Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Dean and Arion returned to the gala in time.

Barely.

And only because Nero had killed the mood completely.

It was difficult to continue being seduced against a wall when one’s childhood friend and new cousin-by-marriage had appeared outside the door to announce that infected beasts had crossed the perimeter and that he would handle it because he was, apparently, the best cousin Arion had.

Dean had still been irritated about that.

Not because Nero was wrong.

That was the problem.

Nero was very often right in the most intolerable way possible.

So Dean changed with Sylvia helping him into the second formal outfit while very obviously trying not to look at his mouth, which had become a little too red for a man who had simply been ’changing clothes.’

”Not one word,” Dean said.

Sylvia fastened the shoulder chain very solemnly. ”I didn’t say anything.”

”You were thinking.”

”I do that sometimes.”

”Stop.”

”I’ll try to become stupid for your comfort, Your Highness.”

Dean glared at her through the mirror.

She smiled faintly, and he saw at once that she was too happy for him to properly punish.

Unfortunately, marriage had made everyone unbearable.

Arion emerged from the other side of the suite in black on black; his second outfit was less ceremonial than the first but somehow worse because it made him look like the man who had just been interrupted while trying to ruin Dean’s dignity in private.

Dean stared for half a second too long.

Arion noticed and grinned with the audacity of a man knowing Dean was his in every way possible now.

Dean lifted a finger. ”No.”

Arion raised his hands in mock surrender. ”I’m just looking. I’m allowed to look at my beautiful husband.” His grin widened.

Dean’s face went hot.

He had survived vows before three continents; a public kiss, Lucas crying, Dax laughing, Nero interrupting their private moment with infected beasts; and Sylvia looking at his mouth like she had discovered a state secret. He would not be defeated by Arion saying ”husband” with that much satisfaction.

”You are abusing the title,” Dean said.

”I have had it for less than an hour.”

”And already you are insufferable.”

”I am adapting quickly.”

Sylvia made a suspicious sound behind him.

Dean glared at her through the mirror. ”You are supposed to be helping.”

”I am helping,” Sylvia said, fastening the shoulder chain with saintly focus. ”I am not commenting.”

”You are spiritually commenting.”

”That seems difficult to prove in court.”

Arion’s grin widened, and Dean gave up with a sigh.

—

Two hours later, Dean was not trying to kill anyone yet, which was good and bad at the same time.

Good, because the gala had continued without bloodshed, scandal, or Dean accidentally starting a diplomatic incident with a champagne flute.

Bad, because Dean was beginning to suspect restraint made him less efficient as a person.

Nothing truly important had happened. There had been congratulations, polished smiles, shallow praises about the ceremony, and a truly alarming number of people trying to slide from ”Your vows were beautiful, Your Highness” into ”I have an investment proposal perfect for someone young and modern like you.”

Which, in political language, meant, You are young and therefore stupid.

Dean had smiled, nodded, and made each of them believe, very gently, that he was listening.

Then he had remembered every name.

Arion knew.

His hand had remained at Dean’s back through most of it, a warm pressure that told the room exactly where Dean stood and told Dean exactly how close Arion was to removing someone from the gala if they became too creative with their condescension.

The latest offender was an older chairman from one of Alamina’s eastern infrastructure groups, with a spotless suit, a silver watch, and the expression of a man who had mistaken Dean’s age for an opening.

”You see, Your Highness,” the man said, smiling too kindly, ”someone in your position could be instrumental in encouraging new private-sector partnerships. Younger public figures often understand social perception in a way more traditional officials do not.”

Dean looked at him.

Younger public figures.

He felt Arion’s fingers still at his back.

Dangerous.

Dean smiled.

”Of course,” Dean said. ”And older businessmen often understand public exploitation in a way more traditional criminals do not.”

The man froze.

Arion coughed once.

It was not a cough.

Dean did not look at him because if he saw Arion’s face, he would laugh, and laughing would ruin the educational atmosphere.

”It would be interesting to see the business plan behind this statement; send it to my office.” Arion’s voice filled the area. ”For now, I’m afraid we have to greet my older sister Tyana and her husband.”

The chairman smiled as if he had not just been dressed down in public with the elegance of a corporate execution.

”Of course, Your Highness.”

Dean smiled too.

It was not a kind smile.

”Please do send it,” he said. ”I’m very curious.”

The man’s confidence flickered.

Dean watched him retreat with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had been condescended to and had decided to turn it into paperwork.

Arion’s hand remained at his back as they moved away, guiding him through the gala with effortless control.

”You enjoyed that,” Arion murmured.

”He called me young and modern.”

”He did not use those exact words as an insult.”

”He didn’t need to. His watch did it for him.”

Arion’s mouth curved.

Dean glanced up at him. ”Do not smile. You encouraged me.”

”I redirected him to my office.”

Dean almost laughed. ”You sentenced him to administrative review.”

Then Arion’s phone vibrated.

Not the public communication band beneath his cuff this time, but the private phone hidden inside his jacket. The vibration was short. Once. Then again. A pattern Dean had already learned meant someone with enough priority to bypass the silent gala settings.

Arion’s expression barely shifted.

But Dean felt the change through the bond.

Cold alertness.

”Nero?” Dean asked quietly.

Arion took out the phone with one hand, keeping the other at Dean’s back as if the room might attempt something while he looked away.

It was Nero.

Of course it was Nero.

The message had only two words.

Having fun.

Dean stared at the screen.

Then, before he could decide whether to be relieved or offended, another message arrived.

A photo.

Arion opened it.

Dean leaned closer.

The image was slightly blurred, probably taken mid-motion, because Nero apparently believed composition was optional during combat. There was dark asphalt beneath harsh military lights, a strip of torn perimeter fencing in the background, and one infected beast collapsed across the road as if someone had dropped a nightmare from a great height.

It was huge.

Its limbs were twisted wrong, black infection veining through the hide, and claws gouged into the road surface. Steam rose from its body, or smoke, or something uglier.

Nero stood on top of it.

Naturally.

One boot planted between the beast’s shoulders, white-blond hair loose around his face, formal black and violet wedding attire somehow still recognizable beneath blood, dust, and what looked like burned pheromone residue.

He was beaming, delighted.

Behind him, Hale was half visible, standing beside the second beast, which appeared to have been driven headfirst into a concrete barrier with such force that the barrier had lost.

At the bottom of the photo, Nero had added:

Proof. Since you are sentimental.

Dean went very still.

Arion stared at the phone.

For one long second, neither of them spoke.

Then Dean said, ”He is insane.”

”Yes.”

Dean inhaled slowly, then exhaled.

”I am going to kill him.”

Arion put the phone away. ”You will have to wait.”

”Because he is still handling the breach?”

”Because I want to kill him first.”