"Your husband is never coming back," one of the suitors tells him. His mouth is stained with Stiles’s good wine, the wine they had been saving for a special occasion. "You’re going to have to marry one of us, and soon.”
"Maybe," Derek says, looking away. "Not before I finish his shroud."
His hands are shaking a little as he sews, but the stitches are good, solid, easy to pick out with his claws later.