Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Dean went very still.

That sentence should not have hit as hard as it did. It was smug, theatrical, entirely too aware of itself, and delivered by a man already grinning like he had personally conquered fate with a cufflink excuse and half a shirt.

And yet.

’I look loved.’

Dean’s face warmed further, which was intolerable because it proved Arion right in ways that should have been punishable.

"That," Dean said, "is not helping."

Arion’s grin did not falter. If anything, it softened at the edges into something worse, something warmer and far more dangerous than open delight. "It wasn’t meant to."

Dean looked at the box in his hand.

Then at Arion.

Then, because there was no dignified path left and he had already crossed three emotional borders to get here, he held the box out.

"It’s for your birthday," he said, his voice shaking.

Arion did not take it immediately.

That surprised him enough to make him look up.

The smile faded, but there was still a hint of it at the edges, which was impossible to get rid of from a man who had clearly spent the last ten seconds finding joy in new and unreasonable amounts. But what had replaced it was quieter. Deeper. The expression of someone trying very hard not to ruin the moment by touching it too soon.

Dean’s pulse misbehaved.

"Take it," he said, because if Arion kept looking at him like that, something inside him was going to melt through the floor.

Arion obeyed and took the box with both hands.

That, too, was intolerable.

Dean folded his arms because standing there empty-handed felt too vulnerable and watched while Arion opened it.

The dark brushed band lay in the velvet with that same quiet menace Benjamin had admired so much.

Arion inhaled.

The sound was so soft Dean almost missed it.

He watched Arion lift the ring from the box, watched the light catch faintly on the hidden gold, and watched the exact second his thumb traced the inner edge and felt the difference in the metal there.

Arion’s features stilled by a fraction, the line of his mouth softening while his eyes darkened with something so open Dean had the absurd urge to turn and flee before it reached him fully.

He did not flee.

Mostly because his legs had become unreliable.

Arion looked at the ring.

Then at Dean.

Then back down again, as if needing to confirm that it was real, that it existed in his hand and not only in the wildest, most self-indulgent corner of his imagination.

"You made this for me," he said.

It was not a question.

Dean hated that his answer came out quiet. "Yes."

Arion’s thumb moved again over the inside.

He stopped.

Dean knew the exact moment he found the engraving. He saw it happen in the tightening of Arion’s hand, in the minute shift of breath, in the way the whole room seemed to sharpen around the silence.

Arion looked up.

There was no grin now.

Dean’s throat tightened.

Arion’s voice was lower when it came. "I chose you back."

Dean nodded once.

There was no point pretending it said anything else. No point dressing it up now with sarcasm, no point claiming Benjamin had bullied him into phrasing or that the gold was purely aesthetic or that the ring had come with no dangerous amount of intention behind it.

"Yes," he said. "That’s what it says."

Arion stared at him.

Dean, because standing under that look without speaking felt impossible, continued before his courage abandoned him entirely.

"You gave me one first," he said. "You answered me before I really understood you were answering anything. So this is..." He glanced once at the ring, then back at Arion. "This is mine."

Arion closed his hand around it, and for one terrible second Dean thought he might say something devastating enough to ruin the party before it began.

Instead, Arion crossed the distance between them with frightening purpose, took Dean’s face in both hands, and kissed him.

The kiss was full of a reverence Dean had not prepared for and did not know how to survive gracefully. It answered every sharp edge in him with warmth instead of force, every fear with certainty, every piece of hidden meaning with the unbearable knowledge that Arion understood exactly what he had been given.

Dean made a helpless sound against his mouth and forgot, for a moment, the party, the guests, the formal clothes, the entire concept of composure.

When Arion pulled back, he kept one hand at Dean’s jaw and the other at the back of his neck, as if letting him go too quickly would be some kind of strategic error.

"I chose you back," Arion repeated, softer now, almost as if he were testing it in his own mouth.

Dean’s face was on fire.

He hated everything. He also loved every second of it.

"Yes," he said, because apparently all complex language had abandoned him.

Arion laughed once under his breath, but there was no mockery in it. Only wonder. Only that dangerous, impossible warmth that kept making Dean feel as though the room were too small for what was happening inside it.

"You have any idea," Arion said, voice roughened by feeling and very little else, "what this does to me?"

Dean’s first instinct was to say something elegant.

His second was to leave the country.

What came out instead was direct enough to betray him completely.

"I hoped it would do something."

Arion’s eyes closed for the briefest second, as if that sentence had gone somewhere painful in the best possible way.

Then he opened them and looked at Dean with such intensity that Dean had to set one hand against his chest just to keep himself from being swallowed whole by it.

"I was already in love with you," Arion said. "This is not helping me remain remotely sane."

Dean’s mouth twitched before he could stop it. "I’m not sure sanity was ever your strongest category."

Arion’s laugh came back, softer now, threaded through with too much feeling. "Probably not."

He lifted the ring slightly between them. "Put it on me."

Dean’s pulse jumped.

Arion’s hand - broad, scarred, warm - opened between them.

Dean took the ring carefully and, for one second, just looked at the hand. He knew this hand. He knew how strong it was, how it could hold a weapon, a document, or his body, all with the same terrifying skill.

Knew what it meant, that Arion was holding it out like this.

He slid the ring on slowly.

It fit perfectly.

Benjamin would become unbearable when he heard.

The dark metal settled into place against Arion’s skin, the hidden gold invisible from the outside, the inscription now resting where only Arion would know it was there.

Arion looked down at it.

Then at Dean.

The expression on his face made Dean’s heart do something stupid and adolescent and entirely unsuited to a future consort.

"Dean," Arion said.

"No," Dean replied immediately, because his own name in that tone was a warning sign.

"Yes," Arion said.

"I am not prepared for sincerity at this volume."

"That sounds like your problem."