Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

By the time Dean and Arion finally returned to their private suite, Dean had discovered a new form of exhaustion.

It was not physical... social exhaustion. The social batteries died, never to return again.

Dean stepped into the suite, stopped in the middle of the room, and stared at nothing.

Arion closed the door behind them.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The quiet felt almost indecent.

The soft hum of the suite’s climate system mocking them, the dim city lights beyond the glass wall, and the weight of the day finally settling on them.

Dean exhaled.

”I am never getting married again.”

Arion slowly and gracefully unbuttoned his cuff links, his wedding band, the one Dean had given him as an engagement ring, catching the light. ”That is convenient.”

Dean turned his head. ”Do not sound pleased.”

”I am deeply pleased.”

”You are insufferable.”

”I am your husband.”

Dean closed his eyes. ”You are going to abuse that title until I develop immunity.”

”No.”

”No?”

”You will not develop immunity.”

Dean wanted to argue.

He did.

Unfortunately, he was too tired, too married, and too aware of the way Arion looked in black after hours of controlled public devotion.

So he only lifted one hand and pointed toward him without opening his eyes.

”Do not start.”

”I said nothing.”

”You are existing arrogantly.”

Arion’s quiet laugh moved through the room, low and warm.

Dean hated how much better it made him feel.

The formal coat suddenly felt too tight across his shoulders. The silver chain had become heavy. His shoes were beautiful, expensive, and now his enemies. His hair had survived the gala through sheer discipline and Sylvia’s threats, but several pieces had loosened near his face, and he could still feel the ghost of too many eyes on him.

He wanted water, silence, and their soft bed.

Possibly in that order.

Possibly not.

Arion crossed the room toward him and reached for the clasp at Dean’s shoulder.

Dean did not stop him.

That, more than anything else, proved how tired he was.

Arion’s fingers worked carefully, removing the chain, then the outer coat, then the delicate fastenings that had been designed by someone who clearly believed beauty should require engineering.

Dean stood still and let him.

A dangerous thing.

When the coat slipped from his shoulders, Arion’s hands lingered for half a second too long.

Dean opened one eye. ”No.”

Arion looked at him. ”Again?”

”Yes, again.”

”You say it often for someone who rarely means it.”

”I mean it now.”

Arion’s gaze dropped briefly to Dean’s mouth.

Dean lifted a finger. ”Do not test that.”

For a second, Arion looked as if he might.

Then his expression changed, gentler now, the heat tucked away beneath something warmer and more careful.

”You are exhausted.”

Dean frowned. ”That is rude.”

Arion’s mouth curved.

Dean sighed and let him guide him toward the bathroom door.

”Shower,” Arion said.

Dean stopped. ”Are you ordering me?”

”Yes.”

”You became very brave after the vows.”

”I became legally empowered.”

”That is not how marriage works.”

”It is how this marriage works.”

Dean stared at him.

Arion stared back, calm, beautiful, and absolutely unrepentant.

Dean gave up because the bathroom was visible behind him, all pale stone, warm light, and glass, and the thought of hot water was more persuasive than anything Arion could say.

”Fine,” Dean said. ”But if I fall asleep in there, that is your problem.”

”It already was.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. ”That was dangerously sweet.”

”I will be more careful.”

”You won’t.”

”No.”

Dean turned toward the bathroom, then paused at the door and glanced back. ”You are not allowed to handle anything dramatic while I’m in there.”

Arion’s expression did not change.

That was answer enough.

Dean pointed at him. ”Arion.”

”I will not leave the suite.”

”That was very specific.”

”It was honest.”

”I hate royal honesty.”

”No, you don’t.”

Dean muttered something unkind and disappeared into the bathroom.

Arion waited.

He stood still in the center of the bedroom until he heard the bathroom door close, then the soft slide of the lock, then the faint rustle of fabric being discarded.

A moment later, the shower came on.

Water struck stone and glass, steady and warm.

Only then did Arion take out his phone.

The screen lit with three missed encrypted updates from Hendrik, one formal report from the outer perimeter command, and seven messages from Nero.

Arion ignored the first six on principle and opened the last one.

It was another photo.

This one was worse.

Nero stood beside a destroyed section of reinforced roadside barrier, his formal jacket torn at one sleeve, pale hair half-loose around his face. Behind him, soldiers were dragging the remains of one infected beast toward containment transport. Hale stood near the edge of the frame, looking like a man who had spent the evening regretting every life choice that had led him to Saha’s first prince.

Nero had written beneath it:

Your wedding was less boring than expected.

Arion stared at the screen.

Then he called him.

Nero answered on the second ring.

”You missed me already,” Nero said.

Arion kept his voice low, though the shower covered most of the sound. ”Report.”

”How romantic.”

”Nero.”

A sigh. Dramatic. Unnecessary. Very Sahan.

”Two infected beasts confirmed. Both neutralized. No civilian breach. Four injured soldiers, none critical. Defensive units held better than expected, considering they were placed for post-season containment and not an offensive response.”

Arion’s jaw tightened. ”Source?”

”Unknown. They did not wander in naturally.”

”I know.”

”Of course you know. You become unpleasant when people state obvious things.”

”You sent me pictures of carcasses during my wedding gala.”

”You asked for proof earlier in life.”

”I never asked for proof like that.”

”You should be more specific with me.”

Arion looked toward the bathroom door.

The water was still running.

Dean was out of range.

The bond hummed quietly at the edge of his senses, tired and warm, no alarm in it.

Arion lowered his voice further. ”Was this meant to draw me out?”

A pause.

This time Nero did not answer immediately.

That was enough.

Arion’s fingers tightened around the phone.

”Nero.”

”Possibly,” Nero said at last. ”Or Dean. Or both of you. Timing was too precise to be accidental, but too sloppy to be a true assassination attempt. More like a test. A message. Someone wanted to see which dominant person left the gala, how fast, and through what route.”

Arion went very still.

Outside the suite, the palace remained quiet. Secure. Guarded. Beneath that quiet, the shape of the evening shifted.

”Hendrik?” Arion asked.

”Already sealing the reports. Officially, perimeter disturbance. No mention of infected breach until your father decides how much to release.”

”My father knows?”

”He knew ten minutes after I left your dressing room.”

Arion closed his eyes briefly.

Of course Otto knew.

Of course he had continued the gala without so much as a visible change in expression.

Arion had learned from the best.

”And you?” Arion asked.

”I am wounded that you care.”

”I do not.”

”You do.”

”I am asking because Dean will ask.”

Nero made a soft sound that might have been amusement. ”Tell Dean I am perfect.”

”I will not.”

”Tell Dean I was heroic.”

”No.”

”Tell Dean Hale cried from admiration.”

In the background, Hale’s voice said something too low to hear clearly.

Nero laughed.

Arion pinched the bridge of his nose. ”Are you injured?”

”Scratched.”

”Meaning?”

”Bleeding, but in a handsome way.”

”Nero.”

”It is already sealed.”

Arion was silent.

Nero’s voice shifted, losing just enough humor to become almost honest. ”I am fine. Hale is fine. The soldiers are alive. The beasts are dead. Your wedding survived. Go to bed.”

Arion looked again toward the bathroom.

The water was still running, but he could feel Dean’s exhaustion through the bond like a soft weight against his chest.

”This is not finished,” Arion said.

”No,” Nero agreed. ”But it is finished tonight.”

That, Arion disliked more than the jokes.

Because Nero was rarely wrong.

Arion ended the call without saying goodbye.

A second later, a final message appeared.

Congratulations again. Try not to make Dean furious before morning.

Arion deleted it.

Then considered it.

Then regretted deleting it only because Dean would have enjoyed being furious at it.

He set the phone on the bedside table and removed the rest of his formal jacket, moving quietly through the room. By the time the shower stopped, the reports had been hidden beneath security locks, the lights had been dimmed, and the bed had been turned down.

Dean emerged in a robe, hair damp, face flushed from the heat, looking softer than he had any right to look after terrifying half a ballroom into respecting him.

His eyes narrowed immediately.

Arion looked at him.

Dean looked at the phone on the bedside table.

Then back at Arion.

”You called Nero.”

Arion paused.

Dean’s expression sharpened. ”You waited until the shower was running and called Nero.”

”I did.”

”At least you admit it.”

”I am not lying to my husband.”

Dean stared at him for a long moment.

Then he walked past him toward the bed.

”I am too tired to punish you properly.”

Arion watched him sit, then carefully lower himself back against the pillows with the grave seriousness of someone choosing survival over pride.

”Tomorrow?” Arion asked.

Dean opened one eye. ”Are you scheduling punishment?”

”I like being prepared.”