Chapter Text
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Arthur paced the floor of the parlor, his hands shaking. The king would be here any minute. His heart thrummed with nervousness.
He wanted to go home, back to Milecomté, to his own rooms, to his family, his palace gardens, and maps of star constellations, where his life had been simple, easy. There had been no such weight on him in his father’s kingdom, where Arthur was the youngest of five and his sole responsibility was to stand in his sister Mallorie’s shadow making sure her gown hems didn’t snag on a rock or a crack in the pavement.
To think, when he’d woken up this morning, not even his eldest brothers had their thrones, and yet Arthur would now have his before his seventeenth birthday. Just the thought alone, of marriage and…and of whatever came with being married, made him want to hide under Mallorie’s chair, like he used to when he was little, until the King chose her instead of him, as it was supposed to have happened.
A fog was rolling in over the hills. It would rain soon. Arthur stood in front the large, stone window, gazing out over the grounds and the Engston countryside beyond the moat. He watched the groups of saddened beta royals below leave the palace, carriage by carrage, now that the festival was over and the King had an engagment prepared. Arthur picked at a minuscule snag in the golden, embroidered hem of his short tunic and smoothed his hands over his tights once more, making sure he looked presentable.
His older sister stood behind him, her chin resting on his shoulder. She twinned their hands together. “I too am homesick for Milecomté,” she sighed, “but I think you’ll grow to like it here.”
“I don’t know, Mal. What if—”
“You dislike him?”
“I don’t know him.” He shrugged. “I only know of his wars and the chaos with which he gained his inheritance. He could be exactly like your ladies said—A tyrant, a monster… Our families don’t exactly have a peaceful history, Mal. Besides, even if he weren’t a werewolf alpha and king, he’s still older. He has experience, he’s strong and powerful, and didn’t you see how everyone fawned over him in his court? In comparison, I’m… I’m…” His shoulders sank.
“You are an omega,” Mal stated, “rare and prized, and a beautiful prince. Don’t worry.” She planted a kiss on his cheek as footsteps and muttered voices echoed from the corridor. “Just be yourself, Arthur.”
He attempted a half smile over his shoulder at her, watching her return to her chair. Several of her ladies-in-waiting rushed over to him to inspect his appearance one final time, before hurrying back to their place near Mal on the cushions and couches.
Arthur’s throat was suddenly dry when the guard announced the King’s entrance. He bowed low, trying not to let his eyes linger on the handsomely formed legs under the King’s tights, or on the noticeable size of his codpiece below his belted doublet. Arthur’s knees were a little weak when he kissed the offered hand and its glittering rings.
“Your Majesty,” he managed to whisper to his feet.
“Now, now, young Prince,” the King spoke slowly, thankfully, so that Arthur could understand his words, already well aware of Arthur’s limited grasp of the language. “I don’t intend to be rude, but, if it is custom in your father’s country to stare at the ground in front of your king, please know that in mine, when being addressed, we look one another in the eyes.”
He swallowed, listening as Mal’s lady quickly translated for him, just as the King’s hand cupped his chin and lifted his face.
Arthur looked the man in the eyes for only the second time since the King had ordered him to do so in front of the court the evening before. He felt as fragile as a little bird under the King’s wolfish gaze, even as the man offered him a gentle smile that nearly stole his breath away.
He quickly dropped his eyes. The King’s rumbling chuckle sent a shiver through him, making him blush.
In all the sixteen years of his life, Arthur had never had trouble admitting that he preferred living in his elder sister’s shadow. It was an opinion that rang true now more than it ever had.
+
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Arthur sat in the corner of his sister’s lavish parlor with his puppy in his lap.
One of Mal’s ladies combed the dark curls framing his face and neck. He watched his sister circle the tiled floor, the tiny jewels on her gown shimmering in the sunlight.
An envoy from the Engston court had arrived in Milecomté that morning with news. Mal had been pacing the floor since then, waiting for word from their father.
She shooed away one of the younger girls, who’d politely urged her not to chew on her nails. Mal had also long since removed her shoes.
The lady combing Arthur’s hair shook her head when Mal turned her back. “It's grown past your shoulders, young Highness. May I trim it for you, after supper?”
“Yes, please,” he smiled, happy to give her something to do, rather than letting her fret like Mal and the others.
Mal paused in front of an old tapestry, her eyes nearly wild as she spoke. “This meeting with the envoy shall be my undoing. I know it.”
All her ladies, even the one pampering Arthur, rushed to deny Mal’s claim with hearty reassurances. His dog yelped at the commotion as Arthur remained out of the way of Mal’s resumed pacing.
“If the Engston King is shopping for a wife and I am chosen? I will never be able to see my Dominic ever again. That is no life I wish to live.”
“Is it true that the Eameses are werewolves,” one lady asked in a hushed voice.
“It is,” another answered, still braiding her nearly floor length hair as she and the others continued to cluster near Mal. “His entire royal court, really. No one knows how the first Eameses were turned, but the King, much like his father, was born a werewolf. The King gives the bite only to his most trusted and favored subjects.”
“I heard that the King’s grandfather descended from the mountains of Wolfshire as terrible as a nightmare and sacked what was once land owned by the Cobbs for their fortresses. Then once his son was in charge, he cozied up to the Fischers, only to betray young Robert’s father and rob him of the Engston crown, not soon after.”
“What of the wolf king’s son, the current king, then?”
“My husband has told me that he's a devil of a man, godly handsome and sharp, but always hungry for war and conquest. His Lord Chancellor, a man from Sansar, is perhaps the only man in his court who doesn’t carry a scar or two from the King and his tantrums, other than the bite, of couse. The King's rage is only exacerbated by his bloodlines.”
The eldest attendant shook her head. “Don’t listen to such gossip, Marisol,” she cautioned to the girl who'd asked.
“You call me a liar?”
“I call you and your husband naïve, madam. Tell me, what new news of the Ensgton king shall we hear next? That he is secretly an omega, perhaps?”
Several ladies giggled. “Wouldn’t that be something? There hasn’t been a single omega born in any kingdom since…well, perhaps our Majesty’s great-grandmother?”
“Indeed! So many generations of hot-headed alphas, with their beta subjects and their beta wives and beta offspring.”
Mal ignored their chatter, but stopped her circling again, when Arthur caught her eye. It was easy for her to forget the quiet boy sometimes. Most people often did.
He joined her on the couch when she patted the cushion beside her. His dog pawed up at his knees until Mal reach over and picked her up, her little tail wagging at the attention Mal gave her.
Arthur was momentarily afraid of the tears he saw clinging to Mal’s lashes. “Do you really think he’ll pick you? Can’t our father be swayed elsewhere?”
She shook her head, her eyes on the dog. “It happens, every so often, that a king will be lazy in picking their spouse, so they’ll beckon every unpromised woman or girl to their court so they can pick over us like so much food on a platter. And no matter the rumors, or ties to the fallen House of Fischer or the Cobbs, King Eames rules Engston. Any ruler of that kingdom is one best kept in your family’s favor. A marriage to King Eames would guarantee an alliance and protection.”
“But our brothers… They—”
“—are still nothing more than aging beta princes, with no kingdoms of their own so long as our father lives. Meanwhile, Henry Eames continues to gain more power.” She sighed. “You’re lucky, my Arthur. You are neither firstborn nor a princess bred for being bartered off. You were conceived purely out of love, and for that reason, you must never take your freedom for granted. Heed my advice. Don’t hesitate in your affections for our cousin, Robert—”
“No, no. We only write each other, that’s all,” he cut in quickly, eyes wide.
Mal smiled fondly. “And yet you blush whenever you hear his name, and let’s not speak of how giddy you are when a messenger comes riding over the hill from the Fischer castle with one of those letters. What? He’s a very sweet boy!” She tossed up her hands in mock defeat when he only narrowed his eyes, responding with a glare. “Well, then when you are both older and have wives, you both should still…write each other, as you said. Continue to share your feelings.”
He softened his glare. “We’re aren’t—I mean, we’re not…” He sighed, flustered. “At least…not like you and Dom. You love Dominic very much. What’s that like, Mal, to be in love with someone?”
Instantly he regretted asking when she looked away. Mal took several shaking breaths, her eyes clouded with fresh tears as she offered Arthur a sad smile.
The guard stepped into the parlor, announcing their father’s arrival. The Engston envoy followed King Miles.
Mal handed Arthur his puppy and kissed his cheek. “When the day comes that you find true love, you will know it. It’s indescribable,” she explained, staying close enough to whisper as they stepped forward, braced for their father’s news.
+
The Engston palace was alive with music and festivities in celebration of King Eames’ twenty-fourth birthday. The gardens were all decorated with tents for pastry treats and wine sampling from the local wineries. Tall bushes were trimmed into larger than life replicas of the King in his wolf form along with his knights and assembled to illustrate scenes from his greatest battles.
Arthur kept his dog tucked under his cloak as he lounged on plush cushions with Mal on a boat tour around the palace. He dozed in the afternoon sun while Mal’s lady helped her practice the King’s language, of the Isles.
“Your Highness,” the lady urged him gently with a smile, “you should pay attention to your sister’s lessons. If, or perhaps, when, today goes well, and she becomes the Queen of Engston, I imagine you’ll be here with her quite often.”
He frowned. “Lady Catherine, please. You’re making my sister nervous.” He glanced at Mal. She wasn’t listening to them, her attention long since gone, perhaps to dreams of her Dominic, far away. “I hope the King doesn’t choose my sister. I hope he picks someone else so that we can all go home.”
“Yusuf?” Eames asked with an unflatteringly tight voice. “Isn’t all this a bit much?”
His Lord Chancellor hummed from his perch on the windowsill, peering out at all the people below. The elder werewolf glanced over his shoulder at Eames. “Fear not, my friend. You’ll thank me once you get to see these betas up close, scent their lovely pheromones, catch a dance or two, see a slip of an ankle under a gown…or at the very least, pick a few bedmates, if not a wife.” He shrugged.
“I understand all that, but—” Eames growled when one of the seamstresses pulled the strings on his new doublet even harder than before, “does this bloody thing have to be so tight?”
“Of course! Beauty is pain, and right now, alpha and beta kings, princes, dukes, the world over, are envious of your kingdom and power. Why not make them hate you even more by being the most strapping and seductive king as well? You want every beta drooling on the floor when you arrive. The only thing they’ll be hungry for is you.” Yusuf patted Eames’ cheek, laughing at the King’s angry pout. He looked down suddenly, his eyes wide. “My goodness, your Majesty, I think I rather like these tights on you.”
“Why?” Eames demanded, looking down at himself as if searching for a bug or a snag in the fabric. “What’s wrong?”
Yusuf nodded appreciatively as the seamstresses finished their work. “Eamesie, you may very well be the one man, in the entire world, who ought never to wear tights. That codpiece on you is obscene.”
“Why for one second did I ever let you dress me? I have to change, I can't wear this. Yusuf, I swear—” but he was shushed as Yusuf adjusted his collar chain across his shoulders one last time and pushed him towards the door.
“His Royal Majesty, King Henry Eames, Ruler of Engston, Eameston, and Wolfshire, Defender of the Isles, and Lord of the Northern Saxons,” the royal court marshal announced as the King made his appearance in the sunlit hall, flanked by his entourage and two massive grey and tawny wolves.
The place was abuzz with whispers, as most of the guests, who had never seen the King in person, pressed past each other for a glimpse of the handsome alpha.
Arthur quickly scooped his puppy off the floor, distracted by her nervous whining.
He shushed her just as the King took his seat. Many of the women hurried forward to kiss the alpha's hand. The only alpha princess was quickly escorted out by two of the guards.
The King’s scent was very distinct, as were all alpha’s, but his, Arthur noticed, was different. It held an alpha’s usual potency, but none of the alphas Arthur had smelled before had ever reminded him of apples and cinnamon.
He caught a glimpse of the man soon enough. King Eames personified power and virility even as he slouched, clearly bored, at the front of the hall. His jeweled gold collar chain gleamed in the early evening light, its sapphires complimenting his doublet and tights. Even his beard was trimmed finely. Arthur could only imagine what he looked like under his clothes, and was surprised that such a thought would even cross his mind.
“Your Highness,” Mal’s lady whispered to her, “you should go quickly to meet him, before all the ugly girls scare him off.”
Mal didn’t look overly thrilled. She brushed aside Arthur’s hair and leaned in close to his ear. “Thank you for coming here with me.” She kissed his cheek. “You must be bored by all this spectacle.”
Arthur tugged at the collar of the amber and black tunic Mal had had made for him to match her gown. He felt a sudden wave of heat wash over him in the crowded hall, like he’d been struck with a fever that lasted only a moment.
“Are you alright, Arthur?” Mal eyed him closely. “You’re flushed, and you...smell different.”
He frowned at her strange observation and shrugged as his temperature stabilized. “Perhaps I’m just tired. I’ve never traveled so far out of the kingdom before,” he supposed, even though his reasoning didn’t account for the tinge of pain between his legs that had followed the temperature spike.
She nodded, her hand on his forehead. “Eat something. With any luck, this will be over soon.”
Arthur wandered off towards a table piled with food as he groaned, voicing what both he and Mal were really thinking. The line of women eager to meet the King was long enough, even without those who were busy dancing and those sneaking kisses with members of the King’s entourage wherever they found a secluded corner or doorway.
By the look of things, the King’s festival could very well drag long into the night. Arthur was instantly bored.
Eames suppressed the urge to yawn in front of the sea of betas princesses, duchesses, and marquises throughout the hall, all dancing and intermingling with his court.
The King sighed like a bull as he slouched lower in his chair, trying to get comfortable, though his heavily ornate doublet still felt constricting. “Yusuf, I swear I’ll rip your head off for this,” he grumbled, sitting with his head propped in his hand.
“For a werewolf alpha inclined to ripping off heads, you certainly have a flare for whining like a little child as well, your Majesty.” Yusuf quickly cleared his throat when two of the beta princesses approached the King, ending his conversation. He watched women curtsey, their breast nearly pouring out of their low cut bodices, and the way Eames shifted awkwardly in his chair. His cheeks were coloring, so faint only another werewolf would notice. Yusuf bit his tongue to hold back his smile.
“That wasn’t funny, Yusuf,” Eames murmured.
“Oh, but it was, your Majesty,” he murmured back, close to the King’s ear for show. “This is the sort of thing that ought to remind you exactly why this festival is necessary. If you’re going to convince these people and any potential new ally kingdoms that you support diplomacy and peace, then you’re going to have to first stop threatening everyone, including me, with beheading, and second, my friend, you’re going to have to learn how to talk to these women," he continued over Eames' low groaning, “without blushing or scaring them off. Consider this as… practice and the test itself, considering that finding a mate is what this festival is really for. God knows, you haven’t actually celebrated your birthday since you were handed the crown.”
“Ah yes, and I’m sure this will all make up for the mess I’m certain to make once my werewolf rut sets in a week from now. Whoever I pick as my future queen will certainly love witnessing me turn into a horny rage monster.” He rolled his eyes.
“Nonsense. She’ll be flattered that the greatest alpha king to ever live would turn into a ferocious beast, driven wild with the need to mate her. Highly romantic.”
Eames grunted. “I’d rather be out hunting with you and the boys than sitting through this, Yusuf. Look at how lovely the skies were today, and yet you’ve had me cooped up in here all day in this stifling costume.”
Arthur spent most of the early evening watching the sun set, stealing grapes from the table for himself and his dog, and wondering why the werewolves stared at him and whispered when they passed by. His human ears couldn’t catch what they said, but he could sense it. He hugged his puppy close and prayed that the King would make a decision soon.
Perhaps if Mal were picked as his queen, it wouldn’t be completely terrible. After all, it was clear, at least on the surface, that with their countries united, the King could bring them protection and prosperity, take care of their parents and older siblings…
What was more, his court and subjects didn’t seem to be very heartbroken or hostile under his rule. They looked to the King with respect, and reverence to those chosen from their former court for the werewolf bite.
He glanced over again at the King through a gap in the people clustered here and there. He could see now how the Cobbs and Fischers could lose territories to such a formidable alpha. The setting sun and lit candles played shadows across the tight cut of the King’s clothes, highlighting his defined arms, chest, and abdomen, and down his splayed legs. He reminded Arthur of the wolf he’d seen on the edge of the forest once when he was younger, and the way it sat in the damp grass, its mouth still dripping with the blood of its kill while the pack continued to fill their bellies. The wolf had been watching young Arthur, as if its eyes could see straight to the core of his fear and awe. It had been equally intimating and…enchanting, just as the King was now.
Arthur stumbled as if drunk when a fresh wave of warmth spread through him without warning. He blinked, trying to regain his composure.
“Arthur? How are you feeling now?” his sister asked as soon as she found him.
“I’m fine,” Arthur lied. Ignoring her frown, he asked, “Mal, am I doing something wrong? Why are they staring at me?”
She heaved a great sigh. “They are staring because, as Lady Nicole told us prior to arriving in Engston, had you been paying attention, werewolves despise dogs.” She shook her head, watching Arthur’s shoulders sink. “Why on earth did you bring her? What were you thinking, Arthur?”
Just as he prepared to answer, a voice drifted from behind him.
“Excuse me, young sir.” The man looked to be a guard. He eyed Arthur’s dog with a thinly veiled, sour expression. “Dogs are not permitted in court. Allow me,” he offered, his arms out to receive the dog.
“Will you take her to Lady Christine? She will keep her in our rooms.”
He gave the guard his dog reluctantly, listening to her whine and struggle in his hands, trying to get back to Arthur.
Mal was trying to cheer him up though he didn’t notice at all. Without his dog held his to chest, he could feel the true intensity of the fever now as it rolled through him. He didn’t feel sick, only…hot. Uncomfortably hot.
Again, it dissipated as quickly as it had come, now replaced by the returning ache between his legs. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before, totally unlike the pleasure his body would conjure up when reading one of Robert’s more risqué letters.
And then he shivered, when the King’s scent drifted his way, stronger than before, making the ache that much more severe.
Mal placed her hand on his cheek, her eyes searching. "Arthur, you...” She called for Lady Catherine to check him as well.
The lady, their former nursemaid, paled. “Oh, Holy Mother bless you..."
"Mal?"
She smiled in awe with Lady Catherine. "Do you have any idea of what magnificent thing is happening to you?"
“Breathe in that lovely beta scent,” Yusuf had been saying.
Eames did, inhaling deeply. “They all smell like various flowers,” he muttered.
“Indeed.” Yusuf smiled with content. “You have such a fine, fine garden of flowers to pick from.”
“I hate flowers.”
The elder werewolf cut his eye at the King, at last letting a slip of his irritation show. His brow furrowed at the odd, distracted expression on Eames. “Something wrong, your Majesty?”
“No, just…a particular scent…” He inhaled again, using his werewolf senses to dissect the scent so mingled with the other people surrounding it.
A group of younger girls and boys ran past Yusuf and the King, bringing the air and the scent back. It was like Eames’ favorite melon dessert and prime Wolfshire whiskey. Something else, something primal lay just underneath, making Eames' mouth water and fangs descend, itching to bite and claim whoever possessed that scent.
“Your Majesty?” Yusuf pressed again.
“Yusuf,” the King muttered, careful not to lose the scent, “there is an omega here.”
Yusuf balked. “You’re right, sir. I think this festival wasn’t the best idea, if it has caused you to lose your mind. There hasn’t been an omega in—”
“There is an omega here,” he demanded in a voice only Yusuf could hear. The music stopped and the people all looked towards the King curiously when he stood up abruptly.
“My god…” Yusuf whispered in wonder, looking out over the hall, searching.
Like a spark catching on dry wood, the scent traveled until even the humans could detect its presence. As most of the people’s attention was turned inward, looking amongst each other for the omega, Eames jutted his chin in the direction of one of the tables. “Who is that in the amber and black?”
“That would be Princess Mallorie de Milecomté, from Duval. Shall I send for her?”
“No. I’ll go to her, to be certain.”
Those standing closest to the King quickly knelt as he stepped forward. He let his nose guide him through the crowd, uncaring of the heartbroken women he left in tears, as he scented a few of them and continued past, crushing their hopes.
He was soon met with a crowd of turned backs, distracted as they gathered around the woman he sought and the boy Yusuf informed him was her brother.
Arthur felt his back touch the stone wall behind him. He and his sister had been cornered and he hadn’t the slightest idea why. He wanted to melt through the cracks in the stone and disappear.
The sea parted slowly as Eames’ presence in the crowd was made known. Eames heard their murmuring as he approached, but he tuned out their senseless chatter, knowing that they were all mistaken. The woman was the omega. Eames was certain.
Until the woman bowed, moving her long hair aside for him to scent her.
The King buried his face in her neck for a long time. The scent was there, but faint. Too faint to belong to her.
Arthur’s shock didn’t lessen with the werewolf King standing tall and broad before him with only Mal between them. He stared at the King’s feet, wide eyed, his lips parted, as the fever receded once again.
“Arthur,” Mal hissed, still bowing like the others, “for the sake of the Holy Mother, don’t stand there. Kneel. Do it now.”
His mouth snapped shut, his cheeks coloring. He moved to kneel quickly, but was surprised when the King’s hand caught his throat in a secure hold. He blinked and found himself pressed to the King’s chest as the werewolf scented him, or rather, was lost in the scent of him.
And Arthur was no better, lost in the King’s scent as well.
Arthur felt more than a little drunk when the King stepped back, the werewolf’s eyes glowing golden before he blinked.
The King cupped his face in one large hand, lifting up his chin. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low.
Arthur tried, shaking with fear as the King’s eyes pierced his.
“He’s an omega?” the crowd began to whisper.
“Impossible…”
“What use does any lover of women have with a male omega?”
“Plenty… Just look at those legs and that adorable face…”
“He’s beautiful…”
“And smells wonderful…”
“Like Donatello’s young David…”
“Or a Botticelli youth…”
The King snarled, silencing them all. Arthur flinched at the sound and the sight of the King’s bared teeth. He quickly dropped his eyes when the werewolf turned towards him again.
The King’s fingertips traced his cheek before moving forward to scent him one more time. Arthur clasped his hands behind his back, pinching his wrist, knowing it would prove this to be some bizarre dream that would end, and end fast, because this couldn’t be real.
“Young prince,” Arthur heard the King say, “I shall meet with you and those present from your father’s household in your rooms once they’ve been prepared for your extended stay. Rest for now. Perhaps in the morning you shall have overcome your shyness by then.”
A few people laughed quietly, further confusing Arthur until he realized that the King was still waiting for his response, though Arthur needed Lady Catherine to translate to be sure he had understood. He nodded quickly, searching for his voice. “Oui…” he muttered at last to the King’s chest. “Yes, your Majesty. Of course.”
His only saving grace was that he remembered to bow this time, though the King’s back was already turned now that he and his Lord Chancellor made their way back to the front of the hall.