4. Chapter 4

“So you...just told them ‘no’?” Scott is squinting at Peter like he’s not speaking English. “Couldn’t we have...just...done that by phone?”

Stiles is also squinting, and for a moment, they really do look like brothers. Peter sighs. “No, Scott. Rebuffing the official and traditional overture would have been seen as aggressive, a statement of, maybe not war, but antagonism. For all that I don’t trust that alpha any further than Chris could throw him, he’s hide-bound by traditions and this way we come off as acting in good faith. Any move he makes toward Ms. Martin from here on out will be considered by other packs as a transgression against your authority as alpha.”

Derek, of course, is nodding along solemnly, understanding the gravity of the politics and reading between the lines — that the Korhonen alpha probably does not give a fuck about transgressing Scott’s authority, in the long run.

Stiles is still squinting, probably figuring out all the angles on his own. Scott, bless his ridiculously optimistic heart, just smiles. “Great! Thanks, man. That’s awesome. Hey Stiles. Stiles. Stiles!” He shakes Stiles’s shoulder.

“Huh?” Stiles blinks at him, pulling his mind out of the spiral it had fallen into.

“You should break the bond now. So, you know, Chris can go home?”

“Oh yeah! Here, let me—” He makes grabby hands at them, magic sparking over his fingers.

Peter and Chris shuffle forward, both obviously feeling the same wariness. Stiles is incredibly powerful, but he is also impatient and sometimes rash. The bonding worked well enough, but Peter is hoping that Stiles does not end up skinning their arms or burning the marks off or anything equally creatively unpleasant. They each hold our their forearms, Chris rolling up the sleeve of his shirt.

Peter has wanted the flagrant phoenix gone since it showed up, but still, his heart flips a beat. Derek gives him a very skeptical side-eye for it, but Peter ignores him. He wants this all done and over with. He totally does, no matter what his treacherous heartbeat is doing in his chest.

“Okay, so hold hands for a second. Good. Now I’m just gonna—” Stiles stops there, pokes his tongue out like he’s a kindergartner trying to write his name, and grabs their wrists.

Nothing happens.

“Uh. Okay, hold on.” Stiles snaps his fingers for a second before grabbing their wrists again. His face scrunches up and his hold keeps getting tighter until Chris grunts and shakes him off. Stiles looks at his own hands in confusion. “It’s not working.

“What.” Derek steps forward and peers over Stiles’s shoulder at Chris and Peter’s forearms.

Peter yanks his hand free from Chris’s hold. “What do you mean, it’s not working?”

“Stiles, what’s wrong?” Scott puts his hand on Stiles’s shoulder, causing him to look at Scott.

“I don’t know. It should be simple? Less complicated than making it, anyway. But it’s like my magic just hits a wall.” He turns his hands over as if looking at the back of them will reveal the mystery. He looks up at Peter. “Ideas?”

Peter cannot believe he’s panicking about this but his mind scrambles through the dusty corners of his brain to figure out what the hell to say, for once coming up with absolutely nothing. Zilch. Zero. What the hell.

Derek’s gaze goes full-on suspicious, but Peter has a lot of practice at ignoring him.

“Maybe your magic is telling you it isn’t safe yet,” Chris says, drawing everyone’s attention. He frowns for a moment, staring intently at his mate mark. “Maybe we shouldn’t break the bond just yet. Korhonen might be looking for any excuse to push the issue, to claim we acted in bad faith.”

“Huh.” Stiles drops his hands. “Possibly. But—”

“He’s right,” Peter says, speaking slowly, and very carefully not looking at Chris. “Chances are good that Alpha Korhonen put a beta on our heels to observe the pack here.”

Stiles opens his mouth but Peter shushes him. “Their emissary is not as strong as you but she’s more than capable of putting a temporary cloaking spell on a single ‘wolf for a few days.”

They are all quiet for a moment as the reality of that sinks in.

“Awkward,” Scott say, wincing, before looking over at Chris and Peter. “Sorry, guys. Looks like you have to keep it up.”

Stiles, of course , snickers at that, but chokes on it when Derek grabs him by the back of the neck and shakes him like a puppy. Peter shoots his nephew a grateful look while Stiles sputters indignation.

Chris turns to Peter with a resigned expression. “Your place or mine?”

“Mine, obviously. I have the best coffeemaker.”

“It’s true, he does,” Derek confirms helpfully. Peter side-eyes him but Derek is looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Clearly up to no good, then.

“Let’s go home, sweet cheeks.” Chris turns to walk out of the loft, and it sounds suspiciously like he’s smiling.

“I hate you so much.”

“Yes, dear.”

The boys start snickering as Peter follows.

---

“I’ll drop by my place tomorrow to pick up more clothes.” Chris flops onto Peter’s couch, looking around, stretching his arms out across the back and generally smearing his scent all over everything like a jackass. “Nice apartment. Bigger than mine.”

Peter grunts noncommittally and goes to dump his suitcase in his bedroom. He’s still trying to figure out what the hell happened earlier. He does not actually for one second believe that Stiles’s magic just failed or was even purposefully going awry. No, the awful truth is that the very idea of Stiles breaking the bond and magically removing the mate mark had made Peter instinctively panic, it was as simple as that. He sure as hell did not respond that way on purpose. Magic is not a sentient force but it is reactionary, and probably read Peter’s emotions to mean that the bond is real.

But this...this is not a real bond. It is not a real mating. He and Chris have hate-flirted with each other since they were teens, but that was as far as it went. Hales and Argents are mortal enemies, forever and ever, world without end, amen. Chris’s own sister is proof of that.

He pauses, sensing someone behind him. He spins around to face the door.

“I get that this isn’t ideal, but you can stop acting like I’m purposefully torturing you.” Chris is leaning against the doorway, duffel bag hanging from one hand. “It’s not like either one of us had much of a choice in this.”

Which...hurts. It hurts Peter more than he’s willing to admit or show. “I know that. Doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.” He slams the drawer closed. “But you do seem to enjoy it, don’t you? Making me uncomfortable with this whole situation.” He stands with his hands on his hips, because he learned young that the best defense is a killer offense.

Chris rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb, closing his eyes for a moment before sighing and opening them again. “I can’t give back what my sister took from you, or change the fact that Laura abandoned you after the fire. If I could, I would. I couldn’t even save Alli.” He stops, choking a little on her name before taking a deep breath and continuing. “But I can do my damnedest to live up to what she believed of me, and that means protecting the pack. Your pack.”

Peter’s heart clutches at the sincerity of the speech, but he keeps his face blank. “Then stop trying to goad me about it. We’re doing this for the kids, not for fun,” he says, snarling out the final word.

Chris tosses the duffel bag at Peter, who catches it and holds it up questioningly.

“We’re going to have a share the bed,” Chris says, “So you better make room in that dresser for my clothes.”

Peter growls and throws the bag back at his head, but the bastard catches it flawlessly and stands there waiting until Peter clears out two drawers for him to use.

“I sleep on the left side of the bed. And don’t use my shampoo or soap. It’s expensive,” Peter says over his shoulder as he stomps out of the room.

“Yes, dear!” Chris shouts after him.

Peter goes for a run in the preserve. It’s that or shred all of Chris’s clothes with his claws like a disgruntled house cat, and Peter has his pride , okay?

---

Chris actually has a job, or rather, he is the CEO of the North American division of AAI (Argent Armaments, Incorporated). This is not news to Peter. What is shocking is when he wanders back into his apartment in the early morning after running around clawing up trees all night to find Chris standing at the kitchen island counter, sipping coffee, and wearing an artfully tailored three piece suit. The light gray Prince of Wales Check fabric hugs Chris’s body, the waistcoat tight over his torso which Peter can see very clearly because the jacket is unbuttoned, hanging open casually. The pale yellow button down shirt has a crisp sheen to it, and the whole ensemble is perfectly offset by the bright but not garish burgundy linen tie. Chris has a hip cocked against the counter, coffee in one hand and scrolling his phone with the other.

He glances up at Peter. “I figured it would look better if my assistant brought by some of my work clothes, could be seen as just delivering my dry cleaning. He dropped this off with a few other suits earlier.”

“Oh.” Peter is standing there trying to think but Chris looks like a damn advertisement for Brooks Brothers, Silver Daddy Edition, and Peter just needs a fucking shower. Or a fucking. He spins on his heel and does not run to the master bath to hide until Chris leaves.