Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Arion never intended to take Dean to Draxil.

He simply stopped saying so.

The distinction was not particularly honorable, but it was practical, and Arion had accepted that Dean could be angry with him after he came home alive.

The argument had ended a month earlier with Dean sitting across his lap, one hand over the small curve of his stomach and absolute certainty in his expression as he announced that he was going with him to Claudia’s palace.

Arion had looked at his pregnant mate, remembered Snake Island, the corrupted pheromones, the hidden laboratories, and the black pathways that had recently appeared across his own skin, and decided there was no version of reality in which Dean entered Draxil while carrying their son.

So he had kissed him and said they would discuss it once Amaru confirmed the situation.

Dean had heard negotiation.

Arion had meant postponement.

It worked remarkably well.

For almost four weeks.

During that time, Amaru continued tightening his control over Draxil while Arion, Otto, and Hendrik quietly prepared for entry into Claudia’s palace. Military districts changed allegiance one by one, old commanders resurfaced, and the capital remained unstable without descending into the civil war everyone had feared.

Then Amaru sent confirmation shortly before dawn.

The palace was accessible.

Not safe, because Claudia’s palace was unlikely ever to deserve that word, but controlled enough that an Alaminan delegation could enter without walking directly into an active succession conflict.

By six thirty, Arion was already in Otto’s office.

The emperor stood behind his desk in charcoal trousers and a black shirt with the sleeves pushed to his forearms, reading Amaru’s latest security assessment beneath the pale morning light coming through the eastern windows.

Arion was halfway through Hendrik’s deployment schedule when Otto opened a narrow compartment beneath one of the desk drawers.

A tiny yellow duck rolled out.

It wore a silver crown.

Both men stopped.

Otto stared at it with the exhausted resignation of someone who had been losing a private war for nearly a month.

Arion picked it up.

”That makes nine in this office.”

”Eleven.”

Arion looked at his father.

”I found two before you arrived.”

”Where?”

”One was behind the northern trade archives.”

That was almost respectable.

”And the other?”

Otto’s expression flattened.

”In my tea cabinet.”

Arion turned the little duck between his fingers.

The campaign had become increasingly elaborate.

He had found one inside the pocket of a winter coat, another behind a framed photograph in his private office, and one inexplicably attached beneath the underside of his desk, where it might have remained for years if a dropped stylus had not forced him to look underneath.

Minerva had discovered several.

She had also developed an alarming tendency to look innocent whenever ducks appeared in locations Dean could not reasonably have reached without assistance.

Rina denied nothing.

Dean denied everything.

Arion put the silver-crowned duck into his coat pocket.

Otto noticed.

”You complain every time you find one and then keep them.”

”I never said I disliked them.”

”That explains why Dean is still doing it.”

”No. Dean is still doing it because he enjoys psychological warfare.”

Otto returned to the briefing.

”Your aircraft leaves at ten forty.”

Arion’s attention shifted immediately.

”Victor?”

”Already at the military wing. Hendrik is taking the ground team separately.”

Arion nodded.

Everything was ready.

Except Dean.

That part could not be prepared for.

When Arion returned to their residence, the morning had warmed enough for the terrace doors to stand open, carrying the scent of wet gardens into the private dining room.

Dean sat near the windows with breakfast in front of him, dressed in black trousers and a loose pale-grey shirt that no longer came close to disguising the pregnancy when he sat sideways

At twenty-two weeks, their son had apparently decided subtlety was beneath him.

Boreas occupied the floor beside Dean’s chair, one enormous paw resting across Dean’s slipper.

Arion entered through the adjoining corridor without his coat.

Dean looked up from the bowl of yogurt and fruit he had been criticizing for the last five minutes and saw nothing particularly unusual. Arion wore dark trousers and a fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, clothing formal enough for work but hardly enough to suggest international travel.

”You disappeared early.”

”Otto needed me.”

Dean made a sympathetic sound.

”That sounds unfortunate.”

”It usually is before seven.”

Arion crossed the dining room and bent to kiss him.

Dean tilted his face up automatically, catching the familiar trace of vetiver before Arion straightened.

”What are you looking for?” Dean asked when Arion continued toward the private study.

”One of my physical seals.”

Dean took another spoonful of yogurt.

That was ordinary enough.

Despite most royal authorization being digital, Arion still kept several engraved seals for treaty documents, military orders, and formal correspondence that required physical authentication. Half of them lived inside the locked compartment built into his study wall.

Dean heard the lock disengage.

Boreas lifted his head at the sound, then immediately decided nothing interesting was happening and dropped it back onto Dean’s foot.

”You know,” Dean called toward the study, ”if you find another duck in there, I accept no responsibility.”

Arion’s voice came back through the open doorway.

”You never accept responsibility.”

”Because there is no evidence.”

”There are ducks.”

”That proves the existence of ducks.”

Arion appeared again carrying a small black case no larger than his palm.

Dean glanced at it.

”Which one?”

”Crown-prince authority.”

Still nothing strange.

That seal could be used for anything from military procurement to foreign correspondence.

Dean returned his attention to breakfast.

Arion stopped beside him again.

For half a second, his hand rested on the back of Dean’s neck.

The touch was warmer than usual.

Dean looked up.

”What?”

”Nothing.”

Arion bent and kissed his forehead.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

”You are being affectionate before nine in the morning. Suspicious.”

”I’m always affectionate.”

”You are usually irritating first.”

Arion’s mouth curved.

”There’s still time.”

Dean smiled.

Arion’s hand slid briefly over the curve of his stomach before he stepped away.

Their son moved beneath the fabric.

Dean looked down.

”He likes you better when you stop touching him.”

”That is because he takes after you.”

”That is slander.”

Arion picked up the black case.

”I’ll see you later.”

Dean waved him off.

”Bring lunch if Otto keeps you.”

”I’ll remember.”

Then Arion left.

Dean did not think about it again.

He finished breakfast, informed the kitchen that the fruit was acceptable but whoever had chosen the muesli deserved a discussion about texture, and moved into the sitting room with Boreas following heavily behind him.

The morning passed quietly.

Dean reviewed two reports, rejected six possible names for their son, accepted one for approximately eleven minutes, and then decided he hated it.

By ten thirty, the palace had warmed enough that he opened the western terrace doors.

Fresh air moved through the room, carrying the damp scent of the gardens and the distant noise of aircraft from the military field beyond the southern ridge.

Dean barely noticed.

Military traffic was normal.

He stood on the terrace with one hand beneath his stomach, watching Boreas investigate a flower bed he had been forbidden from entering, when the deeper note of engines rolled across the palace grounds.

Not transport helicopters.

A jet.

Dean looked toward the runway almost absently.

The aircraft was already moving.

Dark fuselage. Silver crown insignia near the tail.

Dean’s expression changed.

He knew that plane.

Everyone in Alamina knew that plane.

The crown prince’s aircraft accelerated along the distant runway and lifted cleanly into the pale sky.

Dean stared.

For several seconds, his mind simply refused to make the connection.

Then everything from the morning rearranged itself.

Otto needed him early.

The physical crown-prince seal.

The second kiss.

I’ll see you later.

Dean’s mouth slowly fell open.

”No.”

Boreas looked up from the garden.

Dean stepped closer to the stone balustrade.

The jet climbed higher and banked east.

East.

Toward Draxil.