Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Dean had survived the meeting with Minerva.

Physically.

Emotionally, there were still questions.

He stood in the private fitting room of the Crown Prince’s residence in Roslew and stared at the suit displayed before him under museum-grade lighting, as if it were not fabric and thread but an accusation made in black silk.

The wedding suit was beautiful.

That was the problem.

Black on black, with silver embroidery so fine it looks carved and not sewn. A fitted jacket with sharp shoulders and delicate metallic patterns along the lapels. A high-necked inner layer, severe and elegant. A waist wrap that pulled the entire silhouette together with ceremonial elegance. Long black fabric fell behind it like a modern cape, sheer in movement but dark enough to look like night had agreed to serve the empire for one afternoon.

Dean swallowed.

”Absolutely unbearable,” he muttered.

Behind him, one of the stylists made a quiet sound of distress.

Dean glanced over his shoulder. ”Not the suit. The emotion.”

The stylist relaxed by exactly one millimeter.

On the other side of the room, the head designer stood with both hands folded over her tablet, looking as though she would personally throw herself out the nearest window if anyone touched the garment without gloves.

Dean turned back to the suit.

Arion did not know.

That had been Minerva’s idea.

Arion knew about the rest of the wardrobe. The reception attire. The pre-ceremony engagement luncheon suit. The official dinner look. The after-ceremony social engagement clothes. The absurdly coordinated traveling outfit Minerva had approved with the calm brutality of a woman who considered airports another form of diplomacy.

But this one?

No.

This one had been hidden.

Dean and Minerva had conspired over it in private with the seriousness of people committing treason through tailoring.

Minerva had looked at the first sketch, paused for three seconds, and said, ”Arion must not see this before the wedding.”

Dean had stared at her. ”You want to weaponize my suit against your son.”

”I want my son to remember how to breathe in public.”

”That is evil.”

”Yes,” Minerva had said. ”But tasteful.”

Dean had liked her far too much in that moment.

Now, standing in front of the finished piece, he understood why she had insisted.

Arion was going to lose his mind.

Quietly, probably.

His face would remain calm. His posture would stay perfect. The cameras would catch nothing obvious. The empire would see the Crown Prince standing at the end of the aisle in full command of himself and history.

But Dean would know.

Dean would see the exact second Arion realized that the entire palace had betrayed him for the sake of a wedding reveal.

That alone was worth the fittings.

Dean breathed in slowly.

The suit blurred a little at the edges.

Oh, damn it.

He blinked hard.

The door opened behind him without the polite warning knock of staff.

Only three people in Roslew currently entered a secure fitting room like they owned oxygen.

One was Minerva.

One was Arion.

The third said, ”If you cry before the wedding, I am telling Mia.”

Dean closed his eyes. ”Lucas.”

Lucas stepped inside wearing a pale coat, sunglasses pushed into his hair, and the expression of a man who had found drama and intended to sit near it with coffee. Behind him, the door closed softly, leaving the stylists frozen in professional uncertainty.

Dean waved a hand. ”Out. All of you. I require emotional privacy and possibly witnesses removed from the crime scene.”

The head designer looked horrified.

Lucas smiled at her. ”I promise not to touch the suit.”

That apparently carried enough authority to move nations and fashion staff alike. Within ten seconds, the room emptied.

Dean waited until the door sealed.

Then he pointed at Lucas. ”Do not start.”

Lucas walked closer, eyes on the suit. ”Oh.”

Dean crossed his arms. ”That sounded ominous.”

”No,” Lucas said, unusually quiet. ”That sounded correct.”

Dean looked back at the suit.

For a moment, neither of them joked.

The wedding was close.

Roslew had been preparing for days, but now it felt different. More real. The streets below were lined with white-and-gold banners. Media teams had begun staging equipment along the ceremonial route. Palace staff moved with headsets and tablets and the tense efficiency of people whose mistakes could become archived footage for centuries.

Everyone had become emotional in their own way.

Minerva had started sending Dean too many messages about breakfast and foundation portfolios.

Otto had stared at him during yesterday’s dinner with a suspicious amount of paternal softness and then pretended to be interested in water.

Mia had threatened to cry, denied it, and then cried at a rehearsal video of the flower arch opening sequence.

Lucas had gone quiet twice in one day, which Dean considered alarming, while Trevor pretended to be calm but was ready to kill someone if they breathed wrong around Dean.

And Arion...

Arion had become more controlled.

Which meant he was feeling too much.

Dean hated how well he knew that now.

Lucas stopped beside him. ”You look like you’re about to run or propose again.”

”I already proposed.”

”Yes, but you’re dramatic. You could do it twice.”

Dean huffed. ”I am recovering from a meeting with Minerva.”

”Did she hurt you?”

”No. She was kind.”

Lucas nodded gravely. ”Worse.”

”Much worse.” Dean looked at the suit again. ”She gave me three foundation portfolios, two transition schedules, a private lecture on consort discretion, and a very gentle speech about how the official role is not meant to devour me.”

Lucas’s expression softened. ”That does sound like Minerva.”

”She likes me.”

”Yes.”

”I like her.”

”Yes.”

”It is deeply inconvenient.”

Lucas smiled. ”Being loved by powerful women usually is.”

Dean glanced at him. ”You would know.”

”I do.”

They stood side by side in front of the suit.

Dean’s throat tightened again.

”It’s close,” he said, hating how small the words sounded.

Lucas did not tease him.

”Yes.”

”One week ago, I was worrying about seating charts and Sylvia and whether I should emotionally intervene in someone else’s life.”

”You’re still worrying about Sylvia.”

”I am multitasking.”

”Of course.”

Dean exhaled, then looked down at his own hands. ”And now I’m looking at this and thinking... this is real. I’m marrying him.”

Lucas turned his head toward him.

Dean kept looking at the suit.

”I know I knew that,” he said. ”Obviously. I’m not an idiot.”

Lucas opened his mouth.

Dean pointed at him without looking. ”Do not.”

Lucas closed his mouth, smiling faintly.

”But knowing is different,” Dean continued, quieter now. ”This suit exists. The ceremony route exists. Minerva’s office keeps calling me Crown Prince Consort like it’s a thing I’m allowed to be. Arion’s name is next to mine on every secure schedule. The city is decorated. People are flying in from other countries. Thomas is coming. Nero is probably carrying three disasters in his luggage. Sylvia is pretending to be fine. Everyone is emotional and pretending they aren’t because apparently that is the official sport of royals.”

Lucas leaned one shoulder against the mirrored wall. ”And you?”

Dean swallowed.

”I am emotional and pretending badly.”

”That sounds healthier.”

Dean laughed once, soft and unwilling.

Then he glanced at Lucas. ”What if I’m not ready?”

Lucas’s face changed.

”No one is ready for the life after the wedding,” Lucas said. ”You can only be ready for the person waiting at the end of the aisle.”

Dean looked back at the suit.

Arion.

His impossible, possessive, infuriating, careful Arion.

Dean breathed in.

Then out.

”I’m ready for him,” he said.

Lucas smiled.

”Then the rest can panic in line.”

Dean laughed.