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Deep inside the night, the child screamed.
The house awoke in an instant; the cold waxen floors scalded the mother’s feet before she even stopped dreaming, and the father’s heart stuck in his throat as he called his son’s name in a booming, aghast voice. The moonlight flickered against their nightgowns. They ran, shouldering past each other, to their child’s bedroom. Their bared, clenched fists were ready to kill and gouge.
The door banged against the wall, whining pitifully.
“Stiles!”
The bed swallowed the boy, so small he looked. His stricken face, wet from tears, was paler than his sweaty sheets. His cries dug deep into his mother’s heart, sank their claws inside her trembling muscle, and pulled with all their might. She pushed past her frozen husband and grabbed her son, her only child, the lovely boy, catching his small hands in her tight grip to stop them from scratching at his open, shaking chest.
“What is it?” she cried. “Zlotko1, I am here, Tata’s here—”
“It hurts!” cried the child. “Mamo!”
The father’s big hands cupped the child’s cheeks.
“Where?” he demanded, shaking his son to bring him out of the hysteria. “Stiles, where?!”
The words struggled to get out of the shuddering chest. Finally, the boy opened his stinging eyes and looked at his father, who paled at the sight of them.
“My heart,” the boy said, trying to wrench his hands out of his mother’s hold. “Tato, it hurts.”
The mother watched her husband’s face with a frown, then gently took her son’s chin in her hand and turned it up.
“Zlotko, what—”
She dropped his chin as if burned; her sharp, high scream cut through the room with a razor’s flicker. Recoiled, she jumped from the bed, crossing herself, paler than moonlight, and walked backward until her back hit the cold wall. The father swallowed, gathering his thoughts. After one glance at his terrified wife, he shed his velvet red robe, wrapped it around the shaking child, and lifted him in his arms.
“Stay here,” he ordered sternly, though it fell on deaf ears — the wife seemed frozen, whispering prayers under her breath.
Heavens blessed him, for the streets were quiet that night. The stone clicked under his feet. The fog, thick and cloying, sank into his struggling lungs. Clutching the sobbing child to his chest, John Stilinski ran to the only place — the only man — that could give him an answer.
“Alan!” he hollered, banging his foot against the heavy, old door. “Alan, for lord’s sake, open up!”
After only a moment, the door opened. With his gaze as dark as his skin, the man, hastily dressed in a deep blue robe, looked over the unexpected guests and frowned at the sight of the child.
“Alan, I do not know what to think,” whispered John, as the child cried, “my heart! my heart!” into his chest. “Can you take a look? I will pay—”
“Get him inside,” interrupted the man. After the visitors rushed inside, he looked around for witnesses but noticed no one. His gaze swept past the full moon; he shut the door with a clenched jaw.
Alan marched into his dimly lit office, stepping over the fallen stacks of books. Grabbing the fat, weeping candle from the table, he pushed the trembling father away, kneeled in front of the plush sofa, where the child was scratching at his chest, and firmly pried the small fingers from the nightgown.
“Tell me, child,” he started. His voice, unused to gentleness, sounded stiff. “What is it that—”
He stiffened at the sight of the child’s face, just like his parents did before. Quickly, he threw a glance at John, but the latter did not move from his place above them, his face pale and hard.
“I do not believe in the devil, Alan, you know that,” John whispered harshly. “Explain it to me.”
Alan only tightened his lips and turned to the child.
“Tell me,” he demanded quietly. “Do you dream of someone?”
The child swallowed a sob and snuck a look at his father, whose throat tightened at those eyes. The boy did not seem to understand the sudden distance or that something was wrong with his appearance. He looked at the doctor. His long, wet eyelashes stuck together.
“Tata said it is just a dream,” the child ruckled.
“Is it a wolf?”
The boy’s face paled. His hand tightened its grip on Alan’s fingers.
“Tata said I dream of him because I want a dog,” the boy’s voice grew fervent. “But I do not! I want the wolf, my wolf, and he is real. Real!”
“Stiles—”
“Real!” the boy cried out.
Alan grabbed the boy’s face and turned it harshly away from his father. He met Stiles’ bright red stare, unflinching.
“Describe the wolf to me.”
“He is that big.” Hiccupping, the boy lifted his hand as high as he could. His earnest gaze captured Alan’s eyes, eager for someone to believe him, at last. “As big as a pony I saw at the circus. He is going to be the biggest wolf in his pack, just you wait and see. He is all black, and he has fangs and claws, and ears, but I am not afraid.”
“I bet you aren’t,” Alan muttered.
“We are going to be best friends when we meet,” Stiles wiped his face with his father’s gown. “He tugs on my heart sometimes, but it hurts now.” His lip wobbled.
“It is not your heart that hurts, but his.” Alan grabbed the decorative pillow from the other end of the couch, took the boy’s hands, and wrapped them around it. “Here. Close your eyes.” The boy did so. “Something happened to your friend.”
“What—”
“Shh. We can not know what happened. But you can soothe him, so that it wouldn’t hurt so bad. Imagine this pillow is your wolf. Hug it like you would hug a friend. Really try to tell him that it will be alright.”
Stiles’ eyes squeezed shut. The concentrated look overtook his face. His small fingers dug into the pillow, and his pale lips mumbled reassurances. Little by little, the doctor’s candle shortened, the boy’s breathing deepened, and his hands grew slack.
“What the hell is wrong with my son?”
Alan closed his eyes for a moment. When he turned, he was met with the terrified, helpless gaze of his old friend.
“Your son is not of humankind,” he said gravely.
“How dare you—”
“You have no fault in this. Neither does your Claudia. I assume he has been dreaming of a wolf for a while?”
“Alan, it is a child’s nonsense.”
“It is his fate. The wolf he is dreaming of — he’s real. Their souls found their way to one another, and, I am afraid, they are now linked forever. Stiles was born to run with wolves. He would not rest until his wolf finds him.”
The clock struck one in the morning.
“What a nonsense...”
“It is not.”
“But his eyes, Alan…” John’s voice grew hoarse. “Is that not a work of the devil?”
Alan glanced at the boy. His long eyelashes fluttered against the child’s flushed cheeks.
“No.” He stood up, walked to his overflowing bookcase, and drummed his fingers against the row of decrepit, leather-bound books. “His wolf had acquired an alpha status.” When nothing but silence followed, Alan explained, “He is a werewolf. He became the leader of his pack. I imagine it was quite traumatic, and your Stiles picked up on that.” The doctor took out a book, then another, and offered them to John. “Take these.”
John’s arms remained crossed. His haggard gaze darkened.
“John,” said Alan quietly.
“He is just a boy.”
“Do not be so obtuse.”
John’s face tightened. He leaned over the couch, gently took his sleeping child in his arms, and looked over at the doctor.
“I am sorry to have awakened you at such a late hour.”
“John!”
“I now see it was just a nightmare. I have to get home, for my wife must be in distress. Goodbye, Alan. Thank you for…” He didn’t finish and stormed out into the night.
*
Stiles didn’t flinch when he felt someone’s presence next to him. The rain drummed against his umbrella, black as the thunderous clouds above, and he could barely hear the words that were said.
“You are holding yourself bravely.”
Stiles’ frown deepened. His eyes did not stray from his father’s figure, hunched over his mother’s coffin. The smell of lilacs suffocated him.
“My wolf has my heart,” said Stiles, his voice stifled. His own words caught up to him, and he winced, then looked up at Dr. Deaton, who was standing beside him, staring straight ahead. “Do not tell my father I said that.”
“He denies it? Still?”
Stiles pursed his lips. His father’s shaking fingers hovered over the dead porcelain of his mother’s face. He did not answer.
Dr. Deaton hummed. Thunder rolled somewhere far, far away.
“Stop sneaking into my library from the back. You bring dirt inside.” He locked his hands behind his back. They did not look at each other. “Besides, my front door is always open.”
They stood together in silence. At last, Stiles lifted his eyes and pinned the doctor with an unnerving stare, calculating and wild like a feral wind. It was that gaze that made the men shift their eyes away to the nearest exit, the one his mother could not meet. Only few people in this town knew of its true nature and met it readily.
Alan’s eyes caught Stiles’. The doctor held them for a while, then pressed his hand to the boy’s shoulder, turned around, and slowly walked away.
Stiles’ gaze followed the lone figure until it got lost between the mossy graves.
*
Moonlight caressed the pale skin, leaving kisses on each dot scattered over it. Wisps of crisp, winter air flickered the hair, playful like a child but cold like the fingers of a dead man.
“Come to me.”
Stiles tightened his hands on the window ledge so hard that the wood creaked. The collar of his white nightshirt flapped against his clavicles. His red eyes stared at the moon, unflinching.
“I am sick of waiting,” he grit out. “If you are mine, then come to me. Hear my call.”
The moon hung in the sky, white and silent.
Stiles’ eyes flickered once, twice, before settling into warm whiskey brown.
*
“If you are to stay here indefinitely, you might as well accept the job.”
Stiles lifted his chin off his crossed arms and turned to look at the doctor.
“Do you not have Scott for that?” he muttered with disinterest.
Deaton wiped the gunk off the scalpel, then dunked it in the basin by his side. The metal clinked against the bottom. They met gazes, though Stiles looked away in haste. His heart fluttered against his ribcage for a few precious moments before it was cradled by a ghostly, distant embrace. A heavy sigh fell from Stiles’ lips. It overflowed with longing.
“I cannot let you close to the blood, you know that,” argued Deaton. “You will do well with papers.”
“Ugh.”
“My boy, people would riot if they knew you were helping me. I merely wish to keep your mind off—” Deaton caught his gaze and cleared his throat. “You might as well earn something. I, too, shall not live forever.” Another steel instrument sank into the basin. He tightened his lips in preparation for what was to come next. “And I encourage you to think again—”
“No.”
“Years might pass before he finds you,” Deaton begged. “You have to live off something until then. And with your history—”
“Nobody listens to Argent’s tales,” Stiles huffed.
“Alas, the entire town is under his thumb. If you want to keep a roof over your head and food in your stomach, then accept Parrish’s advances. It is the only way anyone will give you money.”
Stiles’ stomach clenched in revolt. “The very thought of it is dreadful,” he confessed quietly, looking over a flicker of candle flame. “How can I belong to anyone but him?”
“You cannot, indeed,” said Deaton. “Your soul belongs to him. But until then…”
Stiles lowered his eyes. With the tip of his finger, he picked up a goopy droplet of wax, smearing it between the pads. His eyes remained vacant, full of deep melancholy, so familiar yet loathsome to him.
The old doctor was right. He could spend years waiting. The ache flickered inside him, spreading through his veins along with blood. He was a town freak, a mess, a poor, crazy fella. No one would offer him a job, apart from Deaton. And those Argents, sniffing around… Parrish was a fool, but he was a fool in love and, most importantly for Stiles, had money he so desperately needed.
“I shall delay the marriage — if it is to be, apparently — for as long as possible,” Stiles bit out.
“I heard Jordan is a man of great patience.”
*
The lacquered redwood pendulum circled the map, swayed by the whispers. Round and round, unsure and desperate.
“I know you’re in there!”
Stiles’ incantation stuttered. He shut his eyes, cursing internally, then rebalanced the pendulum and started again.
“My darling!” Parrish knocked on the door. A smile made his voice bloom. “I know, I… I came without warning, but I could wait no more! The sight of you is the only delight of my days…”
The pendulum was getting dry. Stiles pursed his lips, dipped it in the thickening raven blood, and hovered it over the map.
“I will find you,” he threatened quietly. The orange shadows danced against the walls. “Wherever you are, you belong to me.”
“—shall leave them at your door. Farewell, my love! I… I hope you were there; otherwise, I have just stood here like a fool… Damn it.”
Stiles glanced at the hall, where the front door remained tightly shut. His eyes narrowed. The footsteps boomed across the hall, then down the stairs; the front door slammed shut.
Stiles glared at the pendulum. “Do you wish me to belong to another?” he inquired.
As soon as the last word left his lips, the pendulum swerved sharply up, flicking a sharp streak of blood on the parchment.
Tight heat coiled at the bottom of Stiles’ stomach. He grinned.
Someone was jealous…
“Gotcha,” he mumbled, observing the Alaskan white splattered with crimson.
*
The stars blinked at him from above, wrapped in a comforting embrace of the dark. The wind howled, teasing.
“Think of me,” Stiles whispered, as it caressed his closed lids.
A shadow of a ghostly hand settled on his stomach, yet Stiles had never felt its warmth, its weight, or pressure. The ache, unsoothed; desire, unfulfilled. It belonged to the wolf—
“Only me.”
—just as the wolf belonged to him.
*
“You have to take me with you!”
“Darling…”
“You cannot leave me here!”
“My love, you are too weak!” Parrish tried to catch Stiles’ hands, but the man wrenched away from him as if burned. Parrish’s jaw clicked. The rain drummed against the windows, rejoiced at the fight. “Listen. It is just a month. You would not even notice me gone.”
“I want to go—” Stiles pushed the stack of newly bound books — a reconciliation gift — off the table, “— with you!”
“To Alaska?!” Parrish threw his hands. “In your state of health?! Good heavens!”
“I need to find—” Stiles gasped as rough, weathered hands grabbed his cheeks. He did not even hear Deaton get up from his chair, where he had been observing the scene.
The doctor’s face was carefully bland, though his eyes burned with warning.
“Patience, my boy,” he said, so quietly that Stiles struggled to hear him.
“He’s there,” Stiles pleaded. His eyes began to sting, his stomach in knots.
“Who’s where?” asked Parrish.
The men ignored him. Deaton let Stiles go but kept their gazes locked.
“It is a providence, then, my boy. Patience,” repeated Deaton with a touch of softness, then glanced at Parrish and back. “Would it soothe you if your fiancé took a token of yours on his journey?”
“A token?” asked Parrish, stepping closer. His hands hovered over Stiles’ waist, always so shy and unsure of touch, and snapped back when Stiles stepped away.
Deaton nodded. With one last glance, he went into his office, though returned quickly with a vial clutched in his hand. It was a tiny thing, no bigger than a thumb, with a cork and holes on the neck for a thread to go through. Deaton walked up to Stiles, took a scalpel, and, ignoring Parrish’s cry of outrage, sliced through his left thumb, pressing it against the bottle.
The blood glided down the glass walls, thick and hot.
When the vial was filled, Deaton gave Stiles a small piece of cloth dipped in alcohol for his thumb and sealed the glass with a cork and a wax coating. Silently, Stiles took the offered vial.
Deaton looked between them both, nodded, and retreated into his office to wash the scalpel.
Without looking at his fiancé, Stiles went into his room. Parrish followed.
Somewhere far away — Alaska, Stiles knew it was Alaska now — the wolf tugged on their bond in a soft inquiry. Stiles’ hands trembled, enclosed in a ghostly embrace, and settled on the small brass chest. Inside were sealed vials with precious herb powders, his mother’s ring, his father’s pin, a stack of cards, cheap gems, and pendulums for his rituals. Among them, he found a simple, thin silver chain and promptly took it out.
Patience, Stiles thought bitterly. Ten years of nothing but a feeling for a mate, a distant echo of a touch. He was done waiting.
Stiles was weak, that was true, no matter how much he despised the fact. The longer he went without meeting his mate, the worse it got. At nights, his body was wracked with shaking, leaving him sweaty and listless, like after a fever. That is, unless he sleepwalked. It was not uncommon for him to wake up deep in the woods with his bare feet frozen and cut, his throat raw from howling; one time his father found him close to jumping from the second story window and saved him in the last minute. Lately, Deaton had taken to tying him to the bed.
“Darling.”
Stiles closed his eyes, his fists clenching the chain. Damned be that day that he listened to the old doctor and agreed to the courting.
He walked up to the man he called his fiancé and swung the handmade chain with the vial over his head. To his surprise, Parrish didn’t reject it. Carefully, Stiles hid the tiny vial between the folds of his shirt.
The one for whom it was intended would smell it anyway.
Stiles put his hands on Parrish’s chest and slowly lifted his eyes to meet the tender, worried gaze. Parrish’s hands hovered over his waist.
“I abhor you,” murmured Stiles, relishing every word.
Parrish’s eyelids flickered. The corners of his mouth lifted in a small, amused smile.
“You always say that, and then cry when I return.” Finally, he lowered his hands. How strange they were, unable to fit.
His heart jumped under Stiles’ palm, eager to feel the touch. Stiles looked at his own hand as it rubbed Jordan’s chest, imagining how hot the beating, blood-soaked heart would feel in his hand.
“Promise me one thing,” said Stiles.
“Anything.”
“Do not take this off,” Stiles caught the silver chain with his finger. “No matter what you do.”
Parrish’s smile soured. He glanced at the vial with a poorly hidden distaste. “Must I— Hey, no,” he paled when Stiles threw his hands off him. “No, I did not mean… I would not take it off, I swear!”
“Good,” Stiles bit out. He walked to the chest and shut it with a sharp click.
*
The wind howled outside, banging the tavern door open each time another unfortunate soul entered. Far away, in the deep dark forests full of dry needles and frozen gigantic pines, the wolves howled back.
Jordan’s cold fingers refused to bend. Every word he wrote in his diary came out stiff and hard from the short pencil. With an irritated hum, he put the pencil down, closed his notebook, and glanced around the tavern.
The crowd was rather small for an evening. The heavy owner who served food to disgruntled, muttering customers, went past his table time and time again; the owner’s wife kept adding wine to his cup, which was but a little blessing. Rubbing his hands together, Jordan watched a group of men playing a card game. They argued in a thick accent but kept quiet otherwise. A dark figure sat in the furthest corner, dressed in a thick fur coat; it hadn’t moved for half an hour. An old man sat in the corner, slurping the soup off the spoon, and another bearded sailor was chuckling over a letter clutched in his dirty, thick fingers.
Another letter, just like that one, sat inside Jordan’s pocket, next to his heart. It was small, wrinkled, with a simple,
“Write more. Tell me everything you see.
S.”
The owner served him stew with too much lean meat. It tasted gamey, though the wine helped. After the meal, Jordan requested coffee, and as he waited, he took the letter out to read it one more time.
The dark figure in the corner twitched, then rose. Jordan did not notice it at first, lost in thought, but once the sudden silence registered in his mind, he looked up and was startled at the unexpected presence mere inches from him.
The man was tall; the fur coat framed his broad shoulders and only accentuated the hidden strength. His face, angular and grim, with a black, kempt beard, was set into a strange, intense grimace; under the bushy eyebrows, the gaze was fierce, quiet, studying.
“May I?” He all but growled.
Jordan blinked at him in surprise, then shut his mouth when the man sat down without waiting for an answer. At first, it seemed that he was staring at Jordan’s empty bowl, but then, his eyes began to run back and forth, as if he were reading.
“Excuse me.” Jordan fought the urge to cover Stiles’ letter. “But I do not think we are—”
“Derek Samuel Hale. You might have seen some castles on your way here—”
“You own them?”
Hale nodded. His nostrils flared. Jordan’s cheeks flushed as he had yet to shower. “You are not from here.”
“Indeed. My name is Jordan Parrish…”
Hale stared at him as he talked. He blinked so rarely that Jordan couldn’t help but break the gaze. He fidgeted and coughed, picked up his cold cup of bitter coffee, and put it down. His skin flushed, and Jordan opened his jacket to let some of the heat escape.
Instantly Hale’s eyes lowered, and Jordan could swear that they flashed bright red as they widened.
“What is that?” Hale grunted.
Jordan looked down and hastily picked up the blood vial hanging off his chest.
“That is… That is a token of good luck,” Jordan rolled it around his palm and laughed awkwardly. “It is from my fiancé.”
Hale looked up sharply. “Fiancé?”
“Yes. My Stiles.”
Hale hummed. “Stiles…” He glanced at the token. “Tell me about him.”
Jordan smiled involuntarily. “He is a poor soul, ostracized because of his ailment. He is cold sometimes, like a winter wind. But there is fire in him, I can feel that. Oh, if only you’d seen his eyes — there is nothing warmer. And he is so beautiful, my little changeling…”
His voice grew tender and quiet as he talked. The man opposite him listened intently, then picked up Stiles’ letter, staring at it with narrowed eyes. He rubbed the corner between his fingers, and at one point lifted it to his face, sniffing deeply, which disturbed Jordan quite a bit, though he managed not to show his discomfort.
At last, the cups were empty, and the candle was but a waxen stump on the holder.
“I insist you join me in my manor,” said Hale when they exited the tavern. A deep night settled heavily over the endless wind-swept fields. “It is far more welcoming than the inn. And the wolves will not touch you if you are with me.”
“The wolves?” Jordan stumbled on the porch. The fierce snow plucked at his face with a myriad of tiny particles.
Hale’s grin was just as cold.
“The wolves.”
*
The floorboards creaked. The man’s face scrunched, and then, after a minute, relaxed.
The alpha watched him with his head inclined until the man settled once more. His red gaze snuck over the bed, the chair where the man left his cold, soggy clothes, and over the small table near the window, where, at last, it stopped.
Derek walked over to the desk. His clawed fingers picked up the thin silver chain.
He glanced at the sleeping man and back at the vial filled with blood. The scent of it was unmistakable.
The wolf’s heart thudded, a thunder.
The cork popped softly.
Derek brought the vial under his nose and took a breath.
*
Startled, Stiles woke up with a howl frozen on his lips. His heart fluttered against his ribcage, and his stomach clenched, but not from despair, not from melancholy. No. What awoke him was a feeling so rare, so unfamiliar that it took his breath away.
Elation.
Pure, unbridled triumph.
The realization clicked into place.
“Oh, god.” Stiles hid his burning face in his palms and fell, powerless, on the sheets. His eyes stung. “Oh, god.”
*
“Your lordship?” Jordan called. His own voice answered him, bouncing off the cold stone walls. His breath clouded in front of him, freezing before his eyes. “I believe I have overstayed, and I would very much like to leave.”
He opened one door after the other. No one greeted him but emptiness each time.
Jordan scratched at his chest, and the lack of the chain lay on him like a heavy boulder. He promised Stiles not to take it off. Yet another mistake he made that would put the wedding further off. Stiles had delayed it several times already. Oh, how unbearable it was to come so close to sharing his bed, at last, and lose again.
“Lord Ha—” Jordan’s voice stilled.
From the darkened end of the hall, three wolves stood side by side. Their hungry golden eyes studied him as if he were a rabbit unaware of its fate.
Jordan swallowed and took a step back. The cold blew across the floor, sweeping away what was left of his breath.
“Lord Hale…” he whispered.
The darkest of the three wolves left out a noise close to an amused huff, then put its head backward and howled. Jordan flinched as the other two followed.
Jordan’s bag flopped on the floor, the ink bottle shattering inside. The stack of journals and letters soaked up the black ink in thirst. The man’s shoes skidded on the floor as he ran with his heart stuck in his throat. Several pairs of padded feet followed him with excited yips.
The wind whistled through the empty manor.
*
“He is coming to me,” Stiles laughed, breathless. The very air made him drunk. “He seeks after me, he is coming, I feel it!”
Alan glanced at him, his eyes narrowing, barely so. “Be careful. Your eyes have yet to lose their shine.”
Stiles did not feel them shift, nor did he care. Soon, his wolf and he would be as one. He drove his old friend insane by running around and packing things (even if it was too soon), but he could not sit still. Not when their bond trembled from anticipation.
“For my entire life, my heart had wandered off in search of him,” Stiles babbled, pacing and rubbing his hand over his chest so much that it reddened. “Without him, it is lost. Do you ever feel like you are not truly alive? At the whim of another, like a doll? I do not think I know what life is, for he has to breathe it into me, to move me. And for heaven’s sake, do not say that I am mad!”
“Would not dream of it.”
“I cannot believe it is coming to an end.” He swiveled toward Deaton, ran up to him, and scooped his hands, clutching them close to his feverish heart. Alan’s mouth softened. “Our friendship is a precious balm to my heart, you know that. Though I am excited to leave, it has nothing to do with you.”
“I shall know peace, at last,” said Deaton, making Stiles snort. The doctor’s gaze was soft, however. His palm lowered on Stiles’ hot neck. “You are not for humankind, my boy,” he murmured. “I always knew this life was not for you. Remember me, that is all I ask.”
*
The air tasted of him.
Derek’s knees buckled. He caught himself on a tree, scratching his palms, and bent at the waist, gasping for breath. The smell of his mate soaked these woods like blood on a body. He must have hunted here.
A grin overtook Derek’s lips.
Soon, he would stop being just a shadow for his fated.
Fur brushed past his fingers. He looked down at the three of his loyal wolves, his pack, his brothers and a sister.
“Let us go find him,” he grunted, hunger beating in his throat. “We shall be complete.”
*
Stiles’ feet flickered against the forest floor, raising the flurry of frozen, crusty leaves in their wake. His incredulous laughter sang through the woods. The arrows whooshed past him, never catching an inch of his skin nor tasting a droplet of his blood.
“Do not let him howl!” The head hunter hollered. “Else he will summon the wolf!”
Stiles smirked. His legs were long and strong, his body too fast, inhumanly so.
For human, he was not.
He was born to run with wolves. His place was in a pack, holding the bonds in his hands and in his soul — it felt so light without them, as if it would dissipate from a mere wisp. Stiles was meant to rule the pack alongside his mate.
Flinching from a wild arrow, Stiles splashed through the creek and hid behind a wide oak, pressing his back to it. The smoldering life of a winter forest thrummed under his palms as he splayed his hands against the tree.
Stiles licked his lips, took a gulp of chill air in his burning lungs, and howled.
“Stop him!”
“I do not see him!”
“Where—”
“Father!”
Growls and snaps silenced the men for a moment before they screamed for the last time in their lives.
And then, blessed silence, interspersed by the sweet scent of blood.
Stiles’ eyes, now permanently red, opened. Breathing heavily, he sneaked a peek from behind the trunk. His heart drummed when his gaze fell upon the pack of wolves, their snouts smeared lovingly with blood.
“You.”
Startled, Stiles turned.
His heart stopped. At the next beat, his life had finally begun.
They gazed at one another, unable to look away. The wolf’s eyes studied him fervently, as if his every feature only fueled the years-long hunger.
Stiles stepped forward. The alpha raised his hand. Both shuddered when their fingers slid against one another, intertwined and locked. Around them, the wolves trotted closer, circling. Their padded feet crunched softly against the snow.
“I called for you every night,” Stiles whispered.
The wolf lifted his hand and pressed it against Stiles’ cheek. It came away wet.
“You know I heard you.” His rumbly voice stifled the air inside Stiles’ throat.
Stiles swallowed a sob of relief that spread through his body, lighter than a breath. He pressed himself to the wolf, sliding his hands along its back, and hid his face in the wolf’s neck. He had never felt this warm. Perhaps, he never knew what warmth even was. He clenched his eyes tighter as the strong arms wrapped around his waist and shoulders. The beard tickled Stiles’ neck, the chuckling breath heating him to his very core.
“Don’t you want to know my name?” the wolf asked.
“I want you to hold me.”
The wolf laughed. Stiles’ heart trembled as lips descended on his neck, lingering and soft.
“It’s Derek.”
“Derek,” Stiles rolled the name around his tongue, savoring the taste. “Derek, Derek…”
The wolf seemed to like the sound. His teeth grazed the long line of Stiles’ neck, sending sparks down his veins and a fog into his mind. Stiles didn’t think; he gripped the hair on the back of Derek’s head, pulled him out of hiding, and sealed their lips.
He was an appetite never quenched, that grew and grew until this very moment, and the wolf was going to feel all of it. But as Derek gripped his waist and pushed him closer, as their bodies pressed together, and their lips opened, Stiles realized that, perhaps, this wolf was the only one who could handle it.
Tongue slid against the tongue, soothing the heat, mellowing Stiles’ lips. Strangely, the kiss calmed him, stifling the pain of yearning to the sweet tug of pleasure in his lower stomach. The slick sounds stood harshly against the quiet forest, Stiles’ gasps like thunder in their ears. He wanted more.
“Derek…”
“So eager.” A grin against Stiles’ lips, a playful flicker of a tongue. “Do you even know?”
“Know what?”
“He, whom you call fiancé, has perished by my hand.” A soft bite. “You are smiling.”
Stiles’ laugh was a light, airy thing. “I am free.”
The wolf pulled back, staring at him. His thumb stroked Stiles’ cheek and his puffy, reddened lips.
“You are not,” he said quietly. “Your passion is bound to me. You are mine for eternity.”
“Then we shall be as one.”
Derek’s eyes flashed red. “I am not lying,” he threatened.
But Stiles only smiled. He nudged the wolf’s cheek with the tip of his nose, then kissed the prickly beard. When he glanced in the alpha’s eyes, his irises were red, just like the wolf’s.
“Your words do not frighten me,” he said. “I’ve been lying awake at night for years, fearing that you’ll never find me, or that something would happen to you, or someone would happen to me. I called for you, dreamed of you—”
“I will take you away.” The wolf’s breath fanned against Stiles’ lips. “From everything you loved. It is cold where I am from. Cold and lonely.”
“Then warm my bed.” Stiles laughed at his growl. His body sagged against the wolf’s. “Take me away, lock me up, I do not care. As long as you are with me, I will want for nothing.” Stiles glanced down at the fur brushing the back of his hand. “You’ll let me see the pack, right?”
“They’ll be the only ones by our side.”
Stiles closed his eyes. “Good.”
*
The manor hid in the alcove between the mountains, away from the furious winds. The pines and spruces, crystallized by snow, surrounded the thick, grey walls, oozing the frozen sap into the lungs of inhabitants. With his elbows hanging from the carriage window, Stiles gazed at the manor with a small, excited smile on his lips. The wind pinkened his cheeks, pinching them with icy flickers. Three wolves ran after the carriage, barking in greeting.
Home, at last.
Stiles settled back inside, smiling as he caught his mate’s studying gaze. It seemed the wolf was watching him the entire time.
“It’s all yours?” he asked.
The wolf nodded. “And yours, now as well.”
Stiles’ grin widened. His eyes traced the mountain ridge, the sharp cliffs that fell to the depths and smashed into the violent, ice-cold river below. The sky darkened.
“Will you show it to me?” he asked. “All of it?”
“I can take you hunting. Bring you deep into the woods and refuse to let you go for days.”
“What a tease.”
The wolf’s gaze pinned him in place. Stiles’ lips twitched as he leaned back and inclined his head, meeting it bravely. His stomach leaped.
“I was born to run with wolves,” said Stiles. “Can you blame me for the thrill of the chase?”
Derek watched him for a while, then leaned forward and offered his hand. Stiles slipped his fingers into it not a moment later. The wolf rubbed Stiles’ knuckles with his thumb. At last, he looked up.
“I just cannot believe that I get to have you,” he murmured. “I felt you all these years, and now you are here, in flesh, in front of me.” The wolf brought Stiles’ hand to his face and pressed his lips against the beating vein on Stiles’ wrist. “I cannot help but question it, for this cannot be this easy.”
Stiles’ heart clenched. He leaned forward, bringing his other hand to cup Derek’s cheek. The wolf closed his eyes, his face crumbling in starvation.
He knew it all by now — the grief and misery that afflicted Derek’s life. The road had been long, and Derek’s voice too quiet, but Stiles soaked it all in. The loss of his family and pack pushed Derek to seek salvation, comfort, and relief. It was Stiles’ fate to answer that call. In turn, Stiles had told him about his loneliness seeping like a deep ache into his bones. It rendered him weak and filled his eyes with redness. He lost his parents that night, too. His mother had never looked at him the same, never warmed his face with a loving palm or gentle lips.
“I’m afraid, I am easy when it comes to you,” said Stiles. “When will you give me the bite?”
Derek’s eyes opened hastily, flashing red. The fangs lengthened against Stiles’ thin skin.
“In three days, at the full moon.”
“Agony!”
“Think of the eternity after.” Derek smiled at his scrunched face. “Let me court you, at least.”
Stiles shut his mouth at the slightest hint of pleading in that mirthful voice. The wolf gazed at him with such earnestness; there was no question as to who wanted the courting more.
Stiles would give everything to him.
“Then court me,” he replied, chuckling at the exhilaration sparkling in the wolf’s eyes. “But I am not spending another night alone. I cannot bear it.”
“I can smell that.”
Stiles couldn’t help the heat that filled his face, but Derek only smiled. How gorgeous was that smile…
The wolf tugged at his hand and pulled him onto his lap. Warm hands settled on the waist, and even warmer lips caught the eager ones. They kissed until they reached the gates.
*
“I feel you. Here.” Stiles took the wolf’s hand and pressed it to his lower stomach.
A chuckle tickled the back of his neck, then lips descended on it. One, two, three kisses. Stiles closed his eyes and exhaled; the wolf’s chest pressed to his sweaty back, making him wince at the tug of the knot.
“Damn you for not seeking me sooner,” breathed Stiles.
Derek’s lips glided along his veins to the hollow of his ear. His beard tickled madly — Stiles could not wait to feel it on his thighs.
“I think I am in heaven,” the wolf mumbled. Stiles snorted, then hissed as Derek rolled his hips. The thick knot stretched his oiled, puffy rim, his cock heavy and deep inside. “You should sleep. This night is not over for us.”
His hand slid down Stiles’ stomach to his spent cock and cupped it. Stiles’ lips fell open. A gasp left his mouth. He clenched around Derek and turned his face into the pillow, muffling his wanton moans, only for the wolf to catch his chin with another hand and turn him roughly to the candlelight. Lips descended on flushed cheeks.
“Your passion is mine. Never hide it from me.”
“You are greed.”
“I am your mate.”
“All the same.” Stiles pushed out of Derek’s hand and captured the wolf’s lips properly. The slickened sound of their kiss echoed across the warm, stuffy room. The flame flickered gently in the fireplace, adding its tender caresses to their bodies as if jealous.
Derek’s hand fell from Stiles' chin down to his chest and rubbed his nipple. The wolf hummed, swallowing his mewls.
“Are we not mated?” asked Stiles once the passion calmed. Everything tasted of Derek. “I thought, the knot—”
“Not quite. I have to mate with you in full shift.” His cock twitched at the words, pulsing along Stiles’ walls.
He did not ask whether Stiles was afraid or not, for it would not matter. Once the courting is completed, the instincts would take over the wolf, leaving only one thought on his mind. Stiles could beg or plead, he could fight and cry, but nothing would deter the wolf.
Stiles’ lips broke into a smile. He arched back into the wolf, and both groaned at the closeness. “I am not doing it in the snow, though,” panted Stiles. “Leave that for summer. Mate with me on our bed where it’s warm and soft, for I know you won’t be.”
“I’ll have you on the floor if I want to.”
“Put rugs on it, then have me all night long.”
Derek chuckled. “Is my den not to your liking?”
“Are you—” Stiles growled, then pulled up his hand and put down one finger. “Firstly, everything is always open. Close the windows! There is snow in the halls! Secondly, your library is abysmal—”
“Perhaps, it has waited for you.”
“And I arrived! Thirdly—”
Derek rubbed his face into Stiles’ neck, making him squawk. “Do what you want. Whatever your soul desires, I do not care. Demolish it if you must, just do it by my side.”
Stiles’ smile softened. He cupped Derek’s face, raking his fingers through the wolf’s beard. “I am bound to you ever-eternally. I shall never leave.”
“Swear it to me.”
“I swear.”
*
“Erica.”
“Erica.”
“That’s Isaac. And this is Boyd, your right hand.”
“Mhm. You’ll have to excuse my left, Peter. My letter will not reach him for some time, and god knows where he is. But he’ll come to greet you, of that be assured.”
“Does he know about me?”
“Love, there is not a soul I haven’t tortured whining about you.”
“Do you want more?”
“Torture?”
“Pack.”
“Yes.”
“Kids?”
“With you? However much you want.”
“We will name him Eli. Our first.”
“You think we’ll have a son?”
“I know. I dreamed of him last night. His weight is but a ghost in my arms. He smells like milk and looks like me. Though he has your eyes.”
“But how?”
“You’ll see.”
*
The wolf held his promise, though not quite. He caught Stiles on the bedroom floor, cupping his head before it hit the ground. Breathless and drunk, they stared at one another. Stiles lifted his hand and pressed it to the wolf’s beastly grimace. His fingers traced the heavy brow ridge, the curled nose, the elongated mouth with fangs peeking out.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured. “And all mine. Forever mine.”
The words were beyond Derek at this point. The moon rose higher, painting the surrounding snowy hills and pines in pearly white. Soon, the man would lose himself to the wolf.
“I want to see you,” said Stiles. He pulled himself up and peppered kisses all over Derek’s face. “Take me, all of me, I am ready.”
The wolf’s eyes flashed red. The bones cracked and shifted under the skin, a breath away from Stiles’ palms. Stiles stared at his fate, watching his every move, drinking him in. Fur spurted out of the skin, black as the night; claws clicked upon the stone. He got heavier and heavier with the shift, pinning Stiles to the floor, unable to escape the turning.
At last, it ended. Above him, inches from his face, the massive black wolf with glowing red eyes struggled to catch his breath. Strength emanated from him in waves of heat, coating Stiles from head to toe. Perhaps, this is what invincibility tasted like — a wolf’s breath on his lips.
Stiles smiled, surged up, and licked into his mouth, tracing the fangs with the tip of his tongue.
*
Weight above him, on him, in him. Coarse fur all over his back. Heat, enveloping. A knot, pumping hot come inside him, stretching him wide. Tender, torn, but healing neck. The scent of sex and blood in his nose.
Euphoria.
In the early hours of the silent, winter morning, Stiles lay on the bed, pinned to it by the wolf’s heavy weight. His fingers scratched Derek’s cheek lightly, careful not to wake. The memories of the long, exhausting night were imprinted in his mind, sealed just like the bite into his flesh.
Stiles’ eyes glowed, two red coals filled with the leftover simmering heat. It seemed the sun itself would sizzle if it hit them.
Years ago, their spirits became one. Now their flesh was, too.
Stiles’ heart beat steadily, nestled between the wolf’s claws where it belonged.