Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

The next morning, Arion discovered that Dean could survive infected beasts, corrupted pheromones, swarm breaches, battlefield exhaustion, an early heat, his own family’s emotional ambushes, and Arion’s rut with less visible distress than he could survive the phrase, ”Lucas and Mia will arrive in two hours.”

Dean had been pacing for eleven minutes.

Arion knew because he had watched him cross the sitting room fourteen times while pretending not to count, one hand buried lazily in Boreas’s thick fur as the malamute occupied half the sofa like an imperial war beast that had retired into luxury. Boreas, who had no understanding of wedding politics and every understanding of personal comfort, lay with his enormous head on Arion’s thigh and accepted petting with the solemn gravity of a creature doing important diplomatic work.

Dean passed the low table again.

Then the windows.

Then the doors.

Then the sofa.

Then turned sharply and repeated the route as if the carpet had committed treason and he was wearing it down through force of judgment.

”Sit down,” Arion said.

”No.”

”You are making Boreas nervous.”

Boreas yawned.

Dean pointed at the dog. ”That traitor is not nervous. He is emotionally unavailable.”

Boreas thumped his tail once without lifting his head.

Arion looked down at him. ”He seems supportive.”

”He opened the door for Nero last week. His opinions are invalid.”

”That was initiative.”

”That was betrayal with paws.”

Arion’s mouth curved, but he wisely did not laugh. Dean was already walking the fine line between wedding anxiety and open war, and Arion had no intention of becoming the nearest target before breakfast.

The private sitting room had been arranged for calm. That had clearly been the staff’s intention. The large wall screen was hidden behind a sliding panel of dark wood and brass inlay, the sofas were deep, the light from the windows softened by pale curtains, and a tray with tea, coffee, fruit, and pastries sat untouched on the table because Dean had looked at it earlier and accused it of ”implying normality.”

Lucas and Mia were scheduled to land in two hours.

Serathine would arrive separately later in the day, which Dean had described as ”delayed impact, not mercy.” Ethan was not arriving yet, but the fact that he might join later had apparently been enough to make Dean stare at his phone for thirty seconds like it contained a prophecy of doom.

Arion was beginning to understand something.

Dean did not fear his family.

He feared being seen by them in a moment he could not fully control.

That was different.

”You are not being sent to execution,” Arion said.

Dean stopped pacing long enough to glare at him. ”That is exactly what someone would say before a socially acceptable execution.”

”Lucas loves you.”

”That makes him more dangerous, not less.”

”Mia loves you.”

”Mia will hug me, make three observations I am not emotionally ready for, and then somehow side with Lucas while pretending to be neutral.”

Arion considered that. ”Accurate.”

Dean resumed pacing. ”And then they will ask about dates, ceremonial structure, colors, seating, international guests, Palatine traditions, Alaminan traditions, whether we are including Rohan customs out of diplomatic courtesy, whether Saha is bringing Dax, which of course Saha is bringing Dax because apparently Dax goes wherever he pleases like weather with hair, and then someone will mention fittings.”

His voice tightened slightly on the last word.

Arion stroked Boreas’s ears once more and watched him carefully.

The issue was not only Lucas. Not only Mia. Not even Serathine, who had the frightening capacity to turn affection into a fully funded operation before anyone noticed they had been conquered.

It was the wedding itself.

Not because Dean did not want it.

Because he did.

That was the part making him pace.

The campaign had given him simple fear. The field either held or it did not. A beast either crossed the line or died before it could. A swarm either reached the civilian buffer or Dean shredded it. Even his heat, humiliating and badly timed as it had been, had a biological logic to it.

The wedding was different.

The wedding was important because Dean wanted to stand beside him. Because Dean wanted Lucas there. Wanted Mia. Wanted Serathine. Wanted the impossible, chaotic architecture of two families and several countries, acknowledging that this was not merely strategy, not merely a stabilizing arrangement, not some political correction after Caelan’s ugly proposals and old court rot.

It was theirs.

And because it mattered, every public appearance attached to it became another place where Dean could be judged, photographed, interpreted, corrected, loved too loudly, or misunderstood.

Arion’s amusement softened into something warmer.

”You are happy,” he said.

Dean stopped so abruptly Boreas opened one eye.

”I am stressed.”

”Yes.”

”Those are different words.”

”They can exist together.”

Dean stared at him in betrayal. ”Do not become emotionally insightful before noon.”

Arion’s mouth curved. ”You are looking forward to seeing them.”

Dean’s expression shifted at once into defensive irritation, which was usually where he hid tenderness when it arrived too quickly.

”I am looking forward to surviving them.”

”That is not the same thing.”

”It is in my family.”

Arion patted the sofa beside him. ”Come here.”

”No.”

”Dean.”

”No. If I sit, my body will realize I am still recovering from several disasters and I will be vulnerable to affection.”

”You are already vulnerable to affection.”

Dean pointed at him. ”One more sentence like that and I will reopen the discussion about fleeing to the restricted zone.”

Arion leaned back comfortably, Boreas heavy across his thigh, and let his gaze move over Dean with deliberate calm. ”You can handle infected beasts, royal gossip, Lucas, Mia, Serathine, Minerva, and fittings.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. ”You included fittings last because you know that is where the true violence is.”

”I included fittings because three days ago you looked extremely pleased imagining me changing formal suits.”

Dean paused.

That was inconveniently true.

His face changed despite himself, panic faltering beneath sudden interest. ”That is not relevant.”

”It looked relevant.”

”It was a private visual matter.”

”You asked whether black and gold embroidery could be tailored along my shoulders without making me look like I was attending my own coronation.”

Dean’s eyes brightened before he could stop them. ”Because if they do it wrong, you will look overdecorated.”

”And if they do it right?”

Dean’s gaze moved over him in a way that made Arion’s smile deepen.

”If they do it right,” Dean said slowly, ”then the public may forgive several political complications on the basis of aesthetics.”

”How generous of them.”

”I would not count on their moral strength, but tailoring can be persuasive.”

Arion reached out one hand.

This time, Dean looked at it for only a second before coming closer.

He stood within reach, arms folded, face still tense with the effort of pretending he was not already surrendering to comfort. Arion caught his wrist and drew him down carefully, mindful of the soreness. Dean was still trying to ignore it with the determination of a man whose pride had no medical license.

Dean landed beside him with a low hiss. ”I hate furniture.”

”The sofa did nothing.”

”It participated.”

Boreas immediately shifted, abandoning Arion’s thigh to place his head heavily across Dean’s lap.

Dean stared down at him.

Boreas stared back with enormous brown eyes full of shameless affection and low moral standards.

”You,” Dean said, ”are only behaving because Lucas is coming and you want to appear innocent.”

Boreas wagged his tail.

Arion’s hand settled at the back of Dean’s neck, thumb brushing slowly over warm skin. Dean leaned into it before remembering he was supposed to be difficult. By then, it was too late.

”You missed them,” Arion said softly.

Dean looked toward the hidden screen, then the windows, then the tray on the table. Anywhere but at him.

”Yes,” he said at last, almost grudgingly.

Arion did not make the mistake of smiling too visibly.

Dean would have noticed and turned it into a fight out of self-defense.

”I missed them,” Dean continued, quieter now. ”And I want them here. That is the annoying part. If I did not want them here, this would be simpler.”

”Most things are simpler when they matter less.”

Dean sighed. ”That sounded like something a reasonable person would say. I dislike it.”

”I will try to be more irritating.”

”You usually manage without effort.”

Arion leaned over and kissed the side of his head. Dean let him. Boreas sighed as if emotionally fulfilled by the entire arrangement.

For a few minutes, the room became quiet in a way it had not been all morning. Dean’s fingers drifted absently into Boreas’s fur. Arion kept his hand at Dean’s nape, not holding him in place, only reminding him there was a place to rest if he chose it.

Then Arion’s phone buzzed on the table.