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Peter sighs down at the bound, shirtless boy that’s been dumped at his feet, then raises a questioning eyebrow at his betas. “Was all of this really necessary?”
They shift in discomfort, muttering vague excuses. He’s not surprised. He sent two powerful werewolves to retrieve one human boy, and specifically told them to be gentle. He wasn’t expecting his new captive to be delivered trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.
The betas squirm more and Jackson, as always, caves first. “He was criticizing our abduction technique. He called us sloppy,” Peter’s second-most-powerful enforcer whines.
Erica shrugs in agreement. “At first we just tied his hands, but then he started singing the Baby Shark Song. That shit’s gonna be stuck in my head for weeks.”
The Stilinski boy looks up at Peter, eyes hooded, and smirks around the black tape covering his mouth. At least his wayward enforcers remembered to use the body-safe kind. Peter isn’t interested in ransoming a damaged prize. He’s not a complete animal after all, despite what the boy’s extremist father might think.
He dismisses Jackson and Erica, then turns back to his pretty little captive. “Well, Mr. Stilinski,” he says with a mocking sigh. “It seems you’re causing daddy-dearest no end of trouble lately. Slipping your bodyguard to go jogging at the edge of my territory for weeks on end—wearing Airpods and oblivious to your surroundings at that. It’s almost like you were asking to get abducted by the big bad wolf.”
The Stilinski boy, who’s really a young man if Peter’s remembering his age correctly, widens his eyes innocently, then blatantly dips his gaze, giving Peter a slow, through once over. When their eyes meet again, he winks.
Taken aback, Peter scents the air. Somehow—despite his traumatic morning of being snatched from the woods by “monsters”—the boy only carries a lingering hint of anxiety. Mainly, he smells of healthy sweat with an undercurrent of anticipation. Peter frowns. For someone that, according to conventional wisdom, should hate and fear werewolves, he’s shockingly calm.
Peter reaches down and wraps careful fingers around a toned bicep, easing him upright, mindful of supernatural strength and humans’ tendency to bruise like ripe fruit. They’re gotten this far with the boy unscathed. No need for Stilinski senior to accuse Peter of damaging the merchandise. Peter plans to collect every cent of ransom money the distasteful man can be convinced to hand over in exchange for his precious boy’s return. There’s something viscerally satisfying about the bigot’s money anonymously furthering the equal-supernatural-rights cause.
Peter looks the boy over again, eyes catching on pale skin, dusty-pink nipples, trim abs, and narrow hips. It’s unfortunate that his father is who he is. Because objectively, junior here is gorgeous—and that’s not even accounting for the way his bound hands hit Peter right in the kinks. Peter wouldn’t mind having the pretty thing tied to his luxury mattress, instead of trussed up on the wooden office floor.
There’s a throaty chuckle from behind the tape, like the brat knows exactly where Peter’s thoughts have drifted and isn’t put off by it.
And isn’t that interesting? It begs the question, how much of Peter’s attraction is mutual, and is it worth exploring?
It’s simple to catch hold of amused eyes and deliberately drag the tip of his tongue against a slightly elongated fang. He takes in the rapid expansion of pupils, quickened breath, and blooming scent of arousal.
Well. Clearly the boy doesn’t hold the same bigotted views as his father when it comes to ‘wolves. Baby’s definitely got a kink. It might make Peter a terrible person, but defiling the very willing son of one of the county’s most hateful anti-supernatural extremists would be icing on the extortion-cake.
And if Peter gets to keep him afterwards? Even better.
Peter uses his hold to lift the boy to his feet, already devising a new plan. Leading him to a chair, Peter gets him comfortably settled, then crouches down to put them at eye-level. He takes a moment to examine the desire reflected back at him. Oh, yes. This is definitely going to be worth it.
“I have an offer for you, Mr. Stilinki.” He flicks out a claw and slices through the safety-tape binding the boy’s wrists, enjoying the delicious shiver that earns him. Replacing the tape with his hands, he circles the surprisingly delicate bones in a loose hold and rubs his thumbs in soothing circles over the fluttering pulse. “On the one hand,” he says, low and smooth. “We could let this little exchange play out. I promise you’ll be treated extremely well, and, once your father pays the ransom, you’ll be returned to him unharmed.”
The boy hums behind the gag and shifts forward slightly, curious, honey-brown eyes clearly asking “or?”
Peter smiles at the show of eager anticipation. “Or, we scrap the ransom demand, and instead, you let me take you out to dinner. I would very much like to see if this,” he lifts a fragile wrist and brushes a kiss to soft skin, reveling in the hitched breath and the bloom of sugary want in his scent, “goes where I think it could.”
The boy—Peter refuses to think of him as his boy just yet—says something, but it’s too muffled to make out, then rolls his pretty eyes in frustration. Peter chuckles and reaches up to undo the tape. A pink tongue swipes enticingly across full, reddened lips as soon as his mouth is free, and the flash of a wicked grin makes Peter’s pulse race with anticipation.
“How about both?”
Stiles makes the rounds, hugging his father’s cook, butler, both maids, and the gardener before he answers the question.
“Idunknow what to tell you, pops. I was on my run like normal, and someone grabbed me out of nowhere. Maybe my bodyguard should’ve spent less time flirting with the yoga-ladies in the park, and more time, you know, guarding my body?”
His father growls in frustration and Stiles bites back a snicker. After a week surrounded by werewolves, Stiles could teach him a few things about growling. Derek, especially, has fantastic nuance and range in his growls. And Peter—well—Stiles shivers at the memory of his wolf rumbling in his ear.
“That won’t be a problem anymore.” His father’s sneer draws Stiles’ attention away from thoughts of blue eyes flashing red, and back to the conversation—that feels more like an interrogation if he’s being honest. “The incompetant fool embarrassed me enough—letting my son get kidnapped from under his nose by those filthy beasts. He’s been fired, and I had him blacklisted. He’ll never work in private security again.”
Stiles grits his teeth and bites back a sarcastic quip about just how “filthy” his “beast” is—because fuck if Stiles hasn’t discovered half a dozen new kinks over the last few days. Arguing against his father’s gross, speciesist language isn't a fight he's gonna win today.
Pushing the annoyance aside, he makes a mental note to send Scott a nice severance check. The guy might’ve been a terrible bodyguard, and dumb as a box of rocks to boot, but it wasn’t exactly his fault that Stiles had plans that required him far, far away.
“Cool beans,” he finally replies—no need to tip his father off to ulterior motives at this point in the game. “Whelp. Good to see you, pops, but I’m gonna catch a nap.” He backs towards the stairs. “This abduction stuff is exhausting. I feel rode hard and put away wet. You have no idea.” And thank god he doesn’t know how literally Stiles means that. His ass is still aching pleasantly from Peter’s very enthusiastic goodbye.
“I don’t think so young man,” his father bites out, halting his stealthy progress. And damn, Stiles hasn’t missed the “I’m the most important person in the room so you better listen up” voice. Surprisingly, it doesn’t affect him the way he’s used to—maybe because he now knows first hand what real authority sounds like. Peter’s Alpha-voice is boner-inducing. All smooth and commanding and—Stiles loses track of the conversation again briefly, then jerks his brain back on track in time to hear—
“—an interview set up with a reporter that owes me. If we spin this correctly, we can use your little misadventure to our advantage.”
Stiles swallows a disappointed sigh—along with his annoyance that he can still be disappointed by his dad’s callousness. It’s no surprise that he wants to use Stiles’ kidnapping as leverage in his war against the supernatural. He wouldn’t be who he is otherwise.
Stiles hides his reaction with a fake yawn and stretch—though the exhaustion is real. It’s also his own fault. As Peter smuggly pointed out, it was Stiles who kept them up all night pleading for “one more round.”
“Can’t it wait? I’m really beat.”
His father gives him a suspicious look. “What aren’t you telling me? And—” His eyes narrow further. “Wait… Do you have a tan?”
Stiles chokes on a laugh, doing his best to sound outraged—of all the things his father could notice— “A tan, dad? What? Do you think I was sitting by my kidnapper’s pool eating bonbons all week?”
His father snorts, losing a bit of his suspicious rigidity. “Do you even know what a bonbon is? The kitchen staff can make anything, and you insist drive-through curly-fries are the nectar of the gods.”
Stiles shrugs. That’s fair. Peter laughed when Stiles, lounging by the infinity pool, requested them. He did, however—after a few quips about being on vacation—make sure all of Stiles’ drinks had little umbrellas in them. Because not only is the guy smoking-hot and a total sex-god, he’s also got a glorious sense of humor.
It’s only been a week, but Stiles might already be a little bit in love with Peter Hale, Alpha werewolf of Beacon Hills and his father’s worst nightmare. The thought makes a smile pull at the corners of his mouth, but he schools his expression into one of innocence and tugs the waistband of his pants lower. “Do these look like tan lines to you?”
His father’s lips tighten into a harsh, white line and his nostrils flare at the fresh, finger-shaped bruises decorating the arch of Stiles’ hip. Very consensual bruises, but Mr. Appearances-Are-Everything doesn’t need to know that. Stiles can’t even bring himself to feel bad for playing into his father’s speciesism. The implication that his son was intimate with one of them—consensual or not—will convince him to keep the whole situation out of the press. He can’t have Stiles’ “extracurricular activities” bringing shame on the family name, after all.
“Sorry, pops. My bed is calling and I need to sleep off this abduction thing A-sap. I’ve got a hot date tonight.”
“You’re not going anywhere without a bodyguard,” his father snaps automatically. “And after the stunts you’ve pulled with the last few, it’ll be a few weeks before I can find someone to replace McCall. You’ve developed a reputation.”
Stiles snorts. Reputation aside, they both know the “bodyguards” aren’t there to keep Stiles safe. Peter’s successful kidnapping notwithstanding—the guys his father hires are glorified babysitters, tasked with keeping his rebellious son out of the tabloids. Stiles has mostly played along, but now there’s something he wants more than he wants to keep the peace—or rather, someone.
“Hate to break it to you, but after being a prisoner for seven days, I have no intention of being under house-arrest for five minutes, much less ‘a few weeks’.” He flicks a wave over his shoulder as he turns and trots up the stairs. “By the way, my date and I have breakfast plans. Don’t wait up.”
Stiles ignores the sputtering behind him and pulls out his phone to send Peter a text. We still on for six, Alpha?
He gets a response seconds later. Of course, baby. I’m counting the minutes.
Stiles smiles to himself as he skips towards his bedroom. He might have started out trying to prove a point, but getting himself kidnapped by the hot local Alpha worked out even better than expected. He does love it when a plan comes together.