Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina Chapter 98: Yours

Dean’s fingers curled once at his sides.

The instinct to dodge was still there, alive and obnoxious, pacing the inside of his skull with a clipboard and a list of safer responses. He could call Arion dramatic again. He could make a joke about treaties and national interest and pheromone compatibility and all the polite machinery that had shoved them toward each other long before either of them had ti to decide what they wanted.

He could survive this conversation by turning it into politics.

The problem was that Arion was standing too close for lies to feel elegant.

Dean let out a shaky breath, the sound barely audible in the quiet room. He dropped his gaze from Arion’s eyes, focusing instead on the high collar of the prince’s uniform and the severe line of his jaw. It was easier to look at the armor than the man inside it.

"Yes," Dean finally said, the word so quiet it was almost a whisper. "I like you as a person."

The admission felt like tearing a piece of himself away. It was raw and unguarded, and he despised the way it made him feel vulnerable.

He forced himself to continue, his voice a little stronger, a little more defiant, as if he could reclaim so of the power he’d just surrendered. "You’re insufferable and arrogant, and you have the emotional intelligence of a rock, but you’re also... decent. You listen. You don’t push past the line." He paused, a bitter, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "Usually. So yes. I like you. Happy?"

Arion did not reply right away.

Dean sensed the reaction before he saw it, before he even opened his eyes. The room changed around them in a slow, distinct surge. Arion’s pheromones blood into the space, controlled but no longer restrained to the point of politeness; vetiver rolled warm and dark through the air, swallowing everything else between them.

It was hunger wrapped in discipline, desire held on a leash so tight it trembled. It poured around Dean’s shoulders and down his spine, settled in his lungs, and turned the space between his ribs into sothing softer and far more dangerous than panic.

Dean’s breath hitched.

His eyes snapped up to Arion’s face.

Arion remained exactly where he was, one hand at Dean’s waist, one arm braced near the door, not crowding any further or taking advantage of what his body was doing. His jaw was tight, his expression almost too calm, but the gold in his eyes had gone bright and intent.

"Happy?" Dean repeated, because silence made him reckless and the scent was making him stupid. "Don’t say anything unbearable."

Arion’s mouth twitched. "I am trying very hard."

Dean could believe it.

That, too, was a problem.

He swallowed, pulse beating high in his throat, and then - because he’d already ripped the skin off one truth and apparently his body had decided pain was a hobby - he kept going.

"There’s more," Dean said.

Arion went very still.

Dean almost despised him for his stillness, the way he could beco quiet enough to make every word sound deliberate.

Dean exhaled through his nose, glaring now because glaring was easier than combusting. "I was jealous."

A pause.

Then, because he refused to leave the statent clean or dignified: "Violently."

Arion’s brows lifted by a fraction.

Dean’s ears ward imdiately. "Don’t."

"I didn’t say anything."

"You made a face."

Arion’s voice stayed low, careful. "What are you jealous of?"

Dean laughed once, humorless and annoyed at himself. "Take your pick. Sylvia implying soone else could have done that—" his gaze flicked, traitor, to Arion’s lip "—that you could have been with soone else. The idea of another oga near you when you looked like that." He shook his head once, sharply. "I hated it."

The confession sat in the room with the scent of vetiver and too much truth.

Arion’s hand at his waist remained firm, but Dean noticed a subtle tightening in his fingers, as a dominant responds to being chosen, wanted, and admitted.

Dean went on, because if he stopped now, he’d never start again.

"And I was possessive," he said, each word clipped with irritation. "I am possessive. I didn’t say it because I wasn’t going to hand Sylvia a loaded weapon and a match, but yes. I was. I am."

Arion’s eyes darkened, not with threat, but with sothing hotter and more reverent than Dean was willing to endure gracefully.

Dean’s jaw clenched. "Don’t look at like that either."

Arion’s mouth curved faintly. "You keep giving difficult instructions."

Dean glared. "I an it."

"I know." Arion’s thumb moved once at Dean’s waist, a slow grounding stroke that sent a shiver through Dean before he could stop it. "I’m still listening."

That quiet answer hit harder than any tease would have.

Dean looked away for half a second, furious at the heat crawling up his neck, then forced himself to look back.

"I liked it," he admitted, more quietly now. "The jealousy. The possessiveness. I hated that I liked it, but I did." A bitter little smile touched his mouth. "Apparently I’m not as civilized as I thought."

Arion’s expression softened in a way that made Dean want to bite him again on principle.

"You’re very civilized," Arion said. "You just tell yourself stories when you’re afraid."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "That sounded wise. I don’t trust it."

"It can also sound less wise, if you prefer." Arion leaned a fraction closer, scent deepening again, vetiver wrapping tighter around Dean’s senses until even his own thoughts felt slower at the edges. "You’re jealous because you want . You’re possessive because sowhere in your mind, you already think of as yours."

Dean’s breath caught so sharply it almost hurt.

He should have denied it.

He should have gone cold and elegant and impossible.

Instead he stared at Arion, chest rising too fast, and said nothing.

Which, in itself, was answer enough.

Arion’s eyes scanned his face, reading him with infuriating accuracy.

Dean could feel his own pheromones responding now, lower and quieter but still present, warmth threading through the vetiver, not fighting it, but simply settling in, allowing the room to beco sothing shared.

The realization made his stomach drop and steady at the sa ti.

He swallowed. "You’re not allowed to weaponize honesty just because I gave you so."

Arion’s mouth curved. "I’m not weaponizing it."

Dean lifted a brow. "What do you call this, then?"

Arion’s gaze held his. "Relief."

Dean stared at him for a long mont, his annoyance fraying at the edges under sothing warr and infinitely more dangerous.

Then he muttered, because dignity was dead and he might as well bury it properly, "I was jealous because I wanted to be the one who did it."

Arion went still all over again.

Dean’s pulse thundered. He pushed through anyway, because if he stopped, he’d evaporate.

"The lip," he clarified, glaring. "I wanted it to be . I wanted people to look at you and know I’d been close enough to leave a mark." His mouth twisted. "There. Are you satisfied? Have I confessed enough cris?"

For one terrifying heartbeat, Arion said nothing.

Then his forehead lowered, stopping just short of Dean’s, his breath warm on Dean’s skin, his voice rougher now despite all that iron restraint.

"Dean," he murmured, "if you keep talking like this, I’m going to flood your wing."

Dean’s eyes fluttered once as the vetiver thickened again, rich and dark and almost unbearably pleased.

His own mouth twitched despite him.

"Control yourself," Dean whispered, even as he leaned the smallest fraction forward, closing a sliver of the space between them.

Arion’s hand at his waist tightened just enough to be felt.

"I am," Arion said.