Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Arion entered the main building of the Crown Prince of Saha district.

Yes, district.

Because Saha was that excessive, and Arion was beginning to believe Chris could not manage all the menaces he had given birth to and Dax at the same time. So, naturally, the solution had been to give Nero his own administrative district, surround him with guards, staff, tutors, military advisers, one long-suffering Hale, and the lingering threat of Sahir, the retired Prime Minister who still appeared in state buildings whenever people became too comfortable.

The palace followed the usual Sahan tradition: high arches, intelligent structural lines, courtyards designed around wind and shade, and enough mathematical elegance to prove Chris was still a civil engineer at heart no matter how elegant his royal robes and collars were. Then came the rest of Saha: carved screens, jewel-toned tiles, polished stone, layered gold, deep sapphire, wine-red silk, and a richness of color that made anyone unfamiliar with Sahan wealth feel insignificant on principle.

Arion was used to it.

Mostly.

Dax was his uncle.

Ish.

Not really, if you were interested in bloodlines, family trees, and the type of genealogical precision that nobles used to weaponize dinner conversation. Dax was Otto’s second cousin, but they liked each other enough that the relationship had long ago become more than that. Dax had once informed a room full of ministers that if Otto was not his cousin, he would adopt him retroactively out of spite.

No one had questioned it.

The official meeting was scheduled for the next day. Nero, now twenty, would receive expanded administrative and military authority, not enough to crown him yet, but enough to make the old families start sweating through their polite smiles. The true ceremony would be next year, when he turned twenty-one and will be formally crowned Crown Prince of Saha before the royal household, parliament, military command, and every camera Dax pretended not to enjoy.

Then Nero would receive his traditional mantle.

That was important in Saha.

A mantle was recognition, oath, burden, and warning stitched into cloth.

Tonight, however, was private.

Or as private as Saha allowed anything to be.

Dinner had been arranged in a smaller hall inside Nero’s district, though ”smaller” still meant a room large enough to host a border negotiation. The ceiling curved overhead in painted arches, lamps glowed through pierced metal screens, and the long table was set for two with a quiet luxury that made casualness appear staged.

There were guards outside.

Hale was nearby.

Servants moved in complete silence.

And Nero stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled to his forearms, pale hair tied loosely back, violet eyes sparkling with the amusement he only allowed around family.

The public received Prince Nero Ezekiel of Saha: composed, beautiful, terrifyingly controlled, and already carrying the weight of a man trained to command. Ministers got the strong heir, the one with clean diction, cold patience, and a gaze that made evasions die on the tongue. Soldiers got the fighter who had walked into infected zones before most heirs were trusted with live ammunition.

Family got the menace.

Arion was family.

Unfortunately.

”Cousin,” Nero said warmly, as if the word itself were a trap he had polished for the occasion. ”You look like someone Dean warned not to indulge me.”

Arion took his seat. ”Dean warns me about many things.”

”Wise of him.”

”He specifically mentioned you.”

”Rude of him.”

Arion looked at the elaborate table setting, then at Nero. ”He also said if you misbehave at his birthday, he will ask Chris to handle you.”

Nero’s smile faltered for half a second.

Then returned, brighter and entirely fake. ”Dean has become cruel since marriage.”

”He has become efficient.”

”That is worse.”

The first course arrived before Nero could elaborate on the moral decline of married men. Sahan food came in layers: spiced fish, flatbread still warm from the oven, roasted vegetables glazed with citrus and honey, and small bowls of sauces deep enough in color to be political statements. The servants poured wine, bowed, and withdrew.

Only when the doors closed did the room settle into truth.

Saha was five hours behind Palatine. In Dean’s palace, the evening would already be tipping toward night. Dean was probably still awake because Dean did not understand rest unless physically threatened with it. He would be reviewing birthday preparations, arguing with his staff, answering Sylvia’s messages, and expecting Arion to survive one simple dinner without doing anything unforgivable.

Arion looked at Nero across the table and knew, with absolute certainty, that Dean would hate what he was about to do.

Dean would say Sebastian had asked them to keep Nero out of it.

Dean would say this was not Arion’s secret to give.

Dean would be right.

Arion intended never to tell him.

Ever.

Nero, who noticed silence the way predators noticed blood, lowered his glass. ”That expression is not about my behavior at Dean’s birthday.”

Arion rested one hand beside his plate. ”Before I say anything, I need your word.”

Nero’s amusement vanished.

There were many things Nero made a game of, because Dax had raised him and Chris had failed to stop either of them from being dramatic. But oaths were not games in Saha. Dax could manipulate, charm, misdirect, and turn a room upside down with a smile, but when he gave his word, even his enemies trusted the shape of it.

Nero had inherited that.

He leaned back, but his face had sharpened into the prince now, not the family menace. ”On what terms?”

”This conversation remains between us unless I release you from it. You do not repeat it to Dax, Chris, Hale, Sahir, your staff, your guards, or anyone else.”

Nero’s gaze held his. ”Dean?”

”Especially Dean.”

Something flickered in Nero’s eyes.

Understanding came first, then interest and caution, because he was raised by two mates. He knew that Arion was risking his relationship with Dean for this.

”You are asking me to keep a secret from your mate,” Nero said, voice quieter now. ”That is either very brave or very stupid.”

”It is both.”

Nero huffed. ”Is about Sebastian, isn’t it?”