Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Arion was sitting very comfortably and content on the sofa, one leg crossed over his other knee, his polished shoe moving faintly while one hand flipped through the sketches balanced on his thigh and the other kept Dean very close.

Dean had been sitting beside him five minutes ago. Then Arion had adjusted the sketch folder. Then Dean had leaned closer to read the material notes. Then Arion’s arm had settled around his waist with the silent confidence of a man who considered proximity a marital right.

Now Dean was nearly tucked against his side in the private consultation room of a jewelry maison that smelled like polished wood, expensive leather, rain, and impending financial crime.

”You have obscene tastes,” Dean said with a huff, his purple eyes following the small legends listing impossibly rare materials beside each design.

”You are the Crown Prince Consort,” Arion said without raising his eyes from the sketches. ”Only the best for you.”

Dean slowly turned his head.

”I am not an aircraft engine.”

Arion’s mouth curved. ”No.”

”Then why am I reading about aerospace-grade flexible alloy?”

”For the clasp.”

”The clasp,” Dean repeated flatly.

”It must be light.”

”It must not require military certification.”

”It does not require military certification.”

Dean looked back at the page. ”It says tested under high-pressure conditions.”

”That is quality assurance.”

”That is what engineers say right before they overdesign something because they have funding.”

Arion finally looked at him.

Dean stared back.

The jeweler, seated opposite them with a tablet in her hands and the expression of a woman who had witnessed enough wealth to remain alive through anything, very carefully did not comment.

Dean pointed at the sketch. ”This one has black river silk from northern Draxil, silver-thread weaving from Saha, and a clasp made from some ridiculous Alaminian alloy that sounds like it belongs inside a jet.”

”It is not ridiculous.”

”It is named after a mountain.”

”That mountain has excellent mineral deposits.”

Dean looked at the jeweler. ”Is he always like this with custom commissions?”

The woman’s gaze moved to Arion, then back to Dean. ”His Highness is very precise.”

”That is a diplomatic answer.”

”It is a safe answer.”

Dean nodded. ”I respect that.”

Arion’s arm tightened faintly around his waist.

Dean looked down at the hand holding him for a moment and raised his eyes to his gorgeous husband.

”You are enjoying this.”

”Yes.”

”At least pretend to have shame.”

Arion smiled. ”No.”

Dean sighed and reached for the next sketch.

That was a mistake.

The second design was worse.

Not worse because it was ugly. No, this one was beautiful in a dangerous way, the kind of beauty that understood restraint while still making you feel threatened.

A soft black band, matte and close to the throat, with a narrow line of silver set low enough to catch light only when Dean moved. The front clasp was not centered like a pendant but hidden slightly to the side, shaped in a clean angular curve that echoed Arion’s house insignia without turning Dean into a walking banner.

Very modern. Very subtle. Very Arion. Very much a problem.

Dean stared too long.

Arion noticed because apparently his entire life now had become noticing Dean’s weaknesses and turning them into procurement.

”No,” Dean said.

”I did not say anything.”

”You thought loudly.”

”I liked your silence.”

”My silence was horrified.”

”It was interested.”

Dean closed the folder halfway, then opened it again despite himself.

Arion’s expression became unbearably pleased.

Dean hated him.

No, he did not.

That was the continuing tragedy of his life.

The jeweler leaned forward slightly. ”That design would be the most comfortable for long wear. The interior layer is softened black silk backed with a flexible support mesh, so it keeps its shape without pressing against the throat. The silver can be replaced with brushed platinum, blackened silver, or a pale alloy if Your Highness prefers less contrast.”

Dean tried very hard not to look intrigued.

He failed.

”Less contrast would make it boring,” he said before he could stop himself.

Arion went very still.

Dean closed his eyes.

The jeweler made a note.

Betrayal. Everywhere.

Arion’s thumb brushed once against Dean’s waist. ”Noted.”

Dean hummed and let his head fall on Arion’s shoulder, his eyes following the rest of the sketches in Arion’s hand.

Arion adjusted the folder slightly so Dean could see better.

Dean narrowed his eyes. ”Do not make this comfortable for me.”

”I am holding the sketches.”

”You are holding the sketches at a manipulative angle.”

The jeweler, still seated across from them with her tablet, lowered her eyes with the disciplined expression of someone who had chosen survival over laughter.

Arion turned another page.

”This one,” he said.

Dean’s eyes sharpened. ”You are choosing now?”

”Yes. Look at this one.”

Dean sighed with the theatrical exhaustion of a man being persecuted by wealth, love, and excellent taste, then looked down.

Unfortunately, Arion had chosen well.

The design was not the most dramatic one. That alone was suspicious. It was black, soft, modern, with a narrow silver edge and a side clasp shaped in a clean, almost broken curve that echoed Arion’s house insignia without turning Dean’s neck into a political announcement. It looked intimate instead of ceremonial. Possessive, yes, but quietly so.

Arion’s kind of quiet, which meant dangerous.

Dean stared at it too long.

Arion noticed.

”I hate that you chose the one I would have chosen.”

Arion’s thumb brushed against his waist. ”Then I chose well.”

”You chose suspiciously.”

”I watched you look at it four times.”

Dean lifted his head from Arion’s shoulder at once. ”I did not.”

”You did.”

”I was assessing risk.”

”For several seconds each time?”

Dean turned to the jeweler. ”Did I?”

The jeweler paused. That was enough.

Dean pointed at her. ”Betrayal.”

”With respect, Your Highness, I said nothing.”

”Exactly. Loudly.”

Arion’s amusement warmed through the bond.

Dean leaned back against him again because apparently self-respect had left the atelier and was waiting in the car with the pastry boxes.

”Fine,” Dean muttered. ”That one is not offensive.”

The jeweler made another note.

Arion’s hand stilled against his waist for half a second.

Dean felt it.

He looked away before Arion could see his face soften, because there were limits to how much emotional damage one jewelry consultation should cause.

His gaze landed on the stack of sketches again. ”Do you have a catalogue?”

The jeweler’s eyes lifted.

Arion raised one brow.

Dean saw it and immediately bristled. ”What?”

”You asked for a catalogue.”

”Yes.”

”You were threatening to throw jewelry at my head half an hour ago.”

”I still am. I want to know what weapons are available.”

Arion’s brow remained raised.

The jeweler stood. ”We have a private commission archive. Some designs cannot be reproduced, but they can be used for inspiration.”

Dean nodded. ”Bring it.”

Arion looked pleased enough that Dean immediately regretted everything.

The catalogue arrived in the form of a leather-bound book and a sleek tablet, because, of course, this place had decided paper and technology should both feel expensive. Dean took the book first. Tablets could show prices too efficiently, and he did not want to know which small country Arion was about to spend on his neck.

He opened it.

The first few pages were formal pieces: cufflinks, brooches, rings, ceremonial pins, private omega jewelry, things that looked less like accessories and more like beautifully documented evidence of generational arrogance.

Dean flipped past several pages in silence.

Then stopped.

There, on a page of men’s formal accessories, was a tie pin.

Small. Blackened silver, with a thin pale line cutting through it at a sharp angle.

It matched the collar sketch.

Dean looked at it for one second too long.

Arion’s hand at his waist went still.

Dean smiled slowly.

”This,” Dean said.

The jeweler leaned forward. ”The tie pin, Your Highness?”

”Yes.”

Arion turned his head toward him.

Dean did not look at him yet. ”For Arion.”