[BL]His Devotion Has Teeth

Chapter 15: Chapter 15: Distance

Sebastian reached his suite, locked the door behind him, and remained in the entrance hall for a moment while the noise of the reception faded into something distant enough to ignore.

Music still traveled faintly through the palace, softened by several wings of old stone and closed doors, but the private apartments were otherwise quiet. The sitting room beyond him remained exactly as he had left it before the ceremony, with evening light long gone from the windows and only the lamps along the walls illuminating the dark wood, cream upholstery, and scattered documents he had abandoned that morning.

He removed his formal coat first.

The black fabric, still immaculate despite the disaster his evening had become, landed across the back of an armchair. His waistcoat followed, then the cufflinks, which he dropped onto the low table with considerably less care than their value deserved.

By the time he reached the drinks cabinet, his shirt was open at the throat and his shoulder-length hair had fallen completely loose around his face.

Sebastian poured himself cognac.

It was a terrible idea considering the suppressants already in his system, but Nero had ruined enough of his evening that Sebastian felt entitled to make at least one bad decision voluntarily.

He took a swallow and leaned one hip against the cabinet.

He was furious with Nero.

Unfortunately, that anger was easier to tolerate than the part directed at himself.

Sebastian had spent seven years maintaining the distance between them because he knew exactly how Nero operated. He had watched him fight, negotiate, manipulate, and pursue objectives with the same unnerving patience since he was young enough that Dean still dragged him through Fitzgeralt family gatherings as if the Sahan Crown Prince were merely another troublesome childhood friend.

Nero rarely rushed once he decided something mattered.

He learned people instead.

He learned where they bent, which arguments they ignored, which weaknesses they hid, and how long he could wait before applying pressure.

Sebastian knew all of that and had still allowed himself to forget it because breakfast had been easy.

Because laughing with Nero had felt familiar.

Because the bastard had behaved for several days as though seven years of resentment could be placed neatly aside while they discussed absurd newspaper articles and unwanted marriage proposals.

Sebastian scoffed and looked down at the cognac.

Perhaps that was the real explanation for Nero’s fixation.

Sebastian was simply the one thing he had never managed to obtain.

Most people eventually gave Nero what he wanted, whether through affection, exhaustion, political necessity, or the simple recognition that arguing with an enigma prince could become a full-time occupation. Sebastian had refused him at eighteen and continued refusing him for seven years.

Maybe Nero had turned the refusal itself into an obsession.

Or perhaps he had inherited more from Dax than anyone cared to acknowledge. Dax had once decided Christopher was his mate with the sort of certainty other people reserved for basic laws of physics, and Nero seemed perfectly capable of developing the same conviction while considering everyone else’s opinion a logistical inconvenience.

Sebastian took another drink.

The pressure behind his eyes had not disappeared, but it had changed since he entered the suite.

He noticed only because he had spent the last several hours painfully aware of every fluctuation in his body.

His breathing had become easier.

The violent heat beneath his ribs was still there, yet the sharpest edge of it had softened enough that he no longer felt as though every inhale required conscious effort.

Sebastian lowered the glass.

The sensation at the edge of his mind was faint but familiar now that Nero had taught him what to recognize.

Warmth. Not enough to calm him completely, but enough to make his body unclench by degrees.

His gaze moved around the sitting room.

Nero was not here.

Nobody from the Sahan delegation had entered Sebastian’s private suite during the wedding week, and his security detail would have noticed if anyone had tried.

For a few seconds Sebastian considered whether Nero could somehow be affecting him from another section of the palace, then dismissed the thought. Even for Nero, that seemed excessive.

Residual exposure was more plausible.

Sebastian already knew that Nero’s pheromones behaved differently from those of an ordinary dominant alpha. Nero could suppress their scent and obvious pressure almost entirely, and if they lingered differently as well, then the palace itself had spent days becoming contaminated with traces Sebastian had never noticed.

Nero had occupied the adjoining halls, dining rooms, ceremonial spaces, libraries, and private galleries throughout the week. Staff circulated constantly between rooms, fabrics and furniture had been moved for the wedding, and the ventilation systems connected entire sections of the old residence.

If Sebastian was still being exposed here, even indirectly, then remaining in the palace would tell him nothing.

His thoughts shifted immediately to Fitzgeralt.

Sebastian’s private residence stood beside the main family palace, connected to it by a covered gallery but maintained as its own household. He had lived there for years whenever he was home.

Nero had never visited it.

Neither had Dax.

Christopher had been inside the main Fitzgeralt residence before, but not Sebastian’s private mansion, and no Sahan staff had ever occupied the building long enough to leave any meaningful pheromonal trace.

That made it useful.

If Sebastian returned home and deteriorated rapidly, Nero’s claim that he had been stabilizing him gained credibility.

If he remained calm, then something about the palace, or Nero’s deliberate exposure over the last week, deserved considerably more scrutiny.

Either way, Sebastian needed actual evidence before Nero could turn this into another conversation about fate, compatibility, and things Sebastian had no intention of accepting simply because his biology had become inconvenient.

He set the cognac aside and reached for his phone.

There were laws governing nonconsensual pheromonal interference in Palatine, especially when one dominant designation deliberately affected another. Most were designed for workplace violations, assault cases, military misuse, or reproductive coercion rather than international royal disasters, but the principle remained the same.

With medical proof, Sebastian could request an emergency non-contact directive through the royal security council while the matter was being investigated.

It would not function exactly like a civilian restraining order. Nero was a foreign crown prince under diplomatic protection, and enforcing anything against him would require considerably more paperwork, several ministries, and probably a headache large enough to kill Zion before his honeymoon.

Sebastian was willing to endure that.

He called Melanie.

She answered on the second ring.

”Please tell me you are not calling from somewhere inappropriate during the reception.”

”Sorry for the late hour. Schedule my jet for Fitzgeralt.”

The humor disappeared from her voice immediately.

”When?”

”As soon as you can clear departure.”

He heard movement on her end, followed by rapid typing.

”The private field can receive you. I can have the aircraft ready within forty-five minutes, possibly less if palace security releases the route quickly.”

”Do it.”

”Sebastian, what happened?”

He had already decided on the explanation.

”My rut came early.”

Melanie went silent for a beat.

”That early?”

”Yes.”

A dominant-alpha rut was private enough that even Melanie would hesitate before interrogating him. It also provided a perfectly respectable explanation for abandoning a royal reception full of incompatible pheromonal profiles.

”I’ll notify your household physician.”

”No. I’ll contact him after I arrive.”

Another small pause followed, but Melanie knew when Sebastian was issuing instructions rather than asking for advice.

”I’ll arrange the flight.”

”Thank you.”

He ended the call and opened the family thread.

Lucas, Trevor, Dean, and finally Zion.

Rut came early. I’m returning to Fitzgeralt before it becomes everyone else’s problem. Stay at the reception. I’ll call tomorrow.

Dean responded first.

Do you need help?

Sebastian typed back immediately.

No. Stay.

Lucas sent several questions in quick succession. Trevor asked whether Sebastian’s security detail was traveling with him. Zion’s answer arrived last.

You could have chosen literally any other night.

Sebastian’s mouth twitched.

I’ll schedule the next one around your social calendar.

He locked the phone and carried his glass toward the bedroom without drinking from it again.

Within fifteen minutes, the wedding clothes had been replaced by black trousers, a dark long-sleeved shirt, and a lightweight coat suitable for the flight. He tied his hair loosely at the nape and packed medication, his tablet, laptop, and chargers.

Before closing the bag, Sebastian opened a fresh note.

He began listing every occasion during the last week when Nero had been nearby, along with the approximate time his symptoms improved afterward.

He added suppressant doses, episodes of visual disturbance, blood, headaches, and the moments when the relief disappeared after Nero left.

At Fitzgeralt he would have bloodwork done immediately, along with continuous pheromonal monitoring and suppressant-level testing. He wanted objective readings taken in a place Nero had never occupied and could not influence without being detected.

If the results proved Nero had merely been stabilizing him, Sebastian would deal with that reality later.

If they showed deliberate manipulation beyond what Nero had admitted, then Sebastian would make certain every relevant Palatine authority learned exactly how creative a Sahan crown prince had been with someone else’s biology.

He closed the bag and looked once around the suite.

For the first time since leaving the bathroom, the anger in him felt useful.