Chapter 234: Before the Party
Dean realized he had missed his heat in the most inconveniently flattering way possible.
The realization did not arrive dramatically. No physician announced it. No calendar was consulted with scholarly horror. No ancient omega instinct rose from the depths to whisper prophecy into his ear.
He was standing in his dressing room in a silk robe, one sleeve half on, staring at the date on his tablet while Boreas occupied the carpet behind him with the heavy, morally judgmental breathing of a creature who believed all human rituals should involve more biscuits.
Dean looked at the date.
Looked at it again.
Then slowly lowered the tablet.
"That," he said aloud to no one, "is absurd."
Boreas thumped his tail once against the rug, which Dean chose to interpret as support.
It had been a month.
A full month since the restaurant. Since the Month of Grace had become less a joke and more a dangerous little private corridor of indulgence, affection, smugness, and entirely too much sex for any man who still wished to preserve the illusion of composure.
Dean had, at various points, attempted to maintain that illusion.
Arion had not helped.
At all.
Quite the opposite, really.
The Crown Prince of Alamina had viewed Dean’s softness as a challenge, his sharpness as a delight, and his body as something to be learned with reverent perseverance that should have required licensing. They had been busy often enough that Dean had, apparently, walked straight past the biological threshold where his heat should have arrived and never noticed because Arion had kept him content, exhausted, and physiologically satisfied enough to render the entire hormonal spectacle moot.
Dean stared into the mirror.
Then, because there was no one there to preserve dignity for, he laughed.
He had not gone into heat because his alpha had been far too competent and far too enthusiastic, and Dean, who should perhaps have been offended on principle, found himself mostly relieved.
Heat was inconvenient under the best of circumstances.
Dean in heat was not the best of circumstances.
Dean in heat was a menace.
He lost what little natural filter he possessed. Every thought came out. Every want sharpened into language. Every possessive instinct, every unkindly honest opinion, every piece of vicious or indecent impulse walked itself directly to his mouth and left the premises with no paperwork filed in advance.
Arion found that version of him enchanting.
Which was, in itself, a problem.
The man had once listened to Dean in a heat haze explain in chilling detail what he thought of three court advisers, two ministers, one prince from a neighboring country, and a decorative vase and afterward had looked at him with the calm, devastating expression of someone thinking, "Yes, this one, exactly like this."
Dean did not need that encouraged.
Especially not before a birthday party.
He looked back down at the tablet, then set it aside and reached for the small velvet box already waiting on the dresser.
Benjamin had sent three.
One dramatic, one elegant, and one "for when you decide you are not a countess from a tragic northern opera," which had been his accompanying note and also, somehow, a direct insult to several unnamed ancestors.
Dean had selected the elegant one.
The ring inside was exactly what it needed to be.
Dark brushed tantalum, broad enough to carry weight without looking clumsy, and the old gold hidden inside the band in a line that would never be visible unless Arion took it off and looked properly.
Arion’s ring.
Benjamin, naturally, had sent the final piece by secure courier with a note folded inside the invoice.
’Your taste survived the distance. Miracles do occur.
I have added a surcharge for emotional labor, border crossing, and having to listen to Sylvia explain your face when discussing amber stones.
Tell Alistair I was right to charge this much.
—B.’
Dean had laughed when he opened the bill.
Then he had paid it immediately.
The work was perfect. The price was offensive. Both things could exist at once.
He opened the box now and looked at the ring again.
The old gold inside the dark metal caught only a narrow line of light. Quiet until noticed. Warm where no one else would see it. The inscription rested along the inner curve, private and exact.
I chose you back.
Dean touched the inside of the band lightly with his thumb.
It still did something to him.
Not the words alone.
What they meant.
Arion had given him a ring first. Pale, frosted platinum and a violet diamond that looked like Dean’s eyes on a day they felt especially defiant. Arion had answered him in metal before Dean had fully understood he was asking anything.
This ring was Dean’s answer in return.
The door opened without knocking because only three people in the palace ignored the need for permission on principle.
Sylvia stepped in first.
She stopped, took one look at the open velvet box in Dean’s hand, then at his face, and sighed.
"You’re doing the thing."
Dean closed the box at once. "What thing?"
"The one where you stare at the ring like it’s a loaded weapon and then pretend you’re evaluating logistics."
"I am evaluating logistics."
"No," Sylvia said, walking farther into the room. "You’re spiraling between before the party and after the party."
Dean narrowed his eyes. "I hate that you know me."
"You love that I know you. That’s why I’m here."
Behind her, Boreas lumbered to his feet and crossed to Dean with the solemnity of a court official approaching a signature. He planted himself against Dean’s leg and leaned.
Dean rested one hand automatically on the dog’s head. "I could still do it tomorrow."
Sylvia looked scandalized. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because that would be insane."
"I’m considering my options."
"You are avoiding your options."
Dean looked toward the long windows, where the late afternoon had begun to turn gold. In a few hours the palace would become unbearable. Staff, flowers, lights, guests, security, relatives, allies, people with titles and intentions, and enough perfumes to start a diplomatic incident. Arion’s birthday always drew too much symbolism with it, and this year would be worse because everyone knew the engaged crown prince and his future consort now existed as a visible, politically meaningful thing.
Dean hated meaningful things in public.
Private things were easier.
Usually.
"Before," Sylvia said.
Dean glanced at her.
She crossed her arms. "Give it to him before. If you wait until after the party, he’ll have to endure the whole evening under public lighting while you guard a secret like a Victorian widow."
"That is a disgusting image."
"And accurate."
Dean considered the velvet box again.
Before.
The thought made his stomach tighten.
It would mean giving Arion something private before the night became public. It would mean the party unfolding afterward with the ring already on his hand. It would mean Arion looking at him all evening with the knowledge of it sitting warm inside the band and inside him.
A catastrophic prospect.
Also maybe the correct one.
Boreas shifted harder against his leg as if voting with body weight.
Sylvia saw the look on Dean’s face and smiled slowly. "There it is."
"There what is?"
"The answer."
Dean sighed.
He hated when the answer arrived in the form of everyone around him being right.
"Before," he said reluctantly.
Sylvia brightened. "Good."
"I reserve the right to regret it instantly."
"Of course."
"And if he says anything too sincere before the guests arrive, I’m leaving the country."
"That would be difficult in formalwear."
Dean looked at her. "You’re very unhelpful."
"No. I’m honest."
Which, Dean thought grimly, was becoming an epidemic in this palace.
He set the box down on the dresser with more care than it needed and turned back toward the mirror. His evening clothes were already laid out: dark, perfectly tailored, expensive enough to keep the court from inventing pity and restrained enough not to compete with the ring on his own hand.
He was fastening the cuff when the next realization hit him.
It landed all at once and with astonishing clarity.
He was going to put a ring on Arion tonight.
On purpose.
Willingly.
While fully lucid.
Dean looked at himself in the mirror for one long second, then at Sylvia through the reflection.
"This," he said, "has become very serious."
Sylvia’s mouth curved. "You’re in love. That tends to happen."
Dean pointed a cufflink at her. "Do not use simple language at me while I’m armed with jewelry."
She only smiled wider.
Behind them, Boreas gave a single approving huff.
And because the entire palace had apparently conspired to become intolerable, Dean found himself smiling too.