DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers Hidekaz Himaruya

THE CALL OF THE WILD

WANDERLUST


ONE

THE ISLES

Matthew was brewing tea when Liam dropped a messy stack of parchment on the tabletop, making him flinch. He dropped it in front of Gilbert, who was consulting a large map of the north-eastern Isles and the Kirkland pack's boundaries within it. Gilbert looked from the stack to Liam to Scott and back.

"Twenty-two reports of Northern raids this month," said Liam. "Their longships have been seen on the coast at the Firth all the way into the Highlands. They're growing bolder."

"Fuck," said Gilbert, rubbing his jaw. He glanced at Scott, but the pack-leader folded his arms and leant back like an examiner, waiting to see what his successor would do.

Matthew poured cups of tea for Scott and Liam, and then put his hands on Gilbert's shoulders from behind. His Alpha-mate was reading the reports, muttering aloud and mispronouncing names. (Gilbert's English was good; his Gaelic was not.)

"They keep targeting settlements with water access and farmlands," he said, finding a name on the map and dragging his finger across the line of a river. "It's not material wealth they're after, it's land."

"Obviously," said Liam, taking a drink. "There's no wealth on the Isles. If they wanted luxury goods they'd go south."

"They do," Gilbert said absently, rifling through the reports. "But these aren't traders out on a viking; these ships are full of settlers seeking better lands to colonize. It's a hard life in the north, I don't blame them for migrating south. The climate is harsh, the pup mortality rate is high, and none of the clans are unified. The way they operate is archaic. Leadership is founded on strength—trial-by-combat—and pack-members swear blood oaths under the full moon. It's all superstition," he said disdainfully. "They still live by the old rites—oral folklores and pagan rituals. For a culture so well-traveled, they hold fast to their traditions."

"You seem to know a lot about the north," Scott noted, mildly suspicious.

Gilbert shrugged. "A lot of Omega refugees end up in the Western Empire. Omegas with nowhere else to go when their clan is conquered and all of the Alphas killed in battle."

"So, why not just do that here then?" Liam asked. "Choose to be Islanders, I mean. If they're fine with mating Westerners, why not Islanders?"

"Because these aren't refugees," Gilbert said, stabbing a report with his index-finger. "They're not looking for a clan to adopt them, they're looking to grow established bloodlines of their own. They're looking for land to claim and rule, not share. These aren't just settlers," he emphasized, "they're warriors first."

The Alphas fell into pensive silence.

Matthew had experienced enough not to judge a people by ignorant rumour, but the Islanders' prejudice against the north was deeper sowed than any other. (Though, Islanders so rarely came into contact with Easterners that their existence had fallen into the category of myth, and whenever someone discovered Ivan's heritage there was always a moment of stunned staring before verbal communication resumed.) Matthew knew the Islanders hatred of the north was steeped in fear; fear of the unknown, fear of a breed bigger and stronger than they. The Northerners were fewer, but, according to the accounts of raid survivors, they were brutal, belonging more to the realm of wild beasts than of civilized folk. Omegas whispered that Northern Alphas were lusty things who carried steel weapons and wore furs and had hundreds of pups each. They were rough, rude, and warlike, and they practiced a religion older than the Isles, themselves. Matthew had read a book once; or rather, he had glanced in a book once, before Arthur grabbed it out of his nine-year-old hands. It was a heavy leather-bound tomb that sat in the bottom corner of Arthur's library, though Matthew had never seen his dam—or anyone—remove it to use. It was written in a foreign language no one read, but the illustrations depicted pagan rituals and blood sacrifice and had given the Omega-pup nightmares.

Don't profile, he thought. The Northerners are just Alphas and Omegas like everyone else; there's nothing mystical about them. The Northern Clans may have been a wild, isolated country, but so were the Isles. We have a lot more in common with the North than we do with the Mainland, he considered. Perhaps that will be our advantage.

Matthew did not relish any direct confrontation with the Northerners—militantly or otherwise. He was now thirty-six weeks pregnant, and, though it had been a relatively enjoyable experience (sans nausea, which had dogged him throughout his first trimester), his body was starting to feel the strain. His hips and lower-back constantly ached as his pelvic bones and joints softened and stretched in preparation for delivery, and he had been having contractions irregularly for the past week. All of it normal, Arthur assured him.

"It's just false labour," he had promised the first time Matthew had experienced the sharp pains. (Gilbert had gone so white, he looked faint.) "It's a good sign. It means your body is preparing for labour. Just lie back and have a cuppa tea, love. It'll pass," Arthur had said in annoying good-cheer.

The whole family was excited for the new arrival, though no one demonstrated his joy quite as ostentatiously as Francis, who bragged to everyone that he would soon have a grandpup to spoil. Gilbert was eager, too, but had the added worries of parenthood and of being the pack-leader weighing him down. But credit where credit was due. The Alpha-father-to-be was attentive and would abandon all else to assist his mate when needed, which wasn't often, as Matthew' care was managed by Arthur, an experienced midwife. And Ivan, too, was always nearby. He refused to have anything to do with politics and warfare and instead spent most of his time as a carpenter, renovating the house and making gifts for the unborn pup, despite the superstitious Kirklands warning him not to. It was bad-luck to name or prepare for a pup before it was born. It tempted fate. "It's like asking for something horrible to happen!" the Islanders said. Though Gilbert and Ivan disregarded the warnings, thinking it stupid not to prepare. Gilbert already thought the Islanders much too superstitious for their own good, and at least once a month he and Arthur had it out over Arthur leaving food for creatures Gilbert refused to acknowledge. "Stop wasting food!" he would yell, to which Arthur would stubbornly retort: "It's my house, I'll feed them if I want to! Gods, Gilbert, do you want the fey to forsake us?"

"Your dam is nuts!" Gilbert would complain to Matthew.

He had once tried to garner support from the Alphas, but it had backfired. "It's stupid to waste food on those fucking figments of his imagination—" he had begun, only to have Owen slap a petrified hand over his mouth, and for Scott to stab a warning finger at him, saying in a deadly serious voice: "Do not insult the fey."

Francis, who had been present at the time, found this hilarious, and later advised Gilbert never to argue with the Kirklands about the fey. "You can't fight island madness," he had said, smiling fondly as Arthur put out a dish of milk.

The most recent uproar occurred when Ivan gifted Matthew a beautiful cradle. Scott had started his lecture, accusing the Easterner of deliberately provoking fate, but was interrupted by Matthew's utter delight. The cradle was large enough for two pups and carved in the shape of an eagle—Gilbert's sigil—so that the infants would be embraced on both sides by the bird's sweeping wings. Even Gilbert had been impressed when he saw it, and went as far as to awkwardly shake Ivan's hand in gratitude. Matthew—emotionally unbalanced—had cried and hugged Ivan, making Alfred laugh and Ivan blush.

Fortunately, Gilbert had accepted Ivan's presence as a benefit by then, and he had even asked his brother-by-mating-law to keep an eye on the property when he couldn't be there. He worked long hours trying to win the pack's favour and defend it from invaders, managing the pack not unlike he had managed the Black Forest Fort, albeit with less disciplined underlings, who were just as likely to say "fuck you!" as "yes sir!" He complained about all the work—whined about it, Matthew sighed—but nor did he alter his routine, and Matthew began to suspect that his Alpha-mate liked to always be busy. Gilbert whined the most on stormy days when he was stuck indoors with nothing to do, and it exasperated Matthew that the Alpha couldn't be still. A part of him was always moving, even if he was just drumming his fingers on the furniture, which irritated the pregnant Omega to no end. ("Gil, darling, if you don't stop it, I might accidentally cleave off one of your fingers," he threatened passive-aggressively.) But Matthew respected the position his mate was in with regards to the pack and did his best to support him. It was why he abided by Gilbert's wishes and didn't venture out. The Alpha was stressed enough without worrying unnecessarily for his Omega-mate's safety.

At first Matthew had felt indignant about Gilbert's request:

"Don't you think it's a bit much?" he had asked when Gilbert told him not to leave the Kirkland homestead. Matthew couldn't think of anyone in the pack who would want to hurt him, but Gilbert's reply was adamant:

"No," he said with his head on the Omega's belly. "I'm not taking any chances. The pack loves you, Matt, but most of them still hate me. Half of them resent me for being Scott's heir, and the other half resent me for mating you. I won't risk the safety of you or our pup."

Matthew had conceded—he was heavily pregnant and rarely left, anyway—and agreed not to meet anyone, especially Alphas, until their pup had been born and both Omega-father and pup were out of danger.

He also agreed, more humorously, not to take any of the potions Arthur pushed on him. "I don't know what's in that brew, so I don't want it in you," Gilbert had said, turning his nose up at a clear tonic.

Arthur had huffed. "It's all natural ingredients."

"Opioids make you slow and stupid," Gilbert argued. "The medics used them for surgeries at the fort. I don't want Matt taking any."

"It's for pain-relief, "Arthur insisted.

"Matt's not in pain. Are you, schatzi?" he added, looking sheepishly at Matthew.

Matthew shook his head. "No, I'm fine."

"Well of course he's going to say that." Arthur rolled his eyes. "He wouldn't dare risk upsetting you, Gilbert. Here," he had said after Gilbert left, handing Matthew the tonic. "He'll never know you took it, trust me."

Matthew had smiled at his well-intending dam, but declined. "I'm fine, really. Gil says Western physicians forbid pregnant Omegas from using opioids. I know the Western Empire has a reputation for being needlessly cruel, but it's not true," he assured. "Omegas are treated no differently there than they are here. Westerners aren't harsh. Not collectively, anyway. And their medicine is more advanced than ours. Gil believes in it, and I trust Gil. I don't want to risk the health of my pup."

"Oh, for gods' sake! I took pain-relief when I was pregnant with you and Alfred and you're both fine!" Arthur said, but eventually ceded. As a midwife, he had many other talents ("tricks", Gilbert called them).

Throughout the course of his pregnancy, Matthew had only been genuinely annoyed with Gilbert once, and that was because the Alpha had hesitated to mate him for fear of hurting the unborn pup. However, the Omega had quickly convinced him otherwise. The influx of pregnancy hormones was making him... rather excited, and the Alpha had had a hard time refusing his begging Omega-mate. Now, it was a rare night that the couple didn't mate, and many jokes were made at the breakfast table about their amorous nocturnal activities, much to Francis' dismay.

("And that's why Ivan and I sleep in the guesthouse," Alfred had said, referring to the outbuilding that Ivan had recently finished. It was still under-furnished, but it gave the eager couple the freedom to mate—to do whatever they wanted—in privacy, so Alfred didn't mind sleeping on the floor.)

Gilbert drew Matthew to him now as he considered the reports spread out in front of him. Matthew thought he had grown too big and heavy to perch on his Alpha-mate's knee, but Gilbert dismissed his concern. He liked having Matthew near, especially when he was teetering on the edge of important decisions.

Matthew gently combed his fingers through Gilbert's fine hair, rubbing at his head as Gilbert's fingers tapped ceaselessly on the table. When it finally became apparent that neither Scott nor Liam was going to admit to ignorance about their precarious Northerners situation, Matthew did, yielding to his mate's—the ex-commander's—expertise. He glanced at the reports, and asked:

"What does all of this mean for us, Gil?"

Gilbert sighed. "It means we need a force we don't have to defend against an invasion of seasoned warriors bred to fight. It means we're fucked if we don't do something soon, because Northerners are stubborn bastards. Once they start building and breeding here, it'll be like pulling weeds trying to get rid of them."

Before Scott or Liam could reply, Matthew heard footsteps approaching the house. "Al and Patrick are back," he announced.

Alfred spilled loudly into the house, his flyaway blonde hair a mess of windswept locks, his clothes untucked, and his boots caked with grains of sand, which he trailed into the kitchen. Matthew grimaced. Alfred was bright-eyed and flushed with vigor, excited to make his report. Matthew envied him his inexhaustible energy. He, himself, would have welcomed an afternoon nap just then. After Alfred came Patrick and then Ivan, who had been working outside. Alfred, though he was the youngest, took pride of place in the lead and was the first to speak when Gilbert asked:

"What news?"

"We found them," Alfred said, a little breathless. "A crew of Northerners. Or, uh, a family of Northerners? It wasn't easy, but we finally tracked them to a site about ten kilometers north."

"Good," Gilbert praised, absently rubbing Matthew's back. Then he made an educated guess, reading Alfred's expression, and added: "What's the problem then? Do you need the pack's help to capture them?"

"Uh, no," Alfred hesitated. "There's only two of them—two Alphas, I mean. I think our family can handle it. But, uh... that's not the problem. They, uh, didn't put up a fight when we met."

Gilbert's hand stopped abruptly. Liam froze, his teacup half-raised. Scott slammed his hands down on the table, disturbing a trey of biscuits.

"When you what?" he barked. "Alfred"—Oh dear, Matthew thought, full-name from Scott is never good—"what did you do? You were only supposed to track the Northerners, not fucking engage them! Do you have any idea how dangerous those bastards are? You're training to become the second-in-command, you can't take risks like that! You're lucky your parents aren't here to fucking skin you, pup!"

Alfred ducked his head, but his eyes stayed alert. Ivan lifted a hand to touch Alfred, anxious, now, to inspect his Omega-mate for signs of damage, but thought better of it.

He knew that if Alfred inherited Francis' position as second-in-command, the Omega would outrank him—and everyone else in the Kirkland family except for Gilbert. (Matthew would become the third highest-ranking pack-member when Gilbert ascended to pack-leader, which was a nerve-wracking prospect despite his newfound courage. Two Omegas second in the hierarchy only to the pack-leader. It was kind of exciting.) But a position like Alfred's needed strength, especially since he would be the first Omega second-in-command in Islander history. Ivan knew this. He knew that the pack-members would never take Alfred seriously if his Alpha-mate coddled him in public, which is why his support—for now, at least—must be relegated to the shadows. Matthew knew how difficult it must be for his brother-by-mating-law to be distanced from his mate. He knew how anxious Ivan felt every time Alfred left the Kirkland homestead, because he felt the same way about Gilbert. Just because Gilbert was a born-and-bred soldier, baptized by military fire, a strong and clever and capable Alpha leader, didn't mean for a moment that Matthew didn't worry about him. In fact, Gilbert's overconfidence often made him worry more, and sometimes he wished that he could order Gilbert to stay locked safely inside. Instead, he took advantage of his position as Gilbert's Omega-mate and stayed by his side whenever he could. He knew how unfair it was that he could coddle Gilbert in public and the pack-members would see a loving, devoted Omega-mate, when Ivan couldn't coddle Alfred for fear of emasculating himself and poisoning his Omega-mate's career. But he also knew that his brother represented something important. Whether Alfred knew it or not, he represented a change in society that most pack-members—most clans; the whole world, perhaps—wasn't ready to accept, and Matthew admired Alfred because of it. He pitied the trials that he and Ivan would inevitably face, but he also knew that they were both strong enough to overcome it. Alfred was still much beloved by the pack, which was a relief, though much of the older generation would never forgive him for mating an Easterner.

Why does change have to come so slowly? Matthew wondered, gently petting his Westerner's head.

He, of course, had the benefit of being pregnant to placate the pricklier pack-members, otherwise he doubted they would be quiet about his choice of foreign Alpha-mate either. At least Matthew was doing what an Omega-mate was supposed to do, fulfilling his traditional—biological—role of breeding pups. It was, he thought, unbearably unfair. He wanted a family (a big family, if he was being honest); he wanted to be an Omega-father and raise Gilbert's pups, but that was his dream, not Alfred's. And the way many pack-members looked at them when they were together—at Alfred like he was defective, and at Matthew like he was nothing more than the swell of his abdomen—made him feel equal parts angry and ashamed. Angry on Alfred's behalf, and ashamed of himself for doing exactly what was expected of him, even though it's what he wanted.

"Don't," Arthur had said, cutting Matthew off when he confessed. "Don't ever let them make you feel like you've done the wrong thing. The packs are deathly afraid of change; afraid of things they don't understand. They see you and Alfred as a threat to their stagnant lifestyles, so afraid that change will make everything worse that they can't imagine how it could make everything better. But you can't let them bully you into playing by their rules, Matthew. If you give them an inch, they'll only keep pushing for more. Trust me, I know.

"Do you think the pack was happy when Scott became the pack-leader? Do you think they celebrated the fact that he adopted his bastard nephews—pups of his slutty brother, who spread his legs for a stranger? Do you think they accepted that stranger as their second-in-command without protest?" Arthur shook his head. "If they fight you, then you fight back," he advised. "You fight with your teeth," like Scott, "and you fight with your tongue," like Francis. "Kirklands don't lie down for anyone," he said proudly, squeezing Matthew's shoulder. "So, don't ever let them make you feel unworthy. Don't ever be ashamed of following your heart, no matter what it wants. I have no doubt that you and your brother will both do great things. You just have to be brave enough to try."

Matthew took comfort in his dam's words, which echoed in his head as he looked at Alfred. Alfred was strong and brave and wouldn't be bullied. He refused to be intimidated, which would make him a good second-in-command someday. Gil will be lucky to have Al by his side, Matthew thought, proud of them both. Even though Alfred looked a little nervous as Scott paced the kitchen in short-tempered frustration, the Omega's resolve didn't waver.

"What happened?" Gilbert asked Alfred, his voice even. "What do you mean, the Northerners didn't put up a fight?"

"It's fucking lucky they didn't," Liam put in, staring incredulously at his twin and nephew. "With just two of you, you'd have been slaughtered. Did you run?"

"Well, no..." said Alfred, glancing at Patrick. "They're really not what we were expecting. I mean, both Alphas are big and mean-looking—and one of the Omegas is taller than me! They're fucking huge! Like, Ivan-sized!"

"Al," Gilbert waved a hand impatiently, "report."

"Right." Alfred straightened, adopting a formal posture. "See, I found them by accident—"

Patrick smacked his nephew. "You're not supposed to admit that," he whispered. "You're supposed to say you found them because you're a cracking scout."

Gilbert huffed and rolled his eyes. He was getting irritated; Matthew could feel it. He could practically hear the ex-commander thinking: This one needs more training.

"Right, right," Alfred continued, waving-off Patrick. "The point is we met them. Two Alphas and two Omegas and four pups, one a newborn less than a year old. Two families," he clarified, "not a pack of warriors. It was a tense meeting," he admitted. "The Alphas are understandably protective of their families—"

"Are?" Gilbert questioned.

"—but Pat and I weren't much of a threat, so they didn't attack us. I talked to them," he said, breaking eye-contact, knowing that he had disobeyed protocol. "I told them that they're trespassing on our pack's land, and that it's illegal to hunt on land that doesn't belong to you. That really baffled them for a minute. I guess the law is different in the North—? Like, their whole territory must be a free-for-all or something. Maybe that's why they're so competitive and, like, completely fine with stealing. Anyway, I told them that the Isles are different, and they need the permission of the pack-leader if they want to stay—"

"You what?"

"—so they finally agreed to come with us, and now they're kind of—"

"—in my front-garden," Francis finished, standing crossly in the doorframe with Arthur at his side. He glared at his impulsive Omega-pup. "Alfred, chéri,why is there a family of Northerners in my front-garden?"


The Northern Alphas stood rigid, both heavily armed, because Alfred had been unable to persuade them to relinquish their weapons.

"Of course I asked them to disarm," he argued defensively, "but they refused! I told them I wouldn't lead them to the pack-leader if they were armed, but they just stared at me like they didn't understand what I said. I don't know how good their English is," he shrugged. "They don't speak much."

"Oh, their English is just fine," Gilbert guessed with confidence. Most Northern voyagers were multilingual, and the Isles was a favourite destination. "They were probably just ignoring you, Al."

"Oh, well, they promised not to attack as long as we don't," Alfred added, trying to look casual, like he hadn't made a mistake inviting home a couple of Vikings.

Gilbert took a deep breath and resisted the urge to whack Alfred. Sometimes he admired how fearless his brother-by-mating-law was; how trusting he was, assuming that his family could handle anything that happened. It was nice that he felt so safe and confident in his home, but not nice—not okay—when he invited potentially dangerous strangers into the house where Gilbert's pregnant Omega-mate lived. Gilbert knew that his concern for Matthew was bordering on paranoia, but just then, looking out at the Northerners, he felt it was warranted.

"Stay inside," he said to Matthew, unbuckling his dagger and pressing it firmly into the Omega's hand. Then he kissed Matthew's forehead and led the Alphas—and Alfred—outside.

"Who's the pack-leader here?" demanded one of the Northerners as soon as he spotted Gilbert. His royal-blue eyes surveyed the Islanders: seven Alphas and one determined Omega. "That one—" he singled Alfred out; Ivan moved to stand beside him, "—said I could speak to the pack-leader. Who is it?" he repeated in accented, but perfect English. He glanced from face-to-face before his eyes settled on Scott, the eldest, but it was Gilbert who stepped forward.

"I am," he said with confidence.

The Northerner paused, then cocked a doubtful blonde eyebrow as he regarded Gilbert—a Westerner, and fourth youngest in the family—with mild bemusement. "Al-right," he drawled-out, "I'll pretend to believe that. Pup," he added, indirectly announcing that he was older.

Gilbert narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists, trying to keep his temper under control, but the derogative pup reverberated in his memory in Le Roux's mocking voice.

"My name is Gilbert Beilschmidt—Kirkland," he quickly corrected, cursing his mistake. But the Northerner didn't seem to care about the family's name.

"Hello, Gilbert. Gil. Can I call you Gil? My name's Mikkel," he said, grinning arrogantly; showing his canines. If he was intimidated by the pack of unhappy Islanders, he was doing a good job of hiding it; though, his posture was tense. "Here's what I want," he continued, wasting no time. He counted on his half-gloved fingers. "I want a good plot of land to live on. I want permission to hunt your forests and fish your waters. I want safe passage for my ship to come and go without scrutiny. And I want you to promise that your pack will never attack my family."

"Oh, really, is that all?" said Gilbert with stiff sarcasm. He glanced at Scott, who shook his head. "Those are some pretty steep requests, Northerner."

"They're not requests," Mikkel returned. "Leave us in peace and we'll do the same to you. There need not be any animosity between us."

"Right," said Gilbert, crossing his arms. "I'm just supposed to believe you then? What happens when the rest of your family arrives and one plot of land is too small?"

"There are no more ships coming. None associated with me, at least. I swear it. It's just my brother and I."

He indicated the tall, blonde, blue-eyed Alpha standing stonily beside him; the Alpha who looked nothing like Mikkel, except for his colouring; the Alpha who smelled like the North-East, not the North-West; the Alpha who was so obviously not blood-related to the arrogant leader that Gilbert snorted.

"Brother?"

"Yes," came the Northerner's deep growl. He glared at the Islanders, finally revealing a threat. "My brother, Berwald."

A moment of fueled silence descended as the Islanders and Northerners faced each other, ready for a fight; Gilbert challenging Mikkel's word, and Mikkel daring Gilbert to call him a liar.

"Al-right," Gilbert said eventually, uncrossing his arms. "I'll pretend I believe that."

The Islanders chuckled, much to Mikkel's displeasure. He clenched his fists and growled low in his throat.

"But do you really expect me to believe that you came here alone, Northerner? That all you want is a peaceful place for your family? That more of your family won't come to claim what doesn't belong to them?"

Mikkel ignored Gilbert's questions. Instead, he said: "I see now why you're the one I'm talking to, Gilly."

"Don't call me that!" Gilbert snapped impulsively in German.

Mikkel grinned in triumph and continued the conversation in German, deliberately ignoring the Islanders. "What do you know of the Northern Clans, Westerner?"

"Enough to know I can't trust you," Gilbert spat angrily. "I was born on the far-eastern border, then moved into the west. Now I'm here on the Isles, he said, implying his knowledge about the way Northern voyagers—raiders—moved; their favourite routes and targets. "I've fought many enemies, but none as unpredictable as you. You people don't play by the rules." Mikkel's lips curled, taking pride in Gilbert's insult. "Your warriors do and take what they want and leave the victims—the survivors—behind to suffer. North-West or North-East"—he glanced briefly at Berwald—"it doesn't matter because you're all the same. You're all liars, and you're all selfish. There is no honour in what you do, and I wouldn't let you into my house if you were on your knees begging!"

Gilbert felt a hand on his shoulder and realized he was growling harshly in his native-tongue. He turned and saw Francis, whose eyes gently reprimanded him and reminded him of his diplomatic position as the pack-leader. His Alpha-father-by-mating law squeezed his shoulder in support, and then let go, making Gilbert feel ashamed of his outburst; ashamed he had let the Northerner bait him. His temper abated, he resumed in English:

"I don't like you. I don't trust you. And I want you to leave."

Mikkel's stare was hard. It seemed painful for him to admit: "We have nowhere else to go."

"That's not my problem."

"Do you want me to beg?" said the Northerner tensely. "Because I will. For them"—he pointed to his family—"I will.

"I've done many things I'm not proud of, but they have done nothing wrong. They're innocent. They're only here because of me, because I couldn't protect them when they needed me. That's my shame to live with," Mikkel acknowledged nobly, "and I'm trying to make it right. I'm trying to fix what I broke. Please," he said—begged, "don't punish them for my mistake. They don't deserve it."

Gilbert looked over Mikkel's shoulder at the Omegas and pups, properly seeing them for the first time. They were dressed not unlike the Alphas in heavy layers of weathered wool, knee-high boots, and salt-stained cloaks despite the muggy heat of mid-June. It made the Omegas look shapeless and the pups quite round, but none of the unfashionable garments could hide their beauty, nor their stark unfriendliness. The taller of the two Omegas was holding one pup in his arms while two others clung to his sides. It should have made him look domestic, but it didn't. He looked like the wilderness, like a she-wolf protecting her cubs. He looked as ready to attack as his Alpha-mate, Mikkel, and Gilbert didn't ignore the sharp fish-knife gleaming at the Omega's waist. The other—Berwald's mate—was smaller, his face softer, but no less resolved to defend his newborn at all cost. Gilbert could see fear in his eyes, more expressive than his companion's, but he admired the Omega because of it. He's a brave one, he thought, unsure of whom he would rather face in combat: the big, strong Alpha warriors, or their fierce-looking Omega-mates.

"Have you got a family, Gilly?" Mikkel asked, letting Gilbert stare at his family to prove his point. "Have you got an Omega-mate and pups? Yes, you do," he guessed, meeting Gilbert's red gaze. "I can see it. Then let me ask you something: What wouldn't you do for them?"

Gilbert didn't reply. He thought of Matthew and their unborn pup, the big family they both wanted. Nothing, was the answer, of course. There was nothing he wouldn't do for them, and Mikkel knew it.

"I'm not asking you for much," he reiterated, further pressing his advantage. "I have no interest in becoming a member of your pack, and no intention of causing trouble. Just give us an empty plot of land by the water and you'll never even know we're here. Let us live in peace and I will never ask you for anything ever again. I promise."

He curled his right hand into a fist and pressed it to his heart: the symbol of a sworn vow.

"Please," he repeated, taking a deliberate step forward. The Islanders growled. "I'm asking for your help. You have nothing to lose by letting us stay. You outnumber Berwald and I three-to-one. Do you really think I'd risk my family's safety by betraying you?

"Let me remind you," he added, growing impatient, "that your scouts didn't capture us. We came here willing to meet with you, to ask for your permission to stay. We haven't done anything to you and we haven't taken anything we didn't need. Call us refugees if you want, because that's what we are. We've had a very long, hard, cold journey," he said, taking another step, "and my family is tired. My Omega-mate and pups have had to endure more than anyone ever should, and you haven't even invited them in for tea." He eyed the Islanders reproachfully. "Now that's a bit rude, don't you think?"

Gilbert glowered at the Northerner, even as guilt seized him. He accidentally glanced back at the pups—their pale faces and hungry eyes, seeing the bundled newborn in his dam's arms—and cursed. Matthew would be ashamed of him if he turned them away, now. Gilbert would be ashamed of himself.

Well-played, Northerner.

He glanced left-to-right, silently consulting Scott and Francis, who both nodded their consent. Then he faced the Northerners and relented.

"The Omegas and pups can come inside," he allowed, "but you and your brother must stay out here."

"Fine," Mikkel agreed eagerly. Berwald nodded.

"You'll both stay here," Gilbert repeated, interrupting their relief, "and answer three questions. I want the truth, Mikkel. I want to know who you really are, where you've really come from, and why you're really here.

"And I'd better like your fucking answers," he warned.