Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina Chapter 86: Saturation

Dean’s fingers, still hooked in Arion’s collar, went rigid. The word hung between them, fragile and damning. ’Too.’

"Too?" Dean repeated, his voice barely a whisper, the minty sharpness of his pheromones montarily forgotten in the face of that single, damning syllable.

Arion’s eyes remained closed, his forehead still pressed against Dean’s. The admission seed to have cost him the last of his strength, and he leaned more of his weight into Dean’s space. "The third one," he said, his voice raspy, stripped of all its princely authority. "It was stronger than the evaluation."

He paused, and Dean could feel the shudder that ran through Arion’s body, a deep, bone-rattling tremor that had nothing to do with the cold. "When Roric’s emitter overloaded... the psychic backlash from the tower burst was... significant. I contained it. Mostly."

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped him. "But it pushed right to the edge. I could feel it. The backlash was circling, waiting for a crack. It took everything I had to hold it together long enough to get back here."

Dean’s stomach twisted. He could picture it all too clearly: the corrupted beasts, the collapsing tower, the violent psychic wave, and Arion standing alone against it, holding the line with nothing but sheer force of will.

The anger he’d been nursing - petty, satisfying, sothing he could hold onto because it was easier than fear - evaporated.

What replaced it was colder. Sharper. Protective in a way that made his teeth ache.

His pheromones surged again, mint snapping through the winter like soone had cracked open a bottle of citrus and steel. Boreas lifted his head instantly, ears angling forward, sensing the shift in Dean’s chemistry like it was a command.

Arion’s lashes fluttered.

Dean didn’t let him hide behind closed eyes.

He slid his hand from Arion’s collar to the side of his neck, fingers pressing lightly until he felt Arion’s pulse, too fast and controlled. Dean’s thumb brushed the edge of Arion’s jaw.

"You held it in your body," Dean said quietly.

Arion’s breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. "I didn’t have a choice."

"You always have a choice," Dean snapped, then swallowed hard, because the truth was uglier. "You just never pick the one where you don’t bleed."

Arion’s mouth twitched like he wanted to deny it.

He didn’t.

That silence was its own confession.

Dean tightened his grip on Arion’s collar again, not to pull him, but to keep him upright. To keep him present. Alive. The winter air was too clear, bright, and ordinary for what Arion had just admitted.

"Look at ," Dean said.

Arion opened his eyes.

The gold remained gold, but it had that hollow brightness Dean had seen before, back in Palatine, when Arion had stood too still after they had argued and just before the man lost consciousness.

Dean’s throat tightened. "How close?"

Arion didn’t pretend. "Close enough that if I had stayed on the terrain another fifteen minutes, I would’ve snapped."

Dean felt it in his own chest like a reflexive echo.

His body leaned in without permission. His oga instincts rose, old, sharp, and territorial in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to touch in the last months - not while pretending he was just a well-raised boy with polite manners and a harmless smile.

He let the mint spread further, a controlled flood.

Arion’s shoulders loosened by a fraction. His jaw unclenched like it hurt to let go. The vetiver under his skin grew deeper, warr, and darker, responding in a way that was not about dominance, at least not right now.

Need.

Dean hated how quickly he understood it.

"You’re saturated," Dean said.

Arion’s gaze held his, unwavering despite how tired he looked. "Yes."

Dean’s fingers flexed. "And you ca back here anyway."

"I ca back to you," Arion corrected, voice low.

Dean’s mouth opened with sothing sharp already loaded.

Boreas stood up, shook himself once, then pressed his side against Dean’s leg like a brace.

Dean exhaled through his nose and forced his brain to do sothing useful.

"Okay," Dean said, too calm. Dangerous calm. "You’re done being brave now."

Arion’s brow lifted faintly, the first hint of amusent trying to surface, then failing under fatigue. "Dean..."

"No." Dean cut him off. "You’re done. You did your duty. You saved your civilians. You stopped whatever that was from crawling closer to Roslew. Now you’re going to stop and let soone else hold the line for once."

Arion stared at him like he was hearing a new language.

Dean leaned in, close enough that his words ward Arion’s mouth. "And if you argue, I’ll call Minerva and tell her you’re making decisions while chemically compromised."

Arion’s eyes narrowed. "You wouldn’t."

Dean smiled, sweet and venomous. "Try ."

For a brief mont, Arion just stared at him, as if he were recalibrating Dean’s file in his head, rewriting sothing old.

Then Arion exhaled, slow and quiet.

A surrender, but not the weak kind.

"I’m sorry," Arion said, softer this ti. "For being late."

Dean’s chest tightened. He didn’t want the apology. He wanted the world to stop asking Arion to be the knife.

He slid his hand up into Arion’s hair, fingers tangling at the nape, and pulled him in - forehead to forehead again, but this ti Dean held the contact like an order.

"Next ti," Dean said, voice rougher now, "you tell before you go that close."

Arion’s breath trembled. "I didn’t want to scare you."

Dean’s pheromones flared, mint brightening. "I am already scared."

Arion went very still at that, like the honesty hit sowhere deeper than any blade.

Dean swallowed once, then forced himself to say what mattered.

"What do you need?" Dean asked. "Right now."

Arion’s gaze lowered to Dean’s mouth, then back to his eyes. He didn’t disguise it. He didn’t pretend it was just exhaustion.

"I need your scent," Arion said simply. "I need you close enough that my body believes the threat is over."

Dean’s throat worked.

He hated how much he liked being needed.

He hated how much he wanted to give it.

"Sleep," Dean said, like it was a command and a promise at the sa ti. "With . Not..." he paused, because he refused to let Arion twist it into sothing he could pretend he didn’t deserve. "Just... a sleepover."

Arion’s exhale sounded like relief and a laugh.

"Alright," Arion murmured.

Dean nodded once, decisively.

"Good," he said, and glanced down at Boreas. "And you..."

Boreas blinked up at him, innocent.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. "You’re coming too."

Boreas’s tail thumped once, like he’d already decided that hours ago.

Dean tightened his grip on Arion’s collar once more, this ti pulling him where Dean wanted him to go rather than keeping him upright.

"Inside," Dean said.

Arion didn’t argue.

He just followed.