Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

”Agreed,” Arion said.

Dean should have trusted that less.

He had just stepped out of the shower with damp hair, warm skin, and a robe tied loosely at his waist, which was already a tactical failure. Arion stood in the middle of the bedroom, shirt still buttoned, hair neat, expression calm enough to be suspicious, and gold eyes too focused to be harmless.

Dean narrowed his eyes. ”You are planning something.”

”I am married.”

”That is not an answer.”

”It explains many things.”

”It explains nothing except your audacity.”

Arion’s mouth curved faintly.

Arion’s scent spread slowly, dark and warm, vetiver sinking into the air like sun-heated earth, shaded wood, clean smoke, and something steady enough to lean his whole body against. It slid beneath the lingering steam from Dean’s shower, wrapped around the soft linen of the bed, touched the open curtains, and filled the room with a warmth that did not ask Dean to forget.

It only made forgetting easier.

Dean’s breath caught.

His own scent had already been there, held back with the discipline he had used for months now. Fresh mint. Lemon. Cold sweetness, bright and sharp, like iced lemonade in summer heat. Controlled, because Dean had controlled everything lately. His fear. His anger. His worry for Sebastian. His heat. His need.

Arion let his head fall onto Dean’s shoulder and inhaled deeply.

Dean felt his lower belly tighten at the sound. He let his head fall backward to give Arion more access to his neck.

Arion stilled for half a second.

Dean could feel that desire in the tension of the body behind him, in the hand that had settled at his waist and did not move lower, in the breath that touched the side of his throat with a restraint that made Dean want to turn around and bite him out of principle.

”You are thinking too much,” Dean murmured.

Arion’s mouth brushed his skin. ”I am thinking exactly enough.”

”That sounds like something a man says before becoming unbearable.”

”I am already unbearable.”

”Yes,” Dean said, his eyes half-closing when Arion kissed the exposed line of his neck. ”But usually with clothes on and political authority.”

Arion’s hand tightened at his waist.

The vetiver deepened in the room, warmer now, richer, wrapping around Dean’s mint and lemon until the air between them no longer belonged to anger, prophecy, or the temple. Dean breathed it in and felt his own control loosen another inch.

He wanted that.

He wanted to stop holding himself together. He wanted Arion’s weight, Arion’s warmth, and Arion’s stupidly defined body over him until there would be no room left inside Dean for Ilara’s voice or Nero’s name.

Arion gently kissed the curve beneath his ear again.

Dean’s fingers found Arion’s wrist and held on.

”Dean,” Arion said, low against his skin.

”If you ask me if I am sure, I will throw something.”

Arion’s mouth curved. ”I was going to say I love you.”

Dean gave a weak laugh, but it turned into a breath when Arion turned him gently in his arms.

For a moment, they only looked at each other.

Arion’s gold eyes were darker now, warm with a hunger he was still holding in carefully. The open balcony door let in sea air, but it could not cut through the vetiver anymore. It filled the room completely, and Dean’s own scent rose to meet it, fresh mint and lemon brightening through the warmth.

Arion’s gaze dropped to Dean’s throat.

Dean touched the bare skin there, suddenly remembering. ”The collar.”

”One arrived.”

Dean’s breath caught before he could pretend otherwise.

Arion’s expression softened in a way that was almost dangerous. ”Do you want it?”

”Yes.”

The answer came too quickly to be dignified.

Dean did not care.

Arion crossed to the bedside table and opened the dark box waiting there. Dean had not noticed it before, which said terrible things about the state of his observation skills and excellent things about Arion’s ability to ruin him with timing.

The collar rested on black silk.

It was not the heavy ceremonial one meant for public appearances. This was quieter, more intimate, made of dark leather with a soft inner lining, a dark metal clasp, and pale blue stones set so finely they only caught the light when Arion lifted it. It felt like a secret between the two of them.

Dean swallowed.

”You checked the lining,” he said.

”Three times.”

”Of course you did.”

”It touches your skin.”

Dean looked at him, purple eyes more bright from the tears he was still holding in.

He turned without being asked, his robe shifting slightly over one shoulder. He heard Arion inhale behind him and smiled despite the heat crawling under his skin.

”Behave.”

”I am.”

”You are breathing loudly again.”

”I am suffering.”

Dean’s smile widened. ”You deserve it.”

Arion stepped close.

The collar touched Dean’s throat, cool at first, then warming almost immediately. Arion’s fingers were careful as he guided it into place, but his mouth was not nearly as disciplined. A kiss landed beneath Dean’s ear. Another at the side of his neck. Another just under the edge where the collar would sit, slow enough that Dean’s knees remembered they had other duties and considered abandoning him.

”Arion.”

”Yes?” His low voice almost made Dean reconsider his commentary, but he wanted to hear more of it too.

”You are taking a very long time.”

”The clasp is delicate.”

Dean laughed, breathless and helpless, and reached back to grip Arion’s shirt.

The clasp clicked shut.

The sound was small.

Dean felt it everywhere.

Arion’s hands settled on his shoulders, then slid down his arms, beneath the bathrobe. He did not step away. Instead, he bent and kissed the back of Dean’s neck, right where the collar rested against his pulse, right where his mark was etched in Dean’s skin for ever.

Dean closed his eyes and let out a warm breath.

Dean leaned back against Arion’s chest, the collar a warm, solid weight against his throat. The faint scent of vetiver mixed with his own mint and lemon, creating an intoxicating blend that made his head swim with desire. He could feel Arion’s arousal pressing against his backside, a hard length that promised pleasure and possession.

”Your control is slipping,” Dean murmured, tilting his head to expose more of his neck.

Arion’s response was a low growl against his skin, followed by teeth grazing the sensitive skin. ”Only because you make it impossible to maintain.”

Dean turned in his arms, his robe falling open to reveal his hardened length. He pressed against Arion, teasing with hazy eyes and red lips barely parted in a smile. ”Then don’t maintain it.”

Arion’s gold eyes darkened with hunger. He lifted Dean effortlessly, carrying him to the bed as if he weighed nothing. Dean landed softly on the silk sheets, looking up at his husband with anticipation.

”Power bottom today, are we?” Arion’s voice was thick with amusement and desire.

”Only when you make me wait,” Dean replied, spreading his legs invitingly.