2. Chapter 2

They are, indeed, allowed into the remote compound that takes up nearly the whole side of a mountain next to Willamette National Forest in Oregon. Peter knows this is due to the power of Stiles’s magic, which constructed a mating bond so authentic that Peter has to keep reminding himself it is forced and temporary. While Chris and Peter had swapped clothes and bedsheets for the days leading up the trip, simple scent exchange would hardly have been enough to fool the Korhonens’ emissary.

She is tall and strikingly blonde and barefoot, even in the snow, but Peter knows instantly that she is nowhere near as powerful as Stiles. She “reads” their mating marks and nods at the intimidating alpha standing a few feet behind her.

Peter tilts his head in a sign of deference but not submission. “Peter Hale, eldest of the line, here as ambassador for the Hale-McCall Pack of Beacon Hills on behalf of True Alpha Scott McCall.” He grabs Chris’s arm and tugs him forward. “My mate, Chris Argent, eldest of his line.”

Alpha Korhonen steps forward. He is six feet, six inches at least and built like a semi-truck, thick and heavy and overbearing. His hair and his beard are mostly gray, and mostly braided. He looks like a reject from Game of Thrones, which Peter thinks does not bode well at all. Chris stands next to Peter, silent and still, his heartbeat and emotions locked down. So, perhaps, there was some small benefit to bringing a trained hunter to a high stakes game like this, not that Peter will ever admit it to his face.

“You bring a hunter into the heart of our den?” The alpha asks, pleasant and calm despite the hard tone of voice and flinty eyes. His betas, at least twenty of them, are spread out around them in a circle, quietly attententive to the tension in the air. Peter is sure there are more hiding in the trees.

“My mate. He’s not a hunter.”

Chris chuckles as if they are at a cocktail party. “That’s not what you said when I brought you that six-pointer last week.”

Peter works very hard not to roll his eyes, because this is the kind of cocky attitude they do not need right now.

But Alpha Korhonen cracks a smile. “Providing for you mate is an honor.”

Chris nods once in acknowledgement. The two men posture at each other for a brief moment before the alpha turns back to Peter.

“A brazen, bold move. I respect your alpha for this choice.”

Peter buries his surprise and just smiles. “The True Alpha is growing into a powerful man.” He pauses. “And a powerful wolf.”

Alpha Korhonen accepts the subtle threat with grace, sweeping a hand to point out a gravel path. “Guest quarters are a less than mile up the road. Emmy will escort you. We will hold negotiations in the morning.” He turns and walks off with long, powerful strides. The emissary and most of the betas flow after him in his wake, but one young woman stays behind. She’s thin, pale, and angry looking with a shock of red hair pulled back into — what else? — a heavy braid.

“C’mon.” She motions for them to follow and does not offer to help them with their luggage, not that Peter would have let her. The kid smells angrier than the situation warrants at this point, and that puts Peter on guard. It suggests the politics of the Korhonen pack might be more complicated than it first appeared — not that Peter can see any way to use that to their advantage. Yet.

Emmy leads them to a small but quaint cabin, which is the size of a postage stamp but has running water and electricity, then turns and disappears into the surrounding forest with only the spicy scent of animosity in her wake.

Chris goes inside and closes all the curtains and pulls down shades. They both know that at least one ‘wolf is nearby, listening in, but it is nice to have a semblance of privacy.

“That went better than expected,” Chris says, pointing at his forearm to mean the falsified mate mark.

“Maybe.” It’s as far as Peter is willing to concede. They are deep in enemy territory and just getting in through the gate is hardly a success. He’ll save that for when they get out. He stretches. “I need a shower after being on the road so long.”

Chris nods and busies himself with getting his toiletries out of his duffle bag. Peter figures that being quietly uncommunicative is probably their safest option, given their presumed audience, so just grabs his own things and heads into the tiny bathroom.

He walks out later, clean but still damp because there was not really room enough to dry off before dressing in his pajamas, and stops dead in his tracks. Furniture has been moved around (how did he miss hearing that?), booby traps installed over the front and back doors and all the windows, and a veritable battery of weapons strewn over every surface. He knew Chris had packed some weapons in his spare suitcase, but this is ridiculous.

“Are we being invaded?”

Chris shrugs and continues to tie what has to be mistletoe-laced rope (what the hell) between two chairs.

“Christopher,” Peter says slowly, waiting for Chris to look at him. “Korhonen is a huge pack. We didn’t even see half of his betas just now. If they attack, we’re dead.”

“You know what Scott and Stiles will do to them if they kill us.” He focuses on what looks like a cat’s cradle he’s making as some kind of ground-level foot trap. Peter admires the vagueness of the statement — enough information to intrigue anyone listening in with just a hint of mystery regarding the threat Scott and Stiles pose. Peter’s sure the comment is already being relayed to Alpha Korhonen as they stand there. He stamps down the admiration welling up in his chest.

Chis tugs at the ropes thoughtfully. “Anyway, this isn’t about fighting off the whole pack. This is about sending them a message that we won’t lay down and take what they want to give us. They will have a hell of a fight to pull us out of here if we don’t want to go. Negotiations will be on our terms, not the alpha’s.”

Peter concedes that is a damn good point by tilting his head a little. “I suppose it takes a hunter to think outside the box of our traditions.”

“That’s why you love me,” Chris says with a sardonic smile as he stands up and dusts his mistletoe-dust covered hands on his pants. Peter eyes them warily.

“You’re not getting into bed until you have scrubbed that crap off.”

Chris smirks. “Yes, dear.”

---

They are both grown-ass men pretending to be mated while under constant surveillance, so therefore Peter expects there to be no “we have to share the bed” drama when Chris gets out of the shower. He thinks perhaps he should have qualified that expectation with the caveat that he will have no undue physical reactions to their proximity.

Chris is dressed in some lumberjack-esque red long-johns onesie, which would be hilarious if it didn’t pull in all the right ways to verify that he is, in fact, not wearing any underwear underneath it.

Peter is deeply regretting his choice of wearing only boxer briefs to bed.

Chris does a quick visual check of all his defensive traps, turns out the lights then flops into bed like a teenager, all long, lean limbs jostling for space. It is only a full size bed with just enough room for two adults, and while technically — by weight and width, at least — Peter is the larger of the two, he scoots a bit closer to the edge to avoid random elbows and knees.

“I hate sleeping in strange beds,” Chris comments by way of explanation about five minutes later, when Peter is seriously considering just punching him unconscious.

“You are a hunter, haven’t you spent half your life camping out or sleeping in shitty motels?”

“I’m not Dean Winchester, Peter.”

“Would that I could be so lucky as to end up in bed with Jensen Ackles.”

Chris pauses. “I cut out the road travel when Ally was born.”

Peter doesn’t reply, but he takes the confession as it is meant, as a peace offering. He curls up on his side, facing away from the other man.

Chris whispers after another eternity of wiggling around. “What do you think Alpha Korhonen will do?”

“When we say no? I expect subtly threaten our pack. Or kill us and send our bodies back as a message. Perhaps both,” Peter sighs. Despite the distraction of his squirming around, Chris being next to him is comforting in a way that Peter barely remembers.

He misses being part of a real pack, of the emotional and physical connections that build up over time and effort. He had little love lost for his domineering alpha sister but her husband and their children and both of his older brothers, yes...he misses them. The weak, thready connections he has to his niece and nephew now hardly compare, and he never pushes it with them because he lost that right when he murdered Laura, insanity plea or no. It’s a pain that is old and heavy, not as sharp as his grief for his wife and son but still acute. He figures that is why it feels so odd that after all this time spent both abandoned and pushing people away that being in bed with someone and not touching them feels unnatural. His wolf wants to roll over and rub his scent all over Chris, to mark him.

Instead, he pushes his emotions back into their box and continues with the conversation. “I figure he’ll drown us in technicalities and negotiations before he gets annoyed enough to start threatening. What I’m concerned about is what he will do to try and throw us off our game.”

“Such as?”

“Who knows. These kinds of diplomatic parlays went out of style with Queen Victoria. Usually if Talia needed me to negotiate with a pack we’d just do a conference call, like civilized creatures.”

He feels Chris nodding, then squirming again.

“I swear to Fenrir if you don’t settle down and go to sleep I will smother you with your pillow.”

Chris sighs heavily before going still. “Yes, dear.”

Peter considers smothering him anyway.