Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

”Forget I said that.”

”No.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at him over the edge of the pastry.

Arion sat across from him in the little café, perfectly composed, black coat still damp at the shoulders from the October rain, coffee cup in one hand, and the expression of a man pretending he had not just rearranged his entire internal schedule around the word collar.

Dean knew that expression.

He had seen it when Arion decided something was his problem to solve, own, protect, or ruin beautifully.

This was not good.

”You are thinking too loudly,” Dean said, his purple eye narrowing.

”I am not.”

”You are. I can hear money moving in your head.”

Arion’s mouth curved. ”Money does not make sound.”

”Yours does. It screams.”

The old woman behind the counter was pretending not to listen. Badly.

Dean respected her for it.

Arion took another slow sip of coffee, far too calm for a man who had already become dangerous. ”You said tasteful.”

”I also said forget it.”

”You said that after giving criteria.”

Dean stared. ”You are cataloguing my weakness in real time.”

”Yes.”

”That was not something to admit.”

”I am your husband.”

Dean took another bite of pastry because there were moments in life when butter was the only thing standing between a man and surrender. The pastry was warm, flaking apart beneath his fingers, sweet with plum and spice, and for a dangerous second, he forgot that Arion was using royal focus against him.

When he remembered, Arion was looking at his phone.

Dean froze.

”Arion.”

”Yes?”

”What are you doing?”

”Searching.”

Dean slowly lowered the pastry. ”Searching what?”

Arion’s thumb moved across the screen.

Dean felt a cold sense of doom settle over him, which was unfair because he was sitting in a warm café on what was supposed to be a normal date with his husband.

Normal by their terrible standards.

”Jewelry houses in Ylico,” Arion said.

Dean closed his eyes.

”No.”

”You have said that before.”

”And somehow you keep surviving it.”

”There are three highly rated private jewelers within twenty minutes.”

”Highly rated by whom? Other deranged royals?”

”One has worked with ceremonial pieces for the district house.”

”That sounds expensive.”

”Yes.”

”That was not a complaint.”

”I know.”

Dean opened his eyes. ”Do not mistake me enjoying pastry for emotional vulnerability.”

”I would never.”

”You absolutely would.”

Arion’s gaze flicked up from the phone, warm and shameless. ”Yes.”

Dean pointed a half-eaten pastry at him. ”This is why people fear monarchy.”

”I thought it was the military authority.”

”It is the confidence and unlimited money.”

Arion looked back at the screen. ”There is one nearby that specializes in custom metalwork.”

Dean stared at him.

The café suddenly seemed much smaller.

Outside, the convoy waited in the rain, guards posted beneath dark umbrellas while receiving pastries from the elderly woman’s assistant. A few passersby had slowed on the sidewalk, phones carefully lowered because the security team had made the boundaries of curiosity very clear. Ylico moved around them in gray and gold, unaware that Dean’s harmless comment had just awakened an imperial procurement event.

Dean leaned over the table and tried to see Arion’s phone.

Arion tilted it away.

Dean’s brows lifted. ”Oh?”

Arion looked at him.

Dean looked back.

The elderly woman behind the counter wisely turned around and began rearranging cups with the exaggerated attention of someone who had decided not to witness royal marital conflict.

”Fine, make it a surprise,” Dean said, already rising to leave. ”But if it’s metal like the first one, I’m going to throw it at your head.”

Arion stood as well, calm enough to be suspicious. ”The first one was ceremonial.”

”The first one was a weapon disguised as jewelry.”

”It suited you.”

”It also had the flexibility of a crown law.”

Arion’s mouth curved faintly. ”You wore it well.”

Dean stopped beside the table and looked at him with deep distrust. ”You are trying to romanticize structural discomfort.”

”I am remembering.”

”That is worse.”

The elderly woman made a soft sound behind the counter that might have been a cough and might have been the beginning of a laugh. Dean decided not to expose her. She had fed him well. She deserved mercy.

Arion paid before Dean could protest, which was also suspicious because Arion always paid before Dean could protest. It was becoming one of his habits as a husband, along with touching Dean’s lower back, using the word ”husband” like a diplomatic override code, and turning casual comments into logistical operations.

Dean should have been more careful with his wording.

Outside, the rain had thinned into a cold mist, silvering the dark pavement and turning Ylico’s old stone buildings into something softer than they should have been. The convoy waited with horrifying patience. Guards stood near the curb, each one holding a pastry bag with the solemn discipline of men entrusted with state secrets.

Dean looked at them.

Then at Arion.

”You bought the entire security team pastries.”

”You noticed.”

”They are armed and eating sugar under military formation.”

”They are still on duty.”

”They look happier than before.”

”That is good for morale.”

Dean stared at him. ”You are impossible.”

”You were the one who noticed the guard wanted pastry.”

”I did not ask you to turn it into an imperial welfare policy.”

Arion offered his hand. ”You implied it.”

”I looked.”

”Yes.”

Dean accepted his hand because the street was wet and because refusing would not save him from anything anymore.

They returned to the car under the careful attention of the security detail. The driver kept his gaze forward with the heroic self-control of a man who had survived pastry emergencies and was probably ready for retirement. Dean settled into the seat beside Arion this time, not on his lap, because he still had some dignity and also a box of pastries to protect.

Arion did not comment.

That was how Dean knew something was wrong.

The convoy started moving.

Dean opened the pastry box and took one of the crescent-shaped pieces, biting into it while watching Ylico slide past the window in gray, gold, and rain-dark green. It was, unfortunately, very good. Buttery, soft in the center, crisp at the edges, with a faint orange flavor that made him reconsider several opinions about the district.

Arion was looking at his phone again.

Dean chewed slowly.

Arion’s thumb moved once across the screen.

Dean swallowed.

”No.”

Arion did not look up. ”You do not know what I am doing.”

”I know exactly what you are doing.”

”I am checking the route.”

”To the residence?”

”Yes.”

Dean watched his face.

Arion’s expression was peaceful.

Peaceful in the sense that he had already done something and was waiting for Dean to discover it naturally so he could claim innocence by omission.

Dean looked out the window.

The convoy turned left.

Dean had not memorized the route to the residence, but he had spent enough time around security movements to know when a convoy changed direction for tactical reasons.

This did not feel tactical.

This felt married.

Dean slowly lowered the pastry.

”Arion.”

”Yes?”

”Why did we turn?”

”The driver is following the approved route.”

”To the residence?”

”Yes.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. ”Eventually?”

Arion finally looked up from his phone. ”To the jewelry atelier I blackmailed into seeing us now.”

Dean stared at him.

The pastry remained halfway between his hand and the box, forgotten in the face of a greater crisis.

”You cannot say ’blackmailed’ in the middle of an armored convoy like you’re telling me we took a scenic route.”

”It was not illegal blackmail.”

”That is not the comforting distinction you think it is.”

”It was more of a persuasive request.”

”With your name attached?”

”Yes.”

”And the imperial seal?”

Arion paused.

Dean’s eyes narrowed further. ”Arion.”

”It made the request clearer.”

”It made the request state violence with better stationery.”

Arion looked almost offended. ”I was polite.”

”You diverted a royal convoy to a jewelry atelier because I said the words ’new collar’ in a café.”

”You also said surprise.”

Dean wanted to leave for another country, but he knew he would miss the same man a breath later. ”Arion... surprise implies you choose it without,” he said, making a broad gesture with his body, ”me.”

”No.”

Dean stopped.

Arion was still holding his phone, the soft light of the screen catching against the dark gold of his eyes. He did not look amused now. Not smug, not triumphant, not even particularly pleased with himself for derailing a honeymoon route with what he insisted was not illegal blackmail.

He looked calm and very serious.

Dean’s fingers tightened around the pastry box. ”No?”

”No,” Arion repeated. ”I can choose the jeweler. I can choose the appointment. I can blackmail an atelier into opening a private room because you said the word ”surprise,” and I had a lapse in restraint.”

Dean stared at him. ”A lapse?”

Arion’s mouth curved faintly, but it disappeared almost at once. ”I will not choose something meant to sit against your skin without you from now on.”

Dean went quiet.

The car hummed beneath them, smooth and warm, insulated from the cold mist outside. Beyond the window, Ylico slid past in damp stone, gold trees, narrow shopfronts, and discreet wealth tucked behind old façades. The kind of district where everything looked quiet because the expensive things did not need to shout.

Dean looked away first.

That was unfair.

It was incredibly unfair to be confronted with affection disguised as respect in the middle of a kidnapping by jewelry.

”You are making it difficult to stay angry,” he said.

”I know.”

Dean’s eyes cut back to him. ”That was not an invitation to be smug.”

”I was being honest.”

”Worse.”

Arion placed his phone down, then reached across the seat and brushed his thumb over the corner of Dean’s mouth.

Dean froze.

”There was sugar,” Arion said.

Dean narrowed his eyes. ”Was there?”

”Yes.”

”I don’t believe you.”