Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

The convoy had been waiting with inhuman patience. The guards straightened as Arion and Dean emerged from the building, and not one of them looked at the fact that Dean was carrying the pastry box again. Professionals. Survivors. Probably still sugared.

Dean slid into the car and immediately leaned back against the seat with a long, exhausted sigh.

Arion entered beside him.

Dean looked at him. ”Do not put me on your lap.”

Arion paused.

Dean closed his eyes.

The car began moving. Ylico passed beyond the tinted windows in darkening autumn colors with wet stone, amber streetlights, gold leaves pressed to the pavement, and cafés glowing like small promises beneath apartment balconies. The convoy turned away from the old luxury street and climbed toward the quieter hills where the imperial family’s small palace waited.

Small, of course, was a royal lie.

Dean knew that before they arrived.

Still, when the gates opened, he forgot to insult it for half a second.

The residence sat against the hillside in pale stone and dark glass, not sprawling like the main palace but elegant enough to make the word ’small’ feel criminal. Warm light glowed through tall windows. The roof was dark slate. Autumn trees surrounded the estate in deep red and gold, their wet leaves shining under the security lights. The whole place looked quiet, private, and expensive enough to have its own weather.

Dean stared.

Then sighed.

”No.”

Arion looked at him. ”No, what?”

”No welcome speech. No symbolic object. No staff presentation. No light schedule. No optional campus. No dinner with anyone. No tour.”

”There is no tour.”

Dean turned sharply. ”You hesitated.”

”There is a short orientation.”

”I want a bed.”

Arion’s eyes warmed.

Dean pointed at him. ”A bed for sleeping.”

”Of course.”

”That, of course, had intent.”

”Mhmm.”

The car stopped near the entrance.

Staff waited outside, but not many. Just enough to make the house function. Just enough to bow without making Dean feel like he had walked into another reception line. Someone opened the car door, and cold evening air brushed over him, smelling of rain, woodsmoke, and wet leaves.

Dean stepped out with the solemn dignity of a man who had been socially, emotionally, and financially ambushed across an entire district.

Arion came to his side.

The steward of the residence bowed. ”Your Highnesses, welcome to Ylico House.”

Dean lifted one hand. ”No speeches.”

The steward paused.

Then, with an admirable survival instinct, said, ”Of course, Your Highness.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. ”Everyone is using those words too much today.”

Arion’s mouth curved.

The steward wisely did not ask.

Inside, the residence was warm. Old wood floors, pale stone walls, modern lighting softened behind frosted glass, and the faint smell of coffee somewhere deeper in the house. A fire had been lit in a sitting room visible through an open doorway. There were flowers, but not too many. No portraits staring accusingly from every wall. No unnecessary gold.

Minerva had chosen well.

Dean was too tired to admit it aloud.

A housekeeper stepped forward. ”Would Your Highnesses like dinner served in the private dining room or the suite?”

Dean answered before Arion could speak.

”Suite.”

Arion looked at him.

Dean looked back. ”Bed-adjacent food.”

The housekeeper nodded as if this were a category they served often. ”Of course.”

Dean inhaled slowly.

Then turned to Arion. ”If one more person says ’of course,’ I am sleeping in the car.”

Arion placed a hand at his lower back and guided him toward the stairs. ”No, you’re not.”

”I might.”

”You want the bed.”

”I want several things. The bed is winning.”

Arion leaned closer. ”For now.”

Dean’s face warmed.

By the time they reached the suite, Dean had shed half his irritation and most of his strength. The room was large, warm, and thankfully private, with tall windows overlooking dark autumn trees, a fireplace already burning low, and a bed that looked like it had been designed by someone who understood human collapse.

Dean stopped at the threshold.

Then walked straight to it.

Arion closed the door behind them.

Dean dropped the pastry box on the nearest table, removed his coat with far less elegance than a Crown Prince Consort probably should possess, and sat on the edge of the bed.

Then he fell backward.

Arion looked down at him, amused and warm.

Dean lifted one hand without opening his eyes. ”No.”

Arion laughed, the low and warm sound doing things to Dean’s body and mind that Dean did not currently have the strength, dignity, or legal counsel to address.

He exhaled and let his pheromones loosen.

Bright, minty lemonade filled the room.

Arion inhaled, visibly pleased, then removed his coat and shoes, followed by the second layer beneath, leaving the formal pieces neatly folded, giving Dean the impression that he had been born knowing how to undress without creating laundry. His scent of dark, warm vetiver slipped free next, deeper and steadier than Dean’s mint, both scents mingling in the air of the room.

Arion sat beside him on the edge of the bed.

Dean felt the mattress dip with Arion’s weight, and without thinking, he rolled until his head was in Arion’s lap.

For one full second, neither of them moved.

Dean realized what he had done only after it was too late to pretend it had been a tactical decision.

His cheek was against Arion’s thigh. His hair had spilled messily across the fine dark fabric of Arion’s trousers. His own scent, bright mint and lemonade, rose lazily from his skin, and Arion’s vetiver wrapped around it with the kind of satisfaction that made the bond hum under Dean’s ribs.

Dean closed his eyes.

”No commentary.”

Arion’s hand settled in his hair almost immediately. ”I said nothing.

”You were about to.”

”I was thinking.”

Dean didn’t believe him.

Arion’s fingers moved once, slow and careful, combing through the blond strands with far too much tenderness for a man who had spent the afternoon terrorizing a jewelry maison into producing five collars and five tie pins before the week was over.

The bed was soft. Arion was warm. The room smelled like rain outside the windows, low fire from the hearth, pastry from the box on the table, and the mingled pheromones of two dominants who had finally been left alone after a day that had involved too many people, too many titles, and not enough lying down.

Arion bent down and kissed Dean’s forehead. ”I love you.”

Dean opened his eyes, purple meeting deep gold. ”I love you too.”