Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Chapter 302: Paranoid

Arion came back late enough that the private wing had gone quiet, but not asleep.

Nothing in the imperial residence ever truly slept. Security still moved through the corridors in soft-soled precision, cameras tracked access points, staff messages blinked across internal channels, and the low hum of climate control and hidden servers filled the silence beneath all that polished marble and glass.

But the public face of the palace had shut down for the night.

The lights had dimmed to warm strips along the floor. The wide windows showed Palatine glittering below, all towers, traffic, and ceremonial banners already installed along the main avenues for the wedding next week.

Arion walked into their suite with his jacket open, his tie loosened, and the expression of a man who had spent the last several hours listening to committees discuss Andrea and Draxil as if they were deciding where to send a defective diplomatic appliance.

He had not killed anyone.

Dean would probably call that progress.

The bedroom doors slid open quietly.

Dean was awake.

He was sitting in bed with a tablet on his lap, two more open beside him, and enough digital files projected across the bedroom wall to make the place look less like a royal suite and more like a command center with expensive pillows. His dark robe had slipped off one shoulder, his hair was a mess, and his face had the sharp, offended focus of a man who had been reading administrative documents for too long and had started taking bureaucracy personally.

Arion stopped in the doorway.

Dean did not look up.

"If your mother thinks I am taking over ceremonial household complaints immediately after the wedding, she is delusional."

Arion closed the door behind him. "Good evening to you too."

Dean flicked two fingers across the tablet, sending one file to the wall display. "There is a complaint thread here about the acceptable number of floral arrangements in the west reception hall during winter events."

"That sounds urgent."

"It has attachments."

"Clearly a national wound."

Dean finally looked at him.

His purple eyes narrowed. "Do not defend her."

"I wouldn’t dare."

"You would."

"I would," Arion admitted, walking toward the closet panel, "but not tonight."

Dean made a sound of deep betrayal and looked back at the files. "She sent me a transition folder."

Arion removed his watch and placed it on the dresser. "Mother sent you a transition archive."

"Do not call it that."

"That is what it is."

"It has categories."

"Archives often do."

"It has subcategories, Arion."

He smiled faintly and started unbuttoning his cuffs. "You’ll be very good at it."

"I know," Dean said, which was one of the reasons Arion loved him beyond reason. "That does not mean I want to be ambushed by floral governance before bed."

Arion’s smile deepened.

He changed out of the formal suit with efficient quiet, trading court tailoring for soft black lounge pants and a loose shirt. Dean watched him for three seconds, then looked back down at the tablet as if he had not been distracted.

Arion noticed.

He always noticed.

By the time he came to the bed, Dean had opened another file labeled ’Crown Prince Consort—preliminary duties after official recognition.’

Arion stopped beside him and glanced at the title.

Dean lifted one finger. "Do not."

"I said nothing."

"You breathed critically."

"I was admiring the organization."

"You were judging the title."

"I judge all titles that place more responsibility on you than necessary."

Dean’s expression softened before he could stop it.

Then, because he was Dean, he pushed one of the tablets toward Arion. "Read that."

Arion sat beside him. "Is this punishment?"

"It is marriage preparation."

"That sounds like punishment with jewelry."

Dean gave him a look.

Arion leaned over and kissed his temple.

Dean allowed it for exactly one breath before muttering, "You smell like diplomatic suffering."

"Draxil."

"Worse than I thought."

"Much worse."

"Was Andrea discussed?"

"Yes."

"Did anyone suggest sending him somewhere far away and educational?"

"Several people suggested that in more polite language."

"Good."

Arion placed the tablet on the bedside table without reading it.

Dean saw.

"You are avoiding your responsibilities."

"I just returned to them."

That quieted Dean.

For a moment, the files, title charts, household calendars, and wedding countdown notifications faded into the softer silence between them. Arion reached over and brushed his fingers through Dean’s hair, slow enough to soothe and possessive enough to make Dean’s mouth twitch.

Then Dean looked away.

Arion’s hand stilled.

"What happened?"

Dean exhaled through his nose. "Am I paranoid?"

Arion stared at him for half a second.

Then, very carefully, he said, "About what?"

Dean looked back at him flatly. "That was a diplomatic answer."

"That was a survival answer. Your paranoia has categories."

"I hate you."

"No, you don’t."

"No," Dean admitted. "But I am considering it for emotional balance."

Arion shifted closer and lowered the brightness on one of the tablets before it could keep glaring at them. "Tell me."

Dean stared at the wall display, but Arion knew he was not reading anything anymore.

"It’s Sylvia."

Arion’s expression changed by less than a breath.

Dean noticed because Dean noticed him too.

"You saw her with Nero at the restaurant," Dean said.

"Yes."

"With wings."

Arion’s mouth curved.

Dean pointed at him. "Do not smile. I am serious."

"I know."

"She won’t tell me what they talked about."

"That is her right."

"I know that." Dean’s frustration sharpened for a second, then collapsed into worry. "That is the problem. I know. She is an adult. She is my age. She has the right to have secrets and make terrible decisions and pretend she is not making terrible decisions."

Arion watched him.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "But something is wrong."

The amusement left Arion fully.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing useful. Which was, unfortunately, useful." Dean leaned back against the headboard and stared at the ceiling. "She said Nero didn’t hurt her. I never asked if he hurt her."

Arion’s jaw tightened.

"I asked if he upset her," Dean continued. "She answered like someone trying to avoid the exact size of the truth."

"That does sound like Sylvia."

"It does. Which is rude of her, because I taught her better lying techniques."

Arion raised a brow.

Dean ignored him. "And then I asked if it had anything to do with Sebastian."

Arion went still.

Dean looked at him. "Yes. That was also my reaction."

"What did she say?"

"That she wasn’t involved in whatever royal disaster Nero and Sebastian had going on."

Arion was quiet for a moment.

"That was not an answer," he said.

"I know."

Dean swiped the floral complaint file closed with unnecessary violence. "And now Thomas Lancaster is coming for the wedding; Sylvia is paired with him in the procession, she is pretending this is only about an infatuation, and I keep thinking Nero is not the best influence on anyone’s emotional stability."

Arion looked at him.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.

Dean froze.

"Excuse me."

Arion covered his mouth with one hand, but the damage was done.

Dean stared at him in betrayal. "I am having a crisis."

"I know."

"You laughed."

"I apologize."

"You do not look sorry."

"I am not sorry enough."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Explain."

Arion’s mouth still held the faintest curve. "You said you hoped Sylvia wasn’t in love with Nero and Thomas."

"I said I hoped she wasn’t in love with him and Thomas."

"The image is extraordinary."

Dean stared.