Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

There was a rustle on the other end, fabric shifting, and a faint huff that was almost certainly Boreas, and then Dean’s voice came back clearer, closer, as if he had stood and moved away from whoever else was in the room.

"That depends," Dean said.

"On what?"

"On whether you are asking because you miss me," Dean replied, his voice smoothing into something softer and more dangerous, "or because being ordered around by ministers for four days has damaged your manners."

Arion looked down at the dark reflection in the window beside him. His own face looked sharper there, older in the wrong places, the northern light still caught in the angles of it.

"Both," he said.

Dean let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh if he had been in a kinder mood. "That, unfortunately, is believable."

"I’m serious."

"No, you are Arion. Not Mister Serious."

Despite himself, Arion smiled.

Dean made a soft, irritated noise, indicating that he had noticed exactly what he was doing and disapproved of how well it worked.

"Don’t do that," Dean said.

"Do what?"

"Sound pleased while I’m insulting you."

"You weren’t insulting me."

"I was trying to."

"You failed."

Dean sighed, long-suffering and elegant even over the phone. "This is why people should not let you win wars."

"I’m not winning anything."

"Arion, you called me to commandeer my evening and somehow made it sound like devotion. That is a military tactic."

Arion leaned back against the leather seat, the northern fatigue still in his bones but less suffocating now, thinned by Dean’s voice into something survivable. "Will you clear your schedule?"

There was a pause.

He could hear movement on the other end now, the soft shift of fabric, perhaps Dean pacing, perhaps Boreas deciding someone’s mood required supervision.

"Arion, it was clear the moment your secretary told me you are either leaving today or killing someone. But I still expect sweets or pastries."

"I’ll find the best ones the capital has to offer," Arion promised, his voice dropping into that low, resonant frequency that always seemed to make the cabin of the jet feel smaller. "Even if I have to wake the royal baker herself."

Dean laughed wholeheartedly. "Anneliese would hate you for ruining her beauty sleep."

Arion smiled into the dark window. "She likes me enough to forgive it."

"No," Dean said at once. "She tolerates you because you sign her budget requests and because the alternative is poisoning the future emperor."

"That sounds dramatic."

"That sounds like palace employment."

The ease of it moved through Arion like something medicinal. Pressure letting off in small, quiet increments. The north was still in his muscles, still in the back of his mind, but Dean’s voice had reached it and made the weight less total.

"What are you doing?" Arion asked.

"Momentarily? I’m trying to survive Boreas’s love while reviewing the budget of your household and trying to look like I know what I’m doing."

"Our household."

The silence on the line was immediate.

Then Dean said, "That was possessive."

"It was accurate."

"You are very attached to that word."

Arion looked out at the dark window, his own reflection faint over the clouds. "So are you."

Dean exhaled softly. "I walked into that."

"Yes."

"Unhelpful."

"Yes."

A faint sound reached him through the line, half huff and half laugh. "I should revoke your evening on principle."

"You won’t."

"No," Dean admitted, his voice lower now. "I won’t."

Arion let the answer settle into him.

’Our household.’

The phrase had come out before he thought to weigh it, but now that it was said, he found he could not regret it. Not because it was practical, though it was. Not because marriage, treaty, and palace logistics were slowly grinding their way toward inevitability, though they were. No, he did not regret it because it felt right in his mouth.

Dean in the palace.

Dean in the budget.

Dean in the rooms, with the staff, the dog, the quiet, and the disruption.

Dean belongs there not as a guest but as his mate and future.

He had a future.

"You’re quiet," Dean said.

"I’m listening to how good that sounded."

Dean made the softest possible offended sound. "You are so lucky I love you."

That made Arion freeze.

His golden eyes widened as the northern fatigue, the aircraft cabin, the dark window, the officers, and the upcoming season all faded away in one clean, impossible second.

"Say it again."

The line went dead quiet.

Then Dean, who had clearly realized what had just left his mouth and was now standing somewhere in the palace with the full knowledge that he had detonated something irreversible over a routine call about pastries and budgets, said, "No."

Arion sat forward in his seat. "Dean."

"No."

"You just—"

"I know what I just did."

"Then do it again."

Dean exhaled, and Arion could hear the heat in it now, the abrupt strain of someone who would rather be ambushed by assassins than by his own honesty. "Absolutely not. You do not get to command a second confession like you’re ordering reinforcements."

Arion’s hand tightened around the phone. "Confession."

Dean made a low, miserable sound. "You are sounding pleased."

"I am far beyond pleased."

"That is exactly the problem."

Arion looked down at his reflection in the dark window and barely recognized his own face. Not because it had changed, but because whatever expression he wore now belonged to a man who had just had the center of his world quietly handed to him over a phone line.

"You love me," he said, the grin on his face audible through his voice.

Dean was silent.

Then, mutinously, "You are very attached to repetition tonight."

"Dean."

"No, if you say my name like that, I’m hanging up."

"You won’t."

"No," Dean said, with immense irritation and no actual denial. "I won’t."

Arion laughed softly, almost helplessly, and dragged one hand over his face.

He had imagined this moment before, in ways he would never admit aloud. Never like this, though. Not over a call. Not after border reports, infected season forecasts, and a conversation about pastries. Not dropped into his hands with no fanfare, setup, or ceremony, but rather the truth escaping because Dean had allowed himself to be warm for half a second too long.

It was so Dean that it hurt.

"You’re quiet," Dean said.

"I’m trying not to terrify the cabin."

That pulled the faintest laugh from Dean. "That sounds dramatic."

"I just heard the love of my life say he loves me while discussing household budgets. I am allowed one dramatic moment."

Another silence.

Dean responded in a low and direct tone, which Arion had learned meant there would be no retreat from the truth.

"Well," he said. "Now you’re making it difficult to deny."

Arion closed his eyes.

’The love of my life.’

That had slipped out too.

He did not regret it. Not even a little.

"Dean."

"What?"

"I love you too."

The line went so still that for one irrational second Arion thought he had broken it.

Then Dean inhaled.

As if the words had reached him all the way through the palace walls, through the ring on his hand, through all the defenses he still wore with such elegance.

"You chose a terrible time to sound sincere," Dean said at last.

"I thought sincerity was expensive."

"You sound like Benjamin. This is your fault somehow."

Arion smiled. "I’ve had a long week."

"That is not an excuse to ambush me emotionally from a plane."

"It worked, though."

"I hate that you know that."

"I’m still going to ask again."

Dean made an immediate, scandalized noise. "Arion."

"Say it again."

"No."

"Please."

There was a pause.

Then Dean said, with lethal sweetness, "You are lucky I’m in love with you, because that was shameless."

Arion’s heart kicked hard enough to make him lean back.

"Dean."

"No, absolutely not. You got one clear declaration and one revised version. We are not turning this into a recital."