Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina-Chapter 114: Bite [Win-Win]

When the room finally went quiet again, Arion lay back against the pillows, breathing slower, eyes half-lidded in a way that made him look drugged on his own satisfaction. The vetiver in the air was still there, but it wasn’t a storm anymore - it had softened into something heavy and possessive, like a blanket thrown over a threat.

Dean sat beside him, posture deceptively casual for a man who had just looked a crown prince in the eye and treated him like a problem to be solved. His hair was a mess. His mouth was still too pink. His expression, however, was infuriatingly composed - like he’d done paperwork, not weaponized sex.

Arion watched him.

Not with hunger this time, though it lived under his skin like a second heartbeat, but with something sharper.

Dean caught the look and lifted a brow. "What?"

Arion’s mouth twitched. It tried to become a smirk, and then it failed spectacularly by growing wider. "I was just thinking."

"Oh no," Dean said immediately, rolling onto his side and covering his face with both hands as if that could protect him from whatever disaster Arion’s brain had decided to manufacture. "That was never a good thing to say in the entire history of humanity."

Arion let out a low laugh, warm and wrecked and unfairly fond. "It’s just—"

"This is even worse," Dean groaned, voice muffled by his palms. "No. Stop. Don’t. I refuse."

Arion’s shoulders shook. "Would you listen to me?"

Dean peeked between his fingers with one eye, suspicious. "That depends entirely on what you’re about to do to my blood pressure."

Arion reached for him anyway, because Arion had never been good at letting Dean build walls when Arion wanted him close. He slid an arm around Dean’s waist and pulled him back against his chest with a gentle tug that didn’t feel like restraint so much as insistence.

Dean made a sound of protest that immediately softened into resignation the moment he felt Arion’s warmth.

"You’re not allowed to laugh at me," Dean muttered.

"I’m laughing with you," Arion said, voice still rough with sleep, mouth near Dean’s hair.

"That’s a lie."

"Yes," Arion admitted cheerfully, and Dean hated him again.

Arion kissed the back of Dean’s knuckles - gentle, almost apologetic - and then finally said it, like he’d been holding it back because he knew it would cause damage.

"I was thinking," Arion murmured, "that you are far more experienced than you let me believe."

Dean made a sound like a man swallowing both pride and a scream. He kept his hands over his face anyway, because if he looked at Arion’s expression right now, he was going to commit a felony.

"First of all," Dean said, voice muffled by his palms, "that is a terrible thing to say."

Arion’s grin widened. It had no right to be that bright at this hour. It was the equivalent of a flashlight in the pitch dark - blinding, smug, and aimed directly at Dean’s dignity.

"Second of all," Dean added, because he was incapable of not being honest once he’d started, "I like it."

Arion’s eyes warmed with immediate, delighted triumph. "Now, do you?"

Dean dropped his hands just enough to glare at him. "Respectfully," he said, very calm, "shut up."

Arion laughed, low and warm, and pulled Dean closer like he couldn’t help himself.

"Respectfully," Arion echoed, voice amused against Dean’s hair, "no."

Dean’s jaw ticked. "Arion."

Arion kissed the top of his head like he was the sweetest man alive, while definitely enjoying tormenting Dean. "What," he murmured, innocent as a crime. "Can’t a man enjoy the fact that his partner and fiancé enjoy... joint activities in the bedroom?"

Dean went very still.

Then he lifted his head just enough to glare. "First of all, that sentence was a felony."

Arion’s shoulders shook with laughter. "It was early."

"Second of all," Dean continued, voice flat, "if you say ’activities’ again, I’m going to set your curtains on fire."

Arion hummed. "Noted."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You did not note it. You filed it under ’things Dean says while blushing.’"

Arion’s mouth twitched against Dean’s hair. "Correct."

Dean sighed through his nose and tried to shift away, mostly out of principle.

Arion followed immediately, because of course he did. His arm stayed around Dean’s waist with quiet insistence, as if letting Dean move more than an inch away was a personal affront.

Dean froze again, offended. "Do you have to cling?"

Arion didn’t deny it. He simply said, very calmly, "Yes."

Dean stared at him.

Arion’s eyes were still amused, still bright, but there was something underneath it now.

It made Dean’s spine straighten.

"What," Dean said carefully, "are you about to propose?"

Arion’s grin softened into something deceptively gentle. "Move in with me."

Dean blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then his brows shot up. "Excuse me?"

Arion didn’t flinch. He stayed maddeningly calm, like this was a normal request and not a coup staged in pajamas. "Your suite is being ozoned after the... incident," he said lightly. "And a lot of electronics have to be replaced. Filters. Sensors. The things that panic when you and I forget the concept of moderation."

Dean stared at him.

Then he stared at the ceiling.

Then he stared back at Arion like he was trying to identify which part of him was the most illegal.

"Are you weaponizing what you did with your pheromones in my suite to have me here?" Dean asked, disbelieving.

Arion’s eyes gleamed. "Yes."

Dean inhaled sharply. "You can’t just say yes like it’s—"

Arion’s mouth twitched. "Is it working?"

Dean held his stare for a long beat, anger and embarrassment and reluctant affection all fighting for dominance in his face.

Then he sighed.

Long.

Dramatic.

Defeated.

"Yes," Dean admitted.

Arion’s expression softened further, pleased in a way that made Dean want to bite him again purely out of spite. "Good."

Dean stared at him like the concept of ’good’ was a personal insult.

Then, very slowly, he reached up, caught Arion’s hand - warm, calloused, the fingers still faintly flexing like Arion didn’t quite know what to do with himself when he wasn’t holding Dean - and brought it to his mouth.

Arion’s brows lifted, pleased and curious in the same breath. "Oh?"

Dean smiled with all the sweetness of a knife.

And bit him.

Hard. A spiteful, committed bite right into the base of his thumb, like Dean had decided that if Arion was going to stage coups in pajamas, Dean was going to respond like a feral citizen with voting rights.

Arion made a sound - half hiss, half laugh - and his entire body jolted against the pillows.

"Dean," he gasped, laughing like this was the best thing that had ever happened to him, "that is—"

Dean didn’t let go. He held the bite for a full heartbeat longer, eyes locked on Arion’s, expression calm enough to qualify as a war crime.

Then he released him with a little pop of satisfaction and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like he’d just finished a meal.

"Consider it a formal response," Dean said.

Arion looked down at his own hand like it had betrayed him by being biteable, and then he laughed again - low, delighted, and entirely unrepentant.

"God," Arion breathed, grinning, "I’m going to marry you."