3. Chapter 3

Peter snaps awake when a door flies off its hinges and a werewolf screams in pain. He has a fleeting thought that he’s gotten too soft, too comfortable, because by the time he’s rolling out of bed Chris is crouched on the floor, gun aimed at the intruder.

Who is currently rolling around on the ground, smelling like wolfsbane and blood from whatever booby trap Chris had waiting for him. He’s yanked out the broken doorway by his feet and dragged off, still howling.

“What did—” Peter starts but stops when he sees Alpha Korhonen standing in the doorway, peering into the cabin.

Peter rolls his shoulders and straightens up. “Perhaps we should have specified that ‘negotiations will start in the morning ’ means they will start after eight, when I’ve had time to drink my coffee. Not at two a.m. in the dead of fucking night.” He puts a possessive hand on Chris’s shoulder where he is still half-kneeling with his gun aimed straight at the alpha.

“Perhaps we should have.” The alpha nods once at Peter, then again at Chris, before turning and walking away.

The emissary, and Peter cannot remember her hippy trippy woo-woo name to save his life — Snowflake? Sunflower? — takes the alpha’s place at the doorway. “Clever protections. Very...practical.”

Peter can’t tell if she’s impressed or sarcastic, and honestly, it’s the middle of the night and he doesn’t care. He opens his mouth to say something but Chris glides to his feet with the grace of a predator (Peter does not find that sexy, no he does not) and struts up to her. She’s taller than he is but even in his absurd long-john underwear he looks bigger , bristling with anger like some kind of pissed off honey badger.

(damn Stiles and his need to share those fucking memes)

Chris points at her aggressively. “I don’t give a fuck about your opinion of my defenses. Your pack threatened my mate, so you’re lucky we’re not leaving right now and permanently breaking talks.”

Peter’s heart flutters at the way Chris growls the word “mate”, heavy with meaning and intent. The emissary obviously hears it, as her eyes flick toward him before giving Chris a wholly insincere smile.

“A simple misunderstanding—”

Chris lifts one finger up, his expression ruthless and his words sharp. “You had your one chance. Don’t try this shit again.”

Peter walks over, picks the door up off the floor and slams it back into place, right in her face.

Chris grins at him and they wait until Peter can’t hear anyone outside anymore.

“That’s not going to keep the cold air out.” Chris inspects the door, which is leaning against the frame. Peter’s heart flips over at the sight of Chris, smirking at the door, comfortable in his ridiculous pajamas but still looking coiled and ready to strike — ready to kill in order to protect Peter.

Like a mate .

“For fuck’s sake, it’s the middle of the night. Come back to bed.” Peter stomps to the bed and throws himself under the blankets, too tired and sexually frustrated with himself to be awake anymore. He makes plans to deal with unwelcome emotional revelations at a later time. Or maybe never. Never is good.

“Yes, dear.” The sardonic asshole laughs and follows.

Peter absolutely does not care and does not want to kiss Chris in his smug face and does not wake up curled around the hunter like a love sick puppy with his mate mark too-hot and throbbing on his arm.

---

Negotiations are as productive as expected, by which Peter means he wants to bash a lot of heads into rocks, including maybe his own. It’s clear Alpha Korhonen would have just kidnapped Lydia by now if not for fear of both political backlash from other packs and Lydia’s powers (which are still very much in the ‘unknown, untested, probably lethal so let’s not’ zone), but not because he is at all concerned about the Hale-McCall pack. He is dismissive of Scott and Stiles in the main and references Talia more than a few times, until Peter caustically reminds him that Beacon Hills is on it’s fourth alpha removed from her and oh by the way did you know True Alphas can cross mountain ash barriers? Isn’t that interesting?

The emissary (Starshine? Saffron?) is impressed, at least, but she’s not a part of the negotiations, just serving as witness.

Chris shows up strapped into more weaponry than Peter’s libido can tolerate — there are a lot of straps involved, for christ’s sake — and stands behind Peter’s chair with his arms folded over his chest, glaring at everyone. The wolfsbane and saltpeter scent floating off of him is strong enough to make a few nearby ‘wolves sneeze. A lot. Peter is hard-pressed not to laugh at them.

Peter also spends time wondering how it would feel to always have strength like that at his back, and how it would feel to wake up every morning wrapped up next to the lethal hunter who snuffles like a toddler in his sleep. He drags his mind back to the proceedings, but it’s a battle.

Finally, three hours in, Peter slaps his hands on the heavy wooden table they are gathered around. A couple of ‘wolves jump and the alpha purses his lips at the breach in protocol.

“I’ve tried to be polite and political about this, but I can see that’s getting us nowhere. I will lay this out very clearly for you: Lydia Martin, banshee, youngest of her line, is not for sale, trade, or wedlock. She is a freely aligned with the Hale-McCall pack and until she decides to change that affiliation, Alpha McCall and myself, the eldest of the Hale line and former alpha, will protect her freedom to our deaths. If you feel up to challenging my alpha for ‘rights’ to our banshee, feel free. You will probably lose, and even if you don’t, Lydia will tear your heart out of your chest and eat it for inconveniencing her.”

Everyone looks stunned at the audacity of the statement, but Chris smirks. “Well, let’s be honest, she’d use a knife and fork to do it.”

Peter curls a lip in amusement. “True. She is a lady .” He turns back to the alpha. “I respect the Korhonen Pack and your history, but this is not the dark ages somewhere in Gaul. Alpha McCall sent us here as a courtesy, and out of respect for your traditions, but this is 21st century and Lydia Martin is not chattel to be traded.”

Chris pulls Peter’s chair back and Peter takes the hint, standing up. “Negotiations are closed. Good luck with finding a banshee to align with.”

Chris ostentatiously pats the gun in his thigh holster before holding out his arm like a gentleman in a Regency romance novel to escort Peter away.