Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Dean locked the bedroom door.

This was not dramatic.

This was survival.

After the call with Lucas, after thirty-four minutes of parental disappointment dressed in silk and one additional ambush from Ethan, who had appeared on screen only long enough to say, with unbearable gentleness, that Palatine mothers did enjoy hearing from their children before other empresses did, Dean had retreated with what he considered dignity.

Arion had called it fleeing.

Dean had called it strategic repositioning.

Then Arion had left for a meeting, and Dean had locked the door.

Now he was in bed, buried under a blanket, furious at the entire concept of family, autumn, wedding planning, communication systems, and his own body, which had apparently decided this was an excellent time to become a traitor.

At first, he thought it was shame.

A delayed reaction, perhaps. Emotional exhaustion. Battlefield recovery. Lucas’s voice had done the thing Lucas’s voice always did, slipping past every wall Dean built with one gentle sentence and making him feel both loved and like an ungrateful criminal.

So yes, Dean had expected some discomfort.

What he had not expected was the heat.

It had started low in his spine, spreading through his hips, then up under his ribs in slow, vicious waves. His skin felt too sensitive against the sheets. His thoughts had become sharp in one direction and useless in every other. His scent, normally clean mint and lemonade, had thickened into something brighter, warmer, and edged with sweetness that made even Boreas whine once outside the door before wisely retreating.

Dean had stared at the ceiling for several minutes.

Then he had said, very quietly, ”Absolutely not.”

His body had ignored him.

Rude.

His heat was early.

Of course it was early.

Why wouldn’t it be? He had only strained his neutralization ability for weeks, flattened corrupted pheromones until his bones felt hollow, and run on field food, poor sleep, adrenaline, family guilt, and Arion’s exhausting competence. Naturally, his secondary biology had looked at recovery and decided to riot like a small, venomous court faction.

A knock came at the door.

Dean pulled the blanket over his head.

”No.”

Silence.

Then Arion’s voice, calm in the way that meant he was not calm at all. ”Dean.”

”No.”

”I came back and was informed you locked the bedroom.”

”How observant of the household.”

”Open the door.”

”No.”

Another pause.

This one was longer.

When Arion spoke again, his voice had lowered. ”I can smell you.”

Dean closed his eyes.

”I am dead,” Dean announced through the blanket. ”Inform Lucas he can call my ghost weekly.”

The handle turned once.

Locked.

Arion did not try again.

”I’m not angry,” Arion said.

”That sounds like something an angry person says while standing outside a locked door.”

”I am concerned.”

”That is also banned.”

”Dean.”

He hated the way Arion said his name.

Not always.

Sometimes he liked it too much, which was its own problem. But right now it landed under his skin, and the heat in his body answered with humiliating enthusiasm.

Dean bit the edge of the blanket.

No.

He was not unlocking the door like some desperate omega in a terrible romance after spending the morning being emotionally disciplined by his father.

Absolutely not.

”I’m recovering from shame,” he said.

”You are in heat.”

”I am in privacy.”

”You are in heat,” Arion repeated, more firmly. ”Earlier than expected.”

”Thank you for the medical bulletin.”

”You strained yourself.”

”I saved civilians.”

”Yes. And strained yourself.”

”Do not make my heroism sound like poor scheduling.”

Arion exhaled audibly on the other side of the door.

Dean could picture him too clearly. Standing there in dark clothes from the meeting, golden eyes narrowed, one hand near the door, his control wrapped tight around the worry in his voice.

Unfortunately, picturing Arion made everything worse.

Dean pressed his face into the pillow.

Another knock came, softer this time.

”Let me in.”

”No.”

”Why not?”

”Because I am naked, overheated, humiliated, and nesting.”

”Dean... If you don’t open the door, I’m going to break it.”

Dean froze.

The worst part was that Arion did not sound dramatic.

He sounded completely serious.

Dean lifted his head from the pillow and glared at the door as if the carved wood had personally arranged this humiliation. ”You would break imperial property because I am having a private biological disagreement with myself?”

”I would break imperial property because my mate locked himself in our bedroom while going into an early heat after overusing his abilities for three weeks.”

”That sentence was too organized. I reject it.”

”Open the door.”

”No.”

”Dean.”

”No. You and your golden eyes can remain in the corridor and think about your crimes.”

”My crimes?”

”You agreed with Lucas.”

”I agreed that you should call your father.”

”Exactly. Betrayal.”

A pause.

Then Arion said, with the kind of patience that made Dean want to throw something, ”You were supposed to call him.”

Dean grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at the door.

It hit with a dull, deeply unsatisfying thump.

”I am in heat,” Dean snapped. ”Do not use logic on me.”

”I noticed.”

”Stop noticing things.”

”That is not going to happen.”

Dean hated him.

Dean loved him.

Dean hated that both things were happening at the same time, because his body had apparently decided emotional complexity was an invitation to commit treason.

Another wave of heat rolled through him, sharper than the last. His breath caught before he could stop it. He curled one hand into the blanket, dragging it closer, pressing his face into fabric that smelled faintly of Arion because, yes, fine, he had stolen one of Arion’s shirts and tucked it under the pillows like a criminal.

Outside the door, Arion went very still.

Dean realized too late that the scent must have changed.

The silence sharpened.

”Dean,” Arion said, and this time his voice was lower, rougher. ”Are you in pain?”

”No.”

”Are you lying?”

”Yes.”

”Open the door.”

”I hate this conversation.”

”I know.”

”I hate that you know.”

”I know that too.”

Dean sat up halfway, hair mussed, blanket slipping down one shoulder, skin too warm and too sensitive. ”If you break the door, I will never forgive you.”

”I’m giving you ten seconds.”

”You are threatening a vulnerable omega.”

”I am threatening a locked door.”

”The door is innocent.”

”The door is between me and you.”

Dean’s throat tightened.

That should not have worked.

It absolutely worked.

He stared at the lock, furious with it, with Arion, with Lucas, with his own body, and with the entire political structure of autumn weddings and secondary gender biology.

”Nine,” Arion said.

Dean’s eyes widened. ”You are counting?”

”Eight.”

”You absolute barbarian.”

”Seven.”

”I am going to tell Minerva.”

”She would give me a better door.”

”Six.”

Dean threw off the blanket with a hiss, immediately regretted it because the cool air hit his overheated skin, and stumbled off the bed with all the dignity of a man betrayed by his knees.

”Five.”

”I heard you the first time.”

”Four.”

Dean reached the door and jabbed the lock open with unnecessary violence.

The moment it clicked, Arion pushed inside.

He did not break the door.

Barely.

He stepped in fast, then stopped just as abruptly, golden eyes taking in the room in one sweep: the nest of blankets and stolen shirts; the pillows dragged into a defensive mound; the open window Dean had cracked earlier and then shut because even the breeze had felt offensive; and Dean standing barefoot before him, flushed, furious, and wrapped in nothing but a sheet he had grabbed at the last second.

”You are the death of me.” Arion said with a deep sigh.