Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Dean woke at six in the morning.

He knew this before opening his eyes.

That was the worst part.

There had been no alarm, no knock at the door, and no security call vibrating insistently across the bedside table. The private suite remained completely silent around him, the curtains drawn against the winter morning and the room still dark except for the faint amber line of recessed lighting near the floor.

Dean lay beneath the blankets and resented his own body.

Hunter had been explicitly informed that anything short of fire, invasion, or an infected beast somehow reaching the palace gardens could wait.

Dean had gone to sleep with every intention of remaining unconscious until an indecent hour.

His body had apparently developed opinions.

Months of early departures, military briefings, flights, and meetings had carved six in the morning so deeply into him that his eyes opened anyway.

Dean stared at the ceiling.

Beside him, Arion slept peacefully.

That made it worse.

Dean turned his head.

Arion had stolen most of the blanket during the night, which should have irritated Dean on principle, except the result was that he had rolled partly onto his back and remained completely unaware of the injustice happening beside him.

His breathing was slow and even.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

Traitor.

He closed his eyes again and attempted to return to sleep.

Nothing happened.

Five minutes passed.

Possibly seven.

Eventually Dean accepted defeat with the quiet fury of a man betrayed by his own circadian rhythm.

He eased out from beneath the blankets carefully.

Arion did not move.

At least one of them could benefit from the day they had fought for.

The bedroom was cool enough that Dean immediately reached for the robe lying over the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. He pulled the soft grey fabric around himself and padded barefoot toward the bathroom, closing the door until only a narrow gap remained.

Warm light filled the marble room.

Dean avoided looking too closely at his own reflection.

He already knew what it would show.

Pale hair pushed in several directions from sleep, faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the expression of someone who considered six in the morning a personal insult.

The shower helped.

Hot water loosened the stiffness across his shoulders and washed away the last heaviness of travel. Dean stayed beneath it longer than necessary simply because nobody was waiting for him to finish.

That felt unfamiliar enough to be luxurious.

He dried his hair until it was only slightly damp, then dressed without bothering with anything remotely formal.

Soft black lounge trousers.

A loose cream shirt with long sleeves. No jewelry beyond his wedding ring. No shoes.

Dean looked at himself once more and decided he was appropriately dressed for doing absolutely nothing important.

He returned to the bedroom quietly.

The first trace of dawn had begun reaching through the curtains, turning their edges a muted blue-grey.

Arion had moved.

Sometime while Dean showered, he had rolled farther onto his back. The blanket had fallen almost entirely to his waist, and the dark sleep shirt he had worn to bed had twisted upward during the night.

It was now gathered somewhere around his ribs.

Dean stopped.

Arion’s chest was completely exposed.

Broad shoulders sank heavily into the pillows, one arm bent above his head while the other rested across the mattress where Dean had been sleeping. His skin was warm beneath the muted morning light, marked here and there by old scars Dean knew almost by memory now.

Dean stared.

This was inconvenient.

He had intended to let Arion sleep.

That had been the responsible plan.

His husband had been exhausted for weeks. They had specifically returned to Alamina intending to rest.

Dean should make coffee.

Perhaps read something.

Possibly go back to bed and make another serious attempt at sleeping.

Instead, he remained beside the bed looking at Arion’s bare chest.

Well... They were married. Very married. Three years married, in fact.

Dean saw no reason that marriage should not occasionally interfere with responsible decisions.

He approached the bed.

Arion still did not wake.

Dean climbed onto the mattress carefully, placing one knee beside Arion’s hip before bringing the other across him.

The movement shifted Arion beneath the blankets, but he didn’t wake.

Dean settled his weight over his hips, and that made Arion inhale more deeply.

His brow tightened slightly before his eyes opened.

Dark gold found Dean immediately.

For one confused second, Arion simply stared upward, still caught somewhere between sleep and awareness.

Dean smiled.

"Good morning."

Arion blinked once.

Then his hand moved to Dean’s thigh automatically, fingers closing around him as recognition finished arriving.

Dean leaned forward, palms settling against Arion’s exposed chest.

Arion’s voice came rough with sleep.

"What time is it?"

Dean’s expression soured immediately.

"Six."

Arion looked toward the curtains.

Then back at Dean.

"You woke voluntarily?"

"No."

That earned him the faintest curve of Arion’s mouth.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

"My body betrayed me."

Arion’s other hand settled at Dean’s waist.

"You could go back to sleep."

"I tried."

"And this was the alternative?"

Dean looked down at him.

Arion was awake now, although barely. His hair was disordered across the pillow, his eyes still heavy with sleep, and his shirt remained uselessly gathered beneath Dean’s hands.

Dean decided the alternative was excellent.

"Yes."

He bent and kissed him.

Arion responded immediately.

Sleep disappeared quickly once Dean’s mouth settled over his.

The hand at Dean’s waist tightened, drawing him closer while the other slid slowly along his thigh. Dean shifted forward instinctively, his damp hair falling beside Arion’s face as the kiss deepened.

This was what he had wanted yesterday.

His husband beneath him in their own bed while the rest of Alamina had not yet properly woken.

Dean pulled back just enough to breathe.

Arion looked up at him.

"You were going to let me sleep."

"I was."

"What happened?"

Dean glanced deliberately down at his exposed chest.

Arion followed his gaze and understood immediately. His mouth curved.

Dean leaned down again.

"You created the problem."

"I was asleep."

"Still your fault."

Arion’s arms came around him.

Dean made a quiet sound of protest when Arion rolled them, but the objection disappeared the moment his back met the mattress and Arion settled over him.

Outside, dawn continued slowly brightening the curtains.

Inside, Dean decided six in the morning might occasionally have advantages.