Chapter Text
“Father always said you were understanding.”
Stiles clenched his jaw tightly.
What was there to understand?
Stiles looked up at his stepson. He wasn’t surprised to see nothing in Erol’s evaluation of him.
Erol resented Deucalion for marrying Stiles. It wasn’t the age gap, or the unexpected arrival of their wedded status.
It had been as simple as societal status. Stiles had been born well beneath them.
And was human.
“What of Charlotte’s inheritance?” Stiles finally asked. He stared at the detailing in the desk before him—Deucalion’s desk, though now it was assumed to belong to Erol.
Erol sat with ease behind the desk, shuffling through papers with no clear purpose other than to appear busy. “If she presents with lycanthropy, she’ll be more than welcome to take her place among us.”
Stiles didn’t miss the way he had been omitted from such an invitation. It wasn’t uncommon for humans to be accepted into a pack, usually as a mate of a member. But a pack like the Ambrose clan had been seen as under threat since Deucalion’s waning health and withdrawal from social engagements.
And now without an Alpha, it was up to Erol to find a replacement.
“But, given what Deaton has told us, she is unlikely to present,” Erol concluded.
Stiles didn’t shift in his seat, ignoring the dread that had been mounting all day in his gut. “And her inheritance.”
Erol stopped shifting papers, finally dropping his guise of well nature as he relaxed into the plush office chair. He pinned Stiles with a look of contempt.
Good , Stiles thought. They were beyond false niceties, and Erol could at least still show some type of emotion towards him besides indifference.
“Charlotte will receive a dowry upon her wedding day,” Erol finally stated. “Father was specific about that—even set it up for her with the banks.” He sounded annoyed at the fact that Deucalion had managed to protect that much.
Stiles was relieved Erol didn’t seem to know about the small amount he had managed to hide away himself. Deucalion had thought it admirable of Stiles to have a savings, and it hurt that Deucalion couldn’t see the truth of the matter–Stiles had no hope that Erol would do right by him or Charlotte upon Deucalion’s passing.
Stiles waited for Erol to continue, refusing to leave this room until the man either admitted his greed or changed his attitude. He had little hope of the latter.
Erol clenched his jaw. “And,” he sighed, leaning forward for a small piece of parchment. He drew up the quill from the inkwell, tapping it slightly before scratching out something there. “She’ll receive a monthly stipend. More than enough, actually.”
The parchment dangled from Erol’s fingers in a false sense of charity. Stiles stared at it before reaching out to take it. He could see the tiny number even before withdrawing it from Erol’s grasp.
Erol looked pleased with himself as he stood from his chair.
It wasn’t enough. It could barely cover an apartment in the slums, let alone food. And Stiles’ small savings could delay that only for months. Stiles was starting to regret not taking the allowance Deucalion had offered him so many times.
Stiles resisted the urge to crumple the offer with just as much care as Erol used when creating it. He knew better than to push his luck, certain he would be called greedy for wanting more—what Charlotte deserved.
“If she needs more?” Stiles chose to ask.
Erol stopped pouring himself a glass of brandy. A look of annoyance settled on his features as he finally turned to look at Stiles. “I would advise she doesn’t.”
“Deucalion was her father too,” Stiles answered.
He knew it was a mistake to press when he saw the anger that curled Erol’s features into a sneer.
“Perhaps you were able to fool a blind man into believing such a laughable lie,” Erol lowly uttered, taking a step towards Stiles.
And there it was—the contempt. The need so many had to speak of Charlotte’s birth as illegitimate.
Stiles remained calm, knowing that any emotion would be taken as an admittance to whatever guilt they wanted to place on him.
“She looks nothing like father,” Erol continued. “She barely resembles you.”
The latter was a bold faced lie, but Stiles allowed Erol’s anger to simmer instead of boil over.
“Everyone knew you bursted at the seams when father brought you home—a patched up marriage to hide a bastard child out of charity.”
Stiles clenched his jaw, moving to stand. “You’re grieving,” he chose to say instead. “I won’t take those words to heart.” He drew in an even breath. “I loved your father, dearly, as did Charlotte.” It was true—Stiles had grown to love Deucalion as one might a friend—Deucalion had been kind enough to never expect a romantic love to develop. But the older man had adored Charlotte from the moment she was born, and she was more than enough for them both. “All I ask is … allow me a few weeks to arrange things, and then we will be gone from the estate.”
Erol’s anger appeared to eb with the offer of their willful eviction.
Stiles knew when he could push someone, and when they would react even more unkindly. He learned that many times before Charlotte was born. And Deucalion had given them the safest few years of their life. Now, Stiles would have to live off of the assumed generosity of Deucalion’s son—heir to the Ambrose estate and title.
Stiles refused to allow Charlotte to be unhoused. He could grovel to Erol’s ego if it meant a stay of execution.
Erol nodded his head, as if he was considering all outcomes. “Very well,” he acquiesced. “You cannot remain in the house, but the gamekeeper cottage should suffice.” He looked pleased with himself. “Until you have your affairs in order.”
Stiles knew which cottage he spoke of, holding his tongue as he offered a small nod. He moved to bow in mock respect before turning to leave.
The gamekeeper cottage was large enough that he and Charlotte wouldn’t be uncomfortable, but it had suffered damage even before Stiles married Deucalion. And yet, it was likely a safer space than what he would be forced to endure in the slums once more.
Stiles didn’t bother to shut the door as he exited into the gardens. He drew in a heavy breath as he tried to release some of the tension growing in his shoulders.
Deucalion had only been gone less than a week before Erol moved himself and his wife and son into the estate. Stiles had relinquished his and Charlotte’s rooms to the couple, allowing them to lord over the new domain. Erol’s wife and mate, Bessie, looked down her nose at Charlotte the one time the child was forced to spend dinner with them. Bessie had made a remark that children were very little joy, even when being seen and not heard. Charlotte was required to eat meals in the kitchen afterwards, much to Bessie’s enjoyment.
Their son, Edward, was allowed to come and go as he pleased–a self entitled Beta who sought after the joy he derived from harassing Stiles. He was the main reason Stiles looked forward to getting out of the main house–the man’s eyes lingered in ways Stiles knew held nothing but danger.
Charlotte’s laughter pulled Stiles from his thoughts. His lips pressed into a smile as he watched her chase after a small wooden hoop one of the servants pushed for her.
Charlotte squealed with excitement. She lost her balance from her speed, toppling over into the grass. She giggled despite the servant’s worried tone as she rushed to inspect the young child for injury.
Stiles felt hopeless once more.
He had struggled for months while carrying Charlotte. The pain and humiliation he endured by too many had taken its toll on him. He was losing his home all over again, the refuge Deucalion had offered them was slipping away now.
And just like that, thoughts of him came rushing back.
The promises he made were hollow, and meant nothing after he left that day.
Stiles had been told too often not to worry about his future—that he would be taken care of. But everything he had was earned fighting with tooth and nail, only to be pulled away from him with circumstance.
Stiles worked himself to the bone trying to make enough money to keep a roof for him and his mother—exhausted and starved most days had been a driving force. And then things changed when he was offered coin from a brothel madam. She had seen the way Stiles rushed around the streets from job to job, looking haggard as he spoke with various peddlers about herbs and medicines most didn’t know existed.
Stiles looked the part she needed for a particular client.
A wealthy werewolf client. Though lycanthropy was more and more common, there were still those opposed to mingling with nonhumans.
But a wealthy client meant his mother wouldn’t die in an asylum’s sick bed.
Stiles accepted when he realized there was no real choice if he wanted to keep himself and his mother afloat.
And Derek Hale had been nice.
Strikingly beautiful, kind and even shy once Stiles realized he wasn’t trying to glare a hole through him. It was just how Derek’s brow settled some times when he was deep in thought. They only talked those first nights, Derek never reaching a hand towards Stiles in anything other than greeting.
They had been playing cards, talking in amicable conversations. Derek had actually laughed at something Stiles said. The warmth of Derek’s laughter was rare, like a sunflare, but worth whatever it took to hear. Stiles had made the move, placing his hands over Derek’s just as he was about to shuffle the cards.
It was electric, sudden and charged.
They fucked on the parlor floor, sprawled out by the fire.
Stiles never felt warmth like Derek’s hands on him, the way such strong hands relented power. He never told Derek it was his first time, shy to admit that he was so unrestrained with him.
Stiles slept soundly for the first time in years with Derek curled around him. He felt safe, welcomed in another’s space.
Stiles knew nothing about Derek at first, and that hadn’t bothered him in the beginning. He told himself that Derek’s life outside of their time together wasn’t important—the spacious townhouse Derek had placed Stiles in was enough to make Stiles feel content in ignorance. It was close to the hospital where Claudia was admitted thanks to Derek’s coin.
Stiles could visit Claudia daily.
And when she passed, Derek paid for her to be properly buried, preventing her from being placed in an unmarked pauper’s grave.
And like a fool, Stiles started to fall for Derek. He ignored how transactional their relationship was on paper. He had always enjoyed and looked forward to spending time with Derek.
Everything changed the night the country slipped into war.
Stiles was sound asleep, curled around one of the lush pillows. He wasn’t surprised when Derek’s rut came early, a reaction to the approaching full moon. He was pliant as Derek fucked into him, his moans muffled by the pillow until Derek tore it away.
Derek always wanted him laid bare, enjoying whatever sound he could get.
Stiles came, hard, when Derek’s knot took. He had grown accustomed to it, craving the connection and need.
He softly laughed when Derek nuzzled his neck, Derek’s beard scratching his soft skin in the most delicious ways moments before Derek’s fangs nipped. He knew why some acted repulsed by the idea of sleeping with nonhumans, but he couldn’t feel disgust for Derek. Maybe he was biased.
Maybe he craved that primal need Derek always had for him. Base urges being acted out with nothing but passion.
But even the year he suffered after Derek’s departure, he still found a heat licking low in his gut at the thought of Derek, and only Derek.
It didn’t matter who fucked him afterwards, he always thought of his time with Derek as lightning in a bottle. He’d never have it again.
When Derek got up that night to answer the incessant pounding on the door, Stiles had been naive to think nothing would change.
Derek told him of the war declaration requiring all citizens with lycanthropy to report—noble and peasant alike, and Stiles thought nothing would change.
Stiles believed Derek’s promise.
He believed Derek would want him there to return to—that Derek had genuinely meant his concern for Stiles’ wellbeing, citing the violence that would break out in the streets when the war’s effects started displaying throughout the kingdom. He had been so worried when he started taking ill throughout the day, unsure if he was suffering the same illness his mother had. He was so preoccupied with worry that it took him longer to notice the progressing swell in his belly.
Stiles didn’t know what to expect—no one ever told him.
But when the child began to kick, he knew everything had changed.
It didn’t take long before nothing fit Stiles correctly, and then he had stopped going out almost entirely for fear of being seen.
Derek had been gone only six months when a messenger arrived, shattering Stiles’ life completely with a notice of eviction.
“The Duke needs to take care of his wife,” was the excuse the messenger gave.
Stiles had clutched his dressing gown tightly, attempting to hide his stomach, though he knew the messenger had seen.
The messenger seemed sympathetic, turning a pitying look up at Stiles. “I need to report back to Duchess Hale.”
Stiles was still struggling to register that Derek was actually a Duke, let alone married. Apparently this messenger knew more about Derek than Stiles ever did. He knew it was likely Derek had been married, but Derek had spent so much time here, in their townhouse, that Stiles started to believe Derek may have been widowed.
“But I also need to take a break,” the messenger offered. “I need to eat, maybe take a walk,” the Beta continued. He paused and waited for his words to sink in. “I also wasn’t told to check what was in the house. So, if things went missing… well, I don’t think anyone would be the wiser.”
Stiles realized the man was giving him time to take whatever he could before leaving. He weakly nodded, uttering a pathetic thanks before closing the door.
Derek was married. Derek was a Duke. Derek was selling their home.
For his wife.
Tears burned Stiles’ eyes, a lump forming in his throat. It meant nothing—it all meant nothing to Derek.
He meant nothing to Derek.
He drew in a deep, shuttering breath when he felt their baby kick—his baby.
He needed to get to work, he had to hurry and pack whatever he could carry, and make sure he had enough to sell.
He packed a small bag, something that he knew he could carry without being a target, but had enough space for various valuables. He took some of the silverware, knowing it would be worth a decent amount. He didn’t feel guilty taking the various gifts Derek had given him, knowing that they had no sentimental value now, and wouldn’t be missed—he assumed Derek’s wife didn’t know they existed which made them ideal to fence.
The only item he still had to this day was the locket Derek had given him prior to his departure. It had a detailed portrait cameo of Derek, something Stiles had shyly asked for before Derek left. He called himself foolish for keeping it, but he wanted to give it to Charlotte when she was old enough. She deserved to know the truth of her origin, but he didn’t want to hurt Deucalion with it either.
When Stiles had left the townhouse in bulky clothing, the pack slung over his shoulder as he attempted to balance the weight against his own, the messenger had returned.
The man offered Stiles a sad nod of appreciation that there was no scene to be had.
“Please don’t tell … don’t tell Duchess Hale that I was here,” Stiles uttered.
“I think she knows you were here,” the man answered, looking uneasily up at the house. “But I don’t have to tell her what state you’re in,” he offered.
Stiles looked away from the man, ignoring the tears—he didn’t want to cry in front of anyone, even a stranger.
“Here,” the man offered a small pouch to Stiles.
Stiles stared at it with surprise before quickly shaking his head.
“Please,” the man pushed. “I think I understand now why she offered the additional pay.”
Stiles looked at the man in confusion.
“I’m a Runner,” the man explained.
Stiles knew he had paled.
Runners were employed when violence was expected—hired muscle of sorts that dealt with scenarios most rich people didn’t want to think about.
“I hate to think she might of even wanted us to have an altercation,” he explained. “Please just take it. At least for the little one.”
Stiles hesitated before taking the small pouch. “Thank you,” he softly uttered.
The man nodded. “My advice? Disappear.”
Stiles was surprised by those words.
“In my experience, when people with titles have bastards, it never ends well for the person with no rank,” he explained. “Either the jealous spouse wants the kid gone, or the one who sired it will take the kid despite any protest.”
Stiles felt sick thinking about Derek finding him one day, any hopes of a sweet reunion soured even further by the thought of Derek taking his baby away. Or the mysterious Duchess Hale trying to kill his baby.
“Thank you, I will,” Stiles finally uttered, moving to take his leave.
“If you ever need help with … well, if you find yourself in trouble, my name’s Parrish—Jordan Parrish.”
Stiles nodded, though he knew he’d likely never call on the man. With what coin could he be expected to pay him.
And just like that, Stiles had found himself in a hovel he could barely afford to keep heated.
He did what he had to in order to keep some income. His belly was huge, knowing he was likely close to his birthing date, and terrified that he didn’t know what to expect. What did male birthers go through in a normal scenario? What did they experience when giving birth to a child that possibly had lycanthropy?
He had heard horror stories from people who detested nonhumans, werewolves particularly, of the babies clawing their way out.
Stiles knew he had a fever for some time before he had collapsed in the street that fateful day.
He remembered no one stopping. Someone had even stepped on his hand, though the pain was a phantom ache compared to the sharp contraction in his stomach. His vision was blurry, he couldn’t call for the help he so desperately wanted.
Maybe he should have written to the Duchess—showed up at Derek’s home and told his wife that he was expecting. Maybe she would have taken pity on the child at least.
But Stiles had been terrified she’d hurt the baby.
The last thing Stiles heard was the faint clacking of a walking cane and the startled gasp of surprise from someone stumbling upon him.
When Stiles woke, it was in a warm bed and to the faint crying of a baby.
His whole body hurt, though he wasn’t suffering from a fever. And then he realized that his stomach was significantly flatter. He panicked, thrashing against the sluggish nature of his limbs as he tried to get up. His baby was somewhere in this place—he needed to know his baby was alright.
“Easy,” a warm male voice stated in a calming manner. “You’ll hurt your incisions—or so the healer said.”
Stiles looked at the man by his bedside.
He was an older man, though handsome in his age. He wasn’t looking at Stiles but appeared alert in nature. “Apologies if it unnerves you, but I’m blind,” he noted, as if he could tell that Stiles was trying to figure out why he wasn’t maintaining eye contact.
“I’m not unnerved,” Stiles uttered with minor difficulty. His throat was dry, his mouth completely parched. He was grateful for the glass of water the man offered him, as if attuned to what Stiles needed.
“You don’t mind me asking, but is there someone we should contact,” the man asked once Stiles had enough time to take his fill of the water.
Stiles allowed his brow to pinch as he inspected his surroundings. “No,” he finally answered once he deduced that the man must have wealth.
The man looked upset by that. “No mate?”
Stiles appeared surprised. “Why would you assume that?”
The man laughed. It wasn’t cruel, but wholesome and filled with goodnature. “You stink like an Alpha.”
Stiles was surprised. He recalled some of the werewolves he serviced remarking that he smelled like another Alpha, but he figured it was just from a former exchange.
“Just one?” He asked.
The man nodded. “Likely the child’s father—though that’s usually a mate mark that leaves enough of a smell. I’m guessing from your reaction you don’t have a mark.”
Stiles’ brow furrowed. “I … I don’t know much about lycanthropy customs.”
The man didn’t appear insulted by that, simply nodding his head. “It’s not unusual, but that’s irresponsible for that Alpha not to tell you about it.”
Stiles stared down at his empty glass, suddenly feeling sick. “He doesn’t know,” he finally admitted.
The man was quiet, giving Stiles the time to adjust.
“He … he’s fighting in the war—I found out he has a wife,” Stiles offered.
“Ah,” the man clucked in a knowing way. “Well, it’s not unheard of for Alphas to have several relations outside their marriage—oftentimes having several children by different people.”
Stiles was going to be sick. “I could be one of many then,” he hollowly spoke.
“It’s possible,” the man remarked. “But enough of him,” he suddenly countered, as if he could tell Stiles was growing more upset. “Would you like to meet your daughter?”
Stiles felt lighter at those words, staring at the man. Daughter. He had a daughter. “Is she… is she okay?”
The man offered a warm smile. “She’s very healthy—quite lively too. The wetnurse said she won’t stop crying unless she’s in the room with you.”
The faint cries were starting to make sense to Stiles.
“I’d like to … to see her,” Stiles admitted. He wanted to hold her, to see her for the first time.
Stiles couldn’t stop the tears from coming the moment he held Charlotte in his arms. He drew in a shaky breath as he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead as she soothed into a calming sleep the moment she was nestled in Stiles’ arms.
“Ah, quiet,” the man mused. “She’s quite taken with you.”
Stiles couldn’t stop looking at her. “You can tell just from her sleeping?”
“Not quite,” the man explained. “I can scent the change in her. Just as I can with you.”
Stiles looked at the man.
“Being blind doesn’t affect our abilities as werewolves,” the man finally confirmed. “But enough of me intruding,” he concluded as he stood up. He picked up his cane from where it rested against the bed. “I’ll leave you to spend time with her. Just call out for a servant if you need anything. They’ll hear you.”
Stiles looked down at his daughter, fear of uncertainty suddenly cutting through him. “I owe you her life.”
The man paused by the door. “No one owes someone else a life,” the man stated, his tone a bit more guarded than before. “My cane just happened to trip over you.”
Stiles wished he could have at least smiled at the man’s attempt at good humor. “Please, I don’t know how I’m going to repay you.”
The man shook his head. “We’ll speak about such things at a later time,” he silenced whatever argument Stiles was going to have with him. “Please, enjoy this time with her.” He appeared pleased when Stiles didn’t counter him. “I’ll have the cook send something up for you. It’s been days and you’ve eaten nothing but broth.”
“Thank you,” Stiles softly called after the man. He looked down at his daughter when she squirmed some, pressing her face into his chest. He ran his knuckle gently across her little plump cheek.
Stiles could see Derek in her, and the pain cut deeper than the ache of his incision. He hoped, jealously, that she wouldn’t have Derek’s eyes. He didn’t think he could look at those reminders.
Deucalion had just returned home from a prolonged business trip, and had been overwhelmed when stumbling upon Stiles just yards from the entrance to the townhouse he had been renting before returning to his estate in the country.
It made things easy to twist and cover up when Deucalion made his offer to Stiles.
“I ask that you allow me to know you,” Deucalion explained. “To call Charlotte my own. And to make what years I may have left kind ones.”
It was a gift Stiles knew he didn’t want to refuse.
Deucalion was guarded, but kind. He doted upon Charlotte with love and affection.
It passed too quickly.
Stiles remembered spending the last hours with Deucalion, placing cold compresses to his forehead. He placed the gentlest of kisses to the corner of Deucalion’s lips, a soft thanks for the years of companionship and love gifted to them.
Deucalion was the best friend Stiles had through the years, and he would be dearly missed.
“This isn’t right,” Erica angrily uttered as she slammed the lid down on Charlotte’s trunk.
Stiles was torn from his memories, looking up at Erica.
Erica sat down on the trunk with a huff of annoyance. She crossed her arms over her chest, looking at Stiles with an annoyed turn in her lips. “You were married to Deucalion—Charlotte deserves more than a laughable smack in the face,” she reasoned.
Stiles turned his head to look through the doorway, seeing Charlotte playing with her dolls in the parlor. He didn’t want her to hear more than she likely knew. “Erol is Deucalion’s heir—Charlotte hasn’t displayed any lycanthropy.”
Erica rolled her eyes. “We’re not all like that—we take care of our family regardless of stature,” she stood, moving to take the poorly folded sheet from Stiles. She refused a long time ago to allow werewolves like Erol to give them all the bad names stereotypes gave them. “Deucalion must have known he’d do something like this, why else would he put her dowry in the bank?”
Stiles knew Erica had a point. “Regardless, there isn’t much to be done.” He picked up another item turning it this way and that before deciding that Erol didn’t deserve such a fine candelabra. “Should take this to town.”
Erica took the candelabra, artfully wrapping it in a sheet. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Stiles reached a hand out, touching Erica’s forearm. “Thank you.”
Erica snorted. “You’ve always been kind to us,” she reasoned, turning a quick glance towards Charlotte. “Deucalion loved her—and you. Even if you didn’t share a bed.”
Stiles flushed a bit. He counted himself lucky that the household never spread rumors. It would have made it infinitely easier for Erol to steal Charlotte’s inheritance—perhaps even her dowry. He turned himself back to the work of packing as Erica hauled another trunk away to be brought for sale. He couldn’t help feeling guilty whenever his eyes landed on the small trunk Charlotte was meant to fit her life into.
A hand pulled at the hem of his light coat, catching Stiles’ attention away from the room he was meant to pack away into nothing. He looked down, smiling when he saw Charlotte’s large eyes blinking up at him.
Derek’s eyes.
“Baba, so pretty” Charlotte announced, holding up her porcelain doll to show Stiles.
Stiles smiled as he knelt next to Charlotte, taking the doll into his hands. “She looks very pretty,” he confirmed.
The doll had been her last gift from Deucalion, and she treasured it.
Stiles noticed that the locket was wrapped around the doll’s neck, his brow furrowing when he realized she must have taken it.
“Her papa,” Charlotte reasoned when she saw Stiles open the locket.
Stiles clenched his jaw tightly.
“No!” Charlotte yelled when Stiles started to take it off. “No! Papa!” She was crying now that Stiles held the doll out of her reach.
“Charlotte, no,” Stiles tried to calm her down.
Her cries started to grow in volume, and Stiles knew Bessie would be furious with the noise inside the house.
Stiles reached his hands out, grasping his daughter’s shoulders in a calm manner.
Charlotte took her opportunity with Stiles’ distraction to clutch the doll tightly to her chest. She continued to shake her head as Stiles spoke.
“No one can see that locket, butterfly,” Stiles explained, though he didn’t try to take it back.
Charlotte ceased the shaking of her head to look at Stiles. “Mine.”
Stiles sighed. “It’s not yours to take.”
“No,” Charlotte corrected Stiles, her strong brow furrowed in annoyance. She looked exceptionally like Derek that way, and it pulled at Stiles’ heart. “My papa.”
Stiles felt his heart lodge in his throat. He shook his head.
“Mine,” Charlotte childishly uttered, squeezing the doll so tightly against her chest that Stiles was certain its head would pop off.
Stiles couldn’t hold the tears in any more, pressing his hands to his face as he cried—truly cried, for the first time since Charlotte’s birth.
He tried to lessen the noise of his tears, hiding what he could from Charlotte. He was exhausted. He missed his mother. He missed the safety he felt with Deucalion.
And he even missed Derek.
A lithe body climbed into his lap, little arms trying to wrap around his neck as a doll dropped to land against his thigh. “I’m sorry,” Charlotte softly spoke. “Baba, I’m sorry,” she uttered.
Stiles wrapped his arms around Charlotte, holding her close as he tucked her head beneath his chin. “It’s okay—I’m okay,” he reassured her. “Baba’s sorry,” he added as an afterthought, closing his eyes before pressing his nose into the curls atop her head.
And not for the first time, Stiles wondered if anyone in Derek’s family had curls. If Derek could take one look at her and know—if any werewolf could witness them in a room together and know. Deucalion had assured Stiles that Charlotte spent enough time around him to smell as if she was his own. But there was that worry—that anyone with eyes could see the resemblance to Derek.
“She can keep the locket,” Stiles finally relented, content to sit with his daughter in his lap, surrounded by the remnants of the only life she had known. It was all going to change, but he would do his best to give her the life she deserved.
Even if it meant remarrying.