Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Dean had no intention of leaving the bed until one of his secretaries entered the imperial suite and physically removed him from it.

They had threatened to do so twice.

The first threat had arrived shortly after breakfast, carefully phrased as a reminder that the holiday season would begin in less than two weeks and that several charitable committees were waiting for his approval.

The second had been less diplomatic.

Dean had responded by muting the communication panel and placing his head more comfortably across Arion’s lap.

Arion had not objected, though that might have been because he was reading something sufficiently tedious to make Dean’s presence seem entertaining by comparison.

It was either a contract or an audit.

Dean had glanced at the first page, seen several columns of numbers, and decided that identifying it would only invite questions about whether he intended to help.

He did not.

He was already helping by remaining quiet.

"You turned off the panel," Arion said, his eyes never leaving the document resting against one raised knee.

"It was disturbing you."

"It was addressed to you."

"And you were forced to hear it."

Arion turned a page. "Your secretaries are going to enter without permission."

"They would never."

Arion hummed, evidently unconvinced.

Dean closed his eyes again, content with the warmth of the suite and the slow movement of Arion’s fingers through his hair. Winter light entered through the tall windows, pale and thin against the heavy curtains, while the fire kept the room warm enough that neither of them had bothered dressing properly.

Arion wore dark trousers and a loose shirt with the sleeves folded to his forearms, which Dean considered an entirely acceptable version of imperial administration.

Dean wore one of Arion’s shirts and nothing suitable for receiving secretaries.

That was intentional.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"The revised audit of the northern transportation network."

Dean opened one eye. "That sounds worse than a contract."

"It is."

"Then stop."

"No."

"You are on holiday."

"The holiday season has not started yet."

"It has started emotionally."

"That has no legal meaning."

"It should."

Arion made another note in the margin.

Dean watched the movement of his hand for a moment before deciding that even Arion’s handwriting looked unnecessarily disciplined.

His own tablet rested abandoned beside him, displaying the schedule he was supposed to review. There were palace receptions, visits to children’s hospitals, winter relief distributions, meetings with charitable foundations, and an alarming number of ceremonial dinners.

Dean had approved the important events.

He had refused three breakfasts before nine in the morning and moved one meeting because its organizer had used the phrase ’brief festive consultation,’ which Dean knew from experience meant three hours trapped beside elderly nobles arguing about anything under the sun.

His secretaries had returned the schedule with two of the breakfasts restored.

The betrayal remained fresh.

"Do you think they will actually drag me out?" Dean asked.

"Yes."

"Clarice would not allow it."

"Clarice helped them last year."

"She was corrupted."

"She was efficient."

Dean shifted onto his back while keeping his head on Arion’s thigh. "You are supposed to defend me."

"Against what?"

"Seasonal exploitation."

"You accepted the position."

"I accepted being your husband. The committees attached themselves afterward."

Arion finally looked down at him. "You enjoy the committees."

"I enjoy spending their money."

"You enjoy choosing the charities."

"That too."

"And you personally added the winter shelters to the schedule."

"They needed inspection."

"You added three."

"I am thorough."

"You also requested that the palace kitchens prepare food for every shelter before the first snow."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Are you accusing me of being responsible?"

"I would never insult you so severely."

Dean reached up and pinched his side.

Arion caught his wrist without difficulty and returned his attention to the audit while keeping Dean’s hand trapped against his waist.

"That was an attack on the crown prince," Arion said.

"That was marital feedback."

"It lacked documentation."

Dean smiled. "Eryx has damaged you."

"Eryx sends wine across borders with handwritten notes and expects customs officials to consider that sufficient."

"It contained his signature."

"That made it more suspicious."

Dean laughed, the sound muffled against Arion’s shirt.

For several minutes, they returned to silence.

Arion read.

Dean pretended to review his schedule from where it lay beside him, occasionally moving one finger across the screen so it would not darken and reveal that he had accomplished nothing.

The suite had become their shared office whenever official duties allowed it. Arion worked more efficiently without ministers appearing every ten minutes to ask questions their own departments should have answered, while Dean discovered that correspondence became much less irritating when completed horizontally.

Outside their rooms, the palace was already changing for the holidays. Evergreen garlands had appeared along the central galleries, staff were arguing over the placement of winter lights, and Minerva had ordered the ceremonial halls opened for decorating three days earlier than usual.

Dean had heard musicians rehearsing before breakfast.

They had been very enthusiastic.

He had considered sending Boreas to interrupt them, but the dog had refused to leave the carpet in front of the fire.

"You have not moved in forty minutes," Arion said.

"I moved my finger."

"You have been reading the same page."

"I am considering it deeply."

Arion glanced at the schedule. "It is a list of table arrangements."

"Exactly. Politically dangerous."

"The children’s foundation does not care where the trade minister sits."

"The trade minister cares."

"Then place him near the door."

Dean looked up at him. "That is why I married you."

"For seating advice?"

"For decisive cruelty."

Arion’s fingers resumed their slow path through his hair. "Your secretaries sent another message."

Dean immediately looked toward the muted panel.

"How do you know?"

"I can see the light reflected in the window."

"Do not answer."

"I was not planning to."

Dean relaxed again. "Good."

"It is from all three of them."

Dean stiffened.

"That is coordinated hostility."

"They have probably realized individual threats are ineffective."

"They are unionizing."

"They already communicate regularly."

"That explains too much."

Arion turned another page.

Dean stared suspiciously at the dark panel, where a small amber light continued to pulse.

"I hate the holiday season."

"You started planning it in October."

"I hate the administrative portion."

"You added most of the administrative portion."

"It seemed reasonable in October."

Arion closed the audit and placed it on the bedside table.

Dean lifted his head hopefully. "Are you finished?"

"No. I am preparing to move you."

Dean wrapped both arms around his waist.

"You would not."

A knock sounded at the suite door.

Dean went still.

"Your Highness," one of his secretaries called from the corridor, "we know you are awake."

Dean looked at Arion. "Traitor."

"I have said nothing."

"You are radiating cooperation."

The knock came again.

"We also know His Imperial Highness is with you."

Arion raised a brow.

Dean tightened his grip. "Do not respond."

"Your meeting begins in thirty-five minutes," the secretary continued. "If necessary, we have requested assistance from Clarice."

Dean stared toward the door in disbelief.

"They did unionize."

Arion removed Dean’s arms from his waist and stood, forcing Dean to slide onto the pillows.

"This marriage has no loyalty," Dean informed him.

Arion leaned down and kissed his forehead. "Get dressed."

"I refuse."

"You have thirty-four minutes."

Dean caught the front of his shirt before he could straighten and pulled him into a proper kiss, slow enough to make Arion brace one hand beside his head.

When he released him, Arion’s expression had lost some of its administrative focus.

Dean smiled with satisfaction.

"Now you have also lost several minutes."

Arion stared at him.

From outside, the secretary knocked a third time.

"Thirty-three minutes, Your Highness."

Dean groaned and let himself fall back across the bed.

"The holidays are ruined."

Arion reached for his audit again. "They have not even started emotionally."