Chapter 220: Keep it personal.
Dean gave her a long look. "This is why Arion giving you administrative access was a strategic disaster."
"No," Sylvia said. "It was a wonderful decision. For me."
"That is not a useful metric."
"It is the only one I currently recognize."
Dean was about to answer when the faculty assistant near Andrea bowed, withdrew with visible relief, and disappeared through one of the side doors as if grateful to have survived whatever polite cruelty had passed for conversation.
Andrea remained where he was.
For one long second, he simply looked at Dean.
Then he came forward.
The corridor responded before Dean had fully decided whether to be annoyed or entertained. A pair of students standing near the notice display shifted aside. Someone pretending to read an announcement forgot to blink. One of the proctors near the exam hall entrance glanced up, took in Andrea’s expression, Dean’s stillness, and Sylvia’s barely contained delight, then immediately found the attendance ledger fascinating.
’Cowards,’ Dean thought.
’Reasonable cowards, but cowards.’
Andrea moved with the smooth, measured grace of someone who had been trained to turn every approach into an accusation. His dark academic coat fell cleanly around him, the silver at his throat catching the morning light in small flashes. Up close, he looked exactly as Dean remembered from a distance and worse in person: beautiful, polished, composed, and so deeply displeased that the air around him seemed to sharpen.
’No exposed nipple today, at least.’
Dean did not look.
He did not.
Sylvia’s mouth twitched beside him.
Dean did not move his lips. "Do not."
"I didn’t say anything."
"You are breathing provocatively."
"That is a new charge."
Andrea stopped in front of them.
His gaze went first to Dean’s face, then, inevitably, to his hand.
The ring had become a public crime.
Dean let his hand remain visible at his side, platinum catching the light without apology.
Andrea noticed.
His mouth curved faintly, though nothing in the expression suggested amusement. "Prince Dean."
"Lord Andrea," Dean said.
Sylvia made a small sound of appreciation, as if the formal opening had improved the quality of the performance.
Andrea’s eyes flicked to her. "Sylvia."
"Sylvia is fine," she replied pleasantly.
Andrea’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, cool and dismissive in a way that would have been insulting from anyone less elegant. "I had heard you were moving through the university with new privileges."
Sylvia smiled. "Good news travels quickly."
"So does opportunism."
Dean’s expression sharpened. "Careful."
Andrea looked back at him, and the faint curve of his mouth deepened by a cruel fraction. "How protective. Has the crown prince’s fiancée become generous with borrowed authority as well?"
The corridor seemed to stall further.
Dean felt Sylvia shift beside him, not stepping forward, but ready in the way competent people were ready.
He did not need her to intervene. Not yet.
Dean tilted his head slightly. "That depends. Are we speaking in general, or did you rehearse this on the way here?"
Andrea’s eyes flashed and then took in his face, his posture, the ring, the subtle accommodation in his stance that Dean had hoped no one here would notice. The faint stiffness that still haunted his body if he stood too long. The way he had learned to distribute pain without revealing its source.
Andrea’s gaze narrowed.
"Only a few hours today, then?" he asked. "How generous of you to visit the institution that was meant to educate you."
Sylvia’s brows lifted.
Dean went very still.
Andrea’s voice remained smooth, each word placed with surgical care. "The crown prince’s fiancée barely begins university in Alamina, misses half of it, returns only to sit examinations, and somehow gains additional access permissions for his companions while avoiding the ordinary consequences of absence."
Dean felt the words strike, not because they were true in the way Andrea meant them, but because they circled close enough to secrets to be dangerous.
The days he had lost to pain and controlled observation while the public version of his life remained polished enough for consumption. The official explanations had been careful. Royal obligations. Adjusted schedule. Political transitions. Dominant accommodation.
All true.
None of them complete.
Andrea did not know. Dean could see that. He was angry, not informed. Wounded pride had given him good aim, not the right target.
That did not make the arrow harmless.
Dean’s fingers flexed once, then stilled.
Sylvia’s voice came out light, but there was steel beneath it. "That is a fairly impressive number of assumptions for one sentence."
Andrea did not look at her. "I don’t believe I asked for commentary from someone who acquired her clearance through proximity."
Sylvia smiled pleasantly. "No. You earned it anyway."
Dean almost laughed.
Andrea’s gaze cut to her, sharp enough to draw blood if looks obeyed physics. "How loyal."
"How observant," Sylvia corrected.
"Lord Andrea, whatever issue you have with me, keep it personal," Dean said, his purple eyes going cold. "I understand that you do not like me for being chosen and for the fact that my pheromones are more compatible with Arion."
The corridor went still.
Not silent, not truly. There were too many people nearby pretending not to listen, too many shoes against polished stone, too many doors opening and closing in distant wings. But the air immediately around them sharpened into a cleaner kind of quiet.
Andrea’s expression changed.
It was small. Almost nothing. A faint tightening at the corner of his mouth. A subtle lift of his chin. The kind of adjustment a man makes when a blade he had planned to use is suddenly turned and held steady against his own throat.
Sylvia did not move beside Dean.
For once, she did not even look pleased.
Andrea’s gaze returned to Dean slowly. "Is that what you think this is?"
Dean held his eyes. "Isn’t it?"
Andrea smiled.
It was beautiful in the way frost on glass was beautiful, and about as warm.
"How tidy," Andrea said. "How comforting for you."
Dean’s fingers relaxed at his side with deliberate care. "There is nothing comforting about being used as someone else’s target because the situation is humiliating."