone I need to speak with.”

Stiles murmured his assent, while Cora simply inclined her head politely. Jason’s eyes - which, now that he was closer, Stiles could see were a deep, moss green - seemed to be locked on Cora’s face for an extended moment before he bowed again and disappeared into the crowd of people filling the ballroom.

Honestly, the whole thing was exceptionally odd.

Stiles waited until he was sure Jason was far enough away not to overhear, even with alpha werewolf senses - the crowd helped, acting as a natural sound barrier - then turned to Cora, who had grabbed a nearby chair and was now sitting beside Stiles, looking annoyed. “So...Jason seems interesting.”

Cora shrugged, flicking her fingers dismissively. “He’s so hung up on this damn engagement. The downside to being a Hale is how terribly badly every other werewolf pack wants to be connected to us, in some form or fashion, and Jason’s not any different. Any time we’re at the same event, he makes it a point to track me down and see if I’ve warmed up to his brother. Which I haven’t because I never see the man. Did you know he didn’t even come to the masquerade? Just didn’t bother showing up.”

Stiles winced. “That’s kind of sh*tty.” He agreed, not sure what to say to make Cora feel better. He knew she didn’t really want to marry Ian, but if it was going to happen - and it seemed like it was - then it would be nice if the man would at least make an effort to get to know her better.

He glanced in the direction Jason had gone, asking thoughtfully. “Does Ian look like his brother?”

Cora’s brow furrowed, her pinched lips softening into a thoughtful moue before she nodded. “I mean, yeah. At least as much as Laura and Derek and I look alike, anyway, which I’m told is quite a bit even if I don’t always see it. They both have blonde hair and green eyes, and are a similar height and build.”

And while it wasn’t really the sort of thing he should be pointing out - which Stiles knew perfectly well - he couldn’t resist saying. “Okay so I know he’s been a standoffish dick, but at least he’s attractive. I know it’s not much consolation, obviously, but you’ll have cute kids. Right?”

Cora’s nose wrinkled up and she lightly nudged Stiles’ leg with the toe of one shoe. “Don’t be gross. Besides, what’re you looking at Jason for anyway? You’re mated to Uncle Peter.”

“And that means I’ve suddenly been struck blind?” Stiles asked, quirking an eyebrow at her. “Don’t be stupid. I promise you that Peter hasn’t stopped noticing people are attractive any more than I have. We just won’t act on those thoughts, that’s all.”

Cora hummed thoughtfully, finally shrugging. “I suppose. So, is Jason your type, then? All romance novel hero hunky, like Derek? Is Peter the outlier?”

This time it was Stiles who wrinkled his nose. “I mean...Peter’s pretty damn hot.” He protested. “And your uncle is just as built as your brother, just in a slightly different way.” Then, for honesty’s sake, he added. “Though Jason is kind of my type. Looks a bit like my ex-boyfriend, actually.”

“Oh?” Cora asked, almost absently, her eyes moving casually over the party guests. “Which boyfriend?”

Stiles snorted, mostly because he hadn’t exactly had a lot of boyfriends. “My most recent ex.”

Cora made a soft sound of acknowledgement. “The one you broke up with for Peter?”

“Mmmm...yeah.” Stiles agreed, watching with amusem*nt as Peter - who was finally making his way back over to Stiles with a plate of food - got waylaid by yet another guest. He knew Peter was barely sociable at the best of times and was certain this was wearing on the alpha. “Ian.”

“What?” Cora turned to frown at him, her head tipped curiously to one side.

Stiles glanced at her, frowning as well, confused by her confusion. “My ex-boyfriend. Ian.”

“Ian.” Cora repeated, sitting straighter in her chair and blinking quickly all of a sudden, as if she’d been startled or perhaps had an epiphany of some sort. “Jason Lowell, the older brother of Ian Lowell - my fiance - looks like your most recent ex-boyfriend. Whose name is Ian.”

“Wh-uh-” Stiles stammered for a moment, heart thundering away in his chest as he started thinking.

Thinking about his Ian’s confusing knowledge of Peter’s identity. Thinking about his Ian’s unexpected appearance at Peter’s masquerade ball. Thinking about the way he’d forced his Ian to leave...and how Cora’s Ian had never showed up. Thinking about blonde hair. And piercing green eyes. And charming smiles. Thinking about so many things.

He met Cora’s eyes, which were dark and wide and full of a panic that Stiles was certain was mirrored on his own face, because how could it not be?

Hesitantly, Cora whispered. “You don’t think-”

She cut herself off, as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to voice the thought Stiles knew they were both having; the conclusion they had both reached.

That his ex-boyfriend and Cora’s fiance were, in fact, the same person.

f*ck.

Chapter 34

Chapter Text

Stiles couldn’t breathe.

And, okay, that wasn’t actually true. He was breathing just fine, in the sense that his lungs were taking in and expelling air just the way they were supposed to. He wasn’t even hyperventilating, as he sometimes did. It was just that his chest and throat felt tight, as if something were squeezing them.

It couldn’t be true, could it? His boyfriend - ex-boyfriend now - couldn’t possibly be Cora’s fiance. Because that would mean Stiles had been lied to. It would mean he had been foolish, and naive, and stupid. And maybe none of that ought to matter, with regards to Ian, because he was with Peter now, but Stiles knew the truth. If his Ian was Cora’s Ian, it would still matter. It would make Stiles feel awful in a hundred different ways, and it would hurt, and Stiles wasn’t sure he could take it. Because he might not have loved Ian, but he had cared about him and they had dated for two months and if his boyfriend had been engaged to Cora that entire time...

Stiles didn’t want it to be true. He didn’t want to think about the possibility that he had unwittingly been helping someone cheat on their partner. Because an arranged engagement was still an engagement and Cora didn’t deserve to be cheated on. She didn’t deserve to be disrespected like that, and it would kill Stiles if he had been an accomplice to such a thing, however unknowingly. So it couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. This had to be some sort of hilarious coincidence, that was all.

Desperately clinging to that possibility, Stiles finally rasped. “Ian’s not an uncommon name.”

“No. No, of course it’s not.” Cora agreed quickly, nodding her head so quickly she looked a bit like a bobblehead doll. Her teeth sunk into her lower lip for a moment before she added. “Of course, it’s not exactly a common name either.”

“Right, but...I mean, New York is a big city.” Stiles pointed out, because...well, because it was. “The odds would have to be astronomical. Wouldn’t they?”

“Oh, for sure.” Cora agreed, and now she was chewing nervously on the edge of her thumbnail, something he had never seen her do before. “Like, it doesn’t even make sense, right?”

Now Stiles was the one nodding like crazy.

Except...

“I mean...it could explain his disinterest in you.” Stiles winced when Cora’s eyes widened and he hastened to explain. “I just mean that my ex is gay. Like, completely. So if...if they are, then that would...cause, I mean, you’re gorgeous obviously so it never really made sense to me why anyone would be disinterested but if...you know, if he’s gay, then...”

“He’s not.” Cora said firmly, then she added. “I mean, he can’t be, right? Jason would’ve tried to marry him off to, like, Derek or something, if he was. Not me. That wouldn’t make any sense.”

“Right! Absolutely.” Stiles agreed, chewing on the inside of his cheek for a minute before saying. “What if Jason doesn’t know?”

Cora blinked at him, then paled. “He’s going to be here. Jason personally guaranteed it, and as much as he seems to be uninterested in me, Ian would never risk his brother’s wrath by not showing up.”

Stiles suddenly spotted Peter walking towards them and smacked Cora’s arm in a panicked manner. “You have to go, oh my god. Go! We can’t...we can’t be next to each other when your fiance gets here, right? Just in case. Like that would be so bad. If Peter finds out-”

“No, you’re right. He can’t know.” Cora whispered, getting to her feet and forcing a smile to her lips. “The last thing we need right now is a war.” She patted Stiles’ shoulder right as Peter moved into hearing range - at least as best as Stiles could figure it, given what he knew about alpha wolf hearing ranges and factoring in the noise-level of the crowded ballroom - and said with false cheer. “Well, I see Peter’s nearly back to keep you company, so I’m just going to go mingle some more! I’ll see you later, Stiles.”

Since he wasn’t sure he could speak without his voice giving away his distress, Stiles just forced his lips into a smile as well and waved at her. Then he forced his eyes back to Peter, watching the alpha approach and promising himself that he would get through this with poise and grace, regardless of how it played out. And so, he was certain, would Cora.

For the sake of Peter and Alpha Lowell’s alliance, they would have to.

~*~*~*~

Cora wasn’t, as a rule, a nervous person. She never had been. Part of it, she thought, came from being mostly invisible while growing up. Her mother had produced twins on the first try, granting her both an heir to her alphadom and a second in command for said heir. Cora was...superfluous. It might have bothered some children, but Cora had always enjoyed the freedom it afforded her while growing up. Laura and Derek were made to go to all sorts of special lessons. They were not allowed to play with the neighborhood children, or make friends at school as they pleased. Their every association was scrutinized for the political and social implications it had. Their lives had never truly been their own, not from the moment they had been born.

By contrast, Cora had largely been allowed to do as she pleased.

She could join any club or school activity she liked. She could be friends with anyone she chose. She could date who she wanted, too. Her days were unhindered by any lessons beyond school-based ones. She had a bodyguard, of course, as all the Hale children had until they were old enough to protect themselves. Talia might have insisted Cora have one forever, in fact, as she hadn’t had the same physical training as her siblings, but Peter had allowed her to do without one once she moved to New York. She had, in fact, been ignored to the point of believing she might actually escape familial obligation and duty altogether.

Right up until her final year of college. Mere months from achieving her degree, and Talia had decided that - once she had it - Cora would return to Beacon Hills. Talia wanted to assess her; to determine her readiness for her role in life. Those had been her mother’s words. Cora had a role in life, apparently, that she was meant to fulfill. And that role was to become the wife of some as-yet undetermined socio-political match.

She was to be a pawn.

It had been a sickeningly unpleasant revelation. Peter had done what he could to mitigate it, by arranging a match for her that would allow her to stay in New York, where she had been so happy. He had chosen someone closer to Cora’s age than she knew she had a right to expect. He had chosen someone Talia wouldn’t object to, but he had done his best to give Cora no reason to object either.

The funny thing was, Cora had known she was going to be Ian’s wife - his mate - regardless of all of her many complaints. She had never once thought seriously of running away; of refusing; of disobeying. She wasn’t a nervous person, after all. The idea of marriage - even an arranged marriage - didn’t frighten or worry her. It was expected, that was all. And sure, she might have been secretly pleased if her fiance had deemed her unsuitable and cried off the engagement, but it wouldn’t have changed much. Peter would simply have found her another match. Or, barring that, Talia would have found her one.

So why, if she was going to be married one way or another, bother fretting about it?

She could be vexed, of course. Irritated. Irked. It could annoy her to no end that her fiance was so disinterested in her; that his brother - who had arranged the match and who lived all the way in Boston, while her fiance lived right here in New York City - had spoken more words to her in the last six months than said fiance. It could frustrate her when he didn’t show up to events he had said he would, because she was left sitting there, alone, when she ought to have an escort at her side. And it could piss her off to know that if he was like this while they were engaged he would likely be the same once they were married, and so she would be stuck with a husband who couldn’t be bothered with her.

But she wasn’t nervous.

Cora had never seen the point in being nervous about something she couldn’t control.

She was nervous now.

And really, why shouldn’t she be? Because if she and Stiles were correct - and dear lord, she was desperately hoping they weren’t correct, even with all of the mounting evidence - then Cora was going to start a war.

She didn’t want to start a war.

The problem, of course, was Peter. Because her uncle had never been the kind of man who forgave an insult easily, if at all. And goodness knew his temper was fierce.

If Cora refused to marry Ian - and like hell was she marrying a man who had been cheating on her for two months, so if Stiles’ Ian was her Ian, she wouldn’t be marrying him, agreement notwithstanding - Peter would demand to know why. And Cora had never been any good at lying to her uncle. So Peter would know the truth, and the truth would enrage him because an insult to Cora was an insult to Peter. Not to mention the Stiles of it all. Peter would be angry and offended and then there would be a war.

So when Cora spotted Ian slinking in - and he was slinking, no doubt because of how late he was - her stomach jumped, twisting itself into knots. Still, she was no shrinking violet and never had been, not even when she’d been young and small and invisible. So Cora made her way quickly over to him, made easier by the fact that most of the guests were on the far side of the ballroom, where Stiles and Peter had begun receiving personal congratulations from their guests about twenty minutes earlier. Jason and Ian ought to have been some of the first in line, given her engagement to Ian. But Ian hadn’t arrived yet, and it would have looked strange - and been a bit insulting - for Jason to go up without the younger brother who was engaged to Peter’s niece.

So now, Cora had to get to Ian - and get him within Stiles’ line of sight - before he was spotted by Jason and hauled in front of Stiles and Peter. They needed to know. Because Stiles was a damn good liar - they’d all experienced that at this point - but he had an expressive face when he was caught by surprise. This wasn’t something they could let take him by surprise. There might be a war coming, but it didn’t need to start in this crowded ballroom.

She got to Ian’s side and forced her lips into a gracious smile. “Ian! So glad you could make it.” Her words came out a little breathless, her voice a little higher than usual.

Ian blinked at her, then inclined his head in a not-quite bow, face politely blank and voice stiff as he said. “Cora. A pleasure, as always.” It didn’t sound like a pleasure, but Cora ignored that, fighting back a sneer even as he continued. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find Jason.”

“Wait!” Cora hissed, grabbing his arm before she could stop herself. He turned, pinning her in place with those piercing green eyes of his, looking displeased that she had dared to waylay him. Or perhaps that she had dared to touch him; Cora wasn’t actually sure which.

Swallowing hard, Cora withdrew her hand - slowly; she would not give him the satisfaction of jerking away as if she were afraid - and offered as sweetly as she could manage. “I just saw Jason. Let me take you to him. It’ll be much quicker than you wandering through the crowd aimlessly, and you’re already late for the receiving line so...”

She trailed off pointedly, relieved when Ian nodded once, short and sharp but still agreeing. “Great. Just follow me this way, please.”

Turning on her heel, Cora led Ian along the opposite edge of the ballroom from where she’d last seen Jason. She was hoping the alpha hadn’t moved; needed this to go smoothly. Her heart was jackrabbiting inside the cage of her ribs, wild and panicked, and she could tell from the way Ian kept glancing at her that he could hear it. She wished he couldn’t; wished this was her secret. But very little was a secret when you were among werewolves, a fact Cora knew all too well, so she forced herself to ignore the sideways looks her fiance was giving her.

When she finally circled the edge of the gathered guests and brought them into sight of where Stiles was perched on the white wicker chair, Peter standing elegantly at his side as they spoke with a vampiric alpha and her mate, Cora stopped. She could see Jason as well, but - as she had hoped - he was on the far side of the crowd.

“A moment...” She murmured to Ian, daring to lightly touch his arm again in a bid to halt him. “We don’t want to interrupt. When these guests finish, we’ll go to the center and hopefully Jason will meet us there.”

“Alpha Lowell.”

Cora blinked, her attention pulled briefly away from where she had been trying to subtly catch Stiles’ eye. She turned her head to frown at Ian, confused. “Excuse me?”

“He’s Alpha Lowell to you.” Ian’s words were tight at the edges; terse. “Or he ought to be. You’re not family yet.”

And christ, that shouldn’t have stung as much as it did. Smarting, Cora raised her chin and said stiffly. “He gave me leave to call him Jason. Which you would know, if you ever bothered to speak to me.”