Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Arion had faced rebellions, assassination attempts, diplomatic collapses, military briefings delivered over active casualty reports, his mother’s silence, his father’s disappointment, his siblings, Andrea Vale’s poison, and Dean’s temper before breakfast.

Waiting outside Dean’s preparation suite was worse.

Objectively, it should not have been.

The corridor was secure. The ceremony schedule was still intact. The procession team had confirmed the main hall was ready. Hunter Stewart had checked in twice through the internal channel with the clipped, professional calm of a newly appointed chief of guards who understood that his first official wedding assignment involved protecting a consort with the survival instinct of a lit match near silk.

Everything was under control.

Arion still wanted to open the door.

He did not.

That, he decided, was proof of exceptional character.

Or restraint.

Possibly both.

He stood in the private corridor outside the suite, dressed in his own main ceremony attire of severe black and imperial gold, fitted with the precision Alaminan royal tailors regarded as patriotic duty. His mantle fell from one shoulder, long and heavy, the embroidered crest at his chest catching the soft white light from the ceiling panels. A thin ceremonial chain crossed his torso. His hair had been swept back with enough care that three stylists had inspected it like a structural project.

He looked exactly as he was supposed to look.

Crown Prince Arion of Alamina.

He felt like a man standing outside a door trying not to worry through the bond so loudly that his future husband would come out already irritated.

Behind him, two guards stood at attention. Farther down the corridor, palace staff moved in controlled bursts of urgency, speaking quietly into headsets, adjusting procession timing, confirming camera locks, and checking final route security.

The wedding had begun moving around him.

But Dean was still behind the door.

And Dean had told him to wait.

So Arion waited.

The bond had quieted now. It rested beneath his ribs, warm and alive, no longer sharp with Dean’s earlier stress but still bright enough for Arion to feel every small shift in him.

Nervous.

Emotional.

Determined.

And hiding something.

Arion’s eyes narrowed slightly.

He had known Dean and his mother were hiding something about the wedding attire. Not everything. Not enough to break their amusement. But enough. Minerva had become too graceful whenever the main suit was mentioned, and Dean had become too smug in a way that usually meant he had either won an argument or planned one in advance.

Arion had allowed it.

Mostly because Dean looked delighted by the secret.

Partly because Arion liked seeing Dean conspire with his mother.

That did not mean he was prepared.

The door opened.

Arion forgot how to breathe.

Dean stepped out.

For one impossible second, the corridor disappeared.

The guards, the staff, the soft glow of the ceiling lights, the distant sound of ceremony coordination, and the entire empire waiting beyond the walls—all of it collapsed around the sight of Dean standing before him in black and silver.

The suit was not the one Arion had seen.

Not any of them.

This was something else entirely.

Black silk shaped close to Dean’s body, severe and elegant, the high inner collar framing his throat with enough precision to make Arion’s fingers curl once at his side. Silver embroidery ran across the jacket in fine, lethal patterns, catching the light like frost over midnight. The shoulders were sharp, the waist drawn in with a dark ceremonial wrap, the long fall of fabric behind him moving like smoke and shadow. It did not soften Dean. It revealed him.

His beauty, yes.

But also his bite.

His pride.

His ridiculous, unbearable courage.

Arion stared.

Dean’s expression shifted.

Smugness appeared first, because of course it did. Then something softer followed under it, more fragile, more searching.

”Well,” Dean said, his voice too light. ”You’re breathing, so Minerva owes me money.”

Arion said nothing.

Dean blinked.

Then his smugness faltered.

”Arion?”

Arion tried to answer.

Nothing happened.

Behind Dean, Lucas appeared in the doorway, took one look at Arion’s face, and smiled like a man watching a trap close beautifully.

Mia covered her mouth.

Sylvia whispered, ”Oh, that worked.”

Serathine, elegant and serene just inside the room, looked deeply satisfied.

Arion finally inhaled.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like the entire corridor had become a place where sudden movement might break something sacred.

”You hid this from me,” he said.

Dean’s mouth curved, relief flickering in his eyes. ”Yes.”

”My mother helped.”

”Yes.”

”Everyone helped.”

”Most people helped. Some merely obeyed.”

Arion’s gaze moved over him again, lingering despite himself at the embroidered lines, the black collar, the silver work, the cape falling behind him like a private night.

Dean lifted an eyebrow. ”If you keep looking at me like that, people will notice.”

Arion’s voice came out lower than intended. ”People already notice you.”

Dean’s breath caught.

The bond warmed between them.

For one moment, all the ceremony and all the waiting fell away. Dean stood close enough that Arion could reach him, but not close enough to touch. He wanted to. Gods, he wanted to. He wanted to close the distance, put his hand at Dean’s waist, press his mouth to the place where that high black collar framed his throat, and forget every camera, ambassador, tradition, and imperial schedule currently waiting for them.

He did none of those things.

Again, exceptional character.

Dean seemed to understand exactly how much restraint was happening in the corridor, because his eyes brightened with terrible amusement.

”Don’t start,” Arion warned softly.

Dean’s smile sharpened. ”I said nothing.”

”You thought loudly.”

Lucas stepped forward before Arion could lose what remained of his composure. ”The procession team is ready.”

Mia’s eyes were shining. Sylvia looked very determined not to cry, which meant she was close. Serathine stood behind them all, watching Dean with a softness that made even Arion’s chest tighten.

Hunter Stewart moved into position at Dean’s left, professional and still, but his gaze flicked once to Arion as if confirming the Crown Prince was functional enough to proceed.

’Barely,’ Arion thought. ’But yes.’

He extended his hand.

Dean looked at it.

For a second, the sharp humor left his face.

The wedding noise seemed to quiet down again.

Dean placed his hand in Arion’s.

Arion closed his fingers around it.

Dean exhaled.

”Still waiting?” Dean asked quietly.

Arion looked at him.

’Always,’ he thought.

But the word had become theirs already, too private to spend carelessly in a corridor full of witnesses.

So he said, ”I told you I would.”

Dean’s eyes softened.

Then he leaned closer, just enough that only Arion could hear him.

”If I trip, you are legally required to pretend it was choreography.”

Arion’s mouth curved.

”If you trip, I will catch you.”

”That is not what I asked.”

”It is what will happen.”

Dean sighed. ”Possessive and terrible at instructions.”

”Yes.”

”Consistent, at least.”

The corridor doors ahead opened.

Sound spilled toward them.

Music, distant but swelling. The low murmur of a hall filled with power. The first notes of the main ceremony procession rose through the residence like the city itself had begun to breathe with them.

Dean’s hand tightened in his.

Arion tightened back.

Lucas stepped aside. Mia wiped at one eye and pretended not to. Sylvia smiled through something complicated and bright. Serathine inclined her head, regal as any queen, proud as any grandmother. Hunter gave the smallest nod to the security line.

The route cleared.

Arion turned toward the aisle waiting beyond the doors.

Dean moved with him.

Together.

The first camera lights flickered beyond the ceremonial entrance.

Dean glanced at him once, black and silver and impossible.

Arion looked back.

For all his training, all his discipline, all the blood and inheritance and duty that had shaped him into a prince, nothing had prepared him for the simple violence of wanting one person beside him for the rest of his life.

Dean smiled.

Small.

Terrified.

Brave.

Arion held his hand and stepped forward.