Chapter Text
The air in the University Conservatory's Faculty of Mechanical Engineering smelled of oil, high-octane gasoline, and ambition. Among the impeccable marble hallways and classrooms packed with prototypes, 22-year-old Max Verstappen moved with the silent, lethal grace of the predator within. His golden mane, a halo of wild authority, framed a face of sharp angles and eyes of glacial blue that calculated everything. As a lion hybrid, his mere presence imposed an invisible hierarchy, a natural order that everyone, instinctively, obeyed.
For Max, life was a series of perfect equations, meticulous schedules, and the relentless pursuit of efficiency. His engineering studies weren't a career; they were an obsession, a destiny carved in steel and fuel. The sports cars he took apart and rebuilt in the university workshop were his only real mistresses, complex machines he understood and mastered with absolute devotion. Romance, drama, emotional bonds… all that was background noise, irrelevant static for a brain wired for logic and pure power.
His sexuality was just another variable in his personal algorithm. A physical appetite that arose, was sated, and was filed away. There was no room for jealousy, possessiveness, or the emotional drain of traditional relationships. At sixteen, he had discovered the efficiency of pleasure without ties, and had almost unwittingly built a peculiar ecosystem of sporadic encounters with other hybrids who, like him, preferred the simplicity of the carnal to the complication of the sentimental. And, against all odds of his predatory nature, his selection had fallen on herbivores. Graceful creatures, with large eyes and slender constitutions, who found his brute strength and indifference an irresistible combination.
The first had been Charles.
Charles Leclerc, gazelle hybrid. Long-legged, with almond-shaped eyes and an elegance that seemed carved from ivory. They were sixteen and the private boarding school was asleep. Charles's room, in the Liberal Arts wing, smelled clean, of expensive soap and nervousness. The proposal had been clear: Charles was looking for an adventure. Max, his curiosity piqued by that slender creature who challenged him with his gaze, accepted.
They sat on the edge of the bed, a space of electric tension between them.
—No kissing, —declared Charles, his voice a firm whisper.
Max nodded. Rules were welcome; they simplified things.
Charles undressed first, with a grace that was pure poetry in motion. Each falling garment revealed smooth skin and defined, though lean, musculature. Max merely observed, impassive, before removing his own clothes, stopping at his black underwear.
—Stand up. Face me, —ordered Charles.
Max obeyed. The herbivore had an aura of command he found intriguing. Charles knelt and pulled down the intimate garment. Max's member, in a state of rest, was already imposing. The keratinized spines, a characteristic of his species, barely peeked through.
—Is that it? —asked Charles, with a poorly disguised hint of disdain—. Aren't you going to… prepare yourself?
Max sighed, slightly exasperated. —I need to get aroused. It's not a switch.
He closed his eyes for an instant. Rubbing himself with one hand, he let his mind conjure images: the roar of an engine, the tight curve of a mountain road, the smell of hot gasoline. It didn't take long. The flesh came to life under his fingers, swelling, lengthening, transforming into something formidable and clearly predatory. When he opened his eyes, he found Charles's gaze fixed on him, wide, surprised, his mouth slightly agape. There, he understood. Charles had never seen anything like it.
—Lie down, —instructed Max, his voice now a low rumble.
Charles obeyed, lying back on the white sheets. Max knelt between his legs, parting them gently. He leaned in and his tongue, rough like fine sandpaper, passed over Charles's sensitive folds.
A sharp whimper, almost a bleat, escaped the gazelle's lips. Max smiled internally and continued, licking, sucking, using the small barbs on his tongue to create a deliciously cruel friction. Charles writhed, his hands gripping the sheets and then Max's golden hair, pulling him in a silent plea for more.
Carefully, Max inserted a finger. He found a tense, virginal resistance. The revelation was instant: Charles was totally new to this. It didn't matter. The mission was the same. He worked patiently, lubricating with his own saliva, stretching the tight muscle until a second finger made its way in. Charles moaned, a sound of pure, bewildered pleasure. His body began to secrete a clear nectar, soaking Max's fingers.
—God… —Charles gasped when a third digit began to scissor inside him, opening him up—. Stop. No. Keep going.
Max halted his movements, observing the wet, trembling mess beneath him. He thought that might be enough. But then Charles opened his eyes, glassy with pleasure, and demanded: —Now. Put it in. I need… I need to feel that.
Max didn't need to be told twice. He lubricated himself with a gel he always carried in his pocket—the spines made it essential—and aligned the crowned head of his member with Charles's pulsating entrance. The pressure was immense, burning. Charles screamed, his nails digging into Max's arms.
—Relax! —Max growled, holding himself back.
—It's too big! —Charles sobbed, but his hips arched, seeking more.
Max pushed, slowly, inexorably. The sound that came from Charles was a mix of pain and ecstasy. When he was finally fully sheathed, they both lay still, panting. Charles looked down, to where their bodies joined, with disbelief. He looked distended, full in a way he'd never imagined.
And then Max began to move.
At first it was a slow, deep rocking, allowing Charles's body to get used to the invasion. But soon, the pace quickened. The spines, lubricated, scraped inside with every thrust, creating a friction that made Charles see stars. He screamed, moaned, his body a tense arc of pure sensation. A feeling of uncontrollable tingling, of unstoppable pressure, built in his lower belly.
—Harder —he begged, voice broken—. Please, harder!
Max obeyed, thrusting with the brute force of his lineage. The climax took Charles by surprise. It wasn't a wave; it was a tsunami. An electric tingling ran from his head to his toes, convulsing every muscle. A torrent of liquid gushed from him, further soaking the bed and Max's belly with a wild, sweet scent. He sobbed, uncontrollably, while the endless contractions of his orgasm massacred the sensitivity of his nerves.
Max, stimulated by the spasms squeezing his member like a velvet fist, growled and plunged to the hilt, releasing his own hot seed into Charles's depths. The heat seemed to ignite the gazelle's shudders even more.
They lay there, panting, on a soaked and rumpled bed. The air smelled of sex, sweat, and lion.
Two weeks later, Charles appeared in the hallway with a boyfriend, a sweet-eyed antelope hybrid. Max passed by with a slight nod of his head. It was none of his business.
But Charles intercepted him the next day, outside the engine workshop, his elegance tinged with anger.
—Why do you treat me like just anyone? —he spat, his fine nostrils flared—. It's me. Charles Leclerc.
Max closed his locker with a metallic snap. —I don't recall anything that requires me to treat you differently. You have a boyfriend. I have my studies. —His tone was flat, factual.
The slap was quick, stinging. Max didn't even flinch. He brought a hand to his burning cheek and looked at Charles with predator's curiosity. Then, Charles launched himself forward and captured his lips in a fierce, desperate kiss. It tasted of salt and rage.
Max pushed him away firmly. —You have a boyfriend, Charles. Rules are rules. I can be many things, but not a guy who messes around with someone else's boyfriend.
A week later, the antelope had vanished from the scene. Charles sought out Max again, this time with clear eyes and the determination of someone who has accepted their own terms.
—I want the deal. Just sex. Nothing more.
Max looked at him, weighing potential future dramas against the memory of how Charles screamed his name. He nodded.
—Nothing more.
And since then, that had been their agreement. Sporadic, intense, and perfectly simple. Like a well-solved equation. Years later, at university, they were still the same. A charged glance in a hallway, a cryptic message, a quick and fierce encounter in Max's dorm room, where the gazelle shattered into moans that sounded like rage, and the lion sated a primal hunger before returning to his engine blueprints.
Then came George.
The rivalry between Max Verstappen and George Russell was as well-known at the Conservatory as the strict dress code. Max, the lion hybrid with his aura of predatory indifference, and George, the elegant deer, class president, with a fastidiousness that exasperated Max. Their friction was legendary: cutting glances in the hallways, passive-aggressive comments during class presentations, a tension that smelled of static electricity before a storm.
The day of the incident, Max was turning seventeen and in an execrable mood. His father, in another act of distant control, had revoked his access to the keys of his Aston Martin Valkyrie, a punishment for a mediocre grade in Thermodynamics. The roaring engine of his heart was shut off, and frustration boiled in his blood. In Math class, George, impeccable in his president's uniform—navy blue blazer with gold badges—chose the worst possible moment to launch a poisoned dart.
—Verstappen, your manners are as refined as a lion in a china shop —George said with a smug smile, addressing the whole class—. It's a miracle you don't mark everything in your path with claws and… fluids.
Something snapped inside Max. The fury, cold and sudden, didn't roar. It acted. In a fluid motion, he took the half-empty can of Redbull on his desk and, without blinking, upended it over George's perfect, glossy chestnut hair. The amber liquid soaked his hair, ran down his impeccable neck, and stained the navy blazer.
The silence was absolute for a second. Then, the sound of the slap echoed like a gunshot in the classroom. George, his face twisted by a pure rage no one knew he possessed, had hit Max with all his might. The lion's cheek burned, but his expression remained one of cold defiance.
The teacher saw them. Both were sentenced to afternoon detention. The teacher, however, reprimanded George with particular severity. —As president, Russell, a higher standard is expected of you. This is disappointing. —Max merely nodded, savoring a bitter victory. Detention would be in the empty History classroom.
The afternoon fell over the conservatory. The two young men sat at separate desks, in a silence laden with hatred and something more, something primal and electric. Max couldn't deny the exasperating beauty of George: his slender stature, his icy blue eyes, his porcelain skin that now bore a furious blush. He smelled of lemon soap and the humiliation of Redbull drying in his hair.
It was George who broke the silence, his voice much softer than expected. —Do you think you'll remember me when you go off to university? Or will I just be another annoying deer in your path?
Max couldn't help but let his gaze drop. George was wearing the regulation short shorts for Physics class, which hugged his thin but well-formed thighs. A slow, dangerous smile spread across Max's lips. —There are ways to make you remember me. And for you to remember me until you catch up, Russell.
The glance they exchanged then wasn't one of challenge, but of recognition. George stood up. Max did too. No more words were needed. George closed the distance and grabbed him by the nape, pulling him into a kiss that wasn't one of reconciliation, but of mutual conquest. It was rough, full of the accumulated rage of years, salty with sweat and the residue of the energy drink. Max responded with the same intensity, his hands gripping George's slender waist, feeling the deer's body tremble against his. He was already hard, the pressure of his member against George's thigh unmistakable.
With a grunt, Max lifted him easily and sat him on the teacher's desk, sweeping maps and chalk to the floor. His hands went for George's belt, unbuckling it with agile fingers despite the urgency. But then, George grabbed his wrists. —Wait. It's… my first time.
Max felt a flash of frustration. Stopping now was torture. He could seriously hurt him. But in George's eyes, alongside the fear, there was a burning plea, a final challenge. —Please —George panted—. Just… do it.
Max nodded, slowly. He pulled down the shorts and the black silk panties George hid beneath. And there, he discovered the secret. Embedded, already moist with George's evident arousal, was a small black silicone toy, no wider than two fingers. Max whistled softly, a smile of genuine astonishment on his face. —Did you plan this, Mr. President? —he murmured, his voice hoarse—. This is, without a doubt, the best birthday present I've ever received.
George didn't answer, only moaned, ashamed and aroused beyond belief. Max, instead of removing it immediately, bent down. His tongue, rough and prickling, licked around the toy, savoring George's unique essence: a clean, sweet scent mixed with the musk of his desire. He wanted to memorize this taste, the supreme irony of being on his knees before the boy who had despised him for years. George arched, moaning, his fingers tangling in Max's golden hair, begging for more with every hip movement.
When Max finally pulled the toy out, he did it with deliberate slowness, watching George shudder at the sudden sensation of emptiness. Without preamble, Max aligned his member, already lubricated with his own saliva and George's arousal. The head, crowned with keratinized spines, pressed against the entrance.
—Relax —Max purred, but George shook his head.
—No. I don't want it to be slow.
Max understood. This wasn't about tenderness; it was about possession, about surrender, about marking a rivalry in the most primal way possible. He pushed. George screamed, a ragged sound that transformed into a deep moan as Max buried himself to the hilt in one brutal motion. The pain seemed to arouse George even more; his nails dug into Max's arms, drawing blood.
Max wasn't gentle. He grabbed George's hips and began moving him with animal force, thrusting against the desk that creaked and groaned under their weight. The spines on his member scraped every sensitive inch inside George, creating a friction that was almost too intense to bear. George moaned, babbled incoherencies, his elegance shattered. Max bent him over the desk, changing the angle, and the reaction was immediate: George screamed, a sharp, cutting sound, and a jet of clear liquid shot from him, soaking his stomach and the wooden desk. His orgasm was violent, convulsive, and only made Max wilder, thrusting through the contractions that squeezed his member like a vise.
—Don't stop! —George begged, his voice completely broken.
Max took him by the waist and flipped him over on the desk, into the puddles of his own pleasure. He put him on all fours and penetrated him again, this time deeper, more possessive if that was possible. The sound of their skin slapping filled the empty classroom. George could barely hold himself up, drool hanging from his lips, his eyes glassy and lost in ecstasy. Max used him, marked him, claimed him with every thrust, until his own climax hit him with the force of a freight train. He roared, a deep, leonine sound, as he emptied himself into George's depths, filling him with his heat.
When it was over, the classroom was a battlefield: the desk stained, the floor splattered, the air thick and heavy with the smell of sex, sweat, and power. George lay trembling, unable to move. With surprising calm, Max dressed him carefully, cleaning him with his own t-shirt. He carried him in his arms—George, tall and slender, but surprisingly light—and took him back to his dorm room, avoiding the prefects with the stealthy skill of a predator.
The next morning, at breakfast, they exchanged a glance. There were no smiles, no apologies, no promises. Only the mutual recognition of what they had done and what they would be from then on: sporadic lovers, eternal rivals, bound by a wet and electric secret that smelled of Redbull, varnished wood, and pure, uncontestable lust. The deal was made. Just sex. Nothing more. And for both, it was more than enough.
The last to join his peculiar retinue was Oscar.
The warm night air buzzed with the exaggerated dialogue of a B-grade horror movie projected onto an inflatable screen on the sports field of the conservatory. Max Verstappen, newly nineteen with the world of mechanical engineering spinning in his head like a perfectly calibrated engine, found the spectacle profoundly boring. He preferred to take refuge in the sanctuary of his sports coupe, a low-profile vehicle with a thousand-horsepower heart under the hood. Reclined in the driver's seat, he reviewed transmission schematics on his tablet, the screen light illuminating his concentrated features.
The noise of the crowd was a distant murmur, until the passenger door opened with a soft click and closed immediately. The interior filled with a silent presence and a clean fragrance of neutral soap and something vaguely sweet, like freshly cut hay.
Max slowly looked up. Oscar Piastri, the enigma with chestnut hair and eyes of the same color, slid into the seat with the fluidity of a shadow. His fluffy tail, a pom-pom of soft fur, settled against the leather seat with a slight movement. His long ears pricked up slightly, catching the muffled screams from the movie outside. He wore the junior conservatory uniform: a loose sweater and flannel pants, but on him, it seemed a statement of absolute indifference.
Max had seen him countless times, always attached to Lando, the sociable and boisterous sheep who was one of his more regular friends. Oscar was the silence that followed Lando's storm, a constant spectator with an expression so flat it was disconcerting. Max had devoted considerable effort to ignoring the way that tail seemed to invite him to touch it, or how those ears twitched at sounds imperceptible to others.
—Need something? —Max asked, his voice a low purr that barely rose above the sound of the heater fan.
Oscar's chestnut eyes fixed on him, without a hint of emotion. —Yes —he replied, his voice as soft and flat as the surface of a calm mirror of water—. I came to check out what they say about felines.
Max arched an eyebrow, an almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. The audacity of the statement, delivered with the coldness of a technical fact, was intriguing. But before he could respond, Oscar moved.
It wasn't a cuddle or a shy caress. It was an efficient, almost mechanical transition. He slid over the center console, his thin, agile body finding its place straddling Max's lap. Oscar's loose sweater brushed against Max's torso, and the engineer could feel the heat of the rabbit's body through the fabric. Max, who had spent the week between Charles's burning demands and George's dominant games, thought he'd be satisfied. But Oscar's simple, bold presence, his silence laden with intention, made blood rush to his groin with a familiar, voracious urgency.
Oscar didn't wait for permission. He began to rock, rubbing his crotch against the bulge rapidly growing in Max's pants. It was a deliberate, provocative movement, but executed with that same expression of absolute boredom. Small, almost inaudible pants escaped his lips, and the slight movement of his ears was the only indication that something was affecting him.
—Seems curiosity's eating you up, little rabbit —Max murmured, his hands finally finding the volume of those firm, rounded buttocks through the flannel. He squeezed them firmly, earning a slight blink from those chestnut eyes, the first crack in the facade.
With an expert motion, Max reclined the seat further. The space was cramped, intimate. His fingers found the zipper of Oscar's pants and pulled it down, while with his other hand he tugged at the sweater and the undershirt, revealing a pale, slender torso with pink nipples already pert from the friction. Oscar, for his part, wasted no time and unbuckled Max's pants, freeing his erection.
Max held his breath. There, in the car's gloom, Oscar's pussy was visibly wet, glistening in the faint light, its pink lips parted like a flower waiting to be pollinated. It smelled of clean rain and pure desire. It was a sight that made him mentally give thanks for his predatory luck.
—You're a pretty rabbit —Max growled, slapping one of his buttocks with a soft smack that echoed in the car—. And very eager.
Oscar didn't respond with words. Instead, he positioned himself over the barbed tip of Max's member. And then, Max witnessed something that left him momentarily fascinated: absolute control. Oscar didn't let himself drop. He lowered himself centimeter by centimeter, with agonizing slowness, contracting and relaxing his internal muscles with millimeter precision, as if calibrating a delicate instrument. Every little spine scraping his insides was met with a calculated tremor, a soft pant that mixed with the screams from the horror movie. Oscar's expression remained serene, but his ears trembled violently, betraying the intensity of the sensation.
When he was finally fully sunken, Max's pubis crushed against the rabbit's buttocks, and they both exhaled a deep, gutural sigh. The warmth and the oppressive tightness were exquisite.
Then, Oscar began to move. It wasn't the frantic, desperate rhythm Max associated with Charles, but a rhythmic, powerful, and obscenely graceful ride. He rose until he was almost free, only to let himself fall with a circular hip motion that made Max's spines scrape every sensitive spot inside him. Max, mesmerized, couldn't tear his gaze away from those ears shaking with every thrust, from that fluffy tail rubbing against his abdomen.
—Fuck, rabbit… you ride like you were born for this —Max panted, his hands gripping his hips tightly, fingers sinking into the pale flesh.
Soon, Max's patience, already scarce, ran out. He took control, driving his hips upward with the brute force of his species, finding the rhythm he sought. The car shook with his thrusts. Oscar finally broke, his expression of boredom shattered into a muffled moan, his hands gripping Max's shoulders, nails digging through the fabric. Max leaned in and captured one of his nipples between his lips, licking and nibbling it with his rough tongue, earning a series of sharp cries and whimpers that finally sounded genuine, desperate.
The air inside the cabin thickened, becoming a hot mist of sweat, sex, and the musky scent of both. Max felt the pressure building at his base, a coil spring about to detonate. Oscar, lost in sensation, stopped moving, merely receiving the thrusts in a crouched position, his body convulsing. A warm, copious torrent gushed from him, soaking Max's stomach and member. It was a flood, so abundant that Max, for an instant, wondered with amused disbelief if rabbit hybrids simply came like that or if Oscar had literally pissed himself with pleasure.
The violent, wet contraction that followed around his member gave him the answer. It was the last straw. Max thrust into him one, two, three more times, deeply, before burying his face in Oscar's neck and groaning, releasing his own hot discharge into the convulsing rabbit's depths. At the movie's climax, a strident scream from the lead actress perfectly masked Max's muffled roar and Oscar's sharp, broken cry.
They remained tangled, panting, the car filled with the smell of sex and the echo of their ragged breathing. Sweat glued their clothes to their skin. The mess between their bodies was considerable.
Without a word, Oscar separated himself, with a barely visible tremble in his legs. He cleaned himself with a handkerchief from his pocket and dressed with the same silent efficiency with which he had undressed. Max adjusted himself, watching him with renewed curiosity.
He started the car and drove in silence to the junior residence. Before getting out, Oscar turned, his expression already recomposing into his habitual mask of boredom.
—Goodnight, Verstappen —he said, his voice again a calm lake.
—When you get to university, rabbit… look for my workshop —Max replied. It wasn't a question; it was an order laden with promise.
Oscar nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and vanished into the darkness.
That's how his world worked. It was a perfect cycle, a multi-cylinder engine that was always running. Charles for passionate rage, George for the spite-filled challenge, Oscar for the silent, technically impeccable lesson. Max gave, received, and left. He was always respectful afterward: a glass of water, a towel, a dry but kind word. Sometimes, if the mood struck him, he got involved in some drama or another. He never promised what he couldn't give, and they, deep down, didn't ask it of him. They needed him in their own way, to break their own cages of expectations and frustrations.
And Max, the young lion with his future etched in steel blueprints and the smell of gasoline ingrained in his skin, walked the university hallways, his kingdom of logic and order. His sporadic lovers were just another controlled variable, another well-oiled piece in the perfect machine of his life. His roar wasn't one of triumph, but the satisfied hum of an engine running perfectly, fueled by a simple, uncomplicated fuel. Everything was under control.
0000
The air in the room always smelled of him: of engine oil, technical book paper, and that wild, deep, amber essence that was purely 22-year-old Max Verstappen. It was a scent that impregnated the sheets, the curtains, the very skin of those who frequented that space. A sanctuary of concrete and steel within the university conservatory, as impeccable and functional as the mind of the young lion hybrid who inhabited it.
Max, with his golden mane disheveled by the wind of speed and his eyes as cold as the steel of a chassis, leaned on his desk, reviewing some transmission blueprints. His body, an architecture of defined muscles under the simple black t-shirt of the Faculty of Mechanical Engineering, seemed at rest, but always alert, like a predator in the stillness of the savannah. For him, the world had a logical order: the precision of an engine, the perfect curve of a track, the satisfaction of a solved problem. Sex was just another variable, a physical equation of friction and endorphin release that he solved with efficiency and an almost enviable detachment.
His story wasn't one of romance. It was a series of sporadic, comfortable, and convenient encounters with other hybrids he'd grown up with in a dance of rivalry and unresolved tension. Now, at university, that tacit agreement—just sex, no dramas, no possessions—worked perfectly. Or so he thought.
The door to his room opened without ceremony. It was Charles. The gazelle hybrid, slender and intense-eyed, entered with the nervous elegance of his species. His scent of expensive shampoo and fresh grass immediately clashed with the room's atmosphere.
—Planning how to dominate the world or just me? —Charles asked, his voice a whisper laden with that mix of challenge and need he always carried.
Max didn't even look up from the blueprint.
—The world is more interesting. But if you insist, you can wait. The order of factors doesn't alter the product.
Charles snorted, a frustrated sound. It was always like this. He, who expected to be treated as the exception, crashed against the imperturbable wall of Max. He let himself fall onto the bed, his long legs stretched out, watching how the moonlight licked the backs of Max's hands.
Not five minutes had passed when sharp, precise knocks echoed on the door. Before Max could respond, George burst in. The deer hybrid, with his upright posture and habitual look of disdain, wore the impeccable uniform of the Faculty of Law and Politics. His tie was perfectly knotted.
—Verstappen. I need you to distract me from the existential misery that is the student council statutes —he announced, as if dictating an order.
But then, his fine nose twitched. He sniffed the air. His eyes, clear and astute, landed on Charles, who was lying on the bed with a smug smile. George's face contorted in an instant.
—What is he doing here? —he spat the words, directing his anger at Charles.
The tension thickened immediately. Charles sat up, defiant.
—It's my turn, George. Didn't they teach you in your president's faculty to queue?
—I don't queue for anything, and least of all for this —George retorted, taking a step forward. His usual elegance transformed into contained aggression—. Max, is this a scheduled rotation? Like your tires?
Max finally looked up. His serene gaze swept the room, calculating the situation like an applied physics problem: three bodies, opposing forces, high friction.
—Nobody scheduled anything —he said, his voice a low purr that cut the argument short—. This isn't a meeting agenda, George. And you, Charles, lower your tone.
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with static electricity. The three looked at each other, a triad of unspoken desires and ancient rivalries. The door, which George had left ajar, moved slowly.
And Oscar appeared.
The rabbit hybrid, with his impassive expression and his fluffy tail peeking from under the hem of his hoodie, observed them all without blinking. He wore headphones around his neck.
—I thought it was at nine —he murmured, his voice soft as fleece, brutally contrasting with the tension in the room.
George let out a sharp, dry laugh.
—Marvelous. The board meeting is complete.
Charles bit his lip, looking at Max with icy fury.
—Seriously, Max? All three? At the same time?
—Wasn't the plan —Max replied, calmly. He straightened up, finally abandoning the blueprints. His height and feline presence suddenly filled the space, imposing a silent authority. His blue eyes shone with a glint of genuine interest, as if the problem had suddenly become fascinating—. But since all three of you are here…
He walked to the door and closed it with a sharp thud. The sound resonated like a full stop. The bolt fell with a definitive click. He turned to them, one eyebrow slightly arched, a corner of his mouth curved into something that wasn't a smile, but a gesture of possession.
—It seems the night requires a… revision of the terms of our agreements —he said, his voice lower, rougher, tinged with the underlying growl of his leonine nature—. You come here seeking my attention. Seeking for me to remind you of your place. Right?
George held his breath, Charles swallowed, and Oscar, almost imperceptibly, tilted his head. Max's gaze swept over each one: the tense, eager gazelle, the arrogant, needy deer, the silent, lethal rabbit.
—Well, you have it. All of it —Max stated—. But we play by my rules. The only rule: no one leaves here until I say the game is over.