Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Two days after everyone had been admitted to urgent hospital care, the world began arriving for its children.

Saha arrived first because Dax and Chris apparently considered borders a suggestion when Nero bled.

Rohan followed with General Marianne Lancaster, Lord Daniel Lancaster, and Queen Heather’s fury transmitted ahead of them like a formal declaration of war.

Palatine’s communication line opened before dawn with Trevor’s voice too controlled and Lucas’s silence far more terrifying. By noon, they were in Roslew too.

Draxil sent envoys for Eva Thornevik, but no one asked for Andrea Vale.

Officially, he had died during the breach. His body had been contaminated beyond recovery and destroyed under infection protocol. The first briefings said so. The preliminary reports said so. The cleaned alarm logs were beginning to say so too.

The truth breathed behind sealed suppression two floors below ground, barely alive and far more valuable than justice allowed.

Dean hated every word he helped write.

By the end of the second day, his bones felt hollow.

The first restricted briefings had been held under armed privacy. Otto, Hendrik, Minerva, Dax, Chris, Trevor, Lucas, Sebastian, Marianne, Daniel, and the necessary commanders had received the version that could keep them alive.

Enough to make every royal family in the room understand that beast season might never have been a season at all.

Enough to make them understand that their children had been standing inside a pattern someone else may have drawn.

Enough to make Dean feel old.

He entered his and Arion’s private rooms for the first time in weeks.

The silence nearly made him cry.

Then Boreas hit him.

The enormous dog launched himself from somewhere near the sitting room with the force of grief, joy, and no respect for royal bruising. Dean caught fur, momentum, and an offended bark all at once.

"Boreas—"

Boreas licked his chin.

Dean staggered, gave up on dignity, and let himself fall backward onto the soft rug.

The impact was gentle.

The dog was not.

Boreas planted himself triumphantly across Dean’s chest, his tail beating the rug like he had personally defeated the entire war by ensuring Dean had finally returned to the correct room.

Dean stared at the ceiling.

"Excellent," he whispered. "I have been conquered."

Boreas barked.

"That was not praise."

Boreas licked his jaw again.

That was how Arion found him.

Dean lying flat on the rug, one arm thrown out, eyes half-closed, soot-dark exhaustion still under his lashes, with Boreas sprawled across him like a furry military occupation.

Arion stopped in the doorway.

For one second, he only looked.

Then his face changed.

Not a smile exactly.

Something smaller. Softer. More dangerous to Dean’s composure.

"You made it three steps inside," Arion said.

Dean did not lift his head. "Four. The dog took the fifth."

Boreas barked at Arion, pleased with the accuracy.

Arion closed the door behind him and crossed the room without haste. He had changed out of field armor, but not into comfort. His dark shirt was open at the throat, sleeves rolled to the forearms, one hand still faintly marked where Dean had cleaned his knuckles two days ago.

He looked as tired as Dean felt.

Sharp with it.

Hollow behind the eyes.

Dean reached one hand toward him. "Come here."

Arion looked at the rug.

Then at Boreas.

"The dog has occupied the central territory."

"He is willing to negotiate."

Boreas placed his chin on Dean’s sternum and looked deeply unwilling.

Arion lowered himself to the rug anyway.

Not beside Dean at first, but near him, close enough that their shoulders touched.

Then, after a moment, as if the permission had to travel through all the command layers still locked inside him, Arion lay down too.

The rug accepted another defeated royal.

Boreas huffed, considered the new arrangement, then stretched one paw across Arion’s chest as if claiming him as secondary property.

Arion looked at the paw.

Dean watched his husband’s face.

"Do not argue with him," Dean said. "He has survived without us for weeks and has developed opinions."

"I can see that."

"He is furious."

"He looks pleased."

"He contains multitudes."

Arion’s mouth moved faintly.

For a while, neither of them said anything important.

The room was warm. Their room. Not a hospital room, not a briefing chamber, not a corridor where commanders lowered their voices around words like contamination and classified. Their room, with Dean’s books still scattered across one table, Arion’s jacket left over a chair from before everything had sharpened, and Boreas breathing happily between them as if the world had become simple again.

Dean closed his eyes.

"I lied to three monarchs today."

Arion’s gaze turned toward him.

Dean kept his eyes closed. "Four, if we count Queen Heather’s message as presence through pure aggression."

"She counts."

"She does."

"You did not lie to them."

"I lied around them."

Arion’s voice softened. "You protected what could not survive public truth."

"That sounds prettier."

"It is still true."

Dean opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. "Andrea is alive."

"Yes." Arion paused.

Dean turned his head slightly. "That was a dangerous pause."

Arion met his eyes and sighed. "About that... I promised Thomas he could handle the interrogation."

Dean stared at him.

Boreas lifted his head, as if even he understood that something unpleasant had entered the room.

"So," Dean said slowly, "you gave Commander Lancaster the man who targeted Sylvia, stabbed Eva, tried to break the first resistance point, and nearly handed Roslew to the infection."

"Yes."

"And when we have everything Andrea knows?"

"Then Thomas decides whether there is anything left worth keeping alive."

Dean was quiet for a moment.

Then he looked back at the ceiling. "Good."

Arion’s brows lifted faintly.

Dean exhaled. "Do not look surprised. I am tired, not kind. Andrea almost helped turn the world into an infected graveyard. I do not care how much he suffers."

Boreas huffed softly against his chest.

Dean scratched behind his ear without looking. "If Thomas breaks him, we patch Andrea back together. If Andrea faints, we wake him. If his heart gives out before he finishes being useful, we restart it."

Arion watched him.

Dean’s mouth curved without humor. "What? You thought I was going to pretend this is beneath me?"

"No."

"Good. I would hate for our marriage to be built on lies."

Arion’s thumb moved over Dean’s wrist. "I promised Thomas the interrogation. Not restraint."

"That is why I married you."

"That cannot be the only reason."

"It is in the top ten today."

Arion almost smiled.

Dean’s eyes remained cold. "Andrea used Eva like an instrument. He tried to make Sylvia bait. He directed infected humans like puppets. He turned beast season into theater and put civilians behind the curtain. Whatever Thomas wants to do to him, Andrea earned worse."

"We still need information."

"I know. Names. Trainers. Other dominants. How long the beasts have been managed. Whether the season is natural or staged. Every hand behind him." Dean’s voice flattened. "That means he stays alive long enough to speak."

"And after?"

Dean looked at him.

There was nothing soft in his face now.

"After, Thomas can decide if Andrea dies quickly enough to count as mercy."

Arion’s expression settled into something almost black.

"Agreed."

The word did not disturb Dean.

That should have frightened him.

It did not.

Outside their rooms, a dead man breathed beneath the palace, waiting for a commander who had stopped being reasonable the moment Sylvia screamed.

Inside, Dean closed his eyes again.

"For thirty minutes," he murmured, "I want to be useless."

Arion shifted closer, his hand still around Dean’s wrist. "Then be useless."

Boreas laid his head across Dean’s chest.

Dean breathed beneath the weight of dog, husband, and all the ugly choices they had made without regret.

Andrea Vale could suffer later.

For now, Dean slept.