Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Their eyes met.

Dean’s entire train of thought, which had been moving in the reasonable direction of wings, fries, sauces, and the moral necessity of rewarding Sylvia before she became more powerful through hunger, suffered immediate derailment.

Arion said something to the researchers.

Both men nodded so quickly Dean almost felt sorry for them, then retreated with the professional speed of people who had been dismissed by royalty and wanted no opportunity to be summoned back.

Sylvia watched them go, then looked at Dean with deep, theatrical pity. "I feel the wings leaving my future."

Dean did not move. "Do not be dramatic."

"I can see the palace car."

"That proves nothing."

"I can see the expression on his face."

"That proves less."

"I can see the expression on yours."

Dean finally turned to face her, but he couldn’t help but smile along as Arion. "That proves even less."

Sylvia smiled. "No. That proves dinner."

Dean looked back at Arion.

Unfortunately, she was right.

Arion was not standing there as a man who had happened to finish a meeting at a convenient time. He was standing there as a man who had planned his day to appear precisely when Dean exited the university, who had already completed whatever research matter had brought him there, and who had no intention of letting Dean wander off to expensive wings with Sylvia as if a private evening had not been planned somewhere without Dean’s consent.

Dean narrowed his eyes as Arion approached.

"You knew," he said before Arion could greet him.

Arion stopped in front of him, his golden gaze dropping briefly to the ring before returning to Dean’s face. "I knew what?"

Dean gestured vaguely between the car, the researchers, and Arion’s entire offensively composed existence. "This."

Arion’s mouth curved faintly. "You’ll need to be more specific."

"No, I won’t."

Sylvia sighed beside them with the mournful dignity of a woman already grieving poultry. "He means the part where you have arrived to steal him before he buys me wings."

Arion looked at her.

Then, with a seriousness that would have convinced anyone less familiar with royal manipulation, said, "I apologize."

Sylvia stared at him. "You do not."

"No," Arion admitted with a grin that made Dean melt. "But I recognize the loss."

Dean closed his eyes. "Do not encourage her."

"I was hungry," Sylvia said.

"You are always hungry when someone else is paying."

"That is when food tastes best."

Arion’s gaze returned to Dean. "I had dinner arranged."

Dean opened his eyes.

"With me?" Dean asked.

Arion’s gaze warmed by the smallest degree. "Yes."

Dean felt Sylvia turn toward him with the spiritual intensity of a woman watching the exact moment her fried lunch died heroically for romance.

He did not look at her.

"I had plans," Dean said.

Arion smiled brighter, and Dean wondered if there would be a day when he would become immune to the tan of Arion’s skin, the scar on his right cheek and brow, and those damn gold eyes.

A terrible question.

The answer was clearly no.

"I’m sure Sylvia wouldn’t mind a delay for the right price," Arion said with a flash of white, perfect teeth.

"I accept," Sylvia said immediately.

Dean turned to her.

Slowly.

Sylvia looked back at him with no shame at all. None. Not even the decorative kind people wore when they knew they had betrayed a friend but wanted credit for honesty.

"You don’t even know the price," Dean said, narrowing his eyes.

"I trust His Highness’s standards." The serenity of this woman was shameless.

"That is not loyalty."

"That is market awareness."

Dean stared.

Sylvia lifted her chin. "I passed the applied section. I deserve to be bought properly."

Arion, the traitor, looked amused. "Wings, fries, sauces, and dessert."

Sylvia’s eyes brightened. "Delivered?"

"To your residence."

"With proper service?"

"Yes."

"With enough sauce variety that I feel respected as a scholar?"

Arion’s mouth curved. "Sure."

Sylvia looked at Dean, serene and victorious. "I accept with gratitude and no remorse."

Dean closed his eyes. "You abandoned me for fried food."

"I abandoned lunch with you for better lunch without walking."

Dean opened his eyes and looked at Arion. "You have ruined her."

"She was already practical."

"She was my friend."

"I remain your friend," Sylvia said. "I am simply a fed one."

Dean exhaled slowly because several hours earlier he had threatened Andrea with three allied powers, and somehow that had required less emotional processing than watching Sylvia sell their lunch plans for wing delivery.

Arion stepped closer, his gaze resting on Dean with that quiet, ruinous warmth. "You had exams. I thought dinner would be better."

"You thought," Dean repeated, trying to not look affected. He was folding like a folding chair.

"Yes."

"For both of us?"

"For you first."

Dean’s irritation, already weakened by the scar, the eyes, and the sheer audacity of Arion standing there as if the entire courtyard had been arranged around this exact moment, suffered another structural collapse.

Sylvia made a small sound. "Oh, that was effective."

Dean pointed at her without looking. "Go wait for your bribe."

"I will." She gave him a bright smile, then looked at Arion. "Your Highness, it has been a pleasure being strategically displaced."

Arion inclined his head. "Congratulations on your results."

Sylvia’s smile softened, real pride slipping through the teasing. "Thank you."

Then she looked back at Dean. "You did well too. Go eat somewhere romantic and pretend you’re annoyed."

"I am annoyed."

"Deeply convincing."

Dean narrowed his eyes, but Sylvia only waved and walked toward the waiting attendant with the delighted confidence of a woman whose evening had been saved by royalty, sauces, and excellent opportunism.

Dean watched her go. "She’ll never be normal again."

Arion stood beside him. "Was she before?"

Dean paused.

Then sighed. "No."

Arion’s hand found his, warm and steady, his thumb brushing once over the platinum ring. "Then no harm done."

Dean looked down at their joined hands, then up at him. "You are frighteningly good at this."

"At what?"

"At making me fold like a goddamn chair."

Arion laughed wholeheartedly, the low sound vibrating through Dean’s body.

It wasn’t the faint curve of his mouth, the quiet breath of amusement Dean had grown accustomed to stealing from him in private moments, or the restrained almost-smile that had people in court wondering if they had hallucinated evidence of humanity.

It was a real laugh.

Low, warm, and sudden enough that several people in the courtyard turned before remembering they valued their lives and continued walking.

Dean froze.

That was unfair... borderline criminal.

That was the type of noise that should have prompted advance warning, defensive preparation, and possibly a medical team.

Arion’s hand tightened around his, still laughing, gold eyes bright now in a way that made the sunlight seem briefly redundant.

Dean stared at him with increasing horror.

"No," Dean said.

Arion’s laughter softened but did not vanish. "No?"

"No. You do not get to do that."

"Laugh?"

"Like that."

Arion’s mouth remained curved. "Was it offensive?"

"It was tactical."

The smile deepened. "Tactical."

"Yes." Dean tried to pull his hand back, failed because he did not actually try, and hated himself for it. "You already have the scar, the eyes, the unreasonably calm voice, and now apparently laughter strong enough to interfere with independent thought. That is an accumulation of unfair advantages."

Arion looked at him for one long, amused second. "You think my laugh is an advantage?"

"I think your entire existence is an administrative burden."

"That was not a no."

Dean’s eyes narrowed. "Do not become pleased."

"I’m already pleased."

"Stop."

"No."