Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Chapter 128: Chapter 128: The Quiet After

The rest of the day was eerily peaceful for Dean.

Not the kind of peace that meant everything had been resolved; Dean had lived in palaces long enough to know better, but the kind that occurred when chaos died down for a moment and the building returned to normalcy. Staff moved silently. Doors shut softly. Schedules reasserted themselves with the grim reliability of bureaucracy.

Dean moved through it with the cautious calm of someone waiting for the next blast.

None came.

He met Sebastian briefly in his own wing, because Dean still had a wing, technically, even if his body had begun treating Arion’s as home with humiliating ease. Sebastian appeared tired in the controlled way that only dominant alphas do: perfect posture, eyes sharper than they needed to be, and concern hidden behind a polite face.

They spoke quietly, away from cameras and convenient corners, as family conversations were always held in modern palaces where privacy was a myth and ’security’ meant ’someone is always listening.’

Their parents.

Lucas and Trevor.

The fact that they couldn’t come.

Not because they didn’t want to, but because Caelan’s plans were... disturbing, to put it politely, and ’disturbing’ coming from Sebastian meant ’political disaster with excellent hair and a PR team.’

Dean didn’t ask for details. He knew better than to invite that kind of information into his brain when his day already felt like it had been designed to test his stability.

Sebastian didn’t press them on him either. He only looked at Dean, as if taking inventory - posture, eyes, scent, the subtle things brothers notice before asking questions.

”You alright?” Sebastian asked eventually.

Dean made his face blank. ”Of course.”

Sebastian stared.

Dean sighed and amended, ”I’m alive.”

Sebastian’s mouth twitched. ”That’s a start.”

Dean wanted to tell him everything.

Dean wanted to tell him nothing.

So he did what he always did when he was balancing honesty against humiliation.

He gave Sebastian a version that was technically true and strategically incomplete.

”I’m fine,” Dean said. ”It was just... a morning.”

Sebastian’s gaze sharpened, then softened again. ”Zion was unbearable.”

”Zion is always unbearable,” Dean replied.

Sebastian huffed a quiet laugh, then his expression returned to something protective. ”If you need me—”

”I know,” Dean said, too quickly. Then, because he wasn’t a monster, he added, ”Thanks.”

Sebastian nodded once, satisfied enough to let the subject drop.

And Dean - conveniently, strategically, shamelessly - forgot to mention that his two weeks in Alamina had included being lifted onto a table, kissed into silence, and moved into Arion’s suite while the palace had simply accepted it.

He absolutely did not mention that he’d already unpacked a few things.

Dean had many flaws.

But he had survival instincts.

—

By afternoon, the palace had dragged its crown princes back into their rhythm.

Arion, Zion, and Nero, three heirs capable of turning any room into chaos with a shared glance, switched to their other mode: serious. The one that made them dangerous in a different way.

They disappeared into meetings, briefings, and secure rooms with laptops, printed schedules, and maps on large screens. Their voices became crisp and precise. Their laughter grew rare. The levity drained out of the corridors around them like the building itself had been reminded that the world didn’t pause just because a few people were emotionally compromised over breakfast.

Dean watched it happen from the edges, half relieved, half bitterly amused.

It was always like this.

They could ruin your day in ten minutes and then turn around and talk about troop rotations, border patrols, and heat-season protocols like they hadn’t just detonated your entire nervous system for entertainment.

By late afternoon, Dean found himself back in Arion’s wing with nothing urgent to do.

Which was rare enough to feel suspicious.

He sat at the desk that had quietly become ’his’ in the suite—his laptop closed, his phone face down, the whole posture of a man pretending he was resting instead of waiting for another crisis to kick down a door.

There was one folder on the desk.

Not contracts or the never-ending forms he had to complete up until now. Not anything that required Dean’s brain to function at full speed.

Just a thick, official packet with stiff paper, a university seal, and tabs that looked sharp enough to draw blood.

Dean stared at it like it might bite him if he blinked.

He’d received it that morning, delivered with the kind of polite formality that suggested the staff believed this was a gift.

Dean had not opened it then, because his day had already included Nero, Zion, Sebastian, Arion’s jealousy, and the humiliating discovery that Dean’s body enjoyed being claimed.

He had reached his limit for ’new information.’

Now, with the palace quiet and Arion buried in meetings somewhere, the folder sat there on the desk like a trap patiently waiting for him to be alone.

Dean lifted it with two fingers as if it was contaminated.

He flipped it open.

The first page was titled in a clean institutional font:

ALAMINA UNIVERSITY — SPECIALIZED CURRICULUM ADJUSTMENT FOR DOMINANT OMEGA DIPLOMATIC SUPPORT STAFF

Dean read it once.

Then again.

Then stared at the words ’curriculum adjustment’ with deep, personal resentment.

He turned the page.

A schedule.

A neat grid. Days. Hours. Locations.

And four extra subjects that had absolutely not existed in his old plan.

Dean’s eyes tracked down the list like he was watching a slow-motion accident.

Pheromone Mutation Theory and Management.

Dean blinked.

Beast Behavior and Heat-Season Response.

Dean’s jaw tightened.

Combat Fundamentals for Non-Combat Personnel.

Dean stared at that line for a full five seconds, as if sheer disbelief could erase ink.

Support Protocols for Dominant Alphas: Stabilization, De-escalation, and Risk Mitigation.

Dean leaned back in his chair very slowly.

He looked toward the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him.

”This,” Dean whispered, ”is attempted murder.”

The folder did not respond.

The schedule, however, continued to exist.

He flipped the pages anyway, because hope was a disease and Dean apparently had it.

There were syllabi. Reading lists. Mandatory attendance notes. A section on ’field exposure requirements’ that made Dean’s soul try to exit his body and apply for a desk job in a different country.

There were notes about ’pheromone variance in high-stress environments’ and ’dominant alpha escalation triggers’ and ’safe handling practices.’

Dean stared at the words ’safe handling practices’ and laughed once, quietly, with no humor in it.

He could already see it: him in a classroom with a whiteboard, listening to someone explain how to calm down a dominant alpha in crisis while Dean’s entire life consisted of being near dominant alphas in crisis.

Dean turned another page.

The combat section had diagrams.

Diagrams.

Someone in Alamina had decided that Dean - Dean, whose greatest physical skill was biting when provoked - needed diagrams.

The truth was that Dean knew how to fight but refused to do it unless necessary. He was still a stubborn young adult.

Dean closed the folder slowly.

He placed it back on the desk as if it were a live animal.

Then he sat there, hands folded, staring at it with the kind of respectful fear usually reserved for storms and political scandals.

Of course Arion had arranged this.

Of course he had.

Because Arion didn’t just claim people. He reorganized their lives until the world agreed with the claim.

Dean’s phone buzzed once.

A message.

From an unknown university administrative number, cheerful in a way that made Dean want to commit violence.

Welcome to Alamina University’s advanced curriculum track! Please confirm receipt. Attendance is mandatory. 😊