Chapter 472: Betrayal
Dean was still laughing when the car stopped beneath the private entrance of the imperial residence.
Arion had spent the last nine minutes with one hand on Dean’s waist and an expression that suggested he had personally negotiated the distance between the restaurant and their bedroom down to an unacceptable number of kilometers.
Dean found the entire situation increasingly funny.
The rear door opened onto the heated stone portico, where pale columns framed the entrance and winter wind pushed thin traces of snow across the courtyard beyond the glass barriers. Arion stepped out first, dark coat hanging open over his charcoal shirt, then turned and offered Dean a hand.
Dean accepted it.
Mostly because he wanted to see how long Arion could maintain his dignity.
Not very long, apparently.
The moment Dean reached the stone floor, Arion’s arm settled around his waist and pulled him close.
Dean burst out laughing again.
"You survived the drive."
"Barely."
"You’re dramatic."
Arion leaned down beside his ear. "You created the problem."
Dean’s face heated.
"That does not mean you get to—"
"Your Highness."
Arion stopped.
Dean did too.
Then, very slowly, Dean looked past Arion’s shoulder.
Zyon stood several meters inside the entrance hall.
The secretary had clearly been waiting.
He wore a dark navy suit despite the late hour, a tablet held against his chest, his normally immaculate expression showing the first warning signs of someone who had just realized his timing might shorten his life expectancy.
Dean’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Then he started laughing so hard he had to grab Arion’s arm.
Arion did not move.
Zyon’s eyes flicked from Dean’s reddening face to Arion.
Whatever he saw there made his posture become noticeably more careful.
"I apologize for intercepting you this late."
Arion stared at him.
Dean pressed his lips together. It failed. Another laugh escaped.
Zyon continued with the grim determination of a man already committed to disaster.
"Hendrik needs ten minutes."
Arion’s hand remained around Dean’s waist.
"Tomorrow."
"He specifically said tonight."
Dean folded forward against Arion’s shoulder, shaking.
This was magnificent.
Arion looked down at him.
Dean straightened with visible effort and wiped beneath one eye.
"Don’t look at me."
"You find this funny."
"I find Zyon very dedicated."
Zyon looked as though he would happily resign from dedication.
A deep bark echoed from farther inside the hall.
Dean’s attention immediately shifted.
Boreas came around the corner at speed, guided by one of the evening guards who released the lead once the enormous dog recognized them.
Boreas crossed the polished stone in several heavy bounds.
Dean saw salvation.
Arion saw betrayal approximately one second later.
Dean slipped from his arm.
"Boreas."
The dog reached him.
Dean caught the thick fur around his neck, turned toward Arion with an expression of perfect innocence, and began backing toward the private corridor.
Arion narrowed his eyes.
"Dean."
"I should take him upstairs."
"He has staff."
"He missed me."
Boreas, conveniently, shoved his enormous head against Dean’s chest.
Dean hugged him.
"See?"
Arion stared.
Dean smiled.
Then he took Boreas by the collar and ran. Not quickly enough to be respectable. Quickly enough to be insulting.
His white sneakers squeaked against the polished floor as he disappeared around the corner, Boreas thundering happily beside him.
Dean’s laughter carried all the way down the corridor.
Arion remained beneath the entrance lights.
Zyon reconsidered every decision that had brought him here.
The silence became dangerous.
Arion turned his head.
Zyon had faced angry ministers, foreign diplomats, and Otto during budget disputes.
None of those experiences prepared him for Arion’s current expression.
"I was told it was urgent," Zyon said.
Arion’s eyes darkened.
Zyon immediately regretted speaking.
"Hendrik."
"Yes."
"Ten minutes."
"Yes."
"If it becomes eleven—"
"I’ll inform him."
Arion released a slow breath and removed his coat, handing it to the nearest attendant before walking toward the eastern office wing.
Zyon followed at a respectful distance.
He did not mention Dean.
Survival instinct remained functional.
Hendrik was already waiting in one of the smaller strategy rooms near Arion’s private office.
The room had been stripped of ceremony years ago. A long black table occupied the center beneath suspended lights, with one wall converted entirely into a digital map of Alamina’s northern forests. Several clusters of red markers indicated the dormant beast populations still being monitored by drones.
Hendrik stood beside the display in shirtsleeves, his jacket thrown over the back of a chair.
He took one look at Arion.
Then at Zyon.
"What happened?"
Zyon said nothing.
Arion took the nearest chair.
"You have ten minutes."
Hendrik looked toward the clock.
Apparently he was wise enough not to ask why.
"We received Amaru’s latest political assessment."
Arion’s irritation receded enough for attention to replace it.
"How fast is support consolidating?"
"Faster than expected, but not fast enough to justify changing our plan."
Hendrik enlarged the Draxilian border map.
"Several of his former officers have declared privately. Two provincial commanders are waiting for proof he can secure Sahan backing without turning Draxil into a Sahan occupation."
"That is already addressed in the agreement."
"They know that now. The public version goes out tomorrow."
Arion nodded once.
"And the brothers?"
"Raging publicly, organizing privately. Neither can move against Amaru yet without making themselves look afraid of him."
Hendrik shifted the display back to Alamina.
"The beasts remain dormant."
"Movement?"
"Nothing significant. Feeding remains minimal. No migration. No response to the last three drone passes."
Arion leaned back.
"So we wait."
"Yes."
That had been the decision before Rohan.
It remained the correct one now.
Amaru needed time to rebuild his political network and position himself strongly enough to enter Draxil without forcing Saha to do it for him. Until then, Claudia’s Palace remained inaccessible.
Hendrik folded his arms.
"My recommendation is unchanged. We monitor, keep the teams out of direct range, and give Amaru room to take control."
Arion glanced toward the map.
"How long?"
"Best case? Weeks."
Arion closed his eyes briefly.
Hendrik misunderstood.
"We can shorten the timetable if—"
"No."
Arion opened his eyes.
"We wait."
Hendrik nodded.
Eight minutes.
Arion stood.
Zyon moved toward the door immediately.
Hendrik looked between them.
"You really are timing me."
"Yes."
Arion left before another second could be wasted.
By the time he crossed the private wing, Zyon had wisely vanished.
The suite doors stood closed ahead.
Arion opened them.
Boreas was sprawled across the sitting-room carpet.
Dean was nowhere in sight.
Arion looked toward the bedroom.
From behind the partially closed door came a muffled laugh.
Arion’s mouth curved.
Betrayal, apparently, had only bought Dean eight minutes.