Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

By the fourth morning, Dean had developed a personal hatred for breakfast.

By the sixth, breakfast was no longer the problem.

Everything was.

The first warning had been cherries. That had seemed manageable.

Then eggs became impossible.

Coffee followed two days later, which Dean considered an act of biological cruelty severe enough to justify complaining to Seven at length. Toast lasted another morning before the smell of warm bread sent him away from the dining table with one hand over his mouth.

By the end of the week, the private kitchen staff had stopped attempting to predict what Dean might tolerate.

They simply prepared options.

Cold fruit. Plain crackers. Rice. Broth. Soft cheese. Dry cereal. Several forms of potato.

Anything with enough nutritional value to satisfy the medical board and little enough scent to avoid triggering Dean before it reached the plate.

Most of it failed.

Dean sat curled into the corner of the sitting-room sofa shortly after seven in the morning, dressed in loose black lounge trousers and one of Arion’s dark grey sweaters because his own clothes had somehow become intolerably restrictive overnight.

A tray sat untouched on the low table.

Crackers. Cold apple slices. Tea without milk. Nothing offensive.

His stomach disagreed.

Dean stared at the crackers.

Arion stood several meters away beside the windows, already dressed for the morning in black trousers and a fitted shirt, though he had not bothered fastening the cuffs yet.

His pheromones were almost entirely suppressed.

That had become a habit since Victor’s tests.

Dean resented it more every day.

”You need to eat something,” Arion said.

Dean looked at him.

”I know.”

”You had almost nothing yesterday evening.”

”I remember.”

Arion’s jaw tightened.

He had become very careful about not turning concern into orders.

Dean could see how much effort that required.

The medical board had prescribed anti-nausea medication two days earlier. It helped enough that Dean could keep water down consistently, but food remained a negotiation his stomach seemed determined to win.

Seven had changed the timing.

Gynecology adjusted the dose.

The nutritionist suggested colder foods.

Minerva sent ginger biscuits.

Rina delivered three different kinds of sour candy and was banned from bringing more after Dean ate half a packet instead of dinner.

Nothing worked reliably.

Dean picked up one cracker.

He took a bite. For several seconds, everything seemed fine. Then his stomach rolled.

Dean put the cracker down.

”No.”

Arion crossed the room immediately.

Dean lifted one hand.

”Do not call Seven. I am not vomiting.”

”Yet.”

”That optimism is inspiring.”

Arion ignored the sarcasm and crouched beside the sofa.

Dean rested his head against the back cushion and closed his eyes.

The nausea had changed over the week.

It was no longer a sudden reaction to one specific scent.

It sat beneath everything now.

A constant, unpleasant pressure just behind his ribs, sometimes mild enough to ignore and sometimes strong enough that even turning his head too quickly made his mouth fill with saliva.

”Morning sickness,” Seven had explained. Perfectly normal.

Dean had informed him that ”normal” was a useless word if ”normal” felt like this.

Arion placed one hand on his knee.

Dean opened his eyes.

”Come closer.”

Arion hesitated.

That irritated him instantly.

”Arion.”

”You know why.”

”Yes, and Victor also said we do not know if there is anything dangerous in your pheromones.”

”That does not mean—”

”Closer.”

Arion studied him.

Then moved onto the sofa.

Dean shifted immediately, turning until his shoulder pressed against Arion’s chest.

Still not enough.

”Your pheromones.”

Arion went still.

Dean felt the tension through him.

”No.”

Dean lifted his head.

”No?”

”We still don’t know what Boreas detected.”

”And we also know my ability seems to suppress whatever it is.”

”Seems.”

Dean’s nausea surged again. He swallowed.

”This is not theoretical for me right now.”

Arion’s expression changed.

Dean closed his eyes and pressed one hand beneath his ribs.

”Please.”

That ended the argument.

Vetiver entered the room, barely a trace at first.

Dean inhaled. The effect was so immediate it almost made him angry.

His stomach unclenched enough to feel relieved.

The awful pressure eased, his throat relaxed, and the saliva gathering beneath his tongue disappeared.

Dean breathed again.

Arion felt it happen.

He released slightly more.

Vetiver settled around Dean until it covered the remaining smells from breakfast, the faint detergent in the upholstery, and even the winter air leaking around the edges of a barely cracked window.

Dean sank against him.

”There.”

Arion’s arm came around his waist carefully.

Dean rested his cheek against his chest.

”I hate that this works.”

”I don’t.”

Dean opened one eye.

”Of course you don’t.”

Arion looked entirely unashamed.

His instincts had apparently discovered that his pheromones could make his pregnant mate feel better, and Dean suspected nobody would ever convince them to be reasonable about it again.

Dean inhaled slowly.

No nausea. That was the truly ridiculous part. They had tested everything else.

Medication helped partially. Cold food sometimes worked.

Ginger did nothing. Mint tea had betrayed him after two cups.

Keeping the bedroom cool improved mornings but not enough.

Arion’s pheromones worked every time.

The first time had happened accidentally two nights earlier when Dean woke nauseous at three and Arion pulled him against his chest without thinking.

Within minutes, Dean had fallen asleep again.

They repeated it the following morning.

Same result.

Yesterday afternoon, Dean had been halfway to the bathroom after smelling grilled meat from the staff dining room when Arion reached him in the corridor and released enough vetiver to surround him.

The nausea disappeared before Dean reached the door.

Seven had been informed. Victor too.

Neither had been thrilled. Neither could explain it.

Dean suspected Arion secretly considered their inability to object medically equivalent to permission.

”You’re enjoying this,” Dean murmured.

Arion looked down at him.

”My mate feels better when I’m close.”

”That was not a denial.”

”No.”

Dean almost smiled.

Arion reached for the tray with his free hand.

”What are you doing?”

”Testing it.”

Dean frowned as Arion picked up one of the crackers.

”No.”

”You need food.”

”I know, but—”

Arion held the cracker near his mouth.

Dean stared at him.

”This is humiliating.”

”You chased ducks through a department store.”

”That was dignified.”

Arion’s mouth moved faintly.

Dean took the cracker from him before he could say something offensive.

He bit into it and waited.

Nothing.

Another bite.

Still nothing.

Dean finished the whole cracker.

Arion watched with entirely too much satisfaction.

Dean picked up an apple slice next.

Cold sweetness filled his mouth.

His stomach remained calm.

He looked down at the tray.

Then toward Arion.

”This is absurd.”

Arion released another controlled layer of vetiver.

Dean ate a second piece. And a third. By the time half the tray was gone, Dean felt almost human.

Arion’s arm remained around him the entire time.

Dean leaned back into his chest afterward, full enough to finally stop thinking about food.

”We need to tell Seven this is getting worse.”

”I already did.”

Dean lifted his head sharply.

”When?”

”While you were showering.”

”You report on me now?”

”I informed your physician that you could barely eat yesterday.”

Dean glared.

Arion did not look remotely guilty.