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The royalty invited their court and a few, favored noble families to the event. The Argents sat to the right of the king, atop the shaded viewing platform, the Martins to the left. The commoners and peasants sat in stands on the far side of the grounds.
To the chagrin of the rest of the courtiers, Lady McCall took the seat directly adjacent to His Majesty. She had been the late queen’s lady-in-waiting, since they had been girls. She and her son had been embraced by the royal family after her husband, one of the king’s greater messengers, rode out to a neighboring kingdom and never returned.
Despite investigations, he had been confirmed neither a corpse nor a traitor, and his whereabouts were still unknown. Regardless, the more esteemed members of the court had expected mother and child to be cast aside to lowly positions in the castle or evicted altogether due to the father’s disgrace. The lady held no lands or wealth and only an honorary title, not one inherited through blood.
Derek had always despised the court and its vicious gossiping and deceit. He had only to attend a handful of royal events to discern the pompous, the obsequious flatterers, the liars, and the bloodthirsty from the rest. His father had borne a similar distaste for them and used to say the king chose his officials based on merit and ability and ignored the pettier aspects of personality. It was his counselors and noble families that he chose with absolute care, within whom he could place his trust.
Squinting through the morning sunlight, Derek skimmed the rest of the noble attendees as a squire affixed his armor. He had no patience for one of his own and had been lent a boy for the day.
Scott McCall was whispering in His Highness Prince Stiles’ ear, the festivities having not yet begun. Salacious rumors spread through the low- and high-born alike, about the closeness of the two young men, but Derek put no stock in them. McCall had served as the prince’s attendant when they were children, and once he entered manhood, had been promoted to personal bodyguard of His Highness.
It was plain to Derek that McCall was treated as a second son to the king in all the ways that mattered. However, certain customs and formalities could not be ignored without enraging the entire noble class. The McCalls were clean and neat in appearance, although their clothes were rough-spun and plain, and therefore, bespoke inferiority. Because his father was not born of nobility, Scott could not bear the armor or sword of a knight and instead wore a sheathed dagger at each hip.
Derek did not let his sight linger upon the prince. If he was to do violence soon, he wouldn’t want his mind cloudy from that sweet face. Still, the glance had been enough to burn an image behind his eyes.
The prince was resplendent in sunrise-yellow robes that overlapped at the waist, a brown leather belt keeping them closed. The fabric was light and gauzy, although lined to prevent transparency. It flowed to his wrists and mid-shins, the color fading to a peach at thigh-level and then deepening into a vivid coral the rest of the length. His undershirt was silken and shining cream, low-collared and slit down to the base of the prince’s breastbone. A sliver of pale skin peeked between the separated material. A gold circlet sat atop his chestnut hair, a solid band, unornamented, that resembled a halo when caught by the light.
His Highness had just approached his twenty-third year, still unwed. His social and political reputation would suffer the longer he went without a spouse, but the primary concern was the lack of an heir. Prince Stiles was an only child, the queen’s death some ten years ago affirming that. The king would not marry again.
Eligible suitors had been handpicked by His Majesty King John. It was a great honor to even be considered to serve as the prince’s consort. The king accounted for virtue and character by choosing twenty knights from respected families. Strength and bravery would be exhibited during the combat tournament.
Derek was at least acquainted with all of the other participants. Some he had met; others he knew well. Familial coats of arms were painted across the knights’ metal shields, sewn into banners that flapped in the breeze. Most of the men were likable—or at least admirable—but the thought of seeing any kneel before the prince in triumph turned Derek’s stomach.
Before the crowd had assembled, each knight had drawn tokens, painted wooden chips, from a burlap sack to assign competitors. There was a chip for each man, twenty in total, with ten pairs bearing a distinct, matching mark. They drew ten times, ten competitors each. A royal clerk redeposited the tokens and shook the sack between each drawing; another recorded the order of the trials for each knight on a lengthy scroll of parchment.
It was a tedious process, but randomization allowed for the highest degree of fairness. The king had already warned that any cheating or dishonorable conduct would be punished with efficiency and finality. The winnings for this tournament were not a purse of gold but the king’s son…as well as the royal wealth, power, and inheritance that came with him. It was not a small thing.
Now, with the tournament soon underway, a large board had been erected at one end of the combat grounds to show the opponent pairs scheduled for each of the ten duels. The event would be a modified mêlée, each pair fighting simultaneously within a two-by-five grid outlined in chalk. The ground had been freshly weeded and cleared, sprinkled and packed down with fine, dry dirt.
Derek already had the sequence of his competitors committed to memory, but he looked at the board once more. The rivalries were depicted by family colors and escutcheons. The Hale sigil, a black wolf against a red background, leapt out at him. On his surcoat and the woven banners, the wolf’s eyes were rubies.
His first trial was against House Lahey: a yellow eagle amidst an indigo backdrop. Isaac, surely, for his older brother, Camden, had died in battle years ago, which left him the remaining child. The young knight was mild-tempered and shy, and many underestimated him for it. He was taller than Derek and moved his sword with remarkable speed. From prior tournaments, Derek knew it was hard to land a blow because few could catch him.
Next was House Dunbar: a copper stallion on a cream field. The young man, Liam, had been knighted immediately after his twenty-first name day, a testament to his skill. He was small in stature and looked more a boy than a man despite the bronze beard covering his jaw.
Thirdly, House Raeken: a lion, orange on white. That was a match Derek would relish. He was the prince’s age, wildly arrogant, with a deceitful glint in his eye that never quite faded.
Then the twins, one after another. They shared the seal of the rooster, maroon against a charcoal background. He knew their names to be Ethan and Aiden, but without them being listed on the board, he had no idea which brother he would be fighting first. He would have to wait for the herald’s announcement.
House Deucalion was recognizable by its arms: a sky-blue hare amidst a pale yellow background the color of butter. He was the oldest of the knights in today’s tournament by nearly fifteen years, Derek himself being the second at thirty years of age. The man had fought more battles and wars than most living knights in the kingdoms.
Deucalion and his father had grown up in the same town as boys, and the Hales had hosted him at their castle many times. Derek knew him well enough to know that Deucalion had remained a bachelor for his forty-odd years because he had wanted to. He enjoyed the freedom and the solitude. But one did not refuse such an honor from the king. Not that his indifference meant the old knight would lie back and be defeated. No, it only meant that Deucalion would hold no ill feelings if he was knocked down.
Seventh was House Mahealani: a white shark upon silver. The coastal city from which he hailed commanded major ports and an impressive fleet of warships. Sir Danny was olive-skinned with perfect white teeth accentuated by his near-constant smile. For a knight, it was noteworthy to be liked by everyone, to exude friendliness with such natural ease. However, his most remarkable feat had been sweetening the poison that was Sir Jackson Whittemore, his eighth competitor. Aptly, House Whittemore was represented by a golden snake curled in the middle of an emerald backdrop. Derek held little love or admiration for the spoiled and cruel knight. Jackson was dear friends with Danny, and it was only the latter’s contagious kindness and the former’s deep loyalty to his friend that made Derek regard Jackson as above the likes of Theo Raeken.
Jordan of House Parrish was only two years younger than himself. His shield bore a green dragon, spitting flames, on an orange field. Because of their close age, they had paged and squired at similar times, attending the same hunts and banquets and tourneys with their knights. He was a fair and honest man who accepted victory humbly and bowed with grace after defeat.
The last knight was Sir Vernon of House Boyd: a brown bear amidst a navy-blue background. He was certainly the size of a bear, towering over all the other knights and several inches taller than Derek, too. He was stoic and spoke with purpose, with dark, rich skin and a powerful and muscled stature. Undeniably, the strongest of them all, able to halve a man with a mighty swing of his sword.
The knight with the best record out of all ten fights would be the champion, and further rounds with new opponents would take place in the occurrence of ties for first place.
The squire offered Derek his helmet, shield, and blunted sword.
The knights chose a random square within the grid, Derek’s encompassing the right half of the royal platform. In front of the prince. He pushed all thoughts of winning and losing from his mind as the herald announced the rivals for the first duel. It wasn’t that difficult. He knew more of being a knight, a soldier, than he did of being a man anymore.
Sir Isaac was truly fast. After a series of missed strikes, Derek learned the flow and pattern of the knight’s movements. He stopped chasing, and instead, waited to catch. Sure enough, as Lahey darted forward, Derek feigned and swept his leg. His sword found the vulnerable stretch of skin between helm and armor, its tip poised above the other knight’s throat.
“I yield,” Sir Isaac called, panting. He tossed his sword aside, and Derek helped him back to his feet with an outstretched arm of camaraderie.
His second and third duel led to the same outcome. Skill and discipline were weighty factors, of course, but often the difference between a loss or a win was simply learning the tricks of one’s opponent and exploiting weakness. Sir Liam favored his right side when fighting and yielded in minutes when Derek took the attack to his left.
Sir Theo won his last two trials with little finesse but a lot of passion and an endless barrage of attacks. He was not one to be patient and wait for an opponent to make the first move. It left his torso open and exposed, and Derek whacked him in the flank with the flat side of his sword until he hit the ground gasping. Enough to sting and bruise, and maybe crack a rib or two, but no more than that.
Despite being identical twins, the brother knights did not fight in the same manner. Aiden was more aggressive and quick to temper when Derek outmaneuvered him while Ethan was quieter and more defensive in strategy.
As expected, the duel with Sir Deucalion was no small task. Sweat dripped inside Derek’s helmet, his breaths turning heavy from their enduring contest. Deucalion sent him staggering a few times, but he regained his footing and his determination and gave as good as he got. After a hard blow to the shoulder that sent him to one knee, Derek heard the collected gasps of the crowd. If not for facing the royal platform, he would have missed the prince standing from his seat. The McCall boy stood alongside him and gently pulled him back down by the arm.
The prince wasn’t allowed to show favor, and Derek had no reason to think it would be directed towards him even if he did. Still, it empowered him, sparked his blood until it burnt through him like fire, and eventually, his sword poked the plate covering Deucalion’s heart.
“I yield,” the old knight called. There were cheers and clapping, the other opponents long finished with their duels. He and Deucalion had been the last men on the combat grounds for some time. Derek supposed it made for an exciting trial, the suspense and such. Deucalion unmasked himself, dull, brown hair streaked with gray and plastered to his head with sweat. “Good for you, lad.” He grinned and offered his hand, and Derek took off his own helmet to grip it. His friend leaned in and muttered, “Go get your boy. Don’t let him be saddled with a pissant like Whittemore.”
Derek nodded gravely. “Yes, sir.”
Three other knights had beaten all of their opponents as well, Sirs Jackson and Vernon among them. The winners’ arms from each previous contest remained on the board, while the losers’ had been taken down. Derek had just ruined Deucalion’s own unblemished record.
He followed the old knight’s advice and brought down Whittemore, after having done the same to Sir Danny. The snake left Derek with a limp in his leg as a parting gift and threw his dented shield at his squire as he departed the combat square.
Sir Jordan fell afterwards, leaving only Boyd. Neither himself nor Sir Vernon had been defeated today, so this duel would end the tournament. Derek had met Boyd a number of times, yet he could not help but marvel at his opponent’s size. He was as large and solid as an oak. There were not many men who could make Derek feel small.
The first blow of Boyd’s sword to his shield reverberated up the entirety of his arm. Derek shook out the pain and the tingling. He had had worse in battle. Inevitably, Sir Vernon’s great size made him slower than Derek. He ducked under the knight’s heavy, swinging arm and caught his sword from behind. The blade skittered across the dirt several feet, too far to reach.
Sir Vernon yielded in his deep voice.
The herald announced Derek victor. He removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm, striding towards the royal platform.
He sunk to his knee in front of his king and prince, grunting from the lingering discomfort of his sore leg. He bowed his head and staked his sword in front of him, gripping the hilt.
He heard footsteps descending the wooden stairs of the platform, saw brown leather boots stop before him.
“Sir Derek,” the prince greeted. His voice was lower than Derek expected, huskier. He had never spoken to the prince in person, and usually, the king was the one making announcements and proclamations when the heralds were not.
“Your Highness.” Derek held the prince’s hand lightly in his gloved one and kissed its back.
“Rise, sir.” A small smile graced the prince’s lips. “Today, you brought great honor to your king and your betrothed. I would invite you to sup at the head table with my father and I tonight, to celebrate our engagement.”
“Of course, Your Highness. Thank you.” He bowed at the waist.
All the nobles, courtiers, and knights who had attended the tournament enjoyed the banquet held afterwards. Many would be hosted in the palace’s chambers for the night, to feed and rest their horses and assemble their carriages for the journeys home on the morrow. Derek was assigned a place at the head table between Prince Stiles and Scott McCall. He mostly ate in silence, taking only a single cup of wine. The McCall boy spoke to him about fighting strategy and weaponry, something Derek at least understood.
Derek found himself casting sideways glances at Prince Stiles throughout the night, reminding himself that he was going to marry that man, share a bed with him, make children with him.
Yes, the tournament had been tiring; he was worn and pained, but he had suffered greater injuries. He had been to war. In the span of an afternoon, he won a contest alongside a husband-to-be, with relatively little pomp or ceremony. He didn’t quite feel his engagement yet. Perhaps that also had to deal with his long-held infatuation for His Highness. The only difference was that it would now be legitimized before the king and the people.
He had carried an innocent affection for the prince when he was a boy, one that morphed into a lustful yearning as a youth and a man. He was surely not alone in his desire. The prince had been the heartthrob of the kingdom since he was a child.
Prince Stiles had supposedly inherited his father’s sense of justness and kindness and his mother’s beauty. Derek could not confirm the first attribute, as it was a matter of hearsay and reputation, but he could vouch for the second.
That night, after the banquet, Derek sank into another bath. The first had been necessary to wash the sweat and dust away before attending the feast, the second to relax him and soothe some of his aches before sleep.
The water was hot and subtly fragranced, the warmth and the steam making it easy for his mind to wander. For his guard to slip and his thoughts to follow the course of least resistance.
Derek hadn't bedded a woman in a long time, a man even longer. But this wasn't a casual instance of lust. It was too corruptive and unrelenting.
When his eyes slipped close, his head hanging over the back of the wash tub, he found himself fixating on the smattering of beauty marks that trailed across the prince’s cheek and behind his ear. And then to that ear’s delicate shell, carved out as carefully by nature as one found on the seashore. His lustrous eyes and wild hair and naturally pouty lips. A body slim and supple as a sapling.
It was these thoughts that had his arm slipping from the ledge of the tub to sink below the water. He took himself in hand and grunted, wishing he was inside his prince, kissing his mouth raw, taking him over and over until he wept with fulfillment.
His cock stood obscenely through the clear bath water, rouged deeply with blood, veins straining along the shaft from the heat. He had had little time for bodily pleasures in the last many years. Since the last war and his family’s concomitant death, he focused on little besides battle and training and discipline. And tourneys only when he was bid by royal invitation, such as today. It seemed tonight he was being luxurious.
It was his prince that brought this change, he knew. His betrothed awakened a ravenous need for life beyond bloodshed and survival. He stirred long-buried appetites and cravings, for sex and flesh and closeness. Derek hadn't desired company for some time, inhabiting his parents’ stronghold with no one save for his palace household and servants.
Derek knew he had been living on spite and vengeance for too many years. Neither had nourished him in the least. He would rather fight for the warm embrace of his husband, his prince’s belly rounded with one of their many children.
The image drove him to spill into the water, the pleasure wringing a groan from his throat. Upon first reaching the room, he had dismissed the attendants stationed in his chambers for the night. He left the tub and wiped the water from his hair and face with a towel, a few droplets from his beard skipping down his chest. He was naked, but drier, when a series of soft knocks drummed against his door.
He covered his manhood, grumbled under his breath about the lateness of the hour, and cracked the door.
“Sir Derek, may I come in?” Prince Stiles spoke in hushed tones, his eyes wide and hopeful, gleaming amber from the corridor torches.
“I’m not presentable, Your Highness.” That was an understatement. “But as you wish.”
The prince slipped through the space between the door and closed it gently behind himself. A smirk curled the corners of Derek’s mouth, charmed by the small act of deviousness, and vanished before his betrothed was any the wiser.
“I’m sure it goes without saying that I should not be here.” Prince Stiles spun around, releasing an aggrieved breath, and then turned vermillion once he recognized the full extent of Derek’s unpresentableness.
Derek let the towel fall aside, the cloth held in one hand and dragging over the floor.
“Scott is outside,” the prince announced vacantly. “Guarding the door.” His hands splayed over the wood of the chamber door as he leaned against it.
Derek wiped away the rest of the beads of water with the towel, reaching down to his hairy thighs, lifting his heavy, spent cock and hanging sac. His prince might as well know what awaited him, whether it be to his satisfaction or disappointment.
“Is he your lookout, my prince?” He retreated bare-assed to the bed and pulled on a pair of loose, linen trousers that reached his calves.
“Yes, I’ve made him my accomplice, I’m afraid. May I?” Prince Stiles gestured towards the bed.
“Make yourself comfortable, Highness.” Derek sat next to his betrothed on the side of the bed. He drank in the sight of his prince, unbound by the strict formalities of royal etiquette. The night held different rules, perhaps no rules at all. And the prince had come to his chambers in the middle of the night, unchaperoned, swathed in nothing but his night attire. The lamb did not visit the lion and expect to leave unravished.
The nightgown was thin and whispered across the prince's creamy skin as he moved. It hung off his shoulders, kept in place beneath the level of his collarbones by ties that met at his breastbone. To keep out the chill and foremost protect his modesty, the young man wore a sleeveless robe over top, thick and heavy, embroidered with golden and bronze thread in patterns, ornate like a tapestry.
Derek was glad he dressed as he felt his cock becoming hot and swollen. His thin trousers wouldn't hide much, but every bit helped.
“What can I do for you, my prince?”
“‘Stiles,’ please. I'm exhausted from titles. Aren't you?”
“Yes. Sick to death of them, actually.”
The prince offered a sympathetic half-smile. “I'm sorry it's so late. If I came earlier, attendants would be forced upon us.”
“And you did not want to be spied upon?”
“I wanted to talk to my betrothed. Without censorship and propriety. I want to know what kind of man I'll be marrying, Derek Hale.”
“As you say, Stiles.” The prince supplied him with a brilliant grin that time.
“Then, with all honesty, do you think it improper that I'm here with you right now?”
“It very well may be, but I'm not an authority on such things. And I would rather you stay.” He tried to keep the hunger from infiltrating his gaze, but he wasn’t sure of the success of his efforts. The prince’s stare flickered away from him and settled on the crackling fire in the grate.
“I wish I would’ve made more of an attempt during the banquet. To speak with you.” The prince seemed genuinely troubled that he hadn’t. Derek was nearly as puzzled as he was touched by that. The knight was not an acclaimed conversationalist.
“Why didn’t you, my prince?”
Stiles laughed, but it was not an altogether happy sound. It was tinged with nervousness. “You’re intimidating. Although I don’t know if it’s wise to admit that.”
Derek’s mouth tightened into a flat line. “I would never hurt you. But if I cannot reassure you, the force of your father’s royal guard should be able to.” He had no use for his husband’s fear. He lifted from the opulent bedcovers and stood in front of the fireplace. He was scarred and grisly and humorless. It only made sense that someone as fair and elegant as his prince would not want to be sullied by the likes of him.
The part that truly bothered Derek was that he sought Stiles’ approval, and that left him vulnerable. That frightened him.
He was so surprised when the prince set a hand on his bare shoulder blade that he spun around and snatched it up in a punishing grip. Those who snuck up on him in the past usually paid a dear price for it.
His betrothed gasped, but he didn’t pull away or cry or struggle. Stiles laid a hand over top of Derek’s and held his eyes. “I didn’t mean I was afraid of you.” The prince gently uncurled the fingers wrapped around his arm. “You are battle-tested, experienced. You are no fool. And I’m soft and clothed in pretty silks and know nothing of war or hardship. I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of you.”
“You are a prince. One day, the weight of the entire kingdom will rest upon your shoulders. That will be your war, your hardship.” He paused. “Your wrist…?”
“Is still fully functional,” Stiles assured.
“I don’t know how to be gentle anymore,” Derek admitted, his brow furrowed.
The prince brought one of Derek's hands to his face and nuzzled against the tough skin, the calluses. “You are hard, and I am soft. Maybe we could learn from one another.”
Derek withdrew his hand. “You shouldn’t want to be like me.”
Stiles chewed his bottom lip. “What are you like, exactly? Lonely? I can see it. Here.” The prince traced the edge of one eyebrow. “And here.” The corner of his lips. Stiles drew away and tucked his arms against his chest.
“Are you my cure?” Derek quipped, his tone acidic. He didn’t need pity. He was not fragile. And yet, as soon as he growled the words, he wished he would have been kinder.
Stiles didn’t recoil. His prince was stronger than he gave himself credit. “I hope I can be. I know how fortunate I am, to still have my father.” Whereas you have no one, the silence seemed to taunt. “Maybe I’m spoiled, or conceited, but he isn’t enough sometimes. My brother, Scott, isn’t enough. I’m followed day and night by guards and servants, but there is no connection there, no intimacy. Just duty. It is just a consequence of my position that I’m treated like a man ridden with plague.” Stiles laughed a humorless laugh that made Derek’s skin crawl. “Secluded from the masses. Untouchable.”
“If they’re cold and aloof, it is only because they don’t want to face your father’s wrath for being too familiar.” Derek glanced at his prince, taking in the heartbreaking jut of that lower lip. Those warm, honeyed eyes, pools of golden liquid. “It has nothing to do with you.” He glared down the flames, challenging them with the heat of his stare. “Your people love you; they desire you. Many would give all they had for a night with you, my prince.”
Stiles blushed, as Derek greedily hoped he would. The effect was beyond tempting.
“Unfortunately for them, you are the only one I’ll be spending my nights with.” Derek liked that, a wolfish grin splitting his lips. He enjoyed the sharp wit and the devilish sparkle in his prince’s eye, even if it was hesitant.
“This is our first, then.” Derek reached out and stroked through the prince’s hair, lush and silky. Stiles’ eyes slid closed slowly and opened heavy-lidded, his lips parted. He was warm to the touch and so pliant that Derek squirmed inside, his cock jerking with interest again. A groan of want rumbled in his chest.
“You know I cannot stay,” Stiles murmured as Derek cupped his throat, feeling the prince swallow beneath his palm. His fingers floated down the slender column of Stiles’ neck and outlined the hollow beneath, barely scraping—as light as he could manage.
“I know.” He slipped his hands underneath his betrothed’s robe and eased it off of his shoulders. The heavy fabric hit the stones with a fwump, and Stiles shivered.
The white gown he wore was sheer indeed. With the firelight illuminating Stiles from behind, he could see the shape of the prince’s lean thighs. A whimper escaped the young man when Derek kissed his naked shoulder.
“You were right,” Derek husked. “I am lonely.”
“You mustn’t,” Stiles pleaded, threading one hand through the back of the knight’s hair, curling his fingers down to the scalp.
Derek tipped the prince’s chin. “You hoped this would happen when you came to me, didn’t you? Tell me.”
Stiles nodded erratically, his exhale ragged and open-mouthed.
Derek whispered into his ear. “I won’t take you tonight, my prince. I'll save that for our wedding night. I just want to show you that you’re touchable.”
He backed away and seated himself in a broad, cushioned armchair, setting his eyes on the prince. He laid a forearm against each rest and widened the spread of his legs. The prince’s eyes dropped to the rising bulge of Derek’s cock, and it dripped just for him.
Stiles ambled forward, his hands gripping the sides of nightgown, his excited breaths emphasizing his raised collarbones and bony shoulders. He lifted the hem of his gown to clamber into Derek’s lap.
The prince peered down at him, cradling his face and tilting it upwards. “My god, you are beautiful.”
Derek seized his hands. “Don’t do that,” he grumbled.
Stiles smiled sadly. “Has no one ever told you? No amount of scars or scowls can change that fact, my dear knight.” He pressed forwards despite his restraints and sealed their lips together.
To his shame, Derek groaned like a dying man and crushed the prince to his body. The knight unhinged his jaw, working his tongue deep into Stiles’ tender mouth, sucking that tantalizing bottom lip between his own.
The young man yelped, and Derek growled in response. Stiles’ fingers sunk into the muscle of his back and shoulders, following jagged scars and long-healed nicks.
Derek watched his plush, pink mouth tremble as he slid a palm up the outside of Stiles’ milky thigh, reaching the joint of his hip. He wore no underclothes. His ripe sex was barely a hand’s-breadth away, long overdue to be used.
But the knight kept his word and squeezed the prince's waist instead, rolling his stiff cock against Stiles’ knee.
“Derek, that's too much,” his betrothed breathed, adjusting his posture until the knight had nothing to grind against his crotch.
“You make it far too easy for a man to lose himself.” He raked his teeth over Stiles’ earlobe, his arm slithering out from the prince's nightgown to cup the swell of his ass with both hands.
Stiles moaned behind bitten lips as Derek kneaded the flesh with rough fingers. “Please, don't pretend I'm special just because I'm more expensive than your past lovers. We're supposed to be honest with one another.”
Derek frowned, his body turning rigid and immobile. The prince sat back on his legs with intent eyes. He knew well what he had just said.
“You are the only person I care about. Do you understand that?” the knight snarled. “There is no one else left.” He couldn't save his family. But Stiles was his family now, and he wouldn't lose him.
He wouldn't.
Stiles’ brow creased in distress. “It's alright,” he soothed, nudging their foreheads together.
Derek waited for his breathing to calm. “The spring parades…” he began in a coarse voice.
The prince blinked in confusion. “Yes? What about them?”
“My sisters and I waited for them all year. They loved the candies that were tossed into the crowds, the fine clothing and the dressed horses. But I didn't care about any of that.”
“Why did you look forward to them, then?”
Derek sighed. “Because you were always there, scattering flower petals over the streets.” The parades only lasted a few years after the queen’s death. She had died in the spring, and seemingly King John didn't have the heart to do them after that.
Stiles’ nod was a little somber.
“I have a petal from each year. I would hide it in my pocket when my sisters weren't looking—they would have ridiculed me mercilessly. They're all tucked into the back pages of a book my mother gave me.”
“Still?” the prince asked.
“Still.”
“Why would you keep them?” A precious wrinkle filled the space between the prince’s brows. It was dangerously adorable.
Stiles might have lacked the self-awareness, but Derek knew that was the kind of sweet, innocent face that could have snared even the most honor-bound man on a cold, lonely night.
“That was the closest I thought I would ever come to touching you.”
“You were wrong.” The prince rose to his knees and guided one of Derek's hands to his cunt. That was enough to shock the knight, and his hand twitched with longing.
His hand fully enveloped the soft mound, scorching even through the fabric of the gown, damp beneath his palm. His fingers stretched farther between his prince's legs, and with a little pressure, the tip of his middle digit sank inwards between Stiles’ lips to rest against his hole. The prince jolted and gasped, his legs shaking, and for a beautiful moment, Derek felt his fingertip cling to the wet material of the nightgown, sticky with arousal.
“That's enough.” The prince gripped his arm, sounding near tears.
Derek withdrew and licked the pad of his finger. To his immense pleasure, Stiles groaned at the sight.
The knight dragged Stiles’ face back by the chin. He wished he could have dipped his finger inside that quaking, wet cavern and gotten a generous coating of slick. He would bet all his lands that Stiles hadn't ever tasted himself. He could have offered the prince a first taste from his tongue, pushing more of the flavor into Stiles' mouth with every glide. But not tonight.
Derek kissed him and tugged gently at one of the tails of the small bow keeping Stiles’ nightgown secured around his shoulders. The prince’s mouth popped off of his, now cherry-red and glistening, looking more debauched every time Derek saw it. Stiles’ eyes were dilated and bottomless, the ochre irises engulfed by expanding blackness.
The knight met his stare with utter calm and confidence and pulled the string harder until it slipped through the bow and unraveled. The gown slid down to the crooks of Stiles’ arms, catching at his elbows and leaving his torso bare to the stomach.
Derek worried how he’d fare when Stiles was entirely naked at his disposal. So far, he’d only experienced bits and pieces of his prince’s delicious body, and that had been enough to make his head dizzy and cock ache. In the future, he would need to taste, touch, see everything.
He set his hands against Stiles’ flat chest, dragged his callused palms over pointed, pink nipples. The prince clapped his hands over top of Derek’s, groaning as the flesh was massaged. Derek replied with a deep, satisfied hum that rose from his belly and his chest and his throat.
He needed more of Stiles’ satiny skin and banded an arm around the back of the prince’s thighs, pulling him higher into his lap. He bit one nipple and flicked the other, and the prince released a pup-growl to show his indignation.
Derek only chuckled with dark pleasure, so the young man retaliated by gripping his cock through his trousers. The punishment came in the light, fleeting passes of the prince’s hand, brushing over his balls and the length of his cock.
When Derek moaned, Stiles giggled and leaned close to his ear. “I told you. Beautiful.”
He climbed from the knight’s lap and only stopped his slipping nightgown once it had fallen below his navel and showed the beginning of chestnut curls.
A little vixen, Derek remarked to himself. The side of his lip rose at the tease, baring his gums and teeth, and Stiles laughed again, sliding the gown back into place and tying it around his shoulders once more. He bent near the fireplace and shrugged his night robe back around himself.
Derek stood, his erection poking indecently against the front of his trousers and holding the fabric away from his groin. He wasn’t motivated to rearrange himself. He liked how Stiles’ glance turned into a lingering, appreciative stare and the prince’s tongue swept hungrily over his lips.
“I have a mind not to let you leave,” Derek commented, sauntering closer to his betrothed.
“Hmmm…you cannot stop me, I’m afraid.” Stiles pursed his lips wickedly, tapping a finger against the bottom one. Derek’s hands curled around the prince’s hips, and the young man added, “However, I can promise that as soon as I return to my rooms, I’m going to finish myself off.”
“Will you think of me while you fondle yourself?” Derek asked, voice gone hoarse.
Stiles’ smile was saccharine as he nodded. “Will you do the same?”
“I can guarantee it. But, Stiles…”
“Yes?” his betrothed whispered, looking up at him adoringly. It made the knight’s insides quiver and melt.
“Don’t fuck your cunt. Keep that for me.” The young man simpered with embarrassment, a burning flush high on his cheeks. Derek huffed a few breaths and then cradled the prince’s face. He pressed a firm kiss against his forehead. “Goodnight, my prince.”
Stiles touched the back of his hands. “Sleep well, my knight.”