Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Dean had gone through the greetings like a man emotionally numb from having to do this for multiple days in a row after the wedding.

At some point, his smile had separated from his soul and continued functioning independently.

It was a very useful yet disturbing skill.

The district governor had been polite. The administrative council had been polite. The head of security had been polite in the way military men were polite when they had a file thicker than their forearm and the instinct to apologize for weather patterns if they inconvenienced royalty.

Dean had accepted the welcome, admired the efficiency of Ylico’s arrangements, made one mildly threatening comment about ’light schedules’ when someone mentioned an optional research campus visit, and had somehow left the tarmac without causing diplomatic damage.

He deserved the pastry.

Several pastries.

A bakery.

Possibly the entire district’s flour, butter, and sugar supply.

Now he was in the armored car, on the lap of the Crown Prince of the Alaminian Empire, with the nose of said prince buried against his neck.

The convoy moved smoothly around them, insulated from the outside world by dark glass, reinforced panels, and enough security to relocate a government. The city slid past in fragments beyond the tinted windows: gray sky, gold trees, wet roads, old stone buildings, glimpses of glass towers between autumn hills.

Dean saw very little of it.

Arion’s arms were around his waist, and his breath warm against his skin.

Arion had very clearly decided that now, with the officials gone and the first ten minutes of acceptable public behavior completed, Dean belonged to him again.

Dean should have objected.

He had several objections prepared.

Unfortunately, Arion’s mouth brushed just beneath his ear, not quite a kiss, more of a slow exhale against the place where Dean’s scent gathered beneath his collar, and all Dean’s arguments fell down a staircase.

”You promised pastry,” Dean said, with what remained of his authority.

Arion hummed.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the privacy partition between them and the driver. ”Arion.”

”Yes?”

”You cannot distract me from pastries with your face in my neck.”

”I can try.”

”At least deny it.”

”No.”

Dean tipped his head back slightly despite himself, which was a mistake because it gave Arion more room.

Arion took it.

Of course he did.

His lips touched Dean’s neck this time, soft and possessive, right where the collar of Dean’s coat had shifted just enough to expose skin.

Dean’s fingers tightened around Arion’s sleeve.

”This car has cameras,” Dean said.

”It does not.”

Dean paused. ”It doesn’t?”

”No.”

”That seems like a security flaw.”

”It is a honeymoon car.”

Dean looked down at him. ”That is not a real category.”

”It became one when my mother ordered it.”

Dean considered that.

Then decided he did not want to know what other specifications Minerva had personally approved.

Arion’s hand slid lower over his waist, close enough to make Dean suddenly aware that they were very much alone behind the partition and that armored cars were, unfortunately, private when designed by people with too much money and too few boundaries.

Dean breathed in slowly.

The scent of Arion’s pheromones was muted but present, dark and warm vetiver beneath the clean leather and faint trace of cold October air still clinging to their coats. It had been controlled all morning, held back through the flight, the landing, the officials, and the formal welcome.

Now it threaded around Dean gently.

Dean shut his eyes.

”You are being clingy.”

”I am on my honeymoon.”

”You were on your honeymoon twenty minutes ago too.”

”There were officials.”

”And you behaved.”

”I expect to be rewarded.”

Dean opened his eyes. ”I was the one who behaved.”

”Yes.”

”So I get the reward.”

Arion lifted his head enough for Dean to see his expression.

That was also a mistake.

His dark gold eyes were warm, amused, and too pleased with the fact that Dean was still sitting on his lap instead of returning to the perfectly available seat beside him.

”You are the reward,” Arion said.

Dean stared.

Then immediately looked away toward the window, because no one should be allowed to say things like that in daylight and survive.

”Cheap,” Dean muttered.

Arion’s arms tightened around him. ”You do not think so.”

”I think many things. Some of them are private.”

”I am your husband.”

”You keep using that like a master key.”

”It works.”

Dean hated that it did.

He looked out at Ylico again, trying to restore order to his thoughts.

The city was not what he had expected. It was not grand in the way Roslew was not built around the idea that history should kneel every time the palace came into view. Ylico felt denser, colder, and more practical. A place of transport hubs, research centers, industrial estates hidden behind walls of trees, old neighborhoods built from pale stone, and cafés with warm windows beneath apartment buildings whose balconies were full of autumn plants.

”I want a coffee,” Dean said, pointing to a random small coffee shop. ”From there.”

Arion followed the direction of his finger.

The café was narrow and warm-looking, tucked beneath an old stone apartment building with dark green awnings, fogged windows, and two small tables outside that had clearly been abandoned for the season. A chalkboard stood near the entrance, half-protected from the rain by the awning, covered in looping handwriting Dean could not read from the car but immediately trusted more than any official welcome speech.

Arion looked at it.

Then he looked back at Dean.

”That café?”

”Yes.”

”We are in the middle of a security convoy.”

Dean glanced at the armored vehicles around them, the escort cars, the discreet formation, the tinted windows, and the soldiers pretending this was not the most dramatic way to move two people through a city for coffee.

”Yes,” he said. ”That is why I pointed. I assumed someone would enjoy suffering.”

Arion’s mouth curved faintly. ”You want to stop the entire convoy for coffee.”

”I behaved for ten minutes.”

”You did.”

”You promised pastry.”

”I did.”

”That place has pastry.”

”You do not know that.”

Dean gave him a flat look. ”It has fogged windows, a green awning, and an elderly woman visible behind the counter. If there is no pastry inside, this district has failed culturally.”

Arion stared at him for one second.

Then he laughed, low and warm against Dean’s neck, because Arion still had not entirely removed his face from that area and seemed to have no intention of doing so unless forced.

Dean tried to ignore how much he liked it.

He failed.

”Stop laughing and buy me coffee,” Dean said.

Arion lifted his head at last, which Dean immediately regretted despite having caused it. The prince pressed one hand to the side panel and opened the communication line to the driver.

”Pull over near the café on the right.”