Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Dean had been waiting for five hours.

Five fucking hours.

He had called Arion when Victor asked him to, heard his husband sounding sufficiently strange that every instinct in Dean’s body immediately demanded an explanation, and then spent the next several hours receiving absolutely nothing from anyone involved in the operation.

Dean paced across the private sitting room with his phone in one hand and the other pressed against the underside of his stomach, trying to convince himself that the lack of communication meant the operation was proceeding normally.

Boreas followed him.

The enormous dog had apparently decided that pacing was a family activity and moved between the sofa and the terrace doors every time Dean changed direction, his claws clicking against the polished floor before falling silent on the thick rug.

Dean stopped.

Boreas stopped.

Dean looked down.

”You are not helping.”

The dog wagged his tail.

Dean sighed and resumed walking.

At twenty-two weeks, pregnancy had become an increasingly inconvenient condition whenever he wanted to be truly furious. His stomach was noticeably rounded beneath the loose grey shirt he had changed into after breakfast, and his son had apparently decided that Dean’s ribs were the ideal location for practicing whatever physical abilities he intended to inherit from Arion.

Another movement struck beneath his right rib.

Dean winced.

”Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Boreas lifted his head.

”Not you. Your brother.”

The dog looked perfectly comfortable with that explanation.

Dean lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa and rubbed the offending area with two fingers, waiting for the baby to settle before attempting another call.

He had already contacted Hunter.

The security chief had informed him, with considerable caution, that communication from Claudia’s Palace remained restricted while the joint forces secured the underground facilities.

Dean had asked whether Arion was alive.

Hunter had confirmed that he was.

Dean had asked whether he was injured.

Hunter had said there was no report of a physical injury.

Unfortunately, that was not the same thing.

Dean knew perfectly well that Arion could be standing upright with every limb attached and still be in the middle of something medically catastrophic.

He had seen the forest recording. He remembered the black channels. The yellow eyes.

The way Arion had stopped responding until Dean called him.

Victor would not have contacted Dean personally unless something similar had happened again.

The physician was not sentimental, and he certainly did not consider the crown prince’s pregnant mate an appropriate substitute for trained medical personnel unless there was a very good reason.

Which meant Arion had probably been slipping into that strange state again.

Dean rubbed his forehead.

His earlier tone on the call had been deliberately harsh.

He knew Arion well enough to recognize that concern alone might not reach him when his instincts took over, but the suggestion that Dean was frightened, angry, or otherwise suffering because of something Arion had done was usually sufficient to drag his husband back into the present.

So Dean had complained about their son, about Arion’s terrible timing, and about the fact that he was hungry and expected his husband to return home.

He had made himself sound irritated rather than terrified.

Apparently it had worked.

Victor had not called again.

Dean was beginning to regret not demanding that the physician keep the fucking channel open.

His phone vibrated.

Dean looked down so quickly that Boreas startled.

ARION.

He accepted before the second vibration.

”Where the fuck have you been?”

The screen illuminated.

Arion appeared inside what looked like a military command room, wearing the same dark shirt he had left Alamina in, though his field coat was gone and the upper buttons of his shirt remained open. His hair had become disordered, and a faint stain of dried blood marked one side of his collar.

His eyes were gold.

Normal gold.

Dean felt his shoulders loosen.

Then he remembered he was angry.

”You promised to call me after you finished whatever Victor needed me to interrupt. That was five hours ago.”

Arion looked at him for a moment.

”I know.”

”That is not an explanation.”

”I was occupied.”

Dean stared.

Somewhere behind Arion, someone started laughing.

Dean recognized the sound immediately.

”Nero?”

The laughter became worse.

Arion closed his eyes.

Dean narrowed his.

”Why is Nero laughing?”

”Because he is an idiot.”

That only encouraged him.

Nero appeared briefly over Arion’s shoulder, his long white hair falling untidily around his face while he attempted to control his expression and failed spectacularly.

”Oh, Dean, you have absolutely no idea.”

Arion turned his head.

”Nero.”

”I’m trying.”

”You are not.”

Nero disappeared from view, apparently because he had begun laughing too hard to remain standing comfortably.

Dean stared at the screen.

Then he noticed Hendrik.

The commander sat farther back at a metal table with his elbows resting against the surface and one hand covering his eyes. His black tactical jacket lay abandoned over a nearby chair, and the expression visible when he finally lowered his hand suggested a man who had discovered that resignation was no longer a joke but a legitimate career objective.

Dean’s suspicion increased.

”Why does Hendrik look like that?”

Arion glanced over his shoulder.

”Hendrik has had a difficult day.”

”I can fucking see that.”

Nero made a strangled sound from somewhere outside the camera’s view.

Dean leaned closer to the screen.

”Arion, what happened?”

His husband looked perfectly healthy.

That was the irritating part.

There was no sluggishness in his movements, no unfamiliar darkness in his eyes, and his pheromones reached Dean through the connection with their usual warm vetiver, reassuring enough that the lingering nausea beneath Dean’s ribs settled almost immediately.

Whatever had happened earlier appeared to have passed.

Arion rubbed one hand over his jaw.

”We secured the palace.”

Dean waited.

”Claudia is dead.”

”That sounds like progress.”

”We recovered five surviving dominants from the lower containment rooms. Victor is overseeing their medical transport.”

Dean nodded slowly.

”And?”

Arion hesitated.

Dean knew that hesitation.

His husband was deciding how to present something that would sound considerably worse if described accurately.

”Arion.”

”I can control the infected beasts.”

Dean stared at him.

”You already knew that.”

”Not entirely.”

There was a pause.

Arion continued.

”They respond to my pheromones, and apparently I can influence more than their behavior.”

Dean’s expression flattened.

”What does that mean?”

Nero began laughing again.

Hendrik muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a request for divine intervention.

Dean pointed at the screen.

”I am going to ask you one more time, and I would like an answer that does not require an advanced degree in fucking Arion.”

His husband almost smiled.

”Before I show you, I want you to understand that nobody is injured and Victor is already investigating.”

Dean went very still.

”That is the worst introduction you have ever given me.”

Arion turned the camera.

The image moved past the edge of the metal table, several equipment cases, and a pair of soldiers standing near the open doors.

Then Dean saw the dogs. There were twelve of them. Different sizes. Different coats.

One looked like a large shepherd, another resembled a stocky mountain dog, and several smaller ones had apparently decided that the polished floor was the perfect place to sleep.

All of them had completely black eyes.

The moment Arion approached, the nearest dog stood and wagged its tail.

Another rolled onto its back.

A third crossed the room and sat directly on Arion’s boot.

Dean stared.

”What?”

Nero’s laughter erupted behind the camera.

Arion angled the phone downward, showing the dog pressing its head against his knee with the shameless persistence of an animal demanding affection.

Dean looked at the black eyes. Then at the other dogs. Then back at Arion as he turned the camera toward himself.

”Where are the beasts?”

Arion’s expression became almost apologetic.

Dean’s stomach dropped.

”No.”

”I asked them to behave.”

Dean looked past him at the dogs again.

”Arion.”

”They became smaller.”

Dean opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then looked at the screen with the dawning horror of a man realizing that his husband had apparently returned to Draxil, acquired an entirely new biological ability, and used it to create twelve corrupted versions of Boreas.

Nero was practically wheezing now.

Hendrik looked ready to throw his communication device through the nearest window.

Arion, meanwhile, appeared disturbingly calm.

Dean slowly rested one hand over his stomach.

”Please tell me you are not bringing twelve fucking dogs home.”

Arion looked down.

The smallest dog was still sitting on his boot.

Then he looked back at Dean.

”I was actually hoping you might have a suggestion.”

Dean stared at his husband.

For the first time since discovering his pregnancy, he genuinely had nothing to say.