Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina-Chapter 75: Comfortable

Arion’s gaze lifted from Boreas to Dean, softened at the edges, but the amusement didn’t leave. It just... settled into something quieter. Warmer. Like he was pleased Dean had finally stopped trying to be palatable.

"You’re asking like it would be a performance," Arion said.

Dean’s mouth twitched. "I’m asking because you said it like you had a plan." He dragged his fingers through Boreas’s fur, grounding himself in something solid and ridiculously soft. "And I decided not to mask my real personality from now on."

Relief flickered in Arion’s expression so subtly Dean almost missed it.

"Good," Arion said, simply.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Stop saying it like you’re rewarding a puppy."

Boreas huffed, offended on someone’s behalf, and shoved his head harder into Dean’s hand.

Arion’s mouth curved. "You’re the one petting him."

Dean flipped him off without moving his hand.

Arion looked genuinely entertained by that. It was the most dangerous thing about him, honestly - that he could carry ’Crown Prince’ like armor and still laugh like a man.

Footsteps approached, and a knock followed, soft enough it was more a courtesy than a request.

The door opened a fraction, and two staff members stepped in, eyes lowered, posture neutral, hands carrying folded clothes and a towel that looked absurdly plush.

Dean’s spine went straight on instinct.

Arion didn’t move.

He didn’t even turn his head.

"Leave them," Arion said, calm as breathing.

The staff paused at the sight of Dean on Arion’s sofa, damp hair, clothes damp with melted snow on his back, and Boreas sitting like an honorary guard. Dean could feel their awareness without them daring to stare.

"Yes, Your Highness," one of them murmured, and they set the folded clothes neatly on a side table.

Dean’s ears warmed. "They’re going to talk," he muttered through his teeth.

Arion finally glanced at him, eyebrows lifting. "About what?"

Dean stared at him like he was being intentionally obtuse. "About... this."

Arion’s gaze flicked down - Dean, the damp clothes, the proximity - and then back up again, unbothered. "No, they won’t."

"You say that like you’ve never met court staff."

"I grew up with them," Arion said, mild. "They know what silence is worth."

Dean exhaled, caught between wanting to argue and being tired of his own panic.

Boreas pressed closer, as if he’d decided Dean was an endangered species.

Arion watched Dean for a moment longer, then spoke like he was answering the actual question Dean had asked.

"My plan," Arion said, "was to hold you until you stopped shaking."

Dean blinked. "I’m not..."

Arion’s hand slid to the back of Dean’s neck, thumb pressing lightly at the base of his skull in a way that made Dean’s protest stall in his throat. He was surprised by how familiar and tight the touch was. Like instinct recognized care before pride could rename it.

"You were," Arion said quietly. "You just hid it very well."

Dean’s jaw tightened. "That’s creepy."

"That’s observant," Arion corrected.

Dean opened his mouth, but Arion was already moving. He sat down on the sofa as if he owned the concept of comfort, and then he reached for Dean.

Arion’s arm looped around Dean’s waist and pulled him in, guiding him against his chest until Dean was tucked into the space between Arion’s body and the backrest, pinned by warmth rather than force.

Dean went rigid out of reflex.

Then Arion’s pheromones slid out - controlled, gentle, and thick as velvet - and Dean’s body betrayed him by exhaling like it had been waiting for permission.

Dean scowled at the wall. "You can’t just—"

"I can," Arion said, voice low near Dean’s hair. "I’m doing it."

Dean’s fingers still rested in Boreas’s fur. His other hand hovered awkwardly, not sure where to go.

Arion solved that too, catching Dean’s wrist and tucking Dean’s hand against his own chest as if it belonged there.

The staff, mercifully, didn’t react. They stood for a beat, received no further instructions, and quietly withdrew, the door closing with a soft click that made the room feel even more private.

Dean swallowed, trapped between indignation and the fact that this felt... unfairly good.

"You’re happy," Dean accused, because his brain needed a target.

Arion’s breath stirred Dean’s hair. "Yes."

"That’s suspicious."

Arion’s arm tightened slightly, a possessive squeeze that didn’t hurt, just reminded. "You said you’re done masking," he murmured. "I like the version of you that bites."

Dean huffed, but it didn’t have teeth. Not with his body melting into Arion’s hold like a traitor.

"I want to bite you now," Dean said, because he refused to let the softness win without consequences.

Arion’s breath warmed his temple. "Later," he said, unbothered. "Let me get you out of that damp shirt first. Then you can show your teeth."

Dean’s ears warmed. "Did you just—"

"Yes," Arion said calmly, as if confirming the weather. "I just prioritized your health over your threats."

Boreas shifted, tail thumping once against the rug, clearly approving of the hierarchy.

Dean glared at the dog. "You are complicit."

Boreas blinked slowly, proud and unrepentant.

Arion loosened his hold just enough to tilt Dean back a fraction and look at him properly. His golden eye swept Dean’s face, the damp hair, the faint pink at his ears, and something in his expression softened again.

"Up," Arion said, and the tone was infuriatingly calm, like Dean was a problem Arion had already solved and was simply walking through the steps.

Dean stared at him for a beat, then sighed in the way a man sighed when he knew resistance would only extend the humiliation.

"You’re enjoying this," Dean muttered, and lifted his arms anyway.

Arion’s mouth twitched. "I’m preventing you from getting sick."

"That’s not what I meant."

"I know."

Dean’s damp T-shirt was already halfway off when he realized just how cooperative he’d become. Begrudgingly, yes, but still cooperating, and that realization made his pride flare like it had been insulted in public.

Arion didn’t react. He just guided the fabric up and over Dean’s head with steady hands, careful not to tug on wet hair or scrape the collar too roughly. Each movement controlled, almost... clinical.

Which was its own kind of offense.

Dean blinked, bare-chested for half a second under the towel, and waited for Arion to do something stupid. Something possessive. Something that would prove Arion was still that man from Palatine.

Arion didn’t.

He draped the towel more securely, then reached for the folded soft robe the staff had left - a pale, ridiculously prim thing that looked like it belonged to a saint who did paperwork.

Dean stared at it like it had personally betrayed him. "That’s... what is that?"

"A robe," Arion said, and there was faint amusement in the flatness.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "That is a very proper robe."

"Yes."

Dean’s gaze flicked to Arion’s face, suspicious. "You’re putting me in a robe."

"Yes."

Dean’s mouth opened, then closed. The whole thing was wrong. This was not the moment for modesty. This was the moment for Arion to make it worse, and instead he was... fixing it. Like a civilized person.

Dean felt almost cheated.

Arion slid the robe around Dean’s shoulders with quiet competence, tugging it into place and tying it at the waist without rushing. His knuckles brushed Dean’s side once briefly, and somehow that was what made Dean’s stomach flip.

Because it wasn’t a grab.

It was care.

Dean looked down at the knot. Then back up at Arion. "You didn’t—"

Arion’s golden eye held his. "Didn’t what?"

Dean’s ears warmed again. "Try anything."

Arion’s mouth curved, slow and dangerously pleased. "You sound disappointed."

"I sound confused," Dean snapped. "Don’t flatter yourself."

Arion’s gaze dipped to the robe, to the line of Dean’s throat, to the way Dean’s breath had hitched earlier. Then it lifted again. "Don’t tempt me." He whispered in the omega’s ear.