Archive of Our Own ^beta

Plumas,

Castle of the lord Deaton Alan.

Stiles stood on the balcony, staring out across the vast landscape stretching before him. He hadn’t eaten a bite of breakfast—nerves twisted in his stomach like a knot. Today, he was being sold off. Given away. His father was giving him away.

Bitterness curled deep in his gut, and he chewed on his bottom lip.

“Stiles!” his father’s voice rang out, sharp and impatient. Stiles’ shoulders sagged.

“There you are,” Noah said as he stepped into view.

Stiles turned and walked back inside, his gaze fixed to the floor as his father approached.

“There’s our omega bride-to-be,” Noah announced with a grin. “Look, a gift from Deaton.” He held out a sleek, shimmering garment—practically a dress. “Touch it,” he urged.

Stiles hesitated before reaching out, fingers brushing the fabric. It was soft—softer than anything he’d ever felt.

“Isn’t he a gracious host?” Noah said with a smirk.

“We’ve been his guests for over a year and he’s never asked us for anything,” Stiles murmured, glancing up.

“Deaton’s no fool,” his father replied. “He knows I won’t forget my friends when I take the throne.” He shoved the garment into the arms of a waiting handmaid with careless force. “You still slouch,” he added, frowning.

Then his hands were on Stiles—reaching around his slim frame, untying the laces of his nightshirt.

“You have an omega’s body now,” Noah murmured, easing the shirt down Stiles’ shoulders until it slipped to the floor in a heap.

The scent of beta arousal hit Stiles’ nose as he stood there, exposed, inspected like livestock. His father’s hands roamed over his shoulders and waist with clinical detachment.

“I need you to be perfect today, Stiles,” Noah whispered, his nose brushing against Stiles’ cheek. “Can you do that for me?”

Stiles looked up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

“You don’t want to wake a kings wrath, do you?” his father added, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Stiles whispered, eyes dropping.

Satisfied, Noah stepped away.

Stiles didn’t move as the handmaids approached. Only when their gentle hands touched his arms did he let himself be guided to the bath, silent and resigned.

They scrubbed his skin pink, clensing away any dirt from him him, embarrassingly thorough.

"Wolves don't like perfumes. He must be able to smell your natural scent." The handmaiden explained when Stiles asked why they didn't have any soap or oils in the bath.

"Where is he?” Noah asked, impatience clear in his voice as he glanced over at Deaton.

Stiles did his best not to fidget, nerves clawing at him. He was scared—anxious to meet his betrothed.

“The werewolves are not known for their punctuality,” Deaton said, eyes crinkling at the edges in quiet amusement.

Noah scoffed, clearly displeased.

Stiles’ stomach twisted with nausea, and he wrung his hands while they waited. Then, suddenly, the sound of horse hooves echoed in the distance. He swallowed hard as a group of six men on horseback approached.

Deaton lifted his arms and called out in a language Stiles didn’t understand, smiling broadly as he stepped forward.

“May I present my honored guests,” Deaton announced. “Noah of House Stilinski, third of his name,” he gestured toward Stiles’ father, “the rightful king of the Andals and the First Men, and his son, Mieczyslaw of House Stilinski.”

His words shifted once more into a foreign tongue. Stiles made to step forward, but his father grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

“Do you see how long his hair is?” Noah whispered, tilting his head toward Stiles. “When werewolves are defeated in combat, they cut off their braid so the whole world can see their shame. Derek Hale has never been defeated.”

Stiles kept his face carefully blank, unsure what reaction his father wanted. Unsure how to avoid punishment. He kept his gaze lowered, the image of a perfect, submissive omega.

“He’s a savage, of course—all wolves are—but he’s one of the finest killers alive. And you will be his mate.”

A pit twisted in Stiles’ stomach.

Deaton turned back toward them, smiling. “Come forward, my dear,” he said gently, beckoning Stiles.

Noah let go of his son’s wrist.

Gaze downcast, Stiles stepped forward. The pale dress he wore fluttered behind him in the breeze, doing little to hide his body, he worn nothing underneath. His nipples stood stark in the cool air.

He risked a glance up through his lashes, timid and unsure. Just a peek at the alpha.

Their eyes met.

The breath caught in Stiles’ throat.

The alpha was beyond handsome—his skin tanned and glistening faintly under the hot sun. A faint scar marked his left eyebrow, chin stubbled, neat and trimmed, a contrast to the long braid falling over his shoulder. His eyes were pale, nearly grey, and sharp as steel.

Time slowed. They stared at each other, frozen in the moment. Stiles' lips parted, awed.

The alpha’s nostrils flared—then he turned his horse abruptly, kicking his horse into a hard gallop. The massive black beast grunted before surging forward, and the others followed without a word.

Stiles blinked rapidly, his heart thudding in his chest as the wolves vanished as quickly as they’d arrived.

“Where are they going?” Noah demanded, stepping forward with a red face.

“The ceremony is over,” Deaton said calmly.

“But he didn’t say anything,” Noah snapped. “Did he like him?”

Stiles turned to look at Deaton, who smiled gently.

“Trust me, Your Grace. If he didn’t  like him—we’d know.”

"It won’t be long now,” Deaton said, clasping his hands behind his back. “Soon you’ll cross the Narrow Sea and take back your wife’s throne. The people drink secret toasts to your health,” he added, leaning closer to Noah’s ear. “They cry out for their true king.”

Noah sighed and began strolling through the garden.

“When will they be mated?” he asked.

Stiles silently hurried to follow, stomach twisting.

“Soon,” Deaton assured him with a nod. “The werewolves never stay outside their woods for long.”

“Is it true they lie with dogs?” Noah asked.

Stiles’ heart stuttered at the thought. Would he be expected to do such things? He prayed not.

“I wouldn’t ask Derek Hale,” Deaton replied, carefully neutral.

Noah scoffed, glaring at the bald man. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“I take you for a king. And kings lack the caution of common men. My apologies if I’ve given offense.”

“I know how to play a man like Derek,” Noah said, lifting his chin. “I give him an omega, and he gives me an army.”

Stiles’ breathing quickened. “I don’t want to be his omega,” he whispered, drawing both men’s attention. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I want to go home.”

“So do I,” Noah said, stepping closer. “I want us both to go home. But they took it from us—along with your mother.”

He raised a hand to cup Stiles’ cheek.

“So tell me, sweet omega… how do we go home?”

Stiles lowered his gaze, voice small. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

“We go home with an army. With Derek Hale’s army.” Noah tucked a strand of hair behind Stiles’ ear. “I would let his whole pack fuck you—all forty thousand men, and their dogs too—if that’s what it took.”

He stared into his son’s eyes, then pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Tears welled in Stiles’ eyes, but he blinked them away, letting his mind drift as he followed behind his father and Deaton.

Stiles sat perched on his makeshift chair, hands resting in his lap as he watched the celebration with wide eyes. The drumbeat was loud, the rhythm pulsing through his chest like a second heartbeat.

Men and women danced with abandon—their movements rough, erotic, and wild. Heat bloomed in his cheeks, and he quickly looked away, overwhelmed.

His mate-to-be sat stoically at his side, unbothered by the primal display of his people. Nearby, an omega female moaned, arching her neck for a male as they danced.

To Stiles’ left, seated lower down, were his father and Deaton. He could hear them speaking over the beat of the drum.

“When do I get to speak with Derek Hale?” Noah asked, glancing at Deaton. “We need to begin discussing the invasion.”

Deaton smiled calmly. “Derek promised you a army. You shall have it.”

“When?” Noah pressed, impatient.

“When their omens favor war,” Deaton answered patiently.

“I piss on werewolf omens. I’ve waited seven years for my throne,” Noah muttered, lifting his wine to his lips.

Another loud moan broke through the air as an alpha ripped open the omega’s blouse, exposing her breasts to the open air. Stiles’ lips parted in shock. He’d never seen such brazen, wanton behavior before.

More gifts were being brought to Derek, but Stiles barely noticed, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before him. The alpha pushed the omega down; she eagerly presented herself. Stiles watched, cheeks burning, as the alpha mounted her—for all to see.

Like animals, he thought, unable to look away.

Then, chaos. The alpha was suddenly thrown off, replaced by another who mounted the omega in his place. The first alpha snarled, springing to his feet and lunging at the challenger.

Stiles’ breath caught as the two men collided—eyes glowing, claws out. They tore at each other like beasts.

Derek made a low sound beside him, a deep rumbling growl as he straightened in his seat. He looked amused… or perhaps pleased by the scuffle.

The two alphas circled, snarling, and then launched at each other again—growls and claws clashing.

His mate rumbled something in his mother tongue, voice dark with encouragement, egging them on.

Then it was over—

Stiles gasped aloud as the original alpha fell to his knees, his belly split open, his freshly cut braid dangling from the victor’s claws.

Cheers erupted from the pack. The omega rushed forward, licking the blood from the victor’s claws, and a second female joined her, their devotion raw and animalistic.

Deaton clapped, raising his hands high. “A wolf wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair,” he explained casually to Stiles' father.

Stiles glanced timidly at his mate, who looked and smelled pleased, clearly enjoying the spectacle. Fear curled in his gut for what might come next.

Soon, a man stepped forward. He had piercing blue eyes and neatly combed-back blonde hair. Derek spoke to him in that unfamiliar language, and the man bowed in return, responding in kind.

To Stiles’ surprise, after a moment the man approached him instead of Derek.

“A small gift for the new omega,” he said, holding out three books. “Songs and histories from Stilinski Isle's.”

Stiles’ heart fluttered with something like warmth as he accepted them. “Thank you,” he whispered, offering a small, genuine smile. “Are you from my country?”

The man shook his head, smiling kindly. “Peter Hale. But I have traveled far. I served your mother, once—before your birth. Gods be good, I hope to serve you as I once did her.”

Before Stiles could respond, he stepped away and Deaton gestured for several men to bring forward a large, ornate chest. Once more, it was placed before Stiles, surprising him.

The lid creaked open, revealing three large eggs nestled inside. Stiles reached for the green one. It was heavy in his palms, its surface rough and stone-like.

“Serpent eggs, Stiles," Deaton said, smiling. “From the shadow lands beyond Beacon Hills. The ages have turned them to stone, but they will always be beautiful.”

Stiles smiled faintly, stroking the egg’s textured surface. “Thank you, Deaton,” he murmured, admiring the strange, ancient gift in his arms.

He was so transfixed, it took him a moment to notice that the music and festivities had died down.

Stiles glanced up just as Derek suddenly stood. His heart jumped. He quickly looked around, then rose to his feet as well, nervous and unsure. Derek marched forward without even glancing at him, and Stiles hurried to follow, keeping his head low.

The pack closed in as he trailed behind, some sniffing the air, scenting him from a distance. It made his skin prickle.

Derek led him through the crowd, finally stopping beside a white mare with the darkest blue eyes Stiles had ever seen.

She was breathtaking.

Stiles’ heart softened instantly. She reminded him—fiercely—of his mother’s gelding, Rosco. “She’s beautiful,” he whispered, peeking up at the alpha. Their eyes met, and Stiles’ stomach twisted with nerves.

“Peter… I don’t know how to say thank you in Lycan,” he said quietly, unsure.

Peter’s eyes crinkled at the corners with a faint smile. “There is no word for thank you in Lycan.”

Stiles’ heart sank a little at that, unsure how to show his gratitude. He glanced up at the alpha—just in time to see Derek step into his space. Before he could react, hands gripped his hips and lifted him easily.

Stiles gasped in surprise as he was placed in the saddle, his fingers clutching the reins automatically.

He watched wide eyed as his mate to be walked around fo climb atop of his black stallion, Stiles' heartbeat raced.

He heard Noah's approach, while his fingers flexed nervously around the reins.

He drew in a sharp breath, as his father's hands grabbed ahold of his dress demanding his attention. He swallowed glancing down at his father.

"Make him happy." Noah said glancing up at his son, Stiles stomach twisted with nausea.

Derek kicked his horse, and Stiles' own horse immediately moved to follow on its own accord, Stiles grabbed ahold of the horn trying to stay balanced as they rode away.

Stiles twisted his fingers, fear and anxiety churning in his gut. He took deep, shallow breaths, trying to calm himself as he stared out at the setting sun.

It was beautiful—painting the sky in soft shades of pink over the vast ocean. The sound of waves crashing against the shore filled the silence, grounding him, if only slightly.

He glanced nervously over his shoulder as the alpha approached. His eyes widened as he watched Derek remove his leather chest piece and toss it to the ground.

Their eyes met.

Stiles’ breath hitched, and he quickly turned his head away, heart pounding as Derek came up behind him. The scent of alpha musk surrounded him, thick and intoxicating. It made him lightheaded—leather and sweat, the unmistakable scent of a warrior, with metallic notes that reminded him of his monthly bleed.

He stiffened as he felt the alpha’s fingers begin to undo the fasteners of his dress. His eyes slipped shut, and tears began to gather.

The alpha rumbled—a low, comforting noise—as pieces of Stiles’ clothing were removed one by one. The dress slid from his shoulders, pooling at his feet. A soft whine escaped him, unbidden, as a tear trailed down his cheek.

Stiles’ eyes opened when his chin was caught in a firm grip, tilting his face upward. He hadn’t even noticed Derek move to stand in front of him.

A deep, resonant growl rumbled from the alpha’s chest as their eyes locked. Stiles’ bottom lip trembled, nerves and fear bubbling inside him. Derek said something in that growling Lycan tongue—foreign, rough, and commanding.

A calloused finger wiped away the tear on his cheek, then dragged down to brush over his bottom lip. Derek growled again, deeper this time, before leaning in to lick over his lips.

Stiles gasped—a sharp inhale of surprise—and Derek’s tongue pushed past his parted lips, licking hungrily, consuming him.

Unexpected heat flared in Stiles’ belly. His eyes fluttered shut as the taste of Derek overwhelmed his senses—sweet, rich, and potent, like strong wine.

He whined, the sound slipping out uncertain and raw, and Derek rumbled in approval. Warm, rough hands slid across Stiles’ skin, raising goosebumps in their wake.

When their lips parted, Stiles blinked up at the alpha, dazed.

Derek growled a single word, his hand cupping Stiles’ throat, thumb pressing firmly over his mating gland. Instantly, a rush of slick wet his thighs, and his breath caught in his throat.

The alpha repeated the word before grabbing Stiles and pushing him down. He stumbled to his hands and knees, the warmth of Derek’s bare chest pressing to his back.

Cold fear surged in his chest. He knew what was coming.

He whimpered, instinctively trying to pull away—but the alpha growled, low and warning, holding him firm in place.

A rough, stubbled cheek dragged across his skin, scent-marking him. A large hand slid down his belly, cupping his cunt, Stiles gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily as a thick finger pushed between slick folds. The touch was foreign and strange, tracing his inner lips before pressing inside.

His eyes flew open, breath catching as the digit pushed deeper—farther than his own fingers had ever reached during the throes of heat. Derek rumbled behind him, and the thick scent of alpha arousal filled the air like smoke.

The alpha's fangs grazed his neck, dragging across his mating gland. More slick dripped from him in response, his body betraying him under the stimulation.

“Alpha,” Stiles whimpered, his head dropping as submission flooded through him. His thighs parted wider on their own, his back arching instinctively.

Something blunt and hard nudged at his entrance, the fingers spreading him open further. He whined as it pressed against him—firm and insistent—until—

Derek snarled, the sound vibrating through Stiles’ bones as the alpha thrust forward, sinking in deep. He didn’t stop until their hips were flush.

Stiles gasped, clawing at the ground as he struggled to breathe, the sheer fullness of it stealing his breath. His chest heaved against the cool earth, his body trembling as it fought to adjust to the intrusion.

"Wait–" He choked, his throat constricting as the alpha withdrew then pushed back to the hilt.

Derek rumbled, his hands tightening on Stiles' hips as he yanked the omega back to meet him.

"Ah," Stiles cried out, his back arching trying futilely to pull away. It hurt, the stretch burning as his body is forced to accommodate.

Tears, fat wet globes of them slid down his cheeks, as Derek sets a hard steady rhythm.

The slap of their skin loud and wet, Stiles' body producing slick rapidly despite his discomfort.

Time seemed to pass in a dizzying blur, Derek's thrusts growing rougher, harder.

"Please, no," He hiccuped, fear flaring once more in his chest, as he felt something bigger, and thicker, pressing against his cunt, trying to squeeze inside. "Please-"

Stiles screamed, his vision whiting out as it popped inside with a wet squelch. The alpha's teeth piercing his flesh.

The world disappeared, his ears ringing, pain flaring through his entire body as it went limp in the dirt.

When he regained consciousness, his sex was throbbing, he winced eyes watering as pain flared in his chest. It felt like his heart had been torn out.

Plumas,

Grass sea.

"You need to drink, pup,” Peter said, urging his horse up beside Stiles’ own.

Stiles glanced at him, then looked away dismissively. Normally, with his father, such blatant disrespect would have resulted in punishment—but Stiles didn’t care anymore.

“And eat,” Peter added, holding out a stick of dried meat. Stiles accepted it numbly, staring at the jerky. It was a far cry from the food he’d grown accustomed to.

“Isn’t there anything else?” Stiles asked softly. He was so tired of meat. He longed for fruit, cheese, or bread—but most of all, he wanted to go home.

“Werewolves have two things in abundance: trees and meat,” Peter said, his eyes crinkling in amusement as he watched Stiles nibble at the jerky. “And humans can’t live on trees.”

It was dry, chewy, and flavorless—everything his old meals weren’t. After a few half-hearted bites, his hand dropped, the meat still clutched but forgotten.

“You know,” Peter said after a moment, his tone more thoughtful, “when I first left home and crossed the sea, I couldn’t stand the taste of the food either.”

Stiles glanced over as they rode. Their horses lagged slightly behind, with werewolves on foot passing them in a blur of movement.

“It was too full of spices I’d never tasted. First time I tried stuffed peppers, I screamed I’d been poisoned and that my tongue was going to explode.” Peter chuckled at the memory.

Stiles’ lips twitched faintly.

Then a familiar dark horse passed them. Stiles’ breath caught as Derek rode by, flanked by his seconds. His stomach twisted, memory flooding his body—the bite of sharp teeth, the pain, the claim.

Peter followed his gaze, then looked back at him with quiet sympathy, probably catching the scent of fear. “It’ll get easier.”

Stiles looked at him, his stomach knotting. He didn’t want it to get easier. He wanted it to never happen again. But he didn’t trust Peter enough to say that.

So instead, he pressed his lips together and looked down as his horse carried him forward.

When they finally stopped and set up camp, Stiles felt like he could cry in relief.

It had been hours—his thighs were raw from the saddle and sweat, and his cunt throbbed painfully. He sat stiffly, wincing in the saddle, frozen by the pain, hesitant to dismount.

Then Peter appeared, grabbing him by the hips and lifting him down with ease. Stiles whined softly, the movement jarring the ache deep in his body as his feet touched the ground. Everything below his waist hurt.

“Khaleesi,” someone called gently.

A group of women rushed toward him, catching him by the arms and easing him from Peter’s grip. They guided him carefully toward a tent.

He stumbled, knees shaking with every step as they led him into a large, candlelit pavilion. The sight of the bed made him whimper—he wanted nothing more than to collapse face-first into the furs.

“Here, Khaleesi,” said a blonde-haired beta, helping him sit. The three women worked together to undress him with practiced gentleness.

A red-haired omega made a soft noise of sympathy when his inner thighs were revealed—red, raw, and swollen.

Stiles closed his eyes in shame, letting himself fall back onto the soft blankets, his head flopping against the furs as the omegas shuffled around him.

“This will sting,” warned a dark-haired omega, before dabbing something cool against the inflamed skin.

Stiles hissed, thighs twitching, fighting the urge to pull away.

“It’ll get easier, Khaleesi,” the redhead said with a warm smile. “Once we’re home, you won’t have to ride so much.”

Stiles pressed his lips together tightly. He doubted anything about this could get better. He was bonded to an alpha he couldn’t even speak to—a stranger.

A sniff escaped him before he could stop it. The omegas immediately leaned closer, scenting him, purring soft comforts into the air around him.

It only made him cry harder.

He lifted his hands, sobbing into his palms as gentle fingers stroked his hair and murmured soothing words.

“Sshh,” the redhead whispered, pulling his head to her breasts and cradling him there. She smelled like roses and silk—like the comforts of home.

He clung to her, trembling.

They stayed like that, a tangle of limbs and quiet murmurs, until his tears dried and he slipped into a warm, dreamless sleep.

He drifted in sleep for an unknown amount of time—hours, maybe minutes—before he was dragged suddenly from its depths.

Stiles awoke with a soft whine, his insides burning as a familiar stretch filled him.

Derek rumbled above him, hips rocking in slow, measured thrusts until he was buried to the root. Stiles could feel the press of Derek’s dark thatch against his hairless cunt.

The fullness stole his breath, left no room for air in his lungs, until Derek withdrew and snapped his hips forward again.

“Derek,” he whimpered, hands pressing against the alpha’s chest, nails digging uselessly into sun-kissed flesh. “No—” His eyes burned as the sting of tears welled up. His breath came in sharp, panicked gasps.

Above him, Derek stilled, frowning slightly as he looked down. He leaned in, nuzzling against Stiles’ cheeks, licking away the tears that had begun to fall.

Stiles sniffled, closing his eyes, his bottom lip trembling. Derek rumbled again—deep, soft—as he continued grooming him, soothing. Slowly, the pain began to ebb, his body relaxing in spite of his will.

Derek murmured something in Lycan, the words warm against his skin as one hand slipped between them, fingers finding the place where his cunt stretch wide around the alpha's cock.

Stiles breath hitched, as fingers find his sensitive nub, rubbing it gently in little circles, then a light pinch that makes him jerk and keen.

Derek nuzzled against him, offering a purr as the alpha resumed his movement. The slide much slicker then before, Stiles' face burns and he tucks his face against Derek's throat in shame.

He shouldn't enjoy this, he didn't want this, he just wanted to sleep.

Why couldn't he just sleep?

This time when Derek's hips snap forward, Stiles moans, insides fluttering around the alpha's cock as his clit is toyed with.

"Ah,"

His thighs tremble, legs pressing tight around Derek's waist as the alpha's hips move. In and out.

The snap of hips rapidly gaining rhythm until Stiles is panting, letting out choked little moans on each inward thrust.

Stiles' hands are clutching the alpha's broad shoulders, clinging to him.

Heat–sharp and familiar–but different then any he's ever experienced on his own builds rapidly in his gut.

His inner walls clenching and pulsing around the hot length buried inside him.

"Oh," he gasped, eyes shut tight and breathing stuttering as it starts to peak, his toes curling.

Stiles' head flew back against the furs, lips parting in a silent scream as orgasm rushed through him.

Derek murmured husky words in Lycan against his skin, hips still moving—fast, steady, in and out. Stiles trembled like a leaf, aftershocks rippling through him with each thrust of the alpha's cock inside him.

"Mine,"

Stiles’ eyes snapped open, locking onto the alpha’s gaze in surprise. “W-what?”

Derek grinned, bracing an arm above Stiles’ head as he leaned down, their eyes locked. “Mine,” he repeated, and Stiles’ heart stuttered at the word.

A rough palm slid over his stomach, pressing down—making him moan, his awareness narrowing to the thick hardness inside him. His breath hitched as he felt the swell of Derek’s knot, full and pressing insistently with every thrust.

Panic surged. He remembered the burning pain of his wedding night, when that knot had locked them together for the first time.

He shook his head, whimpering, but the alpha didn’t stop. With a sharp thrust, the knot forced its way inside with a wet, slick pop.

Stiles keened—a strained, broken sound of pain and distress—as his body tensed, resisting the intrusion.

Then Derek growled low and dominant, forcing Stiles’ head back as his fangs pierced the omega’s mating gland.

Oh.

Stiles’ mind blanked.

Where the first time had been nothing but pain—an unwanted bond snapping into place—this time the bite sent him floating, soft and hazy.

His body went limp. The pain where they were tied melted into a strange, heavy fullness that no longer hurt.

He blinked up at Derek through dazed eyes as the alpha drew back. When their lips met, Stiles’ mouth was soft, pliant—accepting. Derek rumbled, licking into him with possession. Stiles tasted the tang of his own blood and the musk of the alpha on Derek’s tongue.

A moan slipped from him, helpless and low, as warmth bloomed beneath his skin. Derek drank him in, slow and thorough, until finally he pulled back, satisfied. Stiles’ lips tingled where they’d parted.

Derek purred—a low, deep bass that vibrated through Stiles’ chest. Calloused hands stroked over his damp hair, smoothing it back from his face with gentle precision.

Stiles drifted in the haze of submission—awake, but mentally floating. Soft, instinctual purrs rumbled in his throat in response, too natural to suppress.

When the knot finally shrank, the alpha withdrew, a warm rush of fluid followed, slipping down his thighs. Stiles winced, squeezing his legs together in an attempt to hide the embarrassing trickle.

But Derek seemed unbothered, climbing off the bed without a word.

Stiles watched bonelessly as the alpha stepped away from the bed, retrieving something before returning.

He blinked at the sight of a waterskin and a wooden bowl. Derek held them out expectantly, but Stiles just stared, unmoving.

The alpha’s gaze darkened. A low growl rumbled from his chest as he climbed back onto the bed beside Stiles’ prone form. He set the bowl down, uncorked the waterskin, and mimed drinking from it before holding it out again.

Stiles licked his dry lips, hesitating. With a wince, he pushed himself up to sit and tentatively accepted the waterskin, lifting it to his mouth. The moment water hit his tongue, he realized how thirsty he’d been—he drank deeply, only stopping when the waterskin was empty.

Derek rumbled approvingly, the scent of a pleased alpha perfuming the air as he took the waterskin back. Then he held out the bowl.

Stiles took it, but his lips pressed into a thin line at the sight of the cooked meat inside.

When he didn’t immediately eat, Derek dipped his fingers into the bowl, brought a piece to his own mouth to demonstrate, then held it to Stiles’ lips.

Stiles turned his head away, appetite lost. But Derek growled lowly, catching his chin in a firm grip.

He hissed something in Lycan, voice sharp, eyes flashing blue. The scent of his anger clouded the air, making Stiles’ nose wrinkle.

Stiles’ gaze dropped in submission, lips parting. The alpha pressed the meat into his mouth, and he chewed slowly. It wasn’t bad—a little cold, but juicy, with a hint of char.

He swallowed, and Derek rumbled again, pleased, already lifting another piece to Stiles’ lips.

His face flushed, embarrassment prickling beneath his skin at being treated like a child. Still, he opened his mouth again. But when he tried to feed himself, the alpha gently pushed his hand away, insisting on doing it for him.

The care was… surprisingly nice.

By the time the bowl was empty and his belly full, Stiles licked his lips and let out a soft purr, unbidden.

Derek set the bowl aside, answering with a deep purr of his own as he pulled Stiles into his chest—completely unbothered by the sticky mess between the omega’s thighs or the risk of soiling the furs.

The alpha shifted them into place, arranging Stiles exactly how he wanted—snug against his chest, head tucked beneath his chin.

Warm, full, and cocooned in the alpha’s arms, Stiles found himself drifting off quickly, sleep pulling him under before he could fight it.

He awoke to the sound of a woman saying his name.

Blinking sleep from his eyes, Stiles found the red-haired female from the day before standing beside him.

“Good morning, Khaleesi. Are you hungry?”

He glanced around the tent, his eyes searching for Derek—but the alpha was nowhere in sight. Disappointment twisted in his stomach, unexpected and unwelcome.

Pushing himself up, he winced as a dull throb pulsed through his sex, and the skin of his thighs itched where dried fluids clung unpleasantly. “No,” he murmured. “I’m not hungry.”

She frowned, clearly dissatisfied with his answer, but chose not to argue.

“Erica’s prepared your bath,” the redhead said, gesturing behind her to where a tub sat in the center of the tent, steam curling softly from its surface. “Afterward, we’ll apply more cream before continuing the journey.”

“What…” He paused, licking his dry lips. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Lydia,” she replied with a gentle smile, offering her hands to help him stand. “I believe you met my husband, Peter?”

Stiles accepted her help, wobbling slightly as he made his way to the bath. “Oh, yes. He gave me books.”

He hissed softly as Lydia helped him lower into the warm water, the heat stinging as it met raw sensitive skin.

“That was my idea,” she said proudly, settling on her knees beside the tub. She dipped a rag into the water and began to gently scrub his skin.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Just then, the two other women entered—one with clean clothes folded neatly in her arms, the other balancing a tray of food.

"He’s not hungry, Allison,” Lydia said softly, the two omegas exchanging a look before Allison set the tray aside.

“You should eat. You’re all skin and bones,” the blonde remarked, squinting at him as she stepped forward to help him wash.

“I’m not hungry,” Stiles mumbled, not meeting her eyes.

“You know I can hear it when you lie,” she said, tapping a finger against his chest, right over the steady thump of his heart. “I’m a werewolf, remember?”

“I don’t want to eat,” he corrected sharply, his tone clipped as he glared up at her, face twisted in irritation.

“Erica,” Lydia warned, her tone low and sharp.

“What? You think Derek will be pleased to hear he refused food again?” Erica growled, gesturing to Stiles’ slim form. “He’s going to be pissed.”

Allison stepped up quickly, taking Erica’s hand. “Erica, he’s adjusting. Leave him be,” she said gently.

Stiles’ eyes burned as tears welled. He didn’t want to adjust. Everything felt wrong. Derek was confusing. The bond was confusing. The pain, the silence—it was all too much.

He sniffed quietly, and the women stilled.

“Get out. Both of you,” Lydia barked, planting her hands on her hips. “I’ll help him bathe and get him dressed. Just go make sure his horse is tended and saddled.”

The two women obeyed without question, practically fleeing the tent to escape Lydia’s wrath.

Stiles sniffled again, hating the tears, hating the vulnerability. He just wanted to go home. He missed his mother more than ever.

“Shh,” Lydia whispered, gently stroking his hair. “It’s going to be alright.”

“No, it won’t,” he hiccuped.

Her hands carefully pried his away from his face, wiping his cheeks with the warm cloth. “You’re just overwhelmed, sweetheart. It’s okay to be upset. Once your heat cycle kicks in, it’ll help balance your hormones. You’ll feel better.”

Stiles didn’t believe that. But he didn’t say anything more. He just cried silently, while Lydia washed him and wiped away his tears.

"I like your mate,” Stiles said after a long stretch of silence as they rode side by side.

“Not too much, I hope. You’ll make me jealous,” Peter replied with a teasing lilt. Stiles flushed all the same.

“No, no—of course not.” He turned his head toward the beta. “I just… I hope you’ll let her stay as my handmaiden.”

Peter smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Of course.”

“She’s very kind…” Stiles murmured, glancing off to the side, watching the landscape roll past. “She smells like home.”

Peter hummed. “She is. Kinder than I deserve, some days.”

The quiet settled between them again, filled only by the steady rhythm of hoofbeats.

Several days passed lime this, during the day Stiles rode beside Peter, chatting, usually about Lydia. Who Stiles was beginning to view as a friend.

Then after camp was set, Stiles would be washed and tended, and in the night Derek would join him in their bed.

Mounting Stiles and tying then together with the alpha's knot. He always woke up to the alpha being gone.

Stiles hissed, pain flaring in his hands as Lydia and Allison dabbed at the cuts on his palms—raw and irritated from the reins.

“Have you ever borne children?” he asked, gaze lingering on his feet.

“Not yet, but I hope to soon,” Allison said with a smile, gently smearing a thick paste over his freshly cleaned left palm.

“What about you two?” Stiles asked, his toes flexing as Erica poured water over his sore feet.

“No. If a man ever tries, I’ll tear his throat out,” Erica said from her perch at his feet, pouring a mixture of water and goat’s milk into a bowl. “I’m nobody’s bitch.”

Lydia gave a soft, sad smile as she rubbed paste onto his right hand. “I’ve conceived… but the gods called back my baby before she could be born.” She rested a hand lightly over her stomach.

“How far along were you?” Stiles asked gently, brows furrowed.

“Several moons. My clothes didn’t fit like they do now.” She gestured, showing the curve her belly once held.

Allison paused, her hands stilling. “I’m sorry.”

Erica nodded. “You’d be a great mother, Lyd.”

Stiles glanced at the two women. “Leave me with her.”

He waited until they stood and left the tent before turning back to Lydia. “How did…” His hands wrung anxiously in his lap—he needed answers. “How did you become with child? How did you know?” he asked shyly.

Lydia smiled gently. “Stiles, you’ve laid with Derek, have you not?” She began wrapping bandages around his palms. “Sex, Khaleesi. That is how pups are made. During heat, sex is how conception happens. Gods be good, you’ll catch.”

Stiles swallowed hard. “Is there a way to avoid getting pregnant?”

Lydia’s gaze softened with sympathy. “Stiles,” she said, taking both his hands in hers, “you’re mates. Derek will want to pup you.”

Stiles pulled his hands back, brow furrowing with frustration. “But I don’t want to!”

“You feel that way now, but—”

“No!” Stiles cut her off, rising to his feet, anger boiling up inside him. “I thought you were my friend—I thought you’d help me.” Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He felt hot, uncomfortable, betrayed.

Lydia’s expression faltered, hurt flashing across her face. “Of course I’m your friend. But sweetheart, you’re an omega—it’s our duty—” She paused, eyes going wide as she studied his face.

“What?” he snapped, glaring at her.

“Stiles…” she stood slowly, hands raised in a calming gesture. “Why don’t you lay down? I’ll go get Derek.”

“I don’t want to lay down,” he huffed—though it was a lie. He did. Every part of him ached to curl up in the furs and sleep, but he didn’t want to be told to do it.

“Stiles,” Lydia inhaled deeply, voice gentling, “you’re going into heat. You should lie down.”

The realization hit like a punch to the gut. He recognized the signs—the faint cramping in his stomach, the sweat dampening his skin, the sudden wave of irritability.

“No,” he gasped, stumbling backward. “This can’t be happening. I can’t be going into heat. My heat’s not due.”

“Forming a bond can trigger it,” Lydia explained gently. “No one expected it to happen this quickly. We thought we’d be back in Beacon Hills… but we’ll make do.”

Stiles shook his head frantically, chest heaving as he struggled to breathe.

“Shh, sweetheart, it’s going to be okay,” Lydia purred, releasing calming, comforting pheromones. Stiles whimpered in distress, but let himself be pulled into her arms.

“Let’s get you comfortable in bed, alright?” she whispered, stroking his hair as he trembled like a newborn fawn.

“No…” he sniffled, but didn’t resist as she guided him toward the fur-lined bed. Lydia helped him lie down, then smoothed a hand over his head. “Okay, I’m going to send for Derek. I’ll be right back.” she whispered.

Stiles whimpered again. He didn’t want Derek. He didn’t want to get pregnant.

His gaze followed Lydia as she fled the tent, leaving him alone.

Seconds passed like minutes, minutes like hours. Sweat slicked his skin, and a deep, pulsing ache formed between his legs—uncomfortable and impossible to ignore.

Stiles squirmed, peeling away the layers of his clothing in desperation. It was too hot—he needed to be naked.

A sigh of relief left his lips as he finally shed everything. A trembling hand slipped down to cup his aching sex, fingers trying to soothe the insistent need. Slick gushed freely as he pressed his fingers inside, seeking even the smallest comfort.

It was barely enough, his fingers curled and stroked, trying desperately to appease the burning hunger inside him.

The tent filled with the wet slick sounds of his fingers, lewd squelching, as he moved them in and out.

The sickeningly sweet smell of his own slick clouding his nose.

His lips parting as he gasped for air, sucking in sharp desperate breaths as he works himself into a frenzy.

His thumb brushes over his clit and his back arched, moaning brokenly as he comes.

Stiles sat up, body trembling faintly. The orgasm had helped—somewhat—but it wouldn’t last long. The ache would return, stronger. He needed to move. Somewhere more comfortable, somewhere safe.

Gathering as many blankets as he could carry, he stumbled out of bed, legs unsteady beneath him. He made his way to the corner of the tent, behind a large wooden chest.

Perfect.

He bundled the furs and blankets together, arranging them carefully until a soft little nest took shape. Then he curled into it with a sigh. It smelled like him—and like his alpha. Comforting. Familiar. He whined softly.

Where was his alpha?

A noise.

A voice.

“Stiles?”

He stayed quiet. Not mate. Must stay quiet.

“There you are,” Lydia whispered, her voice hushed with concern. “What are you doing back here?”

Everything was hot. Too hot.

Stiles whimpered, curling tighter into the corner, burying his face in the furs.

“Khaleesi—Stiles, can you come out?” Lydia’s tone turned coaxing, soft like a lullaby. “Derek’s on his way, but for now, why don’t we move back to the bed, hmm?” She knelt and held out her hands, palms open, gentle and non-threatening.

Stiles bared his teeth with a low growl, pressing himself deeper behind the wooden chest.

Hidden. Safe. Nest.

Lydia sighed and stood, backing away slowly. Once she was gone, Stiles relaxed. His body went slack, a sleepy blink pulling at his lashes as he nuzzled into the pile of fur blankets that smelled like his alpha. A soft purr escaped his throat as he curled into a tight ball, the scent anchoring him, soothing the ache in his chest.

He was drifting, on the edge of sleep, when the commotion outside the tent pulled him halfway back to awareness. A growl—low and familiar—cut through the noise. The flap of the tent was thrown open, the air shifting as more voices joined, speaking that strange Lycan tongue.

Then hands—too many hands—were on him.

Stiles yelped, thrashing as they tried to pull him from his corner.

“No, no, no!” he cried, fighting the grip. He didn’t want to be touched. He didn’t want to leave. This was his nest. He needed his nest.

Then—lips pressed to his temple. Warm. Familiar. A husky growl whispered foreign words against his skin.

Derek.

"It’s okay,” Lydia said, stepping into his line of sight. “He’s taking you to bed. You can bring your nest, alright? Look—I have it.” She lifted the furs higher, giving them a little shake. “I’ll help you rebuild it on the bed, okay, sweetie?”

Stiles whined softly, but the fight had already begun to leave his body. Derek’s low, steady rumble calmed his nerves, coaxing his tense muscles into reluctant relaxation.

“Here,” Lydia murmured as she moved ahead, her hands quick and practiced as she arranged the furs just the way he’d had them. “How’s that?” She said something in Lycan to Derek, and a moment later, Stiles felt himself being gently lowered to the floor.

The moment his feet touched the ground, he stepped forward eagerly, climbing back into the soft pile and burying his face in the familiar scent. A purr rumbled from his throat, eyes fluttering shut with relief.

There were more voices then, muffled through the haze—Derek’s, Lydia’s, and now a third, smoother tone. Peter.

A cool hand brushed through his hair. “Derek will take care of you,” Lydia said gently. “It’s going to be alright.”

Stiles hummed faintly in acknowledgment, too drowsy to reply. He could hear two sets of footsteps retreating, then the rustle of fabric, just before the bed shifted under new weight.

He growled lowly—a warning. This was his nest. His space. He didn’t want to share.

The answering growl silenced him instantly. Deep, commanding, and undeniably dominant. His own breath hitched in response, a whimper escaping him.

“Alpha,” he gasped, eyes flying open to meet the gaze of the naked man looming over him.

Derek nuzzled against his cheek, scent-marking him with slow, deliberate strokes that made heat bloom low in Stiles’ belly—hot and sudden.

The ache between his legs surged into something unbearable, and he let out a needy whine, his thighs falling apart, exposing his sopping wet cunt to the open air.

“Alpha,” he whimpered, arching his neck in submission, hands grasping for sun-kissed skin. His fingers curled around broad shoulders, grounding himself.

Derek growled, rough hands gripping his thighs, hoisting them up. Then his cock, hot and hard, pressed against him—pressing in, slow but unrelenting.

Stiles choked on a gasp as Derek bottomed out, the stretch stealing the breath from his lungs.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

He writhed beneath the alpha, legs locking around Derek’s hips, body moving instinctively—desperate to quell the ache clawing at him from the inside.

Derek groaned, the sound dark and possessive, before settling into a hard, grinding rhythm. In and out. Deep and steady.

Stiles panted, back arching as he met each thrust. “Alpha,” he gasped again, eyes blown wide as he pressed upward, lips brushing Derek’s in a silent plea. He needed the taste of him—needed everything.

Derek licked into his mouth immediately, and Stiles mewled—heat and happiness blooming in his chest as their tongues slid together, wet and desperate.

The rhythm of Derek’s hips shifted, cock pressing harder, deeper, their bodies rolling together in a fevered pace. Slick smeared between them as they ground against each other, the friction building into something frantic, the haze of heat consuming everything else.

Their lips parted, and Stiles couldn’t stop the stream of sounds spilling from his mouth—whimpering pleas for his alpha. For more. For everything.

Derek growled, snapping his hips forward in a sharp thrust that made stars explode behind Stiles’ eyelids.

“Yes,” he gasped, hands trembling as the peak crept closer. “Please, please—” he babbled, heels digging into Derek’s thighs, urging him on with every breath.

The alpha leaned down, lips seeking Stiles' throat, fangs dragged over his racing pulse.

Derek’s breath stuttered against his throat, hot and heavy as he pushed deeper, his movements becoming erratic. Stiles could feel the tremble in the alpha’s muscles, the strain in every thrust as if Derek was holding himself back, barely.

“Don’t stop,” Stiles begged, nails digging into Derek’s back. “Please, I’m so close—”

A rough hand slid between them, fingers finding his slick, swollen nub and pressing down in tight circles. Stiles cried out, hips jolting as pleasure slammed through him like a wave. His pussy clenched tight around Derek's cock, body arching taut as a bowstring as the orgasm tore through him.

The scent of his release filled the air, thick and sweet, and Derek groaned—deep and guttural—as his hips snapped forward.

The alpha braced his hands above Stiles' head, hips relentlessly rocked away, cock sliding in and out with lewd squelch's.

Slick leaked from him like a river, he could feel it pooling underneath him, Derek's cock forcing more out on each inward thrust.

He gasped, feeling the alpha's knot catching on his inner lips, letting out a broken mewl as Derek forced it back in.

Stiles felt the knot swell inside him, locking them together with a deep, aching stretch that bordered on too much—but he didn’t care.

He was full. Claimed. Safe.

Derek buried his face in Stiles’ neck, panting harshly as he mouthed at the mating bite, tongue soothing over the tender skin.

“Mine,” the alpha rasped, voice deep and husky.

Stiles, still trembling from the aftershocks, nodded. “Yours,” he whispered back, not even thinking—just feeling.

And gods, it felt right.

The knot stretched him wide, locked them tight—and it should’ve been enough. Should’ve satisfied the aching, burning throb in his core. But it didn’t. It only made it worse.

Stiles whimpered, breath hitching as he rocked against Derek, grinding helplessly, chasing more. “Still need it,” he moaned, voice wrecked and shaking. “Alpha, please—still burning.”

Derek growled low in his chest, hands sliding possessively over Stiles’ hips, holding him firm as the omega writhed.

Stiles shook his head, frustrated, needing movement—needing more. “Alpha,” he whined, the pitch rising, nails digging into Derek’s broad shoulders. “Alpha.”

The alpha snarled and claimed Stiles’ mouth, their teeth clicking in the frenzy of it. Stiles moaned in relief as Derek finally—finally—started moving.

A slow, grinding thrust. The knot dragged deeper, impossibly so, pressing against the aching sensitive nerves that had Stiles gasping, trembling all over again.

Derek’s mouth was savage, claiming. His knot pulsed, locked deep inside Stiles' cunt, but the alpha still moved—small, grinding thrusts that sent shudders through Stiles’ slim frame.

Each roll of Derek’s hips dragged against every nerve-ending inside him, slick, filthy, noises filling the space between them, obscene and desperate. Stiles sobbed, clawing at broad shoulders, thighs trembling on either side of Derek’s hips.

“More,” he begged, lips brushing against Derek’s. “Don’t stop—don’t ever stop—need you, need you—”

Derek snarled, the sound feral as he rutted harder, knot grinding into that sweet spot again and again, sending Stiles spiraling.

Stars burst behind his eyes. His back arched, mouth falling open on a silent scream as another orgasm slammed into him, harder than the first, stealing his breath, his thoughts—everything but the feel of Derek.

The heat haze finally soothed, Stiles’ eyes fluttered shut, slipping down into the dark abyss of sleep. Safe, warm, wrapped around his Alpha’s knot.

He drifted in and out, lulled by Derek’s grounding touch, the soft rumble of his voice, offering sleepy purrs in response before slipping under again.

The smell of food roused him. His stomach growled as he lifted his head, blinking slowly. “Alpha?” he murmured, voice hoarse and soft.

His gaze found Derek—naked and towering, standing beside the bed with a tray balanced in his hands. The scent of broth made Stiles’ mouth water. He sat up quickly, only to have his hand smacked gently away as he reached for a bowl.

He blinked, confused, a small whine escaping. He was starving.

Derek didn’t speak, just hauled him into his lap, long legs draped over Derek’s thicker ones. Then, with one hand, the Alpha lifted the bowl to Stiles’ lips.

Stiles leaned forward, humming as the warm broth touched his tongue—rich, savory, perfect. He clutched at Derek’s wrist, making sure the bowl stayed close until every drop was gone.

When it was pulled away, empty, Stiles sighed in satisfaction, licking the taste from his lips. He watched Derek sip his own portion, eyes tracking the movement of the Alpha’s throat as he swallowed.

Then it hit him—sharp and urgent. The empty, needy clench of his pussy.

Stiles arched his back, ass grinding slowly, deliberately against his mate’s length. Derek growled, low and warning, a hand locking tight around his hip—but Stiles ignored it, too far gone.

The burning flared hotter, feeling the length fatten against his ass.

He reached down, guiding Derek’s cock into his dripping hole, and sank down with a loud, wanton moan of relief.

Claw-tipped fingers dug into his skin, but the pain barely registered—he was too focused on the stretch, the way his Alpha's cock filled him perfectly. He bounced in Derek’s lap, chasing the feeling with hungry desperation.

His chest heaved, moans and panting filling the air as he moved his hips up and down. He shuddered, pleasure rushing through him, leaving everything hazy around the edges as he chased release with single-minded focus.

Derek growled in his ear.

There was a clatter as the tray hit the floor, the alpha’s hands grabbing Stiles’ hips, guiding him into a steady rhythm—one that left Stiles gasping and moaning.

“Ah, ah,” he mewled, his insides clenching around the thick, hard, length inside him. “Alpha…”

Derek’s hands gripped Stiles tighter, one on his waist, the other splayed across his chest as he thrust up, meeting each bounce with increasing force. Their bodies collided over and over, slick smearing between them, the sound obscene and wet.

Stiles’ head lolled back, sweat dripping from his brow as he cried out, his rhythm staggering as his body began to tremble with the approach of release. “Alpha,” he whimpered, voice trembling. “Alpha—Derek, please—don’t stop—!”

The Alpha snarled, burying his face against Stiles’ neck, his teeth scraping lightly, threatening to bite. Not enough to break skin—just a promise.

Stiles keened, hips stuttering, fingers fisting in Derek’s hair. His cunt clenched around Derek’s cock, shuddering with each motion, the pressure building too quickly, too hard.

His body bowed, mouth falling open in a silent cry as ecstasy crashed over him, his vision going white. Everything sang with completion, lightning racing beneath his skin as his inner walls spasmed around Derek, milking him, demanding more.

With a feral growl, Derek slammed upward once, twice—then locked in place as his knot swelled, anchoring them together as he spilled deep inside.

They both trembled, tangled in the aftershocks. Stiles collapsed backword, chest heaving as he panted.

Derek wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, murmuring something low and in Lycan against his temple.

Stiles shook, sweat clinging to his skin, body twitching with aftershocks. But the fire inside didn’t die down. If anything, it grew. Hungrier. Meaner. It clawed at his insides, snarling for more.

"Alpha," he whined, hips rolling.

Stiles’ was flushed, the damp hair clinging to his forehead, thighs trembling with effort as he moved, riding Derek's knot.

Stiles shook his head desperately, lips trembling. “I can’t—can’t stop it. It hurts, Derek.” His voice cracked, a pitiful whimper as he clung to the alpha behind him. “Please.”

The growl that tore from Derek’s chest was pure animal.

He moved suddenly, shifting their position—pinning Stiles onto his belly, pulling his hips up, still tied together, making the omega gasp from the sudden new angle. His face pressed into the mess of furs, panting into them, body pliant and aching.

Derek loomed behind him, one hand splayed between his shoulder blades, keeping him steady, the other gripping his hip as he started moving again. The grind was intense, deeper, every motion sending jolts through Stiles’ already overstimulated nerves.

But gods—it felt so, so good.

Stiles sobbed into the nest, not from pain, but the raw, overwhelming pleasure. “Yes—yes, just like that,” he cried out, voice muffled against the furs. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

Derek didn’t. He only growled, grip tightening over Stiles' skin.

The bed creaked beneath them, slick dripping down Stiles’ thighs as the alpha rutted into him, relentless. Possessive. The room was thick with the scent of heat and sex, of alpha and omega, the musk clinging to their skin, their hair, the furs tangled beneath them.

Every thrust, every grind, sent Stiles higher—teetering on that edge, lost to the haze of heat.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

There was only Derek. Only this.

Stiles screamed when the next thrust hit something sharp and electric inside him. His fingers clawed at the furs, legs shaking as the pleasure tipped into something unbearable. His body trembled, unable to tell where the pain ended and the pleasure began—just that he needed it, more of it, now.

“Alpha, alpha—please,” he choked out, the word nothing more than breath and instinct. His hips rolled back desperately, meeting Derek’s every grind, slick squelching between them as their bodies met over and over.

Derek was panting behind him, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his temples as he leaned over Stiles, rutting into him with increasing force.

He was close to losing control. Stiles could feel it in the way Derek’s rhythm faltered, the way he snarled each time Stiles moaned his name like a prayer.

“Mine,” Derek growled, voice low and ragged, his mouth pressing against the curve of Stiles’ neck, teeth grazing the still-healing mark from earlier.

Stiles’ breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut. “Yours,” he whispered, then louder, needier, “Yours, yours, yours—”

The alpha shifted his hips, a deep hard relentless grind.

Stiles screamed in pleasure, hips twitching as his body tried to fight and welcome the pleasure at the same time. Derek didn’t slow. He pressed without mercy, harder, the pleasure turning so good its painful. Stiles sobbed, writhing between pleasure and the raw intensity, until with a wet sob, he collapsed forward.

Stiles' face buried into the nest, mouth open as he panted and mewled in desperation.

“Mine,” Derek repeated, growling into the back of his neck before sinking his teeth into the bite.

Stiles shattered. The orgasm ripped through him, so hard it stole the breath from his lungs, his body convulsing around the knot, desperate for the alphas seed. He was nothing but heat and sensation, barely aware of the low, broken noises he made, of Derek groaning behind him, releasing deep inside, warmth flooding him in waves.

Their bodies finally stilled, locked together in the aftermath.

Derek slumped over him, protective, one arm curled around Stiles’ waist, the other under his chest, keeping him close. His nose buried in Stiles’ neck, tongue licking over the fresh bite as both their bodies trembled in the thick silence.

Stiles couldn’t move. Didn’t want to.

He was full, knotted, bitten—and safe.

“Alpha,” he breathed, the word soft, reverent, as he drifted somewhere between exhaustion and bliss.

Stiles awoke with a groan. He was sore—everywhere. Not an inch of his body had been spared. A warm, heavy weight pressed against his back, and he was sticky with sweat and come.

His nose wrinkled. The air reeked of sex and heat, thick with the mingled scents of alpha and omega. He glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping alpha behind him. Derek’s face was slack, almost peaceful like this.

Stiles’ heart twisted.

He shifted, trying to climb out of bed, only to be yanked back by a strong arm.

He squeaked, face flushing as he was pulled against that warm chest. It was… nice. Without thinking, he let himself relax into the hold.

Everything was still. Peaceful. His eyes fluttered closed again—

Derek growled, low and possessive, arms tightening around him.

A female voice broke the stillness, speaking in Lycan.

Stiles peeked out over Derek’s muscled arm to see Allison standing just inside the tent’s entrance, her body bent in a respectful bow.

Derek pressed his nose to Stiles’ temple, breathing in deeply before responding in the same language.

Allison straightened, offering a warm smile. “Would you like breakfast, Khaleesi? Water is being heated for your bath.”

“Yes,” Stiles rasped, wincing at how raw and hoarse his voice sounded.

Derek’s arms loosened, and the alpha stood without a hint of shame. Stiles slowly pushed himself upright, ignoring how sore his body still was, how tender his cunt felt.

He watched the two exchange more words in Lycan. A sharp, unexpected wave of jealousy twisted in his gut. Why could everyone speak to his mate but him?

Derek began to dress, and Stiles’ heart dropped.

“Where is he going?” he asked, glancing between Derek and Allison. “Is he leaving?”

“Yes, Khaleesi,” Allison said gently. “Now that your heat has broken, he—”

“Bastard!” Stiles shouted, cutting her off. He grabbed a pillow and hurled it at the alpha.

The pillow hit Derek’s back with a soft thwap.

Was he really only worth attention for sex, or a heat? Was this to be his life?

Hot tears pricked Stiles’ eyes. He grabbed another pillow and threw it too.

Derek dodged the second pillow, turning with a puzzled expression that might’ve been cute—if Stiles wasn’t so furious. How could this alpha be so cruel?

“Leaving just like that?” Stiles snapped, standing and grabbing a book—one of his gifts from Peter— hurling it. “Using me and then abandoning me!”

Derek caught the book easily, turning toward Allison and barking something sharp in Lycan.

Allison’s eyes widened; she looked panicked as she replied in a rush, trying to calm the situation while Stiles hunted for something else to throw.

He had just grabbed another book when strong hands caught his wrists, wrenching him around to face the alpha.

Derek’s expression was stern, annoyed—but it softened as he spoke in Lycan, the foreign words steady on his tongue.

Stiles blinked, confused, until Allison stepped forward.

“Stop,” she translated gently. “He says stop, he’s not abandoning you.”

Stiles’ nostrils flared, anger still simmering. “You leave every time,” he bit out. “After you take me.”

Allison translated, and Derek’s eyes never left Stiles’ face as she spoke.

“You tense every time I come near,” Allison continued, voice quiet. “My presence upsets you. I thought it best.”

Stiles pressed his lips into a hard line. “It’s not.”

Surprise flickered across Derek’s face as Allison relayed the words. He spoke again, slower this time, and Stiles watched his mouth move.

“Would you like me to stay?” Allison translated.

“Yes,” Stiles said immediately, without hesitation, gaze locking with Derek’s pale eyes.

"Okay." Allison translated, softly.

Warm palms cupped his face. Derek leaned in, his voice soft and accented, but unmistakably in Common this time.

“Mieczyslaw.”

Stiles froze, lips parting. It took a second to realize it was Derek—not Allison—who had spoken his name.

“Mieczyslaw." Derek said again, his smile deepening as he took in Stiles’ stunned reaction.

"You—” Stiles’ mouth opened and closed. He tried to glance at Allison, half-convinced he was hearing things, but Derek’s hands held him firmly in place.

“You. Mine.” Derek said the words slowly, carefully, his gaze burning into Stiles’.

Stiles’ chest warmed. He lifted his hands to overlap the alpha’s, fingers trembling slightly.

“Yes,” he breathed, flushing as a rush of shyness overtook him beneath Derek’s intense gaze. “Yours.”

Derek rumbled low in his chest, a sound of pure satisfaction, before pulling Stiles in and kissing him.

Stiles melted into the embrace, letting out a soft mewl as their lips moved together. He barely registered the sound of the tent flap opening, a soft gasp, someone being shushed, then the gentle splash of water being poured into a bath. None of it mattered. All that mattered was that Derek kept kissing him.

When they finally parted, Stiles sucked in air, his chest heaving as he looked up in a daze. He could feel slick slipping down his thighs again, the telltale ache blooming low in his belly. He pressed his legs together instinctively, trying to quell the burn.

A soft throat-clearing drew both their attention. Lydia stood a respectful distance away. “Pardon the interruption, but your bath is ready, Stiles.” She gestured toward the steaming tub at the back of the tent.

“Join me,” Stiles said immediately, turning back to Derek and tugging on his hands. “Stay.”

From behind Lydia, Erica snorted. “Omegas are so clingy after heat.”

She was promptly smacked by Lydia, who hissed, “Shut up.”

Allison translated as diplomatically as she could.

Derek said nothing at first—just pressed his nose to Stiles’ hairline and inhaled deeply, then gave a slow, silent nod.

Stiles was smiling as he trotted up beside Peter’s mare. The beta regarded him with a smirk.

“My, my, Your Grace—you’re practically glowing. Your heat went well, I assume?”

“Isn’t it inappropriate to inquire about an omega’s heat outside of your own mate?” Stiles asked, arching an eyebrow, though his smile didn’t falter.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Peter replied, eyes crinkling with mischief.

Stiles laughed, high and sharp. “Alright then.” He shifted in the saddle, glancing around before leaning forward to whisper, “It was very pleasant. Better than any I’ve experienced before.”

“Glad to hear my nephew was a perfect gentleman.”

“I didn’t say that,” Stiles said, voice turning coy as he batted his lashes dramatically.

“Khaleesi!” Peter gasped in mock scandal, prompting another bright laugh from the omega.

They reached Beacon Hills before nightfall, the trees were very large here, Stiles gaped as he watched the trunks go up, up, taller then any castle he'd seen.

"Amazing aren't they?" Peter asked, from beside him where they walked, the horses had been put in stables and Peter was giving him a tour while Derek was busy. But the alpha promised through Peter that he wouldn't be long.

"I never knew trees could grow so large." He admits, looking back at the beta.

"Beacon Hills is special." Peter said, smiling. "There's magic here, old and powerful. Do you believe in magic Stiles?"

He shook his head. "My mother did, she said she had dreams, dreams that came true."

Peter nodded. "Yes, that is not unheard of."

Dinner was grand—grander than Stiles expected, considering the way his father spoke of wolves. There was wine, fresh fruit, and the main course: meat from a large white elk.

Derek had proudly presented the kill to Stiles in the grand hall for all to see. The courtship gesture had made Stiles warm all over.

He was already claimed—Derek didn’t need to offer him gifts like this—but he loved it all the same.

Maybe the alpha wasn’t so bad after all.

Stiles was feeling warm and fuzzy from the wine as he leaned against Derek. The others around them chatted in that strange language Stiles was still trying to learn. Lydia had started teaching him simple words, and he’d learned that Derek had picked up some Common from Peter.

He was still afraid sometimes—still haunted by the anxious question of whether he’d caught during his heat. But it would be a while yet before his scent would sweeten with milk.

Lydia had explained the signs: tenderness, vomiting, no bleeding after heat.

He hadn’t bled yet.

It was just late, he told himself, nuzzling into Derek’s shoulder for comfort. The alpha’s arm slid around him without hesitation.

Derek spoke to his family, chest rumbling in that deep growling language. Stiles felt his eyes drooping as he breathed in the scent of his mate.

Stiles hissed as he lowered himself into the steaming tub, the water sloshing around him.

His feet were aching. He’d only just gotten used to riding every day, and now he faced a new challenge—walking everywhere. The place was huge, with tall walls and even taller stairs. He found himself getting winded before he even made it up a single flight.

Lydia sat beside the tub, gently washing him, humming softly. He winced when the cloth brushed his nipple.

She froze. “Sensitive?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he lied, quickly bringing his hands up to cover his chest.

“Stiles—”

“Get out.” He couldn’t meet her eyes.

Her lips twisted, disappointment etched across her face. She stood, tossing the cloth into the water with a loud splash. “A child is a gift,” she hissed, hurt sharp in her voice. “You should remember not everyone is lucky enough to receive one.”

Stiles flinched, guilt crashing into him as the door slammed shut behind her.

He still hadn’t bled.

He sniffled, cupping his face with both hands as he sank lower into the water. He didn’t want a pup. He didn’t know the first thing about being a mother.

His chest heaved. His heart ached as he longed—yet again—for his own mother. She would know what to do. She would’ve held him close and whispered that everything would be okay.

He didn’t remember falling asleep.

But he woke up choking.

Water flooded his mouth and nose as he was suddenly hauled upright, strong arms lifting him out of the now ice-cold tub.

Derek snarled, holding Stiles close as he carried him—dripping wet—into their large bedroom. Stiles shivered, teeth chattering violently.

Derek growled something in Lycan, furiously yanking the blanket off their bed. He dropped Stiles onto the cowhide rug in front of the fireplace and roughly began drying him, his movements frantic but careful.

“He’s very angry you’d do something so foolish,” Peter’s voice said behind him.

Stiles jumped, trying to whip around, but Derek threw the blanket over his head, drying his hair with strong, insistent hands.

“He heard your heart rate slowing and nearly tore the door off its hinges to get to you,” Peter added, voice softer this time.

Stiles winced as Derek moved lower, now rubbing his skin to warm him, movements no less urgent.

When the blanket was finally lowered from his head, Stiles peeked over at Peter, who sat calmly in a chair by the door.

“Lydia told me what you asked her before your heat,” Peter said.

Stiles stiffened, his gaze darting away. He looked anywhere but at the two men. He’d known Lydia was upset—but he never imagined she would betray his trust.

Derek cupped Stiles’ face, gently but firmly turning him to meet the alpha’s eyes. He spoke softly in Lycan.

“He’s asking if you meant it,” Peter translated. “Do you not wish to be pregnant?”

Stiles’ bottom lip trembled. His stomach knotted. He was scared. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

Peter relayed the answer. Derek’s expression tightened, though not in anger. Then, wordlessly, the alpha pulled a small flask from his pocket and placed it into Stiles’ hands with great care. He murmured something in Lycan, so soft Stiles almost missed it.

“If you drink this, it will induce your bleed,” Peter explained. “You won’t have to worry about being pregnant.”

“What?” Stiles stared down at the metal flask in shock. “What do you mean?”

Peter stood, drawing Stiles’ attention. “Derek, while unhappy at the thought of you not wanting his pups, is content to wait until you do—before making you birth any.” He gestured to the flask. “If you are pregnant and drink that, it will ensure you don’t remain so. If you’re not, it will simply bring on your cycle. Nothing more.” He sipped from his wine glass.

Derek stood as well, leaving Stiles sitting alone on the floor, bundled in blankets with the flask still cradled in his hands.

“The choice is yours,” Peter said, just before the two men walked out, letting the door quietly shut behind them.

Stiles spent a long time sitting there in front of the fire, his mind in turmoil, Derek’s expression haunting his thoughts.

He didn’t want a pup—had heatedly told Lydia he didn’t want one. But now that the means to terminate the pregnancy—if there was one—was in his hands, he found himself hesitant.

He chewed his bottom lip, pondering for a long time before he stood, bringing the blankets with him as he padded over to the table where Peter had sat. He placed the flask on the table, then made his way to bed, curling into it and tucking his chin, hoping he made the right choice as he drifted off once more.

He awoke more pleasantly this time, a warm weight against his front and lips pressing kisses over his face.

He hummed sleepily, prompting the alpha to draw back. The look in Derek’s eyes was the same one from when he’d given Stiles the white elk.

“I love you,” Derek whispered, hands smoothing over Stiles’ naked, smooth stomach. “Mine. I love you so much, my Mieczyslaw.” He leaned down, kissing Stiles breathless.

The kiss was consuming, igniting a fire under Stiles’ skin and making his core clench painfully.

Stiles gasped, lips tingling as they separated. “Yes,” he whispered in Lycan. “My alpha.”

Derek growled, sliding down Stiles’ stomach and placing heated kisses along smooth skin on his way down, his lips lingering over Stiles’ stomach, tongue dipping into his belly button and making the omega squirm at the ticklish sensation.

“Derek,” he gasped, face burning as the alpha dipped even lower, warm, rough hands spreading Stiles’ thighs, exposing his cunt to the open air.

Derek rumbled, locking eye contact with the omega as he slowly dipped his head and licked at Stiles’ core.

He made a choked noise, head arching back as Derek lapped him up.

That tongue was relentless, dipping in and out like Stiles was a feast Derek had been starving for.

“Oh,” his eyelashes fluttered, breath hitching as the alpha’s tongue lapped over his clit. “Oh!”

His chest heaved as he sucked in sharp, desperate puffs of air, sweat slicking his skin as Derek began to suck at the sensitive bundle of nerves.

The overwhelming rush of pleasure had Stiles shaking like a leaf, broken whimpers and moans leaving his lips.

“Derek–alpha!” Stiles choked, toes curling as heat built rapidly inside him like a current of rushing water.

“Please,” he babbled, eyes snapping open to look down, watching as Derek’s head moved—watching the alpha consume him.

Derek glanced up, meeting Stiles’ gaze, and when the alpha’s eyes flashed, Stiles came with a shout.

Derek didn’t stop, kept lapping up Stiles’ slick like a man starved.

Stiles whimpered and whined, pulling at dark hair until Derek reluctantly removed his mouth.

Stiles was shaking and shivering when the alpha pulled him close, uncaring of his own erection in favor of showering Stiles with scent and affection.

Stiles stroked a hand over his rapidly growing belly. It was still small, but the sight made him smile. Derek ravished him nearly every night, kissing and stroking Stiles’ stomach until he trembled with impatience.

He would practically snarl as he demanded the alpha fuck him, but Derek was never rough—always frustratingly slow and gentle.

Stiles had to get on top to get any increase in speed, but even then, he couldn’t move as fast or hard as the alpha naturally could.

During the day, Derek’s gifts were practically endless. Stiles had a shelf lined with books Derek had given him, and a closet full of fur clothes made from animals Derek hunted just for him.

His most recent gift had been a new saddle, dyed a deep blue with flowers carved into the leather sides.

Stiles loved it the most—at least for now—even if he wasn’t allowed to ride alone. Derek insisted Stiles needed him to hold him, lest the omega fall off.

Like Stiles hadn’t ridden alone the entire journey here.

His days were spent in peace. During the day, he wandered the halls, practicing Lycan with Lydia, whose scent had just sweetened with hints of milk.

Stiles was happy to have someone besides the nursemaids to talk to about pregnancy.

Though Melissa—Stiles’ personal nursemaid and midwife-to-be—was quickly becoming a favorite. She was sweet.

And sometimes, painfully so, she reminded Stiles fiercely of his own mother.

Melissa was a beta, but her scent was strong: fresh-baked bread, a mother’s kiss.

Her son, Scott, was a werewolf under Derek, Stiles learned. One of the alpha’s bloodriders.

"Stiles!” a voice hissed, shaking his shoulder. “Stiles—wake up!”

“Dad?” he asked, confused, blinking up at him. “What are you doing here?”

“There isn’t much time,” his dad said, yanking back the blankets covering Stiles. “Come on, we’ve got to go—”

Stiles’ brow furrowed, stumbling as he was dragged out of bed, the cool night air nipping at him through his nightgown.

“Beacon Hills is under attack.”

Stiles sucked in a sharp breath. “What?” he asked, wide-eyed as his father threw a dark cloak over his shoulders.

“By who?”

Noah shook his head. “We don’t have time—”

The door slammed open, and in marched Derek and the guards, faces transformed, claws extended.

Stiles barely had time to blink before he was being yanked against his father’s chest, a blade pressed against his pregnant belly.

“Stay back!” Noah shouted, dragging Stiles back a few steps, one arm wrapped around Stiles’ throat, holding him close.

Stiles made eye contact with a wide-eyed Allison who appeared around the corner of the doorframe.

“Tell them to stay back! Or I’ll carve him open!”

Allison’s voice trembled as she translated, Derek’s teeth flashing in a snarl.

“Dad,” Stiles trembled, his throat bobbing as he swallowed the bile wanting to rise. “What are you doing?”

“He promised me an army,” Noah snarled, lips pressing disgustingly against Stiles’ ear. “When I sold you, that was the deal. He took you but hasn’t delivered.”

The knife pressed closer, catching the torchlight from the walls.

“So I’m taking you back. He can keep the half-formed bastard in your belly.”

Stiles’ bottom lip trembled, a shaky breath escaping as his gaze locked with Derek’s furious, glowing eyes.

Allison translated—more for show than necessity. Derek had mastered the common tongue, taking to it more easily than Stiles had to Lycan.

“He’ll have his army,” Derek growled softly. “He can rule the dead in hell.”

“What’s he saying?” his father hissed, nervous and impatient.

“He says,” Stiles stared into Derek’s eyes, the rest of the world falling away to numbness, “he’ll give you the army.”

Noah’s hold slackened. “That’s all I want.”

Stiles stepped forward, Derek’s hand pressing over his belly—checking their pup—before he turned to Stiles’ father.

“An army,” Derek said, in common.

Noah, smug in getting what he wanted, didn’t even notice the change in language. “Yes.”

Stiles watched blankly as Derek grabbed his father by the throat.

“Form an army out of the other men I’ve killed,” Derek snarled, dragging the beta, kicking and struggling, toward the glowing fireplace.

“No, no! Stiles—please!” Noah shouted, struggling uselessly as he was shoved face-first into the flames.

Allison stepped forward, grabbing Stiles’ arm and trying to pull him away, but he was rooted to the spot—watching as his father burned, screaming.

“He was no king,” Stiles whispered, the smell of burning flesh filling his nose, drawing him back to the day his mother was killed. “Kings do not beg.”