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Wilhelmina’s hand is small and warm in Max’s hold. Thinking back, Max hasn’t let go of her through the entire journey – from their former home in England, on the ship that had made his poor little girl sick, in the carriage that was now approaching Monaco. Willa had passed out from exhaustion hours ago, Gianpiero carrying her through the bustling port and placing her in the carriage next to Max.
If anyone other than Gianpiero touched her, Max would scream.
The grief is still tearing him apart. Whenever he looks at Willa’s round face, relaxed in sleep, he feels a stab in his heart. That stab quickly turns into a burn of hatred toward his former husband.
Willa deserves better than that – than her face being a reminder of lost things, something that incites grief and rage.
If there is a bright side to any of this, at least Willa looks like her sister. Max won’t forget Amelia’s face as long as he has Willa. And Max refuses to lose her.
They reach the palace at dusk. This time, Max carries Willa himself, Gianpiero trailing after them.
The sea smells different than back in England. Or maybe it’s the warmth, the wind smelling of salt blowing Max’s hair and caressing him, welcoming him. He cannot see the sea, for it’s too dark, but he can hear the murmur of the waves close by, groaning, whispering.
If anything, he hopes Willa enjoys her time here, even if it turns out Max doesn’t.
The guards that arrive to escort them are nameless, faceless, marching in their clanking armor. The sound aggravates Max and makes him cover Willa’s little ear lest she be alerted and woken up by the noise. They are led across the moat, through the portcullis, into the castle. Four towers with conical roofs loom tall over them. In the dark, shrouded in shadows, the building looks forbidding to Max.
A man waits for them in the courtyard – the seneschal, or so Max has been led to believe. The man’s face is openly curious, head covered with flaxen hair. He’s wearing a deep blue doublet, almost blending into the shadows where he stands.
“Welcome to Leclerc Castle! And welcome to Monaco, Your Grace. I hope you traveled comfortably.” The man has a faint accent. German, Max recognizes. It reminds Max of his childhood. He smiles at Max, appearing hospitable. His scent is mild, signifying him as a beta. He continues, “I am Vettel, Lord Charles's seneschal, but you may call me Sebastian. In fact, I would like that.”
Now, the man – Sebastian – eyes Willa with curiosity. She is still clinging to Max, breathing softly with her face buried in his neck where his scent is the strongest. Max doesn't know if she's still sleeping. She has always been so shy. He tightens his hold of her under Sebastian's probing gaze.
“I am sure you are exhausted,” Sebastian continues when he receives no verbal response. “May I escort you to your chambers? You must have not eaten in a while, so I will send a word in the scullery that they ought to bring you something. And the little one, of course, should be taken to the nursery.”
This makes Max finally open his mouth. “Nursery?”
“Of course? Where else?”
“She comes with me, of course” Max states, decidedly. He juts up his chin, trying to enhance his aura of authority over the man. At the same time, he gently strokes Willa’s hair.
A frozen smile rests on Sebastian's face. “Your Grace–” His voice turns overly saccharine. “–we have employed the best nursemaids at our castle. They will keep the little lady safe and of course there will always be guards nearby. You don't have to worry.”
“Why don't we do as he pleases?” Gianpiero joins the conversation. Max snaps his head to look at him, but realizes Gianpiero had meant Max, from the challenging look he sends at Sebastian. “At least for one night-”
One hard glance from Sebastian has Gianpiero shutting his mouth and narrowing his eyes at the man. It appears Sebastian can be cold if he so wishes. Gianpiero grosses his arms, discontented.
“Tell me, how does she sleep, usually?”
“With her sister.”
“Sister. Of course, we know you have conceived twice.” Max suppresses a shiver, reminded of the reason he’s here in Monaco. “So she is capable of sleeping without clinging to her mother, correct? She is tired, I can tell. Such a long journey for such a young child. We have to think about her health, as well. And here you are, stalling us. Don’t you want her to rest?”
“Watch the tone of your voice,” Gianpiero snarls.
“Enough,” Max decides. He turns to Gianpiero and tells him with a quiet, deep voice, “You go with her.”
Gianpiero narrows his eyes. But once Max nods reassuringly, he concedes.
“Excellent. Lord Charles is going to like you, I can already tell,” Sebastian grins.
–
The soft sheets and plush pillows hug Max’s body as he settles in the gigantic four-poster bed in the room he’s been brought to – the consort’s chambers. Perhaps, one day, he will feel comfortable building a nest there.
In the quiet, dark room, Max’s thoughts wander to his daughter. Not to Willa, but to Amelia. His sweet, curious, smart little daughter. She had always hated the cold English climate; she would’ve loved Monaco. Does she understand that Max had never wanted to leave her?
The first thing tomorrow, Max will ask for supplies so he can write to her.
Max’s night is restless, spent between sleep and wakefulness. He knows he can trust Gianpiero that Willa will be safe, but he’d rather have her in his arms. She had been sad to be parted from him. Max had had to reassure her that he wasn’t leaving her. Like he had left Amelia. His eyes burn with unshed tears, tears of frustration and longing.
Max is dreaming restlessly when a booming sound starts him awake – it appears someone is hammering the bedroom door with their fists. Max groans quietly before calling out, hoarse but loud, “Yes?”
“Your Grace?” A voice unfamiliar to Max asks. “Are you awake?”
Max contemplates on not saying anything. Nevertheless, he replies, “What does it sound like?”
The door opens. Instinctively, Max pulls the sheet to cover himself better and glares at the intruder.
The young male omega answers Max’s glower with an unflappable look. His face is pale, but beautiful with big brown eyes and soft brown hair. “It’s morning,” he states.
“You’re a bright one,” Max mutters. The man snorts at that. Or sneezes. Max isn’t certain, because when he looks at him, his face is expressionless again. “I’m Oscar,” he introduces himself. “I’m Lord Charles’s ward here in Monaco and I have been assigned as your companion.”
Max sighs. A ward… or an informant. Max had already gone through this hassle back in the day, with Lando. “I don’t need a companion.”
“But here I am.”
There’s no getting rid of him for now, Max reasons. He would deal with everything later – Willa is his priority. He nods to himself. “I suppose, then, you could show me the way to my daughter?”
Oscar wrings his hands. “I was told to take you to the dining hall for a meal.”
“Could I see my daughter first?” Max insists, raising his brows.
“Your Grace should also get dressed,” Oscar suggests, eyeing Max, who’s accidentally let the sheet drop to reveal that he’s only scantily dressed in the shift he’d slept in. Oscar averts his eyes quickly, cheeks flushing. “Uh – you brought some of your wardrobe, did you? We have some garments ready for you, but we don’t know your measurements. Which we will need for your clothes. And the wedding attire, of course.”
Of course.
Being prodded and poked and measured sounds like the last thing Max wants to do. Determined, he slides out of the bed and Oscar’s eyes widen. “I will see my daughter. Definitely before anyone gets close to me with a measuring tape,” Max announces. He grabs one of his dressing gowns, which doesn’t cover much. Max doesn’t care. He ties the silky white garment tightly – and almost as if as a protest – around him. Then, he crosses his arms and stares Oscar down.
“I was told–” Oscar starts but Max is done listening to him. He darts past the newly appointed companion of his, so fast Oscar is left blinking in confusion. “M- Your Grace, wait!” Max hears him cry after him as Max gets to the door, behind which he finds a pair of guards, who look at each other in shock, clearly not expecting Max to arrive in such a meager state of dress. Max ignores them and dashes down the hall. Three sets of footsteps race after him. Between harsh breaths, Oscar calls out, “Please, let’s get back to your chambers, Your Grace! Then we can find your daughter.”
Too late. “Where is Wilhelmina, Oscar? And where is Gianpiero?” Together, Max hopes. As long as Willa is with Gianpiero, she will know she’s safe. Max loathes the thought of his little girl scared.
Is Amelia scared? Is she bored without her sister to play with? Is her father paying enough attention to her?
Max needs to see Willa. Now.
Oscar huffs, admitting defeat. “Follow me.”
–
Max can hear Willa’s laughter through the doors. It should make Max relieved but instead, his anxiety spikes. He’s pushing the doors open before Oscar or either of the guards can intervene.
Oscar has brought him to a solar, where a group of people are sitting at a narrow table. Max doesn’t pay attention to anyone else but his daughter, however, who is drawing something at the end of the table, small fingers stained by the colorful crayons. He sees red when he notices there’s a man crouched next to Willa, a stranger.
Before the snarl makes it out of Max’s throat, Willa looks up and smiles. “Mama!” she squeaks when she looks up and spots Max. She makes her way across the room fast on her little feet – like she used to run after her sister through the gardens at home – and throws herself against Max, who lifts her up instantly, kissing her silky hair.
“Did you sleep well?” Max asks, continuing kissing her forehead and plump, rosy cheeks.
“I missed you, Mama,” Willa replies, flinging her arms around Max’s neck.
“I missed you too.”
“Mama?”
“Yes?”
“Why aren’t you wearing clothes?” Willa whispers, giggling quietly.
“What do you mean? I am!”
“You are wearing your night clothes. Papa would think you’re silly.”
“That’s the way your papa is,” Max sighs. “I wanted to see my Willa. I didn’t have time to get dressed. What are you wearing?” Max asks, curious about the burgundy dress on Willa with excessive ruffles and bows.
“It’s pretty,” Willa mumbles.
“You always look pretty.”
“Excuse me?” a man interrupts them, stepping forward. Max squeezes Willa tighter and sends a challenging glare towards the man, once again suppressing a snarl. Willa coos against his neck.
The man does not give any reaction except a slight smile. He’s dressed extravagantly, in the same burgundy color as Willa, with gold enhancements. His face is handsome, pretty, even, especially for an alpha. Pretty eyes, blue and green like their neighbor, the sea.
Max likes pretty eyes.
A mischievous glint lights up in his eye as he takes in Max, who for the first time feels truly underdressed. “Lady Wilhelmina told me her mother is beautiful,” the man says with a deep-toned voice. His smile is charming through and through – a smile like that works as a weapon. “But her descriptions as well as the portrait did no justice to your looks. I don’t think we have been formally introduced. I am Charles, Lord of Monaco.”
“Your Grace,” Max greets him tersely. He sets Willa down, letting her run to Gianpiero, who’s eyeing the situation cautiously. Max has no intention to bow or curtsy to Lord Charles. “Thank you for looking after my daughter.”
“I am only doing my duty,” Lord Charles tells Max, eyeing Max’s hands. “She is a wonderful young lady. If she is to become my daughter, I want to make her as comfortable here as possible.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” How cordial and charming, this Lord of Monaco. But Max knows alphas can be fickle and turn wicked and conniving at the blink of an eye.
“Please,” Lord Charles says softly, startling Max with taking his limp hand into his. Max is too stunned to react. His broad hand is rough and calloused, not as soft and slender as his former husband’s had been. “I wish for us to be equals. Call me Charles.”
We are equals. That promise isn’t unknown to Max. It had been lovely as long as it had been true. Max swallows down the bitterness in his throat and stares down at their hands, Max’s longer, paler fingers entangled with Charles’s. “Charles,” he repeats, his mouth used to pronouncing it the way they do back in England.
Charles does not correct him. “Perfect.” He squeezes Max’s hand once and lets go. When he smiles, a twin set of dimples appear on his cheeks, making him look more boyish, rather than a revered nobleman. He cannot be older than Max, as well, face unmarred by life and its troubles, except for the faintest lines around his eyes, a result of smiling a lot. He shifts even closer to Max and Max resists the urge to flinch away. Charles leans toward him, his rich, woodsy scent filling Max’s nostrils. He’s close enough for Max to be able to count his eyelashes. His eyes are so green and large and beautiful. Piercing and inquisitive, as they search Max’s face before moving to peer at his body. Heat crawls up Max’s neck as he stands there under Charles’s inspection. Charles licks his lips before saying, voice low and quiet, “Not that I don’t appreciate what’s on display, but… I’d prefer this to be a sight for your husband only. Oscar?”
Oscar, who’s been trying to blend into the wall, appears startled by suddenly being addressed. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Did you not show Max to his clothes?”
“I, uh-”
Oh, poor Oscar. Probably didn’t ask for this, either.
Max lays his hand on Charles’s arm. Charles’s eyes widen in surprise when he turns to look back at Max. “Leave him alone.” Max offers Charles a smile, which has the alpha staring at him, stunned. “I escaped from him. I just wanted to see Willa.”
“I understand,” Charles gives one final glance at Max’s underdressed form. “Well, why don’t we get you dressed. Oscar will help you. And then we could have a lovely meal together and go take a look at Wilhelmina’s nursery.”
What other choice does Max have? He nods and lets Charles escort him to the table.
–
That’s a familiar knocking pattern, Max thinks when the next morning there’s banging on his door again. This time, Max has been awake for over an hour already, having slept more calmly. He’s spent his morning finishing his letters from Amelia and Lando back in England.
A whole horde of people stumbles inside when Max goes to open the door, among them Willa.
“Don’t fret, your grumpy guard is waiting outside,” Oscar tells Max. Before another person, an older woman, grasps Max’s arm and guides him to a chair, Max catches a glimpse of Gianpiero’s bald head through the doorway, the guard sending a firm nod in his way.
“Would you like something to drink, love?” she asks Max, who only stares at her with no answer. The woman clicks her tongue and coos at him while inspecting his face. “You English are so pale!”
“I’m not English,” Max protests while letting Willa climb into his lap. He glares at Oscar for some answers, hugging his daughter close. The warm, heavy weight of her comforts him.
“Must the child be here?” the woman complains to Oscar. Max hisses, which makes Willa whine, but Max is quick to soothe her by petting her hair.
“Must she be here?” he retorts, nodding towards the woman. Oscar looks torn.
“Max, this is Miss Marguerite, the Lord’s seamstress. She and her assistants are here to take measurements for your wedding attire. And after we’re done, we have been summoned to have a mid-day meal with Her Grace, Lady Pascale, Lord Charles’s mother. And then-”
“One nuisance at a time,” Max interrupts Oscar.
“Her Grace is going to adore the little one,” the seamstress Marguerite comments. “It has been so long since this castle had little children and of course the Lord’s brother lives so far away she does not see her grandchildren often.”
Max remembers the brother’s name – Arthur. An omega like Max, married off to the highest bidder. The reason Max was here – the bear children for the Lord so his seat wouldn’t be inherited by the family of Arthur’s husband.
This hasn’t been something that had been told to Max. Instead, Max had figured it out by himself, with a little help from Lando.
Which reminds him–
“I wrote letters,” Max tells Oscar. “Yesterday. To my daughter Amelia and my friends back in England.”
“I will make sure they’re delivered,” Oscar assures. “Later. Could you let Miss Marguerite do her job first, though? I can entertain Wilhelmina.” Oscar reaches out to take the girl who’s still clinging tightly to Max. It takes a while to detach her from her mother, lots of reassurance and kisses from Max. Max ignores the judgmental stare of the seamstress and watches as Oscar takes Willa to the corner of the room, not far, sitting her down on the rug and upending a bag of toys in front of her.
Willa’s attention finally turned to the wooden animal figures, Max lets Marguerite, and her two assistants, get to work with him. They take him behind a screen and though Max wants to resist and keep Willa in his eyesight, perhaps Oscar could catch a break from seeing his bare form again. Once Max is stripped to his underclothes, one of Marguerite’s assistants starts taking measurements of his body while the other writes the numbers down in a notebook.
Max’s skin crawls when the measuring tape wraps around his arms, his thighs, his hips and waist, his neck. The two omegas at him converse with each other in French, a language Max has never felt as his own, one he understood better than spoke. He feels exposed, at the mercy of these foreign hands mapping his body. He knows his cheeks and chest are flushed pink, something that his former husband always teased him about – before they stopped talking altogether.
While Max has been measured, Marguerite has busied herself with a trunk filled to the brim of different fabrics that the guards had carried into the room.
“I have noticed the clothes in the wardrobe you took with you mostly have the colors of your… former husband’s house,” Marguerite points out, picking up a strip of fabric that is the same deep red Willa’s new dress is.
“Well, our splitting came so suddenly,” Max answers as Marguerite places the fabric against his chest, pursing her lips. “I did not have time to update my wardrobe.” Not that that would’ve been anywhere near Max’s list of priorities.
“That would’ve been in vain, anyway,” Marguerite hums, still holding the fabric up to Max’s skin and pinching her brows. “This Leclerc red washes you out, unfortunately. Perhaps we could have some of your clothes in your own colors. According to my research, the House of Verstappen uses dark blue.”
“I do not care about the color of my clothes,” Max announces. “My daughter would be more excited to have this conversation.”
“She will get a new wardrobe in time, as well, but you are our priority for now. I suppose you don’t wear dresses either?”
“No,” Max agrees.
Marguerite appears displeased. “A shame. You have the figure for it. Most male omegas don’t. Naturally, they’re very flat chested but you have some beautiful shape to your body.” Max feels his cheeks warming, thinking how Marguerite’s loud voice is without a doubt carrying over to Oscar’s ears. “Tunics and doublets for you, then.” Finally, Marguerite hands Max’s clothes back to him and motions Max to get dressed. “We are finished for now. You said you did not care for the color, but do you have any opinions for your wedding attire?”
“As long as it’s comfortable.”
“Comfortable,” Marguerite huffs, straightening the collar of Max’s doublet. “Young omegas these days… You know, Lord Charles is actually interested in fashion.”
“How marvelous,” says Max wryly. “You have him to discuss the latest trends with.”
Marguerite’s eye twitches. She appears to bite her tongue. “Does white work for you, then, dear? Too inconvenient?”
“White sounds fine.”
“Perfect. I will start fittings with you in a couple of days, then.” Marguerite starts gathering her things and ushering her assistants out of the room. After her loud presence is gone, the room feels eerily quiet. Max can only hear Oscar talking quietly to Willa.
Taking a long breath, Max steps out from behind the screen and makes his way to his daughter, and Oscar. He kneels next to Willa on the ornate rug to inspect what she’s doing. “What do you have here, Willa?” Max asks, kissing her hair and taking in her calming scent.
“Oscar gave me toys,” Willa says excitedly. “Look, Mama!” She thrusts something into Max’s hand – a small figurine. Max turns it around in his hand and recognizes it as a lion, skillfully sculpted, polished smooth, and painted with excruciating detail. Nudging Max’s hand, Willa shows him another figurine, a tiny lion cub. “Like us, Mama.”
“Yes,” Max agrees, swallowing around the lump in his throat. There’s only one lion cub. Out of Max’s two daughters, Amelia was the one who reminded him of a lion more than Willa. Willa was more like a kitten to him. But his Willa was brave, too. “Have you thanked Oscar for the toys, sweetheart?” Max asks as he places the lion on the rug among all the other animals – Max spots leopards, lynxes, bears, deer, and elephants. Gorgeous, glossy figurines exhibiting expert craftsmanship. Willa plays with them carefully, as if knowing their worth.
“She doesn’t have to thank me,” Oscar intervenes. “They’re a gift from His Grace. A gift from Charles.”
“Oh.”
“I think he wants to make a good impression on Lady Wilhelmina,” Oscar remarks with a knowing smile. Willa preens hearing herself being addressed by her proper title.
With the pretty dress and new toys, Charles appears to be set out to spoil Max’s daughter. She, of course, has an abundance of toys, yet these new figurines have completely mesmerized her. Max wonders what else Charles has in store.
“Did I hear Miss Marguerite say she was finished with you?” Oscar asks.
“Did you?” Max quips. Oscar snorts and Max smiles. “Yes, she’s done for the day, I believe. Doesn’t mean she’s not going to ambush me later.”
“Good luck with that,” Oscar hums, getting up from the floor. “I suppose Her Grace is expecting you already, so we should get moving.”
“Her Grace?” Max asks, confused.
“Lady Pascale,” Oscar explains with a slight tone of exasperation. “Lord Charles’s mother has requested…”
“Right,” Max interrupts, already collecting Willa’s new toys into the small leather pouch they had come in and ignoring her protests and flailing little hands. “I remember you mentioning that, now.” He touches Willa’s round cheek, and his daughter smiles at him. “Shall we go have something to eat with your new grandmother?”
–
Max isn’t used to eating in gloomy dining halls, so vast every little noise resounds from the stone walls. Back in England, he always ate in his private chambers, unless there was a feast.
The size of the dining hall has Max feeling small as he hesitantly stands near the doors, holding Willa’s small hand in his.
“Mama?” Willa whispers, but even her tiny voice sounds loud in the room. “Are we going to–”
“Come eat, don’t be shy!” Lady Pascale calls out to them from where she’s sat at the end of the long table laden with food – porridge, bread, tarts and pies, roast chicken, fish, stew, eggs, carrots, cabbages, onions, cheese... Though Max has never known starvation, he feels quite dizzy seeing what’s on offer, the delicious scents mingling in the air.
“Your Grace,” Max opts for decorum with his new mother-in-law. He even considers bowing or curtsying, fervently trying to remember which was in the etiquette for male omegas in Monaco. Lady Pascale, however, appears more concerned with delicately feeding herself some heavily aromatic stew. “Are we expected to be joined by anyone?” Max asks, squeezing the backrest of one of the chairs.
The Lady shakes her head, gesturing at Max and Willa to take a seat. “Today, it’s just us. You can call me Pascale.” Her English carries the French accent, like her son’s. Max sees quite a lot of Charles in her face – in the way she gently smiles with her kind eyes. “Are you frightened? Has everyone been welcoming to you? Is there anything I should know about?”
“No, not at all,” Max hurries to answer her barrage of questions. Pascale arches her brows questioningly. “I mean– I am not frightened at all.” Max holds her head up high, and Pascale reacts with an arcane smile. “Everything’s been… perfect. Thank you.”
“I am glad to hear. My son has been quite anxious.” Noticing the surprise in Max’s expression, Pascale smiles again. “Yes, I can see you have been occupying his thoughts the moment he saw the portrait.”
The portrait. Max’s cheeks turn warm again. He had hated every second of sitting for that thing and having to listen to the painter’s unctuous commentary when he could’ve spent all that limited time, those long hours, with Amelia. Excessively preserved, the portrait had been shipped to Monaco months in advance at Lord Charles’s request. Max had thought he’d wanted to prepare himself for an ugly bride.
Apparently, things had turned out way better. Perhaps Max’s features were more appreciated in the south. Not that Max was ever made to believe he was something particularly unpleasant to look at. Quite contrary – back when they were still associating with one another, his husband hadn’t been saving any compliments and had cleared his throat loudly whenever his wards or pages had been ogling Max’s body.
Then, he had started to shower Max with praise in public but gave a cold shoulder in private. Max had answered in kind. He had agreed to an equal marriage, after all. And now it has led to this, Max two weeks from marrying another alpha.
Max loads Willa’s plate with food, a little bit of almost everything. During their travel, she had become selective with her food, often making Max worried that she wasn’t getting enough nutrition. Hesitantly, Willa starts to nibble a boiled egg and Max breathes in relief. Most likely, she only has too high standards.
“She’s exquisite. Like a doll.” Max turns to look at Pascale who’s observing Willa, leaning her chin in her hand. “Excuse me for asking but were she and her sister your only pregnancies.”
Max looks down at his plate. “There were times when I thought I was with child and turned out I… wasn’t,” he admits quietly, not wishing to reminisce about those dark moments.
“Oh you poor thing…” Pascale sighs. “Do you know why we picked you for Charles?”
“Picked me?” Max looks up.
“My Charles never had the desire to marry. He wanted to travel the world. Go on adventures. Do stupid, foolish things.” Pascale smiles fondly. “He found his birthright of governing dull and unexciting. Then his brother Arthur presented as an omega. It’s Charles’s duty now to continue the Leclerc bloodline. We needed a fertile bride for him. So we started looking. He was against all this… until your portrait arrived.”
“Is he that shallow?” Max dares to ask.
“Charles is a good man,” Pascale avows with a smile. He looks at Max, eyes analytical, sparkling. “I think he was afraid of being trapped in a boring marriage. But nothing I've learned about you has been boring.”
–
The doublet Marguerite has sewn for the wedding is a tight fit.
“Are you sure you got my measurements right?” Max complains as he’s being squeezed into the clothes hours before the ceremony. Sweat beads on his forehead and his face must be beet red. What a lovely bride he makes, sweaty and pink like a pig. “How is he supposed to get me out of these clothes and consummate this marriage,” Max complains. Marguerite gasps, affronted. Max only scoffs at her. “What? Why are we supposed to pretend that isn’t going to happen?”
Shaking her head in disapproval and muttering under her breath something about Max being too crass, Marguerite makes the last adjustments to Max’s collar. At least that part of his attire is relatively comfortable and not strangling him. The same couldn’t be said about his poor waist, cinched with a tight belt. Max feels like a walking hourglass.
“Showing off your figure is slowly coming into fashion,” Marguerite defends her choice, marveling at her work. “You are ahead of your time, dear. In a decade or two, these clothes will be hailed as predecessors of fashion.”
“That’s lovely, Marguerite,” Max grumbles, “But couldn’t you have chosen any other victim?”
“You were offered to me on a platter,” Marguerite replies. “Now, the veil.”
Max resists the urge to groan. He thinks he looks rather silly with the veil but arguing with Marguerite about fashion is like arguing with a wall. She arranges the veil to cover Max’s face entirely and finishes the look with a brand-new silver circlet. “Done. Marvelous! I will tell Oscar and the others you are ready.”
Max doesn’t have to wait for Oscar long. Even through the veil, he can see Oscar’s dubious expression when he sees Max.
“I know. I look like a ghost. I think she’s trying to scare Charles away from me.”
“Nonsense,” Oscar snorts. Max can tell he’s clearly holding back laughter. Oscar grabs Max’s arm. “Gianpiero and Willa are waiting in the carriage. Let’s get you married.”
Max swallows his nervous chuckle at Oscar’s last statement and allows him to escort him away.
Willa looks positively lovely in one of her new burgundy dresses – from what Max can tell looking through the noisome veil. At least she’s comfortable and excited, squeezed between Max and Oscar in the carriage.
“Mama, why can’t I see your face?” she asks, poking Max’s nose through the sheer fabric.
“I don’t know why,” Max tells her. “This is stupid.”
Hundreds of curious people have come out of their homes to ogle their carriage traveling through the streets. Members of the royal guard have been disposed to assure their safety, some of them escorting the carriage while others patrol the streets. Their presence reassures Max to some degree. He has no concerns for his own safety, but Willa’s is always paramount to him. Actually, he would’ve preferred to let her stay at the castle until the wedding feast, but the girl had begged and pleaded to go with Max. It was hard to say no to her.
Gianpiero helps Max out of the carriage when they arrive at the church. Max can barely decipher what’s going on around him. He can only hear the noise of people cheering. His veil flutters in the mild wind and the sea-salt scent in the air fills his nostrils. Not a bad day to get married. On the day of Max’s previous marriage, it had rained until the next morning. Apparently, it was a sign of good luck, that their marriage was bound to last. Max would not hear such nonsense again.
Max grips Gianpiero’s hand as they ascend the stairs while Willa follows with Oscar. Without Gianpiero, Max would probably stumble down the stairs because he can’t see where he’s stepping. Wouldn’t that be a sight?
And then, suddenly there is another hand taking his, warm and firm, and Max can see Charles’s shape through the veil. His clothes are red, always red. Behind him, Max recognizes Charles’s good friend Lord Pierre Gasly, and the seneschal Sebastian.
“Is that you, Max? Or have they sent someone else to deceive me?”
“Can you not see my nose poking through this veil?”
Charles chuckles and reaches out to pull the veil from Max’s face, finally. His hand hovers next to Max’s face, as if to cup his cheek, but then hesitates and stops.
The priest, a stout, balding man, starts his blessings. Charles’s gaze remains on Max, unwavering, and he never lets go of Max’s hand, either. When the priest is done with his litany and has declared them married, Charles fetches a ring from his pocket. It glints in the sun, a golden, chunky thing decorated with rubies.
“Can I kiss you?” Charles asks quietly after the ring is secured on Max’s finger, a perfect fit. Max nods, and Charles cradles Max’s jaw, like he had attempted earlier. The kiss is short and tender, nothing too raunchy for the eyes that observe them. After the kiss, they turn to the crowd. Charles smiles brightly and Max himself cannot remain stone-faced, especially seeing how cheerfully Willa is clapping.
Max rides back to the castle with his fresh husband, and an already lethargic Willa dozing off in his lap. She perks up when Max carries her inside. When she sees the feast prepared to celebrate the marriage, she excitedly whispers into Max’s ear about dessert. Max tells her she can have two pieces of strawberry tarts – if she eats her beets first.
Later, Max sees Charles sneak her a third piece.
Charles spends the feast socializing – he appears well-liked among the nobility, none of the smiles he receives seeming fake to Max. Max feels woozy with all of it, smiling stiffly and nodding at people with a wine glass in his hand, trying to keep track of who is who. He would have to build up everything from the ground. It makes him feel powerless, exposed, as everyone stares at him with glittering eyes, probably thinking that he’s naïve, that he can be used. In England, people had learned their lesson pretty quickly. From the moment Max had arrived, he had shown his teeth. These people were fools – Max was a seasoned ruler in the same sense as his husband was.
They would learn, soon.
As the evening progresses, one of the maidservants offers to take Willa to bed. Max, however, excuses himself to Charles and picks up his daughter himself. Willa yawns against his next as they leave the feast behind. Gianpiero follows them, unasked. He’s been watching Max like a hawk and glaring at the noble trying to pinch Willa’s cheeks.
Willa’s bed is huge for such a little girl; she looks like the tiniest thing in the middle of it. Except for the first night, Max has insisted on tucking her in himself. He kisses Willa’s forehead, and mutters good night to her.
“Mama?” Willa asks when Max is about to retreat.
“Yes?”
“When are we going home?”
Max opens and closes his mouth. He cups Willa’s cheek and caresses away the tears under her eyes. “Do you not like this place?”
“I miss Papa and Amelia.”
“Shh…” Max kisses Willa’s forehead again. “Remember the letter we wrote? Your drawings? They’re going to write back to you.”
“But I wanna see them again. Will I?”
“I-” Max's throat feels tight. “I will try to make that happen. I am sure they miss you too. Try to get some sleep now, alright? I will see you in the morning.”
“Back to the feast?” Gianpiero asks when Max steps into the corridor.
“Well, I still have to find my new husband and consummate this marriage,” Max replies.
Gianpiero frowns and crosses his arms. “And you want me to stay with Wilhelmina? You’re going to go with your… husband.”
“I already had a husband for over a decade, Gianpiero. This is nothing new to me.”
“You don't know what he’s like.” The wrinkle between his brows deepens.
“You do? I have known him for two weeks. He does not seem completely evil to me. I will be fine. You don’t have to protect me. Your job now is to protect Willa.”
Gianpiero still looks gloomy, but he concedes with a defeated smile and nods. Max pats his shoulder, before making his way to the banquet again. He spots Oscar in the corner, in the company of a handsome dark-haired alpha – a Spaniard he had mentioned being courted by. Max is about to approach them when he’s halted by someone grabbing his elbow. “I thought you'd escaped me already.”
Charles.
Max turns around and looks at him through his lashes. “I was considering it. But the strawberry tarts tasted so excellent it would’ve been a shame to never taste them again.”
“I’ll make sure the cook gets your compliments,” Charles smiles. He clasps Max’s hand between his and steps closer, speaking quietly, “Tell me when you’re ready.”
“For what?”
“Bed.”
“You mean the bedding.”
When Charles squirms, flustered, Max grins. These alpha lords, always so eager. He had heard that Charles had gone hunting with Lord Gasly and all his other companions. Max wishes they actually had spent the night hunting game instead of at the brothel, for example. Not that Max had any great expectations of his stranger of a husband being loyal. He still doesn’t want to catch the scent of another omega on his wedding night. No such scent lingers in the air now, however. Only the scent of Charles.
“So – whenever you’re ready,” Charles reiterates softly. Max can almost decipher – no? – a hint of nerves in his voice.
“Maybe, after I’ve had one more slice of the strawberry tart,” Max teases. “I will come find you.”
It’s hours later, when Max finally takes pity on Charles, who keeps continuously eyeing him from the other side of the room while Max talks with Oscar and acquaints himself with the handsome Spaniard named Carlos. Besides, Max would like to get out of the tight doublet as soon as possible. The veil he had discarded before the banquet, relinquishing it to one of Marguerite’s assistants. He hopes he never has to wear one again.
Max interrupts Charles’s conversation with his friend Gasly, whispering into his new husband’s ear that he would like them to retire to his chambers. When Charles announces that they are leaving, the guests cheer and clap. Max catches Oscar’s eye, Oscar winking at him.
Unlike when Max had consummated his previous marriage, an array of guests doesn’t follow them into the chambers to actually assure that they have gotten into bed together. Charles leads Max through the corridors, their guards following them quietly.
“Would you like a glass of wine to drink?” Charles asks once they’re inside.
“No, thank you,” Max declines and makes himself at home, sitting on Charles’s bed. The little wine he had had earlier during the feast has already left his system, but Max has no need for a refill, though he knows some might prefer it to ease the nerves.
Max is not nervous. He’s curious and also kind of wants to get it over with. With his former husband, they had learned to enjoy their lovemaking slowly. Thinking back, the angrier they had been with one another, the better and more passionate it had been. He has no clue about what Charles will be like in bed, though he suspects he’s no blushing virgin. Alphas rarely are.
Charles sits next to Max on the bed and takes his hand. “If there’s anything you want to tell me–”
“Did I mention the teeth that grow between my legs?” Max jests. When Charles only stares at him, wide eyed and silent, Max rolls his eyes. “My children were not born through immaculate conception. I know how this works, Charles.”
“I- want it to be good. To you,” Charles tells him.
His earnestness endears Max. “We can work on that,” he hums and lays his hand on Charles’s thigh. Charles gasps at the touch. “You have been with an omega before?” It’s not something Max cares about. He merely needs to know whether he can expect his husband to know what to do with his cock.
Charles nods, eyes closed. “I, uh. Have had someone to help with my ruts.” Another privilege of alphas. Omegas would be shamed to hell and back if they were to take heat partners.
“Then I don’t need to show you the ropes.”
Charles chuckles, shaking his head. His gaze has wandered, from Max’s face, to his waist, where he lays his hand. “You’ve looked so beautiful today,” he says. “When I saw you wearing this… I’ve never seen anything as gorgeous.”
“It’s very uncomfortable, though,” Max hums. “I feel like I’m being… squashed, alive.”
“We can’t have that.” Gingerly, Charles unties the belt, fumbling with it before managing to pull it loose. Then he gets to work with the laces, tongue peeking out from between his lips as he concentrates, squinting in the dimly lit room. Max feels like he can finally breathe, after hours, when Charles eases the doublet off him, leaving Max only in his undershirt. His hands clasp Max’s waist again, thumbs caressing him softly over the shirt, making Max shiver.
It has been so long since his husband stopped visiting his chambers. Max’s heats alone had been miserable, bordering on intolerable. He will have another heat very soon.
And Charles would be there. Hopefully.
Max can see the desire in Charles’s eyes. He can smell it in his scent, rich and thick and imposing. His hands are slightly hesitant but firm as they touch and explore Max’s thigh, hip, and waist. Max answers by finding the string of Charles’s trousers and tugging, making Charles yelp in surprise. “Eager…” he laughs.
They undress each other like it’s a race. Max gets Charles stripped only to his undergarments first, hands running over the revealed skin, the hair on his chest. Charles’s fingers rub the hem of Max’s undershirt. He rests their foreheads together. “May I?”
Max bites into his lip, suppressing a giggle, and nods.
Soon, he finds himself lying in the sheets completely bare, with Charles looming over him. His chest is heaving with the rapid breaths he’s taking, one hand resting on Max’s flank while the other fists the sheets. For a long time, Charles remains still, staring at Max.
“Well?” Max whispers. He knows he’s not in the shape he’d been when he’d been younger, after two full pregnancies, without a belt around his waist to emphasize it. Regardless, Max has noticed enough manservants, squires, stable boys, even some of George’s wards staring at his figure. Charles would be a fool to reject him.
“Just looking at my beautiful omega,” Charles tells him. Max’s lips part and he feels red blooming on his cheeks. Charles looks away sheepishly. “I apologize, if you don’t want me to call you–”
“You can. We’re married.”
Charles eyes Max’s naked body, hand hovering over his chest. “That day, when you ran into my solar only in your night clothes…”
“You must have thought you had been betrothed to a lunatic?” Max teases.
“No, I didn’t,” Charles insists. “I hoped nobody had seen you and gotten the idea to steal you from me.”
“I’m not a possession to be stolen,” Max tells Charles gently.
“That’s what I thought, anyway. And I found you… very exhilarating.”
“Oh?”
Charles strokes his hand up Max’s body, cupping one of his breasts. Max’s skin tingles with the touch. Slick is already pouring out of him, staining the sheets. Max squirms and rubs his thighs together as Charles leans to kiss him, bracketing Max with his body. He isn’t even bigger than Max, unlike his previous husband, who had been taller, though lankier. Charles has more muscle. Max explores their shapes with his fingertips while they kiss, the divots of his back and the shape of his arm.
“You taste like–” Charles chuckles, nosing Max’s cheek. “–strawberry tart.”
Max turns his head and presses another kiss to Charles’s lips. “You can have a taste at my other parts as well,” he encourages, parting his legs a little bit. Charles can certainly smell his slick. His eyes are dark and hungry.
Max’s heart is hammering when Charles’s long fingers caress the soft parts of his inner thighs. He feels light-headed when he can feel Charles’s breath on his cunt, his prickly stubble rubbing against his skin. Max’s fingers burrow into Charles’s soft hair when his tongue enters him, prodding and exploring, a bit uncertain at first but soon finding the perfect rhythm. Max mewls and kicks with his legs at the feeling of being pleasured, finally feeling something other than his own fingers – that are certainly meticulous and skillful, yet can’t quite compare to someone’s hot, warm mouth on him.
“Ch- Charles,” Max moans. The room spins in his eyes when Charles stops licking him and instead wraps his lips around his nub, sucking. Max’s back arches from the bed, his arms thrown wildly above his head, fingertips touching the headboard. His thighs bracket Charles’s head so perfectly – in his disoriented state Max fears he might suffocate his new husband but Charles keeping teasing him with his tongue reassures him. His stubble scratches against the sensitive skin of Max’s thigh, the rough friction contrasting with the hot white pleasure between Max’s legs.
Then it crests, and crests, and crests, Max trembling with pleasure, his whines echoing off the stone walls. He knows he’s flushed red – from the top of his head all the way to the tips of his toes, and his nipples have turned dark and rock-hard. Max pulls on Charles’s hair gently, getting a muffled moan as a reply. The aftershocks make Max twitch and cry out.
Finally, Charles’s face appears from between his legs. Slick glistens on his face and his cheeks are decorated with two red spots. He looks beautiful, and wild. Stunned, like he’s drunk on Max’s slick.
“Did you enjoy that?” Max asks him.
“Did you?”
“What do you think?”
“I almost drowned in your slick. I think you found it… adequate.”
“Adequate? If that was adequate I don’t think I’m ready for anything you’d call amazing.”
Charles laughs and surges to kiss Max, letting Max taste himself on his lips. He makes a face when Charles pulls away; his face is sticky with slick now, too. Noticing it, Charles picks up Max’s discarded undershirt and wipes both of their faces with it.
“That was not consummation,” Max points out and Charles collapses next to him and lays his head on his chest.
“Let me catch my breath first,” Charles complains. His breath is tickling Max’s nipple, which doesn’t help with the situation. Max rests his hand on Charles’s side, running it up and down, drawing small patterns. It doesn’t take long for Max to feel Charles’s hardening cock poke against his thigh.
Max had managed to catch a couple of eyefuls of it. He’d liked what he’d seen.
After a minute or two of Max shifting on the bed and rubbing his thigh against Charles’s cock, Charles lets out a quiet growl and presses Max into bed, climbing over him again. His kisses are more fervent and assured, tongue exploring Max’s in earnest. His hands grope Max’s body, fingers burrowing into the soft flesh.
Max gets taken by surprise when Charles pushes inside him, not exactly slow, but not too fast, either. The stretch is good; Max feels pleasantly full, catching his breath while Charles kisses his neck and cheek.
“You feel amazing,” Charles groans against Max’s neck. Max clenches around him and Charles retaliates with almost sinking his teeth into Max’s neck.
“Come on, then.” Max nudges Charles and nods at him when his eyes find Max’s. “Let’s make you an heir.”
Their attempts to create an heir continue almost until morning. In between, they lie in each other’s arms, exchanging stories and kisses. At one point, Charles even sends his guard out to retrieve them some refreshments – he returns with wine, more strawberry tart which Max feeds to Charles by hand and lets Charles lick the juices off his fingers. If the guard has even one gossiping bone in his body, by morning the whole castle will know what they had been doing all night. At least there would be no doubt about the consummation of their marriage.
Sore from all the knots he had taken, Max falls asleep with his husband plastered to his back. He has a feeling he’s going to enjoy his new life in Monaco. He hopes this marriage doesn’t have a premature ending.
–
Two years later
“Your Grace? May I bother you for a moment?”
Sebastian hovers at the doorway with an apologetic look on his face. The seneschal is not an unusual visitor in Max’s solar. Max sighs deeply over the papers scattered around the table. “I am working.” There are unfinished letters to his mother and sister, to Lando, to Amelia, to neighboring duchies and kingdoms.
“I can see that. Your attention is required.”
Max slips one of the letters he’s been working into an envelope and presses the Leclerc signet to it. “Is it about the children?”
Sebastian hesitates. “Not exactly.”
Max narrows his eyes. “What do you mean not exactly?”
“Someone is here to see you.”
The courtyard hasn’t changed much from two years ago, when Max, Willa and Gianpiero had arrived at the Leclerc Castle. A small number of people are bustling around: a group of guards, as well as Oscar and his now husband, Lord Carlos. Charles is nowhere to be seen, though that doesn’t come as a surprise to Max. He’s probably still somewhere with the children.
As Max passes a foreign guard, he notices a familiar crest on his chest, a crest Gianpiero had worn, years ago. Max’s heart skips a beat, and then–
“Mama!”
At first, Max thinks it’s Willa who’s thrown herself in his arms. But this girl is taller than Willa, with chestnut brown hair. She tilts her head up and Max’s locks eyes with her blue ones. Her face – a face that had almost faded from Max’s mind, blending together with Willa’s – breaks into a smile, squinty-eyed, so familiar it makes Max’s heart ache.
“Amelia!” he chokes out and squeezes her into a hug so strong he nearly lifts her off the ground. “You’re here!” Max can’t believe it. He cups his daughter’s face; she’s grown so much. Her cheeks aren’t as round as they used to be. She looks older, wiser. But she’s his little girl, still a child, and Max drowns her in kisses.
“I told Papa if he wouldn’t let me come with him, I would come myself!” she declares when Max pauses to get some air.
Papa? Max finally moves his attention away from Amelia and sure enough.
He’s as tall as Max remembers. Impeccably dressed, black doublet with turquoise ornaments. His hair, brown like Amelia’s, is still thick and effortlessly wavy. Pretty eyes, blue as the sky.
Lord George Russell observes Amelia and Max with an unreadable expression. Behind him, amongst a big entourage, Max sees some familiar faces – Alexander, who waves at Max, Lando, who’s smiling, and George’s ward Kimi, who has grown even more than Amelia.
“What are you doing here?” Max asks. His voice is sharper than he intends. A force of habit.
“Not happy to see us?” Lando replies instead of George, who shushes him.
“I am marrying a Spanish woman. I am on my way to pick her up,” George explains,
“I could swear you have seen a map before, George,” Max comments dryly while petting Amelia’s hair. “You already sailed around Spain, you poor thing. Perhaps you can visit our library to refresh your memory.
“You haven’t changed, Max,” Alexander laughs. Amelia joins him, giggling.
George’s face, on the other hand, flushes red. “I- Of course I know that! I just didn’t want Amelia to travel unaccompanied. I thought you’d appreciate that. Besides, I would like to see Wilhelmina. Where is my daughter, Max?”
Right on cue, Max hears Willa’s bright voice. He looks over his shoulder and sees Charles arrive at the courtyard, holding Lucien in his arms as Willa prances next to them. Behind them, follows Gianpiero. Upon spotting Willa, Amelia screeches in delight and runs to embrace her sister. Willa appears confused about the ambush, until she realizes who’s currently squeezing her. Then, she joins Amelia’s screaming, and the girls start to jump around in circles while hugging each other.
“Girls, calm down a little, you’re causing a scene,” George huffs.
“Stop that,” Max hisses at him. “They haven’t seen each other in two years.” He takes the fussing Lucien from Charles’s arms, the boy clutching Max’s lapels with his chubby fists. George stares at the pup with wide eyes.
“We haven’t met?” Charles turns to George, with his most charming – and devious – smile. “Charles, Lord of Monaco.”
“I… am aware,” George replies. “We corresponded about… your wife.”
“So that’s where I know you!” Behind them, Kimi is laughing into his sleeve, which makes George send him a glare. Charles strokes Lucien’s chubby little cheek and then wraps his arm around Max’s waist.
Their little pup Lucien had been born a year after their marriage. Max had realized he was pregnant when Charles had been traveling, leaving Max behind to govern Monaco with Sebastian. He had opted not to write, thinking Charles was bound to return soon. It had taken longer than expected and by the time Charles had ridden through the portcullis on his trusted black stallion, Max’s belly had been round with the pup.
Reeking of a recently passed rut, Charles had run to Max vowing he hadn’t even looked at another omega during his rut – that Pierre had locked Charles inside the guest room of a French lord they had been visiting, until the worst had passed. Max had only rolled his eyes, pulled Charles’s hand to his stomach, and watched how his husband’s eyes widened in surprise. A couple of months later, the Leclerc heir was born.
Willa and Amelia have finally quietened, Amelia dragging Willa to George, who’s now fussing over his youngest daughter. Willa clings to her father’s leg and the look on George’s face is relieved.
Something about George and Max, despite a promising start and a decade of being excellent rulers together, had been incompatible. But Max had always recognized that George was a good, loving father to their girls. Willa had missed him a lot – which is why Max realizes he is actually glad George is standing there in their castle courtyard.
“Did you know about this?” Charles asks Max, whispering into his ear.
“No,” Max admits. “I wish I had… I have not finished my letters…”
“You don’t have to finish all of them now that they’re here,” Charles notes – which is true. Max curses that he’d spent a good part of the day describing things in Lando’s letter. He supposes he could give the letter to Lando in person, but he’s always preferred talking over writing. “You need time with Amelia.” Charles’s face pales and he palms his face. “Oh no, Maman will be angry that she couldn’t prepare her a new dress in advance. And I need to summon the toymaker… She needs beautiful dolls and figurines, like her sister.”
Willa is not going to be the only girl spoiled rotten by Charles, who seems absolutely determined.
Max presses a kiss to Charles’s cheek, trying to calm him down. He hands Lucien over to Gianpiero’s trustworthy hands and takes Charles’s hand. “Why don’t I introduce you? To her and my friends? You remember Lando, I’ve been writing letters to him? And Kimi, he’s George’s ward–” Max starts to explain as he walks Charles towards George’s entourage.