Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Dean gasped when Arion’s mouth closed over the side of his neck, teeth sinking down just enough to leave another darkening mark.

”This is getting ridiculous.”

Arion did not appear concerned.

It had started perhaps five minutes earlier with Dean bent over the low table in their villa, one hand braced against the polished wood while he enlarged the latest map of Snake Island.

He had been concentrating.

That was his first mistake.

His second had been assuming the sound of the bathroom door opening was irrelevant.

Arion had emerged through a cloud of lingering steam with damp black hair pushed away from his forehead and a white towel wrapped low around his hips. Water still traced slowly down his chest and disappeared beneath the fabric.

Dean had looked once.

That had been enough.

Then he returned to the map because he possessed discipline.

Arion apparently did not.

Dean had felt him before he saw him, body heat settling behind him and one large hand resting lightly against his hip.

Then came the soft kiss over the mark at Dean’s nape.

Dean knew immediately that it was a trap.

He had remained bent over the table anyway.

That part was his own fault.

Now the map had gone dark from inactivity, Dean was standing with his back against Arion’s chest, and the collar of his thin sweater had been dragged sufficiently aside to expose a collection of marks that had only just begun fading.

”You said you had restraint,” Dean reminded him.

Arion pressed another kiss beneath his ear.

”I do.”

Dean looked at their reflection in the dark window.

The contrast between them remained almost absurd even after three years of marriage. Dean barely reached Arion’s shoulder, his pale blond hair falling untidily across his forehead after spending most of the evening running his hands through it. Arion stood behind him like something built specifically to make personal space impossible, broad enough that Dean disappeared against his chest whenever he pulled him close.

At least the rut had finally faded.

Dean could still smell the richer edge beneath Arion’s usual scent, but the oppressive density from Palatine was gone. What remained was familiar rather than overwhelming, curling around Dean without pressing against his instincts.

Arion’s hand moved from his hip to his stomach.

Dean caught his wrist.

”We have work.”

”We finished.”

”We have Snake Island tomorrow.”

”Which is tomorrow.”

”That argument has caused me considerable suffering recently.”

Arion’s mouth curved against his skin.

Dean turned within his arms.

Arion had not bothered dressing after the shower, and Dean’s gaze betrayed him before he could stop it.

Water still clung along the line of Arion’s collarbone. A thin scar disappeared beneath one side of his ribs, nearly invisible unless the light caught it correctly. Dean knew where most of those scars came from now. Three years had given him enough evenings to ask and enough mornings to trace them when Arion was too sleepy to complain about being examined.

Dean placed his palm against Arion’s chest.

”You are distracting me deliberately.”

”Yes.”

”At least you admit it.”

Arion lowered his head.

Dean expected another kiss on his neck.

Instead, Arion kissed him properly.

Slowly.

There was no urgency in it, which made it considerably more dangerous.

Dean’s fingers curled against warm skin. Arion’s hand settled at the back of his neck, thumb brushing just beneath his ear while he tilted Dean’s face into a better angle.

Dean had spent years learning how Arion fought.

He had also spent three years learning exactly how his husband kissed when he had no intention of letting Dean return to whatever he had been doing.

This was the second kind.

Dean broke away first.

”You have an unfair reach advantage.”

Arion looked at him.

”That made no sense.”

”It did to me.”

Dean attempted to step away.

Arion caught him around the waist.

Dean found himself lifted onto the edge of the table he had been using for intelligence reports moments earlier.

He looked down.

Snake Island disappeared beneath him.

”This table contains classified material.”

Arion reached behind Dean and moved the tablet aside.

”Problem solved.”

”That was not permission.”

Arion kissed the corner of his mouth.

Dean’s complaint became considerably less organized.

He slid both arms around Arion’s shoulders, letting himself be drawn closer. The towel against his knees was damp from the shower, and Arion’s hair dripped once against Dean’s cheek.

Dean wiped it away.

”You are getting me wet.”

”You survived.”

”Barely.”

Arion kissed him again.

Dean let the quiet settle around them.

The villa beyond the windows was almost entirely dark except for the lights along the terrace and the narrow flame behind the glass fireplace. Somewhere in the adjoining room, Boreas shifted heavily in his sleep, collar tags clicking once against the floor before silence returned.

Tomorrow they would move closer to Snake Island.

Then there would be security, local officials, concealed objectives, an exiled prince whose condition could alter the politics of an entire kingdom, and the knowledge that Dax was already prepared to turn failure into invasion.

Dean knew that.

Arion knew it too.

Perhaps that was why neither mentioned any of it.

Dean rested his forehead against Arion’s shoulder.

Arion’s arms tightened around him.

For several moments, that was all there was.

Warm skin beneath Dean’s cheek.

The quiet rhythm of Arion’s breathing.

The familiar pressure of one hand spread against his back.

Dean closed his eyes.

”You are worried.”

Arion did not deny it.

”So am I,” Dean admitted.

Snake Island did not frighten him because of the snakes.

Those were a practical problem. Antivenom existed. Routes could be planned. Hunter would not let either of them take an unnecessary step without checking the terrain first.

Amaru was different.

They did not know what they would find.

”We might find nothing useful,” Dean said.

”Then we find another route.”

”And Dax invades.”

”Possibly.”

Dean lifted his head. ”You are very calm about that.”

”I am calm because worrying tonight will not change what we find tomorrow.”

Dean narrowed his eyes slightly.

”That sounded suspiciously healthy.”

”I have occasional moments.”

Dean smiled.

Then Arion touched the mark at his nape with one finger.

The smile vanished.

”Do not.”

Arion’s gaze settled there.

”No.”

”You already have enough.”

”I disagree.”

”I look diseased.”

”You look marked.”

”I look like you were hungry.”

Arion’s eyes warmed.

Dean realized immediately that this line of discussion had been a tactical error.

He tried to lean away.

Arion followed.

”Arion.”

His husband kissed the mark instead.

Dean’s irritation dissolved despite his best efforts.

He touched Arion’s face, thumb brushing along the sharp line of his cheekbone.

Three years.

Sometimes that still surprised him.

Not because he had doubted they would last.

Because somewhere between surviving beast seasons, politics, family disasters, and Dean repeatedly developing ideas that shortened Arion’s patience, this had become ordinary.

Dean leaned forward and kissed him again.

His own choice this time.

When they separated, Arion’s forehead remained against his.

”No more maps tonight,” Arion said.

Dean considered arguing.

Then he looked at the dark tablet lying safely out of reach.

”Fine.”

”And sleep.”

”That depends.”

”On?”

Dean’s fingers hooked lightly against the edge of the towel at Arion’s hip, not pulling, merely making his intention clear.

Arion’s expression changed.

Dean smiled.

”You started this.”

Arion lifted him from the table.

Dean wrapped his arms around his shoulders automatically.