Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Five weeks later, Amaru’s return to public life was being managed with approximately the same level of secrecy as a military operation.

Dean considered that appropriate.

The agreement had taken twelve days.

Most of that time had been spent arguing over details Amaru had been entirely correct to insist upon: what constituted a request for Saharian military assistance, who could authorize troops across Draxil’s borders, what happened if Amaru regained control of the capital but not the provinces, how Claudia’s research would be catalogued, and precisely how much access Alamina received to anything connected to the infected beasts.

Nothing remained verbal.

Alamina signed.

Saha signed.

Amaru signed only after independent counsel had reviewed every page twice.

Dean respected him considerably more afterward.

Medical recovery had been slower.

Amaru could walk normally now, eat without supervision, and maintain his own pheromonal regulation for several hours without medication. His scent glands were functioning, although physicians still monitored them closely after years of chemical suppression.

The damage existed.

It simply had not destroyed him.

His memory remained worse.

Some days another fragment surfaced: a physician, a room, and Claudia asking the same question months or perhaps years apart. None formed a complete timeline.

Amaru had stopped trying to force one.

He had more immediate problems.

Such as clothing.

”No.”

Nero stood in the center of Amaru’s temporary suite in Rohan and looked personally betrayed.

Amaru did not look up from the intelligence report in his hands.

”No what?”

”You cannot wear that.”

Amaru finally glanced down at himself.

He wore dark trousers and a fitted charcoal shirt.

”I am not currently attending the wedding.”

”I mean the suit you approved.”

Dean, sitting on the sofa with one ankle crossed over his knee, looked up from his tablet.

”What is wrong with it?”

”It looks respectable.”

Dean waited.

Nero stared at him as though that should have been sufficient explanation.

Amaru returned to his report.

”I have spent eight years chemically sedated on an island. Respectable seems ambitious enough.”

”You are returning from political death.”

”Yes.”

”You require impact.”

”I require trousers.”

Dean covered his mouth.

Nero turned toward him.

”You are encouraging him.”

”I haven’t said anything.”

”Your face has.”

Across the room, Arion stood near the windows speaking quietly with Hunter about the reception security. His formal black suit had already been delivered from Alamina; gold worked so subtly into the collar and cuffs that it was visible only when the light caught it.

Dean glanced toward him.

For half a second, something bothered him.

Arion looked tired.

Not dramatically. He had been working almost continuously since Snake Island, moving between Saha, Alamina, and now Rohan while preparations around Amaru accelerated.

Still, the dark gold of his eyes looked deeper again.

Almost brown near the center.

Arion noticed Dean watching and raised a brow.

Dean shook his head.

Nero had apparently won some portion of the clothing argument without anyone noticing.

”The embroidery stays,” he announced.

Amaru sighed.

”Fine.”

”And the coat.”

”No.”

”Amaru.”

”Nero.”

Dean smiled.

Five weeks had done interesting things to them.

Amaru no longer reacted to Nero as though uncertain whether the younger prince was dangerous, insane, or both. He had apparently concluded that all three possibilities could coexist with usefulness.

Nero, meanwhile, had decided Amaru’s political resurrection was personally entertaining.

That had produced an alarming amount of enthusiasm.

The wedding itself had required more diplomacy.

Sylvia had listened to their proposal over secure video without interrupting once.

Then she had said, ”After the ceremony.”

Nero had nodded solemnly.

”Obviously.”

”After the photographs.”

”Yes.”

”And nobody announces a civil war during dinner.”

”That seems unnecessarily restrictive.”

Thomas, sitting beside her, had looked toward Nero.

”Nero.”

”I agreed.”

Sylvia had narrowed her eyes.

”And no blood.”

Nero had looked genuinely offended.

”That one feels targeted.”

”It is.”

Amaru had laughed.

That had been the final approval.

Now, hours before the ceremony, the entire plan was fixed.

Amaru had arrived in Rohan privately two days earlier under Saharian medical clearance. His name appeared nowhere on the official guest list. Only a small group inside the royal household knew he was present.

Eryx knew.

That reunion had happened privately.

Dean had not attended.

Neither had Nero.

Amaru had disappeared into Eryx’s residence for nearly three hours and returned looking more exhausted than he had after some medical examinations but also lighter in a way Dean had not seen before.

Eryx would stand beside him tonight.

Hunter entered from the adjoining room.

”Press numbers increased.”

Dean looked up. ”How much?”

”Approximately thirty percent since this morning. Mostly because the Palatine delegation arrived early.”

”Nothing about Amaru?”

”No leaks.”

That had been Dean’s greatest concern.

The reveal worked only once.

Nero leaned over Amaru’s shoulder and inspected the intelligence report he was reading.

”Your eldest brother landed in Draxil’s capital three hours ago.”

”I can read.”

”And your other brother?”

”Still in the eastern military district.”

Nero smiled.

”So both will be somewhere with excellent communications when you appear.”

Amaru looked at him.

”You planned that.”

”I observed it.”

”You delayed the announcement until today because neither could move easily.”

”I am hurt that you think I manipulate people.”

Dean laughed.

Amaru closed the report.

”I spent eight years around Claudia. You are not subtle enough to concern me.”

Nero placed a hand over his chest.

That one actually wounded him.

By late afternoon, the palace in Rohan had become almost impossible to move through without encountering flowers, security, or someone carrying a garment bag.

The ceremony took place beneath the glass roof of the western conservatory, transformed with white winter flowers, green branches, and hundreds of narrow lights suspended overhead.

Dean sat beside Arion during the vows.

For once, nothing went wrong.

Thomas looked at Sylvia as though the rest of the conservatory had ceased existing the moment she entered.

Sylvia, predictably, looked composed until Thomas took her hands.

Then her expression softened.

Dean leaned slightly against Arion.

”Five minutes,” he murmured.

Arion looked down.

”Until?”

”Something goes wrong.”

Arion’s mouth moved faintly.

”Be optimistic.”

”I am. I gave it five.”

Nothing went wrong.

Even Nero behaved.

The first photographs followed immediately afterward. Family. Foreign delegations. The royal household. Enough smiling to make Dean’s face hurt in sympathy.

Amaru remained in the private eastern wing.

By the time the reception began, the press had been moved into the grand gallery for official arrivals and statements.

That was where they would do it.

Dean found Amaru in the side corridor ten minutes before the scheduled appearance.

Nero had won the clothing argument.

Amaru wore a long formal jacket in deep charcoal over black, cut in a modern Draxilian style with narrow metallic embroidery following the collar and one side of the chest. The design was restrained enough that Amaru had apparently accepted it without violence.

His scent was controlled.

His posture was not.

Dean noticed the tension in his shoulders immediately.

”Too late to run.”

Amaru looked toward him.

”I was considering it.”

”No, you weren’t.”

”No.”

Dean stopped beside him.

Through the closed doors ahead came the muted noise of several hundred guests.

Amaru had once expected to return to Draxil at the head of a political network he had spent years preparing.

Instead, he was returning to existence at someone else’s wedding.

Life had questionable taste.

Arion approached from behind Dean.

Nero followed with Eryx.

Amaru’s attention shifted immediately to his brother.

Eryx wore Rohan formal dress rather than Draxilian colors, which Dean suspected was deliberate. He had built his life here. Supporting Amaru did not mean pretending otherwise.

”You’re ready?” Eryx asked.

Amaru exhaled once.

”Yes.”

Nero glanced toward the doors.

”Excellent.”

Dean looked at him.

”Do not look that happy.”

”I enjoy historic moments.”

”You enjoy chaos.”

”They frequently overlap.”

The signal came through Hunter’s earpiece.

The doors were ready.