
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12129348.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage, Major_Character_Death, Graphic_Depictions_Of
      Violence
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Hetalia:_Axis_Powers
  Relationship:
      Germany/North_Italy_(Hetalia), South_Italy/Spain_(Hetalia), Austria/
      Hungary_(Hetalia), Finland/Sweden_(Hetalia), England/France_(Hetalia),
      Denmark/Norway_(Hetalia), England/South_Italy_(Hetalia), France/Spain_
      (Hetalia)
  Character:
      England_(Hetalia), France_(Hetalia), Canada_(Hetalia), South_Italy_
      (Hetalia), North_Italy_(Hetalia), Germany_(Hetalia), Prussia_(Hetalia),
      Spain_(Hetalia), Denmark_(Hetalia), Norway_(Hetalia), Sweden_(Hetalia),
      Finland_(Hetalia), Austria_(Hetalia), Hungary_(Hetalia), Scotland_
      (Hetalia), Russia_(Hetalia), Poland_(Hetalia), Iceland_(Hetalia), America
      (Hetalia), Ukraine_(Hetalia), Estonia_(Hetalia), Latvia_(Hetalia),
      Lithuania_(Hetalia)
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Omega, Omega_Verse, Non-Traditional_Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics,
      Drama_&_Romance, Angst, Gay_Sex, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Mpreg,
      Shapeshifting, Alpha_wolves, Omega_Birds, Knotting, Rape/Non-con
      Elements, Fisting, Sexism, FACE_Family, Politics, War, Out_of_Character
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-18 Completed: 2018-01-02 Chapters: 24/24 Words: 86123
****** The Promega Sonata ******
by Ludwiggle73
Summary
     King Francis Bonnefoy seeks a new mate to give him an Alpha son.
     Arthur Kirkland just might be the Omega he's looking for... but a
     life of servitude is not what Arthur wants for himself. He and Lovino
     Vargas both believe that Omegas must fight for their rights, but what
     are they willing to risk in the name of equality?
     [FrUK. Spamano. GerIta. DenNor. SuFin. AusHun. Engmano.]
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
     This was originally posted on FFN, but I had to take it down because
     they couldn't handle the inherent drop-dead sexiness of Alpha France
     slamming into Omega England. Their loss, I say! :D
     This is a slow-burn, but it'll get juicier as it goes along. Also,
     please take note: here be OOC-ness for some of the Hetalians. (If you
     don't like an England who giggles, this might not be the fic for you
     :P)
     Please don't be afraid to let me know what y'all think! Thanks for
     reading!
                     “As for the packs of Western Eurasia,
                       I must establish their stability:
                           In battle, they are solid
                         In hardship, they are sturdy
                And in Tradition, they are firm—dangerously so.
          It is my fear that if the State of things were challenged,
                  these Alpha-men would not bend, but break.
                                And what then?”
                   —Lukas Bondevik, writing to his brother 
 
The birch grove absolutely gleamed in the pale morning light. It was all the
colors of royalty: the silver trunks rising like narrow pillars to hold up the
world, the leaves gold and flowing like coins, the ground a vibrant carpet of
purple pansies. There was no sound, save for the soft coo of a mourning dove.
The dove was perched on the shoulder of a man who walked with the slow, stately
assurance of a king. And, indeed, he was a king: Francis Bonnefoy, High Alpha
of Western Eurasia. His blond, wavy hair sparkled in the sunlight, his blue
gaze as bright as the sky above. He regarded the trees with a thoughtful pride,
as if he had planted them rather than simply claimed the land on which they
grew.
“A good place, oui, mon fils?” He stroked the dove’s little head with a fond
fingertip; the little brown bird cooed, closing his eyes in contentment.
Francis chuckled. “Ah, wake up, Mathieu. It is time to fly, cheri.”
Gently, Francis cupped his hands beneath Matthew. He lifted the little dove up
above his head, where Matthew hopped onto the branch. Matthew peered down at
his father, his feathers ruffled in fright.
“It is alright, mon fils,” he assured his Omega son. “You jump, and flap your
wings, and viola! You are flying.”
The little dove lingered on the branch, his tiny feet shuffling uncertainly.
Francis smiled sympathetically. “You know, if your mama was here, she would fly
with you. But I am all you have, Mathieu. So you must trust me.” His gaze
hardened slightly. “And I am an Alpha. I am your papa. So you must obey me.
Fly.”
Matthew hesitated a moment longer, then spread his wings and took flight. He
was unsteady at first, and dropped through the air more than once, but the
breeze lifted him, and with a flurry of flapping wings, he flew through the
grove.
Francis tipped his head back to laugh as the dove swooped around him, both of
them joyful. “Well done, Mathieu! I am so proud of you, cheri.”
The moment of glee was broken by a sharp, snappish bark. The aggressive sound
came from behind the king, who stiffened alertly, his heightened sense of
hearing strained. He heard the leaves mingling, the blades of grass caressing
each other, a mouse rooting about for seeds. And, beneath all these subtle
noises, there was the near-silent rustle of air against the thick fur of a wolf
just as it lunged.
The blond Alpha dove forward, arms outstretched, away from the attacker behind
him—and when his hands hit the ground, they were no longer fingers and palms,
but toes and paw pads, their blunt claws digging up and hurling back tufts of
grass as he dashed through the birch grove.
He made it four bounding strides before a snarling beast clobbered him from
behind, bowling him over. They crashed through a fern thicket, snarling and
snapping, strands of saliva flying as a bright white teeth flashed savagely.
Blue eyes wild with bloodlust, the king sank his fangs into his attacker’s ear.
He would tear and kill to protect himself, and to protect his Omega son.
The brown wolf’s yelp rang out loudly enough that the golden Alpha backed off
immediately. His opponent’s hazel eyes were bright with silent apology as he
stepped slowly over to nuzzle the underside of the king’s jaw. The French Alpha
gave a gentle lick to the Spaniard’s forehead, and the pair of them shifted to
human form.
“I should know better than to attack you while you’re out with Matthew,” said
Antonio, brushing bits of grass from his hands. “How are the flying lessons
going?”
“They are going well. Mathieu is a brave little bird.” He held out a hand, and
the dove flapped over to perch on it obediently. “How is your ear, mon ami?”
“Oh, I’ll live.” Antonio smiled at his friend, a hint of reproach creeping into
his voice. “You’re going to spoil that Omega, Francis.”
Francis pursed his lips. “Non, I don’t think I will. Everyone gets a little
coddled when they’re babies, Alpha or Omega. I’ll stop this soon, when his
training begins. Don’t worry.”
“You pay me to worry.” Antonio crouched down, holding his arms out. “Come here,
sobrino. Walk to Uncle Toni.”
Francis stooped down to let his son hop off his hand. On the ground, the dove
gave a little shudder, and with a smooth ripple he shifted into his human form.
He was a chubby toddler, and he nearly fell flat on his face as he made his
unsteady way over to Antonio. Once he reached his uncle, the Spaniard’s fingers
set to tickling him through his rose-colored gown, and Matthew giggled in
delight.
Francis watched fondly. It was a shame his son’s mother had died giving birth;
they would have made such a beautiful family, all of them golden-haired and
blessed with eyes like pieces of fallen sky. Ah well, he thought. There’s no
reason to grieve too deeply. She was just an Omega, and a female at that.
Gilbert warned me that females cause more problems than they’re worth. What was
that deformed female he knew once? Hungarian . . . Liza? Something like that .
. .
“A gold piece for your thoughts.”
Francis glanced down. Antonio was studying him with amused curiosity. Francis
shook his head. “Nothing important. Did you want something, mon ami?”
Antonio nodded. “Si, I did want something.” His expression had grown serious,
which was rare and rarely a good sign. He stood up, holding Matthew on his hip.
“It’s time for you to find a new mate.”
Francis waved this away without hesitation. “There is plenty of time for that.”
He reached to take his son back. “Come, Mathieu, let’s go get you a sweetmeat
for your excellent flying skills.”
Matthew smiled sweeter than any candy, his violet eyes going squinty in the
corners just like his father’s did. Francis smiled and started back toward the
city.
Antonio was fast on his heels. “I don’t think there’s plenty of time, and
neither does Gilbert. You’re already thirty, Francis. You need to have an Alpha
son who can take your place. If you’re High Alpha when you’re past your prime—”
He stopped, because he knew Francis didn’t want to hear it. No old man could
stay leader for long without being overthrown. It would just make the kingdom
weak, both to outsides and to darkly ambitious Alphas within the borders. The
last thing they needed was a civil war.
Francis scowled. It was unfair to shame a person for how they had been born,
but he admitted in silence that it would have been much easier if Matthew was
an Alpha. Not that he loved him any less for being an Omega, of course. He was
his family. Alpha and Omega differences couldn’t come between the blood-ties of
kin. That was one of Francis’s most firm beliefs. Unfortunately, not all those
in his kingdom agreed.
“Francis.” Antonio stood in front of his king, arms crossed over his chest, a
pleading light in his hazel eyes. “Please. Let me spread the message that you
seek a mate.”
Francis regarded his friend, brow furrowed, for a long moment. He really didn’t
want to initiate the fuss of searching for a suitable Omega, but he knew that,
besides the hassle, it was a good idea. He needed someone to give him an Alpha
son. He could use the assurance of status that came with claiming a mate. And
he wouldn’t mind having a servant to fuck. How long had it been, four years?
Yes, it had, because he hadn’t joined Gilbert and Antonio on their trips to the
brothel out east since his deceased mate had gotten pregnant. God, time had
flown. It would be nice to have someone to take his tensions out on again.
Francis nodded to the Spanish Alpha. “Alright. Spread the word. I want a line
of our finest unclaimed Omegas in the grand hall tomorrow morning.”
Antonio’s face lit up with a wide grin. “Yes, sir.” He spun around, fell into
his wolf form, and dashed off across the countryside, letting loose an excited
howl. Answering calls went up, some far and some near, yowls and bays like one
would hear at a hunting rally, their eagerness spreading like wildfire.
Surrounded by the song of his Alpha packmates, Francis couldn’t help but smile.
Above, the pink light of dawn had given way to a cheerful blue. The breeze
carried with it the scent of pollen, of youth, of new beginnings. Things were
going to change soon, Francis was sure of it. He only hoped it would be for the
better.
***** Chapter 2 *****
           “The word ‘Pack’ has changed in meaning since its origin.
              Once, a Pack was but an Alpha’s mate and children.
               Now, a Pack is all those Alphas and Omegas living
                   in a High Alpha’s territory, or kingdom.
             In order to avoid confusion, in these times I propose
         to call an Alpha’s mate and spawn not a Pack, but a family.”
               —High Alpha Francis Bonnefoy, Royal Observations
 
Five miles away, in a village far smaller than the kingdom’s capital, the
summoning howl echoed. Alphas paused in their activities—chopping wood, tanning
hides, repairing fences, to listen to the call. Those with their hands free
shifted briefly in order to toss their heads back and howl an answer. Others
simply exchanged glances of varied meaning: some looked optimistic, others
rolled their eyes, and still others lowered their brows in a decisive,
determined manner.
This last one applied to a red-haired Alpha currently seated at the table of
what would be generously called a kitchen. His home, like the majority of those
in the village, was made of logs under a thatched roof. It had but one room
with a ladder leading to a tiny loft above. This one room was at once a
kitchen, living area, and bedroom; his straw mattress was on the other side of
the ladder. He’d built this home himself, by the sweat of his brow, and he was
so proud of it. It was his greatest achievement, despite the home’s lack of
greatness. He’d done one third of an Alpha’s natural purpose: build a den, find
a mate, form a pack. As time passed with no sign of a mate, Alistair Kirkland
grew undeniably bitter that he had no Omega to call his own.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He had an Omega. Like one might have a venereal
disease.
Alistair heaved an irritated sigh. “Arthur, hurry up, for God’s sake. I could
have gone out and killed a rabbit myself in the time it’s taking you to make
breakfast.”
Arthur, his back turned toward his older brother as he fussed over the stove,
seemed to tense up. Alistair couldn’t tell for sure; Arthur’s shoulders were so
scrawny, they were the same size stiff as they were loose. Without looking
back, Arthur asked, “What was that howl about? It didn’t sound like a hunt.”
Alistair snorted. Arthur was pathetic at hiding his true feelings, which
Alistair had scolded him for countless times. He could tell, quite clearly,
that Arthur was trying to steer the subject away from his lack of cooking
skill, because it made him angry. That was the root of the problem: Omegas
weren’t supposed to get angry. They were supposed to be docile, subservient,
happy. And why not? What did Omegas have to be upset about? Alphas were the
ones who actually did things. They provided and protected. The safety of Omegas
and children was the responsibility of the Alphas. All Omegas had to do was
look pretty. And Arthur couldn’t even do that.
“It wasn’t a hunt, it was a summons,” Alistair explained, exasperated, although
in truth he was smug that his Alpha ears could unweave the message within a
howl while it remained nonsense to Omegas. “The High Alpha is seeking a new
mate. They’re lining up Omegas tomorrow morning.”
Arthur finally turned around, setting down a plate of cornbread and venison.
Neither of these were cooked well, but they looked edible, at the very least.
“About time,” Alistair remarked, tearing a chunk of meat off with his teeth.
“Fuck’s sake,” he said, voice muffled with food, “this shit’s tough as boot
leather.”
Arthur glowered at him, arms crossed over his chest. Though he said nothing,
the posture and expression spoke emphatically: if you don’t bloody like it,
make your own bloody food.
Alistair pointed his fork—which he probably wouldn’t use, for fear of seeming
too dainty—at the Omega. “Don’t look at me or any Alpha like that, birdy, or
they’ll bust your head in.”
Arthur let his arms drop to his sides, but he couldn’t keep the anger out of
those green eyes—eyes that were, Alistair had to admit, his brother’s best
feature. His body wasn’t too bad, though there were plenty of Omegas with
smoother skin, wider hips, softer curves. Alistair wished he could howl and
have a line of beautiful Omegas come to his door. Damn king.To get anywhere,
you had to know somebody important or be born with royal blood.
But the summoning howl provided a rare exception to that rule, and damned if
Alistair wasn’t going to take advantage of it.
He swallowed a bite of cornbread and said, “Make sure you keep yourself clean
today. Actually, go bathe in the stream this evening. You better look your best
for the line-up.”
Arthur’s eyes widened. “Who said I was going?”
“I just did.” Alistair glared at the blond Omega, daring him to challenge his
words. “You think I want you and your Heats around here for the rest of your
life? Not bloody likely. Where would you go if I got a mate, ever think of
that? I ain’t having you in here, stealing food from my sons. One Omega is
enough.”
Of course, there was no rule against more than one Omega in a den. Some
couples, try as they might, never wound up having an Alpha pup, and were left
with numerous Omega nestlings. Still, it was unusual for Omegas to linger at
home; it was best for them to be claimed as soon as possible. After all, family
members couldn’t have sex together, and that was the only way to ease the
discomfort of Heat. Not that the scent wasn’t tempting to Alpha kin . . .
Arthur had turned twenty this year. He’d been going into Heat every month since
he was fourteen. It was about time somebody—anybody, for God’s sake—claimed
him.
Alistair could see that Arthur, beneath his thin veneer, was fuming with
restrained frustration. But Arthur was learning, and he did not voice his
complaints; there was no point, after all. If Alistair said he was going, he
had to go. An Alpha spoke, an Omega acted accordingly. That was the way things
were.
After a long pause, Arthur asked, “What makes you think King Francis will want
me?”
Though it was hidden away, there was a tiny hope in Arthur. Maybe, just maybe,
an Alpha would actually show kindness to him. After years of beratement,
perhaps his big brother would finally pay him a compliment.
But Alistair just chewed another chunk of meat, shrugged, and said gruffly,
“Might as well give it a try. Never know, maybe the king’s blind and deaf. Plus
he has his own cooks in that castle of his, so he won’t care that you can’t
make goddamn cornbread.” He leaned back in his chair. “Get me some milk,
birdy.”
Arthur pressed his lips together, squeezing them with his teeth to keep the
scream on the inside, where it belonged. For the millionth time since he was
born, he wished he had been born an Alpha, so he could sit as an equal with his
brother at the table. So he would be spoken to with automatic respect. And,
most of all, so he wouldn’t have to meet King Francis tomorrow.
They’re all classy in the capital, he consoled himself. Prettier and better-
mannered than country folk like me. One of them will be chosen by the High
Alpha. I don’t stand a chance.
***** Chapter 3 *****
               “Strength and weakness. Dominance and submission.
               The strength of the Alpha manifests as the Wolf:
                         Proud, cunning, brave, loyal.
               The weakness of the Omega manifests as the Bird:
                      Flighty, cowardly, anxious, fickle.
   Only by the rise of Alphas to their natural place as leaders and warriors
      Can Omegas find contentment in their place as mothers and slaves.”
                 —The Book of Naturalism, on Alphas and Omegas
 
“For fuck’s sake, I’m not going to meet the French bastard king.” Lovino turned
and glared at his younger brother. “Why would he ever pick me? And why would I
want to be his mate? He’d probably put me in a dress, damn it.”
Feliciano’s amber eyes were wide with worry. “Oh, but Lovino, he’s so big and
powerful—”
“Big and powerful my ass,” Lovino retorted, turning back to the supper plates
he was scrubbing in the washbasin. “He’s shorter than your potato bastard. And
Gilbert’s the one with the power. Who leads the fights? Not the damn frog.”
“Shh!” Feliciano looked around their city house as if it held royal spies
waiting to pounce. “You can’t be disrespectful to Alphas, Lovino. Especially
Francis and Gilbert!”
Lovino snorted. “I couldn’t care less about damn Alphas.” He shoved a dripping
plate at his brother. “Here. Dry this.”
The younger Omega accepted the plate and began drying it with a woolen cloth.
“But Lovino, it’s just that, I think maybe . . .”
“Spit it out already.”
Feliciano bit his lip. “Well, Ludwig said that you would have to go.”
Lovino could have thrown a plate at the wall. He was sorely tempted, but he
knew it wouldn’t do any good. Damn it. He needed something he could hit or rip.
He’d have to steal a bit of rawhide the next time Ludwig and Gilbert came back
with the haunch of a deer. He wanted a chew toy.
And he didn’t need to be told that this wasn’t a normal thing for an Omega to
want. Damn it.
“I don’t want to go,” Lovino murmured, a bit of helplessness creeping into his
voice. The thought of lining up with the other Omegas from the kingdom, and
having the king—a man almost twice his age—eye him up made his skin crawl. He’d
seen their High Alpha, and he didn’t find him attractive at all. Too much
stubble, too long hair, too—just—gross. But Lovino had yet to see any Alpha who
he’d be willing to mate with. Just the idea of being a slave to an Alpha for
life, popping out babies for him, God. He couldn’t think of anything worse. He
just wanted to have a house to live in, food to eat, and maybe some friends to
hang out with, though they might prove hard to come by. His little brother
could be his friend, but Lovino knew that once Feliciano had children, he’d be
too busy mothering them to have any fun.
That was what an Omega’s idea of fun was supposed to be. Raising nestlings and
pups. Teaching Omega children to fly. Attending to Alphas’ every whim. It made
Lovino sick. What did Alphas do to deserve that kind of treatment? And, for
that matter, what did Omegas do to deserve theirs?
Feliciano was wringing his hands nervously, fretting as always. If Lovino were
Ludwig, he’d tell Feliciano everything would be fine, and the little Omega
would brighten immediately, trusting his mate to stand between him and all
harm. But nobody did that for Lovino. Not that he was complaining; he didn’t
want them to. He wanted to be able to fight for himself.
But I’m just an Omega.
Lovino sighed. “If the potato bastard is forcing me, I guess that’s the end of
it.” He crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring the water that dampened his
shirt. “Would you want to be the king’s mate?”
Thoughtfully, Feliciano fingered his flyaway curl of hair. “Hmm . . . well, I
guess so. If I wasn’t Ludwig’s mate, of course.”
Lovino rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but do you actually think Francis is—y’know,
handsome?”
Feliciano’s brow furrowed delicately in concentration. “Well . . . His hair is
shiny, and his clothes are the nicest in the world. But he’s not as handsome as
Ludwig.”
Lovino snorted. “Oh, no, nobody could ever be as handsome as the high and
mighty Ludwig!” He threw his hands up, voice raising in exaggerated elation.
Feliciano started to giggle, then covered his mouth, gaze focusing on something
just behind Lovino.
“I didn’t know you were so infatuated, Omega.”
Dread nipped at Lovino’s stomach with cold fangs, but he didn’t turn to look.
Instead, he inclined his head, blushing fiercely, as Ludwig stepped past him.
The blond Alpha leant down to nuzzle Feliciano’s hair, a fond growl rumbling in
his throat, and Lovino had to look away when he saw the pure glow of love on
his younger brother’s face. Still, even though he wasn’t watching, the sound of
their lips coming together, again and again, made him grimace in disgust.
“Lovino.” He looked up when he heard Ludwig’s sharp tone. “Why are you making
that face? Are you unwell?”
Lovino blushed again and tried his best not to glare. “I’m fine.”
Ludwig’s brow lowered over piercing blue eyes, oozing disapproval. “You’re
fine,  . . . ?”
Lovino dropped his gaze to the floor, muttering, “I’m fine, sir.”
“Hmph.” A chair groaned across the floor, wood against wood, as Ludwig took a
seat. “Feli, make me some tea, please.”
Lovino watched his brother bustle to fix the tea. Not all Alphas said please
and thank you; in fact, most didn’t, unless they were speaking to fellow
Alphas. But Ludwig was nice, or so Feliciano claimed. Lovino didn’t think
occasional grunts of gratitude made someone qualify as nice, but what did he
know? Just an Omega.
Ludwig scratched behind his ear, an inherently canine gesture, and Lovino
stifled a snort. Fleabag.As if reading his mind, Ludwig turned and fix his
intense gaze on him again. “I’m sure Feli has told you that you’ll be expected
at the line-up tomorrow.”
Lovino nodded, without enthusiasm. “Yeah.”
A blond eyebrow arched slightly.
“Yeah, sir.”
Ludwig shook his head, exasperated. “You should be pleased. Not every Omega
will be allowed in, but you’ve been specifically requested.”
Lovino felt his eyes widen. For a moment, he felt nothing but shock, and a
little spark of something that might have been happiness. Someone asked for
him? He was special, for once? He almost stammered when he asked, “The king
knows about me?”
Feliciano set a cup of tea down in front of Ludwig, who gave him a fond peck on
the cheek before addressing Lovino. “Ja, he does. Gilbert has talked about you,
and Antonio has seen you fetching water once or twice. He vouches for your
beauty.”
Lovino’s brief happiness fizzled. It was easy to forget how connected they all
were. Lovino was Feliciano’s brother—Feliciano was Ludwig’s mate—Ludwig was
Gilbert’s brother—Gilbert and Antonio were the High Alpha’s closest advisors.
Ludwig was high up in the Royal Guard, one of the strongest and skilled
warriors in the city and likely the kingdom. If Lovino was not an Omega, he
would have a notable bit of status, thanks to those ties. Sooner or later,
Lovino thought he would get used to the unfairness of his life. But apparently
it tasted just as bitter the millionth time as it did the first. Damn it.
“I’m not beautiful,” he heard himself saying. “Antonio must be blind.”
Ludwig’s words were edged with a snarl. “Do not speak of him in that
disrespectful way, Omega. You’re lucky Gilbert is not here, or he would beat
you for that.”
Feliciano, standing behind his mate, looked at Lovino with panicked eyes.
Pleading silently not to make Ludwig angry.
Lovino let the flames inside him simmer to warm coals. He felt like this often,
like there was nothing more than a fire where his heart should be, and if
someone were to touch his chest, it would burn them with a hiss of sizzling
flesh.
Forcing his words to sound light, he said, “So sorry, sir. Please forgive me.”
Ludwig just shook his head and handed his mate a small pouch of coins. “Go out
and try to find something nice to wear tomorrow. But be back before dark. The
last thing I need is to find the pair of you in gaol.” He sipped his tea, then
spoke slowly, voice low. “And be warned, Lovino. If you show any of your ugly
attitude to the king, I will pluck you myself.”
Lovino imagined it for just a second—the humiliation of his bird form prone in
the Alpha’s iron grip, the sharp tugging pain of each flight feather being
yanked from his wings—before holding out a hand to Feliciano. With a
sympathetic look, his little brother linked their fingers, and the pair of them
went out into the evening together, their lonely curls quivering in the breeze.
***** Chapter 4 *****
               “Prostitution is a blemish on Omegas in Society.
             It does not stir surprise in me that in Scandinavia,
          the practise is illegal, but in Eurasia, it is commonplace.
                         Omegas there are but slaves.
                          Truly, it breaks my heart.”
                    —Emil Bondevik, writing to his brother
 
Arthur almost overslept the next morning. He’d been kept up late by Alistair,
who wouldn’t let him rest until he had perfected his curtsy. Arthur’s shins
were pulled by all that bobbing up and down, and he had the beginnings of a
headache from the rough combing Alistair had given his hair.
“It’s an absolute mess,” his brother had complained. “I’m an Alpha, and my
hair’s neater than yours. This is a goddamn rat’s nest!”
Arthur had no idea how hair as short as his could be so tangled, but Alistair
had put an end to it. Scalp aching, Arthur stifled a yawn as he hurried to put
together Alistair’s breakfast. Normally, he would eat the leftovers—or make
something small for himself after Alistair had finished eating—but this morning
his stomach was roiled with stress. Just looking at the bread and cheese,
butter smeared between them, made nausea grip his guts.
“If you make us late,” Alistair kept muttering. “If you make us miss this,
there’ll be hell to pay.”
The Kirkland brothers didn’t walk side-by-side; as an Omega, Arthur had to
follow a few steps behind. Respectful distance. Not that he minded, since the
scent of cheese on Alistair’s breath turned his stomach. And besides, it was
easier to get through the village single-file anyway, what with the activity of
others around them fighting for limited space. Everywhere Alphas were carrying
things, mending things, making things. That was the difference between Alphas
and Omegas, it seemed to Arthur. Alphas were productive in a large, loud way,
and Omegas were productive in a domestic, quiet way. Neither were any more lazy
than the other, it was just that Omegas were difficult to notice.
Because people don’t bother to notice us, Arthur thought glumly.
Some Alphas greeted Alistair as they passed; on more than one occasion he
halted their progress for a bit of chitchat. Oh, sure, Arthur thought, if we’re
late because of me, I’m to be decapitated, but if it’s your fault, it’s fine.
But he paid careful attention to his older brother as he chatted with these
Alphas. “Aye, bringing the bird to the king. Hopefully he’ll like what he sees.
No one else has!” And a companionable laugh between them, bonding over Arthur’s
ugliness.
He’s proud of this, Arthur realized all at once. He’s proud to have this as his
quest, because it sets him apart from everyone else. He wants to go to the
capital, even if it’s because of me. In shock, Arthur thought, If I get
accepted to be the king’s mate, I’ll have more status than Alistair.
A technicality, of course. He was still biologically inferior, and he couldn’t
act on his status—if he ordered an Alpha to do something, they would laugh in
his face at best and do something more violent to his face at worst. But he
would be more important than his brother.
These thoughts gave Arthur a new feeling of pride—unfamiliar, but not
unpleasant. He was better than his brother. The king hadn’t called for unmated
Alphas, had he? No. Because he was an Omega, Arthur was the star of this show.
For the first time in his life, he lifted his chin and walked with a—rather
clumsy—swagger.
Until Alistair noticed and shoved his shoulder. “Fly, idiot. Get your ass in
the sky.”
Arthur stumbled but kept his footing. He waited until Alistair had shifted to
his wolf form—ragged, red, more fox than wolf as far as Arthur was
concerned—before he spread his arms and let the shiver of change ripple through
him. It wasn’t a painful process, the shifting. It reminded Arthur of
scratching off a fleck of dead skin. Each form was weightlessly shed in favor
of the other, over and over again. Arthur preferred his human form, because his
bird form . . . well . . .
On the ground, he swiveled, talons digging into the earth. Alphas were
watching, lips curled in distaste. Under Alistair’s gaze, they turned away, but
Arthur could hear the mutters.
“Deformed—”
“King won’t want that—”
“Alistair should pray—”
“Freakish raptor—”
And indeed, that’s what he was. When Arthur spread his wings, they were not the
delicate appendages of a finch or a jay. They were broad, mighty, nearly four
feet from tip to tip. His beak was not a tiny source of song. It was wickedly
curved, producing only aggressive hisses and territorial screams. He was four
times the height of normal Omegas in bird form, and he knew all of those things
made other people—especially Alphas—uncomfortable.
He didn’t fly very much, as a result, so when Alistair snarled at him
impatiently, it took Arthur a few moments to steady himself in the air. But his
large wings were powerful, and the sun was warming thermals for him; he slipped
into an updraft of air and soared up, up, up—so high above the village the
Alphas seemed tiny, almost like prey.
Don’t be daft, he thought. Even Omegas aren’t prey, even though they may treat
us like rubbish. No one’s better than anyone else.Up here, it was easy to think
such thoughts. Optimistic treason.
Arthur flapped again, cutting through the air like a blade. Such freedom up
here, such peace. He regretted spending so many hours alone in the house, lost
in thought but never really able to think. No wonder! How could anyone think in
that mess of politics and unhappiness the Alphas called home? True
enlightenment could only be found up here, among the clouds. Sailing
effortlessly through the air.
He looked downward, where Alistair was sprinting over the vast field—some
called it a moor, but Arthur didn’t think it needed more at all—that lay
between the village and the capital. The red-furred wolf stood out sharply
against the green grasses, and even sharper with Arthur’s eyes. He was a
harrier, a bird of prey, and his vision far exceeded that of a wolf. Below,
Alistair’s paws pounded the ground, his body constantly surging forward,
contracting and expanding, head jerking as he ran. Such beastly, ungraceful
locomotion, and struggling at times to keep pace with Arthur’s flight. He only
had to flap his wings, steer his tail, feel the air around him and the sun
above him. When you thought about it that way, the bird was much stronger than
the wolf.
I could be beaten bloody for thinking that. Nonetheless, it made him lift his
head higher, spread his wings wider. Rebellious thoughts are only dangerous
when they turn into actions. I’m doing nothing wrong.
The capital, before a bumpy spine on the horizon, was coming into clearer view
now. The village couldn’t begin to compare—it was smaller than the poor
district of the city. The streets were all paved with cobblestones here, and
the buildings made of stone, or cheerfully painted wood. In the village, things
were wilder; here, because they had no trouble surviving, they needed other
things to fill their time, so money became an importance. Everywhere were shops
for everything one could think of: food, cutlery, clothing, furniture, books.
Books! Arthur felt a little thrill. Imagine, being able to lounge and read
books all afternoon. A fantasy he’d never bothered to consider, but one that
tasted sweet now that he’d never bothered to consider, but one that tasted
sweet now that he’d let it in.
Arthur landed on a rock near the city’s edge, Alistair trotting up beside him.
The wolf was panting heavily, pink tongue dripping frothy saliva, and Arthur
suspected his brother would have liked to flip down for a while if it wouldn’t
have made him look weak.
“You there!”
Alistair and Arthur both shifted back to human form at the commanding call. It
was improper to come into a township in an animal form, but unthinkable to
approach a stranger in an opposing form to theirs. It would be taken as a show
of disrespect, or a declaration of war. One doesn’t use claws and fangs to say
hello, after all.
A blond guardsman was striding toward them, a bayonet-fitted rifle on his back,
the blade glinting where it reached for the sun. “Have you come for the Omega
line-ups?”
Arthur almost nodded in response, but he made it into a bow of respect at the
last second. See? This is what happens when you think about Omegas being equal
to Omegas. You almost get yourself in trouble. Get your head on straight, prat.
“Aye,” Alistair replied, tone more polite than Arthur had ever heard. “Are we
too late?”
The guard shook his head. Arthur was amazed by the blue eyes of the tall blond
man—they were sharp enough to slit your throat one moment, then soft as pussy
willows the next. “Nein,” he replied, and Arthur wondered what that could mean.
Nine minutes before the line-up commenced? Or that there were only nine Omegas
there to compete with Arthur? A fresh wave of anxiety washed over him. How many
would be there? And how would the king decide?
What if he wants to see our bird forms? Oh, god. Arthur might as well turn back
now. Why would the king want a bird of prey for a mate? A walking, flying
deformity.
“Go right up the main street, then up the staircase,” the guard advised. “Don’t
bother going down any side streets, you’ll just get lost.”
Alistair nodded. “Right. Thanks.” He strode into the city, and Arthur hurried
after him, curtsying clumsily at the guard as he passed. He thought he saw the
man’s blond brow furrow, but he wasn’t sure.
Then, they were in the city! A completely different atmosphere than in the
village. Though Arthur knew he was supposed to keep his gaze down, he couldn’t
help but glance up every other step, amazed by all these new colors and things,
things everywhere! Flowers in window boxes, bright pink petals—scuttles
swinging from strong hands, loaded with dark stones that must have been
coal—the miracle of a bakery, its shining windows full of warm loaves and
cakes. Arthur’s stomach growled; he would have pressed his nose to the glass if
he wasn’t in a hurry, and if he didn’t think it would leave a smear.
And not only were there things, there were people. The expected Alphas, all
striding with their typical purpose; everyone seemed to be in a hurry today,
not just the Kirklands. But there were also children, Alpha pups wrestling or
chasing hoops or throwing balls for each other to fetch. And—this was the
incredible bit—there were Omegas. Arthur thought at first that they were headed
for the castle as well, but no, they moved in all the directions Alphas did.
Most appeared to be running errands, their arms full of baskets or babies or
sometimes both. The Omegas never met an Alpha’s gaze, and went ignored by the
superior men, but they smiled and waved to each other, some even pausing for
small talk. This shocked Arthur most of all. No Omega would dare to look idle
in the village, lest an Alpha see and cuff them for being useless.
Arthur had barely registered covering ground before they reached the end of the
main street. He looked back over his shoulder for just a second, but he
couldn’t see where they had come in, nor could he see the yellow-haired Alpha
who welcomed them. No one took notice of Arthur, or Alistair, which was odd.
Something good about the city, Arthur thought. When there are enough people
around, anyone can turn invisible, if they let themselves.
“Come on,” Alistair snapped, gruff to hide his excitement. “Hurry up. The
quicker we do this, the quicker I can get back home.”
Arthur followed him up the steps obediently, but he could only think, The
quicker you can get home? Do you really think he’ll pick me? I’ll likely be the
most flawed Omega here.
The castle was precisely how Arthur had always pictured it. He’d heard stories,
when he was a nestling, of castles with princesses and dragons in them, dashing
Alpha knights to the rescue. This castle had towers, pointed roofs, angel
statues, purple flags blown gently by the breeze. It was the sort of place that
looked like it had grown up from the land rather than be built there by men of
the past. Ivy coated its east wall, making Arthur think the stone had shrugged
on a rich green cloak. I wish I had one of those.His clothing was unremarkable,
just a fraying homespun shirt and trousers. He’d sewn both of these himself, so
the stitches were uneven and not all the buttons matched. Alistair looked
better, since his clothing had been done up by one of their neighbor’s Omegas.
This still humiliated Arthur, even though he hated sewing, because it meant
this: he was useless. It was one thing for Alistair to say it—and say it, and
say it—but another for their clothes to serve as a constant reminder.
At the top of the stone steps, a quartet of folk stood nattering. It took
Arthur a moment to make sense of them all. Two Alphas in regal clothing had
their backs to the oak door, one dark haired and one with hair so ashen it
looked white. Antonio and Gilbert, definitely. Gilbert was arguing with another
Alpha, a very tall, broad-shouldered man with a deep, rolling voice. An Omega
stood a few feet away, blithely admiring the backs of his hands. Arthur
wondered if he was mad.
“Won’t you let the king see him?” asked the tall Alpha. “I’m eager to be rid of
him. He gets on my nerves.”
Gilbert shook his head. “No means no, Ivan. Nein. Nyet. Non,” he said through
his nose, and both he and Ivan chuckled at this playful mockery of their High
Alpha. “Francis won’t take a whore as a mate. Who would?”
Ivan sighed. “Fine, fine. Give my regards to Sir Bonnefoy.”
Antonio cocked his head slightly. “You didn’t come all the way here just for
that, did you?”
Ivan’s eyebrows spiked. “Of course. Why else would I be here?”
The Spanish Alpha matched his expression. “To find some fresh meat for your
bordello.”
Intent on eavesdropping, Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin when the
Omega—the whore—stepped beside him, holding a hand up to Arthur’s face.
“Lookie,” he said, smiling lazily, eyes heavy lidded. “They’re polished with
rose oil. Smell?”
Arthur hesitantly sniffed the gleaming nails, and the Omega grinned. “Just
luscious, right? It’s my new favorite. The rose. My last was lilac but this is
the most loveliest of lovely, isn’t it just?”
“Uh . . .”
“Feliks, shut your mouth,” Ivan ordered, without much heat. He started talking
to Antonio again, but Arthur couldn’t hear what they said because at that
moment Gilbert came forward and asked, “You here for the line-up?”
Alistair puffed himself up. “Yes, sir, he is.”
Gilbert’s lips curled into a smirk. “Yes, sir, huh? Well, then. Let’s look at
your Omega.” He circled Arthur once, flicking a hand at Feliks to get him out
of the way. Arthur felt unnerved by those red eyes, but it wasn’t as bad as he
suspected the king’s gaze would be. Gilbert looked at him like he’d flay him if
he got riled; Francis would take Arthur’s body in a far, far more intimate way.
Gilbert pursed his lips thoughtfully, glanced up at the sun, then shrugged.
“You may as well go in, Omega. The king is already inspecting the line-up, but
he might be interested in you.”
Arthur swallowed, heart pounding his breastbone. This was one of the most
defining moments of his life, and the background music was this:
“No, you stay out here, red,” Gilbert was telling Alistair. “Let him go in by
himself.”
“I don’t think I’ll be returning to your establishment,” Antonio was saying.
“No offense. I want to settle down.”
“Good luck,” Feliks might have said. Arthur could never be sure.
Because the old oak door was creaking open, and the world held its breath as
the High Alpha turned to look at Arthur with eyes like stolen sky, and a smile
brightened the most handsome face in the kingdom as he said two perfectly
damning words:
“That one.”
***** Chapter 5 *****
             “In much the same way Alphas are distinct from Omegas
            one sees a similar view between urban and rural living,
                      wherein the urbanites are powerful
                          and the rubes are inferior.
              The Royal Guard lives and trains in capital cities.
                 So perhaps there is truth in this sentiment.”
               —editorial made anonymous soon after publication
 
Francis had woken that morning with a notable amount of excitement, and he
wasn’t ashamed to admit it. Some Alphas thought their masculinity was
challenged by showing emotions, but he disagreed. Alphas experienced the same
feelings Omegas did—they were all people, like it or not—and claiming otherwise
just signified ignorance.
Francis dressed in his typical clothes, though they were not typical of anyone
else in his kingdom. He preferred looser robes, flowing satins and silk like
the ear of a baby rabbit. And color! He would not be caught dead in the ugly
armor Gilbert often sported, though he admitted it was better to be protected
than fashionable. Still, he thought, smiling at his reflection in the looking
glass, is it not possible to be both?
A servant offered to bring him a tray of breakfast, but he waved them away and
headed downstairs. He didn’t want to eat. He wanted to see pretty Omegas.
It did not occur to him that there might not be any suitable Omegas in his
grand hall. If that turned out to be the case, well, he’d just have to go with
the best one, the most tolerable. If worse came to worse, he’d get Antonio and
Gilbert’s opinion and base his decision off that. It wouldn’t be the first time
an Alpha had mated an Omega he didn’t really want. It used to happen all the
time, when mating was more of a business venture than a romantic achievement.
That still went on in poorer places, where necessity demanded it. If an Omega
lived by themselves, they would have to either pay for food or accept charity,
so it was just simpler to mate and have an Alpha to provide for them. And in
return, the Omega gave the Alpha relief from sexual urges, and, eventually,
children to further the bloodline. Everything, even survival, was a deal
between two stronger forces. One had to be weaker than the other, always.
Otherwise, no deals could be made.
The Natural way, Francis thought as he stepped into the grand hall. He hoped
his chosen Omega would be well-versed in the philosophies. If not, Antonio
would have to train them. Him. Francis refused to entertain the notion of
another female mate. There was bad luck attached to them. Just because they
were rare didn’t mean they were good.
The castle was incredibly old-fashioned, and so the grand-hall had banners
along its walls, sconces for torches on its pillars, and a place for a great
throne. There was no throne, however; Francis had better things to do than sit
around looking royal, though of course he did this excellently. Instead, in a
place of a throne, there was a dias and podium. He preferred to do his public
addresses in the comfort of his own home, to appropriately high-ranking Alphas,
then allow them to spread the word to the commoners.
There were no high-ranking Alphas in the hall now, however, unless you counted
Francis. As he stepped up to his podium, standing beside it to pose handsomely
with an arm resting atop it, all of the Omegas turned to face him. A line-up it
was not; they stood in a crude circle, a few clumped together here and there.
At least thirty of them must be here. Francis wasn’t sure if he was glad for
the multitude of options, or frustrated by it.
He cleared his throat pointedly. “Your High Alpha greets you, Omegas.”
Some bowed immediately, while others took a moment to realize what they were
supposed to do. Francis’s brow furrowed slightly as he noticed which ones had a
delay in their expected obeisance. One, a young brunette with a hair curl, even
scowled as he lowered his upper body. That must be Feliciano’s brother, Francis
thought. He shouldn’t have wasted his time. Why did Antonio want him to be
here, if his attitude is as bad as Gilbert claims? I suppose Lovino has some
beauty, but the lack of submission ruins it.
Francis stepped down into the circle of Omegas. Some of them were nearing their
Heats, he could smell it; the hormones inside them stirred something within
Francis, a rutting sensation, an instinctive desire to dominate, mount and
breed. Mmm, he thought, imagine having all of these Omegas to call my own. A
mate for each day of the month. But, of course, that wouldn’t work. Many of
them would have Heats around the same time, and how could he have sex with more
than one at once? Well. He stifled a chuckle. He could and had made love to
several people at the same time, at the brothel he’d frequented when he was but
a prince, Gilbert was but a guard-in-training, Antonio was but the son of an
advisor. But penetrative sex could only be done between two people—a true
union, required to impregnate an Omega and ease their Heat. Having a stable of
mates sounded nice, but it was impractical, especially at Francis’s age. He
wanted a mature mate, he realized as he eyed these young Omegas. He wanted
someone he could speak intelligently with from time to time.
Not that he would ever admit that to anyone.
Francis turned slowly, looking from Omega to Omega. Most of them were half his
age, fourteen or fifteen, with a few looking seventeen or eighteen. All of them
were gaunt, fearful, unable to move their eyes higher than Francis’s chest.
None were perfect—he supposed that was normal for those who weren’t kings—but
some had positive qualities. Unfortunately, Francis’s tastes were quite
specific. He preferred light skin, blond hair, blue or green eyes, and gentle
curves. There were whores in the brothel who overate to give themselves bigger
thighs, asses, breasts. Francis understood the appeal, signs of fertility, but
he didn’t want that in his mate. He wanted someone he could put in a gown,
someone with manners, someone who wouldn’t have other Alphas slathering.
Someone who would be his, and no one else’s.
“Be generous,” Antonio had advised last night.
“Excusez-moi?”
“Well, I know you. Your expectations are always really high. Which can be a
good thing,” he’d added quickly. “But just try to see them as people first.”
Francis liked to think he saw Omegas as people more than anyone else did. And
he was being generous as he appraised these dark-haired, tan-skinned teenagers.
He was even generous when he looked at Lovino and the Omega dared to look back
at him for a brief moment before hurriedly gazing downward.
Francis stepped toward him. “Excuse me.” He spoke in English, since he doubted
the Omega knew more than one language. “What is your name?”
Lovino wisely continued to stare at the floor. “Lovino Vargas. Sir.”
Francis chuckled. “Oh, I am not sir. I am the High Alpha. You address me as
Your Majesty.”
There was a tiny hit of bitterness in the Omega’s tone. “Sorry, Your Majesty.”
“I’m sure you are.” Francis turned away from the Omega. Completely undesirable.
There was likely something wrong with his brain that caused the disobedience.
Francis had heard of tumors that grew within the skull and changed how a person
acted, made strangers of loved ones and killed them in the end. Probably Lovino
Vargas would be dead soon, and besides, Francis didn’t want some brain disease
passing on to his children.
Francis was a little disheartened to see that most of these head-bowed Omegas
were from the capital. Did his far-flung subjects not appreciate him? Such were
the rumors, though he’d never gotten around to caring. His capital loved him,
and they would defend him from pathetic rebel groups. Not that Francis was
worried; in his experience, countrymen were too lazy to rebel. Too lazy or too
stupid.
Francis stepped back. None of these Omegas were perfection. Sighing, he
ordered, “Face me and line up.” As the Omegas hurried to obey him, Francis
turned toward the doors, about to ask Antonio and Gilbert to come and assist
him.
And that was when he saw him.
Just as he had always wanted. The man standing in the castle doorway had sandy
hair, emerald eyes, boyish musculature, and—was that a light dusting of
freckles over his nose? Francis smiled. A perfect, unassuming man, and not a
teenager, either. He had the faint beginnings of wrinkles on his forehead—from
stress, Francis suspected. The clothes were the sort someone from a village—and
someone poor from a village, at that—would wear, and Francis couldn’t wait to
see the man in a wedding dress.
Antonio was following the blond man in, so Francis didn’t waste his time in
announcing, “That one.”
The chosen Omega’s green eyes stretched wide, and Antonio looked pretty
surprised too, but he said, “The king has made his decision. You may all return
to your homes.”
The Omegas filed out in dejection. In amusement, Francis noticed a couple
giving his chosen Omega sidelong glares, but he was distracted by Antonio
stopping one of the Omegas. “Stay, Lovino,” the Spanish Alpha said. “I will
speak to you in a moment.”
Lovino crossed his arms. “Yes, sir.” He leaned against a pillar, grumpily
gazing at his feet.
The chosen Omega stood a few feet away from him, looking like he might pass
out. Francis suspected he didn’t have much excitement in his life. But, living
in a village, how could he? Francis scoffed. Yokels.
Antonio strode up to Francis, standing close and speaking in an undertone.
“Congratulations, King Bonnefoy.”
Francis smiled. “Merci. I was worried I would have to settle for someone less
than satisfactory. It seems fate has saved me.”
Antonio nodded. “Speaking of settling . . . I was wondering if I could accept a
mate from your line-up?”
Francis glanced around theatrically, then laughed. “I wonder who you mean! So
this is why you wanted the beautiful Lovino to be here, oui?”
Antonio nodded again, sheepish. “It’s been on my mind for a while. I’d like to
have a mate, if you will give your blessing.”
In the past, some kings had forbade their advisors to mate; they claimed it
distracted from the task of protecting the king and the people. But, by that
logic, the king should not mate either, and then where would they be?
Francis embraced Antonio. “Of course, you have my blessing, mon ami.”
Antonio pulled back, positively delighted. “Muchos gracias!”
They both turned to face their new Omegas, the spooked blond countrymen and the
bratty city boy. Francis said, “You, my chosen one. What is your name?”
“A—” His voice broke; he cleared it and replied, “A-Arthur Kirkland, Your
Majesty.”
“Arthur Kirkland.” Francis didn’t bother to savor the surname. “Soon to be,
Arthur Bonnefoy! You and I will be wed in time, but until then, this will
suffice.” He gave a small pause, to add weight to his stately pronouncement: “I
name you my mate.”
An awkward pause. Then, Arthur hastily lowered into a curtsy and said, “It . .
. it is my honor, Your Majesty.”
“Yes, it is.” Francis nodded to Antonio. “Your turn.”
The Spanish Alpha held a hand out to Lovino as if he might start serenading
him. “And you, Lovino Vargas, will soon be Lovino Carriedo. I take you as my
mate today.”
Lovino’s brow furrowed, a protest brightening his eyes like fire. Francis and
Antonio watched in fascination as Lovino’s hands fisted and his eyes closed;
when they opened, the Omega appeared calm. He replied stiffly, “An honor, sir.”
Francis and Antonio exchanged a glance.
“Well,” said Francis, which meant You’ll have to tame that one.
“Hm,” said Antonio, which meant It might take a while.
Francis clasped his hands together. “Come, Arthur! You must meet my son, and
see your new home.”
He started away, but at the top of the stairs, he looked back. Antonio was
speaking to Lovino, a hand on his shoulder. Francis privately thought friendly
Antonio was too soft for a misbehaving Omega, but he supposed anyone could rise
to a challenge. Except an Omega, he thought with a smile, and watched Arthur
scurry obediently after him.
***** Chapter 6 *****
                    “As long as the practises of Naturalism
                     plague the people of Western Eurasia,
                  I will not return for any friendly visits.
                 If King Francis Bonnefoy calls us ‘Deformed’,
                     I swear by every warrior in Valhalla:
                  I will declare war on his kingdom of love.”
                  —Mathias Køhler, writing to Lukas Bondevik
 
“Here is the dining hall, is it not lovely? C’est très bon, oui?”
Arthur looked into the room Francis indicated. It was as lovely as the rest of
the castle (which was to say, very). The table was the main feature of the
room, long and red and shining as it reflected the chandeliers above. Velvet-
cushioned chairs lined either side of the table, and Arthur wondered how
someone could have so many guests at one time. The walls here were not draped
with royal colors, but instead decorated with several portraits of running
horses, blue mountain ranges, a misty waterfall. Arthur was most drawn to the
largest painting, a massive canvas at the far end of the table. Within an
intricately carved frame were three wolves. On the left, a white wolf with
crimson eyes sat alert, ears pricked, ready to face danger. On the right lay
the smallest of the three, brown-furred and hazel-eyed, infinitely friendlier
than the white wolf. Between them stood a beautiful golden wolf, cleverly
painted in a shaft of sunlight so his ruff sparkled and he seemed more heavenly
than his companions. His eyes were the deepest, loveliest blue possible, too
pretty to be realistic. The three wolves together made for a magnificent piece
of art.
“Do you recognize me?”
Arthur glanced back at the king, who was smiling proudly. “You’re the golden
one? Your Majesty?”
“Oui. With Gilbert and Antonio.” Francis looked up at the painting, admiring
himself. Arthur wondered what the High Alpha truly looked like in his animal
form. Would he be as imposingly beautiful as the canid in the painting? Or
would reality betray him, make him into no less than a tawny beast?
If Arthur were not an Omega, he would have asked a million questions in that
moment. What’s it like to be a wolf? Is it fun to run on four legs? Why do you
chase your tail? What will happen now that I’m your mate? Why do you like me?
It was rather anticlimactic, this house tour after the choosing, but Arthur
didn’t mind. He needed to wind down after the stress this whole thing had
stirred up. Knowing the details of his new life, or even just partaking in a
calm conversation, would have helped ease his nerves, but he was an Omega. He
was not supposed to speak unless spoken to—especially around someone as
important as Francis Bonnefoy.
My mate, the High Alpha of Western Eurasia. It didn’t even seem real to him. He
felt numb.
“Here is the library,” continued Francis, pushing open another oak door. There
seemed to be no shortage of those around here, and they all creaked hideously.
Alistair’s house had a door that blew in when the wind was strong, but it never
creaked. The grass was always greener, apparently.
Stepping into the library, Arthur couldn’t help but gasp. Who could have ever
guessed that this many books existed in the world, let alone in one room?
Shelves upon shelves of volumes; the ceiling was high enough that some shelves
required climbing a ladder to reach. Wary of disturbing anything, Arthur held
his breath as he stepped toward a smaller case situated separate from the rest.
It stood at the height of his waist, its sides carved with what appeared to be
oak trees, which struck him as rather insensitive if the bookcase itself was
made of oak. Arthur crouched to read the spines of the books. In gold
lettering, they were all labelled The Book of Naturalism.
Beside him, Francis was saying, “. . . several cooking books, many of them
include my own recipes, historicals, mostly of battles won by members of the
Bonnefoy and Beilschmidt bloodlines, plenty of romances, my personal
favorites—” He broke off, noticing what had captured Arthur’s attention. “Ah,
oui. Do you know about Naturalism?”
Arthur considered how to answer. He wanted to impress Francis. This was a fresh
start with a new Alpha, one unlike his brother, one who might praise him if he
did something well. But, try as he might, he couldn’t think of a better
response than, “I’ve heard a bit about it over the years, but I don’t really
know what it is.”
Francis didn’t look exasperated like Alistair would have. He didn’t look
notably surprised that Arthur lacked the knowledge, either. “Well, you will
have time to learn the teachings in a more indepth way later, but for now . .
.” He twirled a wavy strand of hair around his finger. “Suffice to say,
Naturalism means Alphas are in charge and Omegas are not.”
Oh, that sounds familiar. Arthur gave a tiny nod. “So it’s the way things are.”
Francis smiled, pleased that he understood. “Yes, it is. Our society was
sculpted around the Natural way. That’s why everything works so well. Everyone
knows their purpose and place, you see?”
Arthur nodded again, forcing himself to be meek. He did not see, but he could
pretend if survival required it. I wonder if Antonio’s Omega can pretend.
Arthur had never seen an Omega look as angry as that Italian had earlier. What
was his name? Vino, that sort of thing. Arthur felt a bit of kinship with the
rebellious teenager. He was like Arthur, upset about their treatment, though he
seemed more passionate than Arthur had ever been. Deformed, some might say.
Just as they say it about me. Arthur hoped they would meet again, be able to
exchange meaningful words. He’d forgive him for the glare he’d gotten when Vino
was on his way out the door. No hard feelings, he would say. Omegas like us
need to stick together.
Finally, they arrived at a bedroom wallpapered in cheerful pink. Everything,
from the bars of the crib to the mane of the rocking horse, was the color of a
pale rose’s petals. It was all orderly and feminine; definitely an Omega’s
room.
“Ah, here he is! Mathieu!” Francis held out his arms, and a chubby
toddler abandoned his dolls to come wobbling over, his face blessed with the
sweetest little smile. Francis lifted him up, nuzzling his soft cheek. “Ma
petite poussin.”
Watching this, Arthur felt a peculiar twinge in his chest, and it took him a
long moment to realize what it was: longing. He wanted to have a loving family
like Matthew had, even if it was just one person. Why couldn’t Alistair have
been like this for Arthur? It wasn’t his fault that their mother started off
weak and was only made weaker by the stresses of childbirth. It wasn’t Arthur’s
fault the Kirkland family had only two living members, so why did Alistair take
it out on him?
Francis and Matthew were both looking at him with concerned blue eyes, which
struck Arthur as odd. In a gentle tone, unlike any he had used previously to
address his new mate, Francis asked, “Are you alright, Arthur?”
All at once, Arthur felt tears flow down his cheeks. “Oh, I—I’m sorry—” He
tried to wipe his cheeks with his hands, but his embarrassment only made more
tears come. His throat burned with stifled sobs. God, had he always been this
dysfunctional and just never realized?
A gentle touch to his jaw. Arthur looked up, sniffling, as Matthew stroked his
little fingertips through the tears. The toddler’s tiny lips formed an O. He
squeaked, “Ca va?”
It was gibberish to Arthur, but Francis translated by asking again, “Are you
alright?” And, shockingly, the High Alpha’s eyes were as caring as any
sympathetic mate’s should be. He was standing close to Arthur, as well; they
were not the Bonnefoy father and son, with Arthur the unwanted stranger. Arthur
and Francis stood together, Matthew between them, connecting them.
Arthur’s heart trembled in his chest. This felt real, now. This would be his
life, his family.
“Yes,” Arthur replied, voice a bit uneven. “I was just . . . I’m just happy to
be home.”
A warm smile curled Francis’s lips, and the High Alpha leaned to press a kiss
to Arthur’s cheek. It was a kiss of stubble and red wine, the wonderful feeling
of a fond chuckle against his skin. Amused, Francis murmured, “We are happy to
have you, mon amour.”
A pet name, that was clear, even if he didn’t understand its meaning. Francis
cared about him! Enough to be nice, at the very least, and maybe more? If there
are Omegas who hate our place in society, maybe there are Alphas who are
against it, too. Maybe not all Alphas are cruel.Relief filled Arthur like a
warm drink, and—for the first time in a very long time—his lips quirked into a
smile.
***** Chapter 7 *****
                   “Though it may seem that Alphas are born
                  with natural leadership, this is not true.
              An Alpha must learn to be patient and well-spoken,
        and above all realize that kindness is not exclusive to Omegas.
         We must love our mates, and strike them only when necessary.
         Casual slaps, kicks, or bites are excessive and distasteful.”
               —High Alpha Francis Bonnefoy, Royal Observations
 
Lovino was so angry, he would spit if only his grandfather hadn’t taught him
otherwise. He wished his grandfather was still alive; he’d been the only Alpha
Lovino actually liked.
Son of a bitch! This was just Lovino’s luck, to line up for the High Alpha and
be chosen by his advisor! If he was being fair—which he wasn’t—the advisor was
admittedly more handsome than the king. If you liked that sort of thing. To
Lovino, Antonio looked like he’d been left out in the sun too long. And he
talked like he was trying to tie a cherry stem in a knot with his tongue. His
accent sounded even weirder than the king’s. But, if you wanted the weirdest by
far, you needn’t look further than Gilbert Beilschmidt. German was possibly the
ugliest dialect to ever assault Lovino’s ears. Every word they said sounded
like a weapon to attack him with.
He would much rather be killed than have to deal with thisfor the rest of his
life. Following behind Antonio, he was tempted beyond belief to wrap his arms
around the Spaniard’s neck, trick the guards into stabbing him with their
bayonets. Or, easier, he could just take to the skies, soar through some
thermals and let them carry him away, away, until he found somewhere better.
But he couldn’t do that, for two reasons. One, he couldn’t leave his dumb
brother because he was his brother, damn it. Two, he had no proof there was any
place out there where Omegas could live free of oppression. Based on personal
experience, he seriously doubted it.
Antonio’s house was quite close to the castle; down the steps, the first house
on the right side. To the left of the steps were the soldiers’ barracks, where
Gilbert and Ludwig spent most of their time. Gilbert had a bedroom in the house
Lovino used to called home—damn it—but he didn’t spend many nights there,
preferring to sleep in his private bedroom in the barracks.
“Here it is,” Antonio announced, gesturing to the house as if Lovino was a
blind idiot. Why was this guy so damn enthusiastic all the time? “Do you like
flowers?”
Lovino regarded the window boxes—overflowing with light blue petals—and the
side garden—lined neatly with rose bushes—before shifting his gaze back to
Antonio. “Yeah. They’re great. Sir.”
Antonio’s smile seemed a little troubled as he opened the front door and waited
for Lovino to follow him in. “This house was a gift from my father. He was the
advisor to King Francis’s father, and my grandfather was the advisor to the
king’s grandfather.” His eyes brightened with pride. “We’ve been tied together
for centuries.”
You come from a long line of guys who were always serving a royal prick? Wow.
Congratulations. You’re the most Omega-like Alpha I’ve ever seen.Lovino held
his tongue, gave only a vaguely interested, “Hmm.”
Antonio looked around as if searching for something else to say. Finally, he
went with, “Well, I think your first task as my mate should be to make me some
lunch.”
Oh, thanks. What a privilege.Lovino rarely cooked for Ludwig and Gilbert;
Feliciano enjoyed it more, so Lovino usually just helped him and cleaned up
after him. But now he was expected to all the work by himself. Or was he?
Lovino looked up at Antonio. “Who normally makes you food?”
“Well, I have several servants who clean and cook, but they’re not really mind.
They live in the castle. The king pays them.” Antonio fingered the loose cuff
of his shirtsleeve. “Why do you ask?”
Lovino shrugged. “Just seems like they should be the ones doing it. They’re
more skilled, and they know how you like your meals. I’m inexperienced
andunskilled. Sir.”
Antonio’s brow furrowed. “I am your Alpha, Lovino. You will do what I say, and
you will not question me.”
Lovino should have felt a jolt of fear, and he would have if it was Ludwig
talking, but Antonio just sounded like a pup trying to intimidate a nestling.
So Lovino shrugged again, bowing his head. “Yes, sir. But I would prefer my
mate to enjoy his lunch, and I just think you would like what the servants make
more. But I would love to make you pasta. It’s all I know how to cook.”
Antonio looked troubled again, confused. “Pasta? What kind of pasta?”
“Just pasta. With butter.” A lie, of course; he and Feliciano could produce a
vast array of meals if they put their minds to it, but Antonio had no way of
knowing that right now.
Antonio crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. “Well . . . I’ll go tell the
servants they’re needed, then. You’ll need to learn to cook more than that, but
there will be time for that later. For now, explore the home as you wish, but
don’t damage anything.” He walked out of the house, puzzling over what had gone
wrong.
Lovino dropped onto a thick sofa, smirking. He’d won a battle, but the war
would go on for the rest of his life. God. He wondered where the Spaniard’s
limits lay. How far could he go without getting beaten? There was only one way
to find out, and he’d be lying if he said testing these boundaries didn’t give
him a thrill. He could never get away with this level of impertinence with
Ludwig or Gilbert. Maybe—just maybe—this wouldn’t be as bad as he’d thought.
A flurry of excited taps on the window. Lovino glanced over to see Feliciano
bouncing on his toes out there, a grin brightening his face. Lovino felt the
usual irritated fondness for his brother,but he felt something else, too.
Homesickness. Because, though Feliciano was here now, eventually he would leave
and Lovino would have to stay. For a split second, Lovino could have cried.
Then he jerked his hand to beckon Feliciano in and gave one of the sofa’s
cushions a good punch. Then another. Then a dozen more just for good measure.
“Lovi! Don’t hurt the pillow.” Feliciano took his brother’s hands, concern
evaporating into delight. “Antonio chose you! You have a mate! I’m so happy for
you, Lovi!”
Lovino pulled out of his brother’s grasp. “Yeah, I have a mate. Now, instead of
several Alphas sharing the responsibility of bossing me around, I get a special
one to make my life miserable.”
Feliciano covered his mouth with his fingers. “Oh, no, Lovino. You can’t think
that way. It’s wonderful to have a mate, I promise! I used to feel lonely a lot
of the time before I met Ludwig, but now that we’re mates he makes me feel so
safe!” He hugged himself, smiling, eyes closed as if imagining the big blond
Alpha’s arms around him. “You’ll love it when Antonio holds you. It’s the best
feeling in the world.”
Lovino stared at his little brother. A betrayed note stuck out in his voice.
“You felt lonely? But we were always together. You were annoying as hell, we
spent every second together! And you were lonely?”
Feliciano’s eyes flew open. “That’s not what I meant! It’s just . . .” He
started wringing his hands. “There’s nothing better for an Omega than an Alpha,
that’s what Ludwig says. We can love Omegas lots—and I do love you lots,
Lovi—but a mate is something special.”
Lovino looked at him a moment longer, then sighed. “Stop doing that with your
hands. It’s fine.”
His little brother looked hopeful. “You’re not mad?”
Lovino shook his head. “I’m always mad, but not at you.”
Just then, the door opened and in strode Antonio with two Omegas in tow. One
was male, the other, female; both Vargas brothers couldn’t help but stare at
her. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, as did her companion. Lovino didn’t
understand the Alphas who found females attractive. They looked peculiar, their
breasts so dramatica and round; Lovino would worry, while making love to a
woman, that her nipples would poke his eyes out.
Feliciano curtsied to Antonio. “Good day, Mr. Carriedo, sir.”
Lovino ducked his head, but kept his gaze on Antonio’s face. “Welcome home.
Sir.”
By all rights, Antonio should have given Lovino a good smack for such blatant
disrespect. But the Spaniard just looked a little helpless as he said, “Lunch,
Omegas. Fix it.”
The servants murmured, “Yes, sir,” and disappeared behind a closed door, into
what was presumably the kitchen.
Antonio turned to Feliciano. “Does Ludwig require you to be home?”
Feliciano shook his head. “No, sir. He’s on patrol until dinnertime.”
“Double shifted, is he? That’s like him.” Surprisingly, Antonio sounded fond.
Lovino felt betrayed by this, by the fact that he was the only one who hated
Ludwig Beilschmidt.
Lovino took a moment to imagine what he would say, if he were an Alpha. Get out
of here, freaks, would probably work. He’d say it in that gruff way that Alphas
had with each other, expressing friendship with insults, slapping each other on
the back in place of a hug. Then Antonio and Feliciano would head out, and
Lovino would sit and be served a delicious meal and no one would have the right
to barge in and order him around.
Then, because he was an Omega, he and Feliciano ate at a small table in the
kitchen while Antonio feasted in the dining room by himself. Feliciano invited
the servants to join them, but they simply finished tidying and walked out in
silence.
“They seem sad,” Feliciano remarked, pouting with sympathy.
“I’d be pretty depressed if I had to slave away like that all day.” Lovino
snorted. “And what do they get out of it? A few coins they can’t even use
unless their Alphas say they can.”
Feliciano sipped some apple cider. “Maybe you shouldn’t speak so loud, Lovino .
. .” His eyes were on the door, wary of the Spaniard bursting through.
Lovino shook his head. “When did you become the one who worries, Feli? I
thought that was my job.”
The smaller Omega shrugged. “I don’t know. Alphas are just scary sometimes, and
I don’t want to get hurt. I don’t want you to get hurt, either.”
Lovino watched his little brother closely. They were fifteen and sixteen, and
yet Feliciano had the carriage of an adult. When had he grown up? Lovino felt
like he had blinked and missed it. Had he lost his little brother to Ludwig
without realizing? And, now that Lovino lived with Antonio, was this the end of
the Vargas brothers? Fear gripped his stomach. Feliciano may be ridiculously
irritating sometimes, but that didn’t mean Lovino wanted to say goodbye to him.
“Okay,” Lovino said slowly. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll be careful so long as you
visit . . . at least once a week.”
Feliciano’s face brightened in a way he usually reserved for Ludwig. “Okay!
Pinkie swear?” He offered a hand, pinkie extended.
Lovino allowed a small smile and curled his finger around his brother’s.
“Pinkie swear. Now hurry up and eat your lunch. Once the tomato bastard
finishes eating, we’ll have a load of dishes to wash.”
“Oooh.” Feliciano put on a grumpy face. “Fun.”
“Is that supposed to be me?” Lovino tossed a napkin at his little brother, who
giggled and ducked away as Lovino reached to tickle him. “Get over here, little
monello!”
Through the crack of the slightly ajar door, Antonio watched with a fond smile
on his lips. He lingered a moment, enjoying the bells of Feliciano’s laughter,
before he silently returned to his empty plates. He would allow the Omegas a
few moments of merriment. Nothing wrong with an Alpha who’s a little lenient,
he thought to himself. Nothing wrong with that at all.
***** Chapter 8 *****
             “The Omega’s reproductive system has been the subject
                        of some debate over the years.
            Many doctors claimed it was identical to that of a bird
          but as no Omega has ever birthed an egg, this was debunked.
         However, the external parts of Omegas do resemble the cloaca
           found in many bird species. Any Omega born with a phallus
              is Deformed and a perversion of the Natural order.”
                            —The Book of Naturalism
                                        
As it always did, night came.
The first day with a new mate had gone well, Francis thought. He and Arthur had
spent at least an hour playing with Matthew, and Francis was pleased that the
green-eyed Omega had already fallen in love with his son. (It was hardly
surprising, however. Not even Gilbert was immune to Matthew’s adorable charms.)
The Omega had also seemed enamoured with the library, which Francis
appreciated; his first mate only liked words that came out of Francis’s mouth.
Not a negative trait by any means, but boring after a while.
Gilbert dined with him at the usual late, genteel time, and asked the
obligatory question: “So, how is mated life?”
Francis chuckled. “I haven’t had Arthur long enough to make a fair assessment.”
Gilbert stabbed a piece of beef with his fork and raised his eyebrows. “You
sound like Antonio.”
“Oui, I was trying to.” Francis took a sip of wine, pausing a moment to savor
the rich taste on his tongue. He never loved his kingdom more than at
mealtimes. What a wonderful land he lived in, to have food like this, the
finest in the world! Francis regarded his friend. “Perhaps I should ask you
now, how is unmated life? I never thought you would be the last of us to find
someone.”
“Don’t lie to me, Francis.” Gilbert glared playfully across the table. Even in
jest, the angry expression made a shiver prickle in the small of Francis’s
back. Sometimes Gilbert seemed more wolf than man. “I’m in no hurry to mate,”
he went on. “I can take care of myself.”
This was a sideways jab at pampered Alphas—like Francis—who needed Omegas to
keep them ahead of household chores. It was true that many Alphas would be
overwhelmed if they had their own jobs as well as Omega work to do. Still, it
was inappropriate to draw explicit attention to this—not because it showed the
importance of Omegas, but because it highlighted a lack in the skills of
Alphas.
If any other Alpha—save Antonio—had said this to Francis, they would be thrown
down the castle steps. But it was Gilbert, so Francis said simply, “Someday
you’ll get lonely, that’s my prediction, mon ami.”
Gilbert arched a pale eyebrow, holding up a skewered bit of carrot. “I’ll have
you and Antonio. I’ll have Ludwig. How could I get lonely?”
Francis shook his head. “It is different. A mate can be a friend, a family
member—”
Gilbert smirked. “Francis, I had no idea you were so open-minded to incest.”
Francis tossed a corn kernel across the table. “Oh, you know what I mean. Mates
can become like family, though of course they will never truly be. Ties to kin
are naturally stronger than to mates. Blood is important.” The wine had loosed
his tongue; he vaguely suspected he had started to ramble, but the words were
satisfying to spin, so he continued. “But a mate, you know, a mate is never
truly close to you. They are not joined to you by blood as family is. They are
intimate, yes, more intimate than any other, but it’s Natural for them to be
inferior. Family and friends, they’re different. They’re on the same basic
level. But a mate is below, and yet also above, in a way. But never the same,
you now?”
Gilbert’s brow furrowed slightly, a rather shifty expression, but he said
nothing.
The conversation lulled, then moved on to lighter topics—the likelihood of
rain, how lovely the food was, when the next hunt would be. In truth, Francis
wasn’t paying much attention to what he and Gilbert were saying. His mind was
wandering upstairs, to his bedroom, where his new mate was waiting to truly
satisfy his needs for the first time . . .
“Would you like to stay longer, mon ami?” Francis asked as the servants cleared
away the plates and platters.
Gilbert snorted in amusement. “I don’t want to keep you from breaking in your
new Omega. I know you can’t wait.”
Francis smiled. Ah, his friends knew him so well. “That is very true, and
considerate of you, Gilbert. I hope you enjoy your night as much as I do.”
“Ha.” Gilbert’s sense of humor sometimes had more derision to it than Francis
would have liked. “Not likely. Good night to you, Your Highness.”
Francis normally would have walked him to the door, but he was too eager to see
Arthur. He bounded up the stairs—well, bounded wasn’t a very regal and majestic
word . . . he flowed up the stairs, graceful and swift, much better—and paused
to peak into Matthew’s room. The bedroom was mostly dark; the sun had set, and
any light still lingering in the sky was blocked by the drawn curtains. The
soft lump in the crib did not stir. Francis pulled the door silently closed and
went on to his bedroom. The chamber of love, as he had once called it, when he
was young and probably drunk. As Antonio could attest: the best ideas came when
intoxicated.
Arthur stood in profile, wearing the nightgown Francis had set out for him. It
was white, silken, and hugged the Omega’s body with the perfect balance between
tightness and looseness. The shin-length bottom was wide, for comfort about the
legs; as it went up the body, it grew more snug, hinting at the delicious curve
of the waist before at last clinging to the breasts—gentle swellings that they
were—in a perfectly titillating manner.
“Ah, mon amour,” Francis pronounced, clasping his hands together. “You are a
sight for the eyes and the heart to behold.” And some other body parts, as
well, but he would soon get to that.
Arthur turned to face him, ducking his chin shyly. “It’s very soft. I’ve never
felt anything this soft before.”  He dipped into a small curtsy. “Thank you,
Your Majesty.”
Francis pursed his lips thoughtfully as he began to disrobe. “Come,” told his
mate. “Assist me.” Arthur obediently approached and knelt to unbuckle Francis’s
shoes. “Just for reference, Arthur,” Francis went on, unfastening the countless
buttons that went into fashion, “around others, especially other Alphas, it is
of course the expectation that you call me by my proper title.”
Arthur’s eyes flickered up at him hesitantly, unsure if he was in trouble or
not.
Francis smiled, and spoke slowly, for the Omega was from the country, after
all. “I am simply saying that in the privacy of this bedchamber, you may call
me by my name, if you wish. Or you may find a pet name for me. I quite like
English terms of endearment. So many are food, and I do love food. Honey,
sugar, I have even heard cupcake! Anything sweet, it seems, means love. Do you
understand?”
This last bit was because Arthur was staring up at him in bewilderment.
Arthur’s expression cleared quickly, and he nodded. “Yes.”
“Oh, but still call me sir when answering questions. Just so things remain
normal. Natural.” Royal titles were one thing. The word of respectful address
that all Omegas were required to give Alphas was another.
Arthur bowed his head to unbuckle the other shoe. His voice was soft. “Yes,
sir.”
At last, Francis removed the final article of clothing—it was heaped like a
dead indigo animal on the floor, for a servant to collect in the morning—and
stood naked before his new mate. He could not say if he preferred to be nude or
clothed. Both were comfortable and obviously gorgeous, but he had to admit some
clothing was more useful than none. It definitely hindered sex, however, an
unforgivable offense. In the bedroom, Francis concluded, there is no better way
to be than completely naked.
Arthur was having a hard time keeping his gaze on Francis’s face, and the
French Alpha laughed. “No need for modesty, mon amour. We are mates, are we
not? Look at me all you want. I’m yours, and you’re mine.”
Arthur’s throat moved as he swallowed, and Francis stood still, allowing him to
take in the lines and slopes of his body. He was not what one might call
muscular—Gilbert was, but Francis didn’t care for the guards’ regimen of
physical activity. He wasn’t lazy, just languid. But the way he inhabited his
rather furry body was what counted: if one knew they possessed beauty and acted
like it, wonders were worked.
Francis stepped close to Arthur, cupping his face with one hand. The Omega’s
cheek was smooth to the touch, but his skin had freckles and spots scattered
around. There had been a time when ideal Omegas had pure white skin, to the
point where they covered their faces in powder to achieve it, but things had
slowly changed. Beauty had many different definitions now, and Francis was
glad, because though he was not perfection by any means, his new mate was
beautiful to him.
Arthur peered up at Francis, such a timid little thing.
“You don’t need to be scared,” Francis whispered to him. “There’s nothing to
fear.”
Then he closed the space between them and pressed his lips to Arthur’s.
The Omega wasn’t the best kisser—a problem borne of inexperience and
insecurity—but the wine in Francis’s veins blurred the edges of everything, so
it was alright. He felt Arthur’s back, his lovely waist, sweet pillowy flesh
that was sure to be even softer once the starved country bird got some good
food into him. Arthur gasped against his lips when Francis squeezed his ass,
and Francis smiled at the look of shock on the Omega’s face. The astonishment
stayed on Arthur’s face, rising in intensity, as Francis moved him to his back
on the bed and slid his hands up Arthur’s thighs, the nightgown slithering
upward to pool like sea foam on Arthur’s concave stomach. Arthur’s eyes bulged,
his lips parted and still wet from their kiss. Francis was the maestro to
Arthur’s orchestra; he played with his mate’s body and the Omega responded with
pants, then whimpers, then high moans, and at last the crescendo reached its
peak, and Arthur begged with blind desperation for what he instinctively
wanted, needed: “Please—m-mate me, please!”
Francis had never needed to be asked twice, and tonight proved no exception. He
mounted his Omega and was delighted to see Arthur’s head tip back into the
pillows, eyes squeezed shut, his pleasure so exquisite Francis could all but
taste it. Like the first bite of an apple, or the first footstep into a field
of snow, there was nothing quite as euphoric as the first time of mating.
Some—well, most—chose to do it when the Omega was in Heat, since sex with
raging hormones was undeniably more exciting than without. But Francis
appreciated the more delicate exchanges between mates. True, it was satisfying
to throw everything you had into an exhausting, all-encompassing, carnal fuck
that left you reeling and your mate sore for a week afterward. But there was
something to be said for using your hands to please another, to mould an Omega
into a trembling sculpture of sensuality.
Arthur’s final cry of the night was damp in Francis’s ear; he was kissing the
soft skin of the Omega’s neck, and he groaned as his admirable stamina ran out.
Francis stayed on top of his mate for a moment, breathlessly savoring the stars
prickling through his limbs. He might have slept like that, but the mattress
was softer than Arthur’s bony frame, so he shifted off and lay an arm across
Arthur’s waist. Arthur smiled, still shy, and Francis smiled lazily back.
“Thank you, mon amour.”
Arthur blinked. “You’re thanking me? I—” He stopped himself. “You’re welcome,
sir. And thank you.”
Francis closed his eyes, but his lips curled with mirth. “It was my pleasure.”
***** Chapter 9 *****
              “The East is repressed and the North is perverted.
                       The West has the perfect balance.
                       Come taste some Western beauties.
                         Fresh and affordable Omegas.
                          Neither claimed nor tamed.”
                    —an advertisement for a Western brothel
 
The next morning, Lovino awoke to three shocks. One, it was not morning at all;
noon sunlight illuminated the thin spots in the navy curtains. Two, he was not
in his home; he was in the damn Spaniard’s house, and he had a mate, and the
entire ordeal was not a nightmare he could wake up from. Three, he had a pair
of arms around him. And a chest against his shoulders. And an abdomen against
the small of his back. And something hard against his . . .
“What the hell are you DOING?!” Lovino tore himself out of the Alpha’s embrace,
moving to stand beside the bed. He tried to focus on his outrage, and the
embarrassment that feuled it, rather than think about the small flicker of
longing to return to the warmth and safety of those arms.
Antonio bolted upright in alarm, hazel eyes wild. “What? What’s wrong?”
Lovino tried not to stare at the Alpha’s lap, but the lump beneath the blanket
drew his gaze. He’d never seen a dick before, and he was just curious, damn it.
He’d half-expected to be fucked by one last night, but thankfully Antonio was
the type to wait until Heat. The pair had awkwardly fallen asleep, with Lovino
as close to the edge of the mattress as he could get without falling off. He
sure as hell had not planned on waking up in this bastard’s evil clutches!
Lovino opened his mouth to let Antonio have it—the nerve of grabbing him in his
sleep—but then he remembered the promise he’d made the day before. I’ll be
careful. He’d pinkie sworn to his brother, he had to honor it. Otherwise, what
was he? No better than a lying Alpha, that’s what.
“You . . .” Lovino let the flames inside him cool, lowering his voice. “You
scared me. That’s all. And I was, whatever, I had a bad dream, I guess.” He
gave a small shrug, then added as an afterthought, “Sir.”
Antonio stared at him, eyes still wide, incredulous. He looked like he was
trying to determine if Lovino was mentally sound. Lovino fought a snort. Should
have figured that out before you picked me as your mate, dumb idiot.
“Uh . . . Well. I’m sorry I frightened you.” Antonio rubbed his eyes with both
hands. For some reason, the gesture stuck out to Lovino. Wouldn’t an Alpha have
just scrubbed a hand over his face? But then Antonio dropped his hands to his
lap, where they brushed the lump. Antonio and Lovino both looked down at it,
before Antonio eased the blankets away and kicked off the loose trousers he
used as nightclothes. Lovino stared at the seemingly endless amount of bronze
skin stretched out luxuriously on the bed. So that’s what a penis is.He didn’t
really see what all the fuss was about. Alphas were awfully proud to have what
amounted to a mindless appendage with a little pouch underneath.
Antonio spoke again, shattering Lovino’s moment of amused discovery. “Come
here, Lovino,” he said, holding out a hand to him. His voice was only a little
firm, but there was something in his eyes, something earnest and hungry. It
left no room for humor.
I’ll be careful. Lovino bit his tongue to keep from snapping at his mate. He’d
promised. He could risk small indiscretions, but he wasn’t stupid enough to
deny an Alpha something as sacred as pleasure. No one would even begin to
defend him for that. It was an Alpha’s most basic right with his mate, and
arguably an Omega’s simplest duty. After all, it was supposed to be magical,
right? Such a wonderful feeling. Lovino had never believed all the romantic
crap about Omegas enjoying sex outside of Heat, and even in Heat it was only
physical, the body’s built-in need for stimulation. Lovino had never wanted
that, and sleeping under Antonio Carriedo’s roof had not changed things.
But he had no choice. So Lovino rejoined Antonio on the bed, kneeling beside
the Alpha, and placed his fingers into the bronze hand. Antonio took Lovino’s
hand in a gentle grip, but with just enough force behind it that Lovino knew
better than to test it. Antonio met Lovino’s gaze intensely as he fitted his
mate’s fingers around himself. He’s daring me, Lovino realized. He wants me to
be disrespectful like last night. So he can punish me.
Lovino would not give him the satisfaction.
Well. Not that satisfaction, anyway.
Rubbing the Alpha was like polishing a bit of furniture, only there was no rag;
it was just his skin on hot Spanish skin. At first it was tacky against his
palm, but after a few moments—and a soft groan from Antonio as he began to move
his hips—it gifted Lovino with some droplets that made the process slicker,
smoother. He increased the tempo and glanced at Antonio’s face, but the Alpha
had lain back, his head in the pillows, eyes closed in ecstasy.
And here was Lovino’s fourth shock of the day: he was enjoying this. There was
something powerful about this ability to render an Alpha prone, the twitches of
his hips and the catches of his breath, his body begging for the up-and-down to
continue. Such a simple thing, upward and downward. Just friction. And yet the
Spaniard ground into Lovino’s hand with an animal desperation as he neared the
finish. Lovino sensed this, the feeling of anticipation, and he was tempted
beyond words to stop the motion of his hand and torture his Alpha. How
bittersweet that would feel for Antonio, clawing toward the peak, Lovino a
mighty force at the summit throwing forth endless obstacles to halt his ascent.
But Lovino wasn’t mighty. And he suspected that, if he did try to make his
Alpha skate on the edge of heaven, it would not be appreciated. In a way, it
was worse than denying sex—it was denying the best moment of sex. Lovino didn’t
want to test Antonio. Not because he was afraid—damn it—but because he didn’t
want to be punished, whether it be a beating or a plucking or both. He had
better things to do than hobble around in pain. And Feliciano would be
heartbroken . . .
Lovino suddenly sickened of making Antonio feel good. Fortunately, in the same
moment, Antonio let out a low groan, and Lovino’s services were no longer
needed. Grimacing, he wiped his hand off on Antonio’s trousers, still bunched
at the foot of the bed. The Spaniard gave no notice; he sprawled there with his
eyes closed, chest heaving as he got his breath back.
Lovino stood and cleared his throat. He let a hint of mockery harden his words.
“Will that be all, sir?”
Slowly, Antonio’s eyes blinked open. They were softer than Lovino had ever seen
them; they looked rather pretty, Lovino grudgingly admitted. Not that any self-
respecting Alpha would want to be called pretty, except maybe the king, but he
was just ugly.
The Spaniard gave a small smile. “Yes, that was very good, Lovino. Well done.”
Oh, how romantic.“Thank you. I’m honored that you enjoyed it. Sir.”
If Antonio could tell he was being less than genuine, he gave no sign of it. He
simply stood, stretched his arms above his head, and sighed contentedly. “Such
a nice way to start the day. And a nice way to sleep, too.” He regarded Lovino
with amusement. “I didn’t sleep very well at first. It was so strange, having
another person there next to me, in my own bed. But after you fell asleep and
cuddled up with me, I fell asleep very fast.” He chuckled, eyes bright. He
actually looked fond. “It’s a shame I didn’t get to watch you longer. You look
so cute in your sleep.”
The flames roared within Lovino. He was surprised his body wasn’t glowing
bright red. If someone had thrown a pail of water on him, it would have all
gone up in steam the second it touched his skin. Fury, fury. He trembled with
it, but he couldn’t let it show. He tucked his hands behind his back so Antonio
wouldn’t see that they were fists. He felt his face and chest flush, and that
made him all the angrier. Damn you, you stupid tomato bastard! I hate you! Why
would I want to cuddle with you?! You’re lying! I would never do that, even in
my sleep! Even if I was in Heat! I’d rather cuddle a rabid shark than with you!
But all he force out was, “Thanks.”
Antonio was already dressed and on his way out of the bedroom. “I’ll fetch the
servants to make some breakfast—”
Lovino shoved past him. “I’ll do it.”
Antonio stared after him in surprise. “But you said you could only make—”
“I can make breakfast.” It was nearly snarled. Lovino hurried into the kitchen,
his heart racing. Waiting for the door to slam against the wall, waiting for
Antonio to rush in, hit him, throw him on the ground. Let out the punishing
beast Lovino had glimpsed earlier. Do what any other Alpha would have already
done at the first sign of sass. Of deformity.
But that door stayed closed. Lovino didn’t hear another sound in the house. He
waited almost ten minutes, but the Spaniard never did a thing. So Lovino made
breakfast, an omelet, though it took him longer than usual because Antonio’s
kitchen had everything in the wrong place. He’d have to fix that. After all,
what would an Alpha care about the state of his kitchen? He never went in
there. He probably didn’t know what cupboards held what, anyway. It was likely
the Omega servants who decided where things were kept in here. Lovino didn’t
much care about them. They wouldn’t be cooking here for very long. Lovino knew
that with certainty, because when he set the plate of food in front of Antonio,
the Alpha smiled faintly and said, “Thank you, Lovino. This smells wonderful.
You should eat, too. We’ll be going up to the castle when I’m finished. The
High Alpha has asked me to teach his new mate the philosophies of Naturalism,
and you’ll be joining us. You will both benefit from the lessons.”
Lovino bowed his head to hide the hatred in his eyes. He was quickly mastering
the art of speaking one thing whilst saying another. Softening his words a
little to make them sound grateful, he replied, “Oh, good! I can’t wait to
learn, sir.”
And as Antonio stuffed his face and Lovino returned to the kitchen to eat what
was left, he scowled murderously and thought, I should have poisoned that damn
omelet.
***** Chapter 10 *****
             “It is Natural for Omegas to feel the need to serve,
                       and even to worship their Alphas.
                After all, only the bulbus glandis of the Alpha
                 can effectively soothe the Heat of the Omega.
                It is a mercy of the Alpha to soothe the Omega.
     Only the weakest of Alphas allow the scent of Heat to control them.”
                            —The Book of Naturalism
 
Arthur had never realized just how lazy royalty was. There were rumors, jokes,
all that, but the reality of it—waking up with the noonday sun warming the
bedroom—was a quaint shock, almost surreal in a way. If he’d slept in this late
in the village, ha! Impossible to imagine, because it would never happen.
Alistair woke a half hour past dawn without exception, and Arthur was to be up
in enough time to give him breakfast. It was rarely a good meal. In fact, it
was rarely a meal at all. All Alphas who contributed to a hunt were entitled to
a ration of the meat, and since Alistair was a skilled hunter, they always had
venison or rabbit or the occasional fish. The village fields gave corn and
wheat, when natural disasters didn’t ruin everything. Corn was hardier and thus
less valuable, so they usually had cornmeal. Other than that, they were too
poor to have what the bigger families in the village had. Families with two or
three generations and plenty of children—especially Alpha children—meant
valuable skills that could be profited from. While some hunted, others could
build, or forge metals, or sculpt things from clay. Art was often scorned by
Alphas in the village, but not by those in the family of an artist. If they
made something beautiful, and sold it to someone in the city—money! And with
money, you could buy finery for your family, or you could save it up for
something useful, like a goat or a cow—milk and, eventually, meat without
needing to hunt it! The rich families of the village were like the tide of
history embodied. But none of their Omegas slept in this late.
Beside him, hogging most of the blankets, Francis spread his arms to stretch
and opened his mouth wide to yawn. So far, aside from the library, Arthur’s
favorite part of being the king’s mate was the lack of stench. The people of
the village bathed regularly as a whole, but regularly was relative. In the
castle, it meant once a day. In the village, it meant once a week. The big
families had metal basins they filled with fire-warmed water from their private
well, but the rest of the rubes had to use streams, which meant that the once a
week rule could easily become whenever it stops being so goddamn cold since
Alistair was rather particular about subjecting himself to frostbite. (Given
the extra bits Alphas had to worry about freezing off, Arthur couldn’t exactly
blame him. But the smell of wolf musk got pretty terrible after a month or
two.)
Francis heaved a content sigh as he went limp after his stretch. “How did you
sleep, mon amour?”
“Quite well, sir.” Arthur had already started to adopt the posh phrasings of
Francis and Antonio. Quite well instead of good or fine. It wasn’t a lie—he had
slept quite well indeed, on this comfortable mattress, in this lovely
nightgown, in this draftless castle, and of course, after their lovemaking last
night. You couldn’t call it anything else. It wasn’t just sex, or a fuck, or
even mating. It was a declaration of love. Arthur wasn’t sure if that was
genuine love or just an infatuation, but he wasn’t afraid of Francis anymore.
Surely if he treated his mate with this kindness, he wouldn’t be terrible to
spend a life with. He wouldn’t be like Alistair.
Thank God. Whomever. Arthur wasn’t religious, but he thought maybe he believed
in fate. Could he be fated to fall in love with the High Alpha of Western
Eurasia? Imagine!
Francis sighed again, a smaller exhalation of farewell, and hauled himself from
bed. Arthur watched him, and wondered yet again how he could be so comfortable
in his own skin to strut around naked. It was his bedchamber, granted, but when
he was naked Arthur always walked with his knees knocking together, hands half-
lifted to cover himself, no matter where he was. Francis disappeared into his
closet—Arthur had only glimpsed inside, but it seemed to be as big as the
bedroom and absolutely full of colorful clothes—and came back in a thick robe,
with another in his arms. “Come, Arthur. We will bathe, and then I believe
Antonio and his Omega shall be here to begin your training. So exciting, hm?”
Arthur padded after his mate, nervous thoughts poking around in his skull. The
least dangerous question was the one he went with: “When will we have
breakfast?”
Francis paused in the middle of the hall, regarding Arthur with a bemused
furrow to his brow. “Whenever we are hungry, of course.”
Arthur blinked, then ducked his head. “Yes, right, of course.” Francis was in
charge of everything. He didn’t have anyone to tell him it was mealtime. He
decided when he ate, and it mattered not if anyone else was inconvenienced by
it, because what could they do? Complain?
Arthur didn’t think all of this would go to his head, but he found himself
holding his chin higher than usual as they walked down the stairs and down
another small, spiraled staircase. A short, rather dark passage took them to
the “bath room” which was, in Arthur’s mind, like walking into a warm cloud.
“Steam,” said the king, smiling at the look of wonder on Arthur’s face. The
room was full of grey haze, and indeed, it was steam. A damp-haired Omega stood
in each corner of the room, a bucket in hand, and at Francis’s word, they
poured water on a collection of stones which had spent the morning within a
hearth, warming.
The servants left with deep bows, and Arthur watched the king
disrobe—literally, leaving his and the robe intended for Arthur on a bench
along the wall. In the center of the room, Arthur could just barely see the
bath, a large dip in the floor filled with murky, pale grayish water. Francis
slipped heedlessly into the water; it went up to his hips, standing. Arthur was
relieved to see it wasn’t too deep. It wasn’t that he couldn’t swim, just that
he was dangerously bad at it.
“Come on, Arthur,” Francis said, with a light edge of impatience. “Before the
water cools.”
Arthur lifted his nightgown over his head and, shy to be watched, even though
Francis had been more intimate with him than anyone else, he hurried down into
the water.
The steam had left a film of wetness on the floor, and that was where the
trouble began.
The step within the bath—which also doubled as a seat—was slippery with soap,
and that was where the trouble was confirmed.
Arthur’s natural clumsiness would have made it a risky endeavor under normal
conditions, but his haste sealed the deal. His feet shot out from beneath him
and his arms flew out to stabilize himself. Something within him must have
known he would wind up cracking his head open on the stone floor, however,
because in that split second—long before the king could begin to move—he was
up, his spread arms were wings, and he flapped himself clear of gravitational
danger.
There was no breeze in this sealed room, no thermals apart from the hot air
rising from the stones and, to a much lesser extent, the bath. Arthur couldn't
soar in here; he could barely stay afloat once he lifted up. If he had any
manner of escape available, he would readily take it, rather than face the king
with this . . .  bird of prey. Of shame.
What will he do? Will he really want to marry an Omega who turns into a
harrier?
Francis had jerked to his feet in the bath, trying to catch his mate, but now
he only stood, arms slack at his sides, water rocking and splashing at his
waist. His eyes were wide, understandably. Who would ever expect such a bird to
come from Arthur? It would be like little Matthew turning into an eagle.
“That is . . . quite the form, Arthur,” the king said, jaw a bit slack. “Come .
. .” He stepped to the edge of the bath and offered an arm to Arthur. “Come
here.”
As gently as he could, Arthur hopped up onto the king’s forearm, careful not to
dig his talons into the soft skin. Arthur almost trembled. Would the king slam
a hand down on him, drown him here in the steamy water? Maybe he could fight
his way out, if he could peck Francis’s face, or maybe get his talons up—
What am I thinking?! I can’t hurt an Alpha! Especially not this one! It’s not
my place!
But when it was life and death, did place still matter?
Arthur perched there on the High Alpha’s arm for what felt like hours as
Francis stared at him, taking in the reds, browns, whites of his feathers. With
a gentle fingertip, Francis traced the deadly curve of Arthur’s beak. Arthur
was astonished to see wonder, even admiration, in Francis’s gaze.
“Such beautiful, intense eyes,” he whispered. “If I was a bird, I would want to
be like you, mon amour.”
If he was a bird? When had an Alpha ever said that? It was a sign of weakness!
It was like biological treason! Was Arthur dreaming?
“Spread your wings,” Francis ordered, still at a whisper.
Arthur tightened his grip on the arm by a degree and unfolded his wings. He
seemed a lot bigger with his nearly four-foot wingspan at full expansion.
Francis seemed almost reverent, reaching toward a wing as if to touch the gown
of a deity.
He never touched, however, because upstairs—in the great hall—a Spanish man
called, “King Francis! Where are you, Your Majesty? Did you sleep in late
again?”
Francis moved his arm in such a way that Arthur knew he was meant to hop off.
He landed on the edge of the bath and returned to his human form, quickly
sliding into the water.
Francis submerged himself entirely for a moment, then rose up, water caressing
his body as it sluiced down. He looked like a statue of a man beneath a
waterfall. He looked like a regal water god humbled into human form.
He tipped his head back, steam curling around his slightly reddened skin, and
sighed shortly. Not the at-ease exhalations he’d given earlier. He did not
speak his mind. He simply said, “Bathe quickly. I will set out clothes for you
to wear in the bedroom. Once you are dressed, you will meet Antonio and Lovino
in the library.”
And with that, Francis got out of the water, wrapped himself in his robe, and
left Arthur alone with thoughts as murky as the water he soaked in.
 
                                     . . .
                                        
And so began the lessons.
When Arthur finally went to the library—with Francis nowhere to be seen along
the way, but that wasn’t surprising in a huge house with likely a dozen hidden
rooms and passageways—there was no time to greet Lovino. The younger Omega sat
with his arms crossed in a chair that, while of excellent quality and
craftsmanship, looked old and drab with such a youthful, fervent creature
seated on it. Antonio smiled at Arthur; so far, he was the only Alpha Arthur
knew who always had a cheerful expression. Even when he wasn’t smiling, there
was a friendly light in his hazel eyes.
“Welcome, Arthur,” said Antonio. “Take a seat there beside Lovino. As you know,
I’ve been asked to teach both of you all you need to know about Naturalism, and
to prepare you both as much as I can for the wedding ceremony.”
Something about that seemed off to Arthur. Was it really an Alpha’s area of
expertise, how to best act as an Omega? Wouldn’t it be better to have an Omega
teach them? No, that wouldn’t work, he supposed. That would put an Omega in a
position of authority. We can’t have that.
He tried to catch Lovino’s eye, but the Italian beside him seemed to be
elsewhere, despite his intensity. The only sign he gave that he was listening
was to grunt when Antonio said his name.
From the fancy, small oak bookcase, Antonio picked up one of the gold-titled
books. The Book of Naturalism. Arthur wondered again why there were so many
copies of the same book. His face must have betrayed his puzzlement, because
Antonio said, “Each volume is different. Some are in different languages,
others have slightly different interpretations. No one knows what language the
teachings were originally written in, but they’ve been translated countless
times. They’re our way of life, after all.” He opened the book, cleared his
throat, and began to read.
Arthur wondered if Antonio was reading from the English version, or the Spanish
and translating himself. Either way, there was something very . . . detached
about the way it was written. It was extremely dry, formal, and scientific. It
was undeniable that it had been written by an Alpha, because every mention of
Omegas was joined with inferior or meager, and Alphas were referred to as the
dominant, superior, saviors of the fair Omega sex. As Antonio read, Lovino’s
eyes narrowed, flames flickering in their brown depths. He looked like he
wanted to rip the book from his mate’s hands and beat him with it. Arthur
recalled the thoughts of fighting Francis he’d had in the bath. Was this
normal? It was never spoken about, but was it normal for Omegas to have hidden
anger toward Alphas? And it was just a matter of being excellent at hiding it?
It was a real possibility, of course it was, but Arthur couldn’t help but doubt
it. Other Omegas seemed so content in their roles. It never occurred to them to
rise up. Rise up? It would be like a tree rising up against being chopped down.
How could it fight? Yes, it stood among others of its kind and was supported by
its roots, but against the undeniable power of an Alpha’s axe, of his will to
dominate? What chance was there?
“The basic ideal of Naturalism,” Antonio was reading, “is that the two entities
of life be in balance with each other. The Alpha. The dominant, the strong, the
leader. And the Omega. The submissive, the weak, the follower. Both need one
 to fully realize the other. Life would not be possible without the Alpha’s
seed, nor would it be possible without the Omega’s egg. Only through a Natural
balance can our species flourish and thrive.”
A balance? Arthur thought. But isn’t a balance supposed to be equal?
Even if Arthur had the courage to say that, he didn’t have time. Antonio closed
the book and immediately began instructions on curtsying. Arthur thought he
would have no trouble with this, considering Alistair’s merciless lessons
before he’d gone to meet the king (was that really just a day ago? It felt like
an entire lifetime). But it turned out that curtsying was complicated business.
There were times when a full dip was required, and others when a simple head
inclination was more appropriate. “Sometimes you shouldn’t draw attention to
yourself,” Antonio explained as he demonstrated a more subtle, upper-body bow.
“Such as when Francis, Gilbert, and I are having a meeting. If you were leaving
the room, you would do a small bow before exiting.”
“How would you even see it?” Lovino grumbled, glumly mirroring Antonio’s
posture. “If we’re at the door and you’re talking, you won’t be watching us.”
Arthur held his breath, but Antonio didn’t yell or even seem irritated. He just
smiled and said, “But you’ll be in the corner of our eyes. We will know, trust
me. As the Book of Naturalism says. An Omega’s true, basic duty is to serve
Alphas.”
Lovino didn’t give any response, aside from a tiny, frustrated sigh. He was
having trouble bending just so in his curtsies. Arthur was more flexible, but
he struggled too. Antonio, on the other hand, could perform every iteration of
a respectful duck without issue. When Alistair taught Arthur, he only used
words and rough adjustments to Arthur’s legs; he never demonstrated. Antonio
was so adept, Arthur would have thought he was an Omega himself if he didn’t
know better.
Arthur’s legs were trembling by the time Francis appeared in the doorway. He
smiled shyly at his mate, but Francis didn’t look at him; his amused gaze was
on Antonio. “You don’t have to do that, mon ami. There are plenty of servants
to assist you in teaching.”
The Spaniard turned, his smile far brighter for the king than it was for the
Omegas. “Oh, I don’t mind. Besides, it’s good exercise. Got to stay nimble,
right?”
Francis chuckled. “I suppose we do. I prefer to exercise in the bedroom.” He
waved a hand as if ushering aside the current topic to move on to another. “I
am becoming famished. Shall we lunch?”
“We shall.” Antonio stepped away to join his friend in the doorway, then
glanced back at his pupils. “Are you two ready to eat?”
Arthur and Lovino exchanged a glance—the first time Lovino had looked at him
since that jealous glare at the line-up—and simultaneously inclined their
heads, replying in unison, “Yes, sir.”
Francis gave his hands a gleeful clap. “Aha! They are like twins already, how
lovely. Lovino will be a perfect maid of honor for Arthur. Oh, and did I tell
you, Toni? I spoke to Ludwig, his mate will be the page. Of course, it would be
best if Gilbert’s mate could do it, but what can we do, oui? We must make do
with what we have.”
Lovino shot Arthur an accusing look as they followed a few steps behind their
Alpha mates. Arthur could only look surprised, and a little embarrassed. This
was the first concrete details he’d heard about the fabled wedding. So Lovino
would be his maid of honor. A stranger. Well, I guess that’s fitting. I’m
marrying a stranger, too. Everyone in this new life is a stranger. Even me. He
also wondered what a page was, but that was a question for later. Now he just
stared down at the floor while Lovino glared at him.
Arthur and Lovino weren’t asked to assist in the kitchen—it seemed everyone
knew they would only get in the way. Instead, they ate at a small table in a
room near the dining room that seemed to be a simple sitting room. A bookshelf,
several chairs, a sofa, and a painting of three people: the king, a baby, and a
woman. Francis had his arm around the woman’s waist, and both of them stared
lovingly down at the sleeping child she held.
“Is that King Francis’s first mate?” Arthur asked, pointing to the painting as
the servants set down their plates.
The servants gave no reply aside from a hint of a nod from one. Arthur had
never seen them look anything but exhausted. How long did they work all day? He
had yet to find a single speck of dust in the castle, but he never saw anyone
cleaning. Did they do it at night? And serve through the day? What sort of life
was that?
“Obviously,” Lovino replied scornfully, tearing into his meat like an animal.
Arthur looked across the table at him. “You know,” he said quietly, “I don’t
mean to be rude or anything, but you are technically below me in rank.”
Now Lovino snorted with enough scorn to poison a squirrel. “Congratulations.”
Arthur suspected pulling rank wasn’t the way to make friends, so he tried
another tactic. “I didn’t get to choose my maid of honor, it was them who chose
it. But if I could choose, I’d still choose you.”
Lovino sawed through his food with a lot more force than necessary. His voice
was cross, but there was something, a glimmer of doubt in his eyes. “Why the
hell would you do that? You don’t even know me.”
“No,” Arthur agreed. “I don’t. But I’d like to. Our mates are friends. And
there isn’t really a way for us to—well, maybe it’s just me, I don’t know. But
up here, it seems very isolated. We’re so above everyone else, in rank and in
placement in the city. It just seems like it’ll be hard to make friends.” He
looked down at his food and shrugged. “No, never mind. You’re from here, right?
So you probably already have lots of friends. Forget I said anything. I
apologize.”
It was a long moment before anything happened. At first, Arthur didn’t realize
what was happening when Lovino moved his plate against Arthur’s. Then Lovino
started forking slices of marbled ham onto Arthur’s plate.
“Here,” Lovino said gruffly, almost reminding Arthur of his big brother.
“You’re too skinny, damn it. I can’t be a maid of honor to somebody who’s going
to faint in the aisle.”
Taken aback, Arthur watched Lovino sit back in his chair and pull his plate
back toward himself. The Italian picked up his glass of cider—not wine,
reminding Arthur of the half-decade difference in their ages—and met Arthur’s
gaze over the rim of the glass. There was a challenge in those eyes, like there
always was. A defensiveness that was almost endearing. Yeah, I was kind to you.
What of it, bastard?
Arthur smiled. “Thank you. Or, uh, merci.”
Lovino rolled his eyes. “I don’t speak that frog language. I say thank you or I
say grazie.”
“Oh, okay, um.” Arthur cleared his throat. “Grazie?”
Lovino stared at him for a moment, then shook his head and returned his
attention to his food. “Stick with English, britanno.”
Arthur ducked his chin a little, but his smile stayed throughout the meal, and
though they ate in silence, whenever he glanced up from his food, he found
Lovino’s intense brown eyes staring back at him.
***** Chapter 11 *****
                       “My dearest, my blade, my night:
                       Nothing has ever made me happier
                    than becoming your mate . . . Although,
           thinking about the frilly weddings they hold in the South
                  may be a close second for the humor of it.
                         Those [unintelligible] idiots
                    don’t know the first thing about love.”
           —Mathias Køhler, writing (very messily) to Lukas Bondevik
 
“A gold piece for your thoughts.”
Francis glanced up from his plate, where he had been toying with his food for
the past ten minutes without putting any of it to his lips. Antonio was
watching him with a rather concerned expression, and Francis wondered—not for
the first time—what his advisor would do if something happened to him. They had
always been the best of friends. How could they not be? They had grown up
together, quite literally; Francis’s earliest memories all contained Antonio,
eating together, sleeping over (always Antonio at the castle), playing. A rush
of nostalgia swelled, warm and bittersweet, in Francis’s chest. Though he would
never admit it, and truthfully he was hardly aware of it himself, there was a
part of Francis that missed the early days, when he was a blissfully unaware
child, when his days were just he and Antonio together. Gilbert came later,
after his father had been promoted and moved closer to the castle, and it was a
known thing that Gilbert would become the highest ranking guardsman just as his
father had. Of course he would be friends with Francis and Antonio. It was just
one of those things. Royalty and aristocracy was not about personal affinity;
it was not a puzzle with pieces fitting together just so. It was more like a
chess board, with rigid squares of space, and a different creature in each.
Proximity mattered. Rank mattered. Had he ever questioned why he was friends
with Gilbert? No, of course not. Had he ever questioned why he was friends with
Antonio?
He had not let himself. The questions were entirely different, in a way he was
too terrified to consider.
Antonio was starting to look quite expectant now, so Francis grabbed at the
first response that came to mind. “Ah, just thinking about the wedding,” he
lied. “These are exciting times. So much will be happening.” The dishonesty,
directed at his friend, was a needle in his heart, so he softened it by adding
some truth: “I almost wish it could be skipped.”
The Spaniard’s eyebrows spiked. “You don’t want to have a wedding? No feast, no
celebrations? That doesn’t sound like you.”
Francis allowed a smile. It was quite lovely to be so well known. “I suppose it
is just cold feet. I think this marriage will be . . . different from the last.
This mate is different. There is a certain . . . strength within him that is
not in most Omegas.”
Strength was an understatement. His mate was a bird of prey. He had never
expected that. The possibility hadn’t even entered his mind. Arthur was so
plain in human appearance, Francis had felt sure he’d at last gotten a normal
mate. The first, the last, she was . . . well, he supposed she was fine. She’d
come from the capital; she was the daughter of one of the finest tailors. She
had no trouble fitting in, and she was adept with a needle and thread (though,
as far as Francis was concerned, a ripped hem was simply an excuse to buy more
lovely clothes). But her eyes, like the eyes of the servants, were empty. Even
when they first met, there was hardly a spark in them. Francis had never
wondered about it—he’d simply assumed she was dim-witted—but now it occurred to
him that perhaps it was something more. Perhaps that obedient quality so many
Alphas wanted in an Omega was not simply from a natural desire to be ordered
about. Perhaps . . .
“. . . what I think. Francis?” Antonio was waving a hand at him. “Did you hear
what I said?”
Francis smiled apologetically. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t. I am being a terrible
dining companion for you, I’m too distracted for even conversation.” He leaned
back in his chair, tipping his head back and running his hands through the
golden waves of hair. “Oh.So many things inside my head, it feels like there is
not enough room.”
Antonio smiled back, the same warm smile he’d had since they were children.
Antonio had always seemed the innocent of the trio, even in smiles. Francis’s
lips always whispered of sensual nights and rich wine; Gilbert’s grins were
nothing but teeth and cunning red eyes. But Antonio was so safe. There was
never any doubt of his loyalty. And there wasn’t really with Gilbert, either.
Not really.
“Don’t worry,” Antonio said. “It’s understandable to feel flustered. You were
worse than this the day you took your father’s place. Do you remember? You
could hardly catch your breath.”
Francis did remember. He’d been in his bedchamber, dressing for the ceremony
that would officially name him High Alpha, and every future problem, every
possible what if, had come crashing down on him. Antonio had found him and put
a hand on his shoulder and said simply, Respirer. It was the second time
Francis had heard Antonio speak his language, and it was such a comfort, the
softness of the S between his lips, that Francis listened and breathed, and
seven minutes after that, he named himself king before the gathered citizens,
with Gilbert and Antonio looking on proudly.
“Thank you again, for that,” Francis murmured, fingertips brushing his friend’s
bronze hand.
Antonio didn’t meet his gaze. He moved his hand away, picked up his glass,
sipped, set it down again, and replied, “You’re welcome, of course. You would
have done the same for me, right?”
“Right.” Francis didn’t have to think about that, at least. “So, have you made
any progress with Lovino? He still looks nothing like an Omega. In the face, I
mean. The eyes. You know?”
The Spaniard sighed, nodding. “I know. He is so upset all the time, but I don’t
know why. Omegas don’t have anything to be upset about, especially the mates of
you and me. They have more status of any Omega in Western Eurasia. And yet . .
.” He shrugged, twirling his fork on his crumb-littered plate with the
unpleasant sound of metal tines on porcelain. Both Alphas winced, and he
stopped. “Gilbert said he’s always been that way. Grumpy. Easily frustrated.
The complete opposite of his little brother.”
“Feliciano is a lovely Omega.” With a normal bird form, a cute little plover if
Francis recalled correctly. Small enough to fit in Arthur’s wicked beak. “Have
you seen Lovino’s bird form yet?”
Antonio shook his head. “No, I haven’t. Have you seen Arthur’s?”
“Oui.” Francis pursed his lips slightly. “It is . . . a harrier.”
“A harrier? Like a hawk?”
“Bigger.”
Antonio sat back in his chair, expressionless. “. . . Wow.”
“I know!” Francis let his forehead rest on the tabletop and groaned. “It could
cause serious trouble if people knew. They could band together, call him
Deformed. How could I choose between my mate and my citizens?”
There was no response for a long moment, and just as Francis looked up, he felt
Antonio’s touch on his shoulder, soft and warm. It brought him back two
decades, when they had been little more than eleven, standing together in one
of the sitting rooms. Let’s play Alpha and Omega, Antonio had suggested.
Francis had never heard of such a game. My father told me they play it a lot in
the North, Antonio insisted. One of us pretends to be an Omega, and we play
like we’re mates. Francis wasn’t sure about it, but he agreed, though of
course, Antonio had to be the Omega. He didn’t seem to mind, however. He bowed
to Francis and pretended to cook him a meal on the stove (which was really a
sofa). Francis, getting into the roleplay, had said, Oh, thank you, dear.
Antonio had smiled his warm smile and bowed again, this time getting down on
his knees, a sign of utmost respect. Even real Omegas rarely kneeled, unless
they were being punished. Francis wasn’t sure what Antonio had wanted him to
do, but he never found out, because at that moment Gilbert came bursting in,
wanting to hunt rabbits in the meadows. What are you two doing? Antonio had
leapt up. Just playing. Let’s go!And they’d all gone out, Francis and Antonio
rather useless at hunting, but Gilbert catching a rabbit fat enough for the
trio to share. They had never discussed the game. Francis hadn’t thought about
it much, until now.
The barriers feel weaker now. The balance isn’t as sure as I thought. Maybe . .
. maybe times are changing.
Francis turned in his chair and looked up at Antonio, who gave his shoulder a
squeeze. “Everything will turn out alright in the end,” the Spaniard assured
him. “It always does.”
Francis smiled. “Oui,” he agreed. “I am sure it will.”
But at what cost?
 
                                     . . .
 
The wedding preparations were endless, and Antonio seemed to be at the heart of
them all. With Francis, he handled the order of the ceremony, the guest list,
the food to be served, the music to be played, the wardrobe for those involved
(Lovino had to wear a damn dress with flowers sewn into the lace). With the
Omegas, it was rehearsals interspersed with the old lessons of obeisance.
Lovino caught himself feeling guilty for agreeing to it all, until he
remembered—with annoyance—that he’d been forced into it and any guilt he felt
was because he wanted Arthur to have a good wedding. It was a new sensation,
this whole “friendship” situation. He wasn’t sure yet if it counted as a real
friendship, considering the fact that—aside from during meals—they really
didn’t have any time to actually talk with each other. Arthur’s every waking
moment was taken up by something related to the wedding: trying on an infinite
amount of gowns, and holding bouquets to see which best complimented his skin
tone, and rehearsing the lines he was expected to say during the ceremony.
The rehearsals were the only things Lovino was needed for, and he guessed he
didn’t mind them, but they were boring after the tenth time. Feliciano was
brought in for some of them; it turned out a page was someone who carried the
train of the bride’s dress, so it wouldn’t get dirty. Lovino didn’t see the
point of that—they were going to roll out crimson carpets in the city square,
so there was no risk of anything getting onto the dress—but Feliciano was
honored to even be considered for the position, so if it made him happy, Lovino
supposed there was nothing too wrong with it.
They were rehearsing at the moment, though Feliciano was absent; Ludwig was
home with a stomach flu, so his mate was nursing him.Not so tough after all,
huh? Got a sore tummy? Poor puppy.
“I take you as my mate and wife,” Antonio said, the words Francis would be
saying in a week’s time. There was something wistful in his expression.
Probably wishing he could get married to me, Lovino thought, rolling his eyes.
Only royalty bothered with the formality of a wedding, for that’s all it was; a
meaningless ceremony. By the way Arthur smelled, his Heat would be soon.
Francis would claim him before they were wed. They would be true mates before
they were husband and wife. The claiming was what mattered.
I could run away, Lovino thought, and no one could say I’m Antonio’s mate. He
had the Spaniard’s scent on his skin, yes, from sleeping beside him, but he
bore no bitter Alpha-scent on the inside. Unlike Arthur. Even Lovino could
smell that Francis worked him every night. He’d been tempted countless times to
ask Arthur about it, but the words tangled in his throat before he could get
them out. He’d never been comfortable talking about sex. Feliciano had been
eager to discuss it, but that had been even worse. His own brother! And that
stupid blond German, damn it. He’d cried, Shut up! I don’t want to hear about
that potato bastard in bed! And he’d turned away, quickly, in case his brother
looked hurt.
He knew he wouldn’t be in the dark forever. His own Heat would come soon, as
well, probably a week after Arthur’s, a week and a half at the most. Some
Omegas had a predictable cycle their bodies followed. Some were affected by
living with other Omegas; Heats had been known to match up in some households,
which could be a blessing and a curse. Others had Heats the first week of one
month and the last week of the next, completely unpredictable. Lovino’s had
always been like this, scattered. He knew some Alphas thought that was a sign
of being unhealthy. He’d been checked by a doctor—a damn embarrassment, some
stranger poking about between his legs and feeling how soft his chest was—and
he’d declared him healthy and said he suspected once Lovino had become pregnant
for the first time, his Heats would even out. To his credit, Ludwig had never
bothered Lovino about it. Gilbert, upon hearing the prognosis, had laughed and
said, Guess I’d better get to work, huh, Omega?
Back in the days when Gilbert had joked about claiming him. Lovino was
surprised they had stayed jokes. Everyone expected Gilbert to mate Lovino when
Ludwig and Felicano got together, but the guard captain had never made a move.
And, once Lovino’s temper became evident in the household, Gilbert stopped
joking and took to glaring, snarling, and—on one terrible day—beating him.
Lovino usually didn’t mind dwelling on negative things, but that day . . . he
didn’t like thinking about it. He’d gotten plenty of smacks through the years,
for being insolent in various ways. But he’d only been really beaten once, that
day. He remembered the greyness of the overcast sky, such a terrible dark day,
a day no one would be happy to be alive. Gilbert wasn’t happy. The house was
full of rising tension as Feliciano and Lovino served Ludwig and Gilbert their
supper. It was like the moment right before a strike of lightning; hair on end,
breath held, anticipation sharpening into dread. It hadn’t even been the
biggest mistake that caused it, either. Lovino just misjudged where he should
set down a dish of butter, and his hand knocked over Gilbert’s tea—right into
the Alpha’s lap. It wasn’t scalding. Not hot enough to burn bare skin,
definitely not hot enough to burn through clothes. But hot enough to make
Gilbert leap to his feet, teeth bared, and grab Lovino by the hair to drag him
outside. Not out the back door, into the alley. Out the front. Lovino got a
glimpse of the street; no Omegas out at this hour, but some Alphas were
strolling, and looked over curiously. Then Lovino was on the ground, seeing
nothing but the cobbles of the lane, his body throbbing with pain. He didn’t
remember much of the beating itself, just bits and pieces. Gasping for breath
as Gilbert kicked his stomach, over and over. Feliciano sobbing inside the
house. Ludwig’s voice—That’s enough now, Gilbert—and then a pale tawny paw in
front of Lovino’s face. At the time, he’d thought Ludwig was about to do the
honors and tear his throat open himself. But now he realized the German must
have been standing over him, protecting him from further punishment.
Not because he cares about me, Lovino thought, crossing his arms over his chest
as he watched Antonio and Arthur act out the future. Just because he didn’t
want Gilbert to seem too crazy in public. It’s a sign of weakness to allow an
Omega to piss you off into a fit, after all. The beating wasn’t even what made
him angry, in retrospect. What was he doing, asking Feliciano to make him tea
in the first place? The one damn day he decides to drink tea instead of beer.
Stupid Germans. Stupid Alphas. Damn it.
“Lovino!” Antonio actually looked angry for once, but he still looked basically
harmless. Just a growling pup, playing at aggression. “Stop that!”
Lovino hadn’t even realized he was gnawing at his finger, his teeth bared. He
quickly let his lips cover them, but said, “I have a hangnail.”
Antonio shook his head, incredulous. “Omegas don’t—bite at things like that.”
Arthur looked at Lovino, a hint of sympathy in his eyes, but something else . .
. amusement? Anger flared in Lovino. But, wait, it was amusement, but not at
Lovino. Arthur cut his gaze to Antonio and gave his head a tiny, exasperated
shake. As if to say, Alphas, they’re mad, aren’t they?
The warm feeling of finding a comrade was enough to make Lovino duck his head
to his mate. “Sorry, sir. I’ll try to get rid of it in a way more appropriate
for an Omega like me.”
Now Arthur had to raise a hand to cover his mouth, feigning a yawn, though
Lovino could tell he was smiling. Lovino smiled, too, the curl of his lip
barely visible with his head ducked. Antonio glanced back and forth between of
them, aware of some sort of exchange but unable to tell what it was, then
returned to the rehearsal of wedding lines. But now, every time Antonio looked
away, Arthur and Lovino looked to each other and stuck their tongues out at the
Alpha, or silently flapped their mouths to mock his constant jabber. By the
time Antonio looked back, of course, they wore perfectly innocent faces. But
they knew. Lovino knew, and it felt thrilling.
This was the beginning.
***** Chapter 12 *****
              “The Alpha’s most powerful sense is that of smell.
                The nose of the wolf is excellent for tracking;
            cases have been documented wherein Alphas could detect
                     Omegas in heat from over a mile away.
             In contrast, the Omega’s best sense is that of sight.
                    Useful only for seeing danger from afar
                    and fleeing in the opposite direction.”
                      —The Book of Naturalism, on Senses
 
Arthur knew it was coming. It was always during the second week of the month,
without fail, and the signs were there even if he wasn’t paying attention to
the time. His chest felt more tender than usual, his nipples slightly puffy;
his legs felt uncomfortable when he crossed them, preferring to be spread wide;
and each night he gathered the blankets around himself with increasing urgency
and compulsion, that unquestionable voice of instinct whispering within him.
Nest, it said. Make a safe place for you and your mate. He wasn’t sure if the
mate in question was aware of what was happening or not. It seemed pretty
obvious to him, but then again, were Alphas not infamous for being oblivious?
(Among other unflattering adjectives Arthur could think of.) Francis mated
Arthur with more vigor than before, these past nights, and spent more time
sniffing his neck, the crooks of his limbs, between his legs—any place scent
collected. Arthur couldn’t imagine getting much enjoyment from sniffing under
Francis’s arms, but the Alpha seemed to enjoy it. An Alpha thing, Arthur
suspected. Wolfish behavior.
So it did not come as much surprise when he told Francis, “My Heat will start
today,” and Francis simply nodded and replied, “Oui, I suspected.”
What was surprising was that Francis told Arthur he would handle everything,
that he need not leave the bed, as if he could read Arthur’s mind and knew the
Omega really didn’t want to leave his nest. In Heat, the comfort zones were
layered and always centered around the nest. Arthur could have left the bed if
he wanted to, and felt alright in the bedchamber. Out in the hallway, he would
feel uncomfortable. Out of the castle wasn’t even a possibility. He couldn’t
imagine going so far from his nest. He would feel so vulnerable; if his legs
could even carry him down all those stairs. Heat was not a time for athletics,
aside from the sex. Arthur’s body, right now, wanted only to lie on its back or
brace itself on hands and knees, perhaps. In the house in the village, he would
be trembling in a ball beneath a woolly blanket right now, with Alistair
sitting outside the door grumpily, snarling at any Alphas who came near. But
now he lay in Francis’s bed, comforted a little by the lingering Alpha-scent,
and waited for his mate to do as he claimed.
He didn’t have to wait long. As Arthur’s Heat came in, slowly at first,
rippling like rays of early morning sunlight, a foreshadowing of the burning
waves of desperation that would come later, Francis came back in the room,
holding a tray of food and wine. Arthur was shocked to see an Alpha carrying a
tray; it looked as absurd as a fish walking about on land with a hat and cane.
The thought—and his general state of pre-hysteria—made a smile tug at Arthur’s
lips.
“Yes, smile, cheri,” Francis said, looking at him lovingly. “You look so
beautiful with your cheeks so rosy. How they bring out your eyes! And the smell
of you . . .” He inhaled in the direction of the bed, and his body actually
shivered a little as he exhaled. His voice was thicker now, huskier, his smile
sort of helpless. “It is almost too good to resist.”
Arthur spread his legs a bit wider under the blankets. Oh, how he wanted the
king to pin him down. It was only a want, right now, but he knew within an
hour’s time it would be the most fiery, unstoppable need, a need he had spent
his entire life unable to satiate. In the village house, he would hear the
Alphas barking and calling to each other outside, and he would wish any of them
would come in and mount him. Any of them, or all of them, he didn’t care as
long as someone filled the emptiness inside him. He even found himself longing
for Alistair at times, as disgusting as that was. But that was the truth, the
animal truth of it. Anything for the relief. Anything to ease the Heat away.
“No one will come through this hall until your Heat passes,” Francis told
Arthur as he poured himself a glass of wine. “Would you like one? No? You will
have to eat at some point, mon amour, though I know it is the last thing on
your mind. A servant will leave a tray for each meal at the top of the stairs,
and I will go get it, if either of us are in the mood to eat at the time. Do
you think you will be able to handle my absence for that?”
Arthur regarded his mate in shock. How could he know an Omega so well, and be
so caring about comfort levels during Heat and give such lovely feelings to
Arthur each night, and yet still treat Omegas so poorly as people? None of it
made any sense, and if they all just took a step back, they would . . . they
would see . . .
“Drink,” Francis said suddenly, and Arhur’s eyes flew open. When had they
closed? His mate was sitting beside him on the bed, legs off the side, holding
a glass to his lips. Wine? No, just water. Arthur sipped a little, realized how
thirsty he was, and downed the whole thing. Francis set the glass on the floor
and said, “I thought you were getting dehydrated. You were on your way to
fainting, it looked like. I wanted to do this a little slower, so you would be
most comfortable, but I think we’d better just get this first time out of the
way. Oui?”
Arthur was in no position to argue. He wanted to say thank you for the drink,
and the kindness and the everything, but all he could whimper was, “Now.” He
noticed how Francis’s robes had tented in his lap, and he pawed at his mate’s
groin, moving to nuzzle it. He didn’t know anything about this, but he knew he
needed to get that fleshly weapon out, out, out, so it could come in, in, in.
The muscles of his thighs tightened at the thought. Now, he thought, a mantra.
Now. Now.
Francis obliged, stripping quickly—too quickly, the savage rip of cloth driving
both of them further into their respective frenzies—and tugging the blankets
off of Arthur. The Omega lay there, completely naked, already drenched, legs
akimbo, darkening the blankets beneath him with sweat and slick, the combined
scents of which rose up into the air, the pungent perfume of an achingly
fertile body begging for seed. Whatever control over himself Francis had been
maintaining to this point evaporated, and he crawled between Arthur’s legs, his
tongue trailing upward from Arthur’s knee all the way to his nipples, which
Francis paused to give each a kiss (sending tingling shivers to the bottoms of
Arthur’s feet) before continuing upward to at last seal his lips over Arthur’s.
Every breath through Arthur’s lungs, stretching his tender chest, was hot and
rough with the scent of musk, the Alpha pheromones responding to that of the
Omega. I need you! cried the Arthur’s body. Here’s why!boasted Francis’s.
Arthur felt tears rush to his eyes as Francis plunged his achingly hard cock
inside. It hurt, but it was a bittersweet pain. It was scratching an itch until
the skin broke, such sweet relief even when it became agonizing. Francis was
not huge—not that Arthur had any reference, since the only penis he’d seen was
his brother’s, and he suspected it had grown since Alistair was five—but he
drove in as deeply as he could, and Arthur felt the desperate gyrations
reverberate through his body, pounding to his core. It was not like the nights
before, when Francis made love to him with a degree of playfulness, of
casuality. This was serious, carnal. Both demanded from the other; Francis
shoved and thrust and slammed, and Arthur bore it all, at times squeezing his
eyes shut, at times clawing Francis’s back, at times screaming for more at the
top of his lungs.
Arthur couldn’t tell if he reached a true peak or not, since the Heat could
only be stopped by one thing—and as Francis gave his final, shaking lunge, his
efforts paid off in a rush of flattening satisfaction. The king went limp atop
his Omega, both of them gasping for breath and dripping onto the soaked sheets.
Distantly, through the million other sensations, Arthur felt sharp little pains
in his skin as it was stretched by his mate's swelling knot. It wasn’t as big
as he thought it would be. Smaller than a baby, he thought with a bit of fear.
They said birthing was the worst pain possible, and this—this swollen Alpha
inside him right now—was sealing his fate. He would get pregnant from this,
without question. He would have Francis’s child, maybe more than one. Royal
families didn’t need to be large, but the house certainly had enough room for a
gaggle of children. Arthur wondered what would happen if he broke this
connection between them, delayed the childbearing another month. It would be
unspeakably disrespectful. He would be horribly punished, in ways he didn’t
care to imagine. But he was curious. Was this even possible to escape from?
Experimentally, he shifted his hips just slightly to the left, as if to find a
better position. Francis immediately made a sound of discomfort somewhere
between a grunt and a growl. Arthur froze, heart shuddering. Best not to test
it anymore, he thought, and pushed his misgivings about pregnancy aside in
favor of enjoying the weight and warmth of his mate lying over him.
Perhaps twenty minutes later, Francis’s body tightened, his fingers claws on
the mattress as he braced himself. He gave a soft whine, almost inaudible, the
most canine sound Arthur had heard out of him yet. And, at last, the knot
released, and the only Heat inside Arthur was the warm, salty gift his French
Alpha had left inside him.
Francis sighed in palpable relief, and shifted their positions so that he held
Arthur to his chest. His smile was content, loving, and tired as if celebrating
the end of a long day’s work. He said, “And now, mon amour, you are mine.”
But this was not the only gift Francis gave him. Arthur had thought that, once
his Heat had been soothed, Francis would leave and return to him only at night
for the rest of the week (though the worst of the Heat was over, his body was
still weak and his hormones still crazed). This was not the case at all. In
fact, their only moments apart were when Francis fetched their trays of food.
Thrice a day Francis left, and in between, they lay together in bed. When need
be, Francis changed the sheets himself—an Alpha doing housework! Arthur was
agape—and they lounged for endless hours, feeding each other the delicacies
brought forth from the kitchen. Arthur’s favorites were the strawberries dipped
in chocolate. He ate a few too many, and felt nauseous for a while, but Francis
was accommodating, gently rubbing his back and chuckling. “Not so many, next
time, oui?” and when Arthur shyly replied, “Oui,” Francis laughed out loud and
gave him a look so fond Arthur had to look away to keep from tearing up with
joy.
“I suppose you never had this sort of food, growing up,” Francis remarked,
brushing croissant crumbs from the corners of his mouth.
Arthur shook his head. “No, sir, I didn’t.” Francis was looking at him
expectantly, but in an open, friendly way, and so Arthur continued, “Mostly we
just had plain bread, from cornmeal or from wheat if you were rich, but people
said they put chalk in it to make it look whiter. I don’t know, I never had
wheat bread. Oh, we had vegetables, too, sometimes, but they didn’t really
taste like anything because we ate them mashed.”
Francis raised his eyebrows in clear disbelief and distaste. “. . . Mashed.”
Arthur nodded. “Yes, where you squish them up with a—”
Francis held up a hand. “I beg you, spare me. I had no idea people in my
kingdom abused their food in such terrible ways. I should make mashed foods
illegal, unless you’re a baby or someone without teeth.”
Arthur stared at him, and Francis’s serious expression melted into a smile. “I
am joking, mon amour. You do not need to be so afraid. Haven’t you figured out
that I don’t want to hurt you?” And he cupped Arthur’s face in his hands and
gave him the softest chaste kiss. From someone like Francis, it was
astonishing.
And from there, they proceeded to—chat. They talked about life in the village
compared to life in the city, about their parents (dead, the whole quartet),
about having siblings (as an only child, Francis had no one to compare to
Alistair aside from Antonio, but Arthur assured him that their similarities
were few and far between). Francis told Arthur the details of the wedding
ceremony Antonio had neglected to mention, easing Arthur’s anxiety about the
upcoming event. Arthur told Francis about his dreams to have a family, a real
family, not the travesty of the Kirkland home. Francis told Arthur about his
fears as High Alpha. They cuddled and laughed and kissed and made love, and
they shared food and wine and words, and they shocked each other with the
mutual serendipity that they were both . . . people. Alpha—indeed, High
Alpha—and Omega, yes, and French and English, yes, but beneath all that, they
were but men. They realized it at the same time their hearts did, and both fell
silent, smiling at each other, hearing the violins of their heartstrings
harmonizing.
Arthur thought, Perhaps things can really change. Perhaps every Alpha has
kindness hidden inside, and you need only dig to find it. Perhaps this mated
life won’t be terrible at all. Perhaps Lovino’s hatred of Alphas is misplaced.
Perhaps . . .
But the thought was dropped, because Francis had kissed him again, and Arthur
could do nothing but kiss him back and savor the exhilaration that came with
it, for he was in love, and no drug gave a stronger high than a loved one’s
lips.
 
                                     . . .
 
“Unca Gil! Regarder!”
Gilbert ducked his head a little, rolling his eyes back and trying to see where
Matthew was pointing. The little Omega was seated in his usual place when in
Gilbert’s presence—on the Alpha’s shoulders—and his tiny finger was aimed at a
pair of butterflies dancing through the air together. Gilbert knew they were
either going to mate or they’d already mated or both, but he admired the
blissful ignorance of the nestling, who must have thought they were just
friends, or brothers, or maybe in love, but certainly not random insects coming
together for the sole purpose of procreation.
Not like your father, Gilbert thought, vaguely amused. He’d heard the cries
from Francis’s bedroom when he went into the castle to get Matthew, Arthur
begging Francis for more! More! More!The servants had looked rather tortured as
they cleaned round the place, forced by proximity to listen; Gilbert had never
seen them with that much expression on their faces before. He could have
punished them for it, but he was in a good mood today. He’d been quite happy
the past week, actually; now that Lovino was out of the house, his dinners with
Ludwig and Feliciano had the domestic, cozy quality of a pleasant family get-
together. It was the sort of feeling Gilbert would’ve liked to curl up next to,
as if it were the warm glow off a fireplace.
Not that he’d ever admit that, of course. That was something for Omegas and
pups. He had a reputation to uphold, and it wasn’t that of a cuddly puppy. The
only shows of affection he performed in public were the arm-punches and
shoulder-nudges of friendship for Ludwig or Antonio (Francis was considered too
frilly for that sort of thing), and . . . well, Matthew was an exception to the
rule in himself.
“Butterflies,” Gilbert told Matthew. “Can you say that?”
“Papillons,” replied the boy eagerly, curling his fingers through Gilbert’s
ashen hair.
Gilbert chuckled. The Omega had some wit, he had to give him that. Such a shame
Matthew wasn’t an Alpha. Then they wouldn’t have to deal with all this royal
mate business, and Francis wouldn’t be monthly distracted by Heats like Ludwig
was, like so many Alphas were. Antonio too, now. Everyone was pairing up, it
felt like they were only pups yesterday. Gilbert didn’t see the appeal of
claiming an Omega. Sex could be had at a brothel, servants did what few chores
he didn’t do himself, and as for love—well, like Francis said, family and
friends were always better than mates.
Just a shame that Matthew couldn’t grow up close to Gilbert forever. Once he
was old enough to start his training, the only interaction between them would
be Matthew serving Gilbert, if that. If the boy was an Alpha, they could hunt
together, Gilbert could spar with him, and hopefully he would live long enough
to protect him as he protected Francis.
“Butterfly,” Matthew echoed in his squeaky voice. He tugged gently on one of
Gilbert’s ears, making it flap as though it were a butterfly wing.
“Alright, enough of that.” Gilbert lifted Matthew up and set him back down
again, this time on the carpet of moss Gilbert was lying on. They were in the
birch grove where Francis had helped Matthew learn to fly, a place Francis had
taken Gilbert on more than one occasion, but never during the day. There was a
time when nearly every night held a moonlit hunt, Gilbert and Francis chasing
each other through the fields outside the city. As far as Gilbert knew, it was
a secret kept from Antonio. Not for any particular reason; it was just
something that belonged to them and no one else. They hadn’t gone out since
Matthew was born, of course. One night Gilbert had gone out and spent the
entire night by himself, but it wasn’t the same. He’d been tempted to tip his
muzzle back and let out a howl, so the moon would know just how lonely he was,
but then everyone in the kingdom would have heard. That was worse, somehow.
Being surrounded by people, and still alone.
Matthew was in his usual pink dress. It probably had some technical name, but
to Gilbert, it was a dress. Clothes didn’t matter to him in the slightest. The
human form had advantages, but if he could, he would spend all his time as a
wolf. He could run faster, bite harder, track farther, hear better. When he
felt the strength of his canine form, he knew without a doubt that they had
been created to protect Omegas. How weak must they feel? What about Matthew
here? He was an Omega, and a child.So defenseless.
Gilbert chucked the boy under his soft chin. “You trust me, don’t you, Neffe?”
Matthew nodded, his little pink mouth curved in a smile, his violet eyes lit
with uncomplicated adoration. “Unca Gil.”
Gilbert let a smile curl one side of his mouth, a far cry from the usual smirks
he showed when people were around; those were sharp enough to cut you, but this
was not even close. With a slight twitch of his shoulders and a silver ripple,
Gilbert shifted to his wolf form. He crouched down, his belly pressed to the
ground, his chin between his forepaws. Matthew knew what this meant, and
clambered up onto the Alpha’s back. The grey wolf gave no sign of vexation, not
even when the toddler gripped his fur tight enough to hurt. Gilbert rose
carefully, so as not to tip Matthew, and began to pad around the birch-lined
perimeter of the meadow. It was not an exciting pace or a thrilling
environment, but Matthew squealed in delight nevertheless, and the sound had
the wolf’s tail wagging.
When they reached a cluster of purple flowers, none of them as beautiful as the
child’s eyes, Matthew’s grip suddenly vanished. Without looking, Gilbert knew
he was reaching for the flowers, and in the second before Matthew crashed
facefirst to the ground, Gilbert rolled over, and the pair wound up sprawled in
the grass and flowers, the wolf on his back, Matthew lying over his white-
furred stomach. The Omega found it a hilarious turn of events, his giggles only
rising in pitch as Gilbert gently shifted to his flank and began to lick his
chubby cheeks.
“Gil!” Matthew put his little hands on Gilbert’s muzzle, pushing up his lips to
see the yellowed fangs hidden beneath. Some were bigger than his fingers, but
he poked at them, fearless. “Silly.”
Gilbert knew he was spoiling Matthew even worse than Francis was. He knew this
wasn’t the right thing to do. He knew that if every Omega was treated this way,
nothing would ever get done, and Alphas would become slaves to the very people
who were meant to serve them. But, for reasons unknown to him, he just couldn’t
resist.
I won’t do it forever. I can’t, even if I wanted to. Once Matthew grows up, he
won’t even dream of acting like this around an Alpha, especially not one like
me. He’ll never be able to look me in the eye again. A tiny bit of sadness
crept into his heart. He’ll never call me Uncle Gil again.
But that was the way it was supposed to be. That was the Natural way. And if
they abandoned that, they would have nothing.
So, on the inside, he felt appropriately guilty for letting Matthew crawl
between his forelegs and snuggle up into the thick fur of his ruff. But, on the
outside, his red eyes sparkled fondly and he rested his chin atop the boy’s
pale golden curls, ears pricked and swiveling for danger, the tip of his tail
still twitching back and forth with the memory of wagging. I will keep you
safe, he thought, until you’re taken away from me. Matthew yawned softly and
settled against Gilbert’s chest, already drifting into a warm nap. But, for
now, sleep. He let his eyelids droop, allowing himself only the slight doze of
a guardian, still alert and ready at any time to jump up, to fight, to protect
another life with his own. And, oblivious to it all, the Omega wrinkled his
nose, tickled by the silvery fur. He gave a tiny sneeze—choo!—and settled back
into slumber. Something like love blazed in Gilbert’s heart.
Sweet dreams, Matthew.
***** Chapter 13 *****
                         “Give not yourself to another
                        If they are of the Alpha breed.
                         The wolf is a beast of burden
                       Used for toil, guard, and seed.”
                       —popular rhyme of Eastern Eurasia
 
From the moment Francis opened his eyes on his wedding day, it was complete
chaos. As a king—and a French one, at that—he resented anything that could be
described as rushing. What was more important than him? Nothing. So why was he
being ushered around his own castle as though some superior force had taken
control of his life?
Everything was a blur punctuated by Antonio’s voice as he made last-minute
suggestions and alterations. He bathed, more servants than he could count
dressed him in an exquisite costume, he dined—no, he did not dine, but he
wanted to dine.
“There’s no time for that,” Antonio said absently, then turned to speak to a
pair of servants in such rapid Spanish that Francis could almost feel the the
words spinning around his head. Antonio turned back to Francis, and his brow
furrowed as he leaned closer. “Are you . . . drunk?”
“Absolutely not,” Francis replied, enunciating quite well, in his opinion.
Antonio’s eyes widened in exasperation, and he pulled Francis to a corner of
the grand hall, away from the endless flow of comers and goers. His grasp on
Francis’s arm was delicate; he couldn’t wrinkle his cape. “How can you be
drunk? When did you drink?”
Francis struggled to recall. “I don’t know the exact time. I wasn’t really
interested, to be perfectly honest. It was in the middle of the night, anyway.
Don’t worry,” he added, patting his friend’s shoulder. “I remember all my
lines. I just wanted to, you know, avoid getting too excited.”
Antonio’s gaze softened with understanding. “You didn’t want to lose your
breath again.”
Francis had no trouble remembering the panic attack he’d suffered before his
official inheritance of the crown. “Oui,” he said, overly chipper to avoid
sounding grim. “But it is alright now. Everything is working out, isn’t it?”
Antonio glanced at the milling servants, all with their arms full of
decorations, food, favors. All of this was his doing, even if no one realized
it. “Yes, it’s going according to plan.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You
know, we wouldn’t have had to rush if you’d woken up before noon,” he pointed
out as harmlessly as he could.
Francis laughed, then laughed some more at the idea of waking at a respectable
time. “Where are the Omegas? I have not seen Arthur yet today.”
“You aren’t supposed to,” Antonio replied. “It’s bad luck, or so some say.”
Francis scoffed. “Bad luck? I’ve had enough bad luck for one man. I do not
think I will have anymore.”
Antonio looked dubious, but he only replied, “Arthur should be finishing up
with dressing now. Lovino and Feliciano are at the tailor’s with him.” He
exchanged some more Spanish with a servant, then smiled at Francis. It seemed a
little forced, but that was probably because of all his distractions. “It’s
time we made our way to the square. The good people are waiting.”
Despite the wine in his veins, Francis’s stomach still felt like he’d just
boarded a rocking boat. He wasn’t worried about facing his subjects—he loved
doing that, and he couldn’t deny them the pleasure of viewing their gorgeous
High Alpha—but the ceremony part made him nervous. He’d been so certain of it,
the first time. But those declarations of love had proven to be empty, and he’d
hardly gotten over the reality of that before the woman died. (The only saving
grace, of course, was little Matthew.) To him, love was something to give, to
spread as much as possible, but never to fake.
Through the swarm of anxiety and the haze of alcohol, he remembered the past
couple weeks he had shared with Arthur Kirkland. Their nights of cuddles and
chatter, of talking—truly talking. And—Francis felt a smile tug on his
lips—they’d actually bickered a little, in Arthur’s moments of courage. It
wasn’t anything serious, but it still could have been punished. Francis would
have punished it, if it resembled the blatant disrespect that Lovino gave
Antonio. But it was more like a companionable bickering, like something he’d
have with Toni. It was . . . nice.
Arthur is different, he told himself. Arthur isn’t like any Omega I’ve ever
met. But he’s mine. This will be different than before, I know it will.
“Francis?” Antonio asked, looking over his shoulder.
The French Alpha nodded. “Yes, let’s go. Hopefully our Omegas won’t be much
longer. . . .”
 
                                     . . .
 
“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, for the third time in as many minutes. The Alpha
tailor knelt before him had his mouth full of pins, and he didn’t spare Arthur
a glance. He’d very nearly stuck Arthur twice now, so the English Omega didn’t
add a sir to his apology. Not that it was very heartfelt to begin with. He was
more annoyed than the tailor.
Feliciano and Lovino watched a few feet away, like opposites attracted. Lovino,
as always, was a dark storm cloud, and his gown reflected that in a dark
oxblood. To contrast, Feliciano was a fluffy cloud, and his dress was much
looser, less severe, the pale pink of a sunrise.
And Arthur, of course, was in a huge white monstrosity. It barely even looked
like a dress, to him; it was covered in dangling tassels and jewels he hoped
weren’t actually diamonds but was too afraid to ask. His hair had been done as
much as hair of that length could, parted at the side for once and swept across
his forehead to curl elegantly at his temple. His cheeks had been rouged, but
only barely, just a hint of blush—which was rendered redundant, now, because
he’d been blushing for the past ten minutes as the tailor struggled to make the
silky material of the dress accommodate Arthur’s body.
“Maybe you should try holding your breath,” Feliciano suggested. He looked even
more adorable than usual today. Ludwig would be watching very intently from the
crowd when they made their way down the aisle. And so will everyone else,
Arthur thought, adding a trickle of dread to the ocean he’d been accumulating.
“He can’t breathe in, that’ll just make it worse,” Lovino said, crossing his
arms over his chest and curling his lip at the lace that tickled his arms when
he did. Despite his hatred of the dress, he looked beautiful in it. It showed
just enough of his figure to tantalize without giving everything away. Antonio
would enjoy the wedding, too.
“I don’t know how I put on this much weight so fast,” Arthur said, because the
awkwardness of it demanded something be said.
“I do,” Lovino remarked. “You’ve been eating double what you used to at lunch.”
And at dinner and breakfast, and throughout the day. Arthur found himself
craving the strangest things, and he found himself losing any inhibitions he
may once have had about food. Cold, old, leftover, when he was craving, he
couldn’t care less.
“Well,” Arthur said, trying not to sound overly giddy about it, “I am eating
for two.”
Feliciano clapped his hands gleefully. “Oh, that’s wonderful! I thought you
must be, you look so brighter than before, and everyone knows an Omega glows
when they’re pregnant! But, oh! If you’re showing signs so early, that means
you’re going to have an Alpha!”
Arthur had hoped Lovino would look at least a little happy at the news—not that
it was hard to figure out—but the darker Italian just turned his gaze away
grumpily. “That’s just an old saying. It’s not always true.”
Arthur hoped it was true in his case. He was delighted to be carrying his
mate’s child, yes, but he suspected a lot of that was an instinctive happiness.
An Omega’s built-in motherly inclination. If he let himself consider the pain
of the delivery, he was more afraid of that than of the wedding. I could die,
he thought, if something goes wrong. I could bleed to death, or get weaker and
weaker, like Francis’s first mate. Francis had told him about that a few nights
ago, at Arthur’s request. He’d begun to ask more questions, and he still
couldn’t quite get over the joy of Francis answering every time. The man he
went to bed with was so different than the one he presented to others. Arthur
wished they could do away with the Alpha who walked with his nose in the air,
and instead have the man whose laugh—his real one, not that practised nasal
thing he thought made him sound more regal—made Arthur’s heart feel like the
sun had gotten caught in the cage of his ribs.
I hope it’s an Alpha, he thought. Then I won’t have to have anymore children.
“Ouch!” Arthur yelped, and looked down with undisguised anger at the tailor,
who had, “Stuck me like a pig!”
The Alpha rose to his full height, nearly a foot taller than the bride, his
dark eyes narrowed furiously. Arthur realized in shock that the man had lifted
one of his hands. Was he going to strike him? On his wedding day?
Then Arthur was forced backward, Lovino pushing between them and spitting, “If
you do that, the king will have you strung up by your tail. You know I’m right,
so stop this . . . behavior, before you embarrass both of us.”
He glared down at Lovino, frustrated by the logic in his words. He couldn’t
harm any of these Omegas. They were nearly late as it was, and if he disturbed
their hair or dresses, he would be the cause of a delay, even if the Omegas had
been unruly. And on this day of all days, it was quite possible Francis might
string someone up for hitting his mate. So the tailor gathered up his supplies
with jerky movements and snapped, “That’s the best anyone can do for you,
Omega. You’re too fat.”
Arthur didn’t appreciate that remark very much, but he’d pressed his luck
enough for one afternoon. He waited until the tailor had stormed into the back
room before saying, “Perhaps I’m a bit podgy, but—”
Lovino pulled the dress flat against Arthur’s torso, showing how his flesh
strained at the silk. “No, I think you’re fat.” He regarded the Englishman with
an amused smirk. “But it’s an improvement. Before, you were too damn skinny.
Now you at least look alive.”
Arthur whirled free of Lovino’s grasp, enjoying the flow of the gown around his
legs, even if the thing weighed ten pounds more than it needed to. He didn’t
bother fighting a smile as he said, “But you’re skinny, too! You could pass for
a corpse if you wanted to.”
Lovino nodded, deadpan. “Yes. That’s because I’m dead.”
Arthur raised a thick eyebrow.
“Inside,” Lovino clarified.
Arthur nudged the Italian's shoulder with his own as they dissolved into
laughter. Lovino had a percussive laugh, almost hard, the sort of laugh that
caused others passing in the street glance over, certain they were being made
the butt of a joke.
Feliciano fluttered near the door of the tailor shop, buzzing with excitement.
“It’s time! Let’s go!”
Arthur glanced behind him. “Uh oh . . .” He’d tangled up his train when he
twirled. When he tried to crouch down and fix it, he rolled his ankle and would
have ripped the dress falling to his knees, if not for Lovino catching him.
“Who the hell,” the Italian demanded, “thought you of all people should wear
heels?”
Arthur blinked back tears at the pain in his ankle. The last thing he needed,
on top of this, was to smudge his rouge.
Feliciano gasped and hurried over to untwist the train. “Are you really hurt?
Can you walk? Do we have to cancel the wedding? Oh, no!”
“I can walk,” Arthur replied hastily, even though he didn’t know if he could or
not at the moment. He didn’t want the younger man to freak out.
“Relax,” Lovino snapped. He helped Arthur stand, then crouched down. “Pick up
your foot.”
Arthur obeyed, his arms flying outward at his sides to steady himself. “What
are you going to do, wrap it? I don’t know if that will help . . .”
“We don’t have time for that.” Lovino reached under the swaying mass of
Arthur’s dress, took off his shoe, and tossed it away with an almost admirable
lack of care. “Other foot.” Arthur winced when his bad ankle took all his
weight, but it wasn’t the worst pain he’d ever endured. Lovino discarded the
other shoe and stood up. “There. What’s the point of wearing those anyway, no
one can see them.”
“They made me taller,” Arthur muttered as he hobbled to the door with Feliciano
in tow. Barefoot, he was a couple inches shorter than Lovino. “What if I tread
on a pebble?”
Lovino opened the door and snorted. “Little chance of that, Your Highness.”
For a velvet carpet had been unrolled from the tailor shop, down two streets,
and into the square, where the High Alpha of Western Eurasia waited to profess
his undying love for the second time of his life.
 
                                     . . .
 
“Papa!”
“Hey! Get back here, you.” Gilbert leant forward to grab Matthew before the
little Omega could waddle away from their seats. Francis, standing with Antonio
under an arbor painted white and weaved with roses, glanced over and smiled at
his son.
“Getting restless?” Ludwig asked. He was seated beside Gilbert in the front
row; they had the last seats in their row and were the closest to the aisle.
Gilbert had heard Antonio explaining the thought that had gone into where
everyone would be seated and who would be allowed to even have a chair, who
would have to watch from afar. There were people packed into the alleys between
the shops of the square, Omegas perched in bird form on all the surrounding
roofs, and Gilbert had a few wolves posted at corners of buildings, prowling in
the spaces behind them. This was a joyous occasion for most, but for the
guards, it was an opportunity for a potential assassination, and they weren’t
about to let that happen.
He would’ve liked to be patrolling with his men, but Francis wanted his other
best friend to see him get married yet again, so here he was stuffed into a
morning coat, sitting pretty with the capital’s flock of dandies.
“Me or Matthew?” Gilbert asked, adjusting the boy’s position on his lap and
gently bouncing his knee to make the child giggle.
Ludwig watched in amusement. “Both.”
The guard captain shrugged. “I’d rather be working than sitting around, same as
you.” Ludwig didn’t look too bothered to be here—even with his waistcoat
lamenting the amount of muscular torso it had to cover—and Gilbert suspected he
knew why. “But you’re probably imagining having one of these with Feliciano.”
His younger brother crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders stretching the
seams of the coat. He’d worn this to Francis’s first wedding; if the frog got
hitched again, they’d have to invest in a new outfit for the bigger Beilschmidt
brother. “I’m happy just to be his mate. I don’t need a big ceremony like
this.”
“Hm.” Gilbert didn’t see the appeal of mates, but he couldn’t blame Ludwig for
being happy with the Italian. Truth be told, Gilbert was happy with him, too.
He was always doing little thoughtful things for the brothers, without being
asked. Here, Gilbert, I put some cookies in your bag in case you got hungry at
your post! He was just so damn nice, it was impossible to find fault in him.
If Lovino was the same way, Gilbert let himself think, I probably would have
ended up mating him.
Suddenly someone cried, “Here they come!”
A hush fell over the gathered citizens, everyone turning in their chairs to
watch the procession. It was a mite lackluster without music, but there was
only one person who could have played the piano in a manner exquisite enough
for the wedding of royalty, and he was long-gone. Dead, hopefully, Gilbert
thought. Along with his mate. Eliza.
“Gil?” Matthew was looking up at him in concern. “Ca va?”
Ludwig’s blue eyes found him, the only eyes that could challenge Gilbert’s.
They held the same question Matthew’s did. You alright?
Gilbert forced a small smile, just enough to look presentable. No one was
looking at him, but he didn’t need to be glaring murderously at his friend’s
wedding. “Fine,” he whispered, tapping Matthew’s nose with a fingertip. “Now
shush.”
Arthur and Lovino walked arm-in-arm, and, though he was trying to hide it,
Gilbert could tell the bride was limping. Francis said he was a clumsy one.
Lovino was bright red under the gazes of so many people, but he kept his own
gaze lowered, as was proper. Arthur didn’t look away from Francis, and when
Gilbert looked over at his friend, he saw that the royal couple both had a
combination of fear, anticipation, and love in their eyes.
Everyone’s falling in love, like it’s so easy. He just couldn’t understand it.
But he had to admit that watching Arthur and Francis clasp hands and say their
vows was sort of . . . sweet. In a gross kind of way.
“I will love you always,” Francis said, and Gilbert was surprised by how quiet
it was. The people a few rows back wouldn’t be able to hear. It was something
just for his loved ones. For Antonio and Gilbert, Ludwig and Feliciano, but
most of all, for Arthur.
He didn’t need all of this pomp and circumstance. He should have done this in
private, in the castle. That would have been more romantic.
God above, listen to me, this damn wedding is turning me into an Omega.
Francis slipped a ring—gold with an emerald for Arthur and two sapphires for
Francis and Matthew—onto his bride’s slender finger, then cupped his face and
kissed him. Arthur swooned, arms wrapped around the king’s shoulders, and their
kiss deepened. And continued.
“Save it for after the hunt,” Gilbert called, holding a hand over Matthew’s
eyes. Most of the audience laughed, and Ludwig rolled his eyes.
Francis finally pulled away from Arthur, arm around his waist, and grinned at
his gathered subjects. Antonio prompted the applause, and Francis started like
he’d forgotten the Spaniard was there; then he threw his other arm around him
and squeezed his blushing mate and friend to his sides.
“Is he drunk?” Ludwig asked, under the bustling of people headed to start
celebrating the marriage.
“Well, if he ain’t,” Gilbert said, hoisting a squealing Matthew onto his
shoulders, “he’s about to be.”
***** Chapter 14 *****
                  “For an Alpha to lose control over himself
                           while an Omega is in Heat
                   is a shame, but at least understandable.
                         For an Alpha to force himself
                         on an Omega in normal states
                 is a disgrace, and completely unacceptable.”
                         —dictum of the Court of Jarls
                                        
Lovino couldn’t track it: one moment, everyone was seated and orderly,
applauding for the king’s new love . . . and the next moment, the city
sensibility was tossed aside for less sophisticated pursuits. Lovino was caught
among the moving crowd like the overpowering current of a river. The streets
widened the closer they were to the square, and this web of boulevards was
lined with stalls, tables, any platform onto which someone laid out something
for someone else to buy. The sights and sounds! Lovino, who was accustomed to
the capital’s general volume and vanity, was genuinely taken aback. Arthur, a
few paces ahead, looked like his eyes might pop out of his skull.
It was impossible to stay centered among all this, so Lovino did something he
did not often do. He let himself go with the flow. He let Feliciano twine their
fingers and tug him around to all the carts, pointing out beautiful hats,
shoes, jewels. “Oh, Ludwig!” Feliciano cried, holding up a necklace with an
amber pendant the precise shade of the Italian’s eyes. “Look how beautiful it
is!”
Ludwig smiled. Lovino had never seen him wear such an easy expression of
happiness. Maybe the big potato bastard wasn’t immune to the romantic air of
the wedding. He isn’t so ugly when he smiles, Lovino thought grudgingly. Damn
it.
“Do you want that necklace, Feli?” Ludwig asked.
Feliciano gasped. “Oh, could I? I would love to have it!”
“Don’t spoil him,” said a voice directly behind Lovino. He spun around to see
Gilbert smirking down at him, Matthew Bonnefoy on his shoulders. The toddler’s
legs looked so tiny in the German’s big hands. A chuckle rumbled in his chest.
“Did I scare you, Omega?”
Lovino looked away. He didn’t feel like talking to Gilbert, now or ever. He was
surprised the captain was following them, but when he glanced up, he saw
Arthur, Francis, and Antonio were here as well. What a strange cluster we are,
he thought. And just think, if we were all Alphas, we’d be the best of friends.
“One necklace isn’t spoiling,” Francis said, slurring through the S’s. God, is
he drunk already? He probably woke up like that.Lovino suspected the High Alpha
bathed in wine each morning. Why else would he smell like that?
Ludwig gave the jeweller the money for the necklace, and watched Feliciano hop
joyfully in a circle before helping him put the necklace on. “Oh, thank you,
Ludwig!” Feliciano hugged him tight, looking like a nestling up against the
huge guard. Of course, they had to kiss as well as embrace, and Lovino looked
away. Gag me. He would have rolled his eyes at Arthur, if they weren’t trapped
in this gaggle of Alphas.
Not to be outdone, Francis bought Arthur three necklaces of different lengths
and colors, then a bracelet for each wrist, and finally a tiny necklace with a
pink stone pendant—Lovino had no idea what it was—in a crude approximation of a
heart shape for Matthew.
“Brilliant idea there,” Gilbert remarked, when Matthew immediately hung the
necklace from one of the German’s ears. He maneuvered Matthew around, into his
arms. While the boy squirmed upward to reach for the dangling jewelry, Gilbert
said, “I think it’s about time we found a bottle to empty.”
“I think so, too,” Antonio agreed, the first thing Lovino had heard him say
that day. The Spaniard had been gone when Lovino awoke that morning; he already
looked weary from all the work he’d been doing. Despite himself, Lovino felt a
tiny bit of sympathy his mate. Did anyone appreciate all the stress he’d been
through for these celebrations, and training the Omegas on top of that? The
king certainly didn’t. He hadn’t worried a glossy hair on his imperial head
about this day. Lovino was certain other Alphas could have been hired to do
everything Antonio had done. Why hadn’t they been? Because no one cares about
it as much as he does.
Lovino hated the tomato bastard, but he had to give it to him: he was a
dedicated fleabag.
The High Alpha was nodding. “Oui, I wouldn’t mind a drink.” He framed Arthur’s
face with his hands, smiling. “I will find you in a few hours, mon amour. You
will watch Mathieu for me.”
Gilbert seemed a bit reluctant as he passed Matthew over to Arthur, who held
him pleasantly enough, but the toddler immediately began to fuss. The sound had
nearby Omegas looking over in concern, and Arthur nervously patted his back.
“Shh, it’s okay, they’re not leaving forever . . .”
“That’s not why he’s crying.” Gilbert took the little necklace off his ear and
offered it to Matthew. Unlike most Omegas—and some Alphas—he didn’t coo for
babies, and watching him address the child like an adult was almost enough to
make Lovino smile. Almost. “This is what you want, right? You don’t miss the
Alpha, just the presents. The little Omega is growing up so fast, Francis.”
But he was looking at Lovino when he said it. Lovino remembered the feeling of
that big hand at the back of his head, dragging him by his hair out to a
beating in the street. That street wasn’t very far from the one they stood on
right now. Seeing that hand so close to a toddler made misgiving twist Lovino’s
guts.
Matthew took the necklace, instantly happy again, and Gilbert snorted, ruffling
his hair. “See you later, birdies. Coming, Ludwig?”
The taller German shook his head. “I’ll stay with the Omegas for now.”
Gilbert almost protested, but shrugged it off. “Whatever you say.” He strode
away, with Antonio and Francis—once he had given a kiss to his mate and
son—following. Lovino watched his mate go in confusion. There were no lingering
looks today, no frustration, no quiet moments of longing for Lovino to be a
good Omega. In fact, he was mostly just ignoring Lovino. Something must have
been bothering him. The stress of the wedding?
Lovino was less than thrilled to have an Alpha chaperoning them, but luckily
Ludwig was constantly distracted by Feliciano, so he was easy for Lovino and
Arthur to ignore. The little group walked down one street, then another.
Endless merchants, bakers, weavers, craftsmen. Arthur got a bag of maple
candies for Matthew (he had no money, but the vendor said it was free and even
bid Arthur a happy future, which left the Englishman speechless). Ludwig bought
each of them a pastry (“A danish? But I thought they were in the North.” Ludwig
quelled the confusion with a wise, “Best not to think about it, Feli.”) and a
cup of cider to wash it down. Lovino found himself letting go more and more; he
even said Thank you to Ludwig in a borderline friendly way. He’d expected
mockery, but the blond Alpha just gave a light smile and walked on. A trio of
Alpha pups, one brown and two grey, capered by with their wagging tails a blur.
Across the street, two Alphas harmonized with gleeful fiddles, drawing a small
crowd of dancers—mostly Omegas—who hopped about with their arms linked and
their mouths stretched wide in grins. Happy Omegas! Finally, something to
celebrate.
Beside him, Arthur breathed in and out deeply, eyes closed. His blissful
expression was perfectly mirrored by Matthew, who had just begun to suck on his
second maple candy.
Lovino raised an eyebrow slightly, but didn’t interrupt.
Arthur opened his eyes and smiled, lifting Matthew higher on his hip. “It feels
like home.”
Lovino blinked, incredulous. “This feels like your village?”
“No, it feels like home. Two different things. I never felt at home there.
Mostly because of my brother.”
This was news. “You have a brother? What’s he like?”
But Arthur wasn’t looking at him anymore. Distantly, he said, “My brother . .
.”
Faint disappointment made Lovino sigh. “You don’t have to talk about it if you
don’t want to—”
He broke off at a thickly accented shout a few streets over, in the square, it
sounded like. Arthur’s face brightened. “I thought I heard him!”
“Uh, who?”
“My brother! He came to my wedding!” Arthur hobbled as quickly as he could
toward the square.
“Brother?” Feliciano echoed, breaking off from whatever he was rambling about
to Ludwig. The Italian was always attentive to any mention of male siblings.
“Arthur’s brother is in the square,” Lovino told him.
“Oh! That’s great!” Feliciano cried, frolicking after Arthur.
Lovino was pretty sure he and Ludwig had the same thought—is it great?—before
they headed toward the indecipherable bellowing in the square.
 
                                     . . .
                                        
Ludwig had never seen anyone as roaring drunk as the red-haired man who stood
in the center of the square. They’d moved away the arbor and the chairs and
brought in casks of alcohol, which had naturally led to bouts of street
fighting. The red-haired Alpha—Ludwig recognized him from the day of the line-
up, bringing Arthur to see the king—had bloody knuckles, and more than a few
members of the crowd sported split lips, swelling eyes, bleeding noses. Ludwig
approached one of the guardsmen he regularly patrolled with. “Why are you only
watching this? It’s illegal. They should all spend the night in a gaol cell.”
The other guardsmen shrugged, arms crossed over his chest. “I was going to, but
the Captain said to let him be.”
Oh, Gilbert.“Did you see where he went?”
“Pretty hard not to notice him.” The guard nodded toward the center of the
square, where Gilbert was approaching the still-shouting Scot.
“That's your brother?” Feliciano asked, eyes bulging.
“Yep,” Arthur replied, rather flat. He didn’t seem so excited to reunite with
him now. Ludwig couldn’t blame him for that, nor could he blame his mate for
sounding shocked. There was very little resemblance between the Alpha and the
Omega, aside from their thick eyebrows.
In the center of the square, Gilbert said, loudly, “Alright, laddie, enough
screaming at people. That’s my job, and I do it better. People can actually
understand what I’m saying half the time.”
There were some drunken cheers from the crowd for this. The liquor vendors had
certainly made their money today. Across the circle of gathered Alphas, Ludwig
could see Francis and Antonio, slumped against each other and watching in
amusement. Gilbert wasn’t drunk—he needed to be alert while Francis and Matthew
were out in public—but his friends probably couldn’t walk a straight line
without assistance.
Arthur’s brother—Alistair, Ludwig heard the Omega tell Feliciano—turned to face
the captain of the guard. Ludwig wasn’t sure, but he thought he said, “You
wanna fuckin’ go with me? I’ll lay you down in a second!”
The crowd didn’t cheer now. Low, worried oooohh sounds swept around the ring of
watchers. Arthur and Feliciano had a hand over their mouths. But, of course,
Alistair didn’t recognize Gilbert. He wasn’t in uniform, and Alistair probably
couldn’t see clearly enough to recall Gilbert’s more memorable features.
Ludwig watched his brother’s pale eyebrows lift toward his hair, a look of
exaggerated shock. Then Gilbert’s crimson eyes narrowed and a smirk cut into
his face. Feliciano trembled and pressed closer to Ludwig; he put a comforting
arm around his mate. Even though he trusted his brother with his life, the life
of their leader, and the lives of their loved ones . . . that face made the
hairs rise at the back of his neck. Something about the bright hunger in his
eyes, the sharp edges of his teeth. Even in human form, he was an animal.
“You’ll lay me down?” Gilbert asked, sounding genuinely curious. “Okay. Let’s
see you do it.”
Alistair looked around him, seeking support from the crowd. The majority of the
people weren’t daft enough to encourage a crime, but the drunkest few gave
half-hearted cheers. That was enough to motivate the Scot, who lunged at
Gilbert. In a fluid movement, the captain slipped out of the way, into his wolf
form, and leapt onto Alistair’s back, flattening the man to the ground. It was
over as swiftly as that—Gilbert only had to sink his fangs into the man’s neck,
and he would be dead. A fate perhaps not deserved, but in the eyes of the law,
he had attacked a Royal Guard. An unarmed Royal Guard. That, on top of multiple
counts of brawling, was cause for execution.
“No!” Before anyone could stop him, Arthur hurried out into the square, Matthew
still clutched to his chest, eyes wide with horror. “Don’t kill him! Please!”
Gilbert lifted his head, fangs bared at the Omega—until he saw Matthew. If
Arthur had not been holding the king’s son, if there was no crowd, if it was
just between Arthur and Gilbert, who could have said what would’ve happened.
But, seeing Matthew, Gilbert’s ears flattened and, after snarling savagely into
Alistair’s face, he stepped off and rose into his human form. “Men!”
Four guardsmen stepped out hastily, stiff-backed, awaiting orders. Ludwig
almost joined them, but he wasn’t armed, nor was he technically on duty right
now. Besides, if he was honest, he didn’t trust all these drunks. A wrong step
could start a fight, and he didn’t want anyone to hurt Feliciano.
Gilbert brushed off the front of his coat, glaring at Arthur. To the guards, he
said, “Haul everyone stupid enough to fight down to gaol.” Then he cast his
glare around at the crowd. “Get lost. There’s nothing to gawk at anymore. Go
back to spending money.” With that, he stalked off to join Francis and Antonio.
The guards bound the arms of the men who struggled—Alistair included—and took
them away. It would have been quicker to take them to the castle’s dungeon, but
that was reserved for serious offenders, and could only be ordered on someone
by the king. (It was essentially his basement, after all.)
Arthur was shaking as he returned to Ludwig and the Italians. Feliciano took
Matthew from him, and Lovino embraced him—a gesture that astonished Ludwig—and
whispered something in his ear. Ludwig didn’t exactly catch it, but it sounded
to him like where it really starts.
And though neither Ludwig nor Gilbert or any of the watching citizens put it in
these terms, the reality of it was this: Gilbert Beilschmidt, captain of the
Royal Guard, had not administered punishment because an Omega had told him not
to. Perhaps it was a fluke. Perhaps Gilbert had just had a brief forgiving
streak. Perhaps it was not a big deal. Or, perhaps, Lovino Vargas was right.
It had really started.
 
                                     . . .
 
That night, after Arthur apologized on his brother’s behalf to a wine-muddled
Francis, after Ludwig and Feliciano curled into each other under the sheets,
after Alistair had passed out on the straw of his prison cell, after Gilbert
had gone out for the first time in a long time to spend the night alone with
the moon, Lovino lay in bed alone.
Antonio had never been this late coming to bed before. Lovino knew he should’ve
been glad about it, but he felt sort of lonely in this big bed by himself. He’d
grown used to the warmth of the Spaniard lying next to him. Antonio was
stronger than him, but still somehow safe. He wasn’t like Gilbert. He’s like a
pup, Lovino thought, picturing Antonio’s helpless face as he tried to sound
scolding. It’s kind of . . . cute. Then he remembered the state he’d been in
after the group had dined at the castle. Unsteady on his feet, he was so drunk
he couldn’t even join the celebratory hunt most of the upper class Alphas had
gone to. Go home, Lovino. I’ll be there soon. What if he’d gotten lost? What if
he’d toppled down the castle steps? What if he’d broken his leg, his back, his
neck? What if he was waiting for someone to find him, help him?
Lovino sat up in bed, looking at the darkness outside the window. He couldn’t
go out at night by himself; an Omega needed an Alpha’s explicit permission to
be outdoors after dark. It was dangerous at night for Omegas. They couldn’t see
in the dark, but Alphas in wolf form could. What if one crept up, decided to
take advantage? Thanks to the law, it was the Omega’s fault for being out alone
after hours. If Lovino went out there, he would have no one to protect him.
But what if Antonio needs help? He couldn’t just let the tomato bastard die. He
was awful, but he wasn’t terrible, damn it!
Lovino had just thrown the covers off when he heard the front door open and
close with a bang that made his heart race. Seconds later, Antonio staggered
into the room, a cloud of spirit fumes around him. Not just the reek of wine,
like Francis; he’d drunk anything he could get his hands on today.Why today?
He’s never been like this before. I don’t get it.
Antonio wrestled off his clothing, but didn’t put on the usual loose trousers
he wore to bed. Instead, he climbed naked on top of Lovino and began fumbling
with Lovino’s shirt. He was mumbling in Spanish, his hands clumsy, and Lovino
didn’t have the patience for it. He slapped Antonio’s hands away and rolled
over quickly, turning his back to his mate. He’s drunk, he’ll lose interest, he
thought. Probably doesn’t even know what he’s doing.
One second, the thought brought amusement. The next, it brought fear.
“Lovino,” Antonio said, voice closer to a growl than it had ever been. “Come
here.” The very thing he’d said that first morning, before he made Lovino rub
him. He would have gladly done it now than what he dreaded Antonio wanted from
him, but he suspected it was too late.
As the Spaniard’s wet lips brushed the lobe of Lovino’s ear, his fear abruptly
hardened to resolve. The fire inside him flared. No. I will not do this. I
don’t want it. He rolled again, onto his stomach, his face buried in the pillow
so it could not be kissed, his legs freed from Antonio’s blind grinding.
“Lovino.” A short snap, sounding like Gilbert. Like an Alpha. One last warning.
“No,” Lovino said, then said it again into the pillow, louder: “No!” And then
he lifted his head and shouted in his mate’s face with all the fire and
heartbreak inside him, “NO!”
He didn’t think anyone could hit so hard while lying down. He never knew that
was possible.
His teeth cut into his lip, and blood pooled on his tongue as Antonio pinned
him down into the mattress. The Alpha was all over him, he couldn’t fight the
strength, the weight on his back. The growls in his hear. The animal in him.
The beast tearing him apart.
“I’m the boss,” Antonio snarled with each unforgiving thrust, breaths hot on
the side of Lovino’s face. “I’m the boss. Not you.”
Lovino bit into the pillow to keep from screaming. He would not give the
satisfaction. The fire inside him roared hotter than ever before, threatening
to devour his heart once and for all. He thought of his brother. Of Arthur. His
friends. His family. His good, the only good he could find in this godforsaken
kingdom.
After an eternity, Antonio groaned and rolled off of Lovino, and though there
was plenty of disgusting stuff on Lovino’s thighs, he knew the Alpha hadn’t
been able to finish. He’d started the day exhausted, and besides, how could any
man hope to achieve anything with that much alcohol in his veins? Within
moments, Antonio was fast asleep, and Lovino sat up, staring down at him
through the shadows. Dead asleep. All it would take was a few minutes under a
pillow.
I’ll be careful, he’d promised his brother.
Lovino’s hands fisted in the blankets. He had had enough.
But this was not the way to win this fight.
Omegas would fight the Alphas, but they couldn’t do it head-on. They would
never win that way, or they would have fought decades ago. Alphas were bigger
and stronger, but that made them stupid. The Omegas had to be clever. And
brave, above all else. Lovino remembered the fear Arthur had shown while facing
Gilbert in the square. Fear in his eyes, but still he stood up for his brother,
a brother he didn’t even like. The first time an Omega had refused an Alpha of
his barbarism. And, in front of everyone, it had worked.It could happen. Omegas
could be better than Alphas.
No more helplessness. No more cowering. No more wishing things were different.
He was going to make them different. The wolves may have been powerful, but
they were nothing compared to the fury in his soul.
He lay down beside his mate, glaring through the darkness at him. That’s right,
he thought. Sleep easy, Alpha. While you still can.
***** Chapter 15 *****
            “There is nothing more beautiful than an Omega mother.
         They are the most loving, caring, gentle beings in our world.
        Some Alphas take pride in savagery, but in these changing times
         It is becoming more and more important to look to our mates.
               As an Alpha, you took part in making your child,
             and as a father, you must take part in loving them.”
               —High Alpha Francis Bonnefoy, Royal Observations
 
The next day, Arthur left the castle with Ludwig at his side, escorting him to
the prison to see his brother. He’d expected Francis to take him, but as it
turned out, I don’t frequent those rougher parts of my city. If I went along,
we’d have to double the guards. Best if you go without me, Arthur. And then
Ludwig had walked into the grand hall, looking for his brother, and Francis had
sent the pair of them off with what Arthur was quickly recognizing as kingly
rhetoric. Ah, Ludwig, you’re not doing anything too urgent, are you? You
wouldn’t mind taking Arthur to the prison to see his brother.
What could Ludwig do? Say no, argue with the High Alpha? So they were off to
the prison.
Arthur glanced up at the tall man, though not into his eyes, of course. “I’m
sorry, if I’m keeping you from something—”
Ludwig shook his head as they made their way down the castle steps. “Nothing
important.”
Arthur fell into silence. He wasn’t sure if it would be safe to chat with
Ludwig or not. He’d seemed nice yesterday, and he definitely didn’t prescribe
to the Speak When Spoken To sentiment like some Alphas, considering all the
nattering Feliciano had done at the celebrations. Still, Ludwig was in full
uniform now, with his bayonet-fitted rifle on his back. The blade didn’t
frighten Arthur—everyone used knives in the village, for a long list of
purposes—but the rifle did. A knife could slash his throat. So could a wolf’s
teeth. But at least he would have some warning. He could be shot in the back
and not realize until he’d died. Where would I be then? He thought, a different
sort of fear chilling his heart. Where will I go?
He opened his mouth to ask that very question, but paused in confusion when he
saw Ludwig step over to Antonio’s house and peer through a window for a moment.
When the Alpha rejoined him, Arthur asked, “Is Lovino in there?”
“I didn’t see him.” Ludwig looked like he might say something else, but in the
end he left it there.
Arthur waited as long as he could before asking, “May I ask you something?”
Ludwig nodded. He was probably capable of an expression that wasn’t quite so
serious, but Arthur hadn’t seen an overwhelming amount of that in evidence.
“Ja.”
“Where do you think we go when we die?”
“We go to the mountain.” Ludwig glanced at him, eyebrows raised slightly.
“You’ve never heard of this? Antonio didn’t teach you about it?”
Arthur felt a little panicked. The lessons of Naturalism blurred together in
his mind. He’d been too worried about learning bows and signs of respect to pay
attention to the religious elements. Plus, Antonio’s voice had a certain
raspiness . . . it was sort of rumbly, the way his Rs rolled, and his words
flowed effortlessly . . . it was a wonderful voice for dozing off into
daydreams. He imagined Lovino slept soundly beside him every night. It wouldn’t
be terrible, drifting off while Antonio spoke softly about the things he’d done
that day. What did the king’s advisor talk about in bed? Taxes, probably.
Trades. When they would have the next big hunt.
Ludwig must have grown tired of Arthur’s silence, because he went on, “Well, as
I said. We go to the mountain. It’s a huge mountain. The size of a thousand
kingdoms. We’re free to hunt and run as we please. At night we fill the sky
with song.”
Arthur had to admit, it sounded pretty nice. Running and howling with a pack.
The companionship of it appealed to him on a deeper level. Always someone at
your side. Someone to have your back. Someone to protect you and expect only
the same in return.
“Where is the mountain, though?” Arthur asked. “And where do Omegas go?”
“The mountain is . . .” The blond Alpha shook his head as though he had insects
in his hair. “It isn’t anywhere in our world. It’s elsewhere. Only souls go
there, when they leave bodies behind.” He inclined his head to a fellow guard
passing by, then added, “As for Omegas, they go to the mountain as well, to
live with Alphas as they do in life.”
That didn’t sound as appealing. “Do we fly together there, while the Alphas
hunt?”
Ludwig’s gaze drifted, uncertain. “I . . . I wouldn’t know. I suppose you
would.”
Not exactly as noble as the wolves sounded, but hopefully death wouldn’t be as
unequal as life. I don’t need to worry about that yet, Arthur thought. I’m
still young. Death is far, far away.
The prison was smaller than he thought it would be, a brick box with metal bars
instead of glass in the windows. No windows up in the walls, either, just
little ones along the bottom, so it looked like there were hands reaching up
from within the ground, like swamp monsters. Inside, some ragged voice shouted,
“I smell a birdie!” and more calls and cries went up. It sounded like there
were a hundred men in there, all of them bellowing or screeching for Arthur’s
favor even though, from where they were, he couldn’t see them and they couldn’t
see him.
Ludwig was watching him with some sympathy. “By the king’s order, your brother
is to be released later today. Once he’s sobered up, I can take him to see you
in the castle before he leaves.”
Arthur looked up at the German in amazement. The way Lovino talked about
Ludwig, you’d think he was villainous, but Arthur didn’t see it at all. He
didn’t have anything personal against Alphas like Lovino did. They were often
awful to Omegas, but it wasn’t always them. Typically, it was just the way they
were raised. Society was to blame, not the Alphas themselves. Society could be
changed. Who changed it? The ones in charge. Who was in charge? Arthur’s mate.
The man he loved speaking to in private, because they threw words back and
forth like friends, comrades, equals. Francis could be changed. Arthur believed
that wholeheartedly. If Francis was changed, he would change Western Eurasia
for the better. It was only a matter of time, and they had plenty of that.
“That would be very kind, thank you, sir,” Arthur said, smiling gratefully. He
gave a small bow, just for good measure.
Ludwig nodded. “It’s no trouble. Providing your brother doesn’t cause any
trouble, at the castle.” There was a warning hidden in there. He was a Royal
Guard, after all. He had a large interest in guarding royals.
“He won’t,” Arthur promised. “He’s quite well-behaved, when he’s sober.”
To be perfectly honest, Arthur wasn’t sure why he wanted to see his brother, or
why he’d been so happy to know he attended the wedding celebrations. Old
habits, perhaps—he was so used to Alistair being all he had, even if he was
rude. Very rude, when he got going. But still, it was familiar, so it had a
certain comfort in it. Arthur was touched that his brother had come, even if
he’d gotten drunk and started street-fighting. He did want to hear his brother
congratulate him. He wanted his son to have, as well as an Uncle Gil and Uncle
Toni, an Uncle Ali. He knew that was the Omega in him talking, longing for a
big family full of love and support. But what would be so wrong with that?
If Francis could change, so could Alistair. Arthur couldn’t give up hope on the
bad Alphas. He couldn’t expect them to fail, because that was precisely what
the Alphas did to Omegas.
 
                                     . . .
 
As promised, later that day Ludwig brought Alistair to the castle. The Scot was
in the same clothes he’d been in yesterday; Arthur wasn’t sure why he’d
expected his brother to be in prison garb outside the prison. He got to his
feet as the pair strode up to him in the grand hall (a servant had brought him
a chair, because, even this early in the pregnancy, Francis wanted him to rest
whenever possible).
“Here you are, Mr. Kirkland,” Ludwig said, tone far more serious than the one
he’d used earlier.
Arthur nearly said thank you, assuming he was being addressed, then realized
with a jolt that he was not, and would never be again, Mr. Kirkland. He was
Arthur Bonnefoy. Mate of the High Alpha of Western Eurasia. A royal heir was
growing in his womb. His blood would lead and protect this kingdom in the years
to come.
He kept his gaze appreciatively lowered, as was proper for Omegas, but he
straightened his spine and even puffed out his chest a little (not hard, with
the weight he’d been gaining). He was not the Omega his older brother had once
kicked around like a waste of space. He was loved and cherished. He had two
Italian friends! He was a new Omega. No—a new man.
“Aye, thanks,” Alistair said to Ludwig, voice thick and a bit ragged from all
his screaming yesterday. His eyes were reddened and wary; he must have been
hungover.
Ludwig lingered to glance at Arthur. He had no Alpha to dismiss him, and this
was essentially a service done for Arthur. Not an order, of course, Omegas
couldn’t give these. For an Omega to saythat will be all to an Alpha was
ludicrous. So for a moment they stood at a bewildered impasse. Ludwig needed to
be dismissed, but Arthur couldn’t do it, and Alistair couldn’t either, being a
prisoner as-was.
At last Ludwig simply inclined his head to no one in particular and told
Arthur, “Give my greetings to the king.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you again,” Arthur added.
Ludwig turned and left, but Arthur was fairly certain he glimpsed a smile on
the blond guard’s thin lips. Lovino really is too hard on him.
And now it was just Arthur and Alistair, facing each other, more different than
they had ever been. Alistair’s eyes went from the crown of Arthur’s head down
to his toes then back up again. Arthur struggled to discern what his brother
was thinking. It was not a lascivious action, as it would have been from
Francis; it was the same dishearteningly appraising look Alistair had always
given. The only difference was, before, the Alphas had curled his lip and
complained about how useless his ugly Omega was. But now?
Alistair’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You look good, Arthur.”
Arthur could barely stifle his gasp. A compliment! After so long—two decades,
his whole life—of insults! He put a protective hand over the swell of his
stomach and said, with a shy dip of his chin, “I’m carrying.”
Now Alistair’s eyes widened. “Already?” Then he thought about it, nodding
slowly. “Yes, I suppose—your Heat was . . .”
“Weeks past,” Arthur finished. He didn’t want to let the conversation lull, so
he asked the first thing that came to mind. “Have you been alright without me?”
The same old scorn lit his brother’s gaze. “Alright without you?” He snorted.
“Of course. One less mouth to feed. No Omega underfoot.”
“So you haven’t found a mate, then,” Arthur noted, making his tone as innocent
as he could with the smugness inside him. How good it felt to have the perfect
response! Lovino had taught him well.
Alistair winced, as expected, but quickly shrugged it off, feigning
indifference. “No, not yet. I’m in no rush. I’m enjoying a Heat-free household
while I can.”
Arthur nodded like he very much believed those statements to be true. “Do you
cook?”
Alistair was quiet for longer than Arthur thought was strictly necessary. “Not
yet,” he eventually repeated. “But I will. A wolf doesn’t need to cook,” he
went on gruffly. “A wolf can eat as soon as he kills. It’s you birds who make
everything into a fluffy production.”
Arthur had argued with Alistair enough to know there was no chance for him to
win. He decided to try a more polite approach to the mountain of red-haired
belligerence that was his brother. “Would you like to come in for some tea?”
One would have to be far more of a bastard than Alistair Kirkland to decline
tea in the High Alpha’s castle. Arthur led the way to the dining room,
relishing the way his brother’s eyes widened in awe at the sight of such
majesty. Is that what I looked like, coming in the first day? Alistair stood
out like a sore thumb among the French finery. It occurred to Arthur for the
first time that perhaps that was what had made Francis choose him. He was so
clearly a country Omega. He’d stood out from the rest. A weakness, from his
point of view, but the deciding factor for his mate. Funny how those things
work.
Antonio and Francis were already having tea in the dining room, and they both
gave smiles to the entering brothers. Francis held out a hand to draw Arthur
near; he pressed a kiss to a soft cheek and said, “We were just talking about
you, mon amour.”
Arthur smiled and whispered, “Good things?”
Francis chuckled. “But of course. The best.” He turned his attention to
Alistair, voice abruptly hardening. “And you must be the criminal my guards
should have killed?”
The Scot had become quite flustered. He shifted his feet nervously, then—when
the High Alpha’s icy gaze met his—he immediately dropped into a bow, bent
horizontal from the hips up. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. I wanted to
apologize to you before anything, I—er—I had a bit too much to drink, and—”
Francis exchanged an amused glance with Antonio before interrupting, “Be at
ease, Mr. Kirkland. The Captain is in charge of dealing with crime; what
happened on the street is between you and him. And one other person, come to
think of it.” He sat back in his chair, gesturing regally to his mate. “Have
you thanked Arthur? He did save your life.”
Alistair stared at Arthur in a confusion that Antonio shared; they were both
too wasted at that point in the celebrations to recall what Francis was talking
about.
At Francis’s expectant look, Arthur explained hesitantly, “Gilbert was about to
kill you for attacking him and I asked him not to.”
“And he listened?” Antonio asked, highlighting the miraculous part of the
story. His wide eyes were only a bit reddened from the remnants of the alcohol
in his system. Arthur was glad to see the Spaniard had no sign of the
unhappiness he’d drowned the day before. Arthur and Lovino had been unable to
pinpoint a reason for the gloom. Odd that Antonio had left his mate at home
today. He probably didn’t, Arthur thought. Lovino’s probably just visiting
Feli.
“Yes, he did,” Francis replied. “And don’t bother asking him about it. I almost
thought he would snap at me when I did.”
“He’s not used to showing mercy,” Antonio remarked, sipping his tea.
“No,” Francis agreed thoughtfully. “But that’s good, in his line of work.”
“I suppose it is.”
“Mm.” Francis glanced at Alistair. “We’re still waiting for you to sit down and
thank Arthur. Unless you’d rather just stand there looking stupide.”
Antonio chuckled, and Arthur hid a smile. Elements of the trio of friends
showed up among them when you least expected it. Gilbert fathering Matthew with
the same gentle care as Francis. Francis’s words edged with barbs like
Gilbert’s. They seemed so different when together, but the edges blurred when
they weren’t all present for reference. Arthur wondered if the same thing would
happen to him and Lovino. Would their qualities bleed together into one Omega?
Not an entirely unpleasant concept. Would it be someone Francis loved, or
Antonio?
Alistair quickly took a seat, cleared his throat, and struggled for a moment to
meet his brother’s gaze. “Thanks, Arthur.”
Arthur wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt so proud. First his brother complimented
him, unprompted. Now his mate had gotten him to thank him. And, through it all,
best of all—Alistair was completely unsure of himself here. He didn’t know how
to conduct himself among the highest people in the kingdom—the people who had
essentially become Arthur’s family. Even if Omegas had no status, he was still
better than his brother, no matter how you looked at it. Arthur let himself
smile now. Finally, he wasn’t being made to feel inadequate.
“Ahem, Arthur,” Francis said, clearing his throat and glancing toward the door
meaningfully.
His satisfaction dropped away like a load of bricks. Even with his mate—even
with his brother—as an Omega, he was not permitted to sit at the same table.
Arthur painted a smile on his face, curtsied, and left the room quickly, so no
one would see the tears pricking his eyes. It was nice for the second it
lasted. But he had to stay positive. One moment of an Omega rising up was
better than nothing. Everything started somewhere. Baby steps, at first. Arthur
thought of Matthew. If it went well, the little Omega would come to age in an
equal world.
I have to believe it’s possible, Arthur told himself. If I don’t, who will?
 
                                     . . .
 
After how gentle and understanding Francis was during Arthur’s Heat, the Omega
expected him to be the same during his pregnancy, but he was shocked by the
extent of it. He was, by no stretch of the imagination, completely spoiled.
Each day, Francis showered him in gifts and attention. He gave him jewels and
gowns, shoes and sweets, cuddles and massages. Arthur’s protests were brushed
aside with ease. What about your duties? Antonio would take care of them. What
about Matthew? Gilbert would look after him. Francis wanted Arthur to do
nothing but sit, eat, rest, and grow his son.
But with eating and resting came boredom. Francis could only provide so much
entertainment; eventually, one grew tired of talking and snuggling, and a break
was in order. Feliciano and Lovino visited most days, but they couldn’t spend
too much time away from their respective households; they had duties there to
fulfill, after all. And so Arthur found himself frequenting the library. The
books were legion and his reading skills were not the greatest. There were
enough words here to last him a lifetime, it seemed like. Arthur got to work on
them. Depending on the book, it could take up three days or three weeks, but he
always pushed through; there was something deliciously satisfying about taking
a word through the eyes, into the mind, and forming it into a fantasy there. As
he progressed through the shelves, he decided to organize them. Francis forbade
him from climbing the ladder to reach the higher volumes, so for now he was
restricted to anything in arms’ reach, but even that was a surplus. Some
volumes were in French, and though he didn’t read them, he asked Francis to
translate their titles so he could best decide what order to place them in. His
mate assured him he could have a servant do this busywork in Arthur’s stead,
but the Omega waved it away. “I have to do something!”
As Arthur’s belly grew larger, he found himself changing in personality as well
as size. The defiance he had once felt at Alistair’s snide comments was
replaced with a teary softness. His brother paid monthly visits to the castle
(never staying for tea, though; Francis claimed they’d scared the Scot off) and
was generally well-behaved, but at the first sign of a jab, Arthur’s strength
vanished. And, to his surprise, his brother relented every time. Alistair
touched his arm or his shoulder, and even gently wiped the tears from his
cheeks at one point. Arthur told the Vargas brothers about the perplexing
development, and Feliciano smiled knowingly. “It’s because you’re finally
acting like an Omega! It’s bringing out the Alpha in him. Everybody always says
Alphas are mean and growly on the inside, but that’s just not true! Deep down,
they just want to give hugs! They’re snuggly wolves inside, not mean growly
ones. They just want to protect us and keep us happy.”
Lovino hadn’t said anything about Feliciano’s theory. He hadn’t said anything
at all, actually, for the majority of their visits. While the others talked, he
stared at the wall or the floor, brooding. When Arthur asked him why he was
limping, it was Feliciano who replied. “Oh, he told me, he tripped and hurt his
leg! I tripped and scraped my knee once, but Ludwig licked it all better,
wolves have very soft tongues . . .”
Arthur knew something was bothering Lovino. He was typically quiet, but this
was a whole new level. It troubled him deeply, even moreso now that his
emotions surged without warning. He tried desperately to make Lovino speak like
he used to, and when it didn’t work, he wept—which seemed to have the same
effect on Lovino as it did on Alistair. The Italian awkwardly said, “It’s okay,
I’m sorry,” and patted Arthur’s back. But he never smiled. His eyes were never
bright. And, most telling of a problem, he had stopped mocking the Alphas
behind their backs. Every time Arthur sought Lovino’s gaze, the other Omega was
staring blankly at the floor.
The answer didn’t come until one night toward the end of the pregnancy, when
Francis came to bed after a bit too much drinking with Gilbert and Antonio. He
kissed Arthur’s belly through his nightgown, then his cheek, and the words
came, amused, on a fume of wine: “Toni tells me his taming is going well. I
suspect he’s having a session right now.”
“Taming?” Arthur echoed, confused.
“Oui,” Francis murmured, lips against Arthur’s breast. They were nice and plump
now, creamy; the milk would come soon, and Arthur was curious to taste it (he
wanted to know if it would taste like what the cows gave). “He has been taming
Lovino each night,” Francis continued. “He’s a very wild Omega, have you
noticed? Everyone knew he would be trouble. I didn’t think Toni could do it,
but he told me after the first night he saw a difference, and he’s been keeping
it up since then. Some Omegas just need to have dominance regularly asserted.”
He smiled fondly, stroking Arthur’s thighs. “But not you, mon amour. You are
very good.”
Arthur spoke to Lovino about it the next day, horrified. “Did Antonio—”
“Don’t,” Lovino snapped, nearly a snarl in his voice, a deeper voice than any
Omega Arthur had ever met, now that he thought about it.
Arthur had to persist. “But, if he hurts you—”
“I don’t”—Lovino stepped forward, close enough to glare directly into Arthur’s
eyes—“want to talk about it.”
Arthur had cried, obviously, and Lovino had sighed and put an arm around him.
It was horrible to know what the Spanish Alpha did every night, then see him
laughing and smiling with Francis, always greeting Arthur in that cheerful way
of his. Asserting dominance? No. It was torture. Arthur saw the bruises on
Lovino’s neck and shoulders when his collar slipped. He saw the Omega’s slight
jump whenever Antonio barely brushed him. Just thinking about it was enough to
bring tears to his eyes. How could they get ahead if this was what Alphas
reduced them to? Trembling in tears or cowering away from tiny touches?
Arthur longed for the days before his pregnancy, when he felt a clarity of
mind, when his thoughts were his own. Now he craved strange things, he was sick
constantly, he was drawn to the light of the moon. When the Alphas howled for a
hunt, a sadness deep within him flowed like a winter stream. He yearned to join
them, but he was trapped inside the castle. Were these the feelings of a caged
animal, or of the Alpha inside him? He didn’t know. His body was so big, it
wasn’t his anymore. Neither his brain nor his body belonged to him. His freedom
was stolen completely in the final weeks, when his legs were no longer strong
enough to carry him down to the library. Francis brought his meals as he had
during Heat, and cut the food into bits small enough to swallow without needing
to chew; a blessing, because his jaw ached so much he could barely move it to
speak, let alone eat. The sheets were perpetually soaked with sweat, and yet he
felt frozen. Francis had blankets brought in from the other rooms, and held a
hand over Arthur’s forehead, but jerked it away in the same second. “Mon dieu,
you are burning . . .”
He slept, but he could not say how long. Was he awake? He had no way of
telling. He felt like he was floating, all sensation gone.
“Just a fever,” he heard someone say. “No cause for concern. He would have gone
into Heat nine times through this pregnancy. It’s unsurprising that his body
wants to release some heat. I’ve heard of cases like this before.”
“He is sick.” Was that Francis? “I have lost one mate already. I will not lose
this one.”
“You’re right, you won’t. He’s not dying. He’s just a bit hot. And look. See
this?”
Vaguely, something between his legs. The baby? Was it an Alpha?
“Get your hands off my mate.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty. I only wished to show you that he’s dilated. The
baby will start to come soon, probably within the hour. But he’ll need to come
around if he’s going to push.”
“And if he doesn’t . . . come around?”
“I’ve cut babies out in the past. But let’s hope he pushes. Shall I wake him?”
“No. I will do it.”
A touch to his cheek, something wet and cold, cloth. Francis’s voice, gentle.
“Arthur, mon amour . . . I’m here. We must bring you here, too. You must push,
for our son.”
Arthur tried his best to go toward the front of his mind. It was like he could
see his eyes, far above him; like he’d fallen to the back of his own skull.
Light was coming through. He swam through murky thoughts and dreams, trying to
reach it, but every move he made brought a ripple of pain.
“That’s right, come back to me,” Francis encouraged, caressing Arthur’s damp
hair.
A sound of guttural agony forced its way out of Arthur as he at last found
himself again. He felt more present than he had for months, and as another
contraction passed through him, he felt more pain than he had for his entire
life. It tore scream after scream from him; Francis gave up trying to quiet him
and instead shouted his encouragement over the shrieks. Everyone in the upper
streets of the capital would remember the racket of the king’s heir being born.
The loud boy—at times obnoxiously so—was preceded by a pair of deafening
voices. Gilbert, sparring in the courtyard, paused and looked up toward the
castle. Antonio and Lovino, sitting together in their typical tense silence,
both winced at the throat-tearing bellows.
And then, through the noise, through the tears, the blood, the sweat, the
fear—joy came, in the form of a bright red boy slipping out onto the mattress.
He was positively huge; Matthew was a chubby toddler, but this one was just
downright large. No wonder he had given Arthur’s thin hips such difficulty. He
knew what he wanted; his first cry, peeling squeakily, was so clearly to ask
for milk that, to Arthur, the baby may as well have written out a note and
passed it to him.
Arthur took his son into his arms and let him latch on to a nipple. Here was a
new, unexpected pain: the dusky red flesh was tender, and the baby’s relentless
sucking was not exactly akin to the gentle kisses of his father. But Arthur
would bear it. It was his duty. Feeding his son filled him with an instinctive
pride as fierce as a summer sun. He was a mother!
“Arthur.”
He looked up at his name, syllables slowed by wonder. Francis was watching
them, such complete adoration on his face. The High Alpha leant down to nuzzle
Arthur’s forehead, then did the same to his son. The baby’s strong brow
furrowed at the scent of an Alpha, and he gave the softest, sweetest little
growl. Any confusion of his gender was thrown neatly out the window. He was a
pup.
“Oh,” Francis said, a word of pure delight. “Our little Alpha.” He trailed
kisses from Arthur’s cheek to his temple. “You did it, mon amour. You gave me
an Alpha son. You are so beautiful! You are perfect.”
Arthur only vaguely heard the compliments. His attention was on the Alpha in
his arms. Such strength, in such a tiny body. No fear, just an instinctive
confidence. Everything Arthur wished—had given up wishing—he had. The name came
to him, all at once, the name for this little prince who already seemed to know
he had no challengers for his throne.
“Alfred,” Arthur murmured. The baby’s translucent eyelashes fluttered as he
continued to nurse.
He expected protest—it was not a French name—but Francis seemed to agree that
it suited him, because he smiled fondly and said, “Prince Alfred Bonnefoy. A
name for the legends, oui?”
Yes, Arthur thought as he began to give in to his full-body exhaustion. A name
to go down in history.
***** Chapter 16 *****
                     “The Alpha’s inability to give birth
                   proves that they are inferior to Omegas.
                   Their lack of intellect and self-control
                         simply enhances this truth.”
                       —Emperor Yao Wang, The Compendium
 
The first week after Alfred was born would turn out to be the best. Arthur
didn’t move an inch; he simply lay in bed with Alfred nursing and sleeping,
only leaving his mother’s arms when his father just had to told him. No one
else was allowed into the bedchamber for those first seven days, not even a
doctor. Arthur worried his fever would return, that perhaps it was a
foreshadowing of some insidious disease, but Francis kissed his concern away.
“You are healthy, mon amour,” the king assured him without taking his gaze from
the pup in his arms. “If you were not, I would smell it, or you would know. We
are healthy and happy, aren’t we, Alfred?” The dozing baby gave no response.
The first visitor was Matthew. Francis carried him in and set him down on the
bed beside Arthur. The nestling seemed to have grown since Arthur last saw him,
or perhaps he was misremembering; Matthew had been barred from the bedroom in
case he caught the mysterious fever. Now the toddler peered at his half-brother
with bright, curious violet eyes. Alfred continued drinking, olivious.
“Il est ton frère,” Francis said helpfully, watching his son with the old
familiar fondness, a much less intense love than the ardent feelings he had for
Alfred. (Which made sense. Matthew need only grow up into a beautiful, kind
Omega with healthy children. Alfred had to take Francis’s place one day, and
bring honor to his family and his kingdom. Quite the burden for a baby’s tiny
shoulders.)
Matthew's little pink mouth rounded into an O, his famous look of wonder. To
Arthur, he squeaked, "Mon frère?"
Arthur was at a loss. "Uh . . ." He slid his gaze to Francis—who
mouthed brother amusedly—then nodded to Matthew, smiling. "Yes, he's your
little Alpha brother. His name is Alfred."
Matthew gazed down at the suckling pup in awe. He reached a little hand to
touch Alfred’s soft fuzz of hair, as if testing that he was real. The scent of
an Omega didn’t bother Alfred; he gave a soft grunt, snuffled, then resumed
suckling. Arthur’s nipples had not yet grown accustomed to the assault, but his
maternal instincts blocked out the worst of the pain. Tender teats were no
problem for a mother! The baby must be fed!
The next visitors were, oddly, Lovino and Feliciano. Arthur expressed his
surprise when Francis told him of their arrival. “I thought you would have
wanted Antonio and Gilbert to meet Alfred first.” His mate had chuckled. “Would
you have let them through the door?” And Arthur realized that the idea of
having two Alphas near his son—regardless of who they were—made him bristle
with protectiveness. He knew, with a resolute ferocity that astonished him,
that he would die to protect the pup in his arms. He felt a bit bad that the
same emotion did not apply to Matthew, or indeed to Francis. Perhaps what the
king always said was true. Blood ties were more important than anything else.
Feliciano was positively delighted to see the baby. “Oh, look at his little
head! And his little hands! And his little—everything! He’s such a cute little
baby!” Every sentence rose in pitch until by the end  he was squealing like a
wolf with a stepped-on tail. The squeaky words were like nails through Arthur’s
ears.
“Stop that,” Lovino snapped. “You’ll shatter the windows.” No one minded this
negativity; Francis had gone to fetch some snacks, and Feliciano and Arthur
were just glad that something had made Lovino speak.
“Can I hold him, Arthur? Oh, please? Just for a second?” Feliciano pleaded,
clasping his hands together and stretching his amber eyes into a sad puppy
look.
Arthur was a tad reluctant, but his arms could do with a stretch, and he knew
he could trust the Italian brothers with his child. So he carefully lifted
Alfred up and offered him to Feli. It felt like handing over a leg; Arthur’s
son was a part of him, it felt surreal and innately wrong to give him away. “He
might not like it . . .”
Feliciano cradled Alfred as Arthur had been, smiling down at him in a glowing
way that made Arthur feel certain the other Omega was imagining the babies he
would one day have with Ludwig. He’d often spoken about longing for a big
family, and Ludwig’s status could easily provide for one. Abruptly, Alfred
stirred, realized he was in different arms than his usual, and gave the first
smaller cries of a tantrum. Without prompting, Feliciano offered the boy his
pinkie finger; the pup gave it a brief sniff, then began sucking on it with a
grunt that seemed to say, It’s not the best, but I suppose it’ll do for now.
Arthur had begun to reach for Alfred at the cries, but he let his hands fall
back to the bed. A fond smile warmed his face. “You’ll be a good mother, Feli.”
Feliciano glanced up, lips an O of the Matthew variety. “You think so?”
“Of course you will,” Arthur assured him. “You’re an—” He stopped himself just
short of saying Omega. He couldn’t keep generalizing like the Alphas did, like
Naturalism did. An Omega was not naturally cut out for motherhood just because
of their body parts. After all, would someone like Lovino make a good mother?
Perhaps, but certainly not in the traditional sense. So Arthur finished instead
with, “A kind and loving person.”
Feliciano gave a wide smile, eyes shimmering. “Thank you, Arthur.” He looked
down at Alfred, saying softly, “I hope I’ll be as good a mother as yours,
Prince Alfred.” He wandered a bit away from the bed, gently bouncing the pup in
his arms and singing what Arthur assumed was an Italian lullaby. It was—as such
things tended to be—far more beautiful than any Arthur had heard in his own
language.
Arthur turned his head as the mattress shifted; Lovino had joined him on the
bed. The dark-haired Omega seemed enthralled with a thread fraying from his
sleeve. “How was childbirth?”
Arthur wasn’t sure where this Lovino had come from, but he was glad
nonetheless. He was the closest Lovino had been to his old self in months,
almost a year. God, how time had flown. “Oh, it was alright. A little
uncomfortable.”
“So I heard.” Lovino arched an eyebrow, but kept his gaze on that thread,
fingering it absently. “You were all very loud.”
“We were celebrating.” Arthur didn’t like the oddly combative vibe of the
conversation, even though the voices they used were light. “It’s not every day
a prince is born.” He tried to change the subject a little, bringing in their
old mockery of Alphas. “Francis finally served his purpose, I guess.”
Lovino finally lifted his gaze to Arthur, eyes hard to match his flat voice.
“No, you did. You say he’s been so nice to you all these months, you think I’m
too hard on Alphas. You think Oh, my Francis is different. I know you think it,
don’t deny it. I see how you look at him, I know you love him. But I have a
prediction. Would you like to hear it?”
This was not Lovino. This was nine months of being raped every night. There was
no justice in it. Arthur could say nothing else. “Yes.”
The brunette leaned closer, eyes narrowing, each word cutting deeper than the
last. “I think that, now that you’ve given him this kid, Our Majesty will treat
you like any other Omega. Just a servant, or a hole in the wall. A slave.
You’ve done what he got you to do, and now he’s going to toss you aside.”
Arthur could forgive Lovino for being upset, after what he had been through.
But he had to draw the line somewhere, and here it was. “No. You’re wrong,
Lovi. Francis won’t do that. You see how I look at him, but do you see how he
looks at me? He loves me. In his way.”
What had made him add that little allowance on the end? Lovino pounced on it.
“In his way? Right. And just you wait. His way will be crushing you into this
mattress every night.”
Defiance flared in Arthur. It had been quite a while since he felt it,
genuinely felt it. It was something he had thought was left behind in Alistar’s
house; he hadn’t been scolded for being provocable since moving out. Now, if an
Alpha saw the look in his eyes, he would be scolded sharply if not beaten. But
there were no Alphas here now, just two Omegas sitting on a bed together like
friends and glaring at each other like enemies.
“No. I won’t sit here and listen to you say terrible things about my mate. You
barely even know him! He’s never raised a hand at me—”
“Neither did the tomato bastard,” Lovino snarled, raising his voice just short
of a shout, “until he did! You never see it coming. They don’t have to justify
themselves to us. They’re just damned animals. One second they’re fine, the
next they’re ripping you to pieces! Don’t act like your stupid frog is any
better! He’s the same as the rest of them! They’re all evil! I—”
“Lovi!” Feliciano cried, admonishing. The boy in his arms broke off from his
finger and stretched his mouth wide open to let out a piercing wail. Arthur’s
heart knew what it meant, and it broke him: I’m afraid! Save me! Feed me!
Arthur reached for him in a way that left no room for negotiation, and
Feliciano was more than willing to pass the pup to his mother. Arthur kissed
his son’s soft forehead, murmuring, “It’s alright, my love, I’m here,” before
pulling his shirt aside to let Alfred nurse. The tiny lips sealing over his
nipple were a comfort now, despite the pain; this was how he was meant to be,
feeding his baby. This was how he was complete.
Lovino stalked to the door, head down, shoulders forward, looking like an
animal himself. Feliciano tried to touch his arm, but he jerked away and
snapped, “Will that be all, Your Highness? Shall we return to our wonderful
mates?”
Arthur could barely look at him. What’s happening to us? “I think you’d better
go.”
Lovino gave no response, just tossed his head and stormed out. Feliciano
lingered long enough to look sadly at Arthur. “I’m sorry. Maybe we can come
again soon?”
Arthur didn’t know if that was a good idea, but he couldn’t deny the hopeful
look in the younger Omega’s face. He’s only young, fifteen at the most, and
Lovino’s not much older. It’s not their fault.He gave his best attempt at a
friendly smile. “Yes, soon.”
It was a few days before Francis brought in his advisor and the captain of the
Guard. At the sight of Gilbert’s broad shoulders in the doorway, Arthur shrank
back into the pillows, holding Alfred close. He must have looked challenging in
his protective pose, because Gilbert’s voice had a light warning in it as he
said, “Look alive, Omega.”
“Oh, relax, Gilbert,” Francis said, nudging his friend’s muscular arm with his
own—er, what could one call it—kingly one. “This bedroom is no place for your
military strictures.” He put an arm around Antonio’s shoulders, smirking.
“There’s a good word, hm, mon ami?”
Perhaps Arthur was imagining things, but Antonio’s smile seemed a bit strained.
“Very good, Your Majesty.”
Francis laughed, stepping over to the bed. “Both of you are so formal today.
Relax! This is a happy day.” He gently took Alfred from Arthur’s
arms—thankfully the baby was dozing without suckling, or it would have made for
a startling yank on the nipple and a rudely interrupted meal—and turned to his
friends, glowing with pride. “Here he is. I present to you, Prince Alfred
Bonnefoy.”
Gilbert tilted his head to one side, sizing the little boy up with a smile
slowly spreading across his lips. “Not as cute as Matthew.”
“Cute?” Francis peered down at his son for a moment as if to assess his levels
of cuteness. “Well, he is certainly handsome, even if he is not as cute.
Besides, he is an Alpha, he doesn’t have to be cute. Isn’t that right, Toni?”
Antonio’s smile still didn’t appear normal. His eyes were slightly narrowed in
a way that passed for joy at a quick glance, but on closer inspection he looked
to be in pain. Arthur couldn’t think why. Perhaps he had a stomachache. Bloody
hell, I hope Lovino isn’t poisoning him. Such a dark thought to have in a safe
place like this, the bedroom, the nursery, the nest. Arthur still felt anger
and betrayal and hurt when he thought of his friend and their last
conversation, but he didn’t think Lovino was heartless enough to actually,
wilfully end a life. But his words nagged at Arthur’s conscience. You never see
it coming.Could the same be said for an Omega’s actions?
He didn’t want to wait and lose his nerve, so he asked right away. “Antonio,
are you alright, sir? You look sort of . . . ill.”
All three Alphas turned to look at him with confused expressions, but Arthur
saw a second’s flash of panic in the Spaniard’s hazel eyes before he smiled at
Arthur, this time seeming genuine. “Yes, I’m alright. Thank you for the
concern, Arthur.”
Francis’s gaze softened with yet more fondness; he had an infinite supply these
days. “Ah, look at him, feeling motherly for everyone now. You really must get
yourself a mate, Gilbert. Omegas are so . . .” He trailed off, trying to find
the perfect word—a word, Arthur suspected, that would convey appreciation
without too much respect.
Gilbert arched an eyebrow, dubious with a derisory edge that only he could get
away with.
Francis finally shrugged and said, “Well, they are lovely and good to have
around. Very helpful in manners you wouldn’t even think of.”
Gilbert’s face didn’t change. “Mmhm.” He held his hands out, expectant. “Well,
are you gonna let me hold him?”
Francis chuckled knowingly and offered the baby. “Be—”
“Gentle,” Gilbert finished apathetically; all his attention was on Alfred. The
tiny Alpha knew immediately that he was in the arms of a far stronger man, a
wolf he had not met before, who didn’t smell mean but could at any moment. He
began to whimper, but it was not in a way Arthur had heard before, and it did
not speak to him as the other cries did. It was a wolfish sound, not a human
one. Gilbert looked down at him, at his dark blue eyes still unfocused from
simple virtue of being so new. Such a pure little creature, not yet tainted by
the horrors of the world. No, Gilbert would have no trouble protecting this one
as he protected the other Bonnefoys. Handing him back to his father, he
remarked, “He’s a smart one.”
Francis smiled proudly. “Oui, I know.” Seeing Arthur’s puzzled expression, he
explained, “He was showing instinctive submission. So clever! Of course, one
day he will not have to show submission to anyone. But he is a very smart
little pup.” He nuzzled Alfred’s pale hair, then glanced at Antonio. “Would you
like to hold him?”
Antonio opened his mouth, but it was a moment before the words came out. “Ah,
no, I don’t think. He looks hungry, he should go back with his mama.”
“Oh! Are you hungry, petit chiot?” he cooed to Alfred, who raised a tiny fist,
an action presumably by random synapse but still enough to draw fond laughter
from the gathered Alphas. Safe in Arthur’s arms again, Alfred suckled hungrily,
with extra snuffles and growls as if he knew he had an audience and wanted to
show off. Arthur stroked his small warm back, marvelling for the millionth time
how he actually existed, with Arthur’s blood beating in his veins. Then he
glanced up and saw the trio all watching him, Francis loving, Gilbert amused,
but Antonio—
The Spaniard turned quickly when Arthur looked up. “Shall we give them some
privacy? Maybe a hunt, just the three of us? We haven’t had one in a while.”
Gilbert snorted. “Sure, I’ll catch something while you two sniff flowers.”
Francis’s eyebrows spiked, and he grinned. “Oh, I see. Well, Toni and I will
feed you those words while we eat the prey we catch before you.”
They continued tossing friendly taunts at each other down the hall, letting the
door close behind them, leaving Arthur alone with his pup, unable to remove the
image of Antonio’s face from his mind, and the pure, unadulterated jealousy
that had twisted his handsome features.
 
                                     . . .
 
At first, Arthur didn’t realize it was happening.
After the first week, Francis no longer spent the majority of his time in the
bedchamber. He had the servants bring Arthur a supply of books from the library
and returned, for the most part, to his kingly duties. He visited his mate and
Alpha son often, bringing with him new scents each time for the boy to
experience—blades of grass, clover, even a furry caterpillar that made the pup
sneeze. Arthur didn’t understand this, but he didn’t question it; it wasn’t his
place, and even if it was, it was more wolfish stuff that he couldn’t
understand. Their nights, while Alfred still slept in Arthur’s arms, were much
the same as they always were: Francis told Arthur of his day, they traded
words, then they kissed goodnight and went to sleep.
Once Alfred began to take longer breaks between nursing, they moved him to a
bassinet near Arthur’s side of the bed. This was at once depressing and
welcome; Arthur didn’t like being so far from his baby, but he did like being
able to sleep in whatever position be pleased. The change proved to be, in
Arthur’s opinion, far more trouble than it was worth. At least once in the
night, Alfred would scream for milk, and Arthur would have to get up, walk over
to the bassinet, pick him up, nurse him, set him down again without upsetting
him, and get back into bed. It was disturbing on more than one level, most of
all because it almost made him dislike his own child. So greedy, caterwauling
in the wee hours of the morning to be fed! But he had to be fed, and he was
only a baby. For some reason, Arthur had to keep reminding himself of that
fact. He’s only a baby. He’s only a baby.
But Arthur was not the only one woken by the child. The very first night, when
he returned to the bed, he had barely gotten comfortable when he felt Francis’s
arms go around him, his mate’s half-hard cock grinding into the small of his
back. He mumbled something in French, barely awake, and Arthur was too
disoriented to react as his mate slipped inside him. It was not rough, but it
wasn’t exactly pleasing for Arthur; in fact, it made him ache a little, his
inner walls still loose but sore from the natural disaster of childbirth.
Arthur was tired enough to drift off before Francis finished, which Francis did
do at some point, because Arthur’s thighs were sticky with seed in the morning.
Francis said nothing of it the next day, so Arthur assumed it was an isolated
incident, the result of an erotic dream and a semi-awake brain.
He was wrong.
The next night, when Alfred cried, Francis was visibly awake and aware when
Arthur got back under the covers. “We are both up, mon amour,” he murmured with
a smirk. “I seem to be quite up, actually . . .” Arthur looked at the Alpha’s
stiffening penis in dismay. He just wanted to go back to sleep. But Francis
kissed his neck and his shoulders, and stroked his sides, and before Arthur
even knew what was happening his mate was up to the hilt. A good thing the
birth had left him so pliable. But it was a weak consolation.
Things only worsened from there. Francis spent less and less time in the
bedchamber, and when he did come, he had eyes only for his son. And, as it
turned out, Alfred had eyes for his father too—or rather, of his father. “Your
eyes are blue, just like mine! You will be such a handsome king, mon fils.” The
pup had taken to giving a squeaky yip when he recognized his father’s face,
something he never did for Arthur. There was a large amount of denial built
into Arthur, but he could still see what was afoot here. Alfred was an Alpha,
and because of that he would never be completely close with his mother. The
innate connection they’d shared was slowly but surely fading away as Alfred
grew more and more wolfish, Alpha-like, whatever it should be called. Arthur
and Alfred shared the entire day together, and yet the hour Francis spent with
the boy seemed transcendent in comparison. It was another thing that made him
want to cry.
The nightly fucking—it could not be called love-making—was made even worse by
the fact that a trend formed where Francis went all day without saying a word
or even sparing a glance for his mate, and when he thrust into him at night, he
barely kissed, barely caressed. Arthur felt no pleasure at all from it.
Sometimes Francis even climbed onto Arthur’s back to do it, as if he didn’t
care that his mate’s face was hidden. I thought I was beautiful. Didn’t you say
I was beautiful? Or, a better line of inquiry. I thought you loved me. Didn’t
you say you loved me?
Arthur lost track of how long it went on, but one night he knew he had had
enough. Alfred’s cries bore into his temples; a migraine pounded mercilessly to
the sickening beat of his heart. The boy’s gums were getting harder every day,
forming teeth that would eventually break through. The pregnancy had seemed so
slow, and now this was happening so fast, though every night when he was
dredged from sleep felt like an eternity. Arthur breathed out a sigh of defeat
into the shadows of the room. He wondered which was darker, the air in the room
or the air in his lungs. If he breathed out all the dark, would his lungs be
bright instead? What if he breathed in some moonlight?
Once Alfred had been fed and burped—no spewing this time, thank God—Arthur
tucked him in and went to the window, pulling the curtain away just enough to
look out. There was the moon, a bright silver jewel set on black satin. The
master bedroom had a view of the fields beyond the city, and Arthur imagined
going out there, lying down to stargaze on the cool grass, or taking flight and
brushing stars with the tips of his wings. Freedom, utter freedom, the sort
that was only real in the imagination, because once you had it, it was never as
good as wanting it. Just like everything else.
“Arthur,” Francis said behind him, still in bed, “what are you doing? Come back
to bed, mon amour.”
Arthur turned around without drawing the curtain. Francis was sitting on the
edge of the bed, stroking his cock and watching him. The sliver of moonlight
from the window lit a stripe of his face, one side of a furrowed brow, a dark
blue eye watching him with growing impatience. Arthur wanted nothing but to be
gone. For the first time, thinking of his old life with Alistair, in all its
imperfection and depravity, made homesickness stab into his heart like a blade.
“No,” Arthur heard himself whisper.
“Come,” Francis said again, holding out his free hand. “Come to bed.”
Arthur did not move. Voice trembling, he said, “No.”
Francis’s face hardened. “An Omega does not defy an Alpha. Especially not their
mate.” He rose to his feet with a powerful, animalistic grace that Arthur had
not yet seen him summon. The tone was one he had not used yet, either; the
words fell like stones, unforgiving and uncaring. “You will come over here.
Now.”
Arthur wondered if he could make it do the door. No chance, he could not outrun
a wolf. Perhaps the window? He didn’t know if he could get it open. And even if
he did escape, where would he go? What happy ending could he ever find out
there, away from his friends, family, home? His life was here. If he went out
there, what was he? Nothing. If he stayed here, what was he?
A hole in the wall.
Lovino’s words, more than anything else, made him fall to his knees. Francis
did not hesitate. He came forward, hand still outstretched, and Arthur actually
thought his mate might help him to his feet. Then that hand grabbed the back of
his head, fingers tight enough to hurt in his hair, and Francis thrust into
Arthur’s mouth. They had done this before, but never standing up. Never with
such a grip on Arthur’s head. Never with such a look of cold vengeance in
Francis’s eyes. Never hard enough to make Arthur gag. He choked and jerked,
trying desperately to cough, to breathe, but Francis continued to slam his cock
into Arthur’s skull. His jaw ached; his eyes watered; fear, fear, fear. There
was no air, there was just pain and fear and his tongue going numb and his
mouth burning with the seed that finally dripped down his throat like salty
poison. Francis withdrew and released Arthur, letting the Omega collapse to the
floor, heaving and gasping and sobbing.
“Do not challenge me again,” Francis said softly. There was regret in his
voice, but Arthur did not hear it.
When the English Omega finally had the strength to drag himself up onto the
mattress, his mate was asleep. Arthur curled on his side, as far away from the
king as possible. Shaking, he cried silently, keeping as quiet as he could for
fear of waking the beast again. His pillow was soaked from his tears, but he
could not risk flipping it over. He could not move. He was paralyzed by the
terrifying, agonizing truth of it.
Lovino was right. Francis is just another Alpha.
Arthur didn’t know when he fell asleep, but when he woke, there was sunlight
peeking through the crack in the curtains, Alfred was wailing for breakfast,
and Francis was long gone, his side of the bed neatly made and cold, as if he
had never even been there.
***** Chapter 17 *****
                     “Anyone who claims the Omega is weak
                Need only step between a mother and her child.”
                                —Emil Bondevik
 
Antonio pressed low to the ground, blades of grass tickling the soft fur of his
belly. His left ear swiveled, seeking the barely audible grinding of claws
against earth. He turned his head just enough to see Gilbert stepping up to
him, a few feet away; the captain’s silver coat was glowing like white fire
where the moonlight found it. Normally, he would have rolled in dirt or ash to
cover up some of his garish pelt, but tonight he didn’t matter too much.
Tonight was not his hunt.
Antonio turned his head the other direction, perking his ears. Through the
undergrowth, he could just make out patches of tawny fur. Perhaps Francis
sensed Antonio’s gaze—the idea made his heart beat quicker—because he looked
over, catching his eye in a gap between brambles. Antonio inclined his head
slightly, and waited until Francis looked away to keep moving forward. His tail
wanted to wag, but he allowed it only a subtle twitch. He couldn’t afford to be
noticed, especially not right now. His plaguing thoughts and feelings were bad
enough without ruining a hunt with them. And not just any hunt; the prince’s
first.
A flash of silver; Gilbert had flicked his tail. All three wolves halted,
intensely aware of each other, of their power as a unit. They were made to hunt
together, adapted over centuries of existence, but their bond lent an
instinctive, carnal connection. They had planned this hunt out beforehand, for
the sake of Alfred, but they did not really need to. They knew what each other
would do without having to be told. In this, the pure undertaking of trading a
life for sustenance, they were one mind with three bodies. All else fell away.
Tonight, though, Francis was nervous. Antonio knew why; what parent wouldn’t
be? Alfred was only six months old. As a baby, he was still defenseless, but as
a wolf, he had far more freedom. Most pups preferred to spend their time as
wolves, once they had been weaned. It was far easier to play and move. They had
to return to human form to learn to walk and talk, of course; it was all a
natural part of growing up an Alpha. Nestlings, on the other hand, were rarely
seen in bird form. They had no reason to, in civilized society. They had
nothing from which to flee, and besides, they had chores that required human
hands to complete. Francis had taught Matthew to fly, but it was more of a
bonding activity than anything else—that, and an emergency measure. Just in
case, god forbid, someone attacked the poor boy.
Whuff of breath, hoof clicking against stone. Antonio couldn’t see them, but he
knew a doe was grazing a small distance ahead of him, and he knew Alfred was
waiting in his position on the other side. They had tracked the deer to a tiny
clearing, and the adult Alphas had circled around, leaving Alfred with a signal
to wait. He was an exceedingly clever little pup; he almost reminded Antonio of
Gilbert. Both preferred their wolf forms and both liked to chew on things.
Gilbert spent many sleepless nights working his way through a bone, and Alfred
had taken to chewing on whatever he could get his mouth around. His gums were
itchy; milk teeth always caused trouble. Every time Antonio came to the castle
these days, Arthur was swatting at Alfred for chewing or clawing or leaving a
mess on the floor. It wasn’t as if the Omega had to clean it up himself.
Francis could do so much better . . .
Antonio shoved the thoughts away. Francis wasn’t the only distracted one. The
Spaniard glanced over at Gilbert a final time. The German Alpha flicked an ear
at Antonio, then dove forward with a snarl. Francis hurled himself from the
bushes in a streak of gold. Antonio burst into the clearing, night air cold but
exhilarating against the fur of his face.
The doe, faced with three growling and snapping wolves, wheeled around and made
for the other side of the clearing. The scent of her fear in the air was
exciting, her springing sprint a call to action. The wolves had little choice.
They gave chase, Gilbert and Francis steering her precisely where they needed
her to go.
Just before she reached the trees, a wolf pup leapt out, barking and yapping,
hackles up so high he looked like a ball of fluff. Had the doe been capable of
logical thought, she would have deduced that this little wolf had no chance of
hurting her, and a simple jump over his head would have her on her way to a
possible freedom if she could overcome the trio’s stamina. Alas, the deer was a
deer, and the flurry of prepubescent aggression had her spinning around yet
again and climbing onto her rear hooves, forelegs lashing out. A strike from
one of those sharp feet was no laughing matter, but the wolves were
experienced. The silver and gold ones worried at her sides in turns, so that
she could not focus on one or the other, and as she turned her head fatefully
to the left, Antonio lunged for her throat.
It was always harder than he thought it would be, the muscle and bone, the
windpipe within. But he had asked to be the killer tonight, and Francis had
blessed him with permission. Antonio sank his fangs as deep as they would go,
tasted the bristle of hair, the burning rush of delicious blood. The doe
battered him with the last of her strength, but he took not notice. His body
was here, killing, but his mind was in the past, reliving the last year of his
life. Watching Francis take another mate. Watching him believe he was in love
again. Hearing him claim This one is different. The wedding, the pledge of
love. I take you as my mate. The pregnancy, the baby, Francis’s worry and his
pride, so happy to have a family, to have an Omega, to have what Antonio simply
could not give him. And Lovino, oh, Lovino. The nightmare of joining him in bed
each night, of letting the Alpha take over for a short while. He knew—he knew,
all Alphas knew in some minuscule, subconscious way—that it was wrong. And yet
he could not, or would not, stop himself. He couldn’t drown his sorrows in
spirits—he had a job to do, during the day, and he would not let Francis down
in that way—so he drowned them in Lovino’s pain instead. It was the nighttime
that bothered him the most, when he couldn’t stop his dreams, when he knew he
would wake up to the wrong man in his bed. What am I? Endless wails within his
mind. What is wrong with me?
A nose nudged his shoulder; Antonio snapped at it without thinking. Francis
stepped back, ears lowering, and before Antonio could show apology, Gilbert was
on him, shoving him to his flank on the ground and snarling into his face.
Antonio whimpered loudly, a feeble attempt at placation, but it was only at
Francis’s signal that Gilbert relented. Antonio crawled to Francis, ears flat
and tail tucked, shame burning him like hot coals. Please forgive me. He was
such a disgrace, how had he ever allowed himself to become so . . . so torn
apart by his emotions? No Alpha should let his feelings control him. But no
Alpha should long for the things Antonio longed for, either.
Francis did forgive him, allowed him to lick the underside of his jaw and
nuzzled a brown ear to bring the group back to good humor. Alfred had completed
his first hunt! The pup buried his face in the disaster that had once been the
doe’s neck, then hopped up again, gold fur plastered with crimson. He pranced
around the carcass, baying joyfully, until Francis halted him. With all eyes on
him, the king tipped back his muzzle and let a high, tapered song of
celebration curl toward the moon. Gilbert joined in, his own howl deeper than
Francis’s but no less delighted. Alfred, the boy quivering with the force of
his wagging tail, threw his little snout back and added an ecstatic falsetto to
the mix.
And, last and feeling pretty least, Antonio let out a howl that sounded
completely fake to his ears. A wolf’s song should have come from the soul, but
if he had let his feelings pour out, the song that echoed through the kingdom
would have made every citizen of Western Eurasia clutch their chest in sympathy
for his cracked and twisted heart.
 
                                     . . .
 
Lovino rubbed a circle onto the glass of the window for the hundred-thousandth
time. As he’d predicted, the honeymoon period was well and truly over. He was
not allowed to laze around Antonio’s house and rely on the king’s servants to
do the housework. He did all of it, and he did it well, damn it. He learned how
to prepare Spanish meals, and he made them without so much as spitting in the
bowl. He gave Antonio no reason to be angry, no reason to hit him. This made
the sex less rough in the nights, but Lovino didn’t think anything could make
it stop. What Alpha wouldn’t like to empty his balls into an Omega every night?
Well, not technically into Lovino. After the drunken wedding night, Antonio
always pulled on a piece of sheepsgut, which was pretty disgusting to Lovino,
thought admittedly less disgusting than the thought of getting pregnant with
the bastard’s baby. He hadn’t let himself consider what he would do if that
happened. How could he raise that baby? More importantly, how could he love it?
The idea of his stomach stretching, breasts bulging with milk—it was absolutely
disgusting, not to mention humiliating. But that was a problem in itself.
Omegas shouldn’t think that being a mother is gross. What the hell is wrong
with me?
Lovino heaved an exhausted sigh and looked at his reflection in the window,
pale against the darkness of the night outside. He wished his brother was here.
He wished he didn’t have those dark smudges under his eyes. He wished he could
snuggle up with his grandfather again. He wished—
Arthur’s face appeared on the other side of the glass.
Lovino scrambled backward, heart hammering. Then he surged forward again. “What
the hell are you—”
Arthur’s eyes widened and he put a finger to his lips, urging Lovino to be
hushed. The Italian fell into begrudging silence. Arthur performed an elaborate
gesture that was totally lost on Lovino, so the brunette Omega flipped off the
blond. Arthur rolled his eyes and mouthed, Come round to the door.
Lovino was tempted to ignore it, after their fight months ago, the last time
they’d spoken to each other (he’d made excuses to get out of more visits, and
Antonio didn’t seem to care, oddly). But Lovino was all alone, damn it, and
Arthur was probably tolerable company. And if he was here, at night, it must
have been something important. Important enough to break the law; Omegas were
not allowed out in the streets after nightfall without an Alpha escort.
Lovino wrenched open the front door, hissing, “What do you want?”
Arthur stepped forward and hugged him.
Lovino stood there, shocked into motionlessness. It took him a second to get
his bearings. Arthur’s arms were warm around him, the softness of his body
against Lovino’s was comforting, so comforting. But it also stirred an
unfamiliar feeling inside him, one that felt at once like a giggle in his chest
and a tingle between his legs. Flames rose in his cheeks, and he—gently—pushed
the shorter Omega away. “You better start explaining, britanno.”
Arthur took a deep breath, eyes filled with countless emotions that cycled too
quickly for Lovino to name them. “You were right. I’m so sorry about—just,
everything. All of this is so horrible, and you knew it all along, but I . . .
I let Francis pull the wool over my eyes, and I just have to apologize to you
for saying you were wrong and thinking those things about you—”
“What things?” Lovino cut in, his satisfaction faltering.
Arthur blinked. “Er, well, just assorted insults, really. I was quite cross.”
Lovino crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, you admitted it: I told you so.”
But concern nagged through his smugness. “What did the frog do to change your
mind like this?”
Arthur’s lips twisted as though he’d tasted something sour. “Let’s just say,
your prediction came true.”
A protective anger, the sort he’d only ever felt for his brother until now,
made his hands curl into fists. “Did he hurt you?”
Arthur waved it away. “It’s irrelevant. I want us to put the past behind us and
move on to a future where things can be different.”
Lovino arched an eyebrow. “Nice speech. You couldn’t wait ’til morning to give
it?”
Arthur shook his head. “No. We—well, I need to do something to make things
change. I can’t stand by and let this continue to happen.” From his pocket, he
took out a rolled-up piece of paper that was ragged along one side. “And I
think I found the way to do it. Will you help me, Lovino?” His face was not
that of a beggar, wide-eyed and pleading. He simply bared himself to potential
rejection in a way that respected and understood whatever verdict he was given.
“Will you help me fight for Omega rights?”
Lovino’s first instinct was to fall back on his tried-and-true pessimism. What
could two Omegas do against the Alphas of Western Eurasia? But Arthur stood
with such bravery and conviction—and had hugged Lovino with such love—that he
could not think negatively. Lovino had wanted things to change for years, just
as he was sure other Omegas wanted. Who would fight for those dead-eyed
servants, worked all day and all night, slaving for Alphas who looked right
through them? Who would fight for the Omegas in brothels, intimidated into
staying and spreading their legs for whatever Alpha paid for them? Who would
fight for Lovino himself?
And there was the answer, the one he had always wanted to be true.
Lovino squared his shoulders and met Arthur’s gaze. “I will.”
A grin flashed across Arthur’s face. Quickly, excited, he said, “I’ve found us
a place, outside the city. I’ve been sneaking out for weeks, a little each
night. I know where the guards walk, we won’t meet them. Come on, we need to
get Feli—”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Lovino put a hand on Arthur’s arm to still him. “Why the
hell do we need a place outside the city?”
Arthur pulled free. “You’ll see! Come on!” He crouched down, shifted into his
bird form. Lovino couldn’t help but stare. The harrier was fiercely beautiful,
a predator of the sky, endlessly familiar. It was clear that Arthur was
awaiting judgement, but Lovino only knelt before him and let his own bird form
take over for the first time in ages. He stared at Arthur, secretly wishing
they could be in the sunlight to show off the burning auburn of his
feathers—the feathers of a red kite.
Kite and harrier stared at each other with intense, bright eyes. Though they
were similar in design, Lovino dwarfed Arthur; his wingspan was a foot longer,
over five feet when fully extended. Slowly, both raptors leaned forward until
their curved beaks nearly touched, thoughts echoing each other’s in awe: I
thought I was the only one.
Then they took to the skies, Arthur clutching the rolled-up paper in his
talons. Being outside at night was bizarre enough, but to soar over the houses
and see patrolling guards as toy soldiers below was a feeling Lovino would
never tire of. They can’t hold us down. We’re more free than they’ll ever
be!Still, he held himself back; Arthur’s wings were shorter, after all.
Suddenly the harrier shot by, dipping under Lovino and pulling up so close his
tail feathers brushed Lovino’s beak. He flapped to right himself from the
turbulence of the other bird cutting through his thermal. Arthur spared a
backward glance, cracking his beak in amusement. Lovino felt his heart swell.
Oh, you’re on. He flared his tail and veered at Arthur. The moonlight tinted
their feathers blue; they swooped around each other like playful phantoms
before they at least alighted on the roof of the Beilschmidt house.
Before Lovino could think of a gesture to convey I’ll go in and get him, Arthur
was hopping off the roof, wings spread and angled so that he sailed down in an
elegant spiral. Lovino felt the natural attraction one would feel to a skilled
dancer, the mix of enjoyment and envy at witnessing someone with grace. He’s so
clumsy on two legs, who knew he could do that? He must have been practising.
Mere moments later, three birds flew from the capital. A harrier, leading the
way; a kite, lagging slightly to follow; and a plover, tiny wings flapping in
quick bursts in an effort to keep up.
None of them had nocturnal eyes, but the full moon gave them enough light to
see by. Arthur led them past the fields, farther north than Lovino had ever
gone. He’d heard that the streams to the west became a river as they flowed
from the north, but he’d never seen it with his own eyes. Willow trees were in
abundance here, and Arthur led them straight for the largest one, so top-heavy
it had begun to slide into the river and now stood at such an angle that the
sweeping branches hung into the water, forming a small pocket of space on the
bank, hidden from sight by the squiggly leaves. It was pretty perfect, as far
as spaces went. They couldn’t be seen, and they could wash in the river in case
their scents mingled. Arthur had obviously put a lot of thought into this.
We’re smarter than Alphas think we are. We have an advantage there.
Once they had landed and turned to their human forms, Feliciano burst with
words. “We can’t be outside at night, this is very bad, if anyone finds out
they’ll be mad, and oh I didn’t know you were a big bird like Lovi, Arthur, but
what are we doing out here?”
Arthur smiled, his excitement palpable, though his tone was serious. “We’re
here to discuss the biggest problem in Western Eurasia.”
Feliciano tapped his chin with one finger and wrapped his single curl around
another. “Hmmmmm. The price of pasta? Ludwig says that’s a big problem.”
Lovino rolled his eyes. “No. And don’t talk about the potato bastard here.”
His little brother looked from Lovino to Arthur in concern. “Why?”
“We are here,” Arthur said, unfolding his paper, “to talk about the terrible
treatment of Omegas from Alphas. We do not have equal rights, and I think we
should.”
“I agree,” Lovino added. Huh. I don’t think I’ve ever said that before. Feels
kinda weird.
Feliciano wringed his hands. “But, but—the Book of Naturalism says—”
“Forget about that,” Arthur said firmly. “Hang the book.”
Feli gasped audibly, fingers over his mouth.
Arthur held up the paper. “Listen to this, and tell me you think the Book of
Naturalism sounds better.” He cleared his throat and began to read aloud. “In
almost all ancient religions, the Omega was revered. The Great Creator, the
Mother of Earth, Anima—all are symbols linked with the Omega, the womb,
maternity. These beliefs hold strong in Eastern Eurasia, but have been shunned
in the West. The East and West are opposing extremes, whereas in Scandinavia
things are truly equal—or, rather, as equal as this unbalanced world can be.”
Lovino’s mind raced—he’d only ever heard that Scandinavians were perverted or
crazy, never that they embraced equality—and he asked, “Who wrote that?”
“Emil Bondevik wrote that,” Arthur replied with relish. “He is the brother of
Jarl Lukas Bondevik.”
“Maybe we could write him a letter to tell him how much we like his book,”
Feliciano suggested.
Lovino scoffed. “Of course we can’t do that. The Alphas control the post.”
“Oh, right.” Feliciano gave a light frown. “That’s too bad. I liked the Anima
part, that sounds pretty. It would be nice for more people to say Omegas are
nice, you’re right, Arthur. Maybe we could visit the Jarls in person one day.
Jarl, that’s a funny word!”
“The Alphas are in charge of the boats, too,” Lovino said, exasperated, then
glanced at Arthur. “Why are you grinning like that?”
Arthur chuckled, but there was a touch of a giggle in it. “We’re not going on a
boat, but we are going to pay a visit to the Court of Jarls.” He warmed the
Italian brothers with his emerald gaze. “We’re going to fly.”
Lovino couldn’t stifle his terror at the prospect, nor his cry of protest. “But
it’s across the ocean!”
“And it’s cold!” Feliciano added, hugging himself as if he could already feel
the freezing winds.
Arthur’s smile faded. He regarded them both solemnly. “You don’t have to come.
I understand if you’re too afraid. But we’re birds—we were made to fly. And
we’re not doing it for us, we’re doing it for every Omega in the West. For
Matthew. For your future nestlings, Feli. For all the future generations. We’re
doing it so they won’t have to.” He took a deep breath. “So . . . what do you
say?”
Lovino didn’t hesitate. “I’ll go.”
“Thank you, Lovi.” Arthur inclined his head gratefully. “And you, Feli?”
The younger Italian bit his lip, torn, then cried, “Oh, I can’t let my brother
go without me! I’ll go!” With that, he threw his arms around Lovino, who
squirmed and snapped, “We’re not going now!”
“No, but soon,” Arthur said. “We’ll just have to determine a good time, when
the Alphas aren’t home.”
Somewhere in the forest, a howl went up, and several others—Lovino’s Omega ears
couldn’t separate the voices—joined it. Speak of the devils. Reminded of his
mate, his life, Arthur’s shoulders slumped a little. “They’ve finished their
hunt,” he said. “We should get back.”
“Oh, but—” Feliciano put his hand in the air.
Arthur arched a thick eyebrow. “There are only three of us. You don’t have to
raise your hand.”
“Oh,” Feli said again. “Oops. Well, I just wanted to say, before we go—we
should have a name.”
“We?” Lovino echoed. “What we?”
“Our group,” his little brother replied eagerly. “So everyone knows who we are!
Like, hmmm, like The Three Omegas Who Don’t Like Naturalism. What about that
for a name?”
Arthur gave a slow nod. “That’s . . . a bit long, but the sentiment is in the
right place.”
“How about Anti-Alphas?” Lovino suggested, with more acid than he’d intended,
but it wasn’t aimed at Arthur or Feli, so he didn’t bother feeling bad about
it.
Feliciano pouted. “Oh, but that sounds so mean.”
Lovino opened his mouth to give him an earful, but Arthur lifted a calming
hand. “No, Feli is right. We can’t sound hateful. Naturalism is hateful and
cruel, and we need to be better than them if we’re going to win. We have to be
positive. Put a positive spin on it.”
“The positive version of Anti-Alpha is Pro-Omega,” Feliciano pointed out.
“Promega,” Arthur and Lovino said in unison, and their shared smile was one
Lovino would never, ever forget.
Then the trio flew back to the capital, where they went their separate ways.
And, the best part of the night, Antonio was so tired from the hunt he fell
asleep before he even took off his trousers.
Lovino smiled into the darkness as he drifted off, a hen harrier swooping
through his dreams.
***** Chapter 18 *****
            “I have never been more deeply sickened than this day.
       Life in the West was once beautiful, and now it has been tainted.
        Their savagery knows no bounds, and they excuse it as Natural.
             Never again shall I return to what was once my home.
                     Please accept our request for asylum.
               Elizabeta and I have come through unsavory means,
                      but I implore you to see past this.
                            We bow to your mercy.”
     —transcript of Roderich Edelstein appearing before the Court of Jarls
 
Something was wrong with Feli. Ludwig knew, without a doubt, that something was
bothering his mate. The Omega was distracted from his chores, often dropping
things without noticing or forgetting what Ludwig had just asked him to do.
Even worse, when Ludwig nuzzled his forehead, his mate almost looked guilty.
Guilty? Was that how he looked? Perhaps Ludwig was just being paranoid,
overprotective. But he couldn’t stand the thought of something bothering his
little Italian, and one night after dinner he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Feliciano,” Ludwig said, even though he knew the combined full name and deep
voice would make the Omega think he was in trouble.
Sure enough, Feli glanced over from drying the dishes, eyes bright with panic.
“Yes, sir?”
Ludwig stepped over to him, placing a large but gentle hand on the small of his
back. He’d ducked his head to search that beautiful amber gaze. To another
Alpha, it would seem like a challenge; to any other Omega, a display of
dominance. But from the German to the Italian, it was a gesture born of love.
“Feli,” Ludwig murmured, “is there anything wrong?”
Feliciano opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, like a fish
out of water. Ludwig had never thought his soft—perhaps a bit too soft—mate
could be capable of such an expression of ambivalence. He obviously had
something to tell Ludwig, and wanted to tell him—and yet, he wasn’t telling
him.
Ludwig could have punished him for that, a show of disrespect. But he had never
punished his mate—not seriously, anyway, nothing harsher than a scolding
word—and he had no wish to start. Besides, he thought, I’m sure whatever it is
will come bursting out soon. He’s never been able to keep a secret. So he just
gave his mate a kiss to the cheek and returned to sharpening his blades.
Another day passed, and Feliciano said nothing. Another day, nothing. A week.
Nothing! Ludwig had thought he couldn’t stand it before, but now it was
troubling him nonstop. All day he thought of the possibilities. They ranged
from happy—maybe Feli was pregnant but waiting for a good time to announce
it—to heartbreaking—what if some Alpha had attacked him? The thought filled him
with enough fury to make him shake. But no, that couldn’t have happened; Ludwig
would have smelled the Alpha’s scent on his mate. And Feli would have told him
about something that serious. Wouldn’t he?
“What’s wrong with you?” Gilbert asked him one evening, before Ludwig went out
on patrol duty. “You worried about something?”
Ludwig looked at his brother sharply. He was glad to be taller, though he would
never admit it; Gilbert had enough ego that Ludwig had to be physically larger,
just to even the playing field. “Why do you ask that?”
“Because you’ve had that same look on your face every day this week,” Gilbert
replied.
“What face is that?”
“The face where you’re trying not to look worried. You want a demonstration?
It’s kind of like this.” Gilbert contorted his features into a goofy
monstrosity, complete with crossed crimson eyes.
Ludwig knocked his shoulder into his brother’s, smiling lightly as Gilbert’s
wild laughter brought him back to childhood, before they trained hard muscles
onto their bodies, before Gilbert ever showed that savage look he was so prone
to these days. Ludwig wished he had paid more attention to when that look first
showed up, so he could try to determine the cause. He wished he had paid as
much attention to his brother, over the years, as he had to his mate.
“Anyway,” Gilbert said, clapping Ludwig’s shoulder when it became clear no
possible worries were forthcoming, “enjoy your patrol.”
“I will,” Ludwig replied, only partly untruthful. “And you take a break.”
“Insubordination!” Gilbert called, already headed back toward the barracks,
where he’d spend the rest of his night. Ludwig had asked him so many times, Do
you ever get lonely? And Gilbert always said the same thing. An Alpha doesn’t
need constant company. I don’t need anyone holding my hand.
But wolves were the ones who lived in packs. Ludwig never pointed this out, of
course. He didn’t like arguing, least of all with his brother.
Half of the patrol went by without incident, Ludwig walking along the outer
streets of the city, where buildings were abandoned more often than not.
Renovations tended to be exclusive to the inner city, where people could afford
them. Out here, citizens often struggled, and Ludwig had heard from Antonio
that more and more folks were begging for mercy from the taxes. He didn’t know
if the king would lower them or not. Francis was not obsessed with profit, but
he was quite fond of things profit obtained, namely his endless collection of
purple clothes.
And right then, as he was reaching the end of an uneventful thought about the
king’s wardrobe, he saw a flicker of grey in the corner of his eye. It was up
in the air, high-up, tiny from his perspective and very hard to make out
against the evening sky, which was blotted with dark rainclouds. But Ludwig was
a hunter and a guard, and when his eye caught movement, he followed it. He knew
with certainty that he was watching a plover—his plover—fly out of the city and
off toward the fields.
Ludwig had left him at home, knitting some socks. And now here he was, outside
the house after sunset, flapping off into the distance? Was Ludwig dreaming?
Abruptly, the clouds above opened up and let forth a rain that immediately
drenched him. Ludwig pushed the hair back off his forehead. He definitely
wasn’t dreaming, and he definitely wasn’t letting Feliciano get away. So he
took the rifle from his shoulder, leant it up against crumbling brickwork, and
chased after his mate, falling from two feet to the much faster four paws as he
did.
Ludwig could have overtaken the plover if he tried, but he didn’t. He needed to
remain undetected. Who would ever have thought I would have to spy on my mate?
The thought was at first humorous, then sobering. You did not spy on your loved
ones, after all. You spied on your enemies.
Feliciano led him to the river, of all places. Ludwig slowed, lowering himself
to the ground and creeping forward until he was fairly hidden in the aquatic
flora that lined the ribbon of water. He watched as Feliciano vanished from
sight, hidden by the boughs of a slanted willow. Then, astonishing, Arthur
Bonnefoy stepped out from beneath the willow and stood on the opposite bank,
hands on his hips as he watched his fellow law-breaking Omegas fly along the
track of the river.
“Fly lower,” he called to them, a hand lifted to his brow to shield his face
from the rain. “We have to get used to the water on our feathers. The sea will
spray at us, remember. Stay closer to Lovino, Feli; he’ll block the wind from
you. We don’t know what the air will be like on the way. The wind could be
against us, so do as much flapping as you can. Stretch your wings as far as
they’ll go on the downstroke. We need to build as much strength as we can
before we leave.”
Ludwig had not moved, but he was reeling. The sea? Before we leave? Bad enough
to break the law by being outside after dark. Bad enough for Arthur to speak in
such an authoritative, Alpha-like way. Bad enough that they had not even snuck
out on a hunt night this time, but instead a night Francis and Antonio had done
too much drinking and were currently snoring it off in their respective beds.
But this? Talk of leaving? Crossing a sea? It was unheard of! Not for Alphas,
sure, but Omegas? Their place was the den, the nest, the home. Why would they
ever want or need to leave?
Ludwig watched in motionless silence as the birds practised flight maneuvers.
Arthur joined them; he and Lovino were going through the motions of switching
lead-bird. Ludwig had never considered before how much easier it was to fly
behind someone than to cut through the air yourself. Feliciano didn’t have to
worry about this, however. He stayed in the rear throughout the training, and
by the end of it Ludwig could see his tiny wings were flapping with less
enthusiasm than before. And yet, when Arthur gave an alarmed screech, all three
birds winged beneath the willow tree, and Feliciano was just as swift as the
bigger birds. Ludwig feared they had discovered him, but a moment later they
stepped out again, and Arthur’s congratulations on another good night of
training made Ludwig realize it had just been a drill.
They’re so smart, he thought, with more fear than he liked to feel. If I hadn’t
been patrolling, I never would have caught them.
“Do we know when we’re going yet?” Lovino asked, across the river.
“No,” Arthur replied. “We can’t wait much longer. There’s no way we would make
it in the winter.”
Feliciano meekly raised a hand.
“Stop that,” Lovino snapped. “We’re not Alphas. We’re all equal, that’s the
idea.”
Equal. What terrifying implications and consequences were carried by a word
like that.
“I’m sorry, I forgot again. But . . .” Feli bit his lip. “It’s just that Ludwig
was asking me about this, and—”
“What?!” Lovino shrieked.
“You didn’t tell him,” Arthur said, face white as a ghost.
Feliciano threw up his hands. “No, no! Of course not. He’s . . . he’s an Alpha.
Yuck.” The other two relaxed visibly, and he went on, “I just mean, he asked if
something was wrong with me, and I didn’t know what to say.”
“Piss off ugly potato bastardwould work,” Lovino replied. Ludwig could see why
Gilbert hated that Omega so much.
“Lovino,” Arthur said, mildly scolding. He regarded Feliciano and advised,
“Tell him it’s just an Omega problem. He won’t know what you mean, but he’ll be
too afraid to ask.”
Ludwig resented that, although it was true that Omega problems were left out of
his knowledge by his own choice. He’d seen what lay between Feliciano’s legs a
few times—beautiful petals, glistening with slick—but the workings of it were a
mystery.
Realizing the Omegas were closing their meeting, Ludwig spun around and
sprinted back to his post. His fur was plastered to his body when he returned
to the city, and his heart was an uncertain creature inside him, but he had a
job to do. Whatever this nightmare was, it would have to wait until he got
home.
 
                                     . . .
 
Feliciano was in bed when Ludwig got home. They had agreed after a few months
of being mated that it was best if Feliciano didn’t wait up for Ludwig.
Sometimes he took double shifts for patrols, and he would come home in the dark
hours of morning; since Feli was typically a heavy sleeper, Ludwig could come
and go without disturbing his mate too much. It didn’t matter tonight, however,
because Feliciano couldn’t sleep. Worries, unnameable by the simple fact that
he lacked introspection, stung his thoughts like nettles. The more he tried to
ease the discomfort, the worse it got. He wished he could do something to make
himself feel better, but the only thing that could do it now was to tell
Ludwig, and he had been strictly forbidden from doing so. Oh, Ludwig, he
thought in despair. I wish things were different!
He jumped under the covers when his mate came into the dark bedroom. Ludwig had
a candlestick in his hand, blessing his handsome face with a soft orange glow.
Feliciano drew comfort from the sight of him, the power in the square of his
jaw and the strong line of his nose. He would keep Feliciano safe, no matter
what.
Wouldn’t he?
It was a doubt that never would have entered his mind before meeting Arthur,
before all this Promega business. The fracture in trust for his mate nearly
broke his heart. He blinked back tears in the shadow.
“You’re awake,” Ludwig said, but he still spoke in a low tone as if afraid to
rouse someone.
Feliciano sat up in bed, hugged himself, and nodded.
Ludwig set the candlestick down on the beside table and sat on the edge of the
mattress, close to Feli but not touching. His blue eyes looked liquid, watery
and sorrowful, in the flickering glow. In that same low voice, he said, “I know
what you’ve been doing.”
Feliciano’s breathing stopped.
“I followed you tonight,” he went on. “You and Lovino and Arthur are going to
leave soon, is that it? Where are you going across the sea? Scandinavia?”
Numbly, dumbly, Feliciano nodded.
Ludwig stared at him, looking weary and solemn but otherwise unreadable.
Finally, he said, “I just have one question, Feli.” His voice was different
now, unlike Feliciano had never heard it before. It was no longer firm and
deep. It sounded thin, almost . . . vulnerable. “I need to know. Do you love
me?”
Feliciano’s heart ached beneath his breastbone. Of course he loved Ludwig! With
all of himself, his heart and mind and soul. But his friends didn’t want him to
love Ludwig, not right now. Not while they didn’t yet have equality. He was an
Alpha, a slavemaster, in the Promegas’ eyes. He didn’t deserve to be loved. He
and his Naturalism were the enemy. But Feliciano, looking into those beautiful
blue eyes, simply did not care about all that. He loved his mate. He wanted his
friends to be happy and his future children to be safe, but he was an Omega,
and right now his Alpha had to come before those things.
So he scooted closer to the big blond German and let it pour out: “Oh, Ludwig,
I love you, I love you more than anything or anybody else, and I know it seems
bad with the Arthur and Lovi thing but I don’t think you’re gross, just mean
Alphas, but you’re not mean, I love you!”
He would have went on, but Ludwig grasped his chin in one of his huge hands,
tilting his face so they could do nothing but stare into each other’s eyes,
noses almost brushing.
“You love me,” Ludwig echoed, firm now not with strength but desperation.
“I love you,” Feliciano whispered, tears dripping down onto Ludwig’s fingers.
Without another word, the Alpha pressed his lips to his Omega’s. They kissed,
wet with tears and rain. They kissed love into each other, their worry
translated into desire, the seeking of carnal comfort, the sharing of warmth.
Feliciano’s nails scratched the broad muscles of Ludwig’s back, and Ludwig’s
teeth squeezed the delicate flesh of Feliciano’s neck. They had been unfair to
each other, and now, as rain abused the walls of the house, all was made right.
It was not Natural nor was it what a Promega would have called equal. But
Ludwig and Feliciano did not care. For them, for their version of love between
Alpha and Omega, it was right.
The next morning, Feliciano awoke to a wet dawn and a note on the mussed
sheets. Ludwig’s penmanship was blocky and slanted, but Feliciano could read
it.
If you must go, go today. I wish you could stay, but I understand if you want
to fight the battle. Your brother would not believe me, but I do understand.
Please be careful. There is a fighting competition with the guards this
afternoon. Francis and Antonio will be attending. If I don’t see you before you
leave—go well, Feliciano Vargas.
I love you.
 
                                     . . .
 
Arthur made his farewells brief. He did not want to hesitate; this was what he
had to do, and if he questioned himself, he feared he would lose his nerve and
never do it. He pressed a kiss to Matthew’s soft hair, squeezing the sweet boy
in a hug. Matthew didn’t understand the reason behind this sudden show of
affection, but he was never one to turn down a hug. He smiled with those little
pink lips and hugged Arthur back with his tiny, chubby arms.
“I love you, Matthew,” Arthur told him. He could never be as close to the boy
as Francis or Gilbert, but he still loved the wee sweetheart.
“Love you, Mama,” the nestling replied squeakily, his L still sounding more
like a W. Arthur’s heart swelled, and he gave Matthew another tight hug. But
this couldn’t sway his decision to go. I’m leaving for you, Matthew. I’ll bring
back a brighter future, I promise.
Unlike Matthew, who had been easily found playing dolls in his room, Alfred was
nowhere to be seen. Arthur roamed the halls, calling for him with rising
impatience. Francis was gone, off to watch guards beat each other up, and
Arthur was ready to be gone as well. Every moment spent lingering felt like
another lifetime of abusive Alphas getting away with it. No more.
At last, the golden wolf pup came scampering toward Arthur, who stooped to grab
him before he could jump up, a new and alarming habit. Alfred squirmed, nosing
toward Arthur’s pockets, eager for treats. Arthur held him at arm’s length,
trying to get a better look at his face. What had happened to the baby he once
felt such love for? How had he become so jaded with this, his child, his flesh
and blood?
Perhaps it’s because he’s an Alpha, Arthur realized, and I’ve gotten used to
thinking Alphas are daft and horrible.
That wasn’t true. The Alphas of Scandinavia weren’t like that, and his baby
wasn’t either. He could be raised to be a gentleman, an Alpha who valued Omegas
just as much as he valued Alphas. He was just a baby now. It wasn’t his fault
he was obnoxious and hyperactive, he just didn’t know any better.
Arthur cradled Alfred in his arms. Recognizing the familiar position, the pup
he let his human form take over. It was slower, for young ones, a bit shuddery,
not the smooth ripple of the adult transformation. Huge blue eyes gazed up at
Arthur from that round, chipmunk-cheeked face.
“I love you, Alfred,” Arthur murmured, and lifted him to kiss his forehead, his
cheeks, and finally his tiny nose. “I’ll be back soon.”
Alfred smiled up at him. He could understand what I’ll be back meant, but he
could not comprehend the length of time this would take. His mother would be
gone, and then he would be back, just like always. Alfred stuck out his pink
tongue between the gap in his teeth.
And, even though Arthur was in a very serious and politically revolutionary
mood, he returned the smile and stuck his tongue out as well, and the baby’s
giggle drove itself straight into his heart, where it would harden and serve as
armor for when he felt at his weakest.
 
                                     . . .
 
Arthur felt at his weakest.
The flight had begun on a high note. They had hurried through the streets,
giddy with their secret enterprise. Flying away from all they knew was at once
sad and liberating, heady emotions they expressed by singing. Well, it was not
strictly singing. Arthur and Lovino were screeching. Feliciano was chirping; at
least he had some pleasant vocabulary. It was not intended to be musical,
however. It was akin to a wolf howling, at once an outpouring of emotion and
the sending of a message. It said, We are leaving, we are freeing ourselves, we
are us.
They were tired by the time the reached the coast, so Arthur and Lovino caught
a pair of mice while Feliciano pecked about for insects. Then the three of them
perched on a large rock, gazing out at the glimmering sea. It was beautiful,
the deepest blue beneath a cheery, puffy-clouded sky. It was an excellent day
to do it. If they sat and considered the enormity of the task, they would be
paralyzed by terror. Arthur knew this, so without further ado, he spread his
wings and lifted into the air. Lovino flew behind him, and Feliciano in turn
behind him. A tiny trio of triad travelers. Pilgrims. Rebels.
Heroes. For some reason, the word made Arthur think of Alfred. Perhaps one day
his young prince would become a hero. Privately, Arthur hoped he wouldn’t. He
hoped his son would never need to become a hero. He wanted happiness and safety
to come from this. Perhaps he was being too optimistic, but surely they had
some hope, if their journey was lit with such a happy sun?
Arthur was no longer judging their odds of success based on the weather. They
were battered by hideous winds now, and it was raining, or perhaps the sea was
bleeding at them, but either way the water was freezing cold and cut straight
through their feathers. The sky overhead was the exact same infected grey as
the choppy waves below. The wind, as Arthur feared, was not working with them.
If anything, it felt like it was coming from all sides; the ocean seemed to be
trying to suck them down. Arthur wished he could land, get the water out of his
eyes, but that was impossible. They had crossed the point of no return long
ago. If their strength ran out before the journey did, they would drown in this
ugly, damned sea.
Arthur parted his beak and gave a piercing shriek, to be heard over the roaring
wind and hissing water. Behind him, Lovino reported back as he had every time
Arthur checked on him with a loud, metallic screech. Arthur listened for
Feliciano’s response.
Nothing.
Arthur looked over his shoulder, and his heart stopped. Lovino was no longer
there. Arthur flapped wildly, trying to turn around without falling or
somersaulting. Where were they? What had happened? Arthur dove a few feet, then
flared his wings; cold air tore at them, and he screamed again, from both fear
and the agony of his exhausted muscles. He saw nothing but grey, grey, grey.
What if they were dead? What if they were alright, and thinking he was dead?
How would they know? What had he done to them?
Arthur heard a cow moo.
I’m going mad. I’ve lost my mind. Have I already drowned?There was absolutely
no way he had heard a cow make any sound at all out here. There were no cows.
There were no trees. No grass. No Italian brothers. No one except Arthur.
Until a white-and-black blur flew past him, then circled around and flew at him
with shocking agility for a bird so stocky. Its bright, oddly large orange beak
parted, and a sound not unlike the moo of a cow escaped. Then the beak snapped
twice, and the strange bird gave a little wriggle, and then it was flying off,
its wings blurring at its sides. Arthur could do nothing but follow. This bird
was black against grey. His final hope.
The miracle of shoreline came just as Arthur’s wings gave out. They could flap
no more; he collapsed onto a layer of pebbles repeatedly wetted by a salty
spray. He couldn’t care less about being wet at this point. This was land. This
was Scandinavia! He had made it!
But how could he celebrate when his friends were . . . Darkness loomed. How
could he . . . How . . .
Somewhere, he heard a low, oddly-accented voice say, “Take the little one,
Emil. I have the others.”
Then he was lifted up, up, up and he thought he saw the flash of a kite’s
auburn feather dropping to the pebbles. Then he sank down into darkness, and
all was nothing, a welcomed rest.
***** Chapter 19 *****
Chapter Notes
     I'M SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY!!! I have excuses but who cares, here it
     is! Hope you enjoy! :D
                               “LOST—Two Omegas.
                 1, sixteen years, M, Brown hair, Brown eyes.
                2, twenty-one years, M, Blond hair, Green eyes.
           If found, to be returned IMMEDIATELY to the Royal Guard.
                          Reward only for the Blond.”
                      —notice circulating Western Eurasia
 
“HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?!”
Francis looked up from where he sat in the grand hall, head heavy in his hands.
They’d had his chair brought in from a sitting room for this hour of despair. A
shame, he thought now, that he didn’t have a throne after all. How kingly and
delicately pained he would look, suffering through this tragedy that none of
his subjects yet knew about—apart from the audience of Gilbert, Antonio, and
Ludwig.
Gilbert was pacing like a caged beast, jaw working furiously. “How—how? They’re
Omegas, for god’s sake!”
Antonio rubbed one of his arms, looking downward. “Lovino always was strong-
willed. I thought I had tamed him, but . . .” He glanced up with a helpless
shrug.
Gilbert pointed at him, teeth flashing, a bit sharper than they ought to be in
human form. “Because you were too soft. That’s how this happened. What can we
expect to happen to Omegas if we don’t treat them like they’re supposed to be
treated?”
Genuine anger flared in the Spaniard’s hazel gaze. “Three Omegas flew away
because I’m soft? I’m flattered that you think I have that much power.”
Gilbert stepped closer, so they were only inches apart, glaring into each
other’s eyes. The German’s voice dipped low, much more dangerous than a shout.
“Maybe it doesn’t take power. Maybe all it takes is giving three impressionable
Omegas the idea to go North.”
Antonio’s eyes widened, and something snapped inside them. “Are you calling me
some kind of traitor?” He let a growl edge the words, just loud enough to be
unmistakable as aggression.
The growl and the meeting of eyes were an evil mix. In fact, they were all it
took for Gilbert to lose it; he tore into his wolf form like a cloth ripped in
half and sent Antonio slamming to the floor. The brown wolf was up in the next
second, snarling, and the two rolled in a snapping whirlwind until Francis
could take it no longer and stood up. “Arrête!”
Antonio immediately ceased, but Gilbert only used it as his advantage and
pinned his unsuspecting opponent. Silver paws crushed down on Antonio’s flank
as Gilbert clamped the smaller male’s muzzle firmly between his jaws. The
captain had his tail high in the air, his ears pricked forward, and his growl
was loud enough that everyone knew without a doubt: he was dominant.
Francis stomped his foot, his shoe surprisingly loud on the polished floor. “I
said STOP!”
This was more of a scream than a shout. Gilbert backed away from Antonio, and
both stood up as men, Gilbert’s head lowered a little and Antonio dabbing at
the teeth marks across the lower half of his face.
Francis stepped to his advisor first, concern outweighing his anger. “Are you
alright, mon ami?”
The Spaniard winced through a painful smile. The bite stung, but it was not
deep enough to scar. “I’ll live.”
Francis nodded reassuringly—as reassuring as one could be, with all this going
on—before he turned to Gilbert. “How dare you attack him! A friend! Have you no
control?”
Crimson eyes narrowed a tiny amount. “There’s a reason we don’t tell Omegas
about the East or the North. Your great-grandfather understood that, and things
have run smoothly since he was High Alpha.” His gaze shifted to Antonio. “Until
now.”
Francis shook his head. “This”—he waved a hand to indicate the situation—“is no
reason to hurt each other. Just because a system works doesn’t mean it can’t be
improved. Changed for the better.” He took a deep breath. If my mate has this
much courage, surely I can summon some, too. “I think the Omegas may have the
right idea, if an unfortunate execution of it.” He remembered the night Arthur
had denied him sex, the night he had acted as an Alpha should, punishing him
for disrespect. It still made his heart ache with remorse, something he never
would have felt for his first mate, nor for the dull-eyed servants. They were a
completely different species than Arthur, or Lovino. Why was that? Perhaps the
servants were once bright and eager, like Feliciano? And a lack of love and
support had sent them into a depression? Oh, god. It was so plausible, it
sickened him. How had he never thought about it until now? How had he just
allowed it to happen? He was just as dim as the servants. He just accepted
things as they were. But Arthur didn’t. Francis knew now. He knew, and it was
terrifying, but it was the truth, his truth: “I think it’s time for change.”
Antonio perked up, and Ludwig’s brow lifted with curiosity. Their reactions
eased Francis’s anxiety, until he saw Gilbert’s face. The captain was staring
at him as if he’d just sprouted a second head. He’s just overreacting, Francis
imagined Antonio saying in an effort to comfort him. Don’t base your feelings
off one person’s differing opinion. But what about when the person was his
other best friend?
“Maybe it’s time we listened to our Omegas as much as they listen to us,”
Francis went on. “Would that be so bad? It’s the way the Scandinavians have
lived for centuries. They have no laws against Alphas and Alphas mating, or
Omegas and Omegas. They have no Deformity there. No Naturalism. Do we really
need these things? Wouldn’t everyone be happier without them?” Francis’s voice
rose now, making him cringe; he sounded hysterical. “What would be so wrong
with a bit of equality?”
Now Gilbert’s incredulous stare hardened. His lips curled in disgust. “It seems
Carriedo isn’t the only soft Alpha among us. You’re soft in the head, Bonnefoy.
It’s a good thing you have a son now. You’ve gone past your prime. Your place
needs to be taken.”
Francis felt the world fall away from him. He must have heard his friend wrong;
his ears were ringing. Thinly, he choked out, “What—what did you say?”
Gilbert squared his shoulders and quoted, “Any man who cannot inhabit his
rightful roles and states of being must be considered Deformed.” He shook his
head almost with pity. “I don’t want to do this, but I have to, Francis. It’s
my job to ensure this city is safe, and its leader is healthy. You’re not
healthy anymore. You’re out of your mind. We can’t have a king who talks
nonsense like that. We can’t have a Deformed High Alpha.”
Francis was not in a state to notice, but Ludwig and Antonio could both clearly
see that Gilbert had the look—that same wild look he had as a wolf. In fact, if
they looked close enough, they would see that his pupils could not dilate as a
human’s should have, that his eyes were now fixed as a wolf’s, emotionless and
predatory. Neither Ludwig nor Antonio said a word about this concerning turn of
events; both recognized it as unwise, and held their tongues.
“Get out of here,” Gilbert ordered with easy authority. The kingdom was an
apple, and if the core was rotting, he would not hesitate to carve it out.
“Leave the city if you want. I suspect things will be getting messy in the
coming days.” He flicked an indifferent hand at Antonio. “You might as well go
with him. You won’t be needed here.”
Francis could not see anything past his gathering tears and rising anxiety, but
Antonio looked to Ludwig, who gave a slight nod. This was a nod that said, Go.
I’ll take care of this. Trust me.
Antonio had no other choice. What could he do, fight Gilbert? Would Ludwig be
able to bring himself to hurt his brother in order to help Antonio? And what if
Gilbert overpowered them both? He hadn’t been given his position of captain
like Francis was born to be king; he had fought his way to the top and had the
scars to prove it. Ludwig was strong, yes, but strong enough? It isn’t about
strength, Antonio realized. Ludwig has honor. Gilbert doesn’t. Staring at the
silver-haired, crimson-eyed man now, Antonio could not remember how he had once
called him a friend.
Francis whimpered through a burning sob, face again in his hands. Antonio put
an arm around his weeping king and led him gently down the many steps of the
castle. Antonio didn’t need to be told that Francis couldn’t leave this city.
Where would he go? A village? This was the finest place in the kingdom, he
could not live anywhere else. This was his home, and if he could not sleep
under his own roof, the next best thing would always be his best friend’s roof.
And that was how they came to be lying on Antonio’s bed, Francis sobbing and
gasping as Antonio stroked his back, whispering, “Respirer, Francis. Respirer.”
It took several minutes, but the French Alpha calmed enough to croak, “H-how c-
could this happen?”
Antonio shook his head. There is something wrong with Gilbert, something warped
and wicked within him.But that was not what Francis wanted to hear, so Antonio
replied, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know.”
The fallen king curled into his friend, burying his face in the other man’s
chest. Antonio held his breath and slowly moved his arms around Francis’s
waist, holding him close. Within minutes, exhausted by the attack, Francis had
fallen asleep. Antonio breathed out a long sigh. If there’s any bright side,
it’s that I get to do this. At long last, after dreaming of it so many times,
Antonio pressed a kiss to the top of Francis Bonnefoy’s head, and wished only
that it could have been his lips instead.
 
                                     . . .
                                        
Lovino woke up tasting salt.
He groaned, rubbing his eyes with warm fingers. His throat burned. He felt like
he had been dragged along the bottom of the ocean—by his arms. When they
flexed, his biceps burned even worse than his throat. What a terrible way to
wake up. He didn’t want to do chores for the damn Spaniard today. He wanted to
go back to sleep for another few days. He opened his eyes—and stared. He was in
a large room with white-and-blue walls; looking closer, he saw that the white
was painted with swirling blue branches and leaves and flowers. He’d never seen
something so intricate just casually painted on the wall. This would be a
framed painting back home, if the snobs could get past how outlandish it was.
This is Scandinavia. So far, the north had made a good impression, albeit a
cold one during the flight across the sea. Lovino’s bed was comfy, his blankets
were a bit scratchy but very warm, and the walls were pretty. Lovino sat up and
stretched out his aching arms, and was surprised to see a bed on either side of
his. Both sleepers had the blankets pulled up to their ears, but Lovino
recognized the wheat-blond hair on one pillow and the brunette on the other.
Lovino’s heart was, for the first time in a long time, at ease. They had done
what they set out to do. They had achieved their goal. Lovino didn’t know if
he’d ever set a goal, let alone achieved one. Arthur had done this, Lovino
realized. He was behind this. The country Omega he once thought was just a
clueless skeleton had just led them across the north sea.
But the plan hadn’t been hitchless. Lovino remembered the horror of watching
Feliciano plummet toward the grey waves; the dive Lovino threw himself into
nearly drowned them both. He’d crashed on the shore, only saving his brother
from being squished by tossing him out of his talons. It had been such a relief
to touch down, even if it was violent, that Lovino blacked out moments later.
Still, he vaguely remembered being lifted up by strong arms, carried against a
broad chest. Their savior, presumably one of those fabled nice Alphas that
Scandinavia apparently had in abundance. Lovino twirled his solitary curl
around his finger, a habit he’d gotten rid of years ago because a pup had once
called it cute . He looked to the blond hair again, watched the blankets go
taut, then slacken again as the English Omega breathed. This is your journey,
Arthur. What do we do now?
Footsteps outside the door, then a knock. A man with ashen blond hair—Lovino
was reminded of Gilbert, quite unflattering for this stranger—peeked through
the gap. In an odd accent, he said, “Awake, are you?”
Lovino glanced at his friends, still sleeping soundly, then back to the
stranger. “I am.”
“The other two likely won’t be awake for a while yet. Especially the plover. He
was the worst for wear.” The stranger seemed to grow tired of peeking in and
opted for opening the door all the way and standing with crossed arms in the
doorway. His shoulders were pushed back and he spoke with an air of authority,
and his brown coat looked to be made of fine material—a detail offset by the
haphazard tails of his white shirt, which hung untucked from his trousers. He
had gloves on, as well, white gloves. Lovino had never seen someone dressed so
peculiarly, apart from maybe the king.
Lovino had a moment of epiphany. “Are you a jarl?”
Blue eyes narrowed slightly. There was some resentment there, but it was old
enough to be smoothed down by resignation. “Not officially, but I contribute
often when the Court convenes, and I give counsel to my brother.”
Brother. “You’re Emil Bondevik.”
He inclined his head a fraction. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. . . .”
Lovino couldn’t believe he had just been addressed as Mister, as if he was an
Alpha, as if he mattered. He actually smiled a little as he replied, “Vargas.
Lovino Vargas.”
Emil’s expression didn’t change very much—blank stare seemed to be his default,
though it was definitely more alert than the servants of the West—as he said,
“Well, Lovino Vargas, you’ve come a long way. What is the purpose of your
visit?”
He almost snorted at visit (as if they’d come to admire the scenery) but he
figured Arthur would want him on his best behavior. “We came to see the Court
of Jarls.” It was pretty anticlimactic, Lovino had to say. He’d imagined them
flying straight to some big castle, landing in front of a row of thrones, and
Arthur announcing, crisp and clear, their noble quest. Doing it to a Jarl’s
brother in bed somehow didn’t have the same effect.
If Emil was surprised, he didn’t show it. He just nodded and said, “You will
have to wait until this evening. Jarl Berwald and his mate had to go north for
a funeral. Berwald’s onkelpassed on, and he wished to be present for the
burning.”
Imagine crossing the sea to a land known as the north, and hearing of men going
north in the north. Lovino didn’t want to know how cold it got up there. But it
was the mention of fire that truly caught his attention. “Burning?”
“Our dead are burned in pyres, so that their souls may be freed.” Was Lovino
imagining things, or did Emil sound wistful?
“Wow,” he replied, genuinely impressed. “We just bury people when they die back
home. Unless they’re sick, then they get burned first so everybody else doesn’t
catch the plague.”
Emil raised a pale eyebrow very slightly. “The luxury of soft ground.”
“Oh.” That makes sense.“I didn’t think of that.”
The Scandinavian looked vaguely amused. “Any more questions?”
Lovino felt his cheeks warm. He hadn’t considered that the other might have
things to do, aside from entertain a guest. Surprisingly, his embarrassment
wasn’t accompanied by the usual rush of anger, as though his very blood cells
were tainted with fury. Instead, he just felt a little sheepish, but the light
feeling remained inside him, like the gentle morning sunlight was coming
through the window and into his heart, or head, or both.
“I have three more questions,” Lovino said stoutly. He had the right to speak
here, and damned if he wasn’t going to take advantage of it.
Emil crossed his arms over his chest, though not in a particularly negative
way. “Go on, then.”
The first question was one that would never need posing in Western Eurasia.
“Are you an Alpha or an Omega?”
Emil’s eyes actually widened a little, then resumed their hooded stare with a
shake of his head. “On occasion I forget how important such things are to
Eurasians. I would advise against asking the question so outright here. People
may take it differently than you intend them to. But, I suppose every question
deserves an answer. I am an Omega, physically.”
Physically? Lovino wanted to ask about that with every fiber of his being, but
he had two questions left, and this Scandinavian was too strange to talk to for
extended periods. At least he’s not annoying. Or a bastard.
“Where are we right now?” Lovino asked.
“An inn. Westerners once stayed here very often, but your people don’t come
like they used to.” A faint scoff. “Jarl Mathias has made it quite clear that
their beliefs are unwelcome here.”
Lovino liked the sound of this Mathias. The inn was a bit worrying, since they
hadn’t brought any money, but he decided not to mention that. He was more
concerned with his third and final question. “What’s for breakfast?”
At long last, Emil offered the ghost of a smile. “Come. I’ll show you.”
Lovino got out of bed—his biceps swore at him in Italian—and made the bed
without thinking. His movements were efficient, automatic. A bed was unmade,
and so he made it.
“You don’t have to do those things,” Emil said. Lovino glanced up; the other
Omega’s gaze had softened considerably. “No one is giving orders. There are
paid workers who will do chores like that.”
Paid workers. Lovino tried to imagine doing a job because he had chosen it, and
being paid to do it. Wages. Buying his own home to live in. Maybe he and Arthur
could find some place to live together. Oh, and Feli, too. He can have the
attic.A household with no Alphas. Even though he was indoors, every breath
Lovino took felt like fresh air.
Lovino gave his companions a glance of farewell (both were still asleep) before
following Emil out of the room, down a staircase. Delicious smells of cooking
meat and bread—wholesome scents, without the spice Lovino was accustomed
to—surrounded him, along with a welcomed gust of warmth from a crackling fire
in a massive hearth. Even though there were a few people in the room and they
had all turned to stare curiously, Lovino didn’t look away, nor did he stop his
lips from curving upward. I think I could get used to this place.
 
                                     . . .
 
Arthur woke up expecting to be half-dead on the stone beach, so he was
pleasantly surprised to find himself tucked into a warm bed, with the pain in
his arms only partly killing him. He did his best to ignore the pulled muscles
as he sat up and took in his surroundings, noting the beautiful walls and the
trio of beds. He was far from an expert on Scandinavian interior design, but he
doubted a house would have a room with three single beds in it; this must have
been some sort of inn. He could hear muffled talking and laughter below.
Hopefully someone who can point us to the Court. He got out of bed and left the
blanket thrown aside; his life at the king’s castle had made his housekeeping
instincts few and specific. The bed beside his was empty; the furthest one held
Feliciano. Arthur gently moved the blanket down enough to inspect the young
Omega’s sleeping face. He was pale, but when Arthur touched his forehead, it
was burning hot, and yet he could feel Feliciano shivering in his sleep.
“Oh, you’re awake.”
Arthur turned quickly at the voice; a pale-haired man stood in the doorway. A
Scandinavian! Arthur tried not to be flustered by the exoticity of the
stranger. “Ah—yes. Good morning.” He let a light hand rest on Feliciano’s damp
hair. “I think my friend may be ill.”
The other man didn’t move, nor did he look particularly concerned. “Yes, he has
a fever. We expected all three of you to become sick, after flying through a
storm like that. You’re very lucky our Alphas heard your screeching, or I
wouldn’t have been able to find and guide you.”
“You were the—?”
“Puffin,” supplied the stranger. “Yes.” He offered a white-gloved hand. “Emil
Bondevik. At your service.”
Arthur had several tiny heart attacks as he shook the hand. “Emil! I—thank you
so much for saving us! You’re the reason we came here, or one of the reasons, I
suppose. But you’re the main reason! It was your writings that inspired me to
do this. Your words about how Alphas and Omegas are all free and should live in
equality, that’s our belief, too. Our group—well, there’s only three of us, but
I think we could have more—is called the Promegas, and we’ve come to ask for
help to fight for Omega rights in Western Eurasia.”
It was too subtle to notice at first. Slowly but surely, Emil’s face lit up,
his eyes sparkled, his lips spread wide in a grin, and he said, voice thin with
disbelief, “You flew all this way because of me?”
Arthur nodded, returning the smile. “Yes. You gave me so much hope, and
courage. Life in the West is terrible for Omegas, and I want to do whatever I
can to change it.”
Emil shook his head slowly in amazement. “We’ve been waiting for an Omega like
you to come along.” He turned away abruptly. “Come. Your other friend is
downstairs, eating. Don’t worry about the one on the bed; we’re attending to
him.”
Arthur was reluctant to leave Feli by himself, but if he didn’t trust Emil
Bondevik, this journey was for naught. So he tugged the blanket back up to the
Italian’s ears, gave him a gentle pat of farewell, and followed after his
Scandinavian guide.
Downstairs was much warmer than upstairs. Simple wooden tables with benches
instead of chairs lined the walls lengthways, but these held only thick candles
in their centers. The people here were clustered around the counter at the far
end of the long room, where Lovino was sitting not on a stool but on the
counter itself, hands raised in the air and gesturing wildly as he spoke to his
enraptured crowd.
“. . . and he was falling! If I’d waited another second, he would’ve been in
the water and I never would have been able to save him. I didn’t even think
about it, I just dove down and grabbed him in my talons.”
The small audience gave a low sound of wonder, a collective Woooow.
“I didn’t think Eurasians could be that brave,” remarked a thick-accented older
man with a goblet in his hand.
“Of course we can,” Lovino retorted. “Omegas are always brave. It’s the Alphas
in Eurasia who have their tails between their legs.”
Even though they were in mixed company, everyone shared a laugh at Alphas’
expense. Arthur nearly felt bad for Francis, until he remembered what his mate
had done to him. But had Francis done the terrible thing because he was an
Alpha, or because Francis genuinely wanted Arthur to suffer? Perhaps it was not
the act that was important, but the motivation behind it. Could something like
that be forgiven, if it was done with—well, not good intentions, but misguided
ones?
Lovino brightened when Arthur approached. “You’re awake, britanno!” He lifted a
metal cup. “Have some ale. It’s weird stuff, but it doesn’t taste too bad.”
The crowd’s attention shifted to Arthur, who tried not to shrink under their
gazes. This was different than everyone staring for his wedding. They knew who
he was for that occasion; they knew he was important. Now, he was a stranger,
taken at face value. Arthur made an effort to square his shoulders, but still
mumbled, “Um, excuse me, thank you, sorry—” as he slipped past the
Scandinavians to stand beside Lovino. He almost wished he could speak Italian,
so they wouldn’t know what they were saying to each other. “Are you alright,
Lovino?”
“Alright? Of course I’m alright.” He hopped down off the counter, but even
standing beside Arthur he seemed much taller, despite the real size difference
being only a few inches. “Yeah, my arms are a little sore, but other than that
I’m fine. Are you?”
“Yes, I . . . I’m quite well. Feliciano has a fever, but—”
“Emil said they’re helping him.” Lovino finished what was left of his drink
and, chin lifted, looked over at Emil. “We’re heading out. Did you say to be
back at dark or before?”
“When the sun starts to fall,” Emil replied. “I’ll be here to escort you to the
Court.”
Lovino nodded. “Alright. Sorry, folks, storytime is over.” He took Arthur’s
hand and lead the English Omega to a door that Arthur hadn’t even noticed.
Doors in the West were—with the exception of those in villages—elaborately
carved with lines, squares and rectangles and royal designs at the castle. This
was simply a slab of wood with a handle, but it looked hardy. It might not be
beautiful, but it served its purpose elegantly. Thick coats hung from pegs
beside the door, and Lovino took down two, handing one to Arthur. The coat went
down nearly to his knees; his hands were hidden by too-long sleeves. The wool
and fur wasn’t fancy by any means, nor was it perfumed like the clothes Arthur
wore at the castle, but they were thick and Arthur was immediately too hot once
he put it on; all his heat was trapped and reflected back at him.
Lovino wasn’t waiting; he took Arthur’s hand again and led him outside. The air
on his face was a shock, not so much the temperature but the aliveness of it.
It was constantly there, moving against his cheeks, creeping under his collar,
looking for any way in to steal his warmth. A confirmation of the different way
of life; simply surviving here was more difficult than in Eurasia. One could
freeze to death in any winter, but here the danger was difficult to forget.
Arthur hugged his arms around himself, snuggling into his coat like a tortoise
into its shell.
As Arthur followed Lovino down cobbled streets—smiling shyly at the occasional
curious passerby—he marveled at two things simultaneously. One, the simple fact
that they were currently in Scandinavia’s capital, walking past frosty windows
of shops with writing Arthur couldn’t read. There were shingles hanging from
some; he recognized the anvil of a blacksmith and what he was fairly certain
was a loaf of bread for a baker. Everything here was weathered, wood grey and
cracked, paint bleached and chipped. And yet many of the buildings they passed
contained laughter and even music; Arthur heard a cheerful lute, then a
celebratory drumbeat. How could a place so bleak have such happy people? And
how could a sunny place like the West have such misery?
The other thing that amazed Arthur was the transformation of Lovino. His
intensity, once expressed through anger or brooding, was now coming out as
confidence. He strutted with his head held high. And why shouldn’t he? He’d
traveled across a bloody ocean on a whim and a prayer and made it out
unscathed—and he’d single-handedly saved his little brother from certain death,
if the story he was telling was any indicator of the events Arthur had missed.
Arthur felt a rush of pride and happiness so fierce he stopped walking, tugging
Lovino back a bit, and wrapped him up in a hug.
Lovino stiffened only a little, then returned the hug in earnest, squeezing
Arthur tight. His words were a whisper, a tiny white cloud in the air. “I can’t
believe we’re actually here. It feels like a dream. I’m—I think I’m actually
happy.”
Arthur felt something bubbly in his stomach that was probably giddiness, but a
bit of something less emotional, too. “I’m very, very glad to hear that, Lovi.
But I have bad news.” He pulled back enough to look up at the other Omega. “We
left before I could get breakfast.”
Lovino blinked, then a little gasp of laughter escaped him, and the pair of
them fell about in laughter, taking a wonderful moment to be frivolous,
blissfully oblivious of the strangers staring at them from windows or the other
side of the street. “Oops,” Lovino said eventually, half-composed. “Well, Emil
gave me some gold.” He reached beneath his coat and showed Arthur some small,
gleaming coins. “Let’s find something to eat. We have all day to waste, because
the Court won’t be ready to meet us until this evening,”
“Oh. Okay. Well, then. Let’s explore,” Arthur said, and—though he knew it was a
sign of courting—he held onto Lovino’s arm instead of his hand.
The Italian Omega looked at him, an inquiring light in his beautiful brown
eyes, eyes that reminded Arthur of the warmth of their home. Arthur didn’t know
what the silent question was. There were many possibilities. What about Francis
and Antonio? was probably one. Why are you holding my arm? might have been one.
Are you flirting with me?
That gave Arthur a bit of pause.Was he flirting? Was he still Francis’s mate,
after all of this? His wife, probably, but his mate? Did he still love Francis
Bonnefoy?
Did I ever?
Lovino interrupted the tormented reverie before Arthur could find a proper
answer to any of his questions. “Sì, britanno,” he said, with a smile at once
familiar and foreign; Arthur had seen it on the lips of others, but never
Lovino. The younger Omega looked undeniably fond. Arthur returned the smile
with relief, and they began to explore.
For hours, they wandered up and down wide main roads and narrow side streets,
buying honeyed bread and strange but tasty cookies that seemed to be called
peh-air-noo-ah (Arthur asked the baker to translate, but she just gave a sorry-
can’t-help-you shrug). The cobbles here were not as orderly and maintained as
the ones in Francis’s beloved city, and Arthur tripped over three stray stones
before Lovino finally had to laugh. “Good thing you have me to hold you up.
Trust you to make it to Scandinavia and hurt yourself tripping over a rock.”
“Oh, sod off, you,” Arthur snapped, without heat. Lovino’s hard but lovely
laugh was muffled by a very distinctive shout: “I DON’T CARE IF THIS WAS THE
ONLY PLACE TO GO! IT IS HOPELESS HERE! JUST HOPELESS!”
Arthur and Lovino shared glances with raised eyebrows, then turned around to
look toward the sound. They had come to the edge of the city, where there were
some farmhouses and rows of only the hardiest plants that could survive up
here. There were a few thick-furred oxen as well, grazing on tough grass. Past
these houses, however, atop a little slope was a tall, narrow house with red
shutters. It looked so peaceful on the outside, but there was no doubt that the
shouting was coming from here, the first negative word either of them had heard
in Scandinavia. And, most curious of all, the words were not said in a Nordic
accent, but a peculiarly Germanic one.
The pair of Promegas went to the door without need of discussion, and Arthur
lifted a hand (and pulled back his sleeve) to knock on the door.
To their surprise, it opened immediately, and a woman stood looking at them
with eyes almost as green as Arthur’s. Concerned, she asked, “Um, yes? Can I
help you?” Behind her, the same voice that had yelled was saying, “Who could
possibly be coming to our door?”
Seeing her wince wearily, Arthur asked, “Is everything alright? We heard the
shouting . . .”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman said hastily. “He doesn’t mean to be a bother,
really, it’s just that he’s . . . frustrated.”
“He wasn’t bothering us,” Arthur told her. “We just wanted to see if there was
anything we could do to help.”
She looked to be about to say no, but then something came to her and she said,
“Actually, you could come in. We haven’t had company in so long . . . and you
two look very interesting.” She leaned closer. “You’re from the West, aren’t
you?”
They both nodded.
A mixture of pain and delight gleamed in her eyes. “Then, by all means.” She
stepped to the side, gesturing welcomingly. “Please come in.”
Arthur and Lovino exchanged another glance. Lovino’s gave a strong I don’t know
about this argument, but Arthur’s why not?won out, and they stepped inside. The
woman introduced herself as Elizabeta as she removed their coats. “I’ll hang
these up for you,” she said. “My mate is just through there, in the drawing
room. He’ll be glad to talk to someone from home.” With that, she disappeared
into a different room off the hall.
The house was a tiny pocket of familiarity. The tables had doilies, the
curtains had lace, the doors were carved; nothing had the rustic, functionalist
style—or lack thereof—of the other Scandinavian abodes. Everything was elegant
(though not to the overdone degree of Francis’s castle) and culminated in the
most elegant-looking man Arthur had ever seen, lounging with crossed legs on a
gilt fainting couch. The man wore a navy coat and a poofy white thing about his
neck that Arthur knew had a name, though he couldn’t have said what that name
was.
The man had two white fingertips to his temple, and he did not shift from his
world-weary pose as he regarded his visitors. “Who are you?”
“Arthur B—” He didn’t stop himself long enough for it to seem awkward. It
shouldn’t be. I don’t need his name. I have my own.“Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland.”
The man seemed unimpressed with this information; his violet eyes slid to
Lovino. “And you?”
“Lovino Vargas,” replied Lovino, not too taken with the conversation himself.
They looked at each other expectantly, until Arthur finally prompted, “And what
might your name be?”
“Roderich Edelstein,” the man replied, closing his eyes to sigh. “There was a
time when you would know it without needing to ask.”
He didn’t look very old, but then again, the visitors were young. Arthur placed
Roderich somewhere in his early forties, even though he had very clear skin. He
almost looked like royalty, actually; he had that imperious, ethereal quality
that demanded respect. Arthur gestured to the sofa across from Roderich. “May
we sit and talk with you awhile? Your mate said you might like that.”
Roderich opened his eyes sharply, then tutted. “Ah, she is always doing things
in my best interest. Perhaps one day I will follow her example.” He flicked a
hand. “Yes, sit, sit. Talk. What will we talk about? What lovely weather today.
The same grey, grey, grey. White snow. Black trees. Cold, all the time.
Everything struggling to live only to be killed when winter comes. This place
has no color!”
Arthur and Lovino sat in silence, watching him rant; two rosy pink spots
bloomed on Roderich’s cheeks, then began to fade as he sank back into the
couch, seemingly exhausted. When it was clear that no more raving was
forthcoming, Arthur asked, “Don’t, er, don’t take this the wrong way, but—are
you an artist?”
Roderich closed his eyes again, exasperated. “Of course I am an artist. Or, I
was.” His voice dipped down to a whisper, rasping with pain. “I was a musician.
The best musician in Western Eurasia, perhaps even all of Eurasia. Everyone
would have believed you if you told them that. You know of the king, yes?” He
looked at them. “Francis Bonnefoy?” He spit this with as much contempt as was
possible, and his accent enabled him to achieve notable levels of derision.
Lovino shot Arthur a look. Arthur didn’t bother receiving it, because he’d
already made up his mind, and he already knew Lovino would try to change it and
it wouldn’t work. Arthur was sick and tired of manipulation and dishonesty. So
he said the truth, as it was: “Yes, we know of him. We live in the capital. I
am Francis Bonnefoy’s mate. But go on with your story.”
An angry light had come into the violet eyes, but at the mention of his story,
the pain and nostalgia crept back in. It was enough to set him back on the
path. “Well . . . the king, yes, as I was saying. His father loved my music.
Everyone did, but he truly loved it. He had the sort of passion needed to truly
appreciate it. I think he could have been a musician himself, if not for the
role he was born to play. I made him music and we all lived happily in the
beautiful West. And then Francis took his father’s place as king.” Roderich’s
expression hardened. “He had a guard he was very close to. Gilbert
Beilschmidt.” This name was said with even more contempt than the previous,
bordering on acidic. “I suspect he’s Captain by now. He and I have . . . well.”
He looked away darkly. “He and I had a brief history. Then he and Elizabeta
did, as well. An eye for an eye.” He sighed again. “He turned Francis against
us, and he bade us leave. We could not stay anywhere in the West, or we would
be hunted. And we could not go East.”
“Why not?” Lovino asked, surprising Arthur.
Roderich rolled his eyes. “No better than the West. They called us
Deformed—ignorant word—as soon as they learned that Eliza and I are mates. She
is an Alpha, you see.” (Because females in general were rare, female Alphas
were even moreso, and were automatically deemed an upset of the Natural Order.)
“And I am an Omega with . . .” He pursed his thin lips, searching for the
proper word. “. . . attitude.”
Lovino nodded sagely. “We know what that’s like.” (Arthur had to swallow a
giggle.)
Roderich arched a dark eyebrow, but finished his tale with the appropriate
dismal tone. “So we stole a small boat and came here. We were blessed with calm
seas that day, or the journey would have been the end of us. Elizabeta was so
strong . . . She still is, of course. She saves my life every day.” He removed
his spectacles for a moment, to touch a fingertip delicately to the corner of
each eye. After putting his spectacles back on and taking a deep breath, he
went on, “We sought asylum from the Jarls, and after we had told them each dark
detail of our story, they told us that they saw us as the victims and that we
were welcome to stay here. And so now this is our home. I am not ungrateful for
their kindness, but I so despise this place. The brutal winters and bleak seas
have beaten the inspiration from me. That, and I’m old.” Roderich shrugged
glumly. “All good things must come to an end.”
Arthur thought of his relationship with Francis, and the fracture in his heart
drove him to speak. “If what we came to do works out, you will be able to
return to our home, Roderich.”
Violet eyes narrowed. “Do not jest.”
“I assure you that I am completely serious. We have lived in the West all our
lives. We have been made objects and slaves by those Alphas who never think to
question why they act the way they do. Lovino has been called Deformed before,
and I have, too—just because we are birds of prey, not tiny tweeting things
that seem weak and so fit in with Alphas’ idea of Omega inferiority. We will
not take it any longer. We will approach the Court of Jarls tonight and ask
them for help to fight this battle.” Arthur met Roderich’s gaze, the green of
his eyes brighter than any blade of grass or leaf in the West. “And if we win,
I promise you—you will go home again.”
Roderich stared at Arthur with such intensity, Lovino actually tensed up,
thinking the Austrian Omega was going to lunge at them. Instead, the older man
leapt to his feet and dashed from the room, calling urgently, “No
interruptions! No tea!”
Arthur and Lovino stood, bewildered and alarmed. They stepped into the hall,
where Elizabeta was waiting, hands clasped to her chest in euphoria. When she
saw the visitors, she cried, “Oh, thank you so much!”
“Um . . .” Arthur blinked. “I’m sorry, but what exactly did we do?”
Elizabeta embraced both of them, then clapped her hands, ecstatic. “You gave
him a spark!”
She implored them to stay for dinner, but when Lovino saw that it was swiftly
darkening outside, they had to reject the offer. Elizabeta made them very
informed in the fact that they were welcome to visit any time at all, and they
thanked her and raced back to the inn, getting lost several times because
nothing looked the same in the dark (and because Arthur was even clumsier when
he couldn’t see and the cobbles were out for blood). At long last, they found
their inn, with Emil standing outside, arms crossed impatiently over his chest.
“You’re late,” he remarked flatly, though his eyes brightened a tiny bit when
they found Arthur.
“Sorry, we were talking to—”
“We got lost and—”
Arthur and Lovino talked over each other and stopped, giving each other small
apologetic smiles.
Emil waved a hand as if to brush their excuses away. “It doesn’t matter. Come
with me.” He started walking, then glanced back over his shoulder with the
barest hint of a smile. “The Court of Jarls is waiting for you.”
***** Chapter 20 *****
              “Let it be known that the government of Scandinavia
             does not decide its members based on sex, nor gender,
                       nor anything but blood and skill.
                   The lack of Omegas in the Court of Jarls
                           is purely coincidental.”
                    —public address by Jarl Lukas Bondevik
 
Lovino wasn’t sure what he expected the jarls’ palace to look like, after
seeing how comfortably shabby the rest of the city was, but he was still
surprised to find that it was not a palace—it was a fortress. A brick wall
taller than Lovino and Arthur put together surrounded the place, complete with
bastions and an iron-enforced wooden door that looked denser than a Western
Alpha. Unlike in the West, the guards here did not patrol the streets. They
stayed here at the fortress, and they did not carry rifles or wear uniforms.
Wolves with thick white or grey coats stalked along the wall, ears swivelling,
occasionally sniffing at the air and clouding it with their breath. Lovino
couldn’t help but see Gilbert in their on-alert posture, but when the trio
approached the wooden door, two wolves immediately galloped over, barking
happily, tails waving in the air. They shifted when they drew near, rising up
into tall but grinning men in dark coats. They heaved open the huge door
without much effort and bowed deeply to the guests, eyes closed, smiles on
their lips.
Lovino stood frozen in place, astonished beyond words. Alphas—guards, no
less—had rushed happily to open a door for three Omegas, and now they were
bowing?!
Emil glanced back at him, clearing his throat. “Now is not the time to stand
around, Mr. Vargas.”
Lovino met Arthur’s gaze and saw his own shock and delight reflected there. Can
you believe this? This is what life could be like!
Another pair of wolves came to open the doors of the fortress itself. It lacked
the elegance and height of Francis’s castle, but it made up for it in sheer
sturdy austerity. The castle was light, flying flags from the peaks of its
spindly towers. The fortress was dark, stocky, made almost entirely of stone.
It was like a great boulder that had been dropped in place here. No force could
ever summon the might to move it.
They moved so quickly inside that Lovino could barely take anything in, though
he did note the torches on the wooden pillars supporting the higher sections of
ceiling, and the walls (which had the same swirling floral designs on them as
the room at the inn). Emil ushered them to an anteroom—where servants came from
nowhere to remove their coats—and advised, “Do not speak first, it’s customary
for the jarls to greet their guests. It’s believed that beginning a meeting
with hospitality will mean good fortune for the proceedings.”
Lovino wasn’t a fan of superstition, but if it made people polite, he supposed
there wasn’t too much of a problem with it. He didn’t even have time to be
nervous before Emil opened the door and shepherd Arthur and Lovino through.
Now they were in a dining room. A long table, though not as pointlessly long as
the one in the castle, set with several loaves of fresh bread, cheeses, and
three different haunches of meat. And, sitting around the further outward side
of the table so that they all faced the incomers, was the Court of Jarls.
At one end of the table was a small man with dark, almost depthless blue eyes.
At the other end was a much larger man, with spectacles and very broad
shoulders. In the chair nearest him was another small man, this one clearly an
Omega—he was beautiful with his golden hair and dark brown eyes. And, at the
middle of the table, long arms spread wide in welcome, was a man with the
spikiest hair Lovino had ever seen. It was this man—he of the hair—who spoke
through a charming smile.
“Welcome, Mr. Kirkland. Welcome, Mr. Vargas. We are eager to dine with you
both, so please, sit down.” He waited until they had taken their places with
Emil on the opposite side of the table before continuing, “My name is Mathias
Køhler. To my right is Lukas Bondevik.” He leaned to touch the small jarl’s
hand. “Smile, min Trold.”
Lukas resembled Emil the most now, because they were brothers and because his
expression didn’t come close to changing. He was nearly impossible to read, and
his words came out in a flat and surprisingly deep voice. “You waste too much
time. Next time I will do the introductions.”
“Ah, but it doesn’t count as hospitable if you don’t smile.” Mathias chuckled
when Lukas rolled his eyes, and continued on with the introduction. “To my left
is the kind-hearted Tino Väinämӧinen, mate of Berwald Oxenstierna, who is
looming at the other end of this fine table.”
Tino giggled shyly, and Berwald regarded them all with a thoughtful expression,
but gave no greeting beyond a slight incline of his head. Lovino was used to
the West, where everyone had something to say but only few were allowed to
speak. Being in a place where people chose to stop and ponder their words was
at once alien and refreshing.
Mathias laid his palms flat on the table, long fingers pointed at Arthur and
Lovino. “Emil tells me you have come from the South. Oh, pardon me, the West.”
A twinkle of anticipation came into his eyes. “You were are hoping to change
some things?”
“Yes,” Arthur replied. Lovino could hear a tremble of fear in his voice, with
all these appraising eyes on him, but he fought through his obstacles as
always. Nothing could remove the light from those green eyes. “We wish to fight
for Omega rights in Western Eurasia. We’ve called ourselves the Promegas,
because there’s no one else to stick up for us, so we have to do it ourselves.
But three people could never face Naturalism on their own, so we’ve come to ask
for your help. Please. Help us make our home as welcoming and wonderful as
yours.”
“Flattery,” remarked Lukas, tone now more thoughtful than flat, “is not
necessary.”
Arthur’s cheeks turned a pale pink hue. “M-My apologies—”
“Oh, don’t apologize.” Mathias waved this away with one hand and stabbed into
his venison with the other. “We don’t go in for that posh nonsense. I must
admit, Mr. Kirkland—I’m glad someone like you finally sprung up, but I’m
surprised there are three of you. I would have thought an Omega like yourself
to be one in a million or more in the West, what with the brainwashing they do
there. Indoctrination.” His voice had developed a hard edge. “Most Western
Omegas don’t care enough to want rights, or at least that was my impression
when I last visited.” He sneered. “The Natural way, right?”
Lovino watched Arthur’s expression sour. “With all due respect there is, if
any—it isn’t funny. It’s our lives.”
That gave Mathias pause. “Yes, it is your lives. Very true.” He tilted his head
to one side, like a puppy. “You flew all the way here. That takes a lot of
courage, and strength. But what I want to know is, do you have the bravery to
truly fight for those rights you want? You’re brave—”
“We know we’re brave,” Lovino cut in. “We wouldn’t have come if we weren’t
going to follow through with this. Do we look like quitters? Arthur has thought
through every detail of this plan, trust me. I know, because he’s talked me
through it hundreds of times. We’re going to fight. We’ve known that for
months.” He tipped up his chin, staring down the Alpha across the table. “The
real question is, are you brave enough to fight with us?”
Somehow, the quiet room got even quieter. Tino’s lips parted in a tiny O. Lukas
and Emil’s left eyebrows arched slightly. Arthur tried not to look completely
terrified of being kicked out. Even Berwald looked to Mathias, curious for his
reaction.
But the Danish jarl only stared at Lovino before letting his lips spread into a
wide grin. “I like your spirit, Mr. Vargas.”
Something like pleasant fire spiraled out from Lovino’s heart, but it faltered
when Lukas spoke again.
“You ask if we are brave enough to fight with you,” said the Norwegian jarl,
still unreadable, “but in truth we would not be fighting with you. We would be
fighting for you. It would be a war, on your behalf.”
Arthur nodded. “If that’s what it takes, that’s what it takes. But it would be
ideal to try and negotiate, first. I don’t want to cause any unnecessary
deaths.”
Lovino saw Berwald’s lips quirk before the Alpha took a drink from his goblet.
“Negotiation ruins the element of surprise,” Mathias pointed out.
“We could have our forces waiting behind, use some sort of signal when
diplomacy fails,” Emil suggested.
“If it fails,” Tino corrected quickly, voice sort of small. The Jarls all gave
tiny nods to him, to show that they acknowledged that he had spoken, but no one
actually responded to him.
“And by the time the forces ran in, our Promegas would be captured or killed,”
Mathias said. Lovino didn’t know if he was disturbed or not by how flippantly
their potential deaths were discussed.
Lukas took in every man at the table with thoughtful, dark eyes, then lifted
his gaze to look down the length of the table at Berwald. “What say you, Mr.
Oxenstierna?”
Berwald gave a small, respectful nod in Arthur’s direction. “You will have my
teeth and my guns at your side.”
Tino smiled encouragingly at Arthur, who looked like he might faint with
relief. Lovino’s heart raced, but he was afraid to breathe, lest he upset
whatever force had made these Alphas agree to go to war because an Omega
tourist asked them to.
Mathias’s eyebrows spiked upward. “Even without us, Berwald? I’ve never seen
you make a decision so fast. You would be outnumbered if Lukas and I say no. It
would be suicide.”
Berwald gazed steadily at his fellow leader. “We all live in equality here. If
we do not fight for it, how can we say we believe in it?”
These simple words made everyone fall quiet, but in a manner much more
introspective than the last silence. Mathias and Lukas met each other’s gaze
for a long moment, and the Dane’s expression changed from questioning to
insistent. Lovino watched this wordless exchange with envy—Alphas and their
body language, made things so simple—before realizing that he and Arthur had
been communicating with glances for months now. The epiphany made a warm, cozy
feeling spread through him.
Mathias was the one to break the silence. “My wolves will fight for you,
Promegas,” he said with a smile that turned smug when he showed it to Lukas.
Though he didn’t say it, his face did: so there!
The only sign of annoyance the small jarl gave was a narrowing of his eyes, but
it could have frozen over the sea. “Justified or not,” he said, “war is not
something to rush into.”
Mathias’s brow furrowed, and Emil burst out, “But—”
Lukas held up a hand. “Stability, brother.” Then, to Arthur, he said, “We must
think on this before an official decision is made. We shall reconvene in a
week’s time with an answer to your request.”
Arthur’s eyes widened with mostly stifled disappointment. “Why will it take a
week?”
“It won’t,” Lukas replied. “But I do not want to endanger you, nor do I want to
let any of my fellow Alphas disgrace themselves.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?Lovino looked to Arthur, but the English
Omega clearly had no idea, either.
Mathias saw the confusion and chuckled, but not unkindly. “Your Heat, Mr.
Kirkland. It’s close. We can smell it.”
Arthur stiffened and turned as red as the tomatoes Lovino would have used to
make dinner tonight, if they were still at home. Lovino hadn’t realized how
long it had been since Arthur’s last Heat. He supposed, since Lovino’s Heat
followed no specific cycle like most, that they were lucky only Arthur was
going into it in the middle of their quest.
“Oh, uh, I beg your pardon,” Arthur stammered. “I didn’t realize, with
everything going on, I wasn’t really paying attention to my . . .”
“Nothing to worry about,” Mathias assured him. Then he tossed another wide grin
around the table. “Now, if we’re done discussing politics for the time being, I
do believe it’s time for dessert.”
 
                                     . . .
 
It was a hideous day.
Gilbert had never seen such a poor excuse for a summer afternoon. The only
sunlight had to filter through a layer of overcast, sickly silver clouds. The
breeze was actually a little cold. In the middle of summer! What a joke.
Gilbert was at an estate a mile or so, out from the capital, set near a lake,
with a nice flower garden; it would all be very picturesque, if not for the
weather. This was the summer house of Roderich Edelstein, Western Eurasia’s
darling composer. A servant—not the musician’s servant, but the servant of a
grocer—had gone out to deliver some vegetables, only to return with a story
that no one could quite believe, not that many people had heard it. The
delivery boy had peeked through a window (when asked why, he said it was
because no one had answered his knock on the door) and seen Elizabeta and
Roderich mating. Gilbert had almost had him tossed out for that; he was the
Captain of the Royal Guard, his time was too valuable to be wasted. But then
the story came together: the boy had seen Elizabeta, a female, on top of
Roderich. Of course, Roderich was a pretty sort of Alpha, but so was Francis
Bonnefoy. No one had ever questioned if he was an Alpha or not. Besides, he was
mated to a female—surely she was an Omega.
But Omegas did not mount Alphas.
So Gilbert was here, because he cared more about Deformity than any of the
other guards, and because something like this required the use of one’s best
judgement, and who had better judgement than the captain?
He knocked on the door for the second time. His father had impressed this upon
him early: Always start things politely. Never be the first to challenge or
attack, unless absolutely necessary. You’re a guard, you already have power
over others. Don’t abuse it.
Gilbert leaned to peer in through the window near the door, the same window
that started all this trouble. Just a sitting room, chairs, sofa, piano in the
corner. No Elizabeta, no Roderich. Gilbert regretted never being properly
introduced to the musician or his mate. Roderich had been close to Francis’s
father, but since an illness had enfeebled his body and mind (an illness that
would claim him within the year) Roderich had been distant, putting out less
music than before. Gilbert thought back to the balls he had attended with
Francis and Antonio, how amazed he had first been at all the beauty, beauty
that his friends had grown numb to. Roderich and his mate had gone to only a
few of the balls, Roderich in dashingly elegant frock coats while Elizabeta
wore gowns. They kept to themselves—hence the summer house. The king didn’t
even have a summer house, but these two did? They were hiding something, most
definitely.
Gilbert tired of waiting and, after a brief negotiation between his shoulder
and the door, he stepped into the house. Instantly, the thick scent of an Omega
in Heat filled his nose. He hadn’t been expecting it; he had to brace a hand on
the wall for a moment, to steady himself.
Clearing his throat, he called, “This is Gilbert Beilschmidt, Captain of the
Royal Guard. I’m here to speak with Roderich Edelstein. Are you here?”
Someone was, that was certain. Gilbert lingered a moment longer before striding
into the house. As the window had proven, the sitting room was empty, as was
the kitchen and the little dining room. Since the house was a bungalow, that
left only the bedroom. Another closed door.
This one wasn’t locked.
Inside, the scent was so strong, Gilbert couldn’t stop himself from stirring;
everything inside him howled for the Omega. Find it, mount it, mate it.
On the bed, Roderich paused in his writhing and lifted his head to look at
Gilbert. He didn’t have his glasses on, so the man was a blur, but it didn’t
matter. Gilbert was an Alpha. Roderich was in Heat. Neither could resist the
musky taste of the other on their tongue.
Gilbert approached the bed slowly. His only intention was to lift the dressing
gown Roderich wore. Just for a second. Only to see if he was truly an Omega, or
if he was more Deformed than Gilbert thought possible. He would check what
Roderich was, then back out of the room and wait for Elizabeta to come home.
Then they would talk about this. He would control himself. He would not touch
Roderich’s slick-smeared flesh. He would not duck his head to inhale the
intoxicating scent. He would not utterly lose control of himself.
He had honest intentions.
But when Elizabeta returned from hunting to find Gilbert up to the hilt in her
mate, it looked anything but honest.
Everything happened so quickly—and Gilbert was so caught up in the moaning
Austrian beneath him—that he didn’t realize what was happening until it was too
late. Elizabeta grabbed Gilbert’s arms and bound them, yanking him off her mate
and onto the floor. She was so strong, stronger than any female had a right to
be. She shoved him facedown on the floor, shoved his legs apart. He bucked
beneath her, shock giving way to fury. “Let go of me! I am the Captain of—”
But she cut him off. “I don’t care what you are. You think you can just take
advantage of someone without consequences? Let’s see how you like it.”
And she—it—the monster thrust its hard, hot length into him. Everything Gilbert
had ever known to be true about himself shattered. All of his strength left
him, flooding out as the agony flooded in. He was not readied at all, and after
the first few thrusts, he tore. The sharp scent of blood cut through the Heat-
scent. Roderich whimpered, senseless on the bed. Elizabeta snarled, an
abomination on top of him. And Gilbert?
Gilbert, the Captain of the Guard? Defender of the High Alpha? One of the
cruelest Alphas in the West?
He closed his eyes against the pain, opened his mouth, and sobbed.
 
He didn’t jerk awake. He merely opened his eyes, found them leaking tears of
shame, and let his wolf form take over. It would protect him, just as the
Natural way would protect him.
Wolves couldn’t cry.
He left the bedroom he’d assigned himself in the castle and padded down the
hall. He pricked his ears, but there was no sound in the massive house. Antonio
had come before dark, asking if the children would be allowed to visit Francis.
Gilbert told him the obvious: of course not, they were just children. It was
unwise to expose them to Deformity, even if it was in their father. Especially
if it was in their father. They had to be protected from any danger, and that
included bad influences.
Now, Gilbert nudged a door open with his snout. It was too dark to see, but he
knew what it looked like: everything was cheerful and soft and pink. Silent,
save for the click of his claws against the floor, Gilbert stepped to Matthew’s
little bed.
The toddler’s eyes didn’t open. He was lost in his dreams.
With great care, Gilbert climbed up onto the bed and curled up around Matthew.
It was a squeeze, but he didn’t care, and neither did the Omega, who mumbled
squeakily in his sleep and snuggled into the fur of Gilbert’s ruff.
The silver wolf rested his muzzle on Matthew’s pillow. He breathed in the sweet
scent of the boy, the only thing that could calm his heart on a night like this
one. Then he breathed out a sigh. Matthew’s curls quivered from the gust, then
stilled once again.
Gilbert slept, but this time he didn’t dream.
 
                                     . . .
                                        
That night, Arthur and Lovino returned to the inn, where Feliciano was groggy
but well enough to smile when they told him about the relative success of the
dinner with the jarls.
The next morning, they had “open sandwiches” for breakfast, topped with sliced
eggs and cheese. When Feliciano finished his with a cheerful verdict of,
“Yummy!” Arthur offered his untouched portion. “I’m not hungry, you have mine.”
His skin was already darkening, pink with his rushing blood, his rising Heat.
Emil showed up around noon, took one look at Arthur, and said, “You’ll have to
come down to the basement. The doors have stronger locks down there.”
Arthur stood up on unsteady legs, arms hugged tight around himself. He started
to follow Emil without protest, but Lovino spoke up: “Is it safe down there? Do
you have someone to guard the door? Just in case?”
Emil arched an eyebrow. “I thought I might do it myself, Mr. Vargas. Is that
alright?”
Lovino hesitated. He trusted Emil Bondevik, didn’t he? He didn’t hold him up on
a pedestal like Arthur might, but he did trust him. He trusted him more than he
trusted an Alpha. Yet, there was a niggling doubt in the back of his mind,
urging caution. Lovino used to feel this way in the early days of living in the
Beilschmidt house, when Feliciano went into Heat and Gilbert was the only Alpha
home. Lovino made a point to always be near whenever Gilbert walked by the
locked door, just waiting for the German to fail. Lovino had seen the effect
the pheromones had; whenever Gilbert passed, it was like a shudder went through
him. But he never broached the boundaries set. He never even touched Lovino
during Heat, which no one could believe for the longest time. A man of
restraint only in sex; how very, verypeculiar.
The problem now, Lovino realized, was not that he thought Emil would do
anything to harm Arthur. It was just that Lovino wanted to be the one to
protect him.
“Maybe I’ll join you,” Lovino said, but glanced at his little brother, unsure.
Was it fair to leave Feli in favor of Arthur? They were both his friends, but
one was blood . . .
Seeing the dilemma, Emil said, “Tino came along with me, he’s downstairs. He
can keep Feliciano company. I suspect you’ll get along.”
Two pretty Omegas both adoring of their huge blond Alphas? They had a good
amount of common ground, and Feliciano was friendly enough to smooth over any
remaining bumps. He hopped eagerly out of bed. “Let’s go!”
Arthur took a deep breath, pushing sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. “Yes,
let’s go.”
They left Feli and Toni giggling over cups of honey mead, and down into the
cellar the trio went. Most of the space down here was used for storage, and
most of what was stored was spirits. Mead and ale and wine, in barrels big
enough to live in. There were shelves of preserves as well, and dried herbs
hanging from hooks. The room Emil lead them to was tiny, without even a real
bed, just a straw mattress and a blanket that had seen better days. An
unenthused torch provided enough light to make out Arthur as he stumbled in and
collapsed on the mattress.
“We’ll lock the door and hold on to the key,” Emil told him.
Arthur curled on his side. “A-Alright,” he forced out, through his trembling.
“Tha-ank you.”
Emil closed the door, locked it, and dropped the iron key into his pocket.
Lovino crossed his arms. Emil crossed his arms. They regarded each other.
“For a place all about equality,” Lovino remarked, “this is some pretty Alpha-
centric stuff.”
Emil’s lips curved upward. “Alpha-centric? You’ve read my work too, then?”
“Arthur has read a lot of it to me.” He remembered those evenings the Alphas
hunted, the pair of them sitting beneath the willow together, Lovino’s legs
laid over Arthur’s, words flowing from Arthur’s lips as calm and steady as the
river. Lovino was a little glad for the days when Feliciano had to stay home
from Promega meetings. Then he had Arthur all to himself. “Seems like we
shouldn’t have to lock ourselves up, if everything is fair here.”
“Fair and equal aren’t the same thing,” Emil pointed out. “I’m sure that the
majority of Scandinavian Alphas have more self-control than Western Eurasians.
But still, there is simply no way to overcome our biology. It would be like
saying Scandinavian Omegas shouldn’t go into Heat, because Alphas don’t, so
this is not equal. Some things simply are as they are. We cannot change our
physical selves.”
That word—physical—reminded Lovino of their first conversation. “I want to ask
you something that’s probably personal and rude.”
Emil made a sound close to a chuckle. “Ask it, and we’ll see if it gets an
answer.”
“You told me you’re an Omega. Physically. What does that mean?”
“Just as it says. My body is that of an Omega. I become a bird, a puffin, when
I so wish. I go into Heat once a month. I could likely carry children, but I
doubt I will.”
This was the first time Lovino had ever heard someone else talk about not
wanting children. Feliciano had endless fantasies about filling their home with
children—though Ludwig was waiting until the Omega’s body had finished
developing first—and Arthur had no regrets about becoming a mother, even if his
child was a bratty prince of a pup.
“I don’t want to ever have children,” Lovino said, but then he added, “Well, I
don’t think I would mind raising one someday. But getting pregnant and all
that, I don’t even want to think about it. It makes me feel disgusting.”
Emil nodded. “It makes me feel disgusting, too. It makes me wish my body was
different, so that I wouldn’t even have the possibility of growing a child.”
Lovino felt warm, solid kinship fortifying his heart. “Exactly. That’s how I
feel, too.”
“Then perhaps you’re like me, Lovino. Physically Omega, but mentally Alpha-
like.”
The words made no sense, and yet they set off a little spark of self-discovery
inside Lovino’s head. “What does that mean? How can someone be an Omega and an
Alpha at the same time?”
“You must not have read the newest of my work. I’ve been looking more and more
into this in the past year.” Emil was trying to school his tone into the slow,
respectable way his brother spoke, but he was clearly beyond delighted to
discuss his studies. “My theory is that everyone has two separate
identities—the physical, and the mental. We have always thought of it as sex,
but to avoid confusion I call the physical sex and the mental gender. Do you
follow?”
Lovino blinked. “Uh, so far, I think.”
“Good. The physical is the simple side of things—whatever you have between your
legs determines if you are an Alpha or an Omega. The mental side is vastly
complicated. I like to think of it as a spectrum—do you know what that is?”
Lovino could only shake his head, enthralled.
“Well, it is like this: if you have a line, and you put black on one end and
white at the other, what will go in the middle as they blend?”
Lovino wracked his brain. Arthur would be able to answer this in a second. He
could just grasp it himself, he knew the answer, it was . . . “Grey?”
Emil’s teeth flashed in a grin, surprisingly happy to be a teacher. “Precisely!
And if I put Alpha at one end of the spectrum, and Omega at the other?”
There was no word for this in-between, but Lovino knew. “Then everybody goes
somewhere. Feli goes on the Omega end.” Gilbert goes on the Alpha end.
“And people like us fall somewhere in the middle,” Emil finished. “I think we
have been oversimplifying things for centuries. Take my brother, for example.
He is a leader and a stoic—both very Alpha-like traits—but he is also the
submissive partner with his mate, Mathias. So, is he Alpha-like or Omega-like?
He cannot be called either, because he is both. He falls in between.”
Lovino reeled. Lukas Bondevik, the only jarl who had not outright agreed to
help them, was submissive? An Apha mated to another Alpha. Arthur had claimed
it existed in the North, but that didn’t stop it from being totally surreal.
Lovino couldn’t stop himself from wondering how they would actually mate. Would
Mathias actually go in—? Lovino blushed. He never considered how many different
ways people could pleasure each other.
As if on cue, Lovino heard a muffled moan on the other side of the door. It was
not a very pleasant one; it dipped low, then high, a lament for Arthur’s
discomfort. And then . . . was he sobbing?
Lovino listened to it for only a few moments before he couldn’t take it any
longer. “Unlock the door, Emil.”
The Scandinavian had been listening to the lament with a slight frown of
sympathy, but now he glanced at Lovino in surprise. He was waiting for an
explanation of the request, but the Italian just stared at him with an
expectant arch to his eyebrow. In the West, he would be smacked across the face
for standing in such an insolent, arrogant, Alpha-like way. But here?
Here, Emil just looked at him for a moment longer before removing the key from
his pocket, unlocking the door, and pushing it open. Lovino stepped inside and
closed the door behind him, to give Arthur as much privacy as possible, then
waited for his eyes to adjust to the weak orange light.
Arthur lay sprawled on the mattress, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to him
despite being unbuttoned, a dark patch slowly spreading on his trousers,
between his legs. Lovino swallowed a lump in his throat, fighting to tear his
gaze from the stain of slick. Arthur had his arms curled around his head as if
to protect himself; his body shook with each raw sob.
Lovino’s heart went out to him. He moved slowly through the thick air—the room
already smelled musty, and the musk of Arthur’s Heat added a sweet warmth to
it—to sit on the edge of the mattress. Arthur felt the shifting weight and
lifted his head. His cheeks were flushed, bringing out the green of his eyes.
He had a plain, delicate prettiness to him typically, but right now he looked
beautiful, a lush creature born to be ravished.
Emil’s words echoed, heartened. An Omega physically. Alpha-like mentally.
Lovino again felt the happiness at being in a place where he was welcome to be
whatever he wanted to be. He didn’t have to conform. He only had to be.
Lovino swore himself into courage and gently touched Arthur’s back, murmuring,
“Can I make you feel better, britanno?”
Arthur was hardly in his right mind to say no, if an Alpha had asked this
question. He would be pawing at that Alpha right now, sensing the strong body,
seeking the knot that would bring relief. But Lovino was an Omega. He had no
rutting pheromones for Arthur’s body to respond to. So the words sank in for
Arthur, even if they took longer than usual.
Lovino expected rejection, or—worse—a mindless whimper, Arthur’s body begging
for something the man himself might not even want.
Instead, Arthur pushed himself onto his knees with a whine of effort, put a
hand on Lovino’s shoulder to steady himself, and pressed their lips together.
Antonio had tried to do this before, but it had been like kissing a pillow.
There was no connection, for either of them. But now, kissing Arthur, Lovino
felt the same rush of joy in his stomach as he did when they flew together,
they kite and the harrier, kings of the sky. Lovino moved to his knees as well,
their lips never parting, and pulled Arthur closer. The English Omega arched
his back, pressing into Lovino, letting him take control of the kiss despite
his lack of experience. A dominant Omega. Lovino remembered the enjoyment he
had felt that first morning with Antonio, the power he felt in controlling the
other’s pleasure. There was a quickening between Lovino’s thighs; a shiver went
through both Omegas as they explored each other, Arthur squeezing Lovino’s
shoulders, Lovino cupping Arthur’s breasts, tender with Heat and still larger
than normal from his leftover pregnancy weight.
“I w-want you, Lovi,” Arthur forced out, trembling with his need. He wouldn’t
demand to be mated. Neither of them even knew what was possible to ask of the
other. They just knew that they wanted the other now, now.
Lovino didn’t hesitate. Acting on a combination of instinct and longing, he
gently laid Arthur down on his back and took off his shirt and trousers. The
latter he had to peel off, so drenched they were with slick. Arthur’s pale skin
was blotchy, flushed with Heat, his stomach lined here and there with fading
stretch marks. But, for some reason, the most surprising thing was the little
patch of hair between his legs, the same pale gold as the hair atop his head.
Lovino trailed his fingertips through it as lightly as possible, but Arthur
still jerked, thighs tightening briefly. Lovino gently massaged the thighs and,
when Arthur was used to the touch, urged them apart.
Lovino had a fairly good idea of what Omegas had between their legs—he’d felt
his own, and he’d had glimpses of his brother’s when they bathed together as
children—but he’d never seen it like this before. The outer lips were spread
with Arthur’s legs, and the inner petals were swollen with the Heat and gaped,
desperate for something to thrust between them. But what Lovino had in mind was
a sight bigger than what Arthur’s body had grown accustomed to, and
besides—Lovino wanted Arthur to know what he meant to him. So he lowered
himself down and kissed Arthur, tasting the sweet and the salt of him, sucking
and tonguing until Arthur’s moans turned to cries of love as he rocked himself
against Lovino’s face.
But it wasn’t enough; Arthur needed more. Lovino wiped his face mostly dry on
his shirt, then maneuvered Arthur onto his hands and knees. Arthur immediately
assumed lordosis, arching his spine to best present what Lovino had just had
his face buried in. Even so, the sight made Lovino throb, slick oozing between
his own thighs. But he could get to that later. Now was Arthur’s time.
Lovino traced Arthur’s labia, slipping two fingers into the ever-eager hole. He
didn’t need any stretching, he was beyond ready. Once Lovino’s hand was well-
coated with slick, he tucked his thumb beneath his fingers and slowly but
surely drove his fist into Arthur’s burning, yielding body.
“Lovi!” Arthur cried, hands clutching fistfuls of mattress.
Lovino marveled at the feeling, those wet walls clenching around his hand, his
wrist as he pushed in and out. It felt . . . oh, he didn’t know how it felt, he
just wanted it. He didn’t think, he simply acted and felt. Dominance thrilled.
As he fucked—no, as he loved—Arthur with his fist, he slipped his other hand
into his trousers, rubbing himself in time with the motions of his arm. Arthur,
oh, Arthur. Did he say it aloud? Nothing mattered but the rising, rising,
rising—Arthur gave a final keen, wailing Lovino’s name. Lovino felt the walls
ripple and contract around his fist, almost locking it in place. Arthur
convulsed through his orgasm, then collapsed to the mattress. The other’s peak
drove Lovino to his own, and a few shudders went through him before he too
dropped with a low moan. Spent, for now, they tangled together on the makeshift
bed, panting and flawed and perhaps unnatural, but still beautiful.
***** Chapter 21 *****
                   “Did you hear what Arthur Bonnefoy did?”
                     —ninety percent of Western Eurasians
 
“Unca Gil?”
Gilbert paused in buttoning the navy coat of his uniform to look at Matthew,
who was sitting with his half-brother in the middle of Gilbert’s bed. As usual,
their posture reflected them—Matthew sat with his hands folded neatly in his
lap, pink dress ending just before his little white shoes. And Alfred tore
around the mattress, trying to tempt Matthew into chasing him, occasionally
nipping the Omega’s skirt and giving little tugs. The golden pup was
rambunctious at the best of times, but he was overly excited this morning.
Gilbert suspected it was his fault; he was a bit nervous about addressing the
public, and he knew firsthand that wolves were sensitive to the feelings of
others.
He snapped his fingers, and Alfred tripped over his own paws in his haste to
face the dominant Alpha. The pup parted his little jaws, panting softly; with
his head tilted slightly to one side, it almost looked like he was grinning.
Gilbert’s stern expression quelled it, however. Alfred ducked his head and
dropped to his belly, chin between his forepaws, looking upward with sad blue
eyes. If only royalty was always this well-behaved. Gilbert didn’t mind the pup
being rowdy, just not where he could hurt Matthew.
“Settle down, Alfred,” he said. The pup’s ears perked, hearing his name.
Gilbert’s attention shifted to Matthew. “What’s wrong, Neffe?”
Matthew had never looked so glum. His little pink lips curved downward in a
frown, and his azure eyes were bright with concern.“Où est Papa?”
Gilbert had to look away from the sincerity on the boy’s face; for whatever
reason, it made pain flare in his chest. “He’s gone, I’m afraid. He had to
leave.” His voice softened. “But don’t worry. I won’t leave you.”
When he’d finished buttoning his coat and risked another glance at the
children, both had sorrowful expressions. Even Alfred’s ears drooped, because
the boy was reminded of the mother who had still not returned. For just a
moment, looking at the youthful faces that should have held ignorant bliss and
instead were tainted by the realities of life, Gilbert thought, What am I doing
here?
But then there was a knock on the ajar door, and it pushed open to reveal
Ludwig’s solemn face. He was trying hard not to look nervous, Gilbert could
see—and even if he couldn’t tell by the face, Ludwig’s posture was more forced
than usual, his steps just slightly unsure of themselves. If Gilbert saw him in
a herd, he would go after him. Fear and uncertainty were weaknesses. But this
is your brother. Get a grip.
“Ready?” Ludwig asked, after a nod of greeting to the children.
Gilbert checked his reflection in the looking-glass. Everything was military
straight, secured and polished—except one thing.
Ludwig noticed it too. “Did you forget to shave?”
Gilbert rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “Nein. I like it like this.” He’d never
grown facial hair before, but he enjoyed having it. It made him feel wilder,
another part of his wolf form showing through. How much could the two parts
overlap, he wondered, before it was impossible to tell them apart? They said if
you crossed your eyes long enough, they’d stay that way. Perhaps the same rule
applied to people themselves. “Besides,” he added, trying to lighten the mood,
“the people are used to a stubbled leader. This might ease the transition.”
Ludwig regarded him humorlessly. “Hm.” He stepped to the bed, allowing Alfred
to nuzzle into his large hand. Matthew looked up at him sadly, and a rueful
furrow found its home between the guard’s eyebrows. “Do you think, perhaps,
Antonio should be taking the king’s place? It’s the way things are usually
done.”
Gilbert eyed his brother and replied slowly. “Ja. If he wasn’t just as bad as
Francis, he would be taking his place. He knows more about being High Alpha
than I do.” He shrugged. “But I know how to lead. Civilians are not all that
different from guards, they’re just less obedient.”
Normally, that would have been the end of it. But Ludwig asked,“What are you
going to tell them?”
“You’ll know when I do it. Don’t act so foolish, Bruder.” Gilbert stood at the
foot of the bed and held his arms out to Matthew, who crawled over and nestled
his head in the crook of Gilbert’s shoulder once he had been lifted up. Gilbert
snapped the fingers of his free hand, and Alfred flung himself off the bed to
prance in eager circles around the Captain’s feet. Gilbert turned to look at
Ludwig. “I’ll tell them I’m taking Francis’s place until Alfred has come of
age. If they ask where he went, I’ll say he and Antonio abandoned their posts.
Which they did, the moment they started believing this unnatural nonsense. I
won’t say a word about the Omegas. They won’t care enough to ask.” He arched an
eyebrow. “Is there a problem with that?”
Ludwig took a deep, contemplative breath. There were many problems with it, the
largest of which being that the night before he’d met with Francis and Antonio,
rousing them from the same bed to share his plans. They had to go North, he
told them. The Omegas could only have gone for two reasons: to live there, or
to bring back fighting forces. As difficult as it was to imagine, Ludwig knew
it was the latter. Feliciano had not come out and said it, but he would have
been far more upset if they were leaving forever (Ludwig hoped that his mate
wouldn’t just up and leave for good . . .). If they were going to start a war,
Francis and Antonio should make it clear what side they were on. They knew how
Gilbert would lead and organize attacks. They could be invaluable. Francis and
Antonio had looked terrified at the idea of throwing themselves on the mercy of
the Jarls, but Ludwig had insisted, and finally they relented. Now they were on
a small ship, the crew of which had been paid an incredible sum to mind their
tongues—not to remain silent, notice. They were welcome to tell anyone the
story of the Promegas, so long as they didn’t mention who told them: Ludwig.
As they stood here in the oblivious capital, the surrounding towns and villages
buzzed with rumors, the story spreading like a virus.
Ludwig was, officially, a traitor.
But he just inclined his head. “No, that sounds alright to me.”
Gilbert nodded sharply. “Good. Come on. We have a public to address.” He strode
from the bedchamber, Matthew content in his arms, Prince Alfred trotting
obediently at his heels.
Ludwig let out the breath he had been holding. I hope you know what you’re
doing, Arthur. Burying his misgivings as deeply as he could, the German Alpha
followed after his brother to face their people.
 
                                     . . .
 
“Hey, Alistair, what’s this about your brother flying North?”
Alistair bared his teeth in a vicious scowl. God, he couldn’t even leave his
house without hearing about his daft runt of a brother. “It’s bullshit,” he
said, for the tenth time that morning. “He probably just fell down the stairs
and broke his neck. That’s their cover-up. They don’t want the rich cityfolk to
cry.”
Everyone laughed, but no one knew what to believe, Alistair least of all.
He cursed his brother. Why couldn’t you just be normal? Would that be too much
to bloody ask?
 
                                     . . .
 
“Psst.”
Eduard didn’t open his eyes. “Mmm. Go away.”
“Okay, but we’re all talking and you’ll whine that we left you out after, I
know you get like that, Eddie.”
He opened his eyes now. “Shut your mouth, Feliks. I’m trying to rest, you know
I had Ivan at dawn. I’m still sore.”
Feliks rolled his heavy-lidded eyes. “Uh-huh. Well, it’s about Promegas.”
Eduard rubbed his face. “What is a Promegas?”
Feliks smiled smugly. “Exactly.”
“Ugh, you’re useless.” Eduard pushed himself up from his bed—his mattress
always smelled of Alpha musk—and followed Feliks down to the Satin Room, a
plush chamber where the Omegas lay on soft couches so the visiting Alphas could
choose which they’d like to fuck. Toris, Raivis, and Kat were here now, all on
the same couch, speaking in undertones. They looked up at Eduard and Feliks’s
entrance, and Raivis moved to a cushion on the floor. Eduard gave him a fond
smile as he sat beside Toris. “What’s all this about?”
“Promegas.” Feliks sat down on the floor with Raivis, his lilac gown pooling
around him. He studied his nails. “Get the Alpha seed out of your ears.”
“So help me, Feliks—” Eduard began.
“Calm down,” Toris cut in, glancing between them with his perpetually worried
green eyes. “Please. Feliks, watch your mouth a bit more, if you could.”
They all watched the blond Omega try to look at his own mouth for a moment.
“He fell out of the nest,” Eduard said. “There’s no other explanation.”
They all nodded, even Kat.
“Anyway,” Toris said, turning to Eduard. “Did Ivan mention what happened to the
king’s mate?”
“No, we didn’t do much talking.” Russian dog.His pelvis would be sore for a
week.
“He went to Scandinavia!” Raivis whispered, eyes round. “Without an Alpha! He
flew!”
That gave Eduard pause. “Why?”
“To bring soldiers back, that’s what they’re saying,” Toris replied. “To fight
for Omegas. That’s why they’re Promegas, I think. They want us to be the same
as Alphas. Equal.”
It was too good to be true. An Omega hero? Someone to fight for them? If they
won . . . if they won, the Omegas would be freed from their life at the
brothel. The way things were now, Eduard could do nothing else—no one wanted a
barren Omega as a mate. No one wanted an Omega who had a miscarriage without
even being mated, like Toris did. But all of that would be forgotten. They
could work anywhere Alphas could. They could be free.
Kat reached out to stroke Raivis’s curls. Her blue eyes were soft, like the
rest of her, and she had been here long enough that they did not hold much
hope, but they did have a tiny spark. “Good luck be with them.”
In unison, all the Omegas—even Feliks—murmured, “Good luck be with them.”
 
                                     . . .
                                        
“Arthur,” Lovino hissed through his gasps. “Arthur—”
The English Omega gave no sound beyond a desperate mewl as they ground
together, connected at the hips. Lovino felt so useless—the tribbing felt good,
so good, but it was not enough to sate Arthur’s Heat. It would have been so
simple if Lovino wasn’t physically an Omega. The thought added frustration to
his movements, fast and ragged—and then they were crying out and shaking,
grabbing for each other as they fell flat.
Lovino had come more times in the past few hours than he had his whole life,
and yet the best part—pleasing his partner—was denied him, simply because they
were both Omegas. Emil’s words echoed (some things are simply as they are) but
they weren’t a comfort this time.
Arthur writhed on the soaked straw mattress, rubbing his thighs together and
squeezing his eyes shut. He was beyond words at this point, and would only get
worse until his Heat drew to an end. It was worse for him, Lovino knew, because
he’d gone so long without a mate. A year and a half of each Heat soothed before
it even truly began, only to find himself Alphaless, with only Lovino to help
him? He was suffering. Lovino could do nothing but try and try to fill his
emptiness, and now he was too exhausted to even do that. The scent of Heat
didn’t drive him into rut like it did to an Alpha. In fact, the thick musky air
was starting to make him feel ill.
Lovino waited as long as he could before he had to stand up. “I’m sorry,
Arthur,” he said, lightly touching the other Omega’s hip. Arthur immediately
spread his legs, his body anticipating yet another round of sex. The thought of
it simultaneously turned Lovino on and made him want to curl up and die. How
much can one man have? “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I have to go for a while.
I’ll be back later, maybe I’ll try to get you to eat some food.”
Arthur buried his face into the pillow and groaned. He wasn’t in the mood to
eat. Or maybe he was just groaning because of the Heat; Lovino wasn’t sure if
he could understand him or not, but it didn’t really matter at this point.
His clothes felt rather disgusting against the drying sweat and slick on his
skin. He found Emil not on the other side of the door, thankfully, but at the
top of the stairs, looking on at the main room of the inn. More people than
ever had gathered to hear the story of the Promegas, which Feliciano was happy
to tell. When Lovino reached the top of the stairs, however, the chatter
stopped. Lovino could see the moment his scent reached them; every Alpha’s
shoulders tensed and they looked over with hungry eyes.
Emil looked incredulous. “Get back down there!” He pushed Lovino’s arm. “Before
you start a frenzy.”
Lovino stepped back down a few steps. “Well, sorry, but someone didn’t tell me
where I could get washed.”
Emil rubbed his nose as if to rid it of the scent. “Go back down. I’ll have a
washbasin brought to you.” A pregnant pause, followed by a question entirely
different from the gruff words before it. “How is Mr. Kirkland?”
Lovino went to run a hand through his hair, then remembered where the hand had
just been and decided against it. “He’s not having the best time, but there’s
nothing I can do about it.”
Emil nodded. “It’s too late now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if he had given consent to an Alpha before going into Heat, they could
have knotted him. Just so he would not have to suffer through it like this.”
Now Lovino was incredulous. “Does that happen a lot here?”
Emil nodded again. “I do it every month.” Before Lovino could ask, he added,
“If he wishes to tell you, he will. But it’s not my place to say on his
behalf.”
“Fair enough.” Concern roiled in Lovino’s belly. “Uh . . . Emil?”
The other Omega paused in turning away. “Yes?”
“I asked Arthur if he wanted me to . . . help him. Are you saying, because I
didn’t ask before the Heat, are you saying I . . .”
Raped him?
Emil stared at him for a long moment before replying, “I cannot say. You will
have to discuss it with him afterward. Your way of life is different, for now,
than ours. That is why I didn’t stop you from going in with him. You were in
control of yourself, yes?”
“Yes.” It sounded hollow.
“And you asked, and he said yes to you?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” Emil nodded once. “It sounds like Mr. Kirkland had some form of
understanding. But as I said. Talk to him afterward. Until then, do not think
too hard on it. The outcome will not change for your worrying.”
Lovino opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Emil wielded logic even
better than Arthur did.
“Say thank you,” Emil advised, an eyebrow raised slightly. “Then get washed,
and go for a walk.”
“Thank you,” Lovino said.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Vargas.”
Then he got washed up.
And then he went for a walk.
 
                                     . . .
                                        
Mathias was sitting on a brick wall eating pfeffernüsse when he saw the
spitfire walking down the street.
“Hey, hothead,” he called, loudly. Everyone in the street paused to look over
at him, so he smiled and pointed to Lovino and called, “Sorry, folks, that one.
The Italian. I didn’t realize so many of you had bad tempers, or I would’ve led
with that.”
Everyone smiled back—some even rolled their eyes fondly, much to Mathias’s
delight—except Lovino. The Omega hurried over to the wall and stared up at him
with narrow eyes. “Why are you up there?”
Mathias shrugged, kicking his feet like a child. “Had to sit somewhere. Figured
they wouldn’t mind.” The wall was built around the home of Mathias’s cousins,
none of whom minded because they all knew that sitting was the least offensive
thing he could be doing to their wall. Mathias patted the topmost bricks. “Join
me for an enlightening and deeply meaningful conversation.”
Lovino had backed away a considerable distance to be safe from the swinging
legs—they were the sort of legs that started at the hips, kept going, kept
going, considered stopping, then kept going some more, and that was before
knees got involved—but now he approached again. “What are we going to talk
about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was really just a ruse to offer you some pfeffernüsse.”
He held out a hand to help the shorter man up.
To Mathias’s surprise, Lovino’s eyes lit with recognition. He shifted to his
bird form long enough to flap up onto the wall (Mathias smiled to himself when
he saw the kite) and, once he was settled, accepted a handful of spice cookies.
“What did you say these were?”
“Pfeffernüsse.” The only thing Mathias loved more than speaking his language
was hearing Lukas speak it. But, for Lovino’s benefit, he translated,
“Peppernuts.”
Lovino arched an eyebrow. “These are not nuts.”
Mathias savored one before replying, “Tell you what, Mr. Vargas, I’ll change
the name just for you. Right after the war. Sorry, diplomatic mission. Did I
say war?” He shook his head; Lovino’s eyes were on his hair as if the jagged
locks might come unattached and stab him. “Silly me. Have some more.”
Lovino accepted the tiny cookies with a this guy is crazy expression, which
made Mathias laugh quite a bit. When he was done doing that, he asked, “So how
is our revolutionary leader?”
“Getting through it, I guess.” Lovino glumly crunched his peppernuts.
Mathias nodded wisely. “And you wish you could help him and hate that you
can’t.”
Lovino stared at him in such genuine alarm that Mathias had to give him a kind
smile. “I have the same thing with Lukas. The same relative issue, anyway. Rut,
not Heat. Alphas don’t go into rut every month, and it doesn’t last a week, and
some don’t even have to deal with it at all, the lucky bastards. But most of us
will feel it at least once in our lives. The all-consuming need to fuck
someone’s brains out.” He offered his tin of cookies cheerfully. “Another?”
Lovino blinked. “Uh, no thanks. Go on about the—the rut.”
Mathias tilted his head back to toss a cookie into his mouth. “It’s the
knotting. If an Alpha doesn’t knot inside someone for a long time, it can mess
with their head. Too much built-up need, turns them into an animal. Not
pretty.” He shrugged. “But that’s after a long time. Years without mating. I’ve
only ever seen one case of it, and the man didn’t even realize it was happening
to him until it was too late. It was weird, he didn’t even want to have sex,
even though his body did. But he was just a strange fellow all-around. He had
other problems, and he didn’t last much longer.” Mathias didn’t want to think
too hard on that poor man, trapped somewhere between human and wolf, a body and
mind at odds, tearing each other apart until the man was eventually found with
slit wrists in his bed. Alphas and Omegas were made to mate, it seemed to
Mathias. Depriving the body of what it needed was unhealthy. Bound to cause
problems sooner or later.
“But getting back to Lukas.” Always a good topic of conversation. “He never
gets to knot, so every now and then he’ll start going into rut. Maybe every
three months or so. Like I said, not as bad as Heat. A relative issue.”
“Why three months? What happens to stop it?” Lovino asked. “What keeps him from
. . . going strange, like that other Alpha?”
“Well, we made a deal. This was . . . oh, probably seven years ago, now. We’re
all very close, understand. We in the Court have known each other since we were
old enough to talk. So, basically, when Lukas goes into a rut, he’ll spend a
night with Tino.”
As expected, Lovino stared at him as if he’d just spoken gibberish. The
flabbergasted Italian finally managed to get out, “But—you’re cheating on your
mates. He’s cheating on you!”
Mathias raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t help but be amused. “We don’t call it
cheating. I knot Emil when he goes into Heat. It isn’t a secret, though he acts
like it is. I don’t mind telling people.”
“Clearly,” Lovino muttered, a bit of distaste in his voice. The Omega was
showing his youth.
Now Mathias got serious. “Don’t be so quick to judge. Let me go out on a limb
and guess you didn’t have a choice in getting mated?”
Lovino’s brow furrowed. “How did you know I was mated?”
Mathias snorted. “Omegas wouldn’t fly across a sea to be freed from Alphas if
they weren’t mated to some.” He ate the last of the peppernuts. “Now tell me
this. We are open with each other, we love each other like family, more than
family. We do it to help each other. And you were forced to mate somebody you
probably didn’t even know. What’s worse?”
Lovino was quiet for a long moment, but Mathias knew he’d won when the Omega
muttered, “Now I know why they say Scandinavians are perverted.”
Mathias threw his head back for a great, proud laugh. “Damn right. Happy to
be.”
“Sure, but what’ll you do if Tino gets pregnant? Or Emil?”
Mathias smiled. They’d talked through every possibility years ago. “We’re all
so close, we’ll all be fathers to any children we have. Blood doesn’t matter
here, Mr. Vargas. Love matters. If that makes us perverted, well, like I just
said. Happy to be.”
Lovino’s pause was different this time. He looked down at his lap, brown eyes
difficult to read. “I don’t have any Alphas I trust enough—or like enough—to
help me through a Heat.”
“Well.” Mathias hopped off the wall and held out a hand. Lovino looked at it,
at him, before accepting it and letting Mathias lift him down with his other
hand on Lovino’s bulky waist. The Danish jarl smiled down at him. “You never
know. Maybe, when this is all over, someone will come along.”
Lovino didn’t return the smile, just shook his head and started walking away.
He didn’t need an Alpha, he just needed an Alpha’s dick. And now he was
thinking of them as objects, just like Alphas made Omegas into. Hole in the
wall.
“Hey, Mr. Vargas!”
He stopped, looked over his shoulder.
Mathias gave him a grin that could have fit from one horizon to the other.
“We’re gonna help you. I almost have Lukas convinced. The West will have no
chance.”
Lovino held back a smile. “Good. But maybe don’t shout about political stuff in
the middle of the street.”
Mathias blinked, then glanced around at all the passersby trying not to stare.
He gave Lovino a grateful nod. “Goodness. Thanks, Mr. Vargas. Enjoy your day.”
Lovino nodded back, and walked away feeling victorious—until he heard a hideous
clanging and spun around to see Mathias striding down the street on his
ridiculously long legs, holding his arms up above his ridiculously spiky hair,
banging the lid of the cookie tin against the tin itself and shouting at the
top of his lungs, “NO ONE HEARD A THING! LAUGH IF YOU DIDN’T HEAR ANYTHING!”
Because, of course, everyone in the street was laughing, from quiet chuckles to
guffaws of hysteria at their larger-than-life leader.
Lovino could only watch and think, Thank god he’s on our side.
 
                                     . . .
 
Mathias found Lukas standing at a window in their drawing room. The Court had
two, one more formal than the other. Berwald and Tino reigned over the formal
one (they hardly ever went in there, though Mathias had caught them snuggling
on the settee once) while Mathias and Lukas spent a fair bit of time in their
smaller, shabbier room. Mathias preferred it to the other; he didn’t have to
worry about breaking anything, and it wasn’t tainted by political meetings like
the other was. They’d had an emperor in there, and several kings. High Alphas
and Sovran Omegas were just as bad as each other, though Mathias thought he
preferred the kings. The Omegas were scary. Well, just that one. I wonder how
Yao will take the news of his warring neighbors . . .
That was irrelevant right now. By the time news found its way east, the battles
would be over, Mathias felt certain. This would not be a lasting war. It
couldn’t be—the matter was too simple. People were equal. How could a majority
ever disagree with that, once they’d had their senses beaten back in?
Mathias went to Lukas now, standing behind his mate and resting his hands on
the small jarl’s hips.
“I’m not in the mood,” Lukas immediately said, voice flat as ever.
“Mm, me neither,” Mathias agreed, ducking his head to nuzzle behind his mate’s
ear. The familiar, perfect scent of him was the truest thing Mathias knew. He
trailed kisses down Lukas’s beautiful and, recently, soft jaw. He’d been
skeletal through their teenage years, but Mathias had fed him enough Danish
desserts that he was finally fattening up. Mathias stroked his hands up and
down the delicious curve of Lukas’s waist. “Min nat,” he rumbled, kissing his
neck. Not a kiss demanding lust; a kiss proclaiming love.
Lukas sighed softly—in irritation. “I cannot believe you put me in this
position.”
Mathias lifted his head. “We can sit on the couch, if you’d prefer.”
Lukas stepped out of his embrace, crossing his arms over his chest. “I mean
with this Promega business. I’m angry with Berwald, too. He was worse than you.
You, I expected to rush right in. But typically I can rely on Berwald to have a
level head.”
The Danish Alpha raised his eyebrows. “You’re mad at me?”
Lukas met the wide, unguarded blue eyes before he had to shake his head. “No,
I’m not mad at you. But—”
Mathias froze, mid-grin.
Lukas pointed a delicate finger at him. “The next time someone comes before the
Court, you must promise me to hold your decision until I have given mine. No
matter how much personal investment you have with the visitor.”
Now his expression darkened. “You heard what Bonnefoy called us.”
“Yes, I did. And I heard what you called him. And I say again: sometimes it is
best to keep your jaw closed.”
Mathias’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Last time you said mouth shut.”
A faint sparkle came into those deep blue eyes. “I thought it sounded a bit too
rude in this context.”
Mathias gave a low chuckle, stepping forward again, hands this time warming the
small of Lukas’s back. “Are you in the mood yet?”
“I’m getting there.” Lukas lifted a hand to block a kiss. “I’m making up my
mind. About the Promegas. I’m trying not to be biased by the fact that you and
Berwald have given me no choice but to support them.”
“I would change my mind for you,” Mathias mumbled against Lukas’s palm.
Lukas smiled faintly, pleased to hold this mighty man by a string called love.
“You haven’t promised yet,” he pointed out.
“I promise you everything,” Mathias said, taking his hand. He felt the small
fingers, the scars only he knew the stories behind, the callouses he prayed
would never spread to their hearts. The night they were mated, Mathias had told
Lukas, Your heart is the only thing in this world I will never break. Now, he
pressed a chaste kiss to the back of Lukas’s hand and said, “Jeg elsker deg.”
Lukas reached up to cup Mathias’s face, his own pure in its yearning: You are
what I want. Let me have you, because you are my everything. You promised.
He didn’t have to say it, not anymore. Mathias knew.
Lukas stretched up and Mathias leaned down, and just as their mouths brushed,
lips hot as the flames in the fireplace—a guard came in.
“My apologies, sirs,” the Alpha said with a deep bow.
Lukas rested his head on Mathias’s shoulder, his fingers teasing Mathias’s
spine through his shirt. The Dane cleared his throat. “Hurry up and spit it
out. This better be important.”
“Well.” The guard straightened with a faint sneer on his lips. “Antonio
Carriedo and Francis Bonnefoy just arrived, and they wish to speak with you
immediately.”
Lukas stiffened in Mathias’s arms, lifted his head from his shoulder, and
dropped his hands—all signs of affection gone. The sparkle in his eyes vanished
as if it had never existed in the first place. He was no longer in the mood.
Mathias processed this information before voicing all their thoughts:
“Son of a bitch.”
***** Chapter 22 *****
                    “Too often we hold love above all else.
                    Love is not strength. Love is weakness.
                   I defy any Western or Scandinavian Alpha
                     to see the life of Alphas in the East
             and tell me that love is stronger than hate or fear.”
                       —Emperor Yao Wang, The Compendium
 
It was probably selfish or something, but Francis was having a terrible time.
First, Arthur’s departure. Then Gilbert’s betrayal. Then the hideous time on
the ship (he could have kissed the land where they docked, had it not been
Scandinavia) and now the humiliation of running to a not-quite-enemy for help.
For mercy.
The Omegas did it, he reminded himself. A new mantra, though it did little to
soothe his nerves. Antonio was the only comfort in sight, a piece of living
sunlight in this barren wasteland of Nordic people. God, they were terribly
dressed. (And their hair . . .) Francis hated all of this, every single
component of this damned situation, and he said as much.
“I know,” Antonio murmured, speaking in French so the fortress guards would not
eavesdrop. They were in the main hall of the Court—a shabby excuse for a
corridor compared to the castle’s grand hall—and Antonio was sweating in his
bulky coat. The ship captain had bundled up his royal cargo in unsightly furs
that smelled worse than they looked. Francis did have his own fur coat, tucked
away from the last time he visited the Jarls (a long time ago indeed, before
his first marriage), but he could not risk going into the castle to get it. If
Gilbert was crazy enough to call him Deformed and toss him out simply for
suggesting something, who knew what he might do upon seeing Francis again?
Francis wished he could have said goodbye to his children. Thinking of them
now, their soft warm cheeks dimpled with smiles, their eyes holding more color
than the entirety of Scandinavia, his heart threatened to shatter. And thinking
of Arthur on top of that . . . it nearly killed him. The regret. The
uncertainty of it. It went straight to his lungs; his breaths began to shudder,
grow shallow.
“Calm down, breathe,” Antonio whispered, still in French, rubbing his friend’s
back. He’d done a lot of this in the past few days, particularly on the ship,
where he held Francis’s hair back as the other Alpha retched his stomach’s
contents into a bucket. (Francis had moaned, You don’t have to do this, Toni.
To which he had replied, Yes, I do, Your Majesty.)
Francis took a deep breath. The guards were watching. People said he had no
backbone, no power . . . and the second one was apparently true. But he did
have a spine, damn them all, and he would prove it. He exhaled—still pretty
shaky—and forced a self-deprecating smile for Antonio. “Mon dieu. Look at me.
I’m a mess.”
The Spaniard must have seen right through this attempt at making light, but he
smiled generously, as he always did. “I’m a mess, too. Don’t worry. We’re both
in shambles. But you look better than I do. You look like a king.”
Francis shook his head, peering up at the shadowy rafters above. He had never
felt true shame before, so he thought he was feeling it now, though in
actuality it was nothing more than exhaustion and embarrassment. “No, I don’t.
I barely recognize myself.”
He didn’t see Antonio staring at him, hazel gaze tracing the lines of his
elegant cheekbones, his stubbled jaw, his handsome nose. He didn’t see the
yearning, the rising courage. He didn’t see the hopeful, breathless second of
decisiveness before he finally said, “Francis, I—”
“TWO THIRDS OF THE COURT OF JARLS IS COMING!” bellowed the unmistakable voice
of Mathias Køhler. “YOU TWO DAMN WELL BETTER BE BOWING!”
Francis glanced at Antonio, who had quickly schooled his features into a
friendly (tortured) smile. The French Alpha sighed. What was one more
humiliation? The guards, though in human form, bared their teeth meaningfully
at the visitors. So Francis and Antonio abased themselves, bending at the
waist. Francis had never done this before, and it felt . . . the Omegas were
forced to do this . . . it felt . . . my mate bowed to me, slaved for me . . .
it felt . . .
Vulnerable.
Eyes on the ground, always on the ground.
Lesser. Other.
He let himself imagine having what he had done to Arthur done to himself.
Someone stronger grabbing his hair. Shoving that base part into his mouth.
Forcing him to suffer for their pleasure, when just the previous day he had
been told, I love you.
Now.
Now he knew what shame felt like.
“Well, well, well,” said Jarl Mathias, loudly, as he and his mate stepped into
the room. Not stepped, but stormed—their boots were like thunder in the large,
torch-lit hall, so loud Francis’s heart skittered as they drew near. The Danish
Jarl stopped close enough that Francis, still bowing, could see his boots. Huge
boots. How did people grow so big here? His voice made Francis jump. “How does
it feel, Mr. Bonnefoy? You must be about to throw yourself off a cliff. After
all, you’re an Alpha in an Omega position. Whatever that means. Ugh, look at
them, Lukas. I could spit.”
“Stability, Mathias.” Here was the infinitely calmer voice of the only Jarl of
reasonable height, Lukas Bondevik. “Rise, Mr. Bonnefoy, Mr. Carriedo.
Considering the uncertain relationship between our territories at present, I
suggest you state your business here promptly.”
Francis straightened up, only to nearly bump noses with Mathias, who had leaned
down to glare into his soul and growl, “Do. Not. Lie to us.”
Francis imagined what Gilbert would do if he saw this happening to his king,
his friend. He would probably shove Mathias away and step between them,
growling protectively. Well, he wouldn’t do that now that he thought Francis
was Deformed, but the thought was still a comfort. This, and Antonio’s
supportive gaze, steadied Francis enough to lift his chin and say, “We have
come to join your side.”
Mathias’s brow furrowed, first in confusion, then in anger. “What is this, some
kind of trap? We’re supposed to take your advice and let you lead us right into
a massacre?”
Francis shook his head. He had never been a fan of the Court of Jarls, in a
personal or a governmental sense. For one thing, how could you ever come to a
decision with three equally important opinions to contend with? For another,
how could you deal with someone as disagreeable as this Dane? Plus, the absent
Alpha was unnerving, a silent giant, and Francis could never quite pronounce
his name correctly.
“We aren’t here to represent anyone,” Francis said carefully. Antonio had urged
caution at admitting they’d been stripped of their ranks. The Jarls would have
an obligatory respect for them as royalty, but as Western civilian Alphas? In
the middle of these rocky political times? Who knew what Mathias would do to
them—or what he could do to them. The only law Francis was certain existed in
Scandinavia was against prostitution, and he didn’t think it would protect him
in this situation. “We come separate from the military of Western Eurasia. We
wish to help you, if we can, in any coming conflict between the West and
yourselves.”
Mathias was about to speak, but Lukas touched his arm and gave him a pointed
look. It seemed to remind the taller Alpha of something, because he stayed
silent, letting Lukas talk first. “So, Mr. Bonnefoy. If we were to go to war on
behalf of the Promega movement, who would we be fighting, if not you? Who leads
in your stead?”
The thought broke his heart. His poor pup, his poor nestling. He had no doubt
that they were safe, but safety and happiness were two different things. I’ll
come back to you as soon as I can, darlings.“My Alpha son would have taken my
place, but he is too young. For now, Gilbert Beilschmidt is in charge. He is
the Captain of the Royal Guard.”
Now Mathias and Lukas exchanged a slightly surprised glance, and Lukas
remarked, “I find it difficult to imagine him leading an entire kingdom.”
Francis had forgotten that Gilbert had accompanied him on a Northward visit
once; they had left Antonio behind on that occasion. Gilbert had barely said a
word the entire time—not because of a mood or anything, but because he spent
the majority of his time as a wolf. While Francis and the Jarls spoke about
politics and whether or not two Alphas mating was acceptable (if only Francis
had thought about it for more than a second) Gilbert and the fortress guards
sat on their haunches along the walls, ears pricked, watching intently. It had
been rather strange, and even stranger when they walked back to their inn with
Francis on two legs and Gilbert on four. Francis had been tempted to order him
to reclaim his human form—if only so he could have someone to talk to—but
Gilbert had seemed so happy to prance through the snow flurries that Francis
didn’t have the heart to end it.
“He shouldn’t be,” Francis admitted. “But he is. He has become . . . unstable.”
Antonio shot him a worried glance, but there was no taking it back. And since
Mathias had prefaced this with a warning against lying, it seemed
counterproductive to withhold what he thought was a pretty important bit of
truth.
Lukas had never been easy to read, but Francis thought he actually looked
concerned now. “Are you saying Gilbert has overthrown your rule?”
Francis hesitated. “Overthrown is a very strong word . . .”
Mathias arched an eyebrow.
The French Alpha sighed. “Yes, I have been overthrown. I did not realize what
an influence Naturalism has. When I tried to change things to align with the
equality the Promegas want, Gilbert called me—”
He stopped. Mathias stepped forward, a smile spreading over his lips. “What?
What did he call you?”
Wonderful.As if Francis hadn’t had enough humiliations in the past few days.
Dropping his gaze to the floor, he let his shoulders slump in defeat. “He
called me Deformed.”
The rapture with which Mathias strode around, laughter booming off the walls,
actually made tears burn at the back of Francis’s eyes. But he’d done enough
crying. He would not cry here, in front of these people. He simply would not.
“Ah, how does it feel, Bonnefoy?” Mathias asked, loud as ever. “Deformed. I’m
glad you finally got to taste how disgusting that damned word is. Not as nice
when it’s thrown back in your face, huh? Now you—”
“Stop it, Mathias.” This came from not Lukas, but Antonio. Francis looked up to
see his best friend standing up to the Jarl, head tipped back to stare up at
the ridiculously tall man. Antonio did not have the ease he usually did, the
comfort in his skin and his clothes—he was still stuffed into the cumbersome
furs like Francis, and it occurred to the French Alpha now that the Spaniard
had been different for quite some time. Alfred’s first hunt stood out in his
mind, when Antonio had snarled at Francis. He’d apologized profusely once
they’d returned to the castle, and Francis had assured him that he understood
getting caught up in the thrill of the chase, the climax of the killing bite.
There was something troubling his dear companion, just as there had been
something troubling Arthur. Francis had not noticed the latter until it was too
late, and he’d only noticed the former by chance. Why was he so blind to the
problems around him?
I have let others shield me from the world for too long, Francis thought. I
cannot continue. I must learn to be strong.
Mathias’s grin had a cruel twist to it as he glared down at Antonio. “Don’t
think you’re any better than him, Carriedo. You followed and preached the same
Natural nonsense. You stood beside him while he blatantly disrespected me and
Lukas.” His satisfaction was overwhelmed by old anger now. “You think you don’t
deserve to be punished for that? You think actions don’t have consequences? You
think you can call my love for my mate Deformed and fucking get away with it?”
He gave Antonio’s shoulders a shove, but not with all his strength. Still, it
was enough to knock the Spaniard back a few steps. “You don’t know anything
about love, you worthless—”
“Mathias!” Lukas admonished, disapproval clear.
But Antonio stood his ground. “I do know what love is,” he declared. “I admit
that Naturalism led us astray, and we shouldn’t have followed it so blindly.
And I apologize on my king’s behalf for calling you Deformed. Believe me, I
know that actions must have consequences, and these consequences must be faced
sooner or later.” His voice dipped briefly down to a hollow whisper, his gaze
drifting, then hardened again. “But do not claim I don’t understand love. I . .
. I feel it every day.”
He had the attention of everyone in the hall now. Lukas stepped closer to again
place a calming hand on his mate’s arm, then fixed a piercing stare on Antonio
and asked, “Do you mean to say that you love an Omega mate? One who is
essentially your slave? You would call that love?”
The Spaniard shook his head. “No. I wouldn’t. Not for me. I don’t love my mate.
Not in that way.”
Francis stared at him, but Antonio wouldn’t look. Who do you love? Who, if not
Lovino? Is that what has been troubling you all this time? Why didn’t you tell
me? Who do you love, Toni?
Mathias, the man who had just forbidden them from lying, asked his question
aloud. “Who, then? Who do you think you love? Forgive me, but I’m very curious.
Actually, I have an even better question. If you love somebody else, why didn’t
you mate that person instead?”
Antonio’s cheeks darkened. “Because I—I couldn’t mate him. Because . . .” He
took a deep breath. “He’s an Alpha.”
Oh, god.
Antonio finally turned his head to look at Francis. His eyes held terror, but
also relief, at the secret’s release, and they were warmed by the same loyalty
and devotion they’d always been. “I’m sorry, Francis,” he murmured. “I had to
say it. I had to tell you, or I was going to lose my mind. I love you.”
Francis could only stare at him, dumbstruck. Every time Antonio touched his
back, his hand, helped him dress, fixed his hair . . . when he took it upon
himself to train the Omegas, to arrange the weddings . . . every time Francis
looked over and found hazel eyes looking back at him, lingering . . . Even when
they were children, Antonio’s joy at pretending to be an Omega for Francis. Or
the Spaniard’s tense smile when he saw Arthur lying with Francis’s child, the
child Antonio could never give him. Such injustice, such jealousy, and yet
right by Francis’s side Antonio had stayed.
The signs had been everywhere, but Francis had been blind.
Or, he finally let himself think, perhaps I was just too afraid to open my
eyes.Afraid that, if he knew for certain how his advisor felt, he might feel
the same way. A Deformed High Alpha. Imagine that.
Francis felt like laughing. Or fainting.
Lukas’s dark blue eyes were blank as ever, and for once Mathias’s were, too.
The Dane took a moment to find a response. “Huh. Well. That’s ironic.”
Antonio ducked his head, blushing fiercely in a way that reminded Francis of
Lovino. Oh, what a tangled mess they’d gotten themselves into. Trying to solve
it made Francis want to lie down for the better part of a century. Instead, he
cleared his throat and said in a light voice he didn’t recognize, “If that’s
all the delving into our personal lives you would like to do, what is your
answer to my proposal? Will you allow us to join your side?” He doubted they
would throw him out, but he wouldn’t put it past them to toss him into a gaol
cell until the conflict had been resolved. “What say you?”
Mathias’s lip curled up a bit, appreciative of how forward Francis was being
but not appreciative of the man himself. He looked to Lukas, who stared at
Francis for a long, long while. Those eyes would be a lovely shade of blue if
they were not so dark and empty. At length, he said, “Yes, we will accept your
assistance. We will go to the West for Omega equality, and if their forces will
not hear us, we will be at war.”
Mathias nodded to a pair of guards who immediately dashed out of the fortress
to spread the word. If gossip spread like a virus in the West, it traveled like
a bullet in the North. By nightfall, everyone would know what had transpired in
the jarls’ fortress. Everyone except one Omega.
Francis cleared his throat again. “Thank you. Now, before we begin our planning
. . .” He felt a mixture of excitement and dread quiver through his capricious
heart. “May I see Arthur?”
 
                                     . . .
 
“Mathias or Berwald?” Feliciano asked, smiling over his mug of mead.
“Definitely Berwald,” Tino replied, with the same smile on his own thin lips.
“He’s much more handsome. Mathias’s hair looks like a bird nest. Don’t tell him
I said that.”
Both of them giggled. Even Emil had to chuckle.
“I say Berwald,” he said. “I’ve seen Mathias naked. At least Berwald has the
benefit of mystery.”
“But you’re biased, Mr. Bondevik,” Feliciano protested.
“And Tino isn’t?” His exasperation had Feliciano and Tino dissolving into
giggles again. They were silly with mead, but Emil was sober. Normally, he
wouldn’t take part in Alpha-comparing games, but he had found himself enjoying
it for whatever reason. It went without saying that he liked Tino—yes, fine, he
loved him, but that went without saying even more because Emil had never said
it—and Feliciano was good company, too. Very different from Lovino; they hadn’t
had a serious conversation yet, but that hadn’t turned out to be a bad thing.
Emil was pleasantly surprised to discover that taking a break from science and
introspection could be beneficial. (What was that word . . . oh, yes—fun.)
“I like Berwald better, too, from the way you described him,” Feliciano told
TIno. “He reminds me of my Ludwig.”
Emil hoped Feli’s faith in his mate was not misplaced. If they did have an ally
in the West, one never knew—that could be the deciding factor of a battle. If
Feliciano was simply infatuated, it would be a heartbreaking moment of truth
for the little Italian. For his sake, Emil hoped Ludwig was a good man. Unlike
his king.
Think of the devil.
A knock on the door. The crowd drawn by the Promegas had gone home, the novelty
having mostly worn off, and the innkeeper was sweeping the rooms upstairs, so
Emil opened the door. A guard stood there with two Alphas Emil had not seen for
years.
“Francis Bonnefoy,” he said, prompting a gasp from Feliciano. “What are you
doing here?”
The French Alpha looked—worried. And tired, dark spots under his eyes, cheeks
hollow. He and his Spanish advisor were looking everywhere but each other. Emil
could have stared at them for an hour and would have been unable to pick out
all of the emotions that clouded their weary eyes.
The guard who had guided them here gave Emil a condensed version of the chat in
the fortress, complete with the declaration of love that had both Western
Alphas blushing at the floor. “We were told to stay here tonight and return to
the Court in the morning,” Francis said, without looking up. “We would like to
see our mates.”
Emil nodded to dismiss the guard, closed the door behind the newcomers, and
crossed his arms over his chest. Budding romance between Westerners should have
been the least of his concerns, and yet here he was in the center of an ever-
worsening web. “I assume Lovino is your mate, Mr. Carriedo.”
The Spaniard nodded as if it shamed him.
What poor excuses for men, Emil thought. “You can see him if he’ll speak to
you. But you cannot see Arthur.”
Francis looked up, eyes wide, like a pup denied a bone. “Why not?”
“The Jarls didn’t tell you? He is in Heat.”
“Then I must see him,” Francis said. “He needs me—”
“Absolutely not,” Emil snapped, just short of a growl. “He cannot consent to
you right now. You will not rape him.”
Now Francis looked like he might burst into hysterics. “Of course not! I-I just
want to soothe him . . .” But he could see this was not his place, and he
wisely fell silent. He was an Alpha in an inn full of Omegas, in a territory
where being an Alpha meant no more than being blond. He was not special by
default here. He would just have to deal with that.
Tino hopped up. “I’ll go get Lovino.” He hurried down into the basement.
Emil directed Francis and Antonio to sit on the other side of the table the
Omegas had been chatting at. Feliciano waved to them both. “Hello, Antonio,
sir. Hello, King Francis, sir.”
Francis and Antonio gave weak smiles. “Hello, Feli,” Antonio said.
“You don’t have to call us sir,” Francis added.
Feliciano shook his head. “Woops! This will be really hard. There are a lot of
things to remember not to do. No sir, no bowing.” He was too hazy with mead to
really process who he was talking to, or the news from the guard. “It’s easier
for Alphas, they just have to remember not to be mean.”
Even the journey to equality wasn’t equal. Who knew. Before anyone could react
to this, footsteps thumped furiously up the stairs and Lovino came into the
room like the hurricane he was. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He was looking at Antonio, so it was the Spaniard who replied, “We came to help
however we can—”
“Tino told me that much.” Lovino stood on the other side of the table, glaring
across at his mate. “I mean what are you doing here, like we want you here? We
don’t. I don’t. You wanted to see me. Great. You’ve seen me. Bye.” The words
flowed out like a swarm of bees, his finger jabbing at Antonio as he started in
again, “Just because you’ve come here doesn’t mean I’m gonna forgive you.
You’ll be damn lucky if I ever do, you fucking bastard. Do you even know what
you put me through?”
Antonio’s face twisted into a grimace of guilt and grief. “I’m so sorry. I was
drunk the first night, and—and after that, I just . . . I just let myself go—”
“Shut your goddamn tomato-eating mouth,” Lovino snarled, slamming his hand down
on the table, then threw a cup for good measure. It sailed just over Antonio’s
head and, because it was made of tin and not glass, bounced off the wall and
clattered to the floor without much issue. “Every night, you made me hate
myself for being an Omega. Every. Night. Every day. Do you have any fucking
concept of what it feels like to hate yourself for how your damn body was
born?”
Lovino’s voice was shaking with rage and misery, but Antonio was truly coming
apart. He looked up at the man he had taken to be his mate, his hazel eyes
filling with tears. They streamed down his cheeks as his voice broke; it took
him two more tries to finally force out the aching reply, just one cracked
word: “Yes.”
He knew. He knew every time he saw Francis kissing Arthur.
And, now, so did Lovino. Lovino knew.
Lovino and Antonio stared at each other, both of their hearts on fire, both
wounded by different sides of the same blade. There was no forgiveness from the
Omega, but there was none expected by the Alpha. There was only the apology,
the admittance of wrongdoing, and the acceptance of whatever punishment might
be given.
Lovino felt the inferno within him blaze to its peak, then—what? Was it
starting to subside? Of course it was. He couldn’t live in bitter fury forever.
It would eat a hole in his heart until there was nothing left. It would win,
and he would lose. So he would not do that. He wouldn’t do anything to punish
Antonio. He wouldn’t hit him or shout at him anymore. He would just let Antonio
have his guilt. That was a worse punishment than anything Lovino could come up
with, after all.
So Lovino stood there, hands going numb from being clenched into tight fists at
his sides, until the fire had died down to a manageable bed of coals. Then he
took his seat next to his wide-eyed little brother and turned to Emil. His
voice was deadly calm, and he loved it. “I would appreciate if you could go
down and help Arthur finish his food. I was just getting him to eat when these
two showed up.”
Emil met his gaze for a bit longer than strictly necessary, trying to see if
all was truly well. Go, Lovino tried to say with his eyes. I won’t attack
anyone. Emil pressed his lips together, considering, then said, “Tino, perhaps
you and Feliciano should go upstairs. I suspect this conversation will be quite
private. These three have a lot that needs to be discussed.”
Feliciano was obedient and Tino was used to being asked to leave the room, so
they retreated without fuss. Emil gave Lovino one last appraising glance before
disappearing down into the basement.
And then it was just the three of them. The fallen king, the walking broken
heart, and the teenage revolutionary.
“Let’s not waste time,” Lovino said. His stomach felt strange, and he realized
it was fluttering with glee. He was dominant over these Alphas. The only thing
that would sweeten his triumph was if Gilbert were here, too. He’s the true
enemy now. Who were they kidding? He always was. Lovino remembered those damn
German fingers in his hair, hauling him out to the street. Bastard. Damned
bastard. He didn’t have enough hateful words to get across how much he despised
Gilbert and all that he represented. But that would come soon. That battle
would be fought in time. For now, he had these two fools to deal with.
Lovino kicked his feet up onto the table, crossing them at the ankle and
leaning back in his chair. “So. Bonnefoy.” (He just called an Alpha by his last
name!) “You’re going to tell me what you did to Arthur. I know you did
something. Did you hit him? Rape him? I know you like doing that, being an
Alpha and all.”
Antonio sniffled, wiping the last of his tears away, and looked to Francis.
God, what does he see in him? Lovino wondered. He might feel bad for the
forbidden love, if Antonio deserved sympathy, which he didn’t in the slightest.
They deserve each other. Both pricks.
Francis took a deep breath in, then out. Lovino thought he might tell him to
put his feet down, but the French Alpha knew precisely how much authority he
had here: none whatsoever. “I didn’t hit him. I didn’t—rape him. Just . . .” He
lowered his head a bit, blue eyes dark with shame. “It was his mouth. In that
way, yes, I forced myself on him. I’ve never regretted anything so much.” He
actually closed his eyes now. Like he was that torn up about it.
Lovino scowled at him, disgusted. “Why? Why did you do it?”
Francis didn’t open his eyes right away. “Because it’s what I’ve always been
allowed to do. It was just . . . the way things had always gone. I didn’t think
about it. Not until afterward.”
“Right.” Lovino turned his attention to Antonio, keeping his words brief and
hard. “And you did it to me because you—what did you call it? You let yourself
go? So you’re saying you didn’t think about it, either. Yeah?”
Both Alphas stared at him, exhausted. Lovino could just see them as wolves,
ears and tails drooping, eyes forlorn, whimpering softly. Poor puppies.
Lovino scoffed at them. About time they went through something difficult. Now
try living as a slave for your whole life, and we’ll be even. “Here’s my advice
to you. Stop thinking with your dicks.” He took a sip of the mead his brother
had been drinking. “Now. About Arthur. I don’t think he wants to be your mate
anymore, Bonnefoy.”
Francis blinked, startled. No one would ever expect such blunt phrasing, even
in this context. “I know he’s angry with me, and I don’t blame him, but I
wanted to try to make it work. Until . . .” He glanced at Antonio, who could
only gaze back at him apologetically.
“Yeah, well, Arthur and I mated,” Lovino said. (He and Arthur really needed to
talk about that, as soon as possible. Although Arthur had agreed to it, which
was more than he’d done to Francis.) “Several times.”
The French Alpha pressed his fingertips into his temples. Slowly, he said, “You
mated with my wife. The mother of my son.”
Lovino lifted his chin, glaring into the Alpha’s eyes. You think you’re better
than me? Let’s go. I could take you.
Francis’s gaze flared, and he actually started to stand up, but Antonio put a
hand on his shoulder, trying to mollify. “Until we can talk to Arthur, we won’t
know anything for sure. So . . . I guess we’ll just have to wait.”
Lovino thumped his feet to the floor and stood up lazily. “Yep, we’ll have to
wait.” For Arthur to pick me. He asked me to do this revolution with him, not
you. He said I was right about you. And after all of this? What would he want
you for?
Lovino drank the last of the mead and set the cup down harder than he needed to
just see if it would make Antonio jump, and it did. “I’m going back down to see
Arthur. You two should go have a nap or something. You look tired.” This said
with mock pity before he turned on his heel and left them sitting there,
ignoring the fact that he was just the same as them, a man who did not fit in,
a heart with love put on hold.
***** Chapter 23 *****
Chapter Notes
     My sincerest apologies for the delay, school is (mostly) to blame.
     Before you ask, there will be an epilogue after this. Thank you for
     reading, and uh... damn. I apologize again, in advance.
                       “Take not pride in drawing blood
                         Find not joy in giving pain.
                          Simply raise your head high
                          Lift your blade to the sky
                   And cease not until your enemy is slain.”
                           —old rhyme of Scandinavia
 
For the next five days of Arthur’s Heat, he slept.
Often his eyes were open, he drank, he even ate, and he moaned and rolled on
his mattress, but to him, it was like sleep. He dreamt, but he remembered none
of his dreams. He heard talking, but he couldn’t process the words being said,
nor the identity of the voice that said them. He had no concept of where or who
he was. He only knew that he was an Omega in Heat, and he longed for—would die
for—and Alpha to soothe him. To fuck him, mate him. Knot him, stretch him. But
no Alpha came, so on burned his Heat. Between bouts of delirious semi-
consciousness, Arthur slept.
He slept while Francis and Antonio plotted battle strategy with Mathias and
Berwald.
He slept while Lovino and Emil discussed which laws the West would take from
Scandinavia, which equal customs, and what punishment should be given to Alphas
who had spent the past however many years forcing their mates into bed.
He slept while his son, an ocean away, whimpered through the night for a mother
who would not come.
He slept.
And then, one day, he woke.
His first thought was, Is it nighttime? Because the tiny room was lit only by
the dying flicker of an inch of candle. But once his eyes had adjusted and his
brain caught up to him, he remembered—I’m in the cellar of an inn, in
Scandinavia. I’m here for the Promegas. The Jarls are deciding if they’ll help
us.Oh, how he hoped they would say yes. Mathias and Berwald already had. Would
the forces of two Jarls be enough to win a war? There doesn’t have to be a war,
he reminded himself. I have to try and make Francis and Antonio and Gilbert see
reason.He suspected Francis would be the easiest to convince. Once he had the
king on his side, the other two would follow, as would the rest of the kingdom.
Because who would ever dream of defying the High Alpha?
Well, Arthur thought with a faint smile. Me, apparently.
His smile turned to a grimace when he sat up, feeling the slick and sweat on
his skin. He wasn’t even wearing a shirt, and his trousers were just a mess.
The blankets on the straw mattress were tangled up and sprawled, some hanging
on the floor, partially curled around Arthur’s legs. He vaguely recalled
nesting, but once the full waves of Heat came in, the nest tended to fall by
the wayside. An instinct to make a comfy place to mate could only go so far
when an Omega’s skin was prickling and the only way to find relief was to roll
around.
If I was an Alpha, we could have been done with this by now, Arthur thought. We
wouldn’t have had to wait for Heat. He pushed the negativity away as quickly as
it had come. He couldn’t get discouraged now.They were so close, he could feel
it. There was light at the end of the tunnel, he felt certain.
He got to his feet—much easier said than done. His muscles were sore, his legs
a bit shaky. He felt like he’d done some serious exercise recently, but all
he’d done was lie in bed, so why . . . oh.
Lovino.
He remembered. Not clearly, but he remembered. Lovino’s hands squeezing his
hips, his fist pushing inside him, both of them rutting against each other like
desperate animals. Arthur’s cheeks turned pink, imagining it, but he felt
something darker than embarrassment, something like discomfort. He saw those
hands on his body, but he couldn’t remember how he had felt at the time. Well,
he remembered how he felt, horny as all hell, but—oh, how strange it was! He
couldn’t recall thinking, Yes, Lovino will mate me. I want this.He knew he must
have thought it at the time, but it was lost in the haze of Heat.
Which meant he didn’t remember saying yes.
That was what he was feeling. The something like discomfort—it was betrayal.
Such an evil-sounding word. It wasn’t exactly betrayal. But disappointment,
certainly. Arthur had undoubtedly imagined mating Lovino, had even begun
entertaining it as a real possibility, but he would not have done it during
Heat. Not for the first time. Arthur couldn’t remember, and that in itself was
cause for despair. And he would not have done it while Francis waited across
the sea, still his mate, still his husband. And certainly not while they were
on the cusp of revolution. This was probably the worst possible time for Lovino
to do this to them. To him.
Maybe betrayal was a fitting word, after all.
Arthur opened the door, taking a deep inhale. Ah, clean air. He had more
thoughts in his mind than hairs on his head, but right now his priority was
physical needs first, emotional wants second. He glanced around the cellar. It
felt like ages since he’d last seen these dingy floors and blackened torches,
but it had only been a week. He started toward the stairwell, only to make it
halfway across the room before Emil walked down into view.
The Scandinavian Omega blinked in surprise. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kirkland.
Welcome back to the land of the living.”
Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn’t nearly as self-conscious of
his body as he’d been before mating Francis, but for some reason he felt
uncivil addressing Emil while topless. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bondevik.” His
voice was a bit raspy. “How are you?”
Emil gave the ghost of a smile. “I’m quite well, thank you. I suspect you’d
like to wash up?”
“Yes, please.” He hadn’t felt so grimy since his winter Heats in the village.
Once Arthur had washed in the basin Emil brought to him, and dressed in clean
clothes, he ventured up the stairs. It had been an entire week since he last
climbed these steps. How guilty he felt for that lost time, a week he would
never get back. A week he could have spent with his friends, or with his
children. I’m so sorry, Alfred. How much time of an Omega’s life was wasted by
Heat? How many years did one lose, when all was tallied up at death? The
thought was depressing. And Alphas never have to deal with it. It broke through
his defenses: can people who are so different truly be equal?
Mentally, he gave himself a slap. Of course they could. Scandinavia was proof
of that.
At the top of the stairs, Arthur blinked, eyes briefly sensitive to the
sunlight from the windows, more light than he’d had all week. When his vision
returned, he saw four people looking at him.
Emil, arms crossed.
Lovino, eyes narrowed.
Antonio, brow furrowed.
And Francis, a slow, bittersweet smile spreading over his lips.
Arthur was tempted to pinch himself. His mind simply could not comprehend what
his eyes were telling it. There was no way Francis could be here. Francis was
in the West, at home, comforting Matthew and Alfred in Arthur’s absence. Arthur
had not planned on seeing Francis until he returned to the West and they
negotiated the terms of peaceful future. (Blackmailing someone with the threat
of war was better than actually going to war, as far as Arthur was concerned.)
So, no, Francis Bonnefoy could not possibly be here.
And yet, there he was. He spoke with a rougher voice than Arthur remembered, as
if his throat was a little raw. Arthur had forgotten how handsome his voice was
(and his jaw, and his eyes . . .) and he was taken aback when Francis said, “I
know I am probably the last person you want to see, but I am very glad to see
you, mon . . .” He trailed off into uncertainty, then finished instead,
“Arthur.”
Lovino shot Francis a death glare. Antonio looked miserably at the floor.
Emil just stared at them all from his place off to the side, impassive as ever.
Arthur began to search for his voice, and was surprised to find it readily
available; he spoke too loudly by accident, having expected to revert to his
submissive Omega murmur. I’m different. It’s changing! “Why are you and Antonio
here?”
Francis inclined his head slightly. “We know of the Promega movement you have
begun. The story is being told among Omegas and Alphas alike in the West.
Ludwig began the telling in secret, and I know my kingdom. Everyone will know
soon, if they do not already.”
(Antonio gave a small, knowing nod here. For all his faults, he was quite fond
of the people of Western Eurasia. Fierce, daft creatures, they were.)
“We came to join your side of the fight,” Francis went on. “I did try, after we
learned of your departure. I tried to change things. And Gilbert, ah, overthrew
me.”
Arthur stared at his mate, overwhelmed. He couldn’t decide which piece of
information to focus on first. People were telling his story? The thought made
excitement and pride course through him, lightning in his veins. Perhaps his
Heat hadn’t been a complete loss, then—even if he wasn’t out there, his story
was. If that gave Omegas hope, or made Alphas think about what they were doing,
then Arthur was happy. And he was immensely grateful to Ludwig, for protecting
their secret and supporting the cause. But now Francis and Antonio were
supporting it, too? And what was that about Gilbert?
Arthur had to pull out a chair and sit down. His legs hadn’t found their full
strength yet, and this was too much for them.
Lovino, seeing his distress, asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”
Arthur pressed two fingertips to his temple. Come to think of it, he was
probably on his way to a dehydration headache. “Some tea, please. If they have
tea here.”
Arthur and Lovino looked to Emil for confirmation, and the Scandinavian Omega
replied, “Yes, there’s some in the kitchen. Through there.” He nodded in the
direction of the kitchen, clearly unwilling to leave the Westerners without
supervision.
“I’ll make it,” Antonio offered. He didn’t seem very taken by the idea of
making tea, but, then again, he looked like he hadn’t smiled in months.
“Thank you, Antonio,” Arthur said, with just the hint of a polite smile. He was
proud of himself for not saying sir, but he sort of wished he’d thought to say
Mr. Carriedo. It sounded much more professional.
The Spaniard went off to fix a cup of tea.
Arthur returned to his previous train of thought. “Now, what on earth do you
mean? Gilbert overthrew you?”
Francis didn’t meet his gaze. “He thinks I’ve lost my mind. He called me
Deformed. That’s what I am, for going against Naturalism.”
Francis and Antonio had turned against Naturalism! Two out of three! Arthur
cleared his throat, trying to remain serious through his joy. “So your friend
turned against you—and you just allowed that? You’re the High Alpha, and one
man took your crown? How?”
Francis opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it once more. “It . . . It was
so unexpected, and Gilbert has the Guard on his side.”
“The Guard,” Arthur echoed, dubious. It seemed to him that the people of the
West placed too much power on the guards. They had no presence at all in the
smaller villages, and only barely in the other cities. They were not a policing
force, after all, just a group of Alphas charged with protecting the royals and
ensuring the city remained a safe place. It was true that the Guard was very
well-trained and strong, but if every single civilian Alpha in the West teamed
up against them? Arthur thought a different story would be told. But, in times
of war, the Guard relied on those civilians, and gave them great rewards when
the battles were won. Arthur wondered if Gilbert had given the summons for all
able Alphas to come to the capital. In any case, the less blood spilled, the
better.
“But you’re the king,” Arthur said, bewildered. “You’re higher than Gilbert.
Why should he have enough sway to dethrone you?”
Francis lifted his hands helplessly, palm-up, a surrender. “I could do nothing.
Even if I wanted to, I just—” He dropped his hands, eyes clouding with shame at
the memory. “I froze.”
Arthur looked at his mate. He was a ghost of the man he had first laid eyes on
in the grand hall of the castle. His hair lacked its usual shine, his eyes had
dark smudges beneath them, and he just didn’t carry himself the same way. He no
longer squared his shoulders and looked down his nose at people. In fact, with
his shoulders drooping and his head inclined, he looked more like an Omega than
anything.
Francis Bonnefoy had never needed to be brave on his own. He’d always had
Antonio to help him behind the scenes, or Gilbert to loom at his side in
public. Or, in the case of the wedding, he had alcohol to defend himself, but
when it came to logic or even force? He couldn’t do it.
Arthur couldn’t help it. He felt bad for Francis.
Antonio returned with his tea, and Arthur took a sip—it was pretty terrible,
though he couldn’t be sure if that was Antonio or Scandinavia’s failing—before
clearing his throat. “So. Let me just make sure I know where we all stand.
Francis, you and Antonio are on our side? You admit that Naturalism is toxic?”
Francis and Antonio nodded. “It is not a healthy system,” Francis said. “It has
caused unthinkable pain. I hate to even consider it.”
“It traps everyone,” Antonio added. “Not just Omegas.”
“Oh, shut up,” Lovino snapped, teeth flashing in a sneer. “What Alphas are
trapped? How does it trap you? Must be tough, forcing someone into bed every
night.”
Antonio’s face looked much like it used to when Lovino showed attitude, unsure
how to handle it. “Alphas like me are trapped, Lovino. Alphas who—who love
other Alphas aren’t allowed to be themselves. I call that being trapped. You
should understand that, after what’s happened between you and Arthur—”
Lovino pointed at Antonio, gaze burning through the Spaniard. “Don’t you
fucking dare compare yourself to me. Don’t even fucking suggest that. I
actually love the person—”
“But he was in Heat,” Francis protested, eyes narrowing with his own stifled
rage. “As Emil—as Mr. Bondevik says. An Omega cannot consent while in Heat. And
you went ahead and mated him anyway. That seems rather hypocritical, does it
not? You being so adamant about giving a voice to Omegas. And you took Arthur’s
voice away.”
Lovino’s expression held enough contempt to wilt an entire garden of flowers.
“At least I fucking asked first, you goddamn—”
“Excuse me.” Arthur’s tone was chillier than he’d intended, but he was glad for
it; the last thing he wanted was to sound hysterical. “Neither of you should be
talking about taking my voice away. I’m right here. I’ll speak for myself, if I
can get a moment.”
Lovino, Francis, and Antonio fixed their attention on him. Francis was the only
one who looked apologetic. Antonio had no intimate concern for Arthur—his
heart’s priority was Francis. And Lovino’s face held only fading ferocity,
leftover hatred for the Alphas he’d been arguing with.
Arthur looked at them all, letting the silence draw on until all he heard was
his heartbeat. “You know,” he said, his low voice reflecting the hairline
fractures in his heart, “I think we’ve found a bit of equality here. Because
sitting here, listening to the lot of you argue without a single scrap of
compassion? You’ve proven to me that Omegas can be just as cruel as Alphas. I
can’t see where one of you ends and the other begins.” Lovino started to speak,
but Arthur held up a hand. “Please, let me finish. I haven’t had a say in
anything for the past week, and that’s no one’s fault, but I have a few things
to get off my chest.”
First, he turned to Antonio. “You love an Alpha? May I take a wild guess and
say it’s Francis?”
Antonio’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“The way you looked at him. And the way you looked at me.” Arthur’s voice was
shockingly steady. He knew he should have been feeling pain in his heart, the
agony of being torn two uncertain ways, but for whatever reason he was numb to
it right now. He had a feeling it would come later, a delayed reaction; it was
like his heart was in shock. “I think I always had a suspicion, if we’re being
honest. You always seemed very Omega-like.”
Antonio started to hug his arms around himself, then must have realized that
this just proved Arthur’s point and dropped his hands. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” he
said; he had never looked so tormented. “I don’t want to steal anything from
you. I mean, anyone.” He avoided Francis’s gaze. The web could not be any more
tangled.
“Don’t worry about that,” Arthur said. He turned his attention to Francis.
“Where do we stand from your point of view?”
Francis looked surprised to be asked his opinion. “I came with intentions to
apologize to you and, if you will have me, do my best to make up to you all the
pain I have caused. But now that Antonio and Lovino have told their . . .
secrets.” He shrugged helplessly, but there was genuine love in his gaze. “I
would be with you, if you wanted that. In a heartbeat.”
The words were a dagger through Antonio’s heart. It was more painful for them
to watch him blink back tears than it was for the man himself. Because, though
it was the worst news he could hear, it was not a surprise. He’d been waiting
for it to officially happen, the rejection. But there was one unkillable part
of him that had been hopeful, and that was what bled now.
Arthur spared Antonio a second of sympathy before telling Francis, “Before you
forced yourself on me that night, I would have accepted that apology. But I
don’t know if I can trust you now. Even if we spent the rest of our lives
together, there would always be that little thought in the back of my mind. I
don’t want to live like that.”
Francis’s face fell. It hurt Arthur to see it, so he moved to the other point
of the triangle. Lovino had the good grace to look worried.
“What I said could just as easily apply to you, Lovino,” Arthur went on. “I was
in Heat when you did what you did. I can’t remember saying yes or no to you. As
far as I’m concerned, it’s like you didn’t ask at all.” He didn’t say the words
in a harsh way, but he didn’t have to. They were crucifying no matter how they
were delivered. “I’m not saying I don’t love you. You are very dear to me. You
and Francis both are.”
Francis lifted his head, breath held. Lovino only stared, eyes round, concerned
prey. How powerful love was, to wrap these two up so tightly. How wicked love
was, to trick the heart into thinking nothing else mattered. Arthur sighed.
Between Francis and Lovino, Antonio, Alfred and Matthew, Feli and Ludwig—how
many hearts had he hurt through all this? A better question: how many would be
broken by the end?
“I’m going to be frank,” Arthur told them, feeling three times his age. “I
don’t know which of you I would rather be with, and any choice I make won’t be
made today. It won’t be made tomorrow, either. This will take time. A lot of
time. Time to think, and time to forgive.” He took a deep breath. “But right
now we have something more important to worry about. The future of the West is
bigger than any romantic nonsense.”
Now the trio before him shared an identical look of shock. It was unheard of,
after all, for an Omega to push love aside, especially when it was love their
own heart was involved in. Even Lovino hadn’t done it. But Arthur Bonnefoy just
had.
Emil stepped over to him, a small smile of admiration on his lips. “The boats
are readied, Mr. Kirkland. The Court of Jarls has made their plans. They will
fight for your Promegas. All that remains is the rally.”
Arthur was grateful for this; all he wanted was something to think about that
wasn’t this mess of potential partners. He stood, set down his barely drunk
tea, and put on an all-business smile. “Excellent. Shall we go?”
 
                                     . . .
 
Mathias had been just about to start the rally when he saw Emil leading over
the rest of the Westerners. The Court of Jarls was gathered at the docks, along
with a good majority of Mathias’s wolves (Lukas and Berwald’s were boarding
ships a few hours’ walk away). Everywhere were Alphas, carrying last-minute
weapons and ammunition onto the boats, talking in Danish and Norwegian, all
contributing to the air of excitement. They had not been raised to dread
battle; it was a fact of life, and it was better to run toward a fight with
courage than with fear.
“About time you got here,” Mathias called as the Westerners approached. “We
were about to leave without you.”
The sea tossed a cold breeze at them, making Lovino and Antonio cringe, but
Mathias just inhaled deeply, a wide satisfied smile on his face. The sun was
shining, the clouds were fluffy. What a beautiful day to go to battle.
(Diplomatic mission.)
“Where are Lukas and Berwald?” the English Omega asked. Of all the Westerners,
he looked the least mopey. The other three might’ve burst into tears at any
moment.
Mathias pointed out Lukas, standing at the bow of the biggest ship, watching
over them with the same dark, deep eyes as ever. He wasn’t worried about
fighting, either, but he wasn’t excited like Mathias. He was too obsessed with
stability these days (it hadn’t been a priority for him in their wild youth,
Mathias remembered fondly). “Berwald is with Tino and Feliciano on another
ship.”
Lovino looked over sharply. “What ship? Where?”
“In Berwald’s territory. You probably don’t have time to fly there. Don’t worry
about it, Mr. Vargas.”
“No. I’m going. I fly faster than you think.” He glanced at Arthur, pain in his
eyes. “It’ll be better if I cross on the other ship.”
Before anyone could protest, Lovino spread his arms into wings and flapped away
from them.
Mathias tipped his head back to watch. “He’s going the wrong way.”
Emil rolled his eyes. “I’ll guide him.” He touched Arthur’s shoulder, and a
silent go well passed between them. Then Emil was a puffin, shooting through
the cold air after the red kite.
Mathias nudged Francis with his elbow. “Why so sad, Mr. Bonnefoy? Do we have
some drama? Wish I could help, but we only do political revolutions.”
Francis just stared up at him, too exhausted for anger.
Mathias shook his head. “You two better start to look alive. You don’t win a
battle with that look on your face. Think of all the people we’re gonna help.
Think of all the Omegas who’ll grow up happy because of what we’re about to do.
You have a nestling, don’t you? Think about him.”
Slowly but surely, a small smile brightened Francis’s face. Arthur smiled, too,
even though his mind was still following Lovino. None of this was fair. But he
was putting other people before himself. A whole generation, multiple
generations. Surely he got a pass for that?
“We’re gonna bring all our wolves with us to meet Gilbert,” Mathias told
Arthur. “He’ll see the ships and summon his forces, and that’s alright. He
won’t outnumber us. You’ll get to try out your diplomacy, but it’ll probably be
on a battlefield. And from there, well—if it goes wrong, just fly.”
Arthur nodded, mind racing. “Alright. But I want to help fight, if it comes to
that. I’m sure Lovino does, too.”
Mathias raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It’s not my job to order you around. But
if I were you, I would just stay out of the way. You aren’t trained, and
instinct and luck will only get you so far.”
Mathias didn’t hear Arthur’s response, because a nearby Alpha was calling to
him in Danish, “Jarl Bondevik says begin the rally already!”
Mathias looked to the ship bow again, and there was Lukas, shaking his head
slowly back and forth in the age-old exasperation: You take too long! You talk
too much! The Dane grinned, blew a kiss to his mate, then advised Arthur, “You
may want to cover your ears.”
Arthur put his hands over his ears obediently, because if there was one piece
of advice he was willing to take from this loud jarl, it was when to cover your
ears.
Mathias shifted to his wolf form in a graceful ripple. He was long-legged and
large, his ruff thicker than any Arthur had ever witnessed, and his coat was a
lovely pale cream color. He threw his head back and let a high, piercing howl
surge upward. It was loud, but Arthur didn’t see why he had to cover his ears.
And then every surrounding Alpha fell into their wolf forms and joined in the
rallying call. It was a deafening war cry, this wolf song of anticipation, of
excitement, of unity. Arthur’s Omega ears could not understand the meanings
hidden within the bays and howls and barks, but he felt something stirring
vaguely in his chest, the same sort of thing he’d felt when he heard howls
while pregnant with Alfred. He didn’t understand, and yet he just knew. These
howls, despite how clamorous and discordant they seemed, meant: together
strong! Together!
Francis and Antonio were the only Alphas who did not immediately turn at the
first howl, but they were clearly itching to do it. Arthur wasn’t sure if he
was expected to give them permission or if there was some Alpha reason for
their lack of contribution. Around them, the wolves began to play with each
other between howls, bowing and pouncing and racing and wrestling. They looked
like a lot of overgrown puppies. Even Mathias got involved, bowling over other
wolves, though then again perhaps that wasn’t very surprising.
Arthur stepped closer to his mate—strange to think of him that way, but
stranger not to—and asked, “What is this for?”
Francis waved a hand as if gesturing to some invisible, abstract concept. It
was an old habit that comforted Arthur. Lovino was a moody teenager, and
Antonio was trying to hide his misery, but Francis seemed to be feeling better.
“It is for morale,” he replied. “Bring the pack together for a team effort, you
know. We do it before large hunts, as well.”
Arthur could wrap his head around that, at least. “Why don’t you . . .
partake?”
Francis and Antonio exchanged a glance and said in unison, “It isn’t our pack.”
Arthur felt a small fraction of his heart go out to them. They were surrounded
by wolves strengthening their bonds, their pack morale, but every howl of
together! just made them feel more apart. There, Arthur thought. Now you know
how Omegas feel.
There was a screech; Arthur looked up to see ospreys and eagles and owls
swooping over the sea of white and grey and tawny wolves. Omegas like me,
Arthur thought, heart swelling. Like Lovino. A shadow passed over Arthur, and
he stepped back in surprise when a large black bird alighted in front of him.
Never had he seen a bird so peculiar—even stranger than a puffin. This bird had
long thin legs, a curved long neck, and a very long red beak, in which rolled
sheets of paper were clasped. This was a black stork, and it shifted back to
none other than Roderich Edelstein. He wore a long indigo coat that was not at
all suited to the chill, but he didn’t seem to mind. He had three pink spots on
his white face: one for each cheekbone and one on the tip of his nose. He waved
his rolled-up papers at Arthur and declared, “It is finished!”
Arthur blinked, eyes flicking to Francis and Antonio; both Alphas were looking
at Roderich with a mixture of guilt and wonder, for the Austrian Omega looked
more ethereal than usual out here. He looked more like a painting of a man than
a real one. Seeing him among these beasts was like a dream.
“Yes, I see them,” Roderich said, without even glancing at the ex-royals. “They
cannot affect me right now. I have finished my first piece in years. It is
done, Arthur!” He actually grinned, though a bit tentative, like he wasn’t sure
an expression of intense delight could fit on his face. “You inspired me. So I
named it for your cause.” He caressed the sheets like the skin of a lover. “The
Promega Sonata. I will play it when we see victory.”
Arthur found himself grinning back. “I am honored, Mr. Edelstein. Thank you so
much.” He was tempted to hug Roderich, but something told him he wasn’t the
type to enjoy hugging anyone who wasn’t his mate. Speaking of. “Where is
Elizabeta?”
Roderich scanned the wolves briefly before pointing out a light brown one,
smaller than the rest but howling and playing with just as much vigorous
spirit. His dark violet gaze softened, so warm in this land of cold. “She is
ready to fight. She is so strong.” He turned to look at Francis and Antonio,
mouth shrinking. “She was ready to fight the pair of you, but here you are.
Why?”
“We are on the same side,” Francis told him. “And before anything else is said,
let me offer an apology. You are not Deformed, and I never should have said you
were.”
Roderich scoffed. “Your apology will not be accepted until we have justice.” He
looked the fallen king up and down, eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. “Do
you even know what Gilbert did to us?”
Francis and Antonio exchanged another look, this one troubled. How long had
Gilbert been unstable? Neither of them could remember. No one had been paying
close enough attention. Antonio had been obsessed with Francis, and Francis had
been obsessed with himself. And now they were paying the price.
The wolves began to flow onto the ships. That was what their loping and
climbing became when they moved together, not many beings but one entity
flowing.
Roderich shook his head. “I will tell you. But not right now. We will be
trampled.”
Arthur jumped when he felt a wet nose on his hand, but it was only Mathias
tugging on his sleeve. The cream-coated jarl led the Westerners through the
pack—they parted around him instinctively—to the bow of the ship. Arthur stood
there, beside two jarls and a fallen king, the cold wind blowing at his back,
urging them onward, into the future.
 
                                     . . .
 
The news came just as Gilbert was tucking Matthew in for a nap. There was a
panicked knock on the bedroom door, and Gilbert jerked to face the door, a low
growl rumbling in his chest. Calm down. He’d felt so damn on-edge since Francis
and Antonio had vanished. The people of the capital had had a pretty good
reaction to the news—they were quite upset, some enraged even, but not at
Gilbert, so it didn’t matter. I will protect you, he had promised them, and
they had applauded him to show their gratitude.
Gilbert leant to kiss Matthew’s forehead. “Rest well, Neffe,” he whispered,
then stepped into the hall where a fellow guardsman stood, eyes ringed with
white like a spooked horse.
“Sir,” he said, out of breath after just sprinting up the castle steps, “word
from the coast—the jarls are coming with warships!”
Gilbert stared at the guard, and the poor Alpha looked back at his captain—at
the unshaven cheeks, the messy hair, the crazed glitter in those feral eyes. He
couldn’t say which was scarier, the encroaching enemy or the man in charge of
fighting them.
“Send out the summons,” Gilbert ordered, calm voice completely at odds with the
beast screaming inside him, ready for blood. “Every Alpha to the capital. Now.”
He started to stride away, then stopped to add, “And report back here when
you’re done. Protect Matthew.”
The guard blinked. “Yes, sir. And the prince . . . ?”
Gilbert paused. “No,” he replied, a dark smirk curling his lips. “The prince
will come with me.”
 
                                     . . .
 
The howl was not the rallying cry Mathias sent up. It was not the keen
beckoning Antonio had sung when Francis agreed to search for a new mate. It was
at once ferocious and terrified, a mournful wail that echoed through the
kingdom, screaming to those who could hear and understand: Weak! Weak alone!
Danger comes! Come now to fight!
Throughout the kingdom, Alphas stopped what they were doing. Most said a brief
farewell to their mates before dashing away; some dropped everything and ran
for the capital. Hunts were abandoned, repairs left unfinished. From
everywhere, wolves shifted and flowed toward the kingdom’s heart, howling as
they ran: We come! We fight!
In a village, Alistair Kirkland was trying to figure out how to bake bread, but
when he heard the howl, he froze. He’d heard the story of the Promegas.
Everyone had. And he’d heard the rumors that there would be war when they
returned. He had prayed, silently, that this would not be true.
He wasn’t a big fan of his brother. Some days, he hated him. But that didn’t
mean he wanted Arthur to die.
Who am I loyal to? he thought. My kin? Or my king?
He threw himself out the door and sprinted after his packmates. Arthur is
breaking the rules. He’s betraying everyone. We have to stick together. If we
don’t, we’ll fall.Alistair didn’t want to watch his brother die. He hoped the
little brat would come to his senses—before it was too late.
 
                                     . . .
 
In the Satin Room of the brothel, Ivan was having wine with his Omegas when the
howl came; the hair along the back of his neck lifted at the sound.
Raivis looked up from where he and Feliks sat on the floor. Timidly, he asked,
“What was that, sir?”
Ivan gave the boy a faint smile. The tiny Omega was probably his favorite. Nice
and tight. And perfectly submissive. Of course, sometimes it was nice to give a
smack or two to someone with attitude. That’s what Eduard was for. “A call to
arms,” he replied. “I suspect the Scandinavians have come.”
The Omegas all glanced at each other with a mixture of trepidation and
excitement, and the pleasure of having a secret. Even Feliks looked almost sly
as he finger-combed his hair.
Eduard stood first. “You’re not going to fight, sir?”
Ivan gave him an unfunny smile. “I don’t believe in violence.”
Translation: I don’t believe in risking my own life for someone else’s cause.
“Well.” Eduard gestured shortly, and the other Omegas stood up. “You can sit
here by yourself.” He picked up the mostly full wine bottle from the table and
threw it full-force at the window. Glass shattered from both, and wine splashed
like blood. “We’re going.”
Ivan stared, flabbergasted. “What in hell—has the whole world lost its mind?”
The Omegas gave no response to that. They were already gone; a rough-legged
hawk, meadow pipit, crested tit, bean goose, and mute swan flying against the
wind, to freedom.
 
                                     . . .
 
This was the battlefield.
The army, if one could call it that, of Western Eurasia. The Alphas of the
Natural way. Wolves with bared fangs alongside men with muskets. No one rode
horses. A steed could run toward metal sticks without fear, but they could not
face a bloodthirsty predator. The Alphas lined up behind the castle, in the
shadow of society, with Gilbert Beilschmidt’s darkening heart at their center.
And opposite them, matching their numbers and then some, standing proud in the
sunlight, the Court of Jarls stood with the Promegas, and Scandinavian Alphas
lined behind them. No one showed aggression. The wolves stood calm and silent;
the birds perched on shoulders. The only angry face was Lovino’s.
Gilbert spoke first. “I see more have caught Arthur Bonnefoy’s madness. I
hadn’t realized insanity was so contagious.”
Mathias and Francis joined Lovino in looking pissed off.
Lukas stepped forward, lifting his chin. “We have brought the forces behind us
as a secondary tactic. A back-up plan, if you will. We do not wish to fight
with you. We only want to ensure that you see reason.”
Gilbert arched an eyebrow, contempt plain. “What reason would that be?”
Arthur stepped forward now. His voice shook with all these eyes on him, but he
spoke loud enough to be heard. “It’s not madness. It’s simple equality. Alphas
and Omegas should be treated the same. That’s all we want. But Omegas are so
put down in the West that I had to leave the kingdom for an Alpha to listen to
me. And when the king did try to change things here, his own friend tossed him
out.” Arthur scanned the line of soldiers. “Did you know that? Francis and
Antonio left because Gilbert refused to let them abolish Naturalism. Why? Do
you really want to follow a man who betrays his best friends? Do you really
think Omegas deserve to be slaves just because they weren’t born Alphas?”
The words did not fall on deaf ears. The Alphas glanced amongst each other,
brows furrowing. Arthur suspected their uncertainty was more for Gilbert than
for Naturalism, but it was still good to see.
“He speaks the truth,” Francis said, coming to Arthur’s side. “Do not believe
what Gilbert says.”
Gilbert’s teeth seemed sharper than they should have been. He turned on his men
to shout, “Don’t listen to them! They’re proud of their Deformity! They want to
tear our lives apart!”
“No we don’t!” This was a cry from Feliciano. (On the other side, Ludwig perked
up at the sight of his mate.) The little Italian added, “We want everyone to be
happy! We’re not Anti-Alphas, we’re Promegas!”
Arthur took Feliciano’s hand, and was surprised to feel a warm, strong grasp on
his other side; Lovino had stepped up, and gave Arthur a small, stoically
encouraging nod. Between the brothers, his friends, his family, he pronounced,
“Anyone, Alpha or Omega, who believes we are all born equal is welcome to join
our side.”
For a moment there was nothing, and Gilbert rolled his eyes, but before he
could make a derisive remark, a flurry came overhead. A cloud of flapping
wings, a flock of Omegas flying from the roof of the castle. Below, some Guards
took aim, but Ludwig shoved their muskets down. The Omegas landed all around
Arthur, and he recognized some from the capital, and even some from his
village, and Feliks with his brothel companions. Feliciano gave a small bounce
of glee. Lovino actually smiled. And Arthur did his best not to tear up with
pride.
Gilbert shook his head, sneering. “Birds won’t do much against wolves. There’s
no equality in that, and there never will be.”
“Maybe not.” This was the deep voice of Ludwig. The blond German stepped away
from his pack and met his brother’s gaze. “But they’re brave enough to try.
That’s more Alpha than having weapons and throwing your weight around.
Courage.” And with that, he turned his back on the defenders of Naturalism and
went to stand with his mate.
Oh, thought Lovino. So . . . maybe he’s not a total bastard after all.
Gilbert was angry before. Now he was livid. “I don’t care how many people I
care about get tainted by this Deformity. I’m not changing my mind. If a wall
is strong enough to hold up your home, why would you risk ripping it down?
Naturalism works. I will not abandon it.” His lip curled. “So go on then,
Arthur.” He stepped briefly out of sight, into the mass of soldiers, and came
back with a golden wolf pup dangling from the scruff of the neck. “Fight your
war.” He tossed Alfred out onto the battlefield.
Francis and Arthur surged forward, but Mathias grabbed them both. Everyone,
even those on Gilbert’s side, were expressing disapproval for the introduction
of the prince, but it was the Danish jarl who spoke up.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he demanded. “This is no place for a child. You
really have lost your damn mind.”
Gilbert shrugged sweetly. “Arthur seems to think that all Alphas in the West
are evil. So I thought the first one he should punish is his son. Fitting,
isn’t it?”
Mathias’s eyes widened—he hadn’t realized this was the prince. Lukas and
Berwald’s normally unreadable faces twisted in open disgust. Gilbert’s
ruthlessness was no secret, but to use a child against its mother was utterly
insidious.
“I need to go to him.” Arthur looked up at Mathias, then to Lukas, desperate.
“Don’t cross the halfway line,” Lukas told him. “Call him to you. If you go to
them, it is war.”
Arthur did not care about the codes of battle right now, he just needed to hold
his baby. It’s been so long . . . He didn’t know how he’d ever thought of the
prince as annoying. He wanted to pick him up and never, ever put him down.
He stepped out as far as he dared and called, “Alfred, come here. Come here,
darling.”
Alfred’s ears perked, and he ran full-speed at Arthur, launching himself at his
mother and colliding full-on with Arthur’s chest. The Omega nearly fell over
backward, but he stayed up and embraced his wriggling son. Alfred covered
Arthur’s cheeks in kisses, whimpering and wagging his tail in euphoria, and at
last Arthur’s heart was at ease. The love he felt for his son again fortified
him, and he lifted his head to tell Gilbert, “We don’t want to rip down any
walls. We don’t want to tear families apart. We just want to be seen as people,
not servants or sex slaves. I love and respect my son, and I want that in
return. That’s all we want.” Alfred licked a tear from his cheek, and Arthur
held him close. Close enough to whisper, “When I fly, run away as fast as you
can. Run and hide.”
“Is that it?” Gilbert asked. “A little show of tears, and you expect
surrender?”
Arthur shook his head. “Not at all. And since I’m all for equality, keep that
in mind. When you cry after you lose this battle, you won’t get any charity.”
Behind him, Lovino added, “But if you pay a handsome fee, we’ll teach you how
to wash the blood out of your uniform.”
The gathered Omegas laughed at that, and Gilbert snarled, wolf fangs in a human
mouth, a monster. Arthur did not wait; he set Alfred down and took to the sky.
Alfred ran off as quick as his short legs would carry him.
Gilbert’s shout was raw, unstrung, “ATTACK!”
Mathias glanced down at Lukas, heart racing deliciously. “Stability, min nat?”
Lukas shook his head, drew himself up, and bellowed, “ANGRIBE!”
The Dane grinned. “Ah, I just love to hear you say it.” And then they were both
cream-furred wolves lunging forward to lead the charge.
The Omegas lifted up into the air.
The prince hid behind an outcropping of rock.
And the two sides clashed. Enter the chaotic, the first stages of hell.
Everything was wolves and men and guns and swords, teeth and metal, righteous
rage. A wolf was vulnerable to a musket, but not when eagles, ospreys, a red
kite and a hen harrier swooped down and raked their talons across the soldiers’
faces. The non-predatory birds could not do this, but they found their own use,
screaming and singing so loud that Gilbert’s orders could not be heard through
the mayhem.
The captain was about to throw away his gun when a wolf blindsided him. He
crashed to the ground with the beast on him, biting his rifle like a mad thing,
growling savagely. There are moments of pure clarity on the battlefield when
time seems to stand still, and this was one of them. Gilbert stared up into the
brown she-wolf’s green eyes and he knew without a doubt who this was.
The monster. Pinning him down . . . The abomination. Pushing inside . . . so
much fear . . .
His heart nearly stopped.
Elizabeta tore the musket from his grasp. She wouldn’t kill this man—she was
not a murderer, or she would have killed him years ago—but she would make him
pay for the suffering he had caused her and her mate. An eye for an eye.
Gilbert punched her in the face. A right hook to the snout that had her
staggering off of him. He shifted, got to his paws, and lunged at her. They
rolled thrice, biting and ripping, and he came out on top. This woman had
destroyed him, from the inside out. He had never wanted to become this, never
thought it possible. It was her. Matthew was sitting by himself because of her.
Matthew’s beautiful eyes held sorrow because of her.
No more.
Gilbert shut his jaws on her foreleg and bit down with all the fury and hatred
she had infected him with when her unnatural poison burned into him. A
sickening, grinding crunch, deafening in his ears—and her leg was broken.
The sound of a wolf’s utter agony was bloodcurdling. It was not a howl. It was
a low, base scream.
Gilbert let her collapse and danced away, dodging wolves locked in battle, men
aiming muskets. He was searching now, even as he slashed whatever enemy he
could reach. His gaze kept lifting upward, searching for his true enemy, the
man who had brought everything terrible into fruition. Arthur.
The captain was not the only one giving in to the pack mentality. Alistair was
having the time of his life, despite the wounds he was collecting. Blood leaked
from his left shoulder and both flanks, but his fur was already red, and that
was all he could see. Together strong. Fight danger. Kill. He bit and clawed
without caring who he hurt; years of frustration poured out with his blood.
Abruptly, a bird dropped from the sky and landed hard in front of him. Alistair
skidded to a halt, looking down at the raptor—a red kite, struggling to right
himself after being stunned by his crash. Lovino had been aiming for a soldier,
but the rifle had swung up in the air; he’d only just dodged the bayonet, and
lost his balance in the air. Alistair bared bloodstained teeth in a ghastly
grin. He would kill this bird, an ugly predatory bird like his brother.
Deformed. He would rip its big wings right off.
Lovino didn’t even have time to cry for help before a dark brown wolf plowed
into Alistair.
Scot and Spaniard grappled viciously, rising up on their rear legs, chests
shoved together, jaws snapping, teeth glancing off each other like clashing
swords until Alistair won out. The red wolf’s fangs sank into Antonio’s face
and, with a jerk of the head, his right eye was gone in a spurt of scarlet.
Antonio screamed, but it morphed into a roar as he fought the temptation to go
limp with surrender and instead clawed his way to the top of his agony and
struck fast—he slashed the soft skin just beneath Alistair’s jaw.
The red wolf fell back, eyes bulging with fright, his whimpers gurgling, wet
with blood seeping from his neck.
Francis came to Antonio’s side now, yelping at the sight of him, but Antonio’s
remaining eye was on Lovino. The Omega gave him a lingering stare. The eyes of
a raptor were impossible to read, but both bird and wolf understood the
meaning. This doesn’t forgive it all. But thank you.
Above, Arthur had begun to search, as well. He saw Mathias and Lukas fighting
back-to-back, in tandem, finding joy in the rhythm of battle. He saw Francis
protecting a collapsed Antonio, next to . . . was that Alistair in a pool of
blood? Just get through this. Get through this, and then you can cry and scream
and spend a day in bed with Alfred and Matthew, and we can eat the maple sweets
he likes, and—
There. Arthur found the silver wolf, fur stained with the blood of others.
Arthur wheeled around, circling over Gilbert, watching him get drawn into
fights around him. If he could only get in a good blow, then perhaps Gilbert
would truly see Omega strength and call surrender.
Wishful thinking.
Arthur waited, waited for the right moment, waited for Gilbert to be
distracted, waited for a straight shot.
Now!
He fell into an instinctive kill dive. Talons extended!
Suddenly, Gilbert’s head tipped up, ferocious jaws open wide—he tricked him!
Arthur tried to flare his wings, flapping desperately, but he was down, down
into the jaws, and they snapped shut on his torso.
The harrier’s scream pierced the air.
This was another moment of stillness, for the soldiers both enemy and friendly.
They saw, they knew, but they did not intervene. Perhaps the significance of it
held them back. No one would ever know for sure, and many would regret it until
the day they died.
The silver wolf bit down harder, adjusting his grip, snapping hollow bones. The
harrier beat the wolf with his wings, agonized, terrified, trying in vain to
free himself. But Gilbert was right. There was no equality between bird and
wolf. The Alpha shook the Omega, and everyone knew what would come next. The
way wolves kill small prey. Bite it. Shake it, to stun it. Then bite it again,
hard enough to kill it.
The gravity of this ended the moment of stillness. Lovino screeched at Gilbert,
plunging, but he was too far away and the thermals were not on his side. Below,
at the advantage, King Francis Bonnefoy no longer froze. He no longer feared.
He did not think, he thundered across the field and slammed into Gilbert. The
captain lost his hold on Arthur as he and the king tumbled. Gilbert’s opponent
wasn’t Francis, wasn’t even the king. He was just a wolf. Gilbert was just a
wolf. He had nearly left the man within him behind. He was the beast. He had no
use for people, for morals, for love. Love?
Matthew.
The second of distraction was enough for Francis. The French Alpha secured a
throat hold, and Gilbert stopped struggling. Kill me. End this. Please, just
kill me.
He looked into Francis’s blue eyes. The fury could not win out against the
memory of friendship. Francis could not kill Gilbert. They had grown up
together. Gilbert had saved Francis’s life countless times. Even after all of
this, Francis couldn’t do it. Not because of cowardice, because of love.
Francis dropped Gilbert and backed away.
The German Alpha did not rise. In fact, he bowed even lower. And he whimpered.
Matthew. I’m so sorry. Arthur’s blood was sweet copper on his tongue. Matthew
would grow up to serve Alphas. Under the Natural way, he could get a mate who
raped him, beat him, whipped him. There were no laws against it. Matthew could
be killed by some ignorant Alpha given power by a flawed system. Naturalism had
not kept Gilbert from getting hurt. If it could not even protect him, what
could it ever do for little Matthew? Who the hell would keep him safe?
Gilbert shifted back to his human form, hung his head, and said, “I surrender.”
Lovino adjusted his trajectory and landed beside Arthur. All around them,
Alphas and Omegas were returning to human form and throwing down their weapons,
but Lovino didn’t notice. Arthur lay, his harrier body mangled, bleeding. His
chest lifted and fell, but only barely. His eyes were open but did not see.
He was dying.
Lovino shifted and tried to rip off a piece of his shirt to bind the wounds,
but he wasn’t strong enough, damn it, so he took off the whole thing and
wrapped Arthur up in it. “Help him!” he snarled to the people standing around,
watching. “Somebody fucking help him!”
Lukas shook his head slowly. Mathias wiped his eyes and looked away. Berwald
held a weeping Tino close, as did Ludwig to Feliciano. Francis stared at the
tiny, dying body of his mate, his wife, the mother of his son, and fell to his
knees—or he would have, if Antonio had not caught him. Francis buried his face
in Antonio’s shoulder. Lovino held Arthur, but it was not Arthur anymore. It
was just a dead bird.
Francis and Lovino both closed their eyes and sobbed.
 
                                     . . .
 
That night, after the wails of grief, after the binding of wounds, after the
burying of dead, after the warships returned to the north and the Western
soldiers to their homes, Francis went to Gilbert in the dungeon. The cell was
small, dark, bleak. Wet stone and mouldy straw. Gilbert sat in the corner,
knees drawn up, head in his hands, but he looked up when the king entered. His
face was wet, cheeks stained with tears.
Francis stood in the doorway of his cell. No guards accompanied him. He looked
in with an expressionless face.
The silence stretched.
“I’m sorry,” Gilbert whispered.
Francis’s face did not change. “You could apologize to me one thousand times
and it would not change what you did.”
“I know.” This was barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”
Francis looked away for a moment. “They will hang you. Everyone wants to see
you die.” A pause. “Unfortunately, you escaped.”
Gilbert stared.
Francis stepped aside in the doorway, lifting a hand to gesture to the open
space. “You escaped and ran off into the night.”
Slowly, Gilbert got to his feet and stepped toward the door. Francis watched
him, impassive, but when Gilbert moved to go by, Francis locked a hand around
Gilbert’s throat, reminding him of the death Francis had denied him on the
battlefield. And now, again. Francis narrowed his eyes, gaze sharp and bright
as sapphires. “You,” the king said, slow and precise, “were never seen again.”
Gilbert spared a thought to the sleeping boy above. There would be no goodbye.
It’s for the best. He forced a small nod.
Francis released him and turned away. “Go.”
There was so much Gilbert could have said, but it was too late for any of it.
So he said nothing, strode down a passage known to only himself, Antonio, and
Francis. They had played here, as children. I’m the king, I’m in charge! I’m
the advisor, I’ll help you! I’m the captain, I’m the bravest! Tears came to his
eyes as he heard those voices, so innocent. He didn’t deserve this freedom. He
should just go to the barracks and tell them to kill him.
He was not the bravest anymore.
Into the lifeless night, the silver wolf ran. He ran out of the capital, out of
his home, but he had to look back, toward the window of the pink-painted room.
But there was no light shining. There was only the wolf and the moon.
Loneliness welled in his heart, but he did not howl. He just
disappeared silently into the forest shadows, and the night was still once
more.
***** Epilogue *****
Chapter Notes
     Thank you all so much for reading and commenting and kudos...
     kudosing? (Nailed it.) Your support has been so motivational through
     this rabid monster of a fic. I'm not sure it would've been finished
     without the lovely comments I received along the way. Well, I
     probably would've finished it eventually out of guilt, but it
     certainly wouldn't have been this quick! So thank you all very, very
     much :D
     Oh, and do keep an eye out in the coming months. A sequel looms on
     the horizon...
                                ONE_YEAR_LATER
 
         “The discrimination of another based upon their gender or sex
                or their attraction to other genders and sexes
                         is illegal without exception.
                  All people, Alphas and Omegas, are equal.”
               —Francis Bonnefoy, High Alpha of Western Eurasia
It was Promega Day.
Throughout Western Eurasia, from the bustling cities to the smallest villages,
work was halted in favor of celebrations. The guards did not train, the
servants did not clean, and the bakers—having made extra the previous day and
night—did not bake. Stalls were set up in the capital, lining the inner streets
as they would on a wedding day, but they were not only Alphas. Omegas, too,
sold wares. Some Alphas browsed the hand-woven baskets and sculptures and
pastries without discrimination; others avoided the Omega stands with
disapproval darkening their eyes. Among the few blissfully unaware folks were
clusters of Alphas in silent disagreement. Those who sneered behind the Omegas’
backs were given just-as-nasty looks from the supporters. Some Omegas noticed,
some did not. No one argued outright. This—wordless glares—was the closest they
had come to peace.
In the beginning, there was violence. The laws changed quickly, quicker than
they should have in the opinion of some. The High Alpha had given a speech
notable for several reasons: it was over an hour long, it nullified every law
favoring Alphas over Omegas, and—overlooked by many but important
nonetheless—it was the first public address Francis Bonnefoy had given without
Gilbert and Antonio at his sides. There had been no outbursts during the
speech, but that night two Omegas had been beaten for walking the streets in
the dark. The Alphas responsible were found and gaoled, but the next night it
happened again. The cells overflowed with Alphas—some who actively protested
the rules by breaking them, others guilty of forcing their mates into bed.
These reports came at a startling rate, in the first few months. The more
Omegas spoke out, the more it encouraged those trapped by abusive mates to do
the same. The guards were run ragged, patrolling at night to protect Omegas and
dragging often defiant leches to prison during the day. The laws couldn’t be
enforced at all in the places without a guard presence; Omegas began flying in
from far-flung villages, seeking asylum from close-minded Alphas. Word began to
spread of the development of something better than a Royal Guard—a force to
police the people and investigate crimes, separate from the affairs of royalty.
To serve the people, not the ruler. Alphas and Omegas were both encouraged to
join the experimental training program. Ludwig was given credit for the idea,
but in truth Emil Bondevik was behind it. In fact, the transition to better
times took much influence from the Scandinavian Omega; he had agreed to stay
behind when his comrades returned to the North. Only for a short time, he had
said. Only until I see that the West is on its feet and well on the path to
equality. This will not be my home forever. But today, on the first annual
Promega Day, he was still there under the warm Western sun.
Emil was, at present, sitting on a bench in the square, watching passersby and,
as always, thinking. Before Lovino and Arthur came to Scandinavia, he had been
making excellent progress on his latest book. He had not put down a single
sentence this past year, so caught up in bettering the West he had been—the
only writing he’d done was in the form of essays to propose new laws, and
letters to his family. He didn’t feel as guilty as he thought he would about
letting his studies fall by the wayside. He felt proud of what they’d
accomplished here; it was the closest he had ever felt to parenthood. I’ve
sired some of this peace, he thought, giving a faint smile to a pair of
nestlings skipping by with colored ropes. This felt more fulfilling than his
research; black statistics on white paper could not compare to the satisfaction
of witnessing wounds—physical and otherwise—scar over and heal. He missed his
family, his brother and friends, but this place needed him more than they did.
He wrote to them often, even to Mathias, who joked in his first letter that
Emil only missed him for his knot. It was true that, at first, Emil had
struggled to find someone suitable to help him through his Heats. Fortunately,
he made the acquaintance of a Russian Alpha who claimed he had experience in
sex as a trade (the West had outlawed prostitution just as Scandinavia did).
They quickly entered a mutually beneficial agreement, and so far it was working
out nicely. Emil had no idea where Ivan was right now. Filling himself with
vodka, probably. (Correct.) Emil breathed a sigh and looked up at the clouds,
light fluffy ones. A beautiful day. If only Arthur was here to enjoy it. Emil
missed Arthur in a different way than he missed the Court. He loved his family,
for one—he had only just begun to feel fondness for Arthur. More than anything,
Emil mourned the loss of Arthur’s devotion, his initiative. What could have
been achieved with minds like Emil and Arthur’s put together? They would never
know. There were countless tragedies for the heart, but that was one for the
mind.
Not far from where Emil sat, in Antonio’s garden, Matthew and Alfred Bonnefoy
played. Matthew chased after his pup brother on clumsy legs, the pair of them
giggling and yipping with glee. They had stopped weeping at night; Alfred had
given up sniffing around the castle. The scent of Arthur faded, and with it
faded the memory of Mother. For Alfred, it was only the bittersweet swell in
his chest when he sang to the moon. For Matthew, it was the vague gleam of
green eyes, soon joined by a pair of crimson ones. He had learned not to ask
about his other uncle. His father had told him outright: He is gone and never
coming back. Forget about him. And, ever obedient, Matthew had begun to do just
that. It wasn’t a choice, obviously, but when no one spoke of Gilbert, when
Matthew no longer saw him every day, when his developing brain was every day
filled with new things (letters! numbers! a whole world to be had on paper!)
there was little hope to the memory lasting. The white wolf slowly but surely
faded to mist in the back of his curly-haired head.
In the house, the king watched his children with red-rimmed eyes. He had never
had a more difficult year, and the fact that he had made it through was at
first cause for celebration. But when he tried to feel happiness that he’d made
it out alive, he could only think of those who hadn’t been so lucky. His wine-
to-tears ratio was improving. He’d been tempted, at the start, to drown himself
in spirits and be done with it. But he had his sons. He had Antonio. And he had
his kingdom. They depended on him. It was the least he could do to help them.
If he didn’t care whether he lived or died, he might as well live if it was
beneficial to others. Granted, it wasn’t the best attitude to have, but he
hadn’t run a blade across his skin, so it was good enough.
He was getting better now. Time was indeed the great healer, though admittedly
it had its limit. It had healed Antonio’s face as best it could, but that
turned out to be a thick, grotesque scar from his temple to his cheek, through
his eyebrow and what had once been his eye. Francis had heard the whispers; he
knew Antonio had, too. There goes his pretty face. No more handsome
advisor.Antonio had taken to angling his head, always turning away so Francis
would not have to look at the scar. Francis hadn’t told him, but he didn’t mind
the scar. It was physical proof of retribution. Francis envied him, in fact. He
wished he had been made as ugly on the outside as he felt on the inside. He
wished he had only lost a part of himself, rather than an entire person he
loved.
He knew that Antonio longed to fill the place left by Arthur. And, in some
capacity, he had. Most nights found them together under the covers; sometimes
Francis held him, sometimes—more and more, recently—he let the Spaniard’s warm
arms wrap around him. It was a different kind of comfort, a different sense of
security. They hadn’t had sex, but they had kissed, more than once, albeit
never sober. The last time had been the most intense, Francis pressing Antonio
back onto the bed, hands on his chest, Antonio’s knees squeezing Francis’s
hips, and Francis thinking Maybe I could, maybe, if I just—but then he opened
his eyes and he saw Antonio’s face. His friend. His fellow Alpha. When Francis
pulled back, Antonio opened his eye, and Francis couldn’t keep from staring at
the other, the scarred one; it always tried to open along with the other, but
it couldn’t. Antonio knew what he was looking at, because he turned his head,
burying the sullied side in the pillow. They had not shared a bed that night,
but they had the next, snuggled close, pretending the past was only a bad
dream.
Now Antonio came to Francis’s side, gazing out the window. Francis glanced at
his advisor and gave a small smile. Antonio returned it. Both of them looked
sad, even though both were trying not to.
All at once, Antonio said, “Do you think we will ever—?” He cut himself off,
ducking his head bashfully. He had not intended to speak at all.
Francis’s heart had once been so torn that it held itself together by the
thinnest thread of tissue. But now, after a year of working harder than he ever
had in his kingly life, his heart was closer to a whole. It didn’t beat without
causing pain, but it gave him more life now than it had for quite some time.
Today, the anniversary of Arthur’s death, he wouldn’t cry anymore. Arthur
wouldn’t want it. Tears were no way to celebrate.
So Francis reached out to take Antonio’s hand. Giving those warm fingers a
squeeze, he said, “Never say never. But . . . we must wait and see, mon ami. My
heart has not yet healed.”
They embraced, long enough for their broken hearts to share a strenuous beat,
then stood together, arm around the other’s waist, joined at the hip as they
had always been, and watched the future play in the flowers.
Across the capital, to the northeast, where the aristocrats lived in homes with
rooms so fancy one couldn’t enter them, a mansion sat apart from the rest. It
was not the biggest, but it was the loveliest, because from it beautifully
haunting music streamed out into the afternoon air. Its side doors were opened,
and through these doors was the music room. Sofas had been brought in for the
guests. Ludwig and Feliciano sat on one, the Italian Omega’s hands resting on
his rounded belly, rubbing gentle circles to soothe the growing baby within.
The other sofa held Elizabeta, fingertips absently rubbing the scarred bite
mark on her arm, and Lovino. He looked on without any expression on his face,
completely at odds to the storm of emotion inside him, a storm only worsened by
the powerful music Roderich drew from the piano. These notes had been written
for Arthur. This whole day was inspired by Arthur. If not for that britanno,
where would Lovino be right now?
He’d spent his whole life wishing he was something else, and Arthur had taught
him to stop wishing and start changing things, instead. He would never stop
owing him for that. For everything.
Roderich’s eyes were closed behind his spectacles as he swayed with the song.
As the music grew, pain flowed from pale fingers onto black and white keys, the
pain of being forced to leave your home, the pain of being shunned for the body
you were born in, the pain of loving one you were not allowed to have, the pain
of dying for a future you would never get to see. Feliciano wept, and Ludwig
wrapped strong arms around his mate even as tears gathered in his own eyes.
Elizabeta stood, stepped outside, and fell to all fours. She tipped her muzzle
back and let a mournful howl rise up, a call of loneliness to those who would
never be able to respond.
Lovino wiped a tear away before it could fall. Arthur smiled at him, eyes
bright as summer. They had buried him in the birch grove where purple flowers
grew. Lovino visited him often, but he didn’t need to. He saw him everywhere he
went.
Lovino was barely aware of standing, walking outside, shifting to his bird
form. It was a wonderful day for flying; his wings took him into a thermal
almost immediately. With the music swelling below, Lovino took to the skies,
remembering the flight over the frozen ocean, the fear and the courage, and the
happiness he had felt with Arthur, the match of his passion found in another.
He flapped his wings, lifting higher as the last pure notes of the piano ran
out, as Elizabeta’s voice fell silent. He flew upward, upward, soaring past the
clouds. Up here, where no one could see him, where only heaven remained above,
he parted his beak and keened. And he thought maybe, just maybe, a harrier
called in return.
Then Lovino dropped back down, out of the clouds. He would give in to that call
someday, but not for a while. He had work to do, memories to make, friends to
cherish, family to grow. For now, he would stay down here, with them. One day
he would follow that haunting call, but for now he would pretend it was just an
echo.
 
 
 
                                   The End.
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