Chapter Text
Stiles watched the man from afar, his gaze flickering to the various papers sprawled across the familiar tables. Over the years he spent living inside these walls, he wouldn’t have thought it possible for rooms he had familiarized himself with could change within a day. Perhaps it was Deucalion’s absence. Perhaps it was the man handing out orders to the soldiers lingering in the room.
Perhaps Stiles had hoped, beyond his doubt, that the door to his cage was about to be opened.
“You should eat,” the man instructed Stiles as the others started to leave.
Stiles looked back to the man, unsure if he was being spoken to. He was surprised when their eyes caught one another’s, realizing too late that they were the only ones in the room. He was unsure how to respond, the man’s gaze was calculatingly cold and difficult to read. One wrong move and it was over.
Stiles looked into the man’s eyes.
Gorgeous eyes hidden behind a hardened stare, one that gave very little in telling of the man’s emotions.
“Why should I make this easier on you?” Stiles chose to ask instead of complying.
The man was quiet for a moment, a faint amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth. “This is easy for me whether you pass out from starvation or not.”
Stiles’ gaze dropped to the food on the table—a table he had sat at more than once when entertaining dignitaries his husband was expecting to impress. He was surprised to see the freshness of the food, though he figured most things would appear fresh when a blockade had kept them scrambling for rations over the past several months.
“What is your plan?” Stiles finally asked as he looked back up at the man, refusing to sit and partake in the food being offered. “Did the prince actually think things would just disperse when Deucalion fled?”
The man said nothing as he continued to watch Stiles, his arms crossed over his chest while his facial expression barely faltered. But Stiles was certain he saw amusement there once more.
Stiles drew in a breath before tilting his chin up.
He could be defiant—Deucalion wasn’t here. His hand wasn’t roughly grasping Stiles’ bicep as a reminder of what would happen if he failed or faltered.
He could be defiant—his mother was the most favored of all the emperor’s illegitimate children. His father was a king, and still the commanding officer of the largest military in their empire. Even with his husband abandoning him, his father wouldn’t.
He would be defiant, and not made to be ridiculed by anyone.
“My husband, the brute that he is, is an intelligent one. He will be trying to get an army, perhaps even rendezvousing with my father—so if your idea of forwarding your career is parading me around before presenting me to the prince as a prize of war, I would rather pass out from starvation.”
Something sparked in the man’s eyes, a type of understanding softening the furrow of his brow.
A knock at the door interrupted whatever his rebuttal would have been. He called for the person to enter, though his eyes didn’t leave Stiles.
It made Stiles feel vulnerable under the intensity there.
“Your Highness,” a soldier formally saluted the man as he handed him a bound scroll.
Stiles’ eyes snapped over to the soldier before quickly looking to the man in shock. The soldier hadn’t addressed Stiles but the other man.
The man didn’t take his eyes off Stiles as he took the parchment from the soldier, and a smile danced across his lips when he saw the realization hit Stiles.
Stiles didn’t have to see his reflection to know his face was reddening with each passing second from the humiliation of realizing he was addressing the prince all along.
“Again,” the man—no, the prince started as he calmly unrolled the scroll. “It’s easy for me whether you pass out or not—no promotion needed,” he informed Stiles as he looked down at the paper. “I’m sure your father would rather you not pass out, though.”
“Why are you here?” Stiles asked instead of addressing the man’s words.
The man kept his head down to read the paper, though his gaze flickered up briefly to see Stiles. “I waged war with Deucalion with the intention of killing him—that faltered. And I don’t like faltering.”
Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. “Doesn’t explain why you’re here in person.”
The man dropped the scroll to the table before looking at Stiles. “Just because your husband likes to use others to fight and die for his own selfish reasons doesn’t mean I do.”
Stiles couldn’t argue with that.
Deucalion wasn’t known for his compassion towards those under his command. He wasn’t known for his compassion towards Stiles, either.
Their marriage, a political one, had its parameters made abundantly clear within the first few days.
And to Deucalion, Stiles had failed him. Well, as far as he knew.
Stiles refrained from subconsciously placing a hand on his stomach as he looked down at the food, reluctantly moving to sit at the table. He grabbed a piece of the sliced bread, nibbling on the crust. He knew he would be sick if he ate how his stomach begged him to. He was desperate to not make a further fool of himself. “Why keep me here?”
The prince didn’t answer as he picked up a previously forgotten goblet. He poured himself a generous amount of wine from the serving table. “What would be a better plan than keeping you here?”
Stiles knew the truth—his father was the king of a moderately wealthy kingdom thanks to the emperor’s patronage once Stiles’ parents wed. His father also was a military leader, possessing one of the most renowned armies in the known empire.
And the emperor loved Stiles. There was always a fondness in his aging features when he saw Stiles—a glint of remembrance.
In the end, Stiles was a bargaining chip. He had been one for his entire marriage, and he would continue to be even after.
Stiles knew when he was beat. “My grandfather won’t like this.”
“Your grandfather is too busy with other affairs to care,” the prince answered. “Besides, I’m treating you kindly—I think even the emperor can appreciate that.”
“If I’m to be ridiculed—”
“What about this has ridiculed you?” The prince inquired, speaking to Stiles as if they were two diplomats having a pleasant discussion about something as mundane as the taxes on barley. “If anything, your husband is the one who insulted you and the emperor. Did he not flee his own kingdom without his husband?”
The bread started to turn to mush in his mouth—a taste of ash replacing the bland substance. He forced himself to swallow it. “He’ll find another spouse before long, so it doesn’t matter what you do to me.”
“I think you misunderstand your importance to him,” the prince stated as he moved around the table. He stood beside Stiles’ chair, moving to lean against the edge of the table as he stared down at him.
Stiles forced himself to look up at the prince.
“The emperor paid a monthly stipend, an inheritance of sorts for you,” the prince began. “Which Deucalion spent how he pleased. And then of course there is your father—a man with military leadership that is unparalleled.” He set his goblet down on the table next to the plate intended for Stiles to use. “And Deucalion spit in your father’s face when he left you for the wolves.”
“Meaning without me, my husband has no wealth, and no reserve army to aid him as you hunt him down,” Stiles filled in the gaps, refusing to play stupid with the prince. “And if you have me, my father won’t join forces against you.”
“It was a stroke of luck to find you here,” the prince remarked.
“You’re relying on the assumption my father won’t work to get me back from you,” Stiles countered, willing to push his luck some.
The prince faintly smiled, reaching beside him for the parchment he had discarded earlier. He offered the paper to Stiles, his gesture calm and earnest.
Stiles slowly took the parchment from the prince’s hand.
“Because your father has already asked for your safety in return for his aid,” the prince explained before Stiles’ eyes could even read the correspondence.
Stiles recognized his father’s handwriting immediately. His father had preferred to write anything of importance himself, knowing the royal scribe to take liberties in toning down his most passionate of responses. He could tell his father had written the letter in a hurry, likely even before the battle had truly begun. His father could predict the outcome of a battle with the same accuracy an augur could predict the weather. His father never entered a battle he could not win—he must have known the stronghold wouldn’t keep out the Hales.
Stiles’ fingertips traced over his father’s seal and the loops of his name. He tore his eyes away from the comforting writing to look up at the prince. “So I am to be the prisoner of the Wolf Prince until my father arrives to negotiate my release.”
“Guest, if you prefer,” the prince replied. “And nobody really calls me that.”
“My husband did,” Stiles replied, keeping the prince’s eyes locked with his own.
“I answer to Derek if you’re asking for my name,” the prince coolly replied.
Stiles felt his throat dry, realizing that he had guessed correctly.
The Hales were an old, ancient bloodline that surpassed even the emperor. Their clan had originally been the founding members of many various villages in the north. Then a fire tore through all of it one night and nearly wiped the Hale bloodline from existence. For years, many prominent families believed them dead—though the emperor pushed for more information.
Stiles thought about the various times Deucalion had to deal with any mention of the Hales—anger would boil into Deucalion’s voice, once resulting in the unjust beating of a messenger.
He never understood why Deucalion had been so determined to find a conclusive ending to the Hales. But now, with one of them so close, Stiles could guess there was more happening between his husband and the mystery at hand.
The truth of the situation was glaringly obvious: the Hales had survived, and indeed were coming for revenge. He didn’t blame them, remembering the horror that even the vaguest details emitted when he originally heard them. “Deucalion thought you died,” he stated, knowing the other man could see the recognition that split Stiles’ mask of indifference.
“Only part of me,” Derek coldly replied as he stood up.
“Why invade?” Stiles pressed as he watched Derek’s back.
A bitter bark of laughter escaped the prince. “You can’t invade what is yours.”
Stiles’ features softened some.
Derek walked over to the fireplace, where a portrait of Deucalion hung. He easily tore the portrait down, casting it aside by the fire.
Stiles startled for a moment at the abruptness of Derek’s movements. He stared at the torn canvas that was his husband’s face, unsurprised by the lack of care he felt in seeing its current state. He looked up at the prince, his breath catching when he saw what the portrait had been concealing.
A coat of arms was decoratively carved into the stone. Stiles had seen it before, in the library, behind one of the many shelves and rows of books. It had been carved along various spots that he doubt Deucalion recognized.
“My ancestral home was set ablaze, and your husband moved in when the set dressing was done,” Derek simply stated, turning to look back at Stiles. “I wasn’t lying when I said you were my guest.”
~*~
Stiles’ disbelief wasn’t shocking to Derek. If anything, it was expected.
Derek never believed he would have stumbled upon Deuclaion’s husband left abandoned in the palace. It was a stroke of luck that they managed to enter the palace unseen, slipping through the secret tunnels Derek still remembered from his childhood. He remembered hurrying through the passages the night of the fire, Peter’s weight over his shoulders was a solid reminder of what they were fleeing from.
Had Derek been hidden from the world long enough that even someone as closely connected as Stiles had forgotten the Hales?
It was dizzying to think Derek could remember the first time he saw Stiles was at the emperor’s palace—two children in a maze. The flower Stiles had given Derek wilted within the following weeks, and with that the memories of kindness.
“Still as infatuated as ever?” Peter asked as he started to unravel the maps, interrupting Derek’s solace. He balanced his haphazard grip on the maps rolled beneath his immobile arm. He had grown accustomed to the shifting in ability since the fire.
Derek ignored his uncle, his gaze remained unwavering over the water’s horizon. He remembered staring at this scenery as a child when his mother convened council meetings. He acted sheepishly whenever she caught him not paying attention. As a teenager, he never thought he would have missed it. And then the fire tore it away.
“I think you’re playing this dangerously loose,” Peter continued to voice his concerns as he looked down at the map he unrolled. He moved small map markers into their corresponding places, and placed weights to the edges of the map. “Holding a king’s spouse hostage, especially when you allowed his mistresses to leave with whatever gold they could carry—”
“Means I have no use for lovers or potential bastards,” Derek finally spoke to Peter, forcing himself to look away from the peaceful horizon. He looked at his uncle expectantly. “He’s our guest,” he corrected Peter’s early comment about Stiles being a hostage.
“A guest who sleeps in a locked room with guards posted,” Peter replied.
“Once his father is here, and we can sign a treaty, the boy can wander whatever halls he likes,” Derek snapped at his uncle as he turned to look at the maps on the table.
“Boy?” Peter scoffed. “He’s not that much younger than you.”
Derek didn’t answer Peter’s clear taunt.
“He’ll be ruined after this,” Peter continued as he sat down in the large leather bound chair nearest the table. His face pleasantly scrunched for a moment as he settled into the comfortable piece of furniture, rubbing his scarred arm absentmindedly. “If we manage to get our hands on his husband, who knows what might befall him.”
“And you care,” Derek uttered in a flat tone, more a statement than question.
“Sad to see someone that gorgeous and with that many connections wasted,” Peter replied.
Derek finally turned his head to look at Peter, not surprised to find his uncle’s eyes closed as his head rested back. “I suppose a waste,” he begrudgingly echoed, knowing Peter was attempting to get some sort of reaction out of him.
A faint smile pulled at Peter’s lips, as if he knew what lingered in Derek’s thoughts.
~*~
Stiles kept quiet during his captivity. To be honest, he had not seen that much of a change from his life with Deucalion. He was no longer obligated to smile at people, or wait through the lonely hours of the night before he was finally allowed sleep. Always at his husband’s beck and call. He tried to keep a positive outlook, knowing his father was on his way and his ordeal would be over quickly. For his sake, he hoped he would be gone before too long.
Stiles sat at the dining table with Derek, his gaze focused on the food or the various papers by Derek’s side. He kept his eyes from looking at the other man’s face. He grew used to their silent meetings over a shared meal, though Derek was mainly only interested in making sure Stiles ate to keep his health.
Stiles dressed in more elegant robes this evening, having started to wear his diplomatic clothes. They were loose fitting, and made him feel comfortable—more comfortable than the wardrobe Deucalion had picked for him.
Rich fabric with ostentatious embroidery and cuts designed to show more of Stiles’ body than he liked. He had only argued against it once before accepting it. He was humiliated to be wearing those clothes when first meeting with other monarchs, knowing the end goal was to use him as a distraction. A gorgeous trophy—a status symbol that flaunted Deucalion’s connection to the emperor.
It made Stiles sick most nights.
“When will my father be here?” Stiles decidedly asked as he picked at the vegetables on his plate.
“A fortnight at most,” Derek answered, his gaze still focused on his papers.
“And what happens then,” Stiles tiredly pressed, wanting to know more about Derek’s plan.
“And then, your father and I come to an agreement,” Derek replied—still not looking at Stiles.
Stiles released a heavy breath. “This is ridiculous,” he finally snapped.
His outburst managed to grab Derek’s attention, the prince finally looking up at Stiles.
“I don’t know why you’re keeping me here,” Stiles stated. “Deucalion isn’t coming back for me!”
Something in Stiles’ words cracked. He swallowed the lump in his throat, knowing Derek heard the evident worry in his voice. He didn’t want to go back to Deucalion—he wanted his father. He wanted his home.
“Not for you,” Derek calmly agreed.
Stiles looked up in surprise at Derek’s statement. A cold sweat started to creep along Stiles’ spine, a prickling of fear at the base of his neck. He didn’t say anything, afraid he might give something away.
Derek leaned back in his chair, folding his hands low across his stomach. He still looked like a predator at rest, as if he was waiting for Stiles to make a mistake before pouncing.
“You think he’d storm a fortress to get a chance at killing you?” Stiles asked, hoping he could play naive as he did with Deucalion on more than one occasion.
Deucalion never believed in Stiles’ intelligence. Stiles was worried Derek did.
“No,” Derek answered with a soft smile.
There was something dangerous in that smile that Stiles couldn’t place.
“I think he’d want his unborn child, and heir, safe from my grasp.”
Stiles tried to keep his expression vacant, unsure what Derek could know or what would clue him in on the truth.
“I’m only going to ask you this once,” Derek calmly began, his voice even of all emotion as he pinned Stiles with a hardened stare. “How long?”
Stiles’ lips fell into a thin, grim line. “You’ll have to be more specific,” he attempted to match Derek’s tone.
Derek didn’t react to Stiles’ pressing for more.
“I don’t know—”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Derek’s voice warned Stiles against lying to him. “This is a time sensitive issue, and I don’t appreciate being lied to.”
Despite the situation, Stiles didn’t feel the familiar uneasiness of fear clawing at his stomach the way it always had when Deucalion would confront him. He wasn’t caged in, he wasn’t braced for the fury.
“He doesn’t know,” Stiles chose to say instead.
Derek didn’t appear placated by Stiles’ admission. “And how long, do you think, before he does know,” he even countered, his words more a statement than question.
Stiles drew in an unsteady breath. “How did you know?”
“You’re careful what you eat,” Derek replied. “You’re sick in a near routine, the maids say.” He quietly observed Stiles. “And I guessed.”
Stiles’ gaze snapped up to Derek.
“Your reaction answered my doubts,” Derek concluded. “And if I can guess, Deucalion likely knows.”
“Doubtful,” Stiles remarked. “He took lovers because I couldn’t give him what he wanted.”
“You?” Derek asked, arching his brow.
Stiles’ brow furrowed. “Do you think Deucalion would blame himself?”
Derek snorted out a faint laugh, nodding his head. “I suppose not.”
“But you let his bastards go, so I don’t see the point in holding me,” Stiles pressed again.
Derek was looking at Stiles once more like he was evaluating him. “You don’t think I’m that stupid,” he simply replied.
Stiles had wished Derek was—it would be significantly easier if he was.
“Those bastards are unlikely his,” Derek sighed in annoyance. “Any child you have is legitimate to Deucalion,” he stated, his tone remaining much the same as before—calm but formidable. “Which secures his bloodline. And being his legal spouse, he can take you back at any point—especially if you’re with child.”
Stiles clenched his teeth before adding, “Which invalidates any treaty you would have with my father to go against Deucalion.”
Derek allowed the words to hang heavy in the silence between them.
Stiles forced himself to look away from Derek. His gaze fell on the crest above the fireplace—the Hale crest, looming over them like a shade from a blood soaked past. “It’s my child,” he stated to the creeping silence, nothing but the crackle of the fire answering him. “I am keeping it,” he finally stated as he looked back at Derek, his glare hardening when the prince barely reacted.
“I thought you’d say that,” Derek finally admitted, his voice sounding tired and resigned. He stood up as he pushed his chair back with relative ease. He rounded the table, taking Stiles by the bicep with a forceful finesse. He yanked Stiles up out of his chair and guided them both to exit the room.
Stiles stumbled in surprise. He grabbed at Derek’s hand, prying at the vice-like grip as fear started to take root for the first time. He had no idea what Derek was intending, but their conversation dying as it did left little for the imagination. “Let me go!” He snapped, wildly looking around the halls for something to grab onto.
Derek’s grip was sure, but didn’t leave the bruised skin that Deucalion’s did. There was a guidance in his grip opposed to the domination in Deucalion’s.
Stiles still couldn’t shake the fear that Derek was about to throw him down stairs, or out a window. Or worse—bring him to a cutwife.
There were a number of people in the halls, both Hale soldiers and servants who had been allowed to stay on after Deucalion left. None turned to stop the spectacle of what was happening, but some stared with wide eyed concern.
It brought back more memories than Stiles cared for.
Cowards , Stiles thought.
Stiles started to struggle more when he saw where they were. He recognized the hall, being called there most nights by Deucalion. He had counted himself lucky when his marriage began, realizing he had his own rooms separated from his husband. It didn’t make the walk any less humiliating—for guards and servants to know he was being summoned to tend to his husband’s bed.
“Don’t disturb me for the rest of the night,” Derek instructed the soldiers by the door. He pushed Stiles through the doors, releasing his hold on him.
Stiles stumbled, catching his balance as he turned to face Derek once more. He took calculated steps backwards, remembering the layout of the room better than anyone would likely give him credit for. He backed towards the fireplace as he watched Derek close the doors.
Derek started walking towards him.
Stiles grabbed what he could, his hand touching the cold metal handle—one of the fire place’s cleaning utensils. He pressed his body against the side of the fireplace, hiding the instrument behind his back. “What are you trying to prove? That you’re better than Deucalion by raping his spouse in his bedroom?”
A flicker of something cracked Derek’s stony expression as he slowed his steps to stand in front of Stiles. He was about to say something when Stiles swung his weapon at him.
Stiles felt the metal object—the fire poker—hit Derek’s shoulder, the twang of the metal wobbling in Stiles’ hand. He dropped the object when Derek grunted in pain and moved to the side. He tried to run by Derek, gasping in surprise when Derek grabbed him. He yelled and shoved back into Derek to get him off balance. He heard something fall—likely the serving table crashing into the ground from them bumping into it.
“Stop!” Stiles yelled as he struggled to get out of Derek’s arms. He had a lurching reminder of what it had been like in the beginning of his marriage—the way Deucalion would haul him over to the bed despite Stiles’ initial resistance. “Let me go!”
Stiles’ breath caught as a hand clamped over his mouth, an arm wrapped around his waist to hold him tightly against a firm body. The calm and ease in the movements was almost enough to stop him from struggling.
“Do you want to keep your child?” Derek’s voice asked in a low whisper, his breath touching Stiles’ ear.
Stiles’ attempts to get free subsided for a brief moment, hearing a calm in Derek’s voice that he didn’t expect to. He hesitated before quickly nodding his head against Derek’s hand.
“Do you want to go back to your husband?”
Stiles blinked back tears, thinking about a worse fate.
The biting fear that he might overstep some impossible expectation. The uncertainty of whether Deucalion’s annoyance with the emperor would boil over while in private. The general disregard for Stiles’ wellbeing, or emotional stability.
He weakly shook his head.
“Then take your clothes off and get in the bed,” Derek instructed as his hands left Stiles.
Stiles turned to look at Derek.
Stiles didn’t like Derek—it was difficult to like someone who invaded your home and kept you hostage. But up until this night, he had been treated with cordial hospitality. He wasn’t beaten or starved. He was given a room to sleep in and allowed to keep wearing his clothes. He hadn’t seen or heard any harm befall others in the palace.
A respect had started to form in Stiles’ mind when he thought about Derek. But the churning in Stiles’ stomach was the souring of those thoughts.
“I’ve been raped by my husband enough,” Stiles finally stated, his voice shaky in the admittance despite the unwavering words. “I won’t be raped again.”
Derek turned to look at Stiles, his gaze focused on the younger man. He looked sympathetic to Stiles, a vulnerability seen there. “I’m not going to touch you, Stiles.” He waited until he saw the tension in Stiles’ shoulders relax some. “But I need to tear your clothes to make others think I did.”
Stiles’ hands brushed over his robes, a shaky breath leaving him.
Derek turned his back to Stiles to give him some privacy. “Place your clothes on the foot of the bed when you’re done.”
Stiles’ robes were easy to remove, the clothes slipping from his body without difficulty. He put the robes onto the bed before climbing under the covers himself. He curled beneath the blankets, his eyes tracking Derek. He realized he wasn’t turning around despite any sound he may have deduced.
“Alright,” Stiles’ voice softly broke the silence between them.
Derek barely turned, taking hold of Stiles’ clothes.
Stiles watched as Derek expertly ripped them, throwing them onto the ground. He released a drawn out heavy breath, his hand reaching back to his shoulder, pulling his loose fitting shirt over his head. He pulled at the laces of his trousers with his free hand, casting his shirt onto the other part of the room.
Stiles hugged his knees to his chest as he watched Derek create a room depicting a debauched scene. He pressed his cheek against the top of his knee. His breathy intake was soft and unsure when Derek pushed his trousers down. He blinked his eyes away when he saw Derek’s naked body take a turn about the room.
He knew Derek could hurt him—nothing was preventing it. He could fight. He could attempt to get away just as he had, but some part of him wanted to believe Derek’s promise that he wouldn’t touch him.
Derek silently got into the bed on the other side. He slipped beneath the blankets.
Stiles quizzically watched Derek, tilting his head to the side as he came to terms that Derek had closed his eyes to sleep. “You’re not worried that I’ll attack you?”
Derek didn’t open his eyes as he snorted. “If you want to kill me, Stiles,” he started, opening one eye to glance at Stiles. “You can kill me. But you won’t make it out of the palace. And that would go against everything we just did.” He closed his eyes completely.
Stiles slipped down onto the bed, settling in to sleep. He found himself too lost to sleep, his mind racing with questions and uncertainty. He had been terrified of Derek, but now he wondered if Derek was his one chance of escaping.
~*~
“What happens after this?” Stiles asked in the middle of the night.
His father was due any day, things having accumulated to a head now. He wanted to know what would happen to him—to Derek.
“You go home with your father,” Derek answered in a sleepadled tone. “To live in disgrace. With your child.”
Stiles stared up at the ceiling of the bedroom. “What about you?”
Derek turned onto his back, allowing his head to lull on the pillow. He was looking at Stiles now.
Stiles turned his head to look back at Derek.
“As far as anyone is concerned, I have a bastard child that is blood related to the emperor,” Derek remarked.
Stiles’ brow furrowed. “And that doesn’t bother you?” He was surprised by Derek’s heartfelt laugh.
“My uncle and I are the last of my bloodline,” Derek explained, looking at Stiles. “Whether I managed to restore my house or not—my bloodline is dead. What does it matter if the world believes I have a bastard?”
Stiles slowly turned onto his side to face Derek. Neither one of them spoke in the nights they shared a bed. Stiles would always strip down before Derek even arrived—some nights were absent of him completely. But they shared an amicable silence where they would sleep in bed, naked and bare, and never touch one another.
Tonight was likely the last time Stiles would see Derek alone.
“You could marry,” Stiles offered.
“What have you heard of me?” Derek asked Stiles, reaching an arm up to prop beneath his head.
Stiles saw the long scar that ran along the inside of Derek’s bicep. He’d seen the scars Deucalion had from training, even a few battles. But Derek’s body was covered in scars—slashes and burns. And Stiles wanted to know their stories—he wanted to know what type of man refused to die from such hell, and still have a softer touch than a king.
“You’re a conqueror,” Stiles finally uttered.
“A murderer,” Derek corrected him. “Be honest with me,” he pressed as his eyes flickered over to Stiles. “I think you would like to tell me the truth about the monster I am.”
Stiles tucked his pillow against the crook of his neck, pulling the fluffy material into his chest. “Deucalion knew the rumors weren’t true when he had them spread,” he honestly stated.
Derek scoffed, shifting his body some. “Doesn’t mean they haven’t taken root.”
Stiles stared at Derek. “Do you believe that?” He was confused by such nonchalance.
“I believe what I know,” Derek answered, his gaze falling towards the ceiling once more. “I am the image of the monster powerful men warn their people about.”
“But you’re not,” Stiles’ voice broke the silence that had started to fall between them.
“Don’t,” Derek sharply countered. His jaw was tightly set as his eyes fell to Stiles. “Don’t romanticize me.”
Stiles felt the heat return to his cheeks, feeling Derek’s gaze penetrating his soul—as if he could look at Stiles and know everything.
“I’m not,” Stiles argued. “I know what I’ve seen, and I know what I’ve experienced with my husband.”
Derek tore his gaze away from Stiles, though he refused to argue.
“You’ve shown mercy,” Stiles offered, before hesitantly adding, “and kindness.”
Stiles wasn’t sure how it happened so quickly, but Derek was faster than he thought a man of his stature could be. He released a startled cry as he was hauled across the bed. Before he realized it, he was pressed against the bed, one of his hands pinned by his head. He had been dragged across the bed and shoved down into the spot Derek had been occupying.
Derek hovered above Stiles, looming over him as an uncharacteristic expression took over. Cold as usual, but more uncaring than Stiles had seen.
“Don’t assume such things about me,” Derek spoke, his voice rough with a tinge of anger. “A kindness would be to give you to your father without a bargaining—remember that you’re a means to an end for me to get what I want.”
Stiles blinked up at Derek. “It doesn’t change the fact that I’ve been shown more kindness as a hostage than a spouse,” he weakly argued.
Derek’s hold on Stiles’ hand lightened, as if he was momentarily disarmed by Stiles’ response.
A knock on the door interrupted.
Derek released his grip on Stiles, withdrawing from the bed without a single word in parting.
~*~
Stiles had seen his father angry before. But he had never seen fury like this.
“You write to me, claiming good faith, and then turn around and hurt my son!” John yelled from across the war table.
Stiles had barely enough time to enter the room before seeing his father being held back by one of his guards, Derek coolly standing on the other side as if John’s anger wasn’t directed at him.
Derek was silently standing with his back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He appeared to be waiting for the yelling to subside before addressing it.
“Father,” Stiles announced his presence. He was glad to see his father visibly calm at seeing him.
“Mieczysław,” John softly uttered. He turned and made his way around the table, avoiding Derek’s side of the room completely.
Stiles stepped forward, relieved the soldiers were waiting for Derek to even address them, leaving an opening for Stiles to reach his father without delay.
John hugged Stiles tightly, enveloping his son in a long overdue embrace.
Stiles closed his eyes, his hands gripping at John’s back as he took a deep breath. He felt safe, knowing his father was here for him. He felt free.
“As I said before, he’s not going anywhere,” Derek finally spoke. “He’s staying here,” he informed John.
“The fuck he is,” John glowered angrily at Derek, moving to stand between him and Stiles. “I’m not leaving my child here with the likes of you.”
“And Deucalion was a better choice?” Derek countered. He pushed off the wall, coming closer to the table as he reached out for one of the house markers. He picked up the stag’s head—House Stilinski. He slowly turned it in his hand before placing it down on their current location. “We need to talk about the coming months, and he’s not going anywhere until the child is born.”
Stiles felt John tense beside him.
“What are you talking about?” John’s voice was uncharacteristically dark.
Derek’s eyes briefly, at a lazy pace, looked at Stiles before he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. There were still too many people in the room to talk about the situation truthfully.
“When my child is born, you can have yours back,” Derek plainly stated, as if it was the easiest way to get the point across.
Some people shifted uneasily, John’s entourage of advisors and guards visibly lurched at the admittance. They had all heard the rumors—Stiles was kept in Derek’s bedroom, clothes torn and discarded, spending the evenings and nights together.
Sullied and soiled , most gossip circles would call it.
“Father,” Stiles softly started, looking at John as he took his hand.
“I’ll tear you to pieces,” John threatened Derek, as if he hadn’t heard Stiles speak.
“Still doesn’t change the fact that you’re going to be a grandfather,” Derek remarked.
Stiles gave Derek a look that he hoped pressed for silence. He wanted to calm his father, not agitate him to the point of destroying all diplomacy.
“Everyone get out,” Derek ordered, finally folding to Stiles’ insistent stare. “Family matters to be dealt with,” he gruffly offered to his uncle.
Peter shook his head, sighing some as he waved his hand to the others.
John’s people hesitated, only following suit when John nodded his head to Parrish.
“You better start by explaining why the hell I would offer anything to you when you hurt my son,” John started questioning even before the doors finally closed, leaving him with Derek and Stiles.
“He hasn’t touched me,” Stiles softly confessed to his father. He stared at John, waiting for the words to sink in.
“Stiles—”
Stiles shook his head at the disbelief in his father’s voice. “He didn’t,” he adamantly stated again. “He made it look like he had.”
John visibly froze, as if he was trying to recall exactly what he had heard.
Stiles looked over at Derek. “Deucalion didn’t know I was with child when he left,” he explained to John. “He’d … he’d come back if he knew,” he weakly added.
John pulled Stiles into a firm hug. “All this be damned, you’re coming home with me,” he firmly stated.
“Even if that is what Stiles wants,” Derek started, seeming to be the only person willing to talk about the impending reality outside. “It doesn’t change the fact that he will be having a child in the coming months.”
Stiles looked at Derek, easing himself out of his father’s hold. “He has a point,” he spoke in agreement as he looked up at John.
“And why should I help you?” John asked as he looked at Derek.
“You never liked Deucalion,” Derek offered. “I think part of you knew he was mistreating Stiles, you just never could prove it.”
John tensed.
“If you help me destroy him, and the Argents, he’ll never be a threat to Stiles again,” Derek explained.
John drew in a heavy breath. “You know he’ll have heard the rumors—the ones you started.”
“Partially the point,” Derek answered.
“The emperor has heard them,” John elaborated, an edge to his voice. “The emperor believes you defiled his favorite grandchild. He will not view me helping you as a welcomed outcome.”
Stiles’ brow furrowed. “I could explain it to grandfather,” he started.
John sighed. “You know what he’ll say.”
Stiles did. He had petitioned his grandfather before, asking if he could possibly leave Deucalion—perhaps even live in a monastery. For all the love the emperor had in his heart, he was a man who heeded the gods.
He is your husband—I cannot separate a bed that has been consummated. Only death can do that.
“If I … ” Stiles couldn’t stop himself from quickly looking over at Derek for a moment. What he was about to suggest would affect them both. “If I wrote to grandfather for permission to marry.”
John’s brow furrowed. “Stiles, you’re already married.”
“If Deucalion is killed in battle, and I was to marry Prince Derek—the … father of my child,” Stiles looked at Derek for a moment to gage his response. He was infuriated with how unreadable Derek could be in these moments. “Would the emperor then accept you helping the Hale house being restored.”
Derek was staring at Stiles, paying John’s critical gaze no mind. “You don’t even know if I’m already married.”
“I doubt you are,” Stiles remarked as he looked back at Derek.
Derek made no acknowledgement at having heard Sties’ reply.
“You’ll get your support—even an allowance from the emperor,” Stiles uttered.
“Stiles,” John’s voice was in a warning tone, as if he didn’t want his son to make such a heavy handed agreement.
“And what do you get?” Derek asked.
Stiles drew in a breath. “I get the reassurance that you won’t hurt me,” he uttered, feeling nearly breathless at the blindness in his statement. Derek hadn’t hurt him, but there was no guarantee he wouldn’t once Stiles had served his purpose. A means to an end .
“And that you’ll never let anyone else hurt me.”
Derek was quiet for a beat, his gaze not leaving Stiles. “I suppose we’re in agreement then,” he stated before John could take advantage of the lull in conversation.