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Out of all the positions Max had imagined himself in, flat on his back underneath Charles Leclerc was not one of them.

He feels the heat of Charles’ thighs bracketing his hips, sees the fire in his gaze, hears the sound of his heavy breathing as he pins Max’s wrists above his head and presses him into the ground.

"Time!" the weapons master calls.

Charles tosses his sword to the side, loosens his grip on Max, and leaps up, a triumphant smirk flashing across his face. He turns around to the polite applause of the other knights standing on the edge of the sparring ring, awaiting their turns to show off their skills and defeat their partners. Max takes note of the way Charles purposely fails to offer him a hand up.

Fuming, he pulls himself up and collects his sword, trying to dispel the flush he’s sure is creeping up his neck right now. His alpha roars in frustration. Max doesn’t discriminate, but the sting from being bested by a beta like Charles nestles under his skin, his ego flaring, and he suppresses a growl.

"Very good," says the weapons master. "The next pair may now step into the ring."

Max knows that he's supposed to be paying attention to the fighting techniques of his fellow knights, but his blood is boiling. His practice match with Charles should’ve been an easy victory. But he got distracted, hesitated when he had the upper hand, and Charles took advantage. And rightly so. He would’ve done the same thing if he’d been in Charles’ position.

He mentally berates himself for losing his cool. His relationship with Charles—if you can call the time periods they spend fighting and then subsequently trying to ignore each other a relationship—is already a source of constant resentment for him. He certainly doesn't need Charles strutting around acting all smug just because he bested Max in a sword fight one time. Well, not just one time, but the point remains. Max will never live it down.

“Don’t let him get under your skin,” Lando pats him on the shoulder. “Save it for the tournament. You know that’s where it matters anyway.”

Max does know this, but the defeat prickles sharp and hot under his skin just the same.

The grand tournament will be held in two weeks time to celebrate Prince Pierre’s upcoming coronation as the king of Milton Keynes. Pierre’s father will abdicate as soon as his son’s marriage to Prince Yuki of Faenza is official. His presence has already become ceremonial in recent months, with the king preferring to leave most of the strategizing to his eldest son and the knights and advisors who eagerly serve him.

“It’s time," Pierre had said when he broke news of the engagement to Max, hours before the official royal decree. "At least he’s handsome."

“He is to your liking?” Prince Yuki and his family had visited the kingdom of Milton Keynes once before, when news of the prince’s intent to marry became widespread.

“He is.” Pierre had smiled as he said it. “Enough to mate him. Perhaps I could even love him one day too.”

Max had been glad for his friend. They’re no longer the closest out of all the royal kids who grew up together—yet another thing Charles has beaten him at—but Max respects Pierre and his leadership. He will be a good king. It will be an honor to protect him.

Pierre is stepping into an important role next month, and the upcoming transition has the entire kingdom abuzz. But for Max, the coronation is more than just a transfer of monarchical power. The celebratory tournament in the days following is his chance to prove his worthiness of being chosen as Lord Commander, Pierre’s right-hand man, leader of the knights and one of the highest honors one can earn in the kingdom.

It's a coveted role. Many knights are eager to be chosen, practically salivating at the thought of the glory and prestige. Charles is no exception, though Max suspects he has his own personal reasons for wanting the position. The competition is fierce, but Max knows he can best them all. Charles is the only one who might put that assumption to the test.

Charles is his fiercest rival, the closest thing he has to an equal on the battlefield. Max’s physical prowess and technique are nearly unmatched, but Charles’ lithe proportions, fast reflexes, and clever fighting strategies have elevated him to second-best. And now Max just lost to him in front of all of their fellow knights. The fact that it's a practice round does nothing to quell his frustration.

He watches the rest of the practice rounds in annoyance, only half paying attention, and is relieved when they're dismissed for the morning to attend to their other duties. But Charles won’t let him off that easily. He seems to know just the right angles to dig underneath Max’s skin, to press the bruise while it’s still tender.

"A valiant effort," he murmurs into Max’s ear. Max jumps in surprise, internally cursing himself for giving Charles the satisfaction of catching him off guard yet again.

"I hope you're prepared for your defeat," Charles continues. "Try not to enjoy it too much."

Max snarls, but Charles is already sauntering away.

As Max turns back to polishing his sword, he vows to never give Charles the chance to smile in victory ever again.

***

Max wishes he could say that it wasn’t always like this, but that would be a lie.

He and Charles grew up together, adventuring with the other royal children into the forest and the fields beyond the castle walls. They weren’t enemies then, not until later, but they hadn’t ever been friends either.

He’s seven the first time he meets Charles. The memory is still salient, one of the few from the period of his life after his mother passed that retains any sort of clarity.

He remembers wandering through the castle one day in search of Pierre’s room. One of the many privileges of being nobility who spent half the year living at the palace: getting to escape an hour of tutoring to play with the crown prince, his friend since the time they were old enough to walk. His father didn’t allow him many friends, but even he wouldn’t dare protest at Max currying favor with the crown prince from an early age.

But when he arrived, Pierre hadn’t been alone. A strange boy had been there in the spot Max usually sat in, the two of them clearly engaged in some sort of card game. Pierre’s tutor sat in the corner, quietly observing to maintain a sense of propriety in the room. She wrinkled her nose at Max’s presence but held her tongue, remembering who Max’s father was.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Charles,” the boy had said. “Of House Leclerc. Who are you?”

Pierre looked up from his deck of cards. “Max is my friend too. Will you come play with us?”

“Sure,” Max had agreed, but Charles had turned back to his deck of cards, seemingly annoyed that Max had interrupted their game.

“It’s a two-person game. Your friend can play the next round.”

He’d been young, but even then he’d known what jealousy felt like, the sensation pulsing uncomfortably in his chest. Pierre was his only friend, and this stranger was here to take him away.

One silly childhood incident hadn’t meant anything, not in the long run, but it was his first taste of learning what it would feel like to lose to Charles. Pierre would begin to slip away after that, first to the affections of other people, and later, to the responsibilities of the crown.

“Focus on your training,” his father had commanded one day after Max had returned home from a spat with Charles after sparring practice. Max was twelve and had just presented as an alpha, blood boiling from all the new hormones he hadn’t known how to handle. “You will never bring glory to House Verstappen if you’re distracted and weak.”

So Max had recommitted himself to his training with renewed focus. He’d grown taller and stronger with each passing season, and his resentment for Charles had only grown alongside him. By the time he was sixteen, he’d surpassed all of the other knights-in-training not just in height, but in swordsmanship and cavalry skills. But Charles was right behind him, his beta presentation not deterring him in the slightest, quickly rising through the ranks, determined to undercut Max at every opportunity.

Pierre had been pleased, of course. Two of his fiercest protectors had blossomed into formidable knights, bringing honor to their names. But Max had seen the expression on Charles’ face when Pierre wasn’t looking, the hunger in his eyes, the kind that blinded him to his own hubris. Charles has never been afraid to fight dirty.

Caged animals are the most dangerous of all. Max knows this to be true. After all, like recognizes like. Max has not been training for this moment his whole life for nothing.

Charles might have won this particular battle, but Max will win the war, dragging them both down kicking and screaming if he has to until they both go up in flames.

***

“I hear Faenza is bringing a large contingent.” Lando’s voice cuts through Max’s wandering thoughts as they unbridle their horses in the stables after a brisk morning ride.

“That’s not exactly news, is it?” Max replies. “They’ll no doubt want to ensure the marriage goes smoothly.”

“Scouts reported they’re set to arrive the day after tomorrow. Much sooner than we thought.”

Max looks up. “I thought they weren’t supposed to arrive for another week.”

“The journey took less time than expected, I suppose,” Lando shrugs. “Snow thawed early this year. The mountain passes must be clear.”

Max slips Sassy’s halter on and combs a hand through her mane. “Is that why I received an emergency courier this morning with the crown prince requesting my presence at the advisory meeting today?”

“As did we all,” Lando confirms. “They’ve instated extra guards everywhere, not to mention all the preparations. The kitchen staff at the palace must be panicking.”

Max gives his horse an affectionate pat before exiting the stables with Lando in lockstep. Sassy whinnies after him, sorry to see him go, but the sugar cubes Max snuck from the kitchen the other night should placate her for now.

The hallways of the palace are bustling with commotion. Everyone else must be hurrying to get ready for their esteemed visitors too. He and Lando stride through the gilded entrance of the throne room and straight for the large, round wooden table in the center of the room, where knights and advisors have already started to gather for the emergency meeting.

But he barely has a chance to walk through the door before he’s getting body-checked by a fuming Charles storming out of the room, fresh off the heels of what must have been a heated conversation with Pierre.

Max growls, his alpha stiffening at the perceived aggression, but Charles has already blown past him and down the hallway, disappearing without a trace.

“What the fuck?”

His foul mouth will be the death of him one day, but Max has never been one for the niceties of court politics. He prefers to prove his merit on the battlefield. The agricultural advisor standing at the close end of the table whirls around, aghast at his impropriety, but Pierre isn’t fazed.

“Forget him,” he shakes his head, and Max’s shoulders loosen at the admonishment. He gives a slight bow and joins the others around the table.

“I call this meeting to order,” Pierre says, clearing his throat, and everyone quiets.

“What of Sir Leclerc, Your Highness?” one of the advisors asks.

“Charles is indisposed and will not be joining us today,” Pierre says. His tone is light, but Max doesn’t miss the sour expression on his face or the way his scent is tinged with frustration.

It’s not hard to smell blood, and the wolf inside Max perks up. Tension between Charles and his beloved crown prince can only mean a sore spot for Max to poke, a still-tender bruise, another weakness to exploit. Suddenly, his defeat in practice the other day is beginning to feel like a distant memory.

Pierre begins to talk of logistics for the upcoming days, and Max can’t help but zone out. He thinks about how satisfying it will feel to have Charles underneath him this time, how it will feel to be on top, to win, to see the defeat in Charles’ eyes. Charles can never hide his emotions, not with those big doe eyes of his, but Max likes that better. At least he’s honest. About some things, anyway.

“And that’s why we have decided to move the wedding and the tournament up by three days,” Pierre concludes, snapping Max out of his thoughts and back to reality.

“Sorry, what?”

Someone coughs.

“Your Highness,” Max adds belatedly.

“As I was saying,” Pierre stresses, “our royal food stores are simply not equipped to handle an additional week of festivities with so many mouths to feed. If the scouts report correctly, Faenza seems to have brought an entire kingdom’s worth of people, much more than was originally anticipated. I will not be wasteful of resources that we should be stockpiling in the event of a conflict with the McLaren factions in the west, nor will I show weakness or a lack of hospitality to our guests.” He shoots Max a look, as if to say, you should know this.

The upcoming marriage is supposed to bolster their defenses against the threat in the west, but Max won’t press the point. Three fewer days to practice, then. Three days sooner that he gets to dangle victory in front of Charles’ lips and taste it for himself instead.

“Dispatches have already been sent throughout the kingdom,” one of the advisors says. “Faenza will surely understand, given the sensitive nature of the marital rites and the timeline by which they must occur.” A tactful way of referring to the Milton Keynes custom of consummating marriages during mating cycles.

“His Highness’s rut came early last time,” Lando murmurs in his ear. Max wants to ask how he knows that, but he bites his tongue. In any case, that must be the real reason for all of this. They can probably spare a couple extra days of grain, so he wonders why Pierre is still pontificating about the food supply.

After the meeting adjourns, he and Lando linger in the courtyard before they part ways to return to their chambers in opposite wings of the palace.

“It’s strange, is it not?” Max asks.

“It is, but it’s not our business,” Lando says.

“How do you know his rut came early?”

“That’s not your business,” Lando repeats, though privately Max thinks he shouldn’t have said anything at all if he wasn’t planning on volunteering more information. “But for the record, no, I’m not sleeping with the crown prince, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” Max defends, though he sort of was. “Do you know what happened with Charles, then?”

“No. You could ask him, if you weren’t so busy making him out to be your mortal enemy.”

“He started it,” Max says automatically, though he’s no longer sure if that’s true, or if it ever was.

Lando rolls his eyes. “Idiots, the both of you,” he shakes his head, and that’s that.

***

The Faenza contingent arrives two days later, and the wedding festivities commence.

Prince Yuki paints a surprisingly regal picture given his tiny stature. He’s sitting comfortably next to Pierre in the banquet hall under the watchful eyes of his escort, lips pressed together in a serene smile. Pierre seems happy with the current seating arrangement if the matching smile on his face is anything to go by.

The welcome banquet is decadent and lively in every sense of the word. Max watches from his seat at the end of a long table as lords and ladies whirl around the dancefloor in a hypnotic blur. He doesn’t mind a party, but for whatever reason he’s not really in the mood tonight. Too many scents in one room, maybe. Scent suppressant potions are temporary and can only do so much.

Too much ale will not bode well for peak performance at the tournament, so Max sips on his jug slowly and chews on a bite of chicken while he observes the merriment and raucousness. His eyes land on Charles, who watches the revelry from his post by the door. He may not be on duty tonight, but he’s certainly not indulging either.

Unable to let a good opportunity go to waste, Max rises from his seat and walks over to where Charles is standing.

“Having a nice evening?” he asks, keeping his tone pleasant.

“I was,” Charles says, not taking his eyes off the crown prince. He makes no move to respond further.

Max rolls his eyes. “Tell me, Sir Leclerc, were you born with a stick up your ass or did someone put it there?”

“Your language is most unbecoming of a knight,” Charles says, not giving him an inch tonight.

Pierre laughs at something Yuki says and leans in, clearly endeared by his husband-to-be. Charles is still staring at them with an unreadable expression on his face.

"He's not yours," Max leans down to murmur in his ear. "He never will be."

And finally, that’s what does it.

"Fuck you," Charles hisses. "You know nothing about me or what I want." He storms off in search of another drink.

Stunned, Max lets him leave.

***

He seems to have hit a nerve, because Charles is nowhere to be found the next day. Max shakes off the discomfort he feels and busies himself with training for the tournament in between his other responsibilities.

His footwork is getting better. What he lacks in grace he makes up for with physical prowess and sheer force of will, but he will have to be nimble against Charles, who is on a mission to make Max’s life nothing short of a living hell. His sequences are flowing more naturally, his steps more advanced. He’s in a good spot for the tournament, and the knowledge sends a thrum of excitement through his system.

He hears the unmistakable clang of swords around the corner and looks up from polishing his sword in the armory. When he steps out into the courtyard, a small crowd has begun to gather for what looks like the beginnings of a fight.

George Russell is not one of Max’s favorite people. He’s suited to the knighthood, posh nobility through and through, always strutting about with a vague air of self-importance that only renders him more distasteful in Max’s eyes. He’s currently pointing his sword at Charles’ face, who looks none too impressed.

“A practice round before I beat you this weekend, then?” Charles says.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” George smirks. “A lot can happen between now and then.” He’s admittedly third best in swordsmanship behind Charles, but that doesn’t mean he has what it takes to emerge a champion. Max will never let him have it, and they both know it. Neither will Charles.

But unlike Max, who would never give George the satisfaction of rising to the bait, Charles can’t help himself. Anger slices across his face, and he draws his sword.

George thrusts his sword forward to meet him, but Charles is already lunging. Their blades meet in a harsh clash that echoes throughout the courtyard.

They dart across the gravel, swords colliding all the while. Max can taste dust in his throat even as an onlooker, but it doesn’t matter. He’s transfixed, his gaze never once leaving Charles, who weaves around George like a snake preparing to strike. Over my dead body, his murderous expression seems to say. He slams his sword down to parry George’s next attack and George stumbles as he tries to catch up. But when Charles lunges at him, George pulls him down so they’re tumbling across the dirt, until he eventually ends up on top with his legs bracketing Charles’ waist.

Charles whispers something in his ear, something only George can hear. Before Max can begin to formulate a guess, George slaps him straight across the face with his bare hand. A move most definitely outside the protocol of a proper swordfight.

From his vantage point, Max sees the moment the anger in Charles’ expression morphs into one of pure hatred. Max has been on the receiving end of many a withering stare from Charles, but he has never once seen anything like this.

By now, the crowd is jeering. Servants, guards, even a few members of nobility passing through have taken interest in this skirmish, including some men clad in Faenza’s signature yellow and white robes. They must have a great impression of the kingdom their omega prince is marrying into.

Charles shoves his opponent off, snapping his teeth. George is slow to get up, so Charles takes the opportunity to slam his sword down against his knees. George howls in pain, crumpling, and Charles presses the point of his sword to his chest.

Checkmate.

“Asshole,” Charles scoffs, ignoring the murmurs from the crowd.

“What’s your problem?” George shrieks.

“Next time, you should act in a manner that is becoming of your title,” Charles says. He stomps off in the direction of the castle, leaving the rest of them stunned.

“Bitch,” George spits after him. He gets up gingerly and flounces off in the opposite direction, not sparing the rest of them another glance. Two palace guards, no doubt his hand-picked entourage for the day, scramble after him.

There’s a faint stench in the courtyard, but Max can’t tell who it belongs to. The crowd begins to disperse, but he remains rooted in place. He watches them both go, and begins to wonder.

***

By the time the next banquet rolls around, Charles seems to have disappeared again. The ale is flowing and the dancers are whirling, and Max is enjoying himself considerably more than last night. Perhaps there’s a correlation between his peace of mind and the notable absence of his rival. Who’s to say, really?

But his newfound tranquility doesn’t last long, because Pierre motions him aside during a pause in the music to whisper in his ear.

“Do me a favor, and go find Charles for me.”

“I’m sure you have an errand boy who can attend to him,” Max begins to protest, but thinks better of it when he sees the look on Pierre’s face.

“Your soon-to-be king commands it,” Pierre says. His tone leaves no room for argument. Sighing, Max bows and takes his leave.

Charles’ chambers are in the east wing of the palace, at the furthest point from where the banquet hall is located in the west wing. For once, Max doesn’t mind the walk tonight. It gives him time to parse through the fight with George today. For all his arrogance, Russell is not usually one to pick fights, especially not the kind that make him look bad. He ended up looking desperate and sullen in front of everyone today, unbecoming of the knight of valor he so badly wants to be perceived as.

Charles, for his part, fought bitter and nasty to the end, but Max supposes that’s just par for the course.

A faint scent wafts through the hallway, salt and sage carried on an ocean breeze. Max reaches Charles’ chambers and raps thrice on the door.

Silence. He raises his fist to knock again, but then: “Who is it?” Charles calls.

“Max.”

The door swings open. “What do you want?” Charles asks. He’s in britches and a loose tunic with the top two buttons undone. Max registers the bare skin and looks up at his face instead, pulse suddenly hot.

Charles looks breathless, flushed, as if he’d been caught off guard. Max just stands there malfunctioning, gone momentarily mute by the sight in front of him. His alpha has to resist the urge to bite, though that doesn’t make sense. Charles’ presence repulses him. He would look very pretty on his knees though, Max thinks distantly, then immediately chastises himself for the thought.

“What are you doing here?” Charles repeats.

Max snaps to attention. “The crown prince requests your presence in the banquet hall.”

“Does he?” Charles mutters sarcastically. “Well, that’s nice. Tell him he will have to wait.”

“I don’t think he will like that very much.”

“He won’t,” Charles agrees. “Fine. Tell him I am indisposed but will endeavor to join him before the night is through.”

Max blinks. “Alright then. But I take no responsibility if he is angry with you.”

Charles moves to shut the door, but Max catches it before it hits the doorjamb. “It was good, what you did earlier,” he says. “You fought well.”

“George is a wretched little bitch.”

Max barks out a laugh. “I expected you would beat him.”

“I don’t care what you expect of me,” Charles says, but it sounds weak to both of their ears if the way he winces afterward is anything to go by. There’s no need to reject praise freely given, and Charles seems to know it. His ears redden slightly.

Max just fixes him with what he hopes is an unimpressed stare. “I’ll see you in the banquet hall then.”

The door clicks shut. Maybe he’s imagining it, but he thinks he can hear Charles sighing on the other side of the wall too.

***

Charles must make his presence known at some point during the night for the sake of appearances, but Max only knows this because eventually he joins a group of them in one of the smaller chambers off the side of the main hall playing cards and talking trash. Lando is here, as are fellow noblemen Carlos and Daniel, along with several other knights and palace guards of various stations.

“Look who decided to make an appearance,” Carlos says. He’s always liked Charles well enough, and Charles gives him a friendly smile in return.

One of the other knights deals Charles in, and Lando explains the rules of the card game. To make it more interesting, the first person to be eliminated in each round has to share a scandalous or embarrassing moment.

“I don’t have any stories,” Charles says. Max suppresses an eye roll before he sees the teasing grin on Charles’ lips and bites his own to avoid a confrontation.

Daniel laughs, delighted. “We’ll see about that,” he says. “It’s always the innocent-looking ones who surprise you the most.”

Max is only half-paying attention to the game, enough to throw a card down at the appropriate time, but he doesn’t really care about the small pile of coins gleaming in the middle of the table, nor for the chatter and gossip around him. His gaze narrows in on Charles. Something is off about him tonight. Max can’t place it, can’t point to anything in particular, but he knows it just like he knew Pierre was lying about their grain supply.

He studies the moles on Charles’ neck, the shadow of a beard not fully grown out, as if the answer will somehow appear on his skin like constellations spinning a story in the sky. If only he could connect the dots between the scar on Charles’ jawline and the beauty mark on his jugular and find the story in between.

A palace guard named Callum throws his cards on the table. “I’m out,” he groans.

“Come on then,” Daniel says, grinning wide. “Give us a good story.”

Callum thinks for a second, then blushes. “Well,” he begins, “I was, er, having relations with a maid…” he cuts himself off to take a swig of ale, which he promptly begins choking on. Another guard pats him on the back until he recovers himself.

“Her mistress walked in on us, and we were in the maid’s quarters, mind you. But what does the lady of the house do? Proceed to give me pointers on my tonguing technique before telling me to get the hell out.”

The other men howl with laughter. “What did you do?” someone asks.

“I ran out of the room with my britches half-undone, what do you think I did?” Callum says. The rest of the table snickers.

“Oh please, you probably did her a favor,” Daniel cuts in. “Slobbering like a hound against her mound, I’ll bet.” He cracks up at his own bad rhyme, and Charles wrinkles his nose in distaste.

Lando guffaws. “Maybe Max could give you some lessons,” he says, nudging Max’s side. Max turns to him and raises an eyebrow.

“What? I’ve heard good reviews.”

“You talk to everyone in this godforsaken castle,” Max shakes his head. He gets around, but only if he’s sure it won’t ruin either his or his partners' reputations.

Everyone is looking at him in interest now. "You got some tips for omega cunt?" Daniel asks. “Sounds like some of the lads at this table could use it.”

"It's my favorite meal," Max agrees, and everyone laughs.

“Show-off,” Carlos mutters.

"Don't be jealous," one of the other knights says. "Just because you can't get an omega to take their clothes off for you doesn't mean the rest of us have any problems."

"Whatever, I bet Verstappen's not that good anyway."

"The last girl from the kitchens didn't seem to have any complaints," Max smirks. She'd given him some extra sugar cubes for Sassy too. It had been a win-win situation.

Charles sets his cards down on the table and stalks out of the room, clearly disgusted. Something about it bothers Max, even though he can’t put his finger on it. The sex talk is in poor taste, he knows, but Charles always has something sharp to say. He can handle a little heat. So, before he can think twice, Max stands up and follows him.

This wing of the palace is quiet at this time of night, only the sounds of music and laughter seeping in from the banquet hall.

"Did a little bit of alpha banter ruffle your feathers?" he calls out.

Charles turns around and fixes him with an unimpressed stare. "Such talk bores me."

"Too vulgar for your innocent ears?" Max asks, though he mostly just says it to rile Charles up.

"Who says I'm innocent?"

His alpha stirs at that, but he smothers it down.

"I bet you're still a virgin," he taunts instead. Not his best comeback, but he’s feeling rattled tonight. "No one will touch your cock, is that it?"

Charles flushes bright red, all the way up his neck. "Do you ever shut the fuck up?" he snaps.

"Why would I, when you are such a pleasant conversationalist?"

Charles seethes. "Get in here."

He grabs Max by his wrist and drags him through the first unlocked door off the side of the hallway. It's an empty study with a piano on the far end of the room and some books in the corner, but otherwise unfurnished.

Charles draws his sword.

Max stares at him. "Here? Now?"

"Don't tell me you're scared to lose again," Charles mocks.

And, well, that just pisses Max right off.

“You know what your fucking problem is, Charles?” he says, shaking his head. “It’s that you just don’t know when to quit.”

Charles lunges.

Max sidesteps and unsheathes his sword in time to counter the next blow. The sound reverberates through the room, and Charles grits his teeth in frustration. Good. Max can use that.

They whirl across the room in lockstep. Charles thrusts, Max parries. Max counter-thrusts and Charles blocks, spinning around and darting away from the blade, a perfectly choreographed dance.

It’s not hard to lose himself in the clang of steel and the rush of adrenaline. His sword is an extension of his own body, and beating Charles is the only thing that matters now.

They circle around each other, poised to strike. Charles bites his lip, eyes dark and heavy, and some long-buried part of Max that he swore he’d never touch again comes to life.

“You know what I think?” he says evenly. “I think you like this.”

Charles meets his gaze. “Like what?” His voice catches on the last syllable, and—yeah. Max sees this for what it is now.

“Does fighting me turn you on, sweetheart?”

“Shut up,” Charles hisses. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, just shut up—”

Max grins. His eyes flick over Charles's body, dragging over his chest, the slope of his neck that would look so good with Max’s hand wrapped around it. "Oh," he murmurs. "You do like that, don't you?"

Charles snarls, slamming his sword into Max's as he launches forward in another attack. But Max is quicker. Charles must not be thinking clearly, his head clouded with anger. Max sees the moment he realizes that he's too late, that he's given Max the perfect opening. Before he can course correct, his sword has already been knocked out of his hand and he's falling to his knees. Max raises his sword above him, the sharp point aimed straight at Charles' throat, poised to pierce his skin. Checkmate.

Charles looks lethal, even on his knees like this. His steely gaze and the flush creeping up his neck make Max's gut twist uncomfortably. He seems to recognize the significance of their positions at the same moment Max does, his expression darkening in interest.

There's a pause.

"Open your mouth," Max says softly. Despite his hushed tone, it's an order. Charles seems to know it too, if the conflict playing out on his face is anything to go by. Max watches him weigh his options as an insult pushes its way to the top of his throat, but he seems to think better of it and holds his tongue.

"Open up," Max repeats, and finally Charles obeys. His breathing is heavy, his pupils dilated, and Max realizes that he's affected by this too, this invisible, unspoken tension sizzling in the air around them. But Charles always has a trick up his sleeve. To underestimate his willingness to go the distance in this fucked up game of theirs surely means defeat.

Charles parts his lips and sticks his tongue out, letting the tip of Max's sword press against the flat of his tongue. Max can practically feel the metallic tang of the blade as if it were in his own mouth, his senses are so heightened. It's beyond obscene. He tries to remain unaffected, but Charles knows him too well. He flicks his tongue against the tip of the sword, watching in satisfaction as Max inhales sharply.

Charles flutters his eyelashes as he pulls off. "How do I look?" he manages. "Just as pretty as you imagined?"

Max sees red.

His sword clatters to the floor as he hauls Charles up into a ferocious kiss. He's sure it's a bad idea, it must be, but how can it be when Charles responds immediately. He licks into Max's mouth, pulls his hair, and something inside Max snaps.

He hoists Charles up on top of the piano and paws at his ass, wants him closer, wants to taste every inch of salt on his skin. Charles sucks on his tongue, filthy and wet, and Max’s hand slips, catching a few of the keys. The dissonant notes only serve as background noise. The sound of Charles’ lips smacking against his own rings much louder, every gasp that falls from his pretty pink mouth a gut punch.

He doesn't usually go for male betas, but he wouldn’t mind a bit of cock in his mouth tonight, or vice versa. And anyway, it's Charles, infuriating and beautiful as ever. Max doesn't care what's between his legs, he just wants him to shut the fuck up and stop looking like sin, or better yet, let Max do something about it.

They’re tugging at each other’s tunics now, the strings getting tangled in Charles’ fingers as he mouths at Max’s neck, trying to get better access.

A sword clangs down the hall, too close for comfort, and they spring apart. The belated sound of laughter trickles in several seconds later, and Max’s jumpy heartbeat settles again. Probably some drunken reveler crashing into a statue or something. No harm, no foul.

But the moment is broken.

“I–fuck, I have to go.” Charles is already backing away, picking up his sword in a mad dash to the door. Max fights to urge to chase after him, to see what would happen if he did. He holds his tongue, preserves his pride.

Charles stops at the door and looks back at him. Max hasn’t moved, still leaning against the edge of the piano with his tunic half undone. “Not a word,” Charles hisses. He turns on his heel and leaves.

Max closes his eyes.

Fucking hell.

***

Pierre marries Prince Yuki of Faenza the next day. It’s a cloudless spring morning, and the sun stretches across the endless blue sky as if to shine its blessings down upon the royal union taking place.

Charles is nowhere to be seen. Probably no one is looking for him, but it will not reflect well for a high-ranked knight of his status to be absent from the proceedings. Max wonders what it means that Charles has chosen to excuse himself from the festivities. If Charles really is jealous, he needs to set his feelings aside for today and focus on getting over it. Maybe after last night, Max can help him with that.

“Lovely ceremony, wasn’t it?” Sir George Russell sidles up to him in the dining hall, and Max suppresses a groan.

“It was,” he agrees. He doesn’t move to continue the conversation.

“Shame I haven’t seen Charles around,” George tuts, and this time Max has to fight back a growl. What is with this guy?

“Oh, really? I saw him earlier,” he lies. “He must’ve gotten away. There are a lot of people here, you know.”

“Of course,” George hums. “Well, I’ll be off then. Enjoy the banquet.”

You too, Max doesn’t bother saying.

He makes his rounds for a while, stops by to congratulates Pierre and Yuki, who make a handsome couple. The bedding ceremony will be tonight, an antiquated royal mating ritual to show proof of consummation, and Max has no interest in sticking around for that. They will be indisposed for a day or two, if the flush on their cheeks is anything to go by. Max can smell the pre-rut on Pierre. Once his rut subsides, the tournament will commence to celebrate the new mating marks that will soon be on both of their necks.

“You will make me proud this weekend,” Pierre tells him. It’s not a request. Max bows his head and nods.

“It will come down to you and Charles.”

“Probably, yes.”

“You will both make me proud,” Pierre repeats. “You will act with honor and valor. No matter who wins. Your king commands it.” It’s a warning as much as an encouragement.

“I understand,” Max says, and he does. There is more at stake here than just his own reputation. “Your highness.” He bows again and takes his leave.

***

Max is back in his chambers now, still in his britches, tunic off, about to get ready for bed when he hears an urgent rap against his door.

He opens the door only to find Charles bursting into his chambers, barreling through like a tumbleweed. His pupils are blown wide; sweat clings to his neck. Max stifles the urge to lick it off of him.

"You reek," he says instead.

Except that's not the right word, exactly. Max has never been able to smell him before, not until now. He didn't think a beta like Charles could smell like anything, but somehow an intoxicating blend of sea salt and sage clings to his skin, and he doesn't reek – he smells delectable. Max remembers the taste of Charles' lips on his own last night, Charles' tongue licking desperately into his mouth, and he has half a mind to drag Charles into his bed and have his way with him right this very second.

But as it turns out, he doesn’t need to think about it at all. Charles wastes no time in pulling him into a biting kiss, and Max lets him.

It’s pure heat from the beginning. Max takes control of the kiss and Charles whimpers into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders. “You did this,” he hisses, breaking their lips apart. “You fucking did this to me, and now you need to fix it, Max.”

“What the hell are you on about?” Max begins to ask, but Charles is already in the process of tearing his own tunic over his head. He shucks off his pants until he’s left in nothing but a pair of white linen undershorts that hang low on his hips.

Max stares at him ravenously, not bothering to hide his hunger.

“Do it,” Charles commands, his voice a shaky whisper. Max hooks two fingers around his underwear and pulls them down. But there’s no hardness between his legs, only slick, smooth wetness. That shouldn’t be possible, Charles shouldn’t be, he’s a beta, he’s—

"Omega," Max breathes. "Fuck, you're an—"

Everything clicks into place. The ridiculous chip on Charles’ shoulder, his incessant need to prove himself. The scent that’s been lingering in the air for the last few days. Why Max has never been able to stay away from him, not really. Christ. Charles is an omega about to go into heat and he's begging Max of all people to fuck him.

"Shut the fuck up before I change my mind," Charles snarls. "If you say one more word, I swear to god—"

Max drops to his knees. His heart is in his throat, his alpha is roaring, the need to claim, to consume, washing over him until he nearly blacks out. Nothing else matters but this. Charles is his omega now. No one else can have him. No one. Max will personally rip out the throat of anyone who tries.

“Fuck,” Charles moans as Max licks a fat line up the center of his pussy. Slick pools on Max’s tongue, and he swallows reverently. His omega. His. He wants to commit every last detail to memory.

"Thought you said you knew how to pleasure a cunt," Charles breathes. His chest is flushed, his nipples stiff. Max reaches up and tweaks one of them before diving back in to prove to him just how much he does.

Charles’ breath hitches as Max traces his tongue across his folds, teasing at first, and then steady and determined. Max feeds one finger into his pussy, then two, fucking up until he finds the spot that he knows will make Charles see stars. Charles is so responsive, writhing around his fingers, his clit throbbing under Max’s tongue. Good. He’ll beg for it soon enough.

Max starts eating his pussy in earnest, devouring him like Charles’ cunt is his last meal, and honestly it might be. Max feels delirious with it, like he’s the one on the verge of heat, like he needs this otherwise he might die too.

“Ungh, fuck, I’m close.” Charles plays with his lip between his teeth. His pussy is drooling on Max’s tongue, and Max laps it up like he’s lost in the desert and needs every last drop to survive. His circles on Charles’ clit speed up, his rhythm never faltering, and Charles squeals as he cums, his hands tightening in Max’s hair.

Max looks up to where Charles is still standing above him, breathing hard. His cock strains in his britches, which he hadn’t bothered to remove, and something in him snaps.

“On the bed,” he commands. He stands up and shucks off his pants. Charles holds his gaze, not moving, and Max manhandles him until he’s on his knees, ass up, presenting his cunt for Max’s enjoyment.

“That’s better, don’t you think?” Max says, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice.

Charles twists around to glower at him. "The only reason you're here right now having your way with me is because I'm letting you," he hisses. "I could get up and walk out of this room right now. Don't forget that."

"You won't," Max tells him, sure of it. "How will you compete in the tournament if your pussy's begging for a knot, hmm? You can barely walk."

"Your fault," Charles mumbles incoherently. "You made me like this. Triggered my heat. Now you have to fuck it out of me."

“Do I?” Max mocks. “Well then. If you insist.” He taps the head of his cock against Charles’ entrance and slides home.

It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. Charles is so tight, practically sucking him in, and Max has to steady himself in order to not come on the spot.

“Jesus fuck, who knew your pussy would be this tight,” he bites out. He half expects a retort, but Charles has gone momentarily cockdumb, and Max takes that as his sign to keep going. He wastes no time in setting a punishing pace, knows that tonight isn’t about making it last anyway. His omega is in heat, and Max is going to take care of him better than anyone else ever could.

He drills Charles’ pussy with the same single-minded focus that he brings to his training, to his fighting. Nothing matters but this. Charles will never want anyone else after tonight. He’ll make sure of that.

Charles’ hole is tight and perfect around him, but Max needs to see him, needs to see the expressions on his face. He slows his pace so he can draw Charles up to a kneeling upright position, back flush against Max’s chest, and Max points to the mirror in the corner, to the way his cock punches in and out of the omega’s pussy.

"Could Pierre fuck you like this?"

Charles says nothing. “You’ll never be his,” Max reminds him, tonguing the soft skin of Charles’ scent gland.

Charles struggles against him. “Don’t fucking talk about him. Why are you—”

“Do you know why?” Max continues, holding him in place. He resumes his lazy thrusts, hears Charles’ breath catch as he watches Max’s cock disappear inside his tight cunt.

“Because you’re mine.”

It was always going to end this way. Max sees that now, clear as day. Charles was always going to be his.

Charles squirms. “I’m not. I never will be.”

But Max is undeterred. He fucks up hard into Charles’ cunt, so deep he must be close to his womb. Charles’ gaze turns unfocused and glassy, and Max bares his teeth at him in the mirror.

“He could never give you this. Not like I can.”

“My own hand does a better job than you,” Charles snarls, coming back to himself.

Max slaps his pussy in warning. “Careful, omega,” he growls. “You’ll beg for my knot.”

“Never,” Charles breathes. The flush that creeps up his chest says otherwise, though. Max spanks his puffy cunt again, and Charles moans. More slick leaks out of him. Of course he’d like that.

Max rubs his clit until Charles is shaking, slick dripping down his thighs, his legs threatening to give out. “You’re making such a mess, baby,” he murmurs into Charles’ neck. “You want this so bad. Want my knot, want me to breed your pussy until you’re knocked up with my pups. You’d look so pretty with your belly nice and swollen. Would plug your pussy up all the time until it catches.”

Finally, Charles breaks. “Alpha,” he sobs, twisting around for a filthy kiss. "Make me cum."

Max smacks his dripping cunt until slick runs in rivulets down his shaking thighs. He's leaking so much, Max thinks his cock might slip out. With a teasing slap to his pussy and a pinch to his clit, Charles makes a broken sound and squirts onto the bedsheets until he can't hold himself up anymore. He collapses onto the bed and Max takes that as his cue to pull his ass up so he can continue to pound into Charles' ruined cunt until his knot catches.

Charles looks so pretty like this, sheen of sweat coating his back, face buried in his arms, hole on display for Max to use. Max can't believe his luck, can't believe he gets to fuck the sexiest omega in the whole kingdom, in the whole world probably. He can hardly remember hating Charles, not when his hole is swallowing Max's cock like it was made specifically to take him.

Max speeds his thrusts up until Charles can do nothing except let out slutty little uh uh uh noises like he's some brothel omega getting paid to gag for it. He clenches around Max, drawing his knot in, pussy pulsing, and that's really all it takes. Max comes with the palm of his hand pressed into the small of Charles' back, cursing all the while.

"Fucking hell," he pants, as his cock gives one last twitch. His knot locks into place, and he collapses next to Charles, who makes a satisfied noise as he shifts around to curl into Max's side.

"This doesn't mean I like you," Charles says eventually, when the sound of their breathing eventually returns to normal.

Max just scoops a fingerful of slick from Charles' pussy and shoves it into his mouth. Charles makes a muffled noise around his fingers, but eventually swallows. Max removes his fingers from Charles' mouth and places them on his own tongue until they’re licked clean.

Charles shuts up after that.

***

When Max’s knot finally deflates, he can think of no better idea than to lick Charles’ cunt again and push the rest of his cum back inside until it stays there.

Charles is a vision beneath him, insatiable, reckless, beautiful. After he comes on Max’s tongue again, he scrambles to his knees so Max can feed his rapidly hardening cock into his eager throat. For once, he doesn’t even bother pretending he doesn’t want it.

Max doesn’t want to come like this, just wants to tease Charles a bit, make him work for it. It feels so good, the tight suction of his mouth, the occasional press of his tongue.

Charles makes a noise around his cock, shifting and squirming, but Max keeps him there until he feels Charles' throat start to relax around him again. "Bratty omega," he murmurs. "Gonna keep you on my cock just like this. That's it."

Charles looks up at him, all doe-eyed and innocent, and Max swears despite himself. His perfect little cockwarmer. Maybe next time Charles can sit on his cock during meetings, maybe even during the knight roundtable. He doesn’t mind the rest of them looking, as long as they don’t touch.

The thought has him twitching in Charles’ mouth, and he decides that that’s enough for now. He maneuvers them back to the bed and spreads Charles out on his back, caging him in. This time, Max wants to see him face to face.

“Put it in already,” Charles demands, trying to retain some semblance of control.

"Oh baby," Max whispers. The endearment slips off his tongue without thinking. "I knew you'd be like this."

Charles is trying to fight it, he can tell, but Max clocks the moment his gaze turns unfocused, the way his breath hitches. “Like what?”

"Easy."

Charles glares, ready to snap back, but Max cuts him off.

"Always you are so angry." He nuzzles kisses down the side of Charles' neck, chancing a lick to his scent gland. Charles whines, despite himself. "All you needed was the right alpha to knot you up, hmm?"

"I'll kill you," Charles whispers. Max smiles at the thought of him trying.

"You will fight me hard on the battlefield, yes?"

Charles nods.

"I will not go easy on you."

"I wouldn't want you to," Charles says, breathy and flushed. He shudders when Max presses a kiss to his throat.

"Good. Here in this room, when it's just the two of us, we are not on the battlefield. Do you understand?"

Charles is silent for a moment, then nods again.

"Let yourself have this, omega," Max murmurs, pressing another kiss to his neck. "I told you, you're mine now. Let your alpha take care of you."

"Not my alpha," Charles mumbles, but it's instinctive, no heat behind it. Max grins, satisfied.

"You'll admit it soon enough." He feeds his cock back into Charles' pussy and Charles moans, clenching tight and hot around him. His eyes turn glassy. "That's what I thought," Max says, smug, and he thrusts up until they're both seeing stars.

***

Charles’ fever breaks the following afternoon. They're both sleep-deprived and dehydrated, but Max has never felt more alive. The tournament is tomorrow. Right now Charles is curled into his side, still sleeping. Max doesn’t dare move.

“What time is it?” Charles asks when he finally wakes up, his words muffled into Max’s chest. He’s not himself yet, Max can tell. Too soft, too sleepy.

“Past noon. Don’t–”

Charles curses as he sits up too fast.

“...do that,” Max finishes. He presses a canteen of water into Charles’ hands, and Charles gulps down every last drop.

“I need to–”

“Take a bath,” Max interrupts smoothly. “You need to take a bath, and then we will talk.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

Charles looks like he wants to disagree, but he seems to realize that he’s in no state to go anywhere. Finally, his shoulders slump and he mumbles his assent. He insists on hiding while Max’s page brings in the hot water for the bathtub, but it barely makes a difference. The sheets will need changing; the bedroom reeks. Max will have to pay off his page later to keep his mouth shut.

Once Charles is clean and changed into a pair of fresh clothes, they sit down to talk. Charles opts for the chair next to the windowsill, but Max levels him with an unimpressed stare, and he moves back to the bed after Max tells him he needs to rest anyway.

“I have been like this all my life,” Charles says at last. “My father got sick when I was quite young, as maybe you remember, and we were on the verge of bankruptcy. My older brother threatened to marry me off, but my mother refused. All my life I wanted to be a fighter. Always I was good at it. I convinced them to let me hide my presentation, to let me try. And with how close I was to the royal family, I saw a pathway to the knighthood that would keep me safe and bring honor to my family.”

“And when you’re expected to marry? You thought no one would find out?”

“Pierre knows. Him and a couple of others. And anyway, it wouldn’t matter. Already I would have proved myself by then. I wouldn't need to marry if I don't want to.”

“Pierre knows,” Max repeats. He knows the answer already, alpha’s instinct, but he asks the question anyway.

“Did you two ever…”

“It was never like that,” Charles shakes his head. “We don’t have feelings for each other. It was a practical arrangement, just a couple times a year when I have to take a break from my suppressants. The herbs can be dangerous if you don’t stop them sometimes.”

There is a whole world inside Charles that he knows nothing about. He adjusts to the new information, parsing through it to try and fit the puzzle pieces together.

“George knows too.”

Max stares at him. “What?” Slimy George Russell knows, and he didn’t?

“He has his spies,” Charles says. “That is why I cannot afford to come second best. Why I must receive a deed and a title in my own name, on my own merit. So that no one, especially not him, can force my hand in marriage or anything else."

George's smarmy face has always looked rather punchable, in Max's humble opinion. He says as much, and Charles grants him a small smile.

There’s something else, too.

“Your cycles synced,” Max says. “That’s why they moved up the wedding. Because of Pierre’s rut.”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” Charles says miserably. “My last heat was so intense. It affected both of us more than usual. I thought mine would come and go before the tournament or maybe that I could suppress it until after, but then you came along and messed everything up.”

“Helped you in your time of need,” Max corrects. “It was a very generous thing for me to do, by the way.” He smirks and Charles swats at him, but there’s no heat behind it.

“Very selfless,” Charles agrees, rolling his eyes.

“I can think of a few ways for you to repay me,” Max teases, but Charles pushes him away.

“You don’t get to hold this over my head,” he shakes his head. He’s back in defense mode, so Max switches gears.

“I am not going to blackmail you or tell anyone, Charles.”

Charles looks surprised by this. “Why not? You have every reason to.”

“And deprive myself of the satisfaction of beating you on my own?”

Charles allows himself a small smile. “You will have a chance, maybe. Not a big one, but still, a chance.”

Max is so attracted to him. He doesn’t know how he didn’t see it sooner. He covers Charles’ mouth with his own, but Charles squirms, pushing him away.

“Max, what are you—”

Max holds his gaze. “Did you think I was joking when I said that you’re mine now?”

“I am not for sale,” Charles snaps. “Just because I let you spend one heat with me does not mean—”

“I only meant that I am yours too,” Max interrupts. “That’s how this works, yes?”

Charles stares at him. “You are not—we are not—” he stops short. “You are a glutton for punishment, is that it?” he says eventually. “Some sort of masochist?”

Max smiles. “Maybe I just think you’re hot when you’re mad.” He slides a hand down Charles’ loose pants and pulls them down with a smooth tug.

Charles splutters, and Max takes the opportunity to lick into his mouth again. This time, Charles lets him, sighing into it and opening up until their tongues slide together and the kiss turns wet and filthy again.

“This does not mean I like you,” Charles says, breaking the kiss. Each time he says this it gets less believable. His hands are still clenched tightly in Max’s hair.

“Of course not,” Max kisses him again, rolling them over until Charles is sitting on his lap, pants now forgotten on the floor. His hardening cock slips into Charles’ puffy cunt, still loose and wet even after his bath. They both hiss at the intrusion.

“That just means I’ll have to fuck you until you stop lying to both of us,” Max says. He thrusts up slowly until he bottoms out.

Charles’ eyes glaze over once again, and Max shows him just how much he means it.

***

Thwack.

His opponent falls with a thud as Max brings his sword down, and the crowd roars.

The semi-finals were a breeze. His opponents are talented, good fighters every last one of them, but Max is just better. He’s plowed through the whole competition without any real fear that anyone could unseat him.

The other matches have been fun to watch, too. Charles is a menace of course, not that Max ever doubted he would be. His heat doesn’t seem to have slowed him down. If anything, it’s only made him more determined to succeed.

So here he is, sword in hand, on the precipice of victory. Only one challenger remains.

Charles steps into the ring. His brown hair looks windswept and gorgeous as ever. He hoists his helmet into the air, gaze confident and sure, and the crowd cheers in return.

“Hello Max,” he greets. A smile graces his lips, and Max bites his own lip in return.

“Charles.”

“Good luck today. May the best man win.” His green eyes disappear behind his helmet. It’s showtime.

All the training, years of tension, and it all comes down to this.

The bell rings. The crowd screams.

Max takes a deep breath, raises his sword, and swings.