Chapter Text
The grand ball held by the royal family was supposed to be the most magnificent anyone had ever seen, but instead, it was unbearably dull.
At least, that was how it felt to Louis.
He much preferred the balls organized by his own community, where they could play real music and dance however they pleased. Aristocrats, bound by their rigid codes of respectability, were tedious, only dancing with select partners to select songs. Louis remained at his mother’s side, politely rejecting every advance from fine gentlemen and female alphas alike.
The moment the invitation had arrived at their home, his mother had lectured him endlessly: he was to stay put, not dance with anyone, and certainly not give people “funny ideas.”
An omega should earn respect by being modest, she had said.
Having a recessive omega son was humiliating enough for a female alpha as it was.
So Louis sat prettily in his frills and lace, feigning disinterest in his surroundings.
“Mama, the girls say this ball is meant to find a new princess.”
Grace whispered the words after giggling with her friends, her eyes already darting around in search of the next scrap of gossip.
It wasn’t such an unlikely thought. The youngest prince, still unmarried at twenty-five, was now five years younger than Louis, who was already whispered about as being “past his prime.”
His elder brothers had long since secured marriages with heirs from neighboring countries. Only two eligible princesses remained who fit the criteria, and even if there were more, no sane king would marry their treasured sons or daughters to the notorious youngest prince.
The rumors surrounding him were endless. He was said to be a brilliant soldier, yet his comrades often discovered him in the beds of tavern women. Even Louis, who disliked such talk, had heard whispers that the prince fathered dozens of illegitimate children—hidden away with prostitutes or wives—and that he dreamed of gathering a harem.
Fortunately for Louis, he was far from the most sought-after option at this ball. Surrounded by younger, prettier omegas without his recessive traits, he had little to fear.
“I need some air, Mama.”
He rose and gave Florence a pleading look, receiving nothing more than an indifferent “mm” in response.
Grateful for even that, Louis slipped out into the rose garden, escaping the suffocating blend of pheromones inside.
The night air was crisp, filling him with life again.
He wandered further, lured by the sweet scent of blooming wisteria trees. The Pointe du Lac estate had never boasted such grandeur; his mother insisted all their land be devoted to agriculture. Most families in the city followed suit.
Just as he was admiring the blossoms, a sound caught his ear.
At first faint, the noises grew clearer as he neared the wall at the edge of the court—and then he saw them.
An alpha male, kissing a woman against the wall. Her clothes were cheap, betraying her lower standing.
Louis froze. It was the first time he had witnessed such vulgarity.
His eyes widened as tongues tangled hungrily, and the alpha’s hand slid brazenly beneath her skirts, gripping her thighs.
Louis recoiled in disgust. Of course, he’d heard that some people engaged in unspeakable acts in public, but to see it done so crudely? Was this what passion was meant to look like?
“Enjoying the show?”
The alpha turned his head abruptly, eyes locking onto Louis.
“Pardon me, I was just passing by.”
Louis’s voice cracked under the intensity of that gaze, and he instinctively stepped back.
“Your pheromones don’t say you were just passing by.”
The alpha smirked, shoulders lifting in a shrug as his hand ventured further, drawing a startled cry from the woman.
Louis wanted to look away, but shock rooted him in place. He longed to insist that he had no pheromones—that he was scarcely different from a beta, save for his short and irregular heats. But the very idea that this man could scent him carried dangerous implications.
Implications that must never be spoken of, especially if he was the one.
Louis turned away without answering, head bowed, praying the man was too careless—or too disinterested—to understand what had just passed between them.
When he returned inside, the waltz was drawing to its end.
Louis sighed at the waste of it all. Those golden locks, those gray eyes, squandered on a man so impure.
A fated pairing, wasted.
He clapped dutifully as couples left the floor and a slow sonata began, only for the music to halt abruptly.
The same man appeared, now neatly dressed, with blond hair tied back with a ribbon. He leaned to whisper in the pianist’s ear, and the orchestra launched into Vivaldi’s Summer—chaotic, unfit for a ballroom dance.
Yet no one stopped him. Even the Queen, who had watched the evening with cool detachment, simply observed in silence.
Louis’s blood ran cold as the alpha strode across the floor, a nightmare made flesh.
He fixed his gaze on the prince’s red shoes, hardly daring to breathe. His heart pounded so violently it threatened to burst from his chest. The alpha’s pheromones coiled around him like a snare, whispering their command:
Come to me.
“Would this most handsome man grant me his hand for a dance?”
The prince bowed until their eyes met, unabashed by what had passed between them.
Louis knew it was improper for a man to request a dance without first being introduced. Yet even his mother, usually intolerant of disrespect, regarded the prince with shining approval.
He faltered, baffled by their reactions.
“How rude of me not to introduce myself, ma belle. I am he—Prince Lestat.”
The name struck Louis like a blow. The memory of that garden encounter surged through him as he reluctantly placed his hand in the prince’s.
He was no delicate omega, no dainty beauty—but his long fingers were swallowed easily by Lestat’s.
For the first time that evening, silence fell across the ballroom. And for the first time, Louis wished it hadn’t.
Prince Lestat’s hand found his waist, pulling him close, chest to chest, so improper it left Louis breathless.
They spun into a dizzying waltz, faster than anything the room had ever seen, inventing the steps as they went. Couples joined, eager to exchange partners, but the prince never released Louis.
“It must be a miracle,” Lestat murmured, “for a beauty like you to remain unmarked, non?”
Louis dreaded answering. Speaking meant opening his lips mere centimeters from the prince’s own. Still, he delivered the line that had always repelled alphas before:
“I am recessive. So it was quite easy.”
Shock flickered across Lestat’s face, but not rejection.
“An omega, all to myself…”
The possessiveness in his tone sent a shiver through Louis. The tempo quickened, and his composure faltered.
Normally, partners would switch by now. Other omegas waited eagerly, hoping to free the prince from this dull, aging one. But Lestat held Louis fast, dangerously close.
“And what is the name,” he asked, “of this very special omega of mine?”
The audacity! To call Louis his before even learning his name.
“Louis du Lac, Your Majesty,” he muttered, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
“Of course,” Lestat replied smoothly. “Of course, your name is Louis.”
Louis frowned, uncertain of his meaning. But the music ended sharply, and he bowed stiffly, withdrawing his hand.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty.”
“I should be the one thanking you… princess.”
Lestat’s bow was paired with a devilish smirk.
Louis stiffened at the implication.
He sank back into his seat, trying to compose himself, though his eyes refused to stray from the prince—just as the prince’s gaze remained fixed on him.
“What did you talk about?!” Grace hissed, far too loudly, and her curiosity echoed in their mother’s sharp glance.
Louis, outwardly composed but burning beneath the surface, answered quietly, though tension roughened his voice.
“Nothing of consequence. He was… being arrogant.”