Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

By the time the car stopped in front of the old temple of Ylico, Dean had already changed his mind seventeen times.

Unfortunately, he had not informed anyone.

He was wearing the pale blue shirt Arion liked on him, because Arion had looked at him before they left the residence with that quiet, devastating softness in his dark gold eyes, and Dean had immediately lost three arguments he had not even started yet.

The temple stood at the edge of the old quarter, where the narrow stone streets opened toward the sea. Ylico was too beautiful in the morning, with white buildings spilling down the hill, blue awnings moving in the wind, and sunlight striking the temple’s pale columns until they looked less built than carved out of weather and time.

It did not look like the churches in Palatine.

That annoyed Dean.

He had prepared himself for dark stone, heavy bells, cold halls, and sanctimonious misery.

Instead, the temple had wide steps, open archways, gardens full of silver-leaf trees, and glass panels worked carefully into ancient stone so the building looked both old and modern, sacred and practical, like someone had renovated history without insulting it.

Dean hated that he could appreciate the architecture.

”Do not say it,” he muttered.

Arion, seated beside him, glanced down. ”Say what?”

”That it is pretty.”

”I was thinking that you are gripping my hand hard enough to threaten diplomatic circulation.”

Dean looked down.

He was, in fact, holding Arion’s hand with significant political force.

He loosened his fingers immediately.

Arion did not let go.

”I am fine,” Dean said.

”I know.”

”No, you do not. You are using your calm alpha voice.”

”It is my normal voice.”

”It is your ’Dean may climb out of the window’ voice.”

”There is no window.”

Dean looked toward the car door.

Arion’s mouth twitched. ”Do not make me regret saying that.”

Before Dean could answer, the door opened.

Hunter stood outside, expression neutral in a way that meant he had heard at least half the conversation and was choosing survival over honesty.

Beyond him, Alaminan guards had already secured the street. A few locals lingered behind the barriers, not frightened, only curious. Several had phones in their hands, though no one seemed foolish enough to raise one directly toward the crown prince and his new husband while surrounded by royal security.

Dean stepped out of the car.

The sea wind caught his hair at once.

Arion followed, tall and steady beside him, dressed in a dark suit. Nothing too formal for a honeymoon morning in Ylico, but enough that everyone who looked at him remembered exactly who he was.

The High Matron was already waiting at the top of the temple steps.

Dean stopped.

”She came outside,” he said under his breath.

Arion’s gaze followed his. ”Yes.”

”Is that normal?”

”No.”

Dean looked at him sharply.

Arion’s expression was calm, but there was something approving in it. ”She is showing respect.”

The High Matron did not look like the pictures of Benedict from the imperial library archives.

That was Dean’s first thought, and it settled some small, furious animal inside his chest before he could stop it.

She was short, barely reaching Arion’s shoulder even from the higher step, with silver hair braided low at her nape and a face marked by age, sun, and the kind of humor that survived politics by sharpening like knives. Her robes were simple, blue-gray and white, with no gold thread, no heavy jewels, and no theatrical holiness. Only a carved wooden pendant rested against her chest.

No ring.

Dean noticed that immediately.

She stood with two younger attendants behind her, both in modern temple dress rather than robes, one holding a tablet and the other a folder.

That, at least, was reassuring.

Evil cults rarely brought administrative tablets to greetings.

Probably.

The High Matron descended three steps before they reached her.

Dean felt Arion’s hand shift against his back, reassuring him with the promise of earlier. We can leave.

Dean breathed in slowly.

The High Matron stopped a respectful distance away.

Then she bowed lowe enough to acknowledge Arion’s and Dean’s rank

”Your Highness,” she said to Arion.

Then she turned fully to Dean.

”Your Grace.”

Dean blinked, surprised by her greeting.

The High Matron’s eyes warmed faintly, as if she had noticed the pause and approved of it.

”I am Matron Ilara,” she said. ”And before your guards begin counting exits, please allow me to say that the doors behind me remain open, the side garden path leads back to the street, and the nearest private room has two exits and no altar.”

Dean stared.

Arion was silent beside him.

Hunter coughed once behind them.

Dean slowly turned his head toward Arion. ”You told her.”

”I informed her that you preferred practical arrangements.”

”You told her I wanted to flee.”

”I said escape routes were appreciated.”

The High Matron’s mouth curved. ”A reasonable preference. I also dislike rooms where men in robes stand between me and the door.”

Dean looked back at her.

That was not what he had expected.

”You are wearing robes,” he said before he could stop himself.

”So I am,” she said. ”A lifelong professional compromise.”

Arion’s hand pressed once against Dean’s back.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

The High Matron looked entirely unoffended. Worse, she looked pleased.

”I know Palatine has little reason to trust anything that calls itself holy,” she said.

Dean went still.

”Benedict was not merely corrupt,” she continued. ”He was a desecration wearing authority. The temples of Alamina did not answer to him, but we did not speak loudly enough against him before Palatine bled. For that silence, I have no defense.”

Dean did not know what to do with that.

He had prepared for excuses.

He was excellent against excuses.

He had inherited that from both his fathers.

This was not an excuse.

It was worse.

It was accountability.

Very rude of her.

Arion’s hand remained at his back, steady and warm.

Dean swallowed. ”I am not here to forgive priests.”

”I did not ask you to.”

Dean looked at her.

The High Matron inclined her head. ”You are on your honeymoon. Frankly, Your Grace, if it were up to me, I would have left you both alone for at least a week. Unfortunately, councils enjoy timing their requests like curses.”

Dean heard Hunter make a faint sound behind him that might have been a suppressed laugh.

Arion’s mouth twitched.

Dean, against his will, felt the corner of his own mouth threaten him.

”I knew it,” he muttered. ”You can weaponize tea and morality.”

”Oh, very well,” the High Matron said. ”But only after lunch.”

Dean stared.

Then laughed once, short and startled.

The High Matron looked satisfied, the way old women did when they had successfully proven they were more dangerous than expected.

Arion leaned slightly closer to Dean. ”Still want rocks?”

Dean looked up at him. ”Do not become smug. We are still at the entrance.”

”Of course.”

”You are smug internally.”

”Always.”