Archive of Our Own

The boat was already there when Derek reached the shore of the lake. It sat still, sending soft ripples along the silk surface. Darkness clouded the crescent; upon seeing the torch in Derek’s hand, the black flies, hungry for some heat and light, rushed toward the fire — the bravest of them paid with their lives for that hunger.

Derek stepped into the boat, but did not sit. The road would not take long.

Without a stir, a wave, or an oar, the boat set off, gliding through the murky, deep-black lake toward the island in the middle.

Derek’s hazel eyes narrowed. They swept over the crumbling, white columns, the broken arch, and the wavering, linen gauze drapes. The flames flickered through the fabric — someone was cooking, or, perhaps, making tea. A thin tendril of smoke wriggled into the night sky, its tail disappearing as it moved.

Not a single conscious soul was around besides the two of them. Crickets and frogs greeted him in tandem,

“What have you brought this time? What?”

“You haven’t been away for long, have ya?”

“He’s waiting!”

A small smile bloomed, unbidden, on Derek’s lips.

The boat slowed and bumped against the pier. Derek stepped on the wood and hummed as he looked it over. It had not been long since he built it, and, despite his craftsmanship, he worried that something might give in. He could not risk it.

Once, Derek saw him lounging on it. Bare toes scraped the lake surface, flickering droplets around; the sun caressed the pale skin, which would never tan no matter how hard it tried; a wrist lay across closed eyes, full lips hummed an old song. Everything about him enthralled and teased. Despite his vehement reassurances that the pier was unnecessary, after whining and complaining, the creature was for sure obsessed with it. When Derek left, he poked at every plank, ran back and forth with a giddy smile that he failed to hide, and eventually fell asleep on the pier. Hidden by the willows along the shore, Derek gazed at him until the moon rose high.

The wolf’s lips twitched at the memory.

Derek climbed the stiff bank. The torch went into the holder next to the front white pillar; he dove further in, lifting what felt like myriads of drapes to reach the living space. It was exactly that — a space, not a home, and it bothered Derek more than he liked. The winter loomed on the horizon. What good would all this gauze do?

The vines tapped against Derek’s broad shoulders, caressing them in his wake as if begging to stay. Delicate smoke tickled Derek’s nostrils along with the scent of apples and rosehip. He entered what some would call a backyard; the hammock swung just a few inches above the water on the island’s bank, and the fire danced in the middle, sparkling and cracking with sap. The steam rose from the pot and curled around the beautiful, flushed face.

“You always come just a minute or two away from boiling. Makes me look like a bad host.”

“I do not mind waiting,” said Derek. The damn smile refused to leave his face. The wolf leaned against the pillar, inclined his head, and gazed at the willowy figure and the fire shadows fluttering across the nearly naked skin. “Hello, Stiles.”

“Sir Hale,” replied Stiles with a grin of his own.

Derek sighed. He walked up to the thick log beside the fire pit and landed on it with a grumble. “For how long are you going to call me that?”

Stiles did not answer. He sat next to the wolf, leaning heavily against his shoulder, shoved a clay cup in Derek’s hands, and flicked his hand. The tea rose from the pot, steaming and wiggling like a snake, and came to a gentle rest inside both cups, parting evenly between them.

“Guess what it is,” Stiles bit his impish smile.

There was no point to guessing — he smelled it from the other side of the lake — but Stiles did not need to know that. Or, rather, couldn’t know. Besides, indulging the irresistible creature was one of the few joys in Derek’s life. That smile alone weakened Derek’s knees and his will.

Humming, Derek sipped the tea and pretended to think. “Rosehip?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And apple.”

“You got it again,” tsked Stiles and took a gulp of his own. His bare knobby knee brushed against Derek’s clothed one. The edge of the cream-colored, linen chiton hitched highly on Stiles’ thigh, long past what was appropriate or decent.

Unable to draw his eyes away, Derek carefully placed his hand on the bare skin. Instantly, it broke in goosebumps. Derek stroked it with his thumb, knowing it did little to soothe — Stiles straightened and wiggled in place, though careful not to dislodge the hand. His cheeks and neck reddened. His bright honey eyes, lit by flames, bravely met Derek’s gaze. The silence thickened the air, which was already soaked in the scent of Stiles' arousal. Derek swallowed, aching to trace it to the source and taste. The thigh under his hand could take his marks so easily, it seemed; his fingertips and lips imprinted on the pale skin — wasn’t that a dream?

When Stiles spoke, his voice was deep. “I am not cold, you know.” His hands, holding the cup, came to rest on top of Derek’s.

“I do know,” said Derek. “It doesn’t mean you couldn’t be warmer. Look at what you are wearing — it’s an instinct at this point.”

“What do you know about instincts?” teased Stiles.

In times like these, it got harder to keep the secret. Sometimes, when Derek watched him hop from one wet stone to another or swim under the lake for minutes on end only to break the surface without a labored breath, he thought that, perhaps, it would not be so bad to let him know. Stiles would understand. He was the only one who could.

But even amongst the supernaturals, the werewolves were meant to be avoided. The wolves were feral, unpredictable, wild. If a wolf makes your village home, hide your children, protect your stock, sharpen your knives, and keep your torches ready to burn it alive.

Derek loved Stiles’ blush too much to see it fade from the simplest touch of his claws.

“I just want you to be comfortable,” Derek muttered at last. The simplicity of the answer made Stiles lower his eyes. If only his heart knew that Derek could hear its giddy thumps.

“Isn’t it your job to make everyone comfortable?” quipped Stiles.

“You don’t see me doing this,” Derek squeezed his thigh, “with everyone.”

“That’s because I never leave my lake. I cannot know what you are doing in the town.”

“Not this,” grumbled Derek, and Stiles laughed. His scent turned pleased.

They drank tea for a while, sharing heat and watching the fire crackle. In evenings like this, Derek came as close to peace as he could. If only he could satisfy the heat in his lower parts, to turn his head and seal his lips against Stiles’ smile, to sink into him and make love, long and sweet, all night ‘till morning… If he could wake each day to Stiles lying next to him, maybe, then his soul would settle.

“How is the road going?” asked Stiles, sipping tea.

“Good. It’s tough work, but no one is complaining.”

“Of course, they aren’t. Things are finally getting done here thanks to you.” Derek watched the fire. Stiles watched him. “You are a breath of fresh air on a stuffy day. People love you. Hey, they do!” he insisted after Derek’s scoff.

“Only because Harris was shit at his job.”

“Do not let that cockroach take all the credit! People started living with you here. I have not heard this much talk about babies since forever.”

Derek arched an eyebrow. “Babies?”

Stiles waved across the pond. “You know, women come to me for all things. The gossip here is worse than gnats. But the wind has been changing. If women are talking about babies, or even thinking about something other than getting rid of them, it means they feel safe having one.” He swiped a thumb on the edge of his cup. “They talk about you a lot.”

The silence thickened.

Derek exhaled slowly. He put the cup on the ground, reached for his bag, and pulled out a jar.

“I brought you honey,” he grunted. “Fresh, taken yesterday.”

Stiles watched him for a moment, then took the jar with a poorly hidden sigh and twisted it open. “I’m just saying,” he murmured, dipped his finger into the molten, aromatic gold, and brought it to his mouth. His eyes closed. “Mmm…”

“Good?” Derek could not look away.

Stiles nodded. He loved sugar, like all nymphs, but it was hard to get while stuck in the middle of the lake. It was the first thing Derek brought him because…

Stiles scooped more honey and licked his fingers clean, smacking his lips in satisfaction.

… just because.

The nymph snorted upon noticing his gaze. He plopped a spoonful of honey into his tea, closed the lid, and put the jar on his lap.

“You did not have to stop,” grumbled Derek just to make him giggle.

“I feared you might start to salivate, Sir Hale.”

“Stiles.”

“Your tea is getting cold.” The boy fidgeted with the cup. His eyes flickered up and down. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“No.”

Stiles never replied to things like these. When Derek reached out and traced his finger down Stiles’ cheek, he stilled. There was no need to fight, and he could not flee — not when Derek had him this close — so the only thing Stiles could do was fawn, and he did so beautifully. Stiles was the best prey Derek had ever had — evading him at every turn, yet teasing within reach.

But even while breathing the same air, Derek did not have him at all. This, more than anything, pushed Derek toward the inevitable confession.

He lowered his hand.

“Are you hungry?” asked Stiles. The heat of the fire got to the nymph’s face and seeped into Derek’s bones. The events of the busy day caught up to the wolf and lay heavily on Derek’s shoulders.

“Thank you, angel, but I am not eating your fish soup,” he muttered. Stiles crinkled his nose. “You are not quite there yet, admit it.”

“Fish is good while it’s alive. It gets mushy when boiled, and I don’t like salt.”

“So you’ve said.” Derek smiled. “I appreciate the efforts, though.” He went to retrieve a loaf of the morning’s bread and some cheese, then produced a knife and started carving thin slices before dispensing them into his mouth. Stiles watched him with interest; he hated cheese, but loved the bread, especially when smothered with honey or jam.

“Heather said the fish here are too small to feed a proper man. I feel like it was more of a jab at me.” He pursed his lips in distaste. “But you ate the fish when I smoked it.”

Well, Derek choked it down, but disappointing Stiles would have been worse — the boy turned three fish into coals before he got the hang of it and presented him a stick with a small carp screwed on it, guts, bones, and all. He looked so hopeful that Derek could not refuse.

“Like I said, I appreciate it.”

Stiles gasped. “You hated it!”

“I—”

“How dare you!”

Derek threw him a bored glance mid-chew. Stiles dropped the theatrics and burst out laughing.

“I knew it could not be good,” he sighed and put his cheek on Derek’s shoulder. For all his teasing and evading, he clung to Derek at every opportunity. Stiles was a mystery and a headache wrapped in impish grins, vines, and an excruciatingly thin chiton. “You always bring things to me, and I just wanted to give you something as well.”

Both knew Stiles could give him everything Derek wanted within a second. A simple gesture as old as time.

Stiles plucked at the bread in Derek’s hands, tearing off pinch after pinch and bringing them to his lips. Some he dipped in honey, some ate as they were. Pressed against the wolf, his body was warming up.

“Tell me something,” asked Derek.

“What?”

“Whatever you want. Your legends. What you did today. Anything.”

Stiles’ smile stretched against his shoulder.

Derek’s eyes fluttered shut as he talked. Despite the arousal simmering in his veins and groin, he felt content. Here, in the middle of the lake, between crumbling ruins of the naiad’s temple, with Stiles pressed against him, he could taste the life again.

Stiles talked for a long time, unbothered by Derek’s lack of response. He told the wolf about the kids who came running in early morning and them catching toads together till midday; about the waning moon and the shifting stars; about catfish and bass gobbling up food in preparation for winter, and how Stiles swayed the water striders and mayflies toward the fish — the kids loved to watch them flop out of the water even more than getting less bites.

Soon, the flames lowered into flickers. Hot coals glowed, nestled inside the fire pit.

“Can I stay?” Derek asked quietly.

Stiles hummed in affirmation, then added, “They’re going to talk again.”

Derek watched the crumbling log fall into the dying fire. The sparks burst and whooshed into the air. “Do you care?” His hand traveled up and down Stiles’ thigh, his little finger slipping just below the chiton’s edge before retreating.

“I am not the one getting lured in by a siren.” Stiles’ voice grew bitter.

“Last I checked, you weren’t one.”

“As if anybody knows the difference. Nineteen years in this village and no one had bothered to learn.”

“I know.”

“You’re the Chief, Sir Hale; it is your job to know who is who.”

“Stop calling me that,” bit out Derek.

“No.”

God, Derek wanted to take Stiles and shake him.

The boy slowly extracted himself from Derek’s side and stood up. Derek’s gaze traced the long, toned, bare legs, the delicate waist hugged by a leather belt, and broad shoulders lit by dancing flames. The chiton fell from one shoulder, revealing the handsomely muscled chest and a nipple, perked from the cold. Derek swallowed and forced himself to lift his gaze until he met Stiles’ dark eyes. The naiad’s knowing smile was tinged with wistfulness.

“Someone needs to remind you of who you are and who I am,” said Stiles gently, but firmly. And even though he did not mean it like that, the words lanced through Derek with sharp pain. “It’s for the best.”

Derek placed his hand on the back of Stiles’ knee and stroked his leg up and up before wrapping it around his thigh. He imagined taking it in his hands, hitching it over his shoulder, and leaning in to lick, taste, suck, and bite. The scent of him, warm and close, clouded with arousal, drove Derek mad.

The worst thing was that Stiles knew it.

“Let’s sleep,” said the boy, tugging him to his feet. He led the wolf behind the drapes, into the dark, where his cot was, smothered in pillows and quilts. Derek could sleep on the ground if only it were close to him. “It is late, and you promised to take a look at the baker’s roof tomorrow.”

“How did you know?” asked Derek as he fell on the cot. He wrapped his hands around Stiles’ waist and tugged the nymph onto the bed; Stiles went without a fight, tucking himself to Derek’s side. His head lay on the wolf’s shoulder, and his hand on Derek’s stomach. Derek closed his eyes.

“They talked about it today at the lake. Heather was excited.”

His voice was but a quiet mumble. Derek stroked Stiles’ waist with his thumb, then turned his head and stuck his nose in Stiles’ hair. He smelled like moss and the last sunlight of the year.

“Old Mel gave me some cherries,” he muttered, half-asleep. He did not comment on the way Stiles tried to surreptitiously wiggle closer to soak up the heat. “I’ll bring you some.”

“…fine.”

Derek fell asleep with a smirk.

“Sire?”

Derek wiped the sweat from his brow, straightened, and looked down. Under the stairs, near the bakery’s entrance, a girl was shuffling from foot to foot. She shielded her eyes from the setting sun and looked at him with a small smile. She balanced a tray between her hand and her hip, careful so as not to drop the wooden pitcher and a cup. One sniff told Derek there was milk in it.

“Would you like to drink?” asked the girl. She was around Stiles' age, perhaps younger. Her sisters whispered inside the house, glued to the window as they watched the girl venture forward. They have been giggling for an hour. “You have been working all day, Sire. Come, get some rest.”

Derek glanced at the roof. The shielding was nearly done — a couple of hours more work until sunset. But his throat was indeed parched. Without further thought, Derek whistled, signaling the Lahey boys to come down as well, and descended the ladder.

“Thank you, miss.” He accepted the glass after wiping his hands.

The girl’s eyes traced the bead of sweat dripping down Derek’s neck. “Heather,” she murmured, offering him the towel. Her gaze locked on his arms as they flexed, his chest, and stomach before flicking up to his face. Her cheeks flushed. “We cannot thank you enough, Sire—”

“Got another one?” Derek nodded at her tray.

The girl stuttered, shut her mouth, and poured a second cup. Derek nodded at the Laheys to come closer and gave the cup to the younger, curly, gangly boy. Damn, those eyes were half the size of his head…

“Tired?” he asked. The boys glanced at each other; the older one shook his head. “Take it easy. You—” Derek clapped his hand on the younger boy’s shoulder, “—take some rest. I’ll let you go after dinner.”

“Thank you, sir,” chirped the boy. He gave the cup to Heather and, without looking at his brother, clambered on top of the barrel at the entrance, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.

Derek frowned, then nodded at Heather. “Give him something. I can hear his stomach growling. This one, too.”

Heather pursed her lips, but complied. Derek would bet his money that these two were sneaking buns under her nose on a good day, but no one could disobey a Chief’s order.

Derek climbed back onto the roof. Soon, the elder Lahey joined him.

He was careful to let the boys rest — he never knew it with humans, when it became too much. Derek himself could work for hours without a break, lift boulders, and run for miles. Could, but didn’t. It was a miracle no one had discovered his lie, and he was determined to keep it that way.

But then…

Stiles.

The naiad haunted his thoughts, day and night. Those thighs, waist, and shoulders. Sparkling honey eyes and a curled smile.

His crumbling ruins and his drying lake.

The winters were getting colder, and Derek feared that this time, Stiles would not stay on the surface. The townsfolk told him that he had gone under during the last winter, to the very bottom of the pond, and went into deep sleep. Months without air, food, or sunlight. When he emerged, weak as a newborn fawn, his fingers slipping on the melting icy shore as he pulled himself up, no one had come to his aid, apart from Melissa McCall. Old Mel spoon-fed him pureed potatoes, honey, and an occasional fish she was able to catch. She came to him every day until he could provide for himself.

A winter without Stiles sounded like torture.

Would it be so bad to confess? At least, then, Derek would know what Stiles really thought. The nymph would not tell, that he was sure of — Stiles knew too well what life was like when everyone shunned you for not being human. No, Stiles would keep his secret. But would he look at Derek the same?

His heart ached at the thought.

If Stiles accepted him, if he could stomach the wolf’s presence without flinching in fear, Derek would make him the happiest man. Maybe then, Stiles would allow Derek’s kisses, greet his advances, and never, ever pull away. Stiles had his reasons to do it now, frustrating as they were; (“You are human, Sir Hale,” he said once with that sad smirk that he had. “Many of you wonder what it’s like to have a nymph for a night or two — a night because then only the Moon would see it. I do not wish to be a fun memory. Only a mystery.”). Still, Derek kept coming to him. Fixing things, bringing things, pulling him close until Stiles stopped resisting. All creatures yearned for warmth, and Stiles, with his transparent clothes clinging to his slender, wet body, was not an exception.

Longing stirred in Derek’s stomach, burned his chest, and spread like fire down his groin. He hurried through the last row of wooden tiles, unable to be apart from the nymph any longer, and called for the elder Lahey boy to come down. Inside the house, the baker’s wife was pouring stew in portions, pursing her lips at the stranger boy swinging his feet in the chair at her table. Her face smoothed once she caught Derek’s gaze.

Heather talked a lot during dinner, as did her father. The man praised his daughter, going on and on about all the good she had done for the village, how the livestock listened to her, and how children loved her. Derek hummed and nodded, swept by the thoughts of wet chiton and honey-flavored laugh.

Despite the mild protest, Heather volunteered to walk the Laheys home along with Derek and chirped all the way to their house. Derek could not have been a good conversation partner with his one-worded replies, but she went on as if nothing was wrong. She smelled even sweeter than Stiles; if Derek led her to the stables and up to the attic full of hay and absent of fresh air, Heather would part her legs easily. It was never a problem for Derek to get a good lay. Only now, when Derek looked at the girl, all he thought was how to get rid of her quicker.

Once the Laheys were home, Derek needed to get to his house that nestled deep inside the forest on the other side of the village, then get the cherries that he had promised. Alas, he could not let Heather near it — every fiber of his being protested it — so he walked her back.

“Are you going home, too, Sir?” asked Heather once they reached the bakery.

“No.”

Heather nodded and glanced at him, biting her full lip. “Are you… Are you going to visit the siren again?”

Derek clenched his jaw at the mistake and the vague disappointment in her tone.

“He is a naiad,” he bit out. “And, yes. I am going to him.”

“You know, they are fickle, these nymphs. Look at his dress — if you can even call it that — Camden could not shut up about it all summer.”

“I like his dress.”

Heather pursed her lips.

Derek stopped, as did the girl. Inside her house, her sisters shushed each other to stay quiet. Heather looked at him with a frown.

“He would never give you what a human woman can,” she said in a serious tone so unlike her usual cheer. “He sleeps in mire and eats gills, he is as cold as a fish—”

“He warms up pretty quickly,” shrugged Derek. Heather chewed on her tongue. “I’ll leave you to it, miss. Thank you for dinner.” If he stayed here longer, it would come up.

Derek nodded politely, turned on his heels, and hurried back where he came from. Perhaps, Old Mel would have another handful of sour cherries and would not be mad at him for being so late…

A sudden voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Do not be surprised if you cross paths with another on the way there.”

Derek glanced over his shoulder and pinned Heather with a stare. “Watch your tongue, miss. You don’t want your father hearing Camden talk about lifted skirts.”

He turned back on her reddening face.

The bowl of cherries made a soft thump against the boat seat. With his gaze on the distant moss-covered marble, Derek undressed, unhurried and relaxed for the first time that day. He put his clothes alongside the bowl and sank into the lake, gasping at the coldness. His harsh breaths soon calmed as his body got used to the temperature. It was nice to have this after a sweaty work day under the sun.

He swam further and further, gliding through the water. The stars were out today, blinking at him from above. Their gaze meant nothing to Derek’s strong, naked body.

Soft steps against the grass, then rocks, then pier.

Derek smiled as he stopped. On the other side of the lake, the wind blew up Stiles’ chiton, flapping it gently across his skin. The nymph watched him for a couple of moments with his head inclined, then grinned, set off into a short run, and dove into the water. It parted for him like butter.

Stiles did not resurface until he reached the wolf. He emerged with a warm smile and laughed when Derek caught his waist and tugged him closer. One would think he, like stars, held no care for Derek’s nakedness, but the wolf knew better. Stiles smelled of hunger. Strong, slender hands slid up Derek’s biceps in a slow, torturous move, then settled over his shoulders. Stiles' eyelashes were stuck together, his hair plastered over his forehead.

Derek had never wanted anyone more.

“I wondered if you forgot me,” teased Stiles. He picked the wet water lily pad that stuck to Derek’s shoulder and flung it aside, as if jealous.

“I don’t think I could,” murmured Derek.

“Mm. Did you bring the cherries?”

“I did.”

“Give me.”

Derek chuckled and motioned toward the boat. Wrapping one arm more firmly around the wolf’s shoulders, Stiles stuck his hand underwater and curled his fingers. The boat rocked softly before slowly gliding toward them.

“I can smell them, oh my…” groaned Stiles. When the boat neared them, he grabbed the edge and yelped as Derek gripped his waist and pushed him up and over. “Hey! Oh, I spilled them! Shit!”

Derek laughed. He leaned over the edge, watching in amusement as Stiles struggled to get his long legs in order. It was a blessing and an agony that Stiles did not mind his state of undress or that Derek was staring. The thin linen, soaked with water, stuck to his skin, revealing everything there was about him; and what a blessed creature he was, with a cock and a set of pink lips underneath. If only he could taste them…

At last, Stiles sat at the bottom of the boat, put the bowl on his lap, and picked cherries off the floor. Half of them went into the bowl and half straight into his mouth.

Derek’s eyes fell onto his chest, where dusky nipples peeked through the chiton. He swallowed. His cock filled with blood and lust. It would not be the first time Stiles saw him affected, and, though the naiad teased Derek about it, the wolf knew he liked the attention. His attention.

Shame he wouldn’t do anything about it, though.

“Did you try them?” asked Stiles, bringing him out of his dreaming.

“Of course. How else would I know that I brought you the best?”

“Oh, what a sweetheart!” grinned Stiles. He picked one cherry and leaned over, placing it against Derek’s lips. “Here.”

Derek opened his mouth obediently. Stiles pinkened when Derek’s lips caught the tips of his fingers. They were stained red.

“There,” said Stiles, his voice strange. “If I cannot feed you fish soup, you’ll have to gobble these.”

“You mean, the food that I brought you?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Stiles growled and shoved another cherry against his lips. Derek indulged him.

“How did the roof go?” asked Stiles.

“Finished it.”

“So fast!”

Derek shrugged. “I had the Lahey boys helping me. They’re good with their hands.”

“Yeah.” Stiles leaned on the side of the boat, closer to him. “Isaac comes here often. I taught him how to catch fish and gut the frogs. He is good at it. Says they taste like chicken. Do they?” he frowned. “I’ve never had one.”

“And I have never eaten a frog.” Derek crinkled his nose. “I can bring you meat to try.”

Stiles glanced at him in indecision. “Are you going to make me burn it?”

“I guess you can try it raw. But it would have to be fresh.” Derek watched him sucking on the cherries; the thought of hunting for Stiles made a growl brew in his chest. “What have you been doing all day?” he asked quietly.

Stiles’ gaze flickered to his island. “Oh, you know…”

“What happened?”

Stiles scoffed. “The capital fell. I am fine,” he blurted as Derek tensed in alarm. “Fine! It was exactly as you predicted, so congratulations, Sir Hale, you can join the carnivals and make premonitions, you’ll make good earnings.” He waited for Derek to reply, then wiggled in place when he didn’t. His honey eyes under the furrowed brows lifted to the wolf’s face. “What?”

“I told you to come live with me.” Stiles’ gaze fell instantly. “It is dangerous for you there. Even if I build you a roof over your head, those damn columns would break through it when they fall. What’s so bad about living with me, huh?”

The nymph fiddled with the edge of his chiton, arranging, then rearranging it on his lap. It stained faint pink from the cherry juice on his fingers. He did not lift his eyes.

“It can be hard for you to remember,” he murmured in with a waft of chill, “but, although I look like one, I am not human. I cannot live on the land, not for long and not without large water beside me. These are my waters and my lake. I was born here, and until they pellet me with stones, I will remain here whether you like it or not.”

He left the bowl with cherry pits and swiftly dove into the lake, leaving the boat rocking. Despite his agility, he could not get away from Derek’s strength or his sudden speed; the wolf caught him around the waist and lifted him out of the water, pressing him close to his body. The nymph did not splutter or gasp, just glared down at him with a cold frown.

“Let go.”

“I will build you a pond,” said Derek.

Stiles stopped wiggling. “What?”

He was warm. So warm and so close that it made Derek’s stomach churn. Stiles fit against him in such a beautifully casual way that it seemed they’ve been doing it for years. And, oh, Derek yearned for it.

“I’ll dig you a lake,” he said with quiet fervor. The nymph’s chest rose and fell inches from his lips. “Even bigger than this one, if only you ask me to. You will fill it with water, and we will live in my house, and… You’ll be happy with me.”

Stiles did not answer. Not with a joke or a silly jab. He stared at Derek as though he said something forbidden, blasphemous, and stilled in Derek’s arms like a statue of an ancient deity. The wolf’s words broke something inside him, and now his big, honey eyes filled with ache.

His lips remained sealed, if downturned.

Derek cupped his slender neck, leaned his forehead against the nymph’s, and closed his eyes. The cherry scent came off Stiles’ lips, taunting. His gums itched, ready to unsheathe his fangs for a bite — the coveted kind, the one every wolf longed for.

Without thinking, he leaned forward.

Stiles lifted his chin at the last second. Derek’s lips landed on his neck instead, but even that was enough. Stiles’ pulse thrummed. His heart beat wildly against Derek’s chest. It was the closest Derek had ever gotten to having him.

He kissed the nymph’s neck, letting his lips linger and soften as they traveled up. Derek reached the jaw, then the hollow under Stiles’ ear. His scent was the sweetest here.

“Stop resisting me,” Derek rumbled, salivating at the way it made Stiles shiver. “Let me take care of you.”

For one second, he could tell that Stiles thought about it. His hands slid onto the wolf’s chest and…

“I can’t.”

… pushed away. It was a testament to how much supernatural strength hid in those swimmer’s shoulders, because Derek could not do anything but let him go. Stiles slipped out of his embrace, out of his warm arms, and disappeared under the black surface within a blink. The naiad took all heat with him, leaving Derek alone under the uncaring stars.

Trees groaned from the wind, rocked and creaked, calling anyone who could hear to come, come, come. The thunder clattered through the sky. Where once was a clear night canvas, the heavy clouds slithered as if trying to hide something from the watchful gaze of the moon.

Twice through the night, Derek rose from what was already an abysmal sleep. His eyes opened, flashed red, then closed again.

He did not want to be awake, not for a single second of existence.

He heard them rushing a few miles into the forest like a herd of bison, arguing about something between themselves. Groggy and pissed off, Derek swung open the door before the men could knock on it.

“What?” he growled. The cold wind snuck into his half-opened shirt.

“We found a body. At the lake.”

The road to the lake took minutes, or was it hours? Derek did not remember; everything was a fog. His heart leaped into his throat and stuck there, preventing any air from reaching his struggling lungs. The men tried to reassure him that it wasn’t Stiles that they found, but that did not mean Stiles was safe.

Derek should have stayed. He should have never left, run after Stiles, caught him, and never let go. The mistake was glaring. He would not make it again.

It seemed that half the village came to the lake bank to ogle the corpse, though a few people managed to push others off. What those men could not do, the stench did — rotting and foul, it crawled up Derek’s sensitive nostrils, forcing a bile to rise and feet to stumble back.

Derek kept glancing at the naiad’s island, but saw no movement.

Where was he?

The villagers sighed in relief at seeing his scowl and parted readily. Someone had dragged the man from the mud and dropped him face up on the dying grass, and what a face it was: swelled up, pasty white, deformed beyond recognition. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was open; a thick tongue peeked out, green from sludge and covered with froth.

“He is not local.”

“I can see that,” bit out Derek, leaning closer. The man was dressed warmly, like any other villager; middle-aged and of an average build, he had nothing to differ him from others apart from him being dead. Derek pushed at the man’s chin and studied his neck, but it was spotless; he inspected his body, but saw no signs of any wound. With no strong alcohol vapor, there was not much to go off. Derek looked around, but the soft muddy ground was interspersed with footsteps. He stood up. “Everyone, get back to your homes. I said to your homes!” He glared at the first complaints. “Barth, William, send Camden and some other boys to the neighboring villages, see if they are missing someone. Tom, get Braeden. I need you to inspect the ground for footsteps.” He could already tell where the man came from, but he could not just announce it — he had to stumble on the trail. “We need to know if he came alone or—”

“Why are we doing this?” shouted someone.

The crowd grew quiet. The shouting woman grew red, but pushed forward. “That pond witch senses everything done in the waters — no way would he not know about a carcass floating ‘round!”

The rest murmured in agreement.

And damn it, Derek could not argue. He looked around the shore, picking up the excess slime, the absence of croaking and buzzing, the swampy stench that emanated from the water, which was crystal clear just a day ago. Stiles maintained this pond like his own body. Now, it was clear that he was determined to keep everyone out.

“The boat is on this side,” a young girl pointed at the island. The murmurs intensified. Derek followed her gaze and clenched his teeth at the sight. “He knows something.”

“’course he does! He killed the fella!”

“Nothing but trouble that pond scum!”

“Told you it was a matter of time.”

Derek clicked his mouth shut and turned away to hide his fangs. His hands shook from the need to get them all away from here, from his Stiles — it seemed they were ready to pull out their pitchforks.

Breathing did not help as there was little clear air around. He tried to listen for Stiles’ heartbeat but could not discern it from others’ babble and stutter.

“I suggest all of you hold your mouths shut before I do it for you,” he snapped, glaring at them over his shoulder. The murmur ceased. “We found a body. That’s it. If you want to help, stop talking and bring me a boat and an oar. The rest of you had better find something else to do rather than be in my way.”

“Stiles!”

The oar fell onto the ground with a loud clack. Derek ran up the bank to the ruins, finding them eerily quiet. Or, was the thump of his heartbeat too deafening?

“I am not going to hurt you,” called Derek, tearing through the flimsy drapes. “Or accuse you, or… I just need to know what happened. Do you hear me?” He burst into the center of the island, finding it empty. The cot, the logs, the fire pit. Though…

Derek frowned and approached the fire pit. Heat emanated from it in waves. Upon the touch, he found the stockpot hot, though inside were just bits and pieces of boiled fish turned to mush.

“I hear you just fine, Sir Hale.”

Derek swiveled around, his heart in his throat. His shoulders dropped at the sight of Stiles, same as always — tantalizing and lean — though there were shadows under his eyes. He did not seem to sleep a wink. The translucent clothes stuck to him, heavy with water. The nymph regarded him with an uncomfortably cold, indifferent gaze, his arms crossed on his chest.

Derek stepped closer.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked outright.

Stiles did not look surprised at the question. He did not approach, just stood there like a ghost, pale and ethereal. “No,” he answered, lifting his chin. His heartbeat did not lie. “He did nothing to me except make a ruckus early in the morning. Very annoying.”

“Right,” Derek grit his teeth. All this cold vagueness put his wolf on edge. “So you just… decided not to save him. You.”

Stiles shrugged.

“Stiles,” growled Derek.

The nymph licked his lips. “I think it’s for the best if you do not come here anymore, Sir Hale.” He said it with such devastating casualness that Derek wanted to throw up. “I have decided that I want nothing to do with humans anymore.” He stretched his lips into a smile.

“Stiles.”

“I am sorry if I led you the wrong way, but I am just…” He inhaled deeply. His jaw worked over words. “Really sick of your kind.”

“Hale!”

Derek closed his eyes at the distant call and shook his head. His gums itched with the need to release the fangs. His fingers trembled, nailbeds aching.

“What did he do?” he asked grimly, lifting his gaze.

Stiles’ mouth stayed shut.

“Fine. Who was here?”

“What do you mean?”

“You cooked for someone. Who was it?”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed but turned to normal within a flicker. He licked his lips again before putting on another smile, so fake it dripped poison. “Don’t you know, Sir Hale—”

“Don’t…”

“— I have many visitors. People, apparently, come from towns away to see me lounge naked.”

“Derek Hale!”

“Or, perhaps, I changed my diet. It is quite barbaric to eat raw fish, isn’t it?”

“We found the footsteps!”

“Only monsters do it,” finished Stiles.

“You know I don’t think of you like that,” snapped Derek.

“Do I?”

“Hale!”

“Fuck!” Derek moved closer to Stiles, stilling when the nymph matched his steps but walked backward. It was the wariness in his eyes that made the final punch right into Derek’s stomach. His worst nightmares come true. “I will be back.” Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but Derek spoke over, “I do not know what got into you, but I know that dead fucker is involved somehow. And if you killed him—”

“What then?” Stiles jutted out his chin. His eyes sparked.

Derek studied him closely. “Then I’ll cover you.” Stiles’ jaw grew slack, his eyes narrowed in disbelief. “If you did it, I know it could not have been anything but self-defense.”

“What if I wanted a piece of human flesh, huh?” sneered Stiles.

“You didn’t. Because not a chunk of that corpse is missing. And you are not a monster.”

Stiles grit his teeth instead of replying. Sighing, Derek looked around in an attempt to pick anything out of the ordinary, but apart from the cooking, nothing seemed amiss. Stiles’ scent went sour with tiredness, but apart from the lone, sweet, milky note it was the same aroma of a fresh, crisp dew and weeping willow leaves.

“I’ll tell them to leave you alone,” he said with quiet firmness. “But I’ll come back whether you want it or not. You are mine to take care of.”

Something rang in Stiles’ gaze, shouting loud for Derek to see, or to guess, however, his lips were pressed tightly together. He stood there, arms crossed, just like before. Derek wondered if, perhaps, his hands shook, like his own.

He left the silent nymph on the island. Every step further from him echoed with sharp pain. The only relief was the undeniable knowledge that Stiles had nowhere else to go.

“You are biased.”

“I am not.”

“This is not a question, Hale.”

The former Chief of Beacon Hills, Rafael McCall, was a stubborn man, but wise — a trait so foolishly assigned to all old people, even cretins who did not deserve it, but McCall certainly did. The only person who did not share that belief was his wife, Old Mel, but wives were allowed things like that. McCall appointed Derek personally a year ago — an outsider without preconceived notions or bitter gossip to poison his critical thinking. Before he arrived, they’d chosen one of their own — a man named Harris, who had led them to the brink of ruin with his greed. Derek had been great so far, and McCall had nothing to chide him for. Until now.

It was Joshua who found the dead man’s home in the next village to the North of Beacon Hills. His wife’s only response, according to him, was a biting smile and a hollering “Good riddance!”. Derek had to go over and speak to the village Chief in person to force him to take the body for the burial.

When he returned, Beacon Hills was under a pouring rain.

“Another?” McCall filled his glass with ale.

Derek sighed, wishing it did something to make him forget. “No.”

“Your loss.” McCall raised his glass with a nod and took a small sip, smacking his lips. “You are so sure in him,” he said quietly. “We do not know what happened. We may never know.”

“If he wanted blood, he had many opportunities to take the most vulnerable. Children, women, and the elderly come to him daily. Calavera was bigger than him, stronger. And his body remained intact.”

“Mayhap, it was the soul he wanted.”

“He would have taken an infant, then. Can’t find purer than that.”

McCall hummed. “Still. It was his lake.”

Derek exhaled loudly, leaned onto the back of his chair, and rubbed his forehead. “Even if he did it—”

“He did.”

“— there had to be a reason.”

“Then he is a murderer with a reason.” McCall’s glass thumped against the table. His gaze burned Derek’s face. “Let me give you some advice, Hale. Choose your own. You will never know what is on the nymph’s mind. He has his own gods and prayers — let him have them, but when it comes to living life, choose your kind. I shall be damned if you ask for someone’s hand ‘round here and get rejected. Just say a word, and they’ll come runnin’.”

But it’s the wolf who likes to chase, isn’t it?

That night, Derek visited the lake. No boat waited for him, though he did not expect it to. The rain did not ease up, pouring and pouring until Derek could not hear anything beyond it pelting the lake. The willows rocked, groaning in annoyance. The whisper of one’s leaves could have been ignored, but when that noise amplified to hundreds, it became unbearable.

In the depths of the ruins, the flame flickered. Stiles was home.

Soaked to the bone, Derek sat with his eyes closed, trying to hear his heartbeat through all the noise. He went home a little after midnight, still longing for the sound.

People stopped coming to the lake. The stench of slime repelled even the strongest of them; the reeds sprouted where water lilies grew before, thick and dissembling — one step and you would be knee down in morass. The toads ribbited loud threats, and mosquitoes swarmed any passerby. No one dared to fish, let alone dip toes in the cold waters.

In the village, people murmured more than usual. Where there were three, there soon were four, frowning and nodding at each other’s concerns before dispersing as quickly as they came together. Mothers scolded their kids for trying to sneak to the damned lake. At night, the sound of sharpening blades cut through the quiet streets.

Now, more than ever, people flocked to Derek. He lost count of how many times old women caught him by the elbow to lament and gasp; his reassurances lasted a day or two before it started all over again.

After a week, however, things started to settle. Mostly, because no one had seen Stiles since then, and with Derek’s reassurances that the naiad could not leave his waters, people calmed down.

The wolf visited the shore every morning and every night. Sometimes, he could hear Stiles puttering with pans, cursing under his breath, but mostly, the nymph was hiding underwater. As unsettling as it was, Derek left him alone. Stiles really had nowhere to run, not from the wolf.

So, perhaps, Derek should have expected Stiles to have some external help.

“Where are you going with all that?”

The bucket slipped out of the boy’s hands, sending the fish flapping over the grass. Isaac looked over his shoulder, his blue eyes wide as plates.

“Sire?”

Derek approached him and leaned down to gather the fish. Thankfully, some of the water stayed in the bucket, enough to cover several pounds of it.

“Some help?” asked Derek in a light voice. The boy startled again, went red, and squatted, catching the slippery fish with his little fingers. “Nice catch you got there.”

He could feel Isaac watching him, but did not meet his gaze. The boy answered after a long pause. “Thank you, sire.”

“Did you do it all by yourself?”

“Y-yes.”

Derek tsked. “I thought you were not supposed to tell lies.”

“I’m not!” Isaac grew redder. The fish slipped out of his hands like a bar of soap.

“You are,” said Derek without a hint of judgment. When the last fish fell into the bucket, they stood up, and Derek grabbed the handle before the boy could. Isaac watched him with a pout and picked at his fingers. “I am not going to tell anyone, but you have to tell me where you got this from and what you were doing with this.”

It was obvious who the fish came from, but the only question Derek could not figure out the answer to was why.

Isaac sighed heavily and followed Derek’s steps, wringing his hands. “The nereid gave it to me, sire.”

“The naiad.”

“Huh?”

“Stiles is a naiad. A freshwater nymph. Nereids live in seas.”

“Are they, like, mermaids?”

Derek smirked. “I answer your questions, you answer mine. Deal?”

“Deal,” Isaac muttered dejectedly.

“Why did Stiles give them to you?”

Isaac sighed again. “He asked me to bring him chickens and milk, but he does not have coins, so he gave me fish, and said that if I bring him chickens and milk and maybe bread, he would give me another bucket.”

Chickens, milk, bread. Stiles was harboring someone.

Derek grit his teeth, swallowing down a grumble. His stomach flared with poison.

“Nereids look like humans. Mermaids have fish tails from the waist down,” he muttered.

Isaac thought about it for a while, then looked up with a twist to his mouth. “How do they poop?”

Kids… “Like all fish do, boy.”

“Fish don’t poop!”

“I bet they’re doing it there right now.”

Isaac looked down at the bucket with his nose pursed. “Ew!”

Derek shook his head. “No one is going to trade with you with that fish. We’ll give it to your mother so you can keep it.”

“But—”

“I will bring Stiles everything, don’t worry.”

He looked down as he felt a cool touch of a little hand against his wrist. Isaac looked up at him with a serious frown.

“Promise?”

Derek smiled a little. “Promise.”

Isaac nodded to himself. His hand stayed curled around Derek’s all the way to his house.

No matter how hard he pushed his hearing, Derek could not pick up any strange noises. Everything was the same: cicadas, toads, the murmur of the leaves, and the occasional plop of fish jumping out of water. If Stiles was hiding someone, then both must be underwater. Was it another naiad?

Derek glanced at the contents of the wooden bowl in his hands. A bottle of cold milk, a jar of honey, some hard cheese, a loaf of fresh bread, and a chicken that Derek had cut into pieces — he doubted Stiles knew how to do it. No, that food was not meant for the nymphs.

Derek tried not to think that it all might have been to please someone else. The thought of Stiles giving this food to someone, smiling at them, laughing, pressing himself to them at night…

“Fuck,” Derek muttered. He may as well be an utter fool for doing this.

But it was Stiles. And the wolf could not ignore his pleas.

“Stiles!” called Derek. His voice bounced off the water, echoing. It seemed the trees had stilled. “I brought what you asked!” He waited a bit, but after the prolonged silence, muttered under his breath, “Be it your way, angel.”

He placed the bowl into the water, holding it carefully to make sure it would not sink.

“Take it to him,” he murmured and stepped back from the shore.

The bowl bobbed for a couple of moments, then slowly, oh so very slowly, swam to the other side. The nymph’s waters were always sentient to some degree from being soaked in the magic for years on end, and this pond was not an exception.

Derek settled on the grass to wait. It took ten minutes for the bowl to reach the pier.

And then, Stiles came out.

Derek’s breath hitched, his whole body going still and tense with alert. The sight of that slender waist, long legs, and broad shoulders aroused hunger in the wolf, one unlike anything he had ever felt before. His eyes traced every bit of the naiad as Stiles came down the hill, soaked to the bone. Oh, he must have been so cold. If only he let Derek touch him, warm him…

Derek barely breathed. His body vibrated with the need to have that creature, to cover him with his weight, pin him down, and bite, bite, bite, until Stiles stilled and went soft and warm.

Both saw each other — it would have been impossible not to. Stiles slid down the mud to the pier, walked to the edge on his coltish legs, and kneeled to retrieve the bowl. After placing it on his lap, Stiles observed the contents with tight lips.

A whine stuck in Derek’s throat as he waited. At last, the nymph looked up.

He looked tired. His limbs held no jitter, no light breeze; the shadows under his eyes were prominent, and his lips downturned. He studied the wolf for a few moments, his gaze unreadable, then stood up, clutching the bowl to his stomach.

“Thank you,” he said, not knowing that Derek could not only see his lips move, but hear him as well.

Derek never knew he could miss someone’s voice that much.

He did not dare open his mouth as it was full of fangs. He clenched his jaw until it hurt, and nodded instead.

Stiles ran up the hill and, without turning back, not even for a fleeting glance, disappeared between the myriad of drapes. Derek was left on the bank alone with his thundering, aching heart.

He listened, instead.

The logs piled together. The crackle of the first fire, then the rumble of the flame. Pots clang, water bubbled and hissed as it spilled over, echoed by Stiles’ curses. It was not long before the scent of the boiled chicken wafted over the lake. Soon after, Derek heard an unmistakable sound of Stiles slipping underwater. The smell of chicken disappeared.

Whom do you feed by your hand? thought Derek. Who deserves such grace?

His house creaked from the cold wind. Derek sat in the chair across from the fireplace, unmoving, unseeing, absent.

Everything called him there, where he wasn’t needed. Somehow, this time, the loneliness numbed him. Like picking at the scab again, and again, and again until the ache became a familiar, background thing.

He knew what it was like to fall asleep next to Stiles before. The nymph’s legs tangled with his own, his breaths warmed Derek’s neck, his heartbeat, so precious and calm, pumping against Derek’s ribs.

Now, cold seeped into his bones. His arms ached from emptiness.

“He stole a child.”

“What?”

“Camden saw him.” Rasping breaths burst out of Heather’s mouth. The girl’s face reddened from the run, her chest going up and down. “Went to fetch… his brother and saw… the nymph holding a babe…”

Derek cursed. Ignoring the girl’s gaze dipping down his exposed neck, he tore his smock off the rack and marched outside.

Perhaps it was a blessing that Stiles did not sleep that night.

Derek had long since gone, and his absence cinched Stiles’ throat tighter than his words did. It was so cold without him, so empty was his bed that Stiles could not bear to lie in it.

He was on the pier when it happened. Through the thunder of his traitorous heart, he heard footsteps — heavier than Derek’s, but the most surprising thing about them was the child’s wail joining them.

Stiles did not get many visitors in fall. In summer, people came to splash in the cool water, and in winter, a few men came to fish. But once the willows yellowed, only children visited him, pleading to help them find frogs or snails. Sometimes, women came, shaking and solemn, asking to get rid of the unwanted child; even rarer, someone came for his blessing — only a handful of them knew what a naiad could do. He suspected it was Melissa who told them about his abilities, but even then, it was a well-kept secret.

Frowning, Stiles hid behind the pillar, pleading for the night to cover him, and watched as a stranger came stumbling out of the forest on the opposite side of the lake. He was not local, that was clear, nor was the baby he carried. The poor child screamed, tucked carelessly under his armpit. It was not an infant — perhaps one, one and a half, years old.

The man did not seem to hear the screams. That, or he did not care.

Stiles’ jaw clenched as the man kneeled at the bank and thrust his torch into the ground. There was no need to guess what would happen next.

Silent as the wind, Stiles slipped into the lake, letting the water hide him. The reeds covered him as he emerged near the shore without a sound, with just his eyes above the water.

Do not do it, he thought. Do not.

The man’s hands shook as they held the squirming baby waist down in the cold water. The child grew red as it cried — sobbed, for what seemed like its life. It did not know any words — too young to beg.

“Abomination,” the man rasped. “Told ‘er to get rid of ye. But I shall take care of it… I shall…” He swallowed. “Heavens, forgive me.”

He plunged the child into the water.

The little one struggled against the hold. Its breath escaped in bursts of bubbles, letting the cold, dirty water flow inside in desperate gulps.

Stiles reached them in seconds.

The man’s startled scream echoed sharply across the forest. He stared at his empty hands, bewildered as to where the child had gone — was it a fish? an alligator that snatched him? — when suddenly, something deathly white drew toward the surface.

He paled as he recognized a furious human face. The man opened his mouth for another scream, but it never got to leave his lips.

Strong hands grabbed the man by the lapels and tugged him down with force. He was thrust into the same cold water — no air, no mercy — and gulped, and gulped, and gulped. He could not escape the hold of death, no matter how hard he trashed and kicked. He stared at the beautiful, deific face full of cold, calm rage, and quickly realized that it would be the last thing he would ever see.

Stiles let him go when he stopped trying to breathe.

The child was still when the naiad reached it, washed ashore by the magic and the gentle push of the lily pads. It was a boy, wrapped hastily in a threadbare blanket. Stiles kneeled beside him in a hurry, put his hand on the unmoving chest, and willed. The pond water burst out of the baby’s mouth and nose, ran down the sides of his pale face.

The child shivered.

“Come on, sweetheart,” muttered Stiles. “Come on…”

It had been a while since he prayed. Little knew of his abilities, of the shrines that they could build or the presents they could bring to appease him. He was the reason their water was clean and safe to drink, or the reason their fish were plentiful even in winter; their wells never dried, and one could bathe an infant in his lake and be assured that no disease would touch them, no common cold. The parents did not teach their kids to swim — Stiles did it. His waters cured illnesses, eased aches, though most did not think Stiles had anything to do with it.

Stiles could do a lot of things. Only, no one worshipped him.

…until eight months ago, when a strange, brooding, handsome man came to settle in their village.

The honey, the cherries, the pier, his warmth, and his gaze — Stiles took them as they were. The power of Derek’s gifts filled him, and who knew, perhaps, it was in preparation for this.

Stiles cradled the child in his arms and pressed his lips against his forehead. Ancient, long-forgotten whispers fell from his lips and dissipated in the air, akin to a fog. It was not often that he was asked to save a child, but when he was, he gave it all.

Sat on the wet, cold patch of yellowing grass, with water dripping down his face and back, under the watchful eye of the moon, the naiad prayed, and then…

A whimper, a cough, a soft sob of a newborn kitten, tasting life for the first time.

“Shh,” Stiles murmured, patting the child’s backside. “I’ve got you, astéri mou¹.”

Little boy squirmed and cranked open one eye, puffy from crying. Stiles stilled.

Oh.

“Óchi, óchi astéri.” Stiles traced his finger down the baby’s cheek. “Eísai ílios².”

The child’s eyes were the color of molten sun. He was not scrunching his face — it was a half-shift. The little nails that dug into Stiles’ chest weren’t a sign of neglect — those were claws.

“Lykáki mou³.” Stiles’ smile trembled. He glanced over his shoulder at the body floating face down in the murky water. The green slime had started catching onto his hands in a pitiful attempt to hide it.

Stiles stood up, picking up the child, then the torch. The boy’s golden eyes flickered to the fire; he pointed at it with a shaky, tired coo.

“Yes, I heard the wolves love warmth,” Stiles forced out a smile. His heart pounded against the child’s cheek, doubling in size to fit this tiny little creature. The boy scratched it with his claws on the way in, but Stiles kept smiling. Something told him this child had not seen enough of that. “So let’s get you warm, shall we?”

The boat thudded against the shore. Normally, Stiles did not need it, but now everything had changed. He had a child to care for, to raise.

And he would have to do it all alone.

Derek could close his eyes and pretend that Stiles was human for all he wanted. Stiles’ nature and his looks made it easy to forget; nymphs did not need to howl for the Moon to leave them alone. But this boy… There was no denying he would become a beast. He would grow fangs and claws, he’d turn into a monster and tear into the flesh of those who wronged him.

Only a monster could raise a monster and make them feel no shame.

No. Stiles was alone in this.

It was done.

“I shall tell the others,” said Heather, picking up her skirts.

“No. I’ll see him first. You would only spook him.”

“But—” The girl paled at his glare and folded her lips into a pout. “As you say, Sir Hale.”

“Did he see the child?” Derek put the smock on as he walked. “Whose was it?”

“I do not know.”

“Go see if someone misses one.”

Heather nodded, took a breath, and hurried the way she came from. The moment she disappeared from sight, Derek settled into a fast run, determined to reach the naiad first. The Lahey boy told the baker’s daughter, so there was no guarantee he kept his mouth shut. No, news like this ought to travel fast.

A child. How could he have a child? And then, the body…

“Stiles!” Derek grabbed the boat and the oar left on the shore by vigilante villagers, and all but threw them at the lake. He hopped into the boat, steadying himself as it rocked; the green mud stuck to the oar as he rowed. “I know you are there!”

The island stayed silent and cold. The wind picked up, disturbing the weeping willows’ rest.

Derek’s hands shook as he exerted all his strength to row faster. The villagers would kill Stiles on the spot if they saw him, and no one would even ask for a trial. No one would grace him with such a thing as doubt. They thought him a monster, and that was enough.

They knew nothing of what monsters looked like, and how sweet their smile can be. Derek had faced the beast of vicious, cold, but completely human indifference and felt it sink its fangs in him until he nearly bled out from grief. He killed, and he ran, thinking his heart could never beat again, only for it to stutter at the sight of Stiles.

After a stutter, came the ache of a lazy muscle put to work. The heart beat, then thundered, then raced.

Derek had never begged, but now the prayers slid off his tongue with every breath. He dreaded of another burn, of scalding his heart with sweetness. He had enough of fire for the rest of his life.

Please, he thought. Don’t do this.

The boat struck the pier, and the boards whined from the force. The air smelled clear here, fresh as always. It stuck in Derek’s throat when he looked up.

Stiles stood above him on the dais, his toned arms crossed on his chest. The chiton flapped against his thighs. His expectant, narrowed gaze was trained on the forest from which Derek came, and the thin trail that led to the shore.

The rasp burned Derek’s throat. “They say you have a child.”

Stiles’ jaw clenched. He looked down at Derek. The seconds ticked without a reply.

“Just tell me.” Derek ascended with slow, measured steps. It was an agony to be this slow when all he heard was the dozens of footsteps coming down the forest trail. “I’ll accept any truth, whatever it may be. Don’t lie to me.”

“Why bother?” muttered Stiles. He had not moved an inch, a statue frozen in time. “You will stay put when they tear us limb from limb.”

“Us?”

“Us.” Stiles did not look away, his eyes as cold as the wind. “I would not let another human lay their hands on that child. He is mine now.”

Derek watched him as he got closer and closer. The quickened heartbeat did not escape his hearing, nor did Stiles’ nervous breathing. The boy uncrossed his arms when Derek came within mere steps from him and clenched his fists; and where others would laugh at the gesture, Derek knew that as long as the water surrounded them, Stiles would remain the strongest of the two — he could drown Derek in minutes.

“What did he do?” Derek’s voice went so quiet, only the wind could pick it up. Stiles’ gaze flickered from his face to the forest and back. The people’s shouts grew closer. “You are the naiad,” he continued, his back toward the enemy, “you protect the youth, not harm it. What did he do to this kid?”

Stiles’ lips parted, then closed softly. The ice thawed off his expression the longer he stared at the wolf, a flicker of unwanted hope trembling in his eyes. Derek could not hold it any longer. He caught Stiles’ wrist and gripped it when the naiad tried to twist it out, then leaned closer and closer, until his lungs were once again full of Stiles.

Behind them, people hollered.

“You don’t need to fear me,” said Derek. “If you claim him as yours, then I shall protect him, too.”

“He’s not human,” blurted out Stiles.

“What?”

“The child. He is not human.”

“I do not care—”

“They will know the minute they see him, and they will—”

“I’ll stave them off. You know how to hide, right?” Stiles nodded. “When everything’s clear, take the child and come to me. You come to me,” growled Derek when the naiad shook his head. “My house is North of here, between an old well and a stream. Let them guide you. I will take care of you.”

Stiles’ eyes shifted between his eyes and the flickers of torch flame at the shore. He looked torn, hanging from the edge. “Derek…”

The wolf cupped his neck and kissed him. It lasted all but a second — too short to even taste the gasp that flew from the nymph’s lips — but it was all Derek needed to feel so fervently alive.

The best thing was that Stiles did not resist. Once they parted, they stared at each other for precious moments they did not have the time for. Stiles’ gaze was careful, guarded, surprised. Slowly, but pointedly, it lowered.

Derek followed his gaze, and suddenly, all blood rushed away from his face.

His claws were digging into Stiles’ wrist.

He dropped the naiad’s hand as if it burned him, scratching it in the process. It was too late. Stiles was watching him, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly parted.

He knew.

The scent of Stiles’ blood welling up on the wrist, the sound of his pounding heart, the smell of him so close…

Derek fled.

The oar slipped from his shaking hands not once but twice. His tongue grew dry, his heart thundered in his temples, deafening him. His stomach turned into a cherry pit, small and agonizingly bitter. He managed to get his claws back in only within seconds of coming onto the shore.

“Did you hear—”

“Have you seen—”

“Is it true, Sir Hale? What should we do?”

“Silence!” barked Derek, breathing hard. His gaze hopped from one to another, and its force was enough to make them step back. “I have searched the entire island. The only thing I found was chicken bones.” He pointed at the Lahey boy. “What do you think you are doing, spreading lies?”

Camden Lahey paled. “I’m— I’m not—”

“You think our people are not on edge already?”

“But I saw—”

“If there is a child somewhere in there, it is underwater. How long would it survive, what do you think?” He marched toward Lahey and grabbed him by the neck. “Want to find out?”

People exploded in shouts.

“Sir Hale!”

“Please—”

Derek released the boy, shoving him into the crowd. The once furious gazes turned dubious as they watched the fight.

“You are a young man starving for attention,” bit out Derek. His hands shook, but he was beyond care. “The baker’s girl stopped lifting her skirts for you, and here you are running around spreading lies.”

Behind him, the said baker paled, then grew red.

“What?!” he roared.

The crowd burst into action, separating the two. As accusations, spit, and fists flew around, Derek dared to glance at the island over his shoulder. The drapes flew gently in the wind; the shore was empty.

The wolf’s throat thickened with fear.

Hope was a mold, a persistent, foolish thing.

Leaning heavily on the doorway of his home, Derek stared at the empty room with hatred. There was no heartbeat within miles of him. He was alone.

He fell into the armchair, uncaring of its groan and stared at the ceiling with an unseeing gaze until the sun came down and the darkness blinded him. He felt no hunger. Nothing, apart from his thundering heart.

Stiles ran; he knew it. Just not to him.

The only thing left of the beautiful naiad was the cloying scent of his blood in Derek’s lungs.

It was close to dawn when Derek heard it. He thought it was a nightmare first; the sound stirred something so deep inside his memory, it hurt to remember. It was a whining, pitiful, and small, like that of a…

Derek lifted his head from the armchair. His neck hurt from sitting still for so long. It did not help that he tensed like a string, going alert within seconds.

Footsteps, familiar and light, stumbling through the forest ground as if for the first time.

Derek shot up from his armchair and, with his heart jumping into his throat, ran outside, toward the sound.

“You cannot be scared, my sun, for you have to spend your life in the woods. It is where you belong.”

“Ooh.”

“Yes, the moon is there. See? It is always watching over you.”

“Buh.”

“Almost there, love. Almost—”

There was nothing Derek could do to prevent Stiles’ shriek. He came rushing out of the complete darkness, knowing he would scare the nymph and the child, but he just had to reach them, had to see them with his own two eyes.

The torch cast sharp shadows on Stiles’ tired face. That chiton did nothing to save him from the cold night wind, though it seemed that Stiles’ old drapes went to wrap up the baby clinging to him.

The baby with bright golden eyes.

Derek’s knees shook. The mere sight of Stiles with a baby on his hip threatened to crumble him, yet at the same time, envigorated. It made him weak, and it gave him the strength he could only dream about. At this very moment, nothing seemed impossible. Derek's heart pounded, aching to reach the two and take them — both of them — into his arms, shelter them, hide, soothe, provide...

They stared at one another for a moment before the pup whined, stirring him into movement.

“Is that—”

“A werewolf,” rasped Stiles. Astonishingly, he did not flinch at Derek’s approach. “I think he is just over a year old. Eats for two, that’s for sure. Ate all the bread and the chicken within a day, and I don’t think he likes fish soup, though he ate it, probably just out of hunger, and—”

His mouth clicked shut at Derek’s first touch against his arm. When he looked up, there was no ice in his eyes, no cold, just desperation and exhaustion.

“Can I hold him?” asked Derek, his voice raw.

Stiles nodded, it seemed without thinking. “Of course.”

Of course.

The baby whined when Derek took him, his grabby hands reaching for Stiles. He rubbed his face and eyes, obviously longing for sleep and cranky because of it, but at Derek’s soft rumble looked up sharply.

Golden eyes met alpha red. The pup inhaled and then instantly burst into tears.

“Oh no…” Stiles pursed his nose. “We’ve been doing so good.”

“It’s okay,” said Derek. “Look.”

The pup, though hurting his ears with sobbing, pushed his face into Derek’s shoulder. His little fingers clutched at his shirt like it was his lifeline, the only thing holding him together. Derek inclined his head, rubbed his bearded chin over the pup’s head and his hand down the pup’s back. His chest vibrated from the low, soothing rumble.

“He is just overwhelmed,” murmured Derek. “He did not have an alpha for a long time, so it’s shocking for him to feel this relief. He might have been on the verge of turning into an omega. I think... I think, he smelled me on you, and it kept him anchored.”

Stiles caught the baby’s foot and rubbed it, cooing. “It’s been rough, little one, huh? Well, Derek is going to look after you now, just you see.” He hesitated, then caught the wolf’s gaze. “I mean, if—”

“If your feet hurt, I am going to carry you to my den. There is no other ‘if’. Got it?”

Stiles’ face reddened. “Yes.”

Derek shook his head, unable to stop a stupid smile from spreading on his lips. “Give me the torch.”

Stiles complied. The pup’s sobbing has calmed down into whimpers; the little kid has wiggled so his nose was stuck in Derek’s neck.

“Come on.” Derek pushed out his elbow, and Stiles reluctantly wove his hand around it. “God, I have to warm you up…”

It was the first time he led someone to his house, despite everyone knowing where he lived. With Stiles, there was no dread to it, no hesitation or alarm; instead, Derek’s heart leaped.

Derek’s bed all but swallowed the boy, so small he was in comparison. His face scrunched when Derek withdrew his hands, but after a small rumble and a pat on the backside, he settled with his nose in his alpha’s pillow. Soon, his forehead smoothed out, his little pink mouth opened, and the boy fell deeper into the blissful sleep.

Derek stood up quietly so as not to disturb him. The warmth spread through the house along with the crackle of fresh sap and the scent of burning wood — Stiles had set up the fireplace.

Puttering around already, thought Derek with a smile blooming on his lips.

He found the naiad in the living room, standing in front of the fire. His hands were wrapped around his arms, his shoulders sloped, and his gaze absent. Stiles did not flinch at Derek’s approach, nor at the wolf’s tentative touch on the nymph’s waist.

“Sleeping?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Finally. He could not settle for the entire night.” His throat clicked. They watched the fire. “I would have come sooner, but Isaac was watching the lake. Perhaps, wanted to know if his brother was lying or not.”

His heart stuttered when Derek’s hands slowly came to wrap around his stomach; the wolf tugged him close, pressing his chest to the nymph’s back, and leaned down to press his cheek against Stiles’. The child’s thick, milky scent mixed with Stiles’ crisp one, slowly ingraining itself into the nymph. Derek’s eyes fluttered shut.

“I am not afraid of you,” said Stiles quietly. His hands came to rest atop Derek’s. “That’s why you did not tell me, isn’t it?”

Derek did not reply. He took Stiles’ wrist and traced the cuts he left mere hours before, now closed up, though still red.

Stiles twisted his hand out with an annoyed huff. “Stop it. I’m not that fragile.”

“Yet you bleed.”

“Lick my wounds, then, big bad wolf.”

Derek huffed. Stiles leaned into him more with a smirk on his face. He was getting warmer the longer they stood there, wrapped in the heat of the fire and their embrace.

“What’s his name?” asked Derek after a while, closing his eyes once more.

“Helios. Eli for short.”

“Will you tell me?”

Despite Derek’s purposefully light voice, Stiles’ face grew grim. He fidgeted with Derek’s hands on his stomach, tracing the long claws with the pads of his fingers.

Stiles’ voice was quiet when he spoke. “His father tried to drown him. Called him…” He closed his mouth. His jaw muscles clenched. “I guess, the man made his choice of the preferred death. I was happy to assist.”

“Good.”

Stiles’ chest expanded with a deep breath, then hollowed with an exhale. His throat clicked.

“I don’t know how to raise a werewolf,” he admitted.

“Let me see if I know any wolves nearby— Oh, wait…”

“Derek.”

The alpha chuckled, making Stiles squirm from the ticklish sensation. Derek tightened his grip and pressed his lips to the side of Stiles’ neck, excusing it as an apology.

“Do you want to raise him?” he asked gently.

“Yes.”

“With me?”

Stiles was silent for a while, and then replied with hope so thick it clogged his throat. “Can we?”

“Oh, love…” Derek’s lips grew fervent as they traveled up Stiles’ neck, his jaw, his cheek. With a gasp, the nymph turned in his arms. “Of course we can. We can do anything we want, everything you wish for. We can stay, and build another room, and make you a pond — whatever you like. Or, we can leave and find another place, I don’t care, just stay with me. Stay with—”

The words left him as soon as Stiles caught his lips in a kiss. The wolf forgot where he was and when — everything that wasn’t Stiles faded, disappeared.

The nymph’s lips glided against his own, opening willingly at the first prod of Derek’s tongue. Everything about him was divine — his hitched breaths, his moans, the way his hands ran through Derek’s hair, down his neck and shoulders until the nymph wrapped his arms around them and melted.

Derek could not get enough. He knew he never would. He had to taste those lips every day for the rest of his life lest it would lose its point.

“Why are you laughing?” whined Stiles, breaking the kiss.

Derek chuckled, peppering kisses all over his mouth. “M’ not laughing, just… happy.”

“Look at you, big bad wolf, giggling over a couple of kisses— Ah!” He scrambled to grasp Derek’s shoulders when the wolf lifted him by the thighs.

“Don’t wake him yet,” murmured Derek, carrying him over to the table. Strong thighs flexed under his hands. “I have plans for you.”

“Care to share?”

But Derek only smiled. He placed Stiles on the table’s edge, stepping in between his spread legs. His hands traveled down his thighs, under his dress, hitching it up. He kissed Stiles, feeling the warmth radiate off his face. The nymph did not resist and yielded at every caress.

At the first touch, Stiles shuddered and stifled his mewls with the hand around his mouth. His back arched, pushing him closer and closer. He wasn’t shy or nervous, far from it; he bucked into the wolf’s hand and caught his wrist, urging him on.

“Derek…” His breath grew frantic.

“Come on, let it go.” Derek pressed kisses into his arched neck, catching the thin skin between his teeth. How easily he bruised… “Relax.”

But Stiles just whined. His hand scratched down Derek’s abdomen, reached his pants, and, after an uncoordinated struggle, opened them up. The wolf hissed at the first touch to his straining cock and buried his groan into Stiles’ neck when the nymph started stroking.

“Please.” Stiles’ whisper caressed his ear. “Please, please, please…”

To hold off was torture. The nymph was wet under his fingers, slick and warm. His cock pulsed in Derek’s hand, yearning for pleasure.

“Are you sure?” he breathed.

Stiles nodded frantically. “Yes. I want you, all of you, please—”

Derek doubted someone could refuse this creature.

The slick clung to Derek’s hand as he withdrew it; he tugged on his cock, smearing wetness all over it, then carefully guided it between the lips, down, and in.

“Relax,” Derek murmured as Stiles tensed in his arms. “I’ll take care of you, just breathe.”

As soon as the nymph breathed out, Derek slid further in. Stiles let out a tiny noise, which the wolf caught and stifled with his lips. Aided by the wetness, he rocked his hips in slow, gentle moves, pushing deeper and deeper.

“You feel so good,” muttered Derek. He groaned as he sank all the way in and stopped to let the nymph adjust. “So good, Stiles…”

“Let me just…” Stiles panted. He blinked his eyes open and met Derek’s gaze. His walls spasmed around the wolf’s cock. “Your eyes are red.”

“Oh, I—”

Stiles took his face and shut him up with a kiss. Derek did his best to push down a smile so he could let the naiad have his fill, and softly stroked his thighs. He rotated his hips, barely pulling out to let Stiles get used to the strokes. The nymph gasped against his lips, then bit his own. His eyes closed, his face enveloped in pleasure.

He was the most beautiful creature Derek had ever seen, the one he wanted the most. He would never be able to let him go now that he got the taste.

“Lie down,” urged Derek, guiding Stiles with his hand around his waist. “Relax.”

The nymph gazed at him with half-lidded eyes. His body rocked in leisured moves, softened by Derek’s caress. His blinks were slow, lethargic, his face red, and his neck adorned in marks.

The wolf swung Stiles’ knees over his arms, spread him apart, and thrust in. The nymph clung to him at every pull, squirming and breathing hard, his eyelashes kissing his cheeks. His gasps were quiet, breathy things full of unabashed pleasure.

The sight of him, the sound of him, the smell of his slick and arousal, the way he parted so beautifully and squeezed him just right; Derek lost himself in lust. As gentle as he wanted to be, the desire soon took over, clouding the wolf’s brain. He snapped his hips, fucking Stiles the way he wanted, the way he dreamed about for so long. Soon, it grew hard and fast; the nymph grasped at his hands, keeping his knees apart like at his anchor. The redness spread down his rapidly moving chest. The sweat dripped down his temples, down the veins standing up on his neck.

Derek had a feeling that Stiles was loud. He watched as the nymph bit his lips raw and covered his mouth with a palm, only for the whines to come through anyway, and imagined them, making love all day, uninterrupted and alone. He’d make Stiles scream and moan. He’d watch him blush over the loud slaps of skin against skin.

Derek thought his hunger would subside, but as he slammed into Stiles again and again, he realized that it had evolved instead. No, one sip would never be enough; now Derek needed him like a man would need air — just to live.

Right here, right now, Derek knew he was making love to his mate.

His fangs descended, longing for the bite. It was the thought of it, forever etched into Stiles’ neck, that sent him over the edge. He buried his cock in Stiles’ wet, tight hole, spilling inside with a groan.

Stiles caught him as he fell, whining as the change of position forced the cock deeper. The nymph’s legs wrapped around Derek’s waist, keeping them connected, his hands stroking Derek’s sweaty back.

“Don’t pull out,” he murmured drunkenly, fucking himself on Derek’s pulsing cock. His walls milked the come out of the wolf, making Derek hiss at overstimulation. The wolf rocked inside unconsciously, leaning all his weight on the slender nymph. “You’re so heavy inside me, so deep.”

“Sorry,” slurred Derek.

Stiles caught him around the shoulders when he tried to push away. “No. Stay. I like it.”

“Be careful with what you say.”

“Can we do it again?”

Derek groaned. “Oh, Stiles…”

The nymph’s smile was devastating, drowning in pleasure. Derek felt him shaking with laughter, and when the wolf looked up, Stiles’ eyes were sparkling.

Derek’s breath caught all over again. He had a feeling it would never end.

Only now, he did not need to hold himself back.

Derek leaned down, forcing a gasp out of Stiles, and sealed their lips. His hand slid between them, closing over Stiles' straining cock. Now that the edge was off, he could enjoy it, every second and every mewl; they could be lazy slow with it, and could be fast and rough. They had so much to try and each other to explore.

Derek could not wait to live the rest of his life with him.

“Ooh.”

“No, that’s the sun.”

“Ooh?”

“The moon will come out at night. Here,” Derek gave Eli a fresh bun of soft bread. The pup stared at it, then picked at it with his pudgy fingers. “Come on, let’s go outside and let Stiles rest.”

Derek picked up the bowl with steaming porridge and carried Eli out of the kitchen. He couldn’t help but pause as he passed the bedroom, his eyes catching on the figure lying motionless in bed.

In his bed. Smelling strongly of their coupling, of wolf, beautiful beyond belief, and sleeping soundly in the depth of the predator’s den, Stiles was even more mesmerizing than before. His chest rose and fell; deep marks adorned his neck and clavicles and, even though they were now covered, his inner thighs.

Derek took a deep breath, held it in, and released. Something settled within him; what was raw grew tender. The scent of Stiles, the warm weight of their pup perched on the crook of his arm, his soft coos, and sheer trust that it took for Eli to let him close — all of it stuck like a lodge in Derek’s throat.

“Buh.”

Derek blinked as Eli shoved a squished piece of bread at his lips. “Thank you, pup.”

“Up.”

The wolf shook his head with a chuckle, kissed the baby’s temple, and walked outside.

“You will never cease to surprise me.”

Stiles glanced at him. “Did you forget that I have actual magic?”

“No, it’s just…” Derek motioned at the sight in front of him. “I don’t know what I expected. Of course, you hid him like that.”

Stiles snorted.

Above the newly built pond, mere inches above the water, hovered a giant bubble. Inside, Eli was busy banging on its walls, babbling angrily in baby talk, and trying to pick at the snail that stuck to the walls on the outside. It seemed like he had just declared this snail as his mortal enemy.

“He loved playing with fish,” smiled Stiles, watching the bubble. “It would swim right inside, so Eli would pick it up and chuck it on the other side. He did try to eat some,” he pursed his nose.

Derek laughed. “Did he like it?”

“He got mad at me for it! Like I forced him to eat it!” Stiles shook his head. “He’s lucky he got you now to make him porridge every morning. I am not coming anywhere close to your pots.”

Eli let out a frustrated yell. It got muffled with all the water around him, but Derek heard it, faint as it was.

“Release our child, you heathen,” he said. At the flick of Stiles’ hand, the bubble floated over and burst, sending screeching Eli right into Derek’s hands. “Hi, pup.”

Eli patted Derek’s cheeks with wet hands, telling him all about the snail, then leaned down in one of his never-ending attempts at biting Derek’s beard off.

“Like father, like son,” muttered Stiles, then yelped when the wolf slapped him on the ass.

“So… he will be living with you.”

“Under my constant watch. He won’t get away from me.”

McCall nodded. He swirled the last gulp of ale around the bottom of his glass, studying the wolf with a careful gaze.

“And the child?” he asked.

Derek shrugged. “An accident on my part. But I am happy to have him.”

“An accident.”

“Indeed.”

“Are there going to be more accidents with the nymph?”

Derek smiled coldly. “I’ll do my best to try.”

McCall sighed. He drank the rest of the ale and pushed his aching leg to the side, staring unseeingly at the roaring fireplace.

“I’d lie if I told you I do not see the appeal,” he drawled. The muscle ticked in Derek’s jaw. “You got the right head on your shoulders otherwise. Just don’t upset him. I cannot imagine the consequences of his wrath.”

“I’ll keep him pleased.”

McCall watched him, his thoughts written on his wrinkly face.

You let a murderer warm your bed. You let him hold your child. So many candidates, and yet.

Derek chuckled, shook his head, and stood up. “The Laheys want a spring wedding, but my bet is it’s going to be sooner — the girl’s getting bigger by the day. The Boyds have settled.”

“Mm. Are they gonna keep Isaac?”

“I think so. Erica frets every time he leaves.”

“Good woman.”

“Yes. I’ll let you know how the barn is going.”

“All set for the winter?”

“All set.”

McCall’s mouth twitched in a long-forgotten parody of a smile. “Good.”

The wolf rolled his eyes. “It was nice to see you, Rafael. Oh, and thanks for the advice.”

McCall followed him to the door with his narrowed dark eyes. “Which one?”

Derek looked over his shoulder, smiled, and walked out.

A quiet, mismatched singing reached him from the bedroom. The sound of it made Derek smile. He shrugged out of his furs and smock, shaking the snowflakes onto the carpet, and walked deeper into the house, following the baby’s voice.

Eli did not hear him come in. He held his feet up in the air and pinched his wiggling toes with his fingers, singing softly to himself — a babyish rendition of Stiles' lullaby. The fire warmed the room, though the flames were getting weaker. Next to Eli, with his back toward the door, Stiles slept.

The naiad decided not to hide underwater this winter, firstly because of Eli, and secondly, because of the comfort and warmth Derek brought. He still slept more than usual, no matter how much Derek warmed him, be it fire or sex, and often slumped against the wolf no less than Eli did. Thus, Derek’s evenings consisted of the three of them piled on the bed surrounded by warm blankets and pillows, with Stiles snoozing by Derek’s side, and Eli clambering all over them with no care for where his hands, knees, or feet were digging into.

With Stiles, it was easy to love the night.

“What are you doing in our bed, pup, mm?” Derek murmured, coming closer.

Eli’s ruffled head perked from Stiles’ shoulder with a smile blooming on his round pillow-creased face. He grabbed at Stiles’ arm and pulled himself up, lifting his hands.

“Up, up,” he clenched and unclenched his fists.

“Come here,” Eli giggled when Derek lifted him. “Shh, don’t wake Papa.”

“Up-pup.”

“Almost there, bud.”

Eli blew a raspberry.

His eye color settled over the weeks of them being together, going back to its sky blue. Stiles was obsessed with it, declaring Eli the prettiest baby to ever live. Ilie mou, the naiad called him. My sun.

It took some warm milk and a story to put Eli to sleep. The pup went into the cot, which Derek had built with the help of his new neighbor Boyd; Stiles loved it, perhaps, even more than Eli, and made his gratitude known to Derek in many ways and many times. Despite that, in the mornings, Derek still woke up to Eli’s sharp elbows digging into his stomach or his sticky fingers prying his eyes open. Stiles claimed he was sworn to secrecy as to how that could possibly happen.

With one last kiss on the sleeping baby’s forehead, Derek covered him with blankets before going to sort out the fireplace and shed his clothes. Then, at last, he settled into his bed with a tired sigh and immediately tugged Stiles close to himself.

Somehow, the nymph smelled better every day. It was a wonder, like the rest of him.

Stiles usually slept like the dead, letting Derek maneuver him the way he liked. At the press of Derek’s lips against his neck, Stiles let out a low hum, sensing his mate’s arrival even through the dream, and nudged him with his knee.

Derek pushed his smile into Stiles’ skin. He obediently hooked his hand under Stiles’ knee and pulled his leg over his own side, stroking the soft flesh down his thigh and over his cheek. He knew he could pull out his cock and sink into his mate, fuck him slowly without waking the nymph up. Sometimes, Stiles did, whining into the pillows and blushing to the roots of his hair. Sometimes, Derek left him soft, sleepy, and filled with come. It was the only thing that made Stiles avert his eyes in the morning and squirm in his embrace as his face heated all over.

Good thing he let Derek kiss him back to his normal self.

For now, Derek left him alone. His half-hard dick pressed into Stiles’ soft one, his hands wrapped around the nymph; he lay on his back, pulling Stiles with him. The naiad curled into the wolf, humming.

“I love you,” Derek said into nowhere.

Stiles’ soft breaths fluttered against his neck.

The wolf’s lips twitched in a smile. He pressed his cheek to Stiles’ forehead and closed his eyes, resting at last.