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Stiles's mask itched. It was bad enough that he had to go through this yet again, bad enough that people were already giving him pitying looks and not-quite-whispery whispers. Bad enough that he hadn't had a single whiff of interest since his debut Season three years ago.
But that wasn't enough. Every abominable ball this abominable Season had been a bloody masquerade. Which meant Stiles had to attend every single one wearing a stupid, itchy fox mask.
Really, it would be easier to declare himself a bachelor and hie off to the country.
Someone swatted him with her fan, and Stiles made to grab for it before he realized it was Lydia.
"You're quite glum tonight," she said. "Smile. Have a drink. Attempt to look welcoming."
"Easy for you to say," Stiles muttered. "You aren't the one who will have to stand in a corner all night."
Lydia resembled an elegant swan with her white dress and feathered mask, and her Fae bloodline made her a very desirable match for any pack. The only reason she was still on the market was because she hadn't found anyone who met her exacting standards, which naturally made everyone else try all the harder.
"You never know," Lydia said. "Perhaps the Wolf Lord will ask you to dance tonight."
Stiles scoffed. "Oh, yes, of course he will. And then he'll transform into a giant black wolf and whisk me away to his estate to live happily ever after." He rolled his eyes at the thought. "Actually, I rather hope he does ask me to dance. I can tell him how ridiculous these masquerades are."
The Wolf Lord was in truth the new Earl of Triskelion, who'd taken over the empty title some months before. It was said he was a werewolf who could achieve the full shift—something very few could do—and he never appeared at any ball without a wolf mask over his face. It was such a foolishly dramatic thing, and it was precisely the reason every damned ball this Season was a masquerade. Because the bloody Wolf Lord wouldn't show up otherwise.
Stiles's heart twisted at the thought of seeing someone else wearing the title that had belonged to the Hales. It should have been Derek's, damn it, not this...interloper.
"Stiles?" Lydia sounded concerned. "Are you all right?"
He cleared his throat and pasted on a smile. "I'm fine. Just a bit stuffy in here, is all. Surely they'll start the dancing soon."
Lydia eyed him inscrutably, but she let the matter drop. "Indeed they will. You should ask someone."
"But I'm certain your fan is already filled out," Stiles teased her.
Lydia swatted him with it. "Go," she said with a smile. "Find someone. Just...promise me you'll let yourself be happy. Please?"
Stiles forced himself to meet her smile. "Of course, Lydia."
She didn't look like she believed him, but she let him be.
Stiles glared at the ground. She likely thought he was still pining over someone he hadn't seen since he was a child, which was absurd. Sure, there had been an arrangement, but then the fire happened, and Stiles lost his intended pack and his intended mate in one fell swoop. The solicitor had been very clear that Stiles was free to pursue other packs.
That had been ten years ago. He was most definitely not still pining.
Much.
The dances started, and Stiles moved out of the way. He ought to do as Lydia asked, or at least make small talk with other packs, but from the pointed looks he was getting, it was probably best if he kept to himself. No pack would want an emissary who'd been so nearly bonded to another, anyway.
The steward at the ballroom door cleared his throat, a gesture carried around the room with the tiniest bit of magic to get everyone's attention.
Stiles looked to the door and froze.
A man stood beside the steward, dressed all in black and wearing a black wolf's mask.
Stiles couldn't hear the introduction over the roaring in his ears, but he didn't need it. This was the new Lord Triskelion.
Up until this moment, he hadn't been certain what he would do when he saw the bastard who'd taken Derek's family's title. Now, though, Stiles knew his path with perfect clarity.
He walked straight up to the lord and executed a bow that would have made his tutors weep with joy. "Mieczysław Stilinski, at your service, my lord. May I have this dance?"
At least half a dozen scandalized gasps reached his ears. It was the height of impropriety to approach an earl—and a member of another pack—without some kind of formal introduction.
But Stiles did not care. Until this moment, he hadn't realized how much he did not care. Then again, he had apparently been holding out hope that Derek would return to take his place as heir and that their arrangement could resume. But now, those hopes were dashed. Stiles did not particularly care about anything anymore.
Lord Triskelion regarded him silently, his pale eyes boring through his mask and into Stiles's. "Are you always this brazen, Emissary Stilinski?"
"Mr. Stilinski," Stiles corrected. "And no. Usually I'm much more so."
With a wolf mask hiding the top half of his face and a well-trimmed black beard hiding the bottom, it was nigh impossible to see what reaction the man was giving. From the whispers around them, Stiles knew everyone else was waiting for the earl to thoroughly dismiss him.
"Well, then," Lord Triskelion said. "I suppose we can share one dance."
To be honest, Stiles hadn't been expecting that, but he quickly recovered and took the lord's gloved hand. Too late, he realized it was the waltz, but there was nothing to be done except to lead the lord onto the dance floor and join the other couples.
Stiles held himself an appropriate distance away, even for a waltz, but it didn't matter. The lord's shoulder was broad, his hand a warm weight at Stiles's waist. They were nearly the same height, but something in the way he stood made Lord Triskelion seem taller. Or maybe it was just the power he held.
"So, you are not yet an emissary," Lord Triskelion said.
"No."
"I was under the impression that most emissaries were bound rather quickly. Is this not your first Season?"
The man was an absolute ass. "It's my third," Stiles said through gritted teeth. "If you must know, I was bound to a pack. Engaged and everything. Then they were brutally murdered when I was ten years old, my former betrothed and his sister were taken to America, and I was informed that I was free from our bonding contract. However, that makes me damaged goods as far as everyone else here is concerned."
Lord Triskelion looked away. "My apologies. I had no idea."
If Stiles didn't know better, he'd swear the man sounded remorseful. "Horseshit," he said cheerfully. "Unless you make a habit of taking on titles without knowing their history. Tell me, how are you finding Triskelion? The house is rather lovely this time of year."
"I meant," the lord said, "I did not know a broken betrothal contract would make it impossible for you to find another pack."
Stiles stared at him. "How could you not know?"
The wolf mask made it impossible to read his face, but his eyes darted somewhere over Stiles's shoulder. "I have never attended a Season before."
Stiles rolled his eyes. "Oh, I forgot. This is your first time engaging the ton with your shiny new title. How did you manage to avoid it for so long?"
"I was overseas, and there were some legal entanglements that needed to be handled before I could publicly claim the title," Lord Triskelion said. "Have you any advice for me?"
Stiles snorted. "I'm on my third Season. My advice is hardly worth taking."
"Somehow I doubt that, Stiles."
Stiles froze. "I didn't tell you my name was Stiles."
The lord's shoulders stiffened under his hands.
Stiles looked at him for the first time, trying to see past the mask, and focused on the lord's eyes. Not just pale, as Stiles had thought at first, but green and yellow, with a ring of brown around his pupils.
Stiles's heart stuttered. He knew those eyes. "Derek?"
He reached up to take off the wolf mask, but Lord Triskelion caught his hands and led him through the throng of people to the nearest open door. It took them into the gardens, and the lord pulled Stiles down the paths, taking them far enough from the house that Stiles could no longer hear the music.
They turned down yet another row of bushes, and Stiles finally jerked his hand from the lord's grasp. "What in the hell is wrong with you?"
Lord Triskelion—Derek?—stopped a few feet away from him, staring back toward the house. "There are certain conversations I would prefer not to have on the dance floor."
This evening had taken a turn for the absurd. Stiles cursed under his breath and yanked off his fox mask, tossing it aside. "Then will you take off that stupid mask?"
Is it really you? he wanted to ask, but couldn't bring himself to.
The lord untied his mask and dropped it to the ground. Stiles's breath caught in his chest, and he couldn't begin to make it move again.
It was Derek. Older, yes, with a fuller beard and longer hair and lines around his eyes that hadn't been there when he was only sixteen, but it was him.
"What," Stiles finally said, "the hell."
"Stiles—"
Stiles jabbed a finger at him. "Oh, no. Don't you dare 'Stiles' me right now. You were gone. You and Laura just...off to America, and the only notice I got was your bloody solicitor showing up on my doorstep to tell me our betrothal contract was void!"
Derek took a step toward him, eyes flashing blue. "Do you think I went to America for the fun of it? My entire family had just been murdered. My pack."
"You think I don't know that? They were my pack, too!" Stiles shouted. "I was supposed to be your mate, your emissary, and I was supposed to be there for you! And you just...left me behind."
"I thought it was the only way I could keep you safe."
"You...what?"
Derek clenched his fist, and Stiles swore he could hear the leather of his glove creaking. "We knew someone had targeted us, targeted our pack. But we were uncertain who was responsible, or whether they'd come after us, once they knew there had been survivors. That's why we left so quickly." He cut his gaze over to the bushes. "I asked to write you a letter, but they gave me no time for it. Said it was best to cut ties quickly, lest they come after you to get to us."
Stiles gaped at him. "Come after me?"
Derek sighed and rubbed his forehead. "It was just you and your father. There's no way we would have had the strength to protect you, not with our pack broken and Argent's appointment to the House of Lords making all the anti-werewolf bastards bold. I thought letting you go would keep you safe, and you'd be able to find another pack that could protect you."
Stiles turned away to sit down on the nearest bench, gripping the edge of it until the stone bit into his fingers. His stomach churned. He'd thought he'd lost Derek forever. He hadn't been prepared for this.
"Hang the Argents," he finally said. "I'd have stood beside you. You had to know that."
"I did," Derek said quietly. "And that was why Laura said we had to let you go. Because we couldn't stand to see another person we cared about die."
Stiles looked back up at him. Derek looked gutted, hollow, like the weight of the world pressed on his shoulders. Nothing like the boy Stiles remembered, and nothing like the haughty lord who'd walked into the ballroom earlier this evening.
Derek sat on the other side of the bench, leaving plenty of space between them. "I have a hundred letters I wrote to you, saved in a box. I begged Peter to let me mail them, but he never allowed it. It wasn't until they arrested Lady Katherine and Argent was forced to resign his seat that he'd let me consider contacting you, and by then..."
Stiles filled in the blank. By the time Lady Katherine had been arrested for murdering the Hales, it had been seven years since he and Derek had seen each other. "Did you think I'd forgotten you?"
"I feared it," Derek said softly. "And hoped it, in equal measure. I wanted you safe, and happy, even if it wasn't with me."
Stiles closed his eyes. "How absurd."
"That I want you happy?"
"That you thought I could be so without you."
Stiles opened his eyes again, but he couldn't bring himself to look at Derek. Even so, he could feel the weight of his gaze, hear the soft intake of breath beside him.
I'm still in love with you, you dolt, Stiles thought, and inwardly cursed at how right Lydia had been.
"So what happens now?" he asked aloud.
"What do you mean?"
"Now. Now that you're back, I..." Stiles dragged his hands through his hair. "What happens now?"
Derek leaned back on his hands and looked up at the night sky. "I was trying to keep a low profile when we returned, since Lady Katherine's trial was ongoing and we didn't want word getting to her or her supporters. Laura suggested I start attending parties in an effort to find an emissary, so I picked the first masquerade of the Season and went so I wouldn't have to show my face."
Stiles rubbed his hands over his face. "Of course. And then the whole bloody ton realized you were only showing up to masquerades and now every party has been a masquerade since."
Derek groaned. "I had no idea that would happen."
Stiles shook his head, fighting a smile. "They lose their minds over a mystery, and you're very good about being mysterious."
"I didn't mean to be," Derek grumbled. "It just...happened."
Stiles burst into laughter and nearly fell off the bench. "Oh, God. Of that, I have no doubt. It's just...oh, I've hated those damned masks all Season, and it's your fault. Every bloody masquerade just because you were trying to keep a low profile."
Derek rolled his eyes, but Stiles caught the edge of a smile through his beard. "Well, I won't have to hide much longer. Since Lady Katherine was hanged, we have less reason to keep our return quiet. So," he turned to Stiles, "I'll be looking for an emissary in earnest."
Stiles's stomach sank. "Oh."
"I admit, I was dreading it," Derek said. "Until you corrected me tonight."
Stiles stared at him.
"That you're still Mr. Stilinski, and not Emissary Stilinski," Derek continued, his pale eyes boring into Stiles's. "It means...I may still have a chance?"
For the second time that night, Stiles found himself struggling to breathe, although this was for an entirely different reason.
"I am sorry," Derek said softly, "for every ounce of pain my silence has caused you. Even if I did it with the best of intentions, I know that makes it hurt no less. But...if you could find it in your heart to forgive me, to forgive us, I would want nothing more than to honor our previous contract."
A lump tightened in Stiles's throat. "You still want me?"
Derek met his eyes and smiled. "I never stopped."
Stiles closed the space between them to brush a kiss over Derek's lips, a simple, chaste thing, but Derek slid his hand up Stiles's neck and kissed him deeper, slow and simmering, until Stiles could no longer remember his own name.
"Is that a yes?" Derek asked.
"Of course it's a yes," Stiles whispered. "I never stopped wanting you, either."
Derek's grin was brighter than the moon. "I'm sorry it took me so long to find you again."
"That's all right," Stiles said. "You'll have the rest of our lives to make it up to me."
"I will." Derek pulled him close again. "That's a promise."