Actions

Work Header

Rings Around

Summary:

The letter read simply:

With the blessing of my father, I, Stiles of Beacon, offer myself in marriage to King Peter of Hale. The Calavera-Argent alliance forces both our hands. Respond promptly.

Notes:

Um, so I'm hoping the tags scare away all the lightweights and that only those of you who are willing to hand me the already charred chunks of your aortas hang about. This is kind of Games of Thrones-like, what with the porny psychological craziness at max volume. If I'm missing triggers, tell me please.

Just a heads up. Both pairings in this story are important, but the Stiles/Peter dominates.

Chapter Text

The letter read simply: With the blessing of my father, I, Stiles of Beacon, offer myself in marriage to King Peter of Hale. The Calavera-Argent alliance forces both our hands. Respond promptly.

The offer was more than fair. The prince was an omega, and if the portrait Peter’s spies had provided was anything to go by, he was an exceptionally comely one even by the standards of the fairest sex. His kingdom covered the resource-rich Roan Valley that stood between the Salern Ridge and the Calavera border.

Peter should agree, he realized—and yet his hand was shaking as he set the parchment down. His wedding ring, dull as it was, rattled on the wood. It had only been five years.

He thought of calling Derek, and Peter fleetingly considered: I could order him into it. But Derek’s last marriage, negotiated as it was down to the letter, had been their collective ruin. That broken bit of history was the reason Peter sat on a scorched throne that was never supposed to be his. It was the reason he sleeplessly stalked the gardens beneath the moonlight. It was the reason the left side of his bed had cold, clean sheets.

If he had his own petty way, he would scrawl, “No,” and send it back via his slowest courier. Alas, Peter had made a promise. Even as he’d wiped off the scarlet dribble off her lips, she’d managed to gasp out, “Don’t give up. Find happiness. Say you will.” He’d said yes, and it was the only promise he’d ever hated her for.

At the same time, what was horrible was the distant want that rose in his chest. The thoughts choked him: a chance for children. Children he could openly love. He had—they had—wanted so very much. It made his throat thicken and he bent his head toward the window where the lawns were flat and bright with the coltish bounce of spring. A flock of toddlers raced about battling with sticks and brooms as swords and spears. Peter had held her in this very spot. He’d looked out and pointed: ours will be out there someday. But no good news had befallen them, and his fearless, warring, alpha wife had been brought low by the empty promise of the passing months.

Peter could not love an omega. It would be too bitter, but maybe, he could love a child. Maybe. Besides, he was king; he had sworn to serve and protect and serve his people’s interest, and now he was faced with the simplest duty: the kingdom needed an heir. The way that Derek went through widows, whores, and servant girls, there would be no legitimate children. Peter would have to do it. That is, if he could.

Walking to his chair, Peter sat down and began unlacing the front of his trousers. He pushed the fabric away and with a firm breath, took himself in his grip. Then he waited. He imagined the petal softness, the mating musk, the thrill of the large over the small… and yet even as Peter’s hand pumped up and down, the muscle did not swell.

Then he thought of her. He remembered that thundering September morning when he watched her dance the sword, sailing through the enemy’s finest with the fast grace of a cat on a fence. At the battle’s height, she’d reached the tent of the Argent general. Three alphas came at her—even the Argent’s unconquerable Grand Duke Christopher—and she’d dodged them all to sever Gerard the Gaunt’s head from his body. Victory was cried and the whole field rallied and surged. An hour later, she’d presented Gerard’s gaping face to Peter, and with sanguine triumph, Peter had wrested the corpse’s hoary head from her only to toss it in the nearest ditch. Then he’d pulled her through the flaps and yanked her hair and—

Peter could smell the sweat at back of her neck even now. He could taste the bitter adrenaline on her tongue and feel the blood crusted in her midnight curls. When he came, hoarse and furious, it was with snot and tears and in the end, broken sobbing.

After he’d composed himself, Peter wrote a neat reply. “Accepted. Come at once.” He gave it to his manservant and slammed the door.

- - -

It took Derek three days to hear the news. When he finally did, he interrupted a meeting with Peter’s treasurer—he barged right in with a, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Derek stunk of milled whiskey and the opiate cling of the river brothels. His beard, grown past stubble, had started to curl under his chin. Peter ignored him. “15,800 silver for rations, you said? Do we have that?”

You are going to marry an omega?” Derek put his hand in the middle of the Treasurer’s parchment.

“We do, my Lord,” the treasurer answered stiffly; his chin was bunched at the sight of Derek’s fingers smearing tobacco stains across his neat figures.

“If this is a plot to rope me into anything—”

“Harris, leave us.” At Peter’s command, the man scurried from the room and Peter was left with his nephew.

“What is this? Really?” Derek slumped back into a chair, looking up with thick brows. Irrational and cranky as he was, Derek didn’t really believe this was some conspiracy against him. Peter had been on his side in the last disaster. They were more like distant brothers than anything. No, the lines in Derek’s brow said he was worried for his uncle.

Peter looked away. “It’s a political marriage. It’s good for the kingdom.”

When Peter turned back, Derek had his arms crossed and he was scrutinizing his uncle in a way that was damn near sober. When he leaned forward into the light, he winced, and yet he still said, “You still wear your wedding ring.”

Peter twisted the metal band. Derek wasn’t wrong—Peter should put it aside. If he was serious about this marriage, and he had to be, then it would be the proper thing to do. Pulling the ring off over the callous, Peter held it up to make a circlet through which he viewed the candle. The halo it made was dull and for the millionth time, Peter reminded himself that she was gone, as if she’d flitted through some thin portal like this one. Pagan tokens did not change that. And then there was that final, awful request of hers, and so Peter started to nod. The up and down motion drove his whole body into a soft rocking, and it helped, the physicalness of it. He could do this. The decision was made. “It’ll be gone by the time he arrives,” he pronounced. What he’d do was get a chain from the jeweler, keep the old ring strung about his chest. He could order the new rings at the same time.

A high, choking noise popped from Derek’s chest. “You’re just giving her up—like that?”

Peter froze. He replayed giving her up, and then he really wasn’t sure what happened next. There was the sound of parchment ripping; ink spattered the walls.  He became aware that he was screaming. Derek had his hands up in surrender and was half-crouched behind his chair. There was a long splinter standing like a lightning bolt in the center of Peter’s right palm. After plucking it out, Peter found himself clutching his heart and gagging on thick saliva as he seethed out through his teeth. He collapsed forward onto the table, smashing his face into the  pathetic shadow ridges of the wood.

At some point, Derek’s hand wiped at Peter’s brow and his voice was careful, even soothing, as he said, “I’m sorry. I know you loved her. This is hard and…”

In the madness of the moment, Peter leaned into his nephew’s touch. “I’m just trying. I told her I would. So I’m going to try.”

“The road to hell,” Derek muttered but he didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he helped Peter to his feet.

- - -

The omega arrived within the fortnight. His guard was sufficiently large enough to ward off bandits but lacking the grand regalia of a peacetime betrothal. Afterall, his father the king was unable to accompany him. There wasn’t time for such. Peter himself was barbered and bathed and coated in the full chest of symbols: Hale crown, lion robe, studded military sash, silver hilted sword, and so on. It itched.

The omega introduced himself plainly. “I’m Stiles,” he said and then he’d given Peter a quavering smile. When he offered Peter his hand, Peter bent to kiss it—only to find his own hand being shaken, and the omega’s eyes were huge and he was biting his lip as he hummed, “Errrm. Right.” Then he tried to pull his hand away but Peter held it giving it a final firm squeeze.

“Welcome,” Peter said, and he tried to say it warmly but wasn’t sure that he all succeeded. The prince before him was barely out of childhood. His eyes were sunrise bright and his manners, if charmingly unaffected, were also unpolished, unhoned. God, what had Peter been thinking?

Dinner fared better. The feast was small and intimate and Peter didn’t have to draw the young prince out—no, Stiles took out a journal covered in chicken scratch, and proceeded to point by point ask Peter questions. When would they be married? How soon? Would tomorrow be fine? Yes, well then where would he be sleeping for this night? He enjoyed riding, so who should he bother at the stables? Where was the library? Could Peter show him? Good. Now what about troops along the southern border? The scouts’ latest intelligence had put Calavera catapults passing through. Could a surprise attack be launched? Peter answered these last questions more comfortably. When discussing tactics, Stiles seemed less a boy and more a young officer, if still somewhat green on his first commission. Peter was watching bemusedly as Stiles set the field: his fork became the catapult train, the mead glass became the enemy fort, bread rolls formed mountains, and a chicken drumstick was suddenly the surprise cavalry brigade. The bone had just clattered with the tines when Derek peered over the table and asked, “Should Hale really be the bone? We’ve had enough skeletons around here.”

Stiles fumbled with the fork—almost knocked his mead—and barely saved his plate from toppling into Peter’s lap.

“May I introduce my nephew, Prince Derek.”

“Prince?” Stiles’s voice pitched, even as he squinted, still clutching his plate.

“Well technically a duke,” Peter began, “but it’s complicated…” which was to say that Derek had been next in line for the throne—only he’d been both too unpopular with the Lords after his “mishandled marriage” and too wrecked for the crown—not that he looked remotely royal now. Derek was fresh from the training yard. The cotton shirt he wore was dark spotted with sweat and the front laces were undone, showing a healthy amount of dark chest hair. His knees were caked with mud. The only good thing that could be said was that Derek’s eyes were clear. His step was sure. Still, Peter rubbed his temple and muttered, “You were supposed to clean up.”

Derek drew out a chair and dragged a whole turkey leg onto his plate. “I lost track of the time. Apologies. Stiles?” he asked, not unfriendly, before he bit right into the thickest part of the meat.

Stiles nodded, eyes skirting away from Derek—even as for a split second they dashed back to the bared slice of skin.

Derek didn’t notice.

Peter felt old. At the same time, he didn’t begrudge his nephew. Beauty had a price, after all. And Derek had paid it in buckets.

“How about dessert?” Peter offered. At Stiles’s brightened expression, he said, “I fear it’s pudding.”

“It’s good pudding,” Derek added, between bites.

“I like pudding,” Stiles allowed. He smiled at Peter, and it was… sweet.

Sweet wasn’t the worst thing, was it?

- - -

After dinner, Peter let some of his more eager courtiers take Stiles for a tour of castle’s eastern gardens, and then he turned his attentions on Derek. “For his wedding present, I want those catapults, but what’s more, I want—” Peter arranged two more bread rolls and a candlestick. “—a sneak attack on Fort Silver.”

“And you want me to lead it.” Derek was chewing thoughtfully, but then he glanced up. “You’re getting me out of the castle.”

“You’re overdue for some blood and vengeance. Besides, Boyd says you’re ready.”

“You wouldn’t let me go before.”

“Before you would marched your heart headlong into a swordpoint.”

Derek stood, pushing his chair back with a creak, and he came over to bend over the arrangement of utensils and food. “What’s changed?” he asked with a bitter smile.

Peter returned the smile with equal bitterness. “Maybe since I’m marrying an omega I don’t need you anymore. I’ll have heirs aplenty.” At Derek’s disbelieving cough, Peter added, “And Calavera and Argent don’t know about the new alliance. If we strike fast, we’ll have the element of surprise. We can be smart about this.”

With a nod at the candlestick, Derek said, “Besides Boyd, I’ll gather Lahey and the more senior knights. I’ll send the courier to alert Erica. When do we leave?”

Peter licked his finger and pinched out the candle’s flame with a hiss. “The moment tomorrow’s ceremony is over. Ready the troops.”

- - -

It was then that Peter went down the back stairs to the tannery. Skirting about the hanging skins, Peter found her by the sound of her heavy breathing. Malia, never one to mind the stink of leathers, was doing push-ups in the corner. She didn’t look up at his approach. Merely asked, “Orders?”

“First, you’re going to kill the Calavera’s fast courier. Then their second fastest courier. If you have time, take out the third. Then, I need you to get into Silver. Weaken Ennis. I don’t care how. Just don’t kill him. Leave him off his game.”

Malia frowned. “Why not?”

“Derek needs an easy victory.”

A snort. “He needs  a dunk in the well.”

“Are you saying you can’t do it?”

Malia’s frown grew incredulous. “In my sleep.”

- - -

They wedded in the throne room. It was all quite official and proper. When he had to kiss Stiles, it was a soft, polite press. Only, Stiles stared back at him with such wide eyes that Peter imagined he could hear the pounding of the boy’s heart over the gay twanging of harpsichord.

The celebration was limited to a small feast. Peter made sure Stiles had a full glass of wine before he started knocking back his own queue. By evening-end, Peter was as drunk as Derek had ever been, and even if he was laughing and joking as if he was a perfectly normal bridegroom, the moment came when he couldn’t take it anymore. He kept seeing her. Everywhere.

His last wedding had been the happiest day of his life. His mouth had hurt from the smiles. His feet had hurt from all the dancing. They’d sneaked into a closet for a desperate fuck and Peter had bloodied his elbow on a nail. She’d licked the wound clean for him.

Rubbing the thin scar on his arm, Peter retreated to the quiet of the northern parapet where he hung his head over the side and laughed a hoarse sob into the night’s drizzle. The sound echoed out, distant and galloping as if to chant his pain to the whole kingdom, and yet his only answer was the flap of the west wind across the banners and turrets.

When he felt the hand against his back, Peter froze. He had a yell burbling in his chest when he turned to see Stiles.

The boy’s hand didn’t leave his back. If anything, it squeezed. His mouth opened, and Peter was expecting a meek, “Are you alright?” or “Too much wine?” Something innocuous. But instead Stiles said, “I know you loved her. I don’t expect the same from you.”

Peter, as far from sobriety as he was, lurched back, giving him space from Stiles’s too warm palm. “You don’t know anything,” he said, even as part of him regretted the words. Stiles had done nothing to deserve his tone.

But Stiles only nodded. “I know you’re doing this out of duty. Before he left, Derek told me—”

“—it’s to our mutual benefit. For Beacon and Hale.”

“But if it weren’t for this marriage, you wouldn’t—”

“We didn’t know your father well enough to trust him with an alliance before.” Beacon had clung to its neutrality until the alliance had put an arrow in it. Not that Peter blamed Beacon. He would have played the same hand...

“But now you have me.” Stiles’s gaze was firm and his jaw was set. “And I need to know what you want.”

“I don’t know,” Peter began, but then he backtracked. “Well—children. The kingdom needs an heir.”

“I have heats. You’re my husband.” Stiles was nodding, like he was convincing himself, but then his eyes fell and his voice was barely audible when he said, “I don’t expect much, but I’d like us to try and be…” He glanced up. “friends.”

Peter felt something fall in his chest, and this time he met Stiles’s gaze. For, even with his fine features, his blatant beauty, the boy was not lowered by artifice or courtly double speak. He almost seemed brave.

Peter reached out to pick up Stiles’s hand. “Friends,” he promised.

- - -

Later in the darkness of Peter’s chamber, Stiles was a shivering lump in the sheets.

“We can just sleep.” Peter’s voice was wooly with drink and fatigue. His head and ass felt like anvils when he arranged himself beneath the quilt.

“We’re supposed to—” Stiles’s hands clutched the pillow corner.

“No one knows what happens here except the two of us.” When Stiles only trembled more, Peter groaned and rolled over to him. Stiles held his breath—only to have it yanked out—as Peter dragged him flush.

This close Stiles’s hair was silk soft; his smell, the sweet tang of the orchard. The bare length of his thigh against Peter’s own was warm and taut, so much that Peter didn’t mind how Stiles’s toes were cold, clammy pebbles curled back on Peter’s shin. It was—Peter realized—nice. It was… not lonely. And Peter, for all that he wanted to sleep, wanted Stiles to sleep too. He wanted the boy to be well here—he liked him—he liked him here—so he wrapped his arms around the boy, hushing him with a long, “Shhhhhh,” and when Stiles’s breathing failed to calm, Peter pressed a quiet kiss into his neck.

The kiss finally made Stiles stop his wriggling. For a moment, he was still, and then he twisted his neck, straining as he turned to press a kiss back in return. It landed on the edge of Peter’s chin. More than anything, it tickled.

Peter caught Stiles’s chin and he asked, “Are you curious? Or are you simply feeling neglected? I meant it when I said we don't have to do anything.”

“I’m—” Stiles tried to look away—but Peter held his jaw. With a glare, he asked, “Am I…?”

“Are you?” Peter waited, and as Stiles’s eyes went from bright to shaded, Peter finally let go.

Stiles with his face curled into the sheets asked, “Do I disappoint you?”

For a brief flash, Peter was angry. Hadn’t they just talked about this? Hadn’t Stiles said—? But then Peter checked himself. He had his own scars. His hair was capped with a silver frost. These days, vanity was a distant fog, but he remembered the innocent terror of being so exposed, even with night’s veil as a blanket, and true, maybe Stiles knew he was beautiful. Maybe, he knew he was supposed to be a prize, but he didn’t know if he was enough for Peter. (He probably sensed he wasn’t.) And today he had spent so much.

This is not love, Peter told himself as he drew Stiles’s up into his arms. Peter began the kiss like it was a lesson. His tongue tutored the boy in the finer motions and his teeth chastened any errors. When Stiles’s breaths were rapid and the lure of his slick drizzled like ether in the air, Peter pushed him down. He yanked up his dressing gown and beheld him. He couldn’t help but compare Stiles to her. Alpha females and omega males weren’t that different. Both had male and female organs; they had small breasts, rich thighs, silky jawlines. And yet, his wife had never smelled like this. She had been hard muscle, sunkissed with bridaled energy. Stiles, in contrast, was fey, sleek and luminous, as if of the night.

Somehow, noting the difference made it better. As if he wasn’t betraying her. Peter pinned Stiles by the hips, and as Stiles’s eyes grew impossibly rounder, Peter nosed into his nest of curls before sucking him into his mouth.

Unsurprisingly, it took less than a minute before Stiles was a bucking mess, and Peter was glad—amused, even—at the look of wonder that spilled over his face.

Crawling back up the bed, Peter once again brought Stiles to his chest. His lids were already growing heavy when Stiles’s free hand slid up Peter’s thicker thigh, and he asked, “What about you?”

Peter excused himself with a, “Too much drink.”

- - -

At the end of the week, the news came. A pigeon brought the note in Malia’s scrawl, and Peter laughed at the post script. “Ennis likes horses. That way. All I had to do was a little spook and… kick.”

Peter found Stiles in the library where he was bent over some thick tome. Peter, mouth full, was chewing on a drumstick. As Stiles looked up, Peter bit off the last chunk of meat and said, “Turns out we got your catapults.” He wiggled the bare bone in the air.

Stiles stood, a smile stretched wide on his face. “All of them?”

Peter nodded. “And now we advance on Fort Silver—”

“—cutting off the pass to Beacon.” Stiles strode over to him and Peter wasn’t ready for it—he still had chicken in his mouth—when Stiles caught him in a kiss. The force of it caught Peter off guard—there were servants just around the corner, and yet Stiles didn’t stop. He gasped out, “Thank you,” and his hands were hard on Peter’s shoulders.

He walked him back, smacking Peter’s hand down so that bone went flying. Against a bookcase, Stiles bit down hard on his lip, and Peter found himself kissing the boy back with equal fervor. It didn’t hurt that Stiles was positively rutting against him. Peter could feel the hard press of him thick in the crease of his trousers. Stiles’s hands gathered up the sides of his shirt and squeezed up, like he could lift Peter instead of the other way around.

Peter found himself almost lost in a laugh when a gasp escaped Stiles—and the angle changed and then it wasn’t just Stiles: they were hard together.

Peter’s moment of panic was cut off by Stiles’s biting hard on neck. His hips worked furiously and his voice went frenetic as he demanded, “Thank you. Let me thank you.”

The thing was, Stiles didn’t give Peter a chance to respond. There was no decision made as Stiles plastered them both into the wall of books. Peter’s nose was pressed back against the musty spine of one jutting book and he—this was—Peter didn’t know—except then Stiles’s mouth was keening against his own, hot hissing pants. The rough, drag of the fabric was as as sore as it was good. Stiles’s nails scratching lines up his back seemed to be ripping his dread away. There was a blackness to it. Peter took it in like poisoned honey, and when at last, Stiles was slumped against him—gasping—and there was the warm, seeping tickle of seed down his leg—Peter let himself come back.

“Thank you,” Stiles whispered again—this time wearing a satisfied smile—and he pressed a kiss to Peter’s lips.

Peter wanted to reply the same—but that seemed premature. He didn’t know exactly what had just happened. He didn’t know if it could happen again.

Some of his inner turmoil must have translated to Stiles because Peter found his hand being clutched and pulled. Stiles said, “Come. This way.”

- - -

That night, it did not work. It was premature. When Peter couldn’t—it wouldn’t—

He left the room with the usual excuses.

- - -

For three more nights, Stiles let it go. It was on the fourth when the fast courier arrived from the west that the news came that Fort Silver had been successfully taken. The Prince-General, who was only recently derided in the public houses, was said to have led the charge.

Dinner was, dare Peter describe it so, merry. There was much joking over bread rolls and bones and forks.

That evening, in their bed, Stiles came at him again. This time it almost worked. This time Peter at least didn’t feel the urge to flee.

- - -

“Can I tie you up?” Stiles asked.

“Go to sleep.” Peter rolled over.

- - -

The next night Stiles didn’t ask when he caught Peter from behind and locked his wrists in manacles.

“What are doing?” Peter protested.

“Whatever I want,” Stiles answered, and well, then he played.

Peter was half in-half out of it. When it got to be too much, he decided he was mostly amused. Stiles slapped him. Then kissed him. When Stiles unlocked him, Peter sucked him dry for his efforts. Told him he was beautiful.

Stiles smiled at him with purpose, like Peter was a puzzle to be cracked.

It was another moment where Peter thought that if he hadn’t met her, if he hadn’t tied his fate to hers so wholly, he might have been able to love this boy. For there was so much there to cherish. So much good.

He only wished he didn’t feel the sentiment so distantly.

- - -

When Derek returned, it was with a new face. Oh, the anger was still there, bubbling beneath the surface. You could tell by the rigid way he held the troops’ collective gaze. It was present in the way that he caught the Ladies’ eyes, the way he seemed to alpha dare them. But still, when Derek approached his uncle, it was without the detached swagger. His uniform was straight, orderly. He was shaven. What stood out above all, Peter concluded, was the absence of shame. This was a Derek who could be king.

His belief was only given more weight when Derek not only accepted his honors, but with a dark smirk, reached into his pocket, and turning to Stiles at Peter’s side, unveiled a handful of forks.

Stiles’s bark of a laugh was loud, but he took the cutlery, and after counting them, craned a brow to say, “Only seven?”

“Catapults are a pain to haul, though worth it. They did their job on the Fort.”

Stiles nodded gravely. “The Calaveras intended those catapults for Beacon. You served my father as well as Hale.” There was a faint heat to Stiles’s cheeks even as he held Derek’s gaze.

This time Derek definitely didn’t miss it. He cast a smirk at Peter as he said, “I think it was your timely arrival that has been the source of our good fortune.” And yet his smile stayed warm as it moved between Stiles and Peter. “And Uncle, I see you’re looking well,” Derek said, almost jocular, as Peter found himself being clapped on the shoulder. Out of the corner of his mouth, Derek murmured, “Rested.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Come. Eat.”

In the corner of the room, he gave Malia a satisfied nod. She faded into the shadows.

- - -

Derek seemed to have forsworn the lure of the river town. He didn’t even menace the newest scullery maid with his calloused paws. Rather, he stayed in the castle’s grounds, spending most of the day training with his knights, practicing swordplay. Besides the war council meetings, he accompanied Peter to a meeting with the treasurer to discuss adjustments to the supply trains.

Then there was the meeting with the castle apothecary. The first week, Stiles had asked to sit in on that meeting. After assessing that Stiles was more than competent, Peter had given the management over to him, simply relying on Stiles’s briefings. This time, as he and Derek sat in, Lord Deaton and Stiles explained the new treatments under trial. Derek asked about applications to the battlefield, and Peter just sat back and watched as the conversation proved shockingly fruitful. Afterwards, Derek offered to take Stiles out riding.

Peter didn’t ride for pleasure anymore. It used to be her favorite sport. In their time, he’d memorized the surrounding game trails for a full day’s ride in all directions. It was enough that he could offer Stiles suggestions, he supposed. Peter knew the best spots to picnic. The best for hunting. For making love.

Whatever shyness Stiles had initially felt around Derek was gone within three days time. Peter came down to the stable to hear Stiles yelling, full-lunged hollering at Derek—something about a tree branch and a wild boar and near death, and how at least Little Omegas know how to duck—and Derek was bent against the hind of his stallion, convulsing with laughter as Stiles charged on through his tirade with storm cloud gesturing.

At Peter’s approach, Stiles threw his hands up, muttering in curses, but the moment he reached Peter he threw his hands around his neck and buried his face with a long sigh of relief, and another mutter that sounded like, “Give me back my sanity.”

Peter stroked his hair, breathing in his fresh, happy scent, and said, “Around here, we simply try to keep it in pasture.”

Against his chest, Stiles made a low laugh, but in the stallion’s stall, Derek looked away.

Dear Lord, Peter thought, it can’t already be…

To test it he said softly and clearly, “Let’s get you upstairs. Wash up.”

Stiles was already nodding, but Derek’s jaw was working ever so slightly. Sensing his anxiety, his stallion nickered and switched feet.

Oh, nephew.

For a second, Peter thought about telling Stiles, “Go on ahead,” he thought about having a word with Derek. Some version of Stiles is mine.

But if Derek had a crush, Stiles was innocent to it. And for Derek to actually crystallize any affection into sound action, well, there were mountains in the way of that. Then there was that dark little part of Peter that whispered: you half-soul, you’re not enough for him. You can’t even raise your own flag.

It caused a desperate sadness to rise in his chest. One that made him clutch Stiles tighter and one that he definitely didn’t feel like adding to. Not now. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.

Peter led Stiles up to their bedroom and left his nephew to suffer his own buried tenderness.