Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Theodore improved quickly enough that Dean had begun to distrust every physician who walked into the room without carrying bad news.

It was irrational, and he knew it.

Unfortunately, several days of watching his premature son through layers of transparent plastic, monitoring cables, and numbers Dean had learned far more than he had ever wanted and had done something unpleasant to his ability to accept uncomplicated good news.

Theodore was gaining weight.

His breathing had strengthened enough that the neonatal team had reduced the support twice, his temperature remained stable for increasingly long periods without intervention, and his feeding tolerance had improved to the point that the physicians were already discussing when he might leave the incubator entirely.

Every report was positive.

Dean still waited for the sentence that started with however.

It had not arrived.

By the end of the second week, he had finally stopped expecting it every morning.

Dean himself was recovering well enough that Seven had become considerably less irritating about movement, although the healing incision still pulled whenever he forgot that emergency abdominal surgery could not be negotiated with through stubbornness alone.

He spent most of his afternoons in the neonatal suite.

The private family room attached to Theodore’s section had slowly accumulated evidence that the royal family had effectively moved in: one of Arion’s tablets lay permanently on the side table, Minerva had supplied enough blankets for six children, Lucas had brought books Dean had not opened, and Rina had somehow smuggled a tiny yellow duck into the room despite Dean explicitly warning her that Arion was developing a complex.

The duck currently sat beside Theodore’s medical chart.

Arion had found it that morning.

He had said nothing.

Dean considered that progress.

"You’re staring again," Dean said.

Arion remained beside the incubator, one hand resting against the transparent wall while Theodore slept inside.

"I’m looking at my son."

"You’ve been looking at him for twenty minutes."

"He changed position."

Dean glanced over from the reclined medical chair.

Theodore had moved one arm approximately three centimeters.

"Remarkable."

Arion looked toward him.

Dean smiled.

He had never seen his husband this openly fascinated by another living thing, not even when Boreas was a puppy, according to Minerva, and certainly not during any of the increasingly absurd encounters with infected wildlife that had occupied the year before Theodore’s birth.

Their son could twitch one finger and Arion would react as though he had personally witnessed an evolutionary breakthrough.

Dean found it unbearably endearing.

Theodore remained small, although no longer alarmingly so.

His dark hair had thickened slightly, soft and fine against his head, and his features had begun losing some of the fragile sharpness they had possessed immediately after birth. His mouth still looked like Dean’s, according to Lucas and Sebastian, while the shape of his brow had already convinced Minerva that Arion’s genes had behaved with unreasonable confidence.

His eyes remained closed.

That had become the only thing anyone still commented on.

The physicians were unconcerned.

Prematurity altered developmental timing, they had explained repeatedly, and Theodore responded appropriately to touch, sound, changes in light, and the pheromonal presence of his parents even without opening his eyes.

His own pheromone profile had begun appearing two days earlier.

Very faint.

Barely developed.

Nothing strong enough to identify more than the fact that his glands were functioning.

Dean had cried when the neonatal physician told them.

He blamed hormones.

Arion had wisely blamed nothing.

The door opened quietly, and Lucas entered with Trevor behind him.

They had extended their stay in Alamina after the birth, while Sebastian had reluctantly returned to Palatine for several days of unavoidable work before promising to come back once Theodore could leave the incubator.

Lucas approached Dean first.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like everyone has asked me that question too many times."

"Excellent. That means you have enough energy to be unpleasant."

Dean smiled.

Trevor crossed toward the incubator, stopping beside Arion.

"He looks bigger."

"He is bigger," Arion said immediately.

Dean closed his eyes.

Lucas laughed and sat beside him.

"How much?"

"Two hundred and eighty grams since last week."

Trevor looked at Arion.

"You know that without checking?"

Arion appeared mildly offended.

"Of course."

Dean leaned toward Lucas.

"He knows every measurement."

"I heard that."

"You were supposed to."

Minerva arrived ten minutes later with Otto, transforming what had begun as a quiet afternoon into another family gathering despite everyone having agreed that Theodore needed calm.

Fortunately, the baby appeared completely indifferent to his relatives.

He slept through Otto quietly discussing the latest medical update with Arion, through Minerva rearranging the blanket beneath Dean’s elbow because apparently the original position was unacceptable, and through Lucas and Trevor debating whether Theodore’s nose had changed enough to prove either of their earlier theories.

Dean eventually lifted one hand.

"You are all aware that he is not a puzzle assembled from family features."

Minerva looked toward him.

"That is exactly how genetics works."

"Not conversationally."

Otto smiled.

Theodore moved inside the incubator.

Every adult in the room immediately looked at him.

Dean sighed.

"We’re hopeless."

"Yes," Lucas said. "Completely."

A neonatal nurse entered shortly afterward, checked Theodore’s readings, then spoke with the physician outside before returning with a smile.

"He can come out for a while today."

Arion went completely still.

Dean straightened despite the pull across his abdomen.

"Out?"

"For supervised holding. His temperature has been stable, his respiratory support is minimal, and his readings have remained excellent all morning."

Dean looked immediately toward Arion.

His husband was already staring at Theodore.

Dean smiled.

"You first."

Arion turned.

"No."

"Yes."

"You should."

"I held him yesterday during skin contact."

"That was medically required."

"It still counts."

Arion hesitated.

Dean knew exactly why.

Theodore still looked impossibly small against Arion’s size, and although his husband had faced armed men, infected beasts, political coups, and biological anomalies with irritating composure, apparently the idea of holding his premature son without several layers of medical equipment protecting him was enough to make him nervous.

Dean’s smile softened.

"Take him."

The nurse opened the incubator.

Arion washed his hands again despite having done so ten minutes earlier, then stepped closer while the nurse disconnected only what was safe to move and carefully lifted Theodore into his waiting hands.

Hands were almost more accurate than arms.

Theodore was still so small that Arion supported most of his body between both palms and forearms, one hand cupping the back of his head while the other supported his torso and legs beneath the blanket.

Arion stopped breathing.

Dean watched his face.

The room became quiet around them.

Even Otto said nothing.

Theodore shifted once, his tiny mouth moving before his cheek settled against the side of Arion’s thumb.

Arion’s expression changed into something Dean knew he would remember for the rest of his life.

Wonder, stripped of every layer of control his husband normally wore.

Dean swallowed around the sudden pressure in his throat.

"Happy birthday," he murmured.

Arion glanced toward him and smiled.

Then Theodore moved again.

His forehead wrinkled.

One tiny fist opened against Arion’s shirt.

And, for the first time since he had been born, Theodore opened his eyes.

Dean’s smile disappeared.

Arion froze.

Lucas rose from his chair.

Theodore stared up at his father with wide, perfectly alert eyes.

Black.

Not dark brown.

Not deep violet.

Black.

Completely black.