Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

On the morning of the wedding, Dean discovered that silence could be louder than panic.

The preparation suite in the Crown Prince’s residence should have been chaos. There were too many people, too many garment bags, too many tablets glowing with updates from security, ceremony staff, media coordination, palace protocol, foreign delegation management, and someone from the floral team who had apparently decided the west arch was ”breathing wrong.”

No one screamed.

That was how Dean knew everyone was stressed.

Mia sat on the edge of a cream velvet sofa, hands folded neatly in her lap, looking radiant and perfectly composed in a pale formal dress that made her look like she had been born to attend royal weddings and not like she had nearly resigned from her unofficial duty.

Lucas stood near the windows, reading through the final procession update on a tablet with a face so calm Dean immediately classified it as dangerous.

Serathine had arrived at last.

She sat in one of the high-backed chairs near the mirror, old, elegant, and absolutely perfect in a dark green dress with a high collar, her hair swept back with enough precision to make time itself reconsider touching her. She looked like the kind of grandmother who would teach a child to hold a teacup, destroy an enemy’s estate, and identify poison by smell before lunch.

Sylvia hovered near the second mirror, wearing her attendant dress already, one hand pressed to the charm bracelet at her wrist. She looked beautiful. She also looked like she was one wrong word away from either laughing or throwing up.

Dean decided not to comment.

Mostly because he felt the same.

Three assistants moved around him with the quiet efficiency of people handling both fabric and national history. His newly appointed chief of guards, Hunter Stewart, stood by the main door in a dark formal uniform, one hand resting behind his back, his posture so controlled that Dean had already decided he was either terrifyingly competent or hiding a migraine.

Possibly both.

Trevor was not there.

Fortunately.

Trevor, the dominant alpha, Lucas’s husband, Dean’s father, and occasionally the human form of paternal violence in tailored black, had been sent to Otto.

Officially, it was for pre-ceremony coordination between the paternal households.

Unofficially, no one trusted Trevor to remain calm while watching Dean be dressed for a wedding that would place him in front of the entire empire.

Dean loved his father.

Dean also appreciated strategic separation.

”Breathe,” Mia said softly.

Dean looked at her through the mirror. ”I am breathing.”

”You are inhaling with political hostility.”

Lucas lifted his eyes from the tablet. ”That is still breathing.”

”Thank you,” Dean said.

”Not a compliment.”

”I’ll take it anyway.”

The head assistant adjusted the silver embroidered edge of the jacket at Dean’s shoulder and looked like she was personally negotiating with fate.

The suit was worse on him than it had been on the display.

Worse meaning perfect.

The high black inner layer framed his neck with severe elegance. The fitted jacket narrowed his waist and refined his shoulders. Silver embroidery caught the light in fine, lethal patterns. The black wrap settled around his middle like ceremonial armor. Behind him, the cape’s long, dark fall pooled on the platform and cascaded down in sheer layers, heavy enough to feel real but light enough to move like smoke.

Dean stared at himself.

For one second, he did not recognize the man in the mirror.

”Oh,” Sylvia whispered.

Dean’s eyes flicked to her.

She immediately straightened. ”I mean, excellent. Very imperial. Slightly murderous. Arion will be unbearable.”

Serathine smiled. ”Arion will lose the ability to speak.”

Mia pressed her lips together.

Lucas nodded once. ”Briefly. Then he will become worse.”

Dean closed his eyes. ”That is not helping.”

”It is accurate,” Lucas said.

Dean opened his eyes and glared at him.

Lucas smiled.

The room softened for half a breath.

Then another ping came from someone’s tablet, and the softness vanished under the pressure of time.

Hunter looked down at his device. ”Ceremony hall reports full security lock complete. Inner procession corridor cleared. His Imperial Majesty Otto and Grand Duke Trevor are in position.”

Dean’s stomach turned.

The assistant at his collar stepped back. ”Your Highness—”

Dean turned his head sharply. ”Not yet.”

The room went still.

The assistant froze.

Dean inhaled once, slower this time. ”Sorry. I just mean... not yet.”

Serathine rose.

She crossed the room with the unhurried grace of a woman who had seen too many weddings, too many wars, and too many frightened young people disguised as adults. She stood beside Dean, looking at him through the mirror rather than turning him toward her.

”You may be frightened,” she said.

Dean swallowed.

”No one said I was frightened.”

”No,” Serathine replied. ”You are all being very loud about not saying it.”

Sylvia made a strangled sound that might have been agreement.

Mia looked down at her hands.

Lucas pretended to read the tablet again, which fooled no one.

Dean stared at himself in the mirror, at the suit hidden from Arion, at the black and silver, and at the face of a man about to walk into history because he had chosen love, and apparently love came with cameras, laws, ambassadors, security grids, relatives, and choreographed steps.

”I am not running,” he said quietly.

Serathine’s smile softened. ”I know.”

”I want him.”

”We know.”

”I’m ready.”

”Yes,” she said. ”And you are still allowed to feel the weight of arriving.”

Dean blinked once.

Then again.

Sylvia turned away very quickly and pretended to inspect a flower arrangement.

Mia’s composure fractured first. Her eyes shone, though she smiled through it.

Lucas sighed. ”If everyone cries before the procession, I will be very annoyed.”

”You are already annoyed,” Sylvia muttered.

”Yes, but emotionally.”

Dean laughed once, too breathless to be convincing.

Then the bond tightened.

Warmth moved under his skin so suddenly that his breath caught.

Arion.

Dean felt him before anyone knocked.

Dean touched his chest once, just above his heart.

Lucas noticed immediately.

”What?”

Hunter’s earpiece flashed.

He lifted his head toward the door. ”His Imperial Highness Crown Prince Arion is outside.”

The room froze.

Mia whispered, ”Oh no.”

Sylvia’s eyes widened. ”He cannot see the suit.”

”He won’t,” Lucas said at once.

A knock came at the door.

Dean closed his eyes.

Of course.

Of course the man who had survived weeks of secret wardrobe planning, security misdirection, Minerva’s terrifying discretion, and Dean’s own excellent acting would be defeated by a bond that tattled.

Hunter looked to Dean for permission.

Dean stared at the closed door.

On the other side stood Arion, probably in his own ceremony attire, probably calm enough to terrify half the corridor, probably aware only that Dean was under duress and therefore the entire wedding could go to hell if Dean needed him.

Dean’s throat tightened again.

Damn him.

Damn him for being exactly the person Dean wanted at the end of the aisle.

”Do not open it,” Lucas said.

The knock came again.

This time Arion’s voice followed, low enough not to carry beyond the door but clear inside the room.

”Dean.”

Everyone looked at Dean.

Dean breathed in.

The bond pulsed again, warm and worried and far too loving for him to keep pretending he was composed.

He stepped down from the platform, cape whispering behind him like night dragged across a polished floor.

The assistants nearly fainted.

”Dean,” Mia hissed.

”I am not opening the door.”

He walked to it anyway.

Hunter shifted aside with visible reluctance.

Dean stopped a few feet from the door, close enough that Arion would feel him through the bond, far enough that the suit remained safe from direct sight.

”I’m fine,” Dean said.

Silence.

Then Arion answered, ”You are not.”

Sylvia pressed both hands over her mouth.

Lucas looked at the ceiling like he was praying for strength from gods he did not respect.

Dean smiled despite himself.

”I am emotionally dramatic, not endangered.”

”That distinction is often unreliable with you.”

Dean laughed softly.

The sound steadied him.

Behind him, Serathine’s smile gentled. Mia wiped at one eye. Sylvia looked like she was going to explode from tenderness and stress. Lucas pretended none of this affected him while obviously being affected.

Dean leaned one hand against the door.

On the other side, after a heartbeat, Arion did the same.

Dean felt it through the bond.

”I’m not running,” Dean said.

”I know.”

”I’m not opening the door. You are ruining the surprise.”

”I am protecting my future husband.”

”Your future husband is dressed and emotionally supervised.”

A pause.

Then Arion said, ”By Lucas?”

Dean looked back.

Lucas lifted one brow.

Dean turned to the door again. ”Partly.”

”That is not reassuring.”

Lucas mouthed, ”Rude.”

Dean smiled.

Then his voice softened. ”Wait for me.”

Arion’s answer came lower this time.

”Always.”

Dean closed his eyes.

The room around him breathed again.

Dean stepped back.

”Hunter,” he said, voice steady now.

”Yes, Your Highness?”

Dean turned toward the mirror, toward the suit, toward the people waiting with him and the man waiting beyond the door.

”Tell the procession team we’re ready.”