Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina-Chapter 136: Give me the phone

Sylvia had fully decided to commit a crime.

Dean stepped in front of her before she could even finish the thought.

He stepped half a pace forward, subtly placing himself between Sylvia and the aide.

Sylvia’s hand twitched with violence and retribution.

Dean didn’t look at her. He kept his gaze on the aide, expression calm.

"Where," Dean asked.

The aide’s posture remained perfect. "The east gallery receiving room, Your Highness."

Sylvia’s eyes narrowed.

The east gallery meant quieter corridors. Fewer witnesses. More security. Less chance of someone accidentally overhearing anything interesting.

Which meant it was either going to be very private...

...or very bad.

Dean nodded once, like this was something perfectly normal.

"I’ll come," he said.

Sylvia made a small sound of disbelief.

Dean finally turned his head slightly, just enough for Sylvia to catch the edge of his profile and the brightness in his purple eyes.

"Sylvia," Dean murmured, low enough that only she could hear, "don’t."

Sylvia’s smile stayed on her face because the aide was still standing there, but her voice turned sweet and dangerous. "Don’t what?"

"Don’t start a fight in a palace corridor."

Sylvia’s eyes flicked over the aide’s polite face, then back to Dean. "That depends on whether they deserve it."

Dean’s mouth twitched, almost in amusement, but quickly buried.

The aide cleared their throat gently, reminding them they were still present.

Dean inclined his head. "Give us a moment."

The aide hesitated - protocol didn’t usually include ’give us a moment’ - but Dean’s tone was not a request.

The aide bowed once. "Yes, my lord."

They stepped back toward the doors, just far enough to look like they weren’t listening while absolutely listening.

The moment the distance existed, Sylvia grabbed Dean’s sleeve and yanked him half a step closer to the railing.

Dean let it happen, which was also alarming.

"This is a trap," Sylvia hissed, the words slipping out sharp and urgent.

Dean’s eyes flicked to her. "I know."

Sylvia’s stomach dropped. "Then why are you agreeing?"

Dean grinned with all his teeth, and Sylvia’s mind flickered to every prayer she’d ever half-believed in. This is going to be bad... for whoever was testing Dean today.

"I wanna have fun."

Sylvia groaned, realizing that there is no stopping him now, but she could at least mitigate the damage.

"Fine," Sylvia said through her teeth, stepping closer like she was about to adjust his cuff. "But give me your phone."

Dean blinked, offended on principle. "Why?"

"Because," Sylvia said sweetly, "if you get distracted and decide to commit a felony in a hallway, I want to be able to call for help while you’re busy doing... whatever your version of fun is."

Dean’s mouth twitched. "I’m not going to commit a felony."

Sylvia held his gaze. "Dean."

Dean sighed like he was indulging her irrational anxiety.

Then he handed her his phone.

Sylvia took it with immediate relief and shoved it into her clutch as if it were a weapon.

The aide waited with perfect, polite stillness, pretending not to hear any of this.

Dean turned back to the aide, mask sliding into place like a switch flipped. "Lead the way."

They moved.

Sylvia stayed half a step behind Dean, close enough to grab him if needed, far enough not to look like she was clinging. Her heels clicked softly on the polished floor.

The palace corridors shifted as they left the ballroom’s noise behind. The air grew cooler. The lighting became more functional. Security presence became less decorative and more in your face: camera domes, guards at intersections, doors that required clearance.

The aide led them down a discreet path - east wing access, gallery corridor, and a short staircase.

Sylvia didn’t like how direct it felt.

While they walked, Sylvia slipped her hand into her clutch and pulled Dean’s phone out just enough to see the screen. It unlocked immediately; Dean never locked his phone.

She scrolled fast, searching for Arion.

Of course there were multiple entries.

Of course, there were official contacts, private lines, security numbers, and something labeled in Dean’s phone with his signature dry sarcasm.

Crown Prince (Annoying barnacle)

Sylvia almost laughed.

She clicked it, and a new message field opened.

Sylvia typed quickly, keeping her face neutral as she walked.

’I’m Sylvia: East wing. Being taken to ’east gallery receiving room.’ Aide said you requested Dean alone. Dean thinks it’s a trap (and he’s weirdly fine with that). I’m with him. Please confirm this is actually you.’

She hit send before she could second-guess herself.

Then, after a beat, because she wasn’t foolish enough to assume one message was enough, she typed another.

’Still Sylvia: If this isn’t you, we’re walking into something. If it is you, I’m still not leaving him alone. Sorry.’

She sent that too.

Then she locked the phone and slid it back into her clutch like it was contraband.

Dean glanced back at her, suspicious. "What are you doing?"

Sylvia smiled brightly. "Being responsible."

Dean’s eyes narrowed. "That’s ominous."

"It’s a growth arc," Sylvia said sweetly.

Dean scoffed. "I don’t believe in those."

"Clearly," Sylvia muttered.

The corridor opened into a quieter section of the east gallery. The walls here were lined with modern art - large abstract pieces, tasteful sculptures, and glass displays that looked expensive enough to require insurance just to stand near them.

The aide stopped at a set of double doors with a discreet plaque beside them.

EAST GALLERY RECEIVING ROOM

Sylvia’s pulse kicked.

Dean’s expression remained perfectly composed.

He looked like he was about to walk into a meeting.

He also looked like he was enjoying himself, which was the most alarming thing of all.

The aide bowed. "His Highness is inside."

Dean nodded once. "Open it."

The aide reached for the handle.

Sylvia’s fingers tightened on her clutch.

Dean leaned slightly closer to her, murmuring out of the corner of his mouth with that bright, heat-tempered calm.

"If someone tries to touch you," Dean said softly, "I’ll bite them."

Sylvia whispered back, "Dean, that is not comforting."

Dean’s mouth twitched. "It should be."

The doors opened.

Warm light spilled out.

Dean stepped in first, as if he’d done this a thousand times.

Sylvia followed half a pace behind him, clutch tight in her hand.

The aide didn’t enter.

The doors shut behind them with a quiet click that sounded far too final.

For one heartbeat, nothing moved.

Then the figure near the window turned.

Sylvia’s brain, already primed for danger, stuttered because the person wasn’t Arion or anyone else close enough to count.

It was someone tall, slim, and unfairly elegant. Red hair gathered back in a loose cascade that caught the light like wine in glass, curls pinned with pale flowers and shimmering pieces that looked like they’d been harvested from a bridal veil. Their skin was pale enough to look almost luminous under the warm lamps, their mouth soft and slightly parted, their gaze half-lidded in a way that was either practiced boredom or deliberate provocation.

They wore an off-white gown that was all delicate drape and translucent layers, with oversized floral appliqués at the shoulder and across the bodice, like the whole outfit was a statement: ’I am not here to blend in.’

And on their feet, because Sylvia noticed everything when she was terrified, heels.

The figure looked at Dean, looked at Sylvia, and then smiled, slow and knowing.