Chapter 231: Acquire mate.
Arion had not argued after that.
Not because he lacked material.
He had plenty. Dean saying ’I’m in love with you’ in one form and then again in another felt like the kind of event that should legally permit repetition, celebration, public holidays, and perhaps the immediate restructuring of the empire around his improved mood.
But Dean had gone quiet in that particular way that meant he was standing inside his own honesty now, feeling the shape of it settle, and Arion had learned enough over the last months not to shove at truths Dean had already offered freely.
So he had smiled into the dark of the cabin, said, "I’ll be home soon," and let Dean threaten him with pastries, dinner, and consequences until the line ended.
That had been hours ago.
Now the capital unfolded beneath him.
Alamina at dusk was all cut glass and gold veins, long avenues burning softly beneath the first true dark, bridges threaded with light, and government towers holding themselves above the rest of the city with the calm arrogance of institutions too old to apologize. From above, it looked orderly. Elegant. Controlled.
Arion knew better.
He knew what lived under the polish. Fear. Duty. Appetite. The coming season of infected beasts already tightening nerves in the military districts and medical wards. Everyone would be preparing now, quietly and efficiently and with just enough denial to remain functional.
Usually, returning to the capital before the season set his teeth on edge.
Usually, the first sight of the city only reminded him how much it expected from him.
Tonight, the entire thing blurred into one simple fact.
Dean was here.
The jet descended.
The runway lights sharpened, the wheels hit, and the body of the aircraft shuddered once before settling into speed and then control. Arion barely noticed. One of the aides across from him had already started sorting final documents for immediate review on arrival. Another was watching him with the careful expression of someone trying to judge whether he was safe to approach with border summaries before he’d eaten.
Arion stood before either of them could speak.
"Your Highness," one began.
"Tomorrow."
The man stopped.
Arion did not soften it. "If the empire survives one flight, it will survive one night."
That was, perhaps, harsher than necessary.
He did not regret it.
The aide bowed. "Of course."
By the time the jet door opened, Arion had already shrugged back into the full shape of himself: coat straight, expression controlled, gold eyes banked into something the capital knew how to read.
The motorcade was waiting.
So were the guards, the security chief, two members of the palace coordination office, and the first stack of updates someone was foolish enough to try handing him on the tarmac.
Arion took the top page, scanned the heading, and passed it back untouched.
"Tomorrow."
"Your Highness, the infected stockpile reports—"
"Will still exist tomorrow."
The man swallowed and stepped back.
The ride into the city was a blur of lights and dark glass. The royal route opened ahead of them in measured layers, traffic clearing, gates responding, and security slipping invisibly into place. Arion sat in the back seat and watched the capital pass with the strange, acute impatience of a man who had no interest in arriving anywhere except one room.
He passed the imperial palace first.
The old seat of state rose out of the city like something carved from authority itself, all illuminated marble, terraces, towers, and the long severe lines of an institution that had forgotten how to be human several centuries ago. It was magnificent.
It meant nothing to him tonight.
The gates opened.
The car entered.
The broad central court flashed past in gold and shadow, then the west wing, then the state residences, then the private roads curling deeper inward toward the crown prince’s palace.
"Home," Dean had said.
’Come home.’
Arion felt the words in his chest with every turn of the drive.
When at last the second set of gates opened and the crown prince’s palace came into view, his pulse changed in a way he did not bother to name. This residence was younger, less ceremonial, and more brutal in its elegance. Dark stone, glass, terraces, clean lines, and private gardens shielded from the city by design rather than height. It had always suited him better than the imperial palace.
Now it had Dean in it.
That had changed everything.
The car stopped.
A footman opened the door.
Arion was out before the man could fully step back.
The main entrance took him in under warm light and polished quiet. The staff straightened at once. Someone began to speak.
"Your Highness, welcome back, the evening meal has been—"
"Where is he?"
The servant blinked, then recovered with admirable speed. "His Highness is in the west family sitting room, Your Highness. With Boreas."
Of course.
Arion was already moving.
The entrance hall, the main stair, the western corridor, and the familiar turn past the library alcove and private gallery - all of it dissolved into speed and instinct. He barely registered the palace around him. A maid pressed herself flat against the wall to avoid collision. One of the security officers opened a door before Arion quite reached it, either out of excellent training or healthy fear.
The west-sitting room doors swung inward.
And there he was.
Dean was on the long sofa by the cold fireplace, one leg folded under him, one hand resting on Boreas’s massive head. Papers and a tablet lay scattered over the low table in front of him in the remnants of what had probably been an attempt at work. He wore something soft and dark, not formal enough for court, too elegant for complete indifference. The ring Arion had given him caught the lamp light when he turned.
He looked up.
For one suspended second, neither moved.
Then Dean stood.
Arion did not remember crossing the room.
He only remembered impact.
One hand at Dean’s waist. The other at the back of his neck. Dean’s breath catching once, sharp and real, before Arion kissed him like the entire drive back through the capital had only been restraint by distance.
Dean made a low sound against his mouth that might have been protest in theory and absolutely was not in practice. His hands came up at once, one fisting in the front of Arion’s coat, the other sliding up over his shoulder as if to anchor, claim, and keep him all at once.
Boreas gave one deeply offended huff and got off the sofa with the martyrdom of a dog displaced by romance again.
Arion did not care.
Acquire mate, his exhausted, feral mind had said somewhere between runway and city gate.
Acquire Dean.
He kissed him harder.
Not rough enough to frighten. But with the full force of four nights away, a season looming, the old northern ghosts still snapping at his heels, and the unbearable, impossible relief of finally having him in reach instead of only in voice and text and memory.
Dean broke first, but only enough to breathe.
"Arion," he said, and his voice was already ruined.
"Yes."
"That was not a greeting."
"It was sufficient."
Dean laughed, breathless and disbelieving, and Arion kissed him again because he could.
This time, slower.
The pace of arrival instead of collision.
He felt Dean soften into it by degrees, the tension leaving his shoulders, the hand in Arion’s coat loosening only to slide flatter over his chest. When they finally pulled apart, Dean kept hold of him.
Arion looked down at him.
Dean’s violet eyes were bright in the lamp light, his mouth flushed, his expression caught between annoyance and that private, terrible warmth Arion had learned was the truest sign of surrender he would ever get.
"You look awful," Dean said.