Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

"I will take that."

They sat side by side because Arion apparently had no intention of placing a table between them after the temple had already done enough damage for one day.

Dean noticed.

He did not comment.

The first plate arrived before he could decide whether that was romantic or tactically suffocating. Warm bread, olive oil, grilled prawns with lemon, roasted vegetables, and a fish dish that smelled like herbs, butter, and the kind of seaside peace Dean deeply resented on principle.

Arion placed a piece of bread on his plate.

Dean looked at it, then at him.

"Are you feeding me because I look unstable?"

"Yes."

"That was not even slightly subtle."

"I am not trying to be subtle."

Dean picked up the bread with narrowed eyes. "You are very lucky I like you."

"I am."

"You are supposed to say you love me."

"I love you," Arion said at once.

Dean froze.

The bread, unfortunately, did not save him.

Arion looked at him with that warmth that made Dean feel both cherished and deeply attacked.

Dean took an aggressive bite just to have something to do with his mouth.

"That was unfair," he muttered.

"Yes."

"You admit it?"

"I am a husband before I am a fair opponent."

Dean stared at him, then smiled despite himself.

Lunch helped.

The prophecy remained in the back of his mind like a bruise he kept pressing by accident. Sebastian. Nero. Siren inheritance. The capital fallen. Infected beasts breaking into the world. Ilara waiting until their honeymoon, until Dean was inside the temple, until the single chance Arion had given the original temples to approach them with trust, and used it to place a disaster in their hands.

Dean hated that part most.

Someone had seen fragments of a future where Sebastian died, where Nero died, where the capital fell, and they had kept it sealed in temple archives because they were afraid of interpreting it wrong.

Perhaps they had been right to fear that.

Dean did not care.

Sebastian was in the middle.

Dean’s appetite faltered.

Arion’s hand moved under the table, covering his knee.

"Stop," he said softly.

Dean looked at him. "I am eating."

"You are plotting."

Dean gasped. "Rude. I married a tyrant."

"You married a sigma."

"That is worse."

Arion’s mouth twitched, but his eyes remained gentle. "Yes."

Dean leaned back in his chair and looked out at the sea, glittering too brightly beneath the sun. For a while, he let Arion talk about stupid things. The restaurant’s balcony railing. Hunter’s offended expression when the waiter tried to recommend a public dessert cart. The villa’s pool, which Dean had not used yet because apparently marriage had involved more political emergencies than swimming.

The words moved around him like warm water.

Eventually, Dean breathed out.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

Arion looked at him. "Now?"

"Yes. You keep trying to make me feel better. Fine. I am accepting the operation. What do you want?"

Arion’s gaze darkened slightly.

Dean’s stomach tightened for an entirely different reason than the earlier anger.

"I want to take you back to the mansion," Arion said, his voice low. "Return to bed. Lock the doors. And not leave for a while."

Dean stared at him.

Then felt heat climb up his neck in a way that was extremely inconvenient for a man who had just survived a prophecy.

"That is your plan?"

"Yes."

"To fight the end of the world with bedsheets?"

"To remind my husband that he is on his honeymoon."

Dean swallowed.

The sea suddenly became very interesting.

"If the future calls?"

"I will block the number."

Dean laughed.

It came out softer than before. Less broken.

Arion looked satisfied, which was unbearable.

"Fine," Dean said, trying for dignity and landing somewhere near surrender. "We can return to bed."

Arion leaned closer. "Good."

"You are very smug."

"I am very motivated."

Dean nearly choked on his water.

They left after dessert because Arion had declared compensation unfinished until Dean had eaten something with citrus cream and honeyed pastry layers. Dean insulted it for being too good, which Arion accepted as praise.

The drive back to the mansion was quieter.

Arion kept his hand on Dean’s thigh, watching Ylico pass beyond the tinted glass in flashes of white stone, green terraces, and blue sea.

By the time they reached the mansion, Dean felt tired enough that anger had become something slower, buried under skin rather than burning through it.

"I am showering first," he said the moment they entered their private suite.

Arion’s eyes followed him. "Alone?"

Dean paused at the bedroom door and looked back. "If you come with me, we will not reach the bed."

Arion’s expression changed.

Dean pointed at him. "That was not an invitation."

"It sounded like useful information."

Dean left before he could lose the argument through eye contact.

The bathroom door closed.

The shower started a moment later.

Only then did Arion’s face change, softness disappeared so completely that the room seemed to cool around him.

He took out his phone and placed the call through a secure line.

His father answered on the second ring.

"Arion."

"Did you receive Hendrik’s alert?"

A pause.

"Yes."

Arion walked to the window. Outside, the sea glittered beyond the gardens, peaceful and obscene. "Ilara used the one chance I gave the temples to speak with Dean for this."

Otto was silent.

Arion’s hand tightened around the phone. "She waited until he was inside that building, until he had lowered his guard because I asked him to, and then she told him his brother may become the center of a breach event tied to Nero."

His voice did not rise, but it became colder with each passing word.

"I was ready to set the temple on fire," Arion said.

Otto exhaled slowly. "I assumed."

"She should have reported the fragments the moment they linked Sebastian, Nero, and the infected beasts. She did not."

"No."

"If Dean had not been there, I might have forgotten she was seventy-eight."

"Arion."

"I said might."

Another pause.

Then Otto said, quieter, "How is Dean?"

Arion’s gaze moved toward the bathroom door.

The sound of running water softened the edge of his fury but did not erase it.

"He is angry. Worried. Trying not to think of Nero knowing."

"He is right to fear that."

"I know."

"We will handle the archive. Hendrik is already assembling analysts and physicians. No one contacts Sebastian or Nero without my approval."

"And Lucas?"

"I will call Lucas and Trevor myself."

Arion closed his eyes for one second.

"Keep the temple away from him," Arion said.

"Done."

"If Ilara reaches out again today—"

"She will not."

"If she does," Arion continued, "I will stop being polite."

Otto’s voice cooled in a way that reminded Arion exactly where he had inherited most of himself from. "So will I."

The shower stopped.

Arion opened his eyes.

"I have to go."

"Take care of your husband."

"I am."

He ended the call and placed the phone face down on the table.

When Dean came out wrapped in a robe, damp hair falling over his forehead, Arion had already buried the fury again.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You look suspicious."

Arion crossed the room toward him. "I look like a man returning to bed with his husband."

Dean’s suspicion wavered.

Then lost badly.

"Fine," he muttered. "But if prophecy calls again, I am throwing your phone into the sea."

Arion took his hand and kissed his wet knuckles.

"Agreed."