Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Dean immediately leaned into his side and, unfortunately for Arion, opened his mouth too.

”Let’s go there.”

Arion did not respond immediately.

Dean expected the refusal. He could already imagine the argument: neutral territory, uncertain intelligence, venomous snakes, an unknown dominant alpha who might have spent eight years being medically mutilated and isolated.

Instead, Arion lowered the tablet onto his thigh and looked toward the windows.

Snow drifted steadily beyond the glass, catching against the stone balustrades and gathering in white ridges beneath the winter-dark gardens. The suite had grown quiet around them. Only the low crackle of the fire and Boreas’s occasional heavy breathing disturbed it.

”We could.”

Dean lifted his head.

For several seconds, he simply stared at his husband.

Arion remained serious.

”You mean that?”

”Yes.”

Dean sat straighter, the blanket slipping from one shoulder. ”You would actually go?”

”If Amaru is alive, I do not intend to base a decision of this magnitude entirely on reports written by people we do not know.”

Arion looked down at the intelligence report again.

”A physician can tell us whether Amaru is physically stable. An investigator can tell us whether he is being guarded. Neither can tell us whether he can rule.”

Dean’s expression settled into something more thoughtful.

”Or whether someone on the island wants us to believe he can.”

”Exactly.”

The medical trail was compelling, perhaps too compelling. Regular medication, one isolated residence, and a physician connected to Ashar’s clinics and records that could be traced despite the island’s strict privacy laws.

Someone might simply have made mistakes eight years ago.

Or someone might now be allowing Alamina to find them.

Arion had no intention of discovering which after Amaru had already been dragged into the middle of Draxil’s succession crisis.

Dean shifted closer, pulling one leg underneath himself. His pale hair had fallen loose over his forehead after the formal evening downstairs, and the oversized dark shirt he had stolen from Arion made him look considerably less dangerous than the thoughts forming behind his eyes.

”We see him ourselves,” Dean said.

”If we can locate him without forcing the island authorities to react.”

”And if he is actually there.”

Arion nodded.

They would have to judge more than whether Amaru could hold a coherent conversation.

Eight years of exile could produce a man who appeared calm because he had surrendered every expectation of leaving. It could produce paranoia so deeply embedded that every offer looked like another trap. His physical condition might be manageable while his judgment had deteriorated beyond anything that could survive court politics.

Or he might be perfectly sane.

That possibility carried its own complications.

A competent dominant alpha who had spent eight years imprisoned because his family feared him was unlikely to return meekly and accept Alamina’s conditions without question.

Dean reached for the tablet and opened the island map again.

”We have two weeks.”

Arion looked at him.

”Our holiday.”

That was true.

Every winter, the imperial schedule deliberately left them a little over two weeks with almost no formal obligations. They normally divided the time between Palatine and Saha, visiting Dean’s family first and then spending several days with Dax and Chris.

Changing the route would attract attention.

Changing it into a longer route might not.

Dean enlarged the archipelago surrounding Snake Island. Several inhabited islands sat within easy travel distance, most politically neutral and known for winter resorts, private estates, or thermal springs.

”A multi-island holiday,” Dean said. ”Palatine first, perhaps. Then we travel south instead of directly to Saha.”

Arion studied the map.

It was plausible precisely because it was unnecessary.

The imperial couple taking a private holiday through neutral islands during the winter recess would generate gossip, photographs, and mild diplomatic interest.

None of that would immediately point toward Draxil.

”We would need to make the trip visible,” Arion said.

Dean understood.

They would arrive through public ports, use their own names, accept the expected official greetings, and spend enough time at several locations that Snake Island appeared to be merely another stop.

”A few days on the larger islands,” Dean said. ”Restaurants, whatever people do at thermal resorts. Then Snake Island.”

”We cannot arrive there with a military escort.”

”Normal royal security.”

”Reduced.”

Dean nodded.

Arion’s gaze moved over the terrain map.

Snake Island would require more preparation than the others. Heavy winter boots, protective clothing thick enough to reduce the risk of a bite, and antivenom carried by every security team and local guide who understood where the snakes gathered during mating season.

They would also need a believable reason to venture away from the coastal settlement.

The island was not large, but the suspected residence sat deep enough in the western highlands that no tourist could accidentally wander there.

Dean rested his chin briefly against Arion’s shoulder.

”We could say we want to see the protected reserve.”

”During snake mating season.”

”It would make us look adventurous.”

”It would make us look stupid.”

Dean considered that.

”Royal tourism.”

Arion ignored the wording, though the plan itself was already assembling in his mind.

A formal request for a private ecological tour would give them legitimate access inland. Alaminian security could coordinate with island authorities without mentioning Amaru. Once near the western highlands, their own people could confirm the residence and determine whether contact was possible.

If someone tried too hard to keep them away from that specific area, that would tell them something as well.

Arion closed the tablet.

”We go.”

Dean looked at him again, still faintly surprised.

”Both of us?”

”Yes.”

Arion stood and crossed toward the desk near the windows. He had changed after dinner into dark trousers and a charcoal knit shirt, the sleeves pushed back slightly as he activated the secure panel. Even dressed for their private rooms, the shift into work was immediate: shoulders straighter, attention narrowing, every movement deliberate.

Dean followed more slowly, gathering the blanket around himself before abandoning it on the sofa.

Boreas raised his head as Dean stepped over him, then dropped it back onto the rug.

”We tell Otto tomorrow,” Arion said. ”The official itinerary remains a holiday. Only the inner security team knows why Snake Island matters.”

”And Eryx?”

”Not yet.”

Dean agreed immediately.

If Amaru was dead, there was no reason to reopen that wound.

If he was alive but incapable of ruling, Eryx needed facts rather than hope.

And if he was alive, sane and capable—

Dean looked toward the map glowing across the desk.

Then Draxil’s succession had just acquired a prince nobody had expected to return.