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Stiles tugs on the collar of his formal robes, annoyed that his father had forced him to attend the fundraising dinner. He inches towards the refreshments table, eyeing the small glasses of alcoholic refreshments with undisguised longing.
“I doubt you’re old enough for those, Mr Stilinski,” Peter Hale reminds him in an amused voice.
Stiles tells himself that no, that was not a squawk, rather, an unusual exclamation of surprise that any teenager would have in the presence of Peter Hale, current CEO of Hale Enterprises and also Alpha of the Hale werewolf family.
“I will be soon,” Stiles retorts immediately, then kicks himself when he realises he’s failed to heed his father’s warning about not getting into trouble. Especially not with Peter Hale.
“Not yet. Not for two years more, no,” Peter says smoothly, taking a sip of his champagne.
“You know my age?”
“Of course,” Peter comments, stepping nearer to Stiles. “I remember seeing you by your mother’s side when you were younger. You were an adorable boy."
Stiles shrugs noncommittally. He was never comfortable with anybody raising the topic of his late mother in public.
Peter sidles up even closer, putting a sympathetic hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Did anybody tell you that you look like her? You have her eyes.”
Stiles tries not to squirm too visibly, even as he tries to remain polite. “Yeah. I know I don’t look like my father. Not everybody can look like a swashbuckling wizard straight from the pages of the Lord of the Rings the way he does.”
“It’s not a bad thing, in my opinion,” Peter says. By then, he’s standing so close, he’s practically whispering into Stiles’ ear. Stiles looks around wildly, hoping for a glimpse of his father, cursing the fact that he had declined a security detail for the night.
“Uncle,” Derek Hale suddenly appears, glowering at the both of them. He casts a brief glance at Stiles, which goes unnoticed. Stiles barely stops himself from squeaking in relief.
“Yes?”
“Dr Deaton would like to speak to you about the donation you wanted to make to the new hospital wing.”
“Ah yes,” Peter straightens and gives his champagne flute to a passing waiter. “That donation.”
“He’s waiting this way,” Derek sweeps an elegant arm to one side, indicating where his uncle should go, frowning at Stiles.
“Later then, Mr Stilinski,” Peter smiles at Stiles, who manages a weak grin in return.
“Yeah, I’ll be seeing you around, Mr Hale,” Stiles says, remembering his manners.
Derek turns to follow his uncle, eyes narrowed with suspicion at the satisfied look on Peter’s face.
“He really does look like his mother,” Peter says in a conversational tone. “Do you remember her, Derek?”
“Yes.” Everybody did – Mr Stilinski’s grand love affair with a human was the subject of many a journalistic article and his continued devotion to his late wife won him many sympathisers; something which always came in useful during election time.
“He’s grown up really well,” Peter muses. “Who would have thought of it?”
Derek stiffens in alarm, not approving of the particular line of thought by his uncle. “He’s sixteen,” he reminds his uncle unsubtly.
“Oh, come now, Derek. No need to be prudish. There’s only two more years to go before he’s of age,” Peter smiles at Derek, revealing a hint of his canines.