Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

By morning, Dean had not become calmer.

Arion found him in the private sitting room at eight-thirty, walking back and forth in front of the long glass wall with a tablet in one hand, a stylus in the other, and the expression of a man who had spent the night arguing with his own restraint and losing by inches.

Roslew, Alamina’s capital city, glittered beneath the clear morning light. Wedding banners already hung from the main avenues below, white and gold catching the sun between lines of traffic, security vehicles, and drones moving discreetly above the ceremonial route.

Dean did not look at any of it.

He paced.

Turned.

Paced again.

Arion stopped in the doorway with two coffees in hand and watched him for three full passes.

Then he said, ”You are going to wear a path into the floor.”

Dean pointed the stylus at him without stopping. ”Good. Your family can classify it as my first contribution to imperial renovation.”

Arion handed him one of the coffees as he passed.

Dean accepted it automatically, took a sip, and continued pacing.

That, Arion thought, was a bad sign. Dean usually paused for coffee with the reverence of a small religion.

”I’m thinking,” Dean said.

”I noticed.”

”I should intervene.”

”No.”

Dean stopped.

The word had been calm. Immediate. Entirely unreasonable.

His purple eyes narrowed. ”You did not even ask what kind of intervention.”

”I know you.”

Dean stared at him.

Arion moved to the low table, set his coffee down, and picked up one of the tablets Dean had left unlocked. The screen showed three different windows: the finalized wedding procession, Sylvia’s name highlighted in yellow, and a private note Dean had written in large capital letters.

DO NOT PANIC.

Under it, smaller:

Probably panic later.

Arion looked at him.

Dean lifted his chin. ”That was a drafting note.”

”It appears personal.”

”It can be both.”

Arion put the tablet down gently. ”Do not intervene.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. ”If Nero offered her what we think he offered...”

”Then Sylvia has to decide whether she wants it.”

”She may not understand what she’s deciding.”

”She is smart.”

”She is also emotionally compromised.”

”So were you when you chose me.”

Dean froze.

Arion met his gaze calmly.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then Dean said, ”That was low.”

”It was true.”

Dean looked away first, furious because the argument had landed exactly where Arion intended it to.

He turned back toward the window, coffee warm between his hands. ”This is different.”

”Is it?”

”Nero may have offered to change her secondary gender.”

”Most likely.”

”That is not the same as dating someone politically inconvenient.”

”No,” Arion said. ”It is not.”

Dean turned sharply. ”Then why are you being so calm?”

”Because if I am not calm, you will not be.”

”That is manipulative.”

Arion said nothing but raised his scarred brow in question.

Dean glared at him.

Arion accepted it with the serene patience of a man who had already survived worse before breakfast.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. ”I keep thinking about what Sylvia said. That it was an infatuation. She barely knows Thomas.”

”Yes.”

”What if this is just that?” Dean asked, and his voice dropped despite himself. ”What if Nero put something irreversible in front of her because of something that might fade? What if she changes her body for a man she liked for a week?”

Arion’s expression softened.

Dean looked at him, helplessly angry. ”That is not devotion. That is not the kind of love that asks for a body to change.”

”No,” Arion said. ”It may not be.”

”Then I should talk to her.”

”No.”

”Arion.”

”If you talk to her now, you will not talk. You will argue.”

Dean opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Arion’s mouth curved faintly. ”You know I’m right.”

”I hate that you’re right.”

”I know.”

Dean threw the stylus onto the sofa with more force than necessary. It bounced once and disappeared between two cushions.

”Fine,” he snapped. ”Maybe I would argue.”

”You would argue very beautifully.”

”That is not the point.”

”You would tell her all the ways this could hurt her. You would remind her Thomas may leave. You would remind her Nero is dangerous. You would remind her being a dominant omega is not a romantic accessory but a life-altering condition involving heats, pheromones, social pressure, medical supervision, and political interest she may not want.”

Dean’s face tightened because yes.

He would. He would say all of it. He would say even more.

”And then,” Arion continued, ”she would stop hearing your worry and start hearing your fear.”

Dean looked down.

”She asked you not to push,” Arion said. ”Not because she thinks you don’t love her. Because she knows you do.”

”That sounds backwards.”

”It often is.”

Dean laughed once, without humor. ”Responsible love is still terrible in daylight.”

”Yes.”

He turned back toward the window.

Below, palace staff crossed the ceremonial courtyard, carrying white floral structures wrapped in protective film. A group from the event office moved behind them with tablets and headsets, one of them gesturing urgently toward the west access road. The whole palace was preparing for his wedding.

His wedding.

The most public day of his life was seven days away, and all he wanted to do was find Sylvia, shake her gently by the shoulders, and ask what terrible thing she was considering in private.

His tablet pinged.

Dean ignored it.

It pinged again.

Then again.

Arion glanced at the screen. ”The Empress’s office.”

Dean closed his eyes. ”Of course.”

Another ping.

Then a short message flashed across the top of the screen.

Crown Prince Consort transition briefing moved to 10:00. Please confirm attendance. Empress Minerva requests that you review the foundation portfolio before the meeting.

Dean stared at it.

A second message arrived.

Also: please do not skip breakfast.

Dean’s expression went flat. ”She knows.”

”Mother always knows.”

”She is using maternal surveillance as governance.”

”Yes.”

Another ping.

And please do not argue with the foundation portfolio before reading the summary.

Dean looked at Arion. ”I hate your family.”

”No, you don’t.”

”I hate your mother’s timing.”

”That is more defensible.”

Dean picked up the tablet and typed with aggressive precision.

Confirmed. I have eaten half a pastry and am emotionally stable.

A reply came almost instantly.

Half a pastry is not breakfast. Emotional stability unverified.

Dean stared.

Arion smiled into his coffee.

”Do not laugh.”

”I wouldn’t dare.”

”You’re smiling.”

”That is not legally laughter.”

Dean dropped the tablet onto the sofa and resumed pacing, though slower now.

The interruption had not solved anything.

But it had reminded him that the world did not stop for Sylvia’s secret. The wedding would not wait. Minerva would not stop preparing him for the role he would officially hold in a week. The palace would continue moving, with or without his panic.

And Sylvia, whether he liked it or not, was not a child left outside in the rain.

She was his friend.

His ridiculous, sharp, loud, stubborn friend.

She had agency and was smart enough to know that Nero’s offer, if it existed, had teeth.

Dean hated that knowing did not always prevent wanting.

”I would help her anyway,” he said quietly.

Arion looked at him.

Dean stared at the city beyond the glass. ”If she said yes. If she became a dominant omega and didn’t know what to do with it. If she had heats, or pheromones, or medical panic, or everyone suddenly looking at her differently.” His throat tightened. ”I would help her anyway.”