Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina Chapter 91: Confuse the omega

Dean’s brain stopped, restarted, and stopped again.

This was a trap, and he fell into it like the fool he was.

Because his mind, traitorous as it was, presented him with a dozen options, none of which were usable.

He could scream ’help,’ and it would sound like a joke in a palace where half the staff had watched him walk in here willingly and the other half would assu he was rehearsing sothing dramatic for diplomatic purposes. He could scream ’guards,’ and the guards would arrive, see Arion’s hand on Dean’s wrist, and promptly decide that today was a wonderful day to suddenly forget how legs worked.

He couldn’t scream for his parents.

They were thousands of miles away in Palatine, safely distant in a country that still felt like ho no matter how much Dean pretended he had outgrown the need for it. Trevor and Lucas Fitzgeralt could not materialize through a door on command, could not lean into this room with that terrifying calm, and remind a crown prince that dukes bite too, and not always taphorically.

Dean was, inconveniently, on his own.

Arion’s smile only widened while he watched Dean search for an answer, watched him weigh every option and discard them like broken tools.

A bright patient smile indicated that Arion enjoyed the process of Dean attempting not to hand him sothing honest.

And that did sothing reckless to Dean’s spine, that familiar flare of defiance that had gotten him in trouble since childhood - the part of him that saw a trap and, instead of avoiding it, decided to throw a chair into it just to see what would happen.

Dean’s mouth opened before his brain could veto it.

"Why would I scream," Dean said, voice sweet and venomous, "when I can moan?"

The sentence hit the room like a thrown glass.

For a second, even the air seed to pause, like the palace itself had blinked and needed a mont to decide whether it had heard that correctly.

Dean felt it right away: the sharp, suicidal satisfaction of having said sothing he couldn’t take back, the reckless part of him practically preening because it had finally taken the wheel and driven straight into oncoming traffic.

Arion didn’t blink.

His smile didn’t disappear, but it changed. The brightness drained out of it in a slow, controlled shift, leaving sothing intent, hungry, and far too awake for a man who had been nearly dead from exhaustion just hours before.

Boreas lifted his head at the foot of the bed, ears pricking, suddenly interested in a way Dean found deeply unhelpful.

Dean tried to look unimpressed.

His body, traitor that it was, ward under Arion’s gaze anyway.

Arion’s fingers stayed wrapped around Dean’s wrist, his thumb pressing a touch harder over his pulse.

"Say it again," Arion murmured.

Dean’s stomach dropped.

He forced his expression into sothing cool, sothing sharp enough to pretend he hadn’t just offered himself up as ammunition. "No."

Arion’s thumb moved, one slow stroke over the pulse point at Dean’s wrist, like he was reading the truth there instead of in Dean’s face. Dean’s heartbeat betrayed him imdiately, a stupid, living thing that jumped in panic and heat.

Arion’s eyes darkened by a fraction.

Dean hated himself for noticing.

"I asked you," Arion said softly.

"No," Dean said again, his voice a little more steady and defiant. He tried to pull his wrist away with a tug.

Arion held on, his grip an unbreakable, warm shackle. His other hand reached out and hooked his fingers into the waistband of Dean’s pants and rested his hand there, a casual touch that was more shocking than any force could have been.

"Let’s try this again," Arion murmured, his voice a low, velvety rumble that vibrated through Dean’s entire body. He gave a single, sharp tug on Dean’s waistband.

Dean’s body, betrayed by his own instincts, stumbled forward a half-step. His hands flew up to brace himself, landing flat on Arion’s shoulders to stop himself from falling.

"You seem to be under the impression," Arion continued, his eyes burning into Dean’s from re inches away, "that this is a negotiation. It’s not."

Before Dean could respond, before his mind could process the sheer, breathtaking arrogance of the offer, Arion moved. He let go of Dean’s waistband, but his grip on his wrist remained firm. He twisted his body, using his powerful core and the leverage of his position on the bed, to pull.

Dean didn’t even have ti to yelp. One mont he was standing, the next his feet were swept out from under him. He landed on the bed with a soft thump, a tangle of limbs, and an angry sputtering, half-spread across Arion’s lap. The world shifted, and the scent of vetiver and clean skin overwheld his senses.

Arion’s arm imdiately wrapped around his waist, locking him in place. He shifted them both backward, until they were lying on the bed, Dean sprawled across his chest, their legs entwined in the disheveled blankets.

He leaned in, his mouth close to Dean’s ear, his breath a warm puff against his skin. "You made a suggestion. An intriguing one. And I am now considering it." He paused, letting the silence stretch, letting Dean’s frantic breathing fill the space. "But you don’t have to act on my behalf."

He pulled back just enough to et Dean’s wide, defiant eyes. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "I can help with that. Any ti."

Dean lay there for a mont, stunned into silence. His body was a riot of conflicting signals - the instinct to struggle, the agonizing heat on his cheeks, the undeniable, traitorous comfort of being surrounded by Arion’s warmth and scent. He pushed himself up on his elbows, glaring at the infuriatingly self-satisfied prince.

"You are," Dean began, his voice tight with fury, "the most - "

"Effective?" Arion supplied helpfully, his eyes dancing with wicked light.

"- insufferable, arrogant, condescending - "

"Flattered," Arion interrupted, his grin widening.

"- man, I have ever had the misfortune to et!" Dean finished, his voice rising in pitch with sheer exasperation.

Arion just laughed, a low, rich sound that Dean felt vibrate through his own chest. "You’re beautiful when you’re angry," he said, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind Dean’s ear.

The gesture was so gentle that it derailed Dean’s tirade on impact.

Dean blinked.

He hated that his body registered the softness before his pride could. Hated that the warmth of Arion’s fingers lingered for a second at his temple, careful, reverent, like Arion was handling sothing precious and not an oga who had just threatened to commit auditory treason in a royal bedroom.

Dean’s mouth opened.

No words ca out. Only a breath, caught and stupid.

Arion watched him with that maddening, satisfied calm, as if he’d planned the entire sequence: provoke Dean, catch him, let him spit venom, then touch him gently and watch the venom turn into confusion.

Dean’s brows knit sharply. "Don’t do that."

Arion’s hand didn’t retreat imdiately. It slid from Dean’s hair to his cheekbone in a slow, testing stroke.

"Don’t do what?" Arion asked, voice low, like he already knew the answer and wanted Dean to say it anyway.

"Don’t..." Dean swallowed, furious at the betrayal in his own throat. "Don’t soften when I’m trying to be furious."

Arion’s mouth curved. "You’re still furious."

Dean’s glare sharpened. "Yes."

"And still here," Arion murmured.

Dean’s ears ward. He chose violence as a coping chanism.

"I’m here because you physically dragged back onto the bed like you were collecting a prize," Dean snapped.

Arion’s eyes flicked over Dean’s face, unbothered. "You didn’t hit ."

Dean blinked. "What?"