Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

The next morning began far too late for two people who had an itinerary.

Dean blamed Arion.

Arion accepted the blame with the calm satisfaction of a man who considered it less an accusation and more a compliment.

By the time Dean managed to get out of bed, the sky beyond Ylico House’s tall windows had already turned a bright, rain-washed blue, making the previous day’s mist feel like something from another life. Autumn sunlight spilled over the hills, caught in the wet gold of the trees, and made the glass walls of the lower wing shine like the palace had been built to collect light.

Dean stood near the window in one of the robes provided by the house, hair still damp from the bath, one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee that had been delivered without anyone risking conversation.

Excellent staff.

Truly, Minerva had selected survivors.

Behind him, Arion was still in bed.

Not asleep.

Just lying there with his arm folded behind his head, dark hair slightly tangled, golden eyes following Dean with the kind of pleased attention that made Dean realize they had, in fact, married.

Dean glanced back at him. ”Do not look smug before breakfast.”

”I am not smug.”

”You are lying horizontally and with great confidence.”

”That... is different.” Arion smiled between the words.

”You are a menace.”

”You married me.”

Dean lifted his coffee. ”I was young.”

”It was three days ago.”

”I have aged.”

Arion’s mouth curved.

Dean looked away before that smile convinced him to return to bed and ruin whatever remained of their schedule.

They had already ruined enough.

Twice.

Because apparently being young, newly married, bonded, and alone in a private wing of the imperial family’s small palace had consequences.

Dean was not ashamed.

He was simply tired.

There was a difference.

By late morning, after breakfast had been moved from the dining room to the terrace because Dean refused to sit anywhere that looked like a prelude to official duties, they finally left the residence like tourists.

Or as close to tourists as two royal newlyweds could become with an armored convoy, a discreet security escort, and enough hidden cameras around them to make the district’s public safety office weep from either gratitude or stress.

Dean had argued about the convoy for exactly four minutes.

Then he had seen the open-air market spread along the old stone street below the hill, all striped awnings, baskets of late apples, roasted chestnuts, local cheeses, dried flowers, and vendors who looked deeply unprepared for the Crown Prince of Alamina to appear between stalls holding his husband’s hand.

Dean stopped complaining.

Markets were better than protocols.

And no one had mentioned jewelry.

That alone made the day suspiciously good.

Arion bought him roasted chestnuts first.

Then a paper cone of sugared walnuts.

Then hot cider.

Dean accepted all three while maintaining that Arion was abusing financial power.

”You paid with a card,” Dean said as they walked slowly past a stall selling carved wooden toys. ”That old man nearly fainted when he saw the name.”

”He recovered.”

”He gave us three extra bags.”

”I tipped him.”

”That is exactly the problem.”

Arion looked at him. ”You enjoyed the walnuts.”

Dean ate another one. ”Irrelevant.”

”You are holding them possessively.”

”They are mine now.”

”Yes.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. ”Do not sound pleased.”

”I like feeding you.”

”That is not something to admit in public.”

”I am your husband.”

Dean muttered something very impolite under his breath and kept walking.

The market spilled into the older quarter, where narrow streets curved between pale stone houses and small shops with dark-painted doors. Ylico did not feel like the capital. It did not press. It did not perform grandeur with every streetlamp and fountain. It was wealthy, clearly, but old wealth folded into practical life—rail lines in the distance, research campuses behind glass hills, corporate offices hidden behind renovated facades, and bakeries tucked into buildings that looked older than several governments.

Dean liked it.

That annoyed him.

Arion knew.

That annoyed him more.

”You are smiling,” Arion said.

”I am reacting politely to architecture.”

”With your mouth?”

”Do not analyze my face.”

”I enjoy your face.”

Dean stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

A woman walking past with a bouquet of chrysanthemums nearly tripped, realized who they were, and hurried away with the expression of someone who had just survived overhearing intimacy from a national institution.

Dean closed his eyes. ”You cannot say things like that in public.”

Arion leaned closer. ”You told me to stop being beautiful last night.”

”That was private.”

”It still happened.”

Dean opened his eyes. ”You are a terrible husband.”

Arion’s thumb brushed over Dean’s wedding ring. ”No, I’m not.”

Dean looked at their joined hands.

Then at the wet gold leaves scattered across the pavement.

Then at the bakery window ahead, where something with cinnamon and cream was being arranged on trays.

”No,” he admitted, already walking toward the bakery. ”You’re not.”

The day unfolded strangely after that.

Not with political tension, hidden threats, security alerts, or a message from Nero accompanied by photographic evidence of someone else’s terrible life choices.

Just strangely because it was calm.

They visited the old aqueduct gardens in the afternoon, where water ran through narrow stone channels built centuries ago and later reinforced with modern glass rails so tourists could pretend they were admiring history while actually taking photos. Dean listened to Arion explain which parts had been restored after a flood thirty years earlier and which parts had been funded by the imperial family before Arion was born.

Dean watched him talk more than he watched the aqueduct.

That was unfortunate.

Arion noticed.

Of course he did.

”What?” Arion asked.

Dean looked back at the water. ”Nothing.”

”You were looking at me.”

”I was checking if you had become boring.”

”And?”

”Not yet.”

Arion’s mouth curved.

Dean walked ahead before he could say something worse.

They ate lunch at a small restaurant near the gardens, not private enough to be strange, but not public enough to cause a scene. The owner looked like she might have died when Arion stepped inside, then recovered when Dean asked what was best and accepted the answer without requesting a royal-safe alternative.

There was soup. Dark bread. Butter. Roasted fish. Potatoes with herbs. A cake made with apples and cream that Dean took one bite of and then silently moved closer to himself.

Arion watched him.

Dean lifted his fork. ”No.”

”I said nothing.”

”You were thinking of buying the recipe.”

”I was thinking of asking for it.”

”That is worse because it sounds charming.”

”It is charming.”

”No.”

Arion smiled and ordered another slice.

Dean did not refuse it.

In the evening, they walked through the lantern street, where shops stayed open late and narrow lights hung between buildings like stars caught too low. Security followed at a careful distance. People recognized them, of course. They whispered. They bowed sometimes. A few took pictures before being gently discouraged by men who looked polite enough to ruin lives.

But no one approached.

No one asked for speeches.

No one offered schedules.

Dean felt oddly light.

He did not know what to do with it.

The second day was the same.

Worse, even.

They woke late again.

Dean blamed Arion again.

Arion again accepted the accusation with unbearable satisfaction.

They stayed in bed too long, ate breakfast too slowly, then spent the afternoon at the hillside observatory where the whole district could be seen below them. Ylico spread across the valley in layers: old quarter, commercial grid, train lines, glass towers, airport roads, research campuses, tree belts, and river. It was not small at all. It was only quieter than the capital, which was a trick.

Dean leaned against the railing, scarf pulled up against the cold wind, and looked out.

Arion stood beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched.

”This is where your mother and my father sent us?” Dean asked.

”Yes.”

”So they chose a district that looks like a calm tourist area but is actually an industrial and research hub.”

”Yes.”

Dean sighed. ”Of course they did.”

”They know us.”

”They trapped us.”

”They gave us options.”

Dean glanced at him. ”We spent yesterday buying jewelry.”

”You asked for the catalogue.”

Dean pointed at the valley. ”Do not bring up my crimes at scenic viewpoints.”

”You chose them for me.”

Dean looked back over the valley quickly. ”The view is impressive.”

”Dean.”

”No.”

Arion did not push.

That was what made it worse.

He only stood beside him, warm and quiet in the wind, his scent of vetiver faint beneath the clean mountain air. Dean’s own mint-bright pheromones were tucked close, relaxed in a way they rarely were in public.

Oddly peaceful.

That was the phrase that kept returning to him.

Oddly, because their lives were not built for peace.

They were built for ceremony and security briefings, for titles and expectations, for old bloodlines and new threats, for parents who loved them with the terrifying competence of people who could move governments.

Yet here they were.

Two young newlyweds standing on a hillside in Ylico, with sex-warm mornings behind them, sugared pastries in the car, no speeches ahead, and a whole afternoon wasted on looking at things without needing to own, fix, or survive them.

Dean exhaled slowly.

Arion looked at him.

Dean felt it without turning. ”Do not ask.”