Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Dean woke with the distinct impression that something had attempted to eat him during the night.

Unfortunately, the culprit was still in bed.

Morning light filtered through the heavy curtains of the Palatine guest suite, turning the snow beyond the windows pale blue. Their luggage had already been collected from the adjoining dressing room, leaving only two travel cases near the door and the clothes prepared for departure.

Dean remained beneath the blankets.

Mostly because moving revealed new reasons to complain.

His shoulders were sore, his thighs ached from several different causes he had no intention of examining before breakfast, and the skin along his neck and upper chest carried an unreasonable collection of bite marks.

He touched one near his collarbone and winced.

”You chewed on me.”

Arion, sitting against the headboard beside him, looked entirely unrepentant.

His rut had settled enough that the heavy concentration of sigma pheromones no longer pressed against every surface of the room, but Dean could still feel them around him. Arion wore only loose black sleeping trousers, dark hair disordered from the night, golden eyes fixed on Dean with far too much interest for someone who should have been satisfied.

Dean pulled the blanket higher.

”No.”

”I did not ask anything.”

”You looked.”

Arion’s hand disappeared beneath the blanket and settled around Dean’s waist.

Dean slapped it away.

”We leave in two hours.”

”That is sufficient time.”

”For bathing, breakfast, getting dressed, and reaching the airport.”

Arion looked unconvinced by Dean’s priorities.

Dean pushed himself upright and immediately regretted the decision when the shirt he had slept in shifted against his neck.

He looked down.

There were marks everywhere.

Not merely the deeper ones near his scent gland. Arion had apparently decided that Dean’s shoulders, chest, and even the inside of one wrist required evidence of his attention.

Dean turned the wrist over.

”This one is ridiculous.”

Arion examined it. ”It is small.”

”That does not improve it.”

”It will fade.”

”After I spend three days explaining why I look like a chew toy.”

”You are wearing winter clothes.”

Dean stared at him.

That was annoyingly true.

Their first island stop was considerably warmer than Palatine but still cold enough for high collars, scarves, and layered jackets. No one would see anything unless Dean deliberately displayed it.

That did not make the principle less offensive.

He climbed out of bed.

His legs held.

Dean paused with one hand against the bedpost.

Behind him, Arion moved.

”I am fine.”

”You stopped walking.”

”I was reconsidering the floor.”

Arion came up behind him anyway, one broad hand settling at his hip.

Dean leaned back against him for a moment before remembering that encouraging physical contact was currently dangerous.

He stepped away.

”No.”

Arion’s expression sharpened.

The rut had made him more difficult for the last two days. Not uncontrolled, Arion had not struggled with that since bonding with Dean, but relentlessly interested in keeping his mate within reach. Every time Dean crossed the room, Arion watched him. Every time someone knocked at the door, his pheromones shifted before Dean had even answered.

Dean understood the biology.

He was still tired.

”You have had enough.”

Arion’s gaze moved slowly over him.

”No.”

”That was not a question.”

Dean crossed into the dressing room and found the outfit already prepared by staff: fitted charcoal trousers, a soft black turtleneck, and a pale wool coat appropriate for travel. His boots waited beneath the bench.

At least the collar would hide most of the damage.

He began removing the oversized sleeping shirt.

Arion appeared in the doorway.

Dean stopped.

”Do not.”

”I am standing.”

”You are standing with intent.”

Arion leaned one shoulder against the frame.

Dean turned away and pulled the clean shirt over his head quickly, dragging the high collar into place before Arion could become distracted by his own work.

Most of the marks disappeared.

One near Dean’s jaw remained visible.

Dean touched it.

”This is going to be photographed.”

”Probably.”

”You sound proud.”

”I am.”

Dean sighed and moved toward the mirror.

His pale hair needed attention, but otherwise he looked surprisingly presentable for someone who had slept very little. His violet eyes were slightly tired, though not enough to attract concern, and the high collar concealed everything below his jaw.

Behind him, Arion crossed the room.

Dean saw him approaching in the mirror.

”Arion.”

His husband stopped directly behind him and bent enough to press his mouth against the visible mark near Dean’s jaw.

Dean closed his eyes.

”That is exactly the behavior I am complaining about.”

Arion’s hands settled around his waist.

”I know.”

”You are thirty years old.”

”Yes.”

”You should have developed restraint.”

”I have.”

Dean turned in his arms. ”This is restraint?”

”Yes.”

That answer was probably true, which Dean decided not to examine.

His tablet chimed from the bedroom.

Dean escaped immediately.

The departure schedule filled the screen.

Security transport in ninety-four minutes.

Takeoff shortly afterward.

Their first public stop would be one of the larger neutral islands east of Palatine, where they were expected to spend two nights at a coastal resort before continuing south. Photographers had already been informed of their arrival.

Everything was proceeding according to the cover itinerary.

Dean read the security update while Arion dressed behind him.

Unlike Dean’s softer travel clothes, Arion chose black trousers, a dark knit shirt, and a structured wool coat that made him look considerably more official than anyone on holiday had a right to appear.

”We cannot be late,” Dean said.

”We will not be.”

”We will if you decide ninety minutes is sufficient time for another round.”

Arion buttoned one cuff.

Dean watched him suspiciously.

”Do not calculate.”

”I already did.”

Dean lowered the tablet.

”No.”

Arion approached.

Dean backed toward the sitting room.

”No.”

”You keep moving away from me.”

”That is intentional.”

Arion stopped.

For several seconds, they simply looked at each other.

Then Arion exhaled and reached for his watch instead.

Dean relaxed.

Victory.

Temporary, perhaps, but acceptable.

Boreas scratched at the outer door from the adjoining room where palace staff had kept him overnight.

Dean immediately went to let him in.

The enormous dog entered at speed, crossed the suite, and nearly pushed Dean into the wall with his head.

Dean caught himself against Boreas’s shoulders.

”At least someone here loves me normally.”

Arion fastened his watch.

Boreas licked Dean’s hand.

Dean looked at his husband.

”See?”

Arion picked up the travel documents.

”We leave in ninety minutes.”

Dean smiled faintly and scratched beneath Boreas’s jaw.

Palatine was finished.

The islands came next.

And somewhere near the end of that carefully planned public holiday route waited Snake Island, and perhaps a prince who had disappeared eight years ago.