Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina-Chapter 97: Tactical Retreat

Sylvia’s grin stayed in place for exactly one more heartbeat.

Then Arion asked, softly, "Is that true?"

And Sylvia, who had spent her entire life surviving professors, nobles, and best friends by knowing precisely when to strike and precisely when to vanish, felt her instincts finally scream something useful:

’Run.’

Metaphorically.

She did not sprint down the hall like a criminal.

She simply executed a flawless tactical retreat with all the elegance of a woman who had never, in her life, taken responsibility for the chaos she created.

"Oh," Sylvia said, suddenly breathless with professionalism, "look at the time."

Dean’s head snapped toward her with pure betrayal.

Sylvia held up a hand, as if blessing him. "You’re welcome."

Dean’s voice came out tight. "Sylvia."

She ignored him with the grace of a saint. "This is clearly an... intimate diplomatic moment."

Arion’s men remained in the hallway, posture rigid, eyes fixed on a distant point on the wall as if they had discovered religion and it required them not to blink.

Sylvia closed the door between them and the imperial love mess and turned to face them.

For half a second she just stood there, palm still on the handle, breathing like she’d just outrun a predator. She hadn’t, technically. She’d just trapped her best friend in a room with one.

Dean’s muffled voice hit the wood on the other side.

Sylvia smiled faintly, then wiped it off her face before any of the guards could mistake her for someone who belonged in this palace.

She straightened her shoulders, adjusted her coat like confidence could be worn, and looked up at Arion’s men.

They were still statues. Two tall shapes in uniform, eyes fixed on a point in the distance with the kind of devotion that suggested the wall was deeply interesting and they were absolutely not listening.

Sylvia cleared her throat.

"Okay," she said briskly, because if she didn’t speak now, she would start laughing, and that would be the end of her life. "You’re welcome."

Neither guard reacted.

Sylvia nodded like they had accepted the gratitude with warmth.

Then she continued, fast and practical, as if this was the entire reason she’d come. "Important question. Where’s the dog?"

One of them blinked once, like he had just remembered civilians existed.

"The dog," Sylvia repeated, helpfully. "Boreas. The giant one. The one Dean told me about. Apparently he has opinions."

The guard’s gaze flicked, briefly, to her face, then away again with disciplined neutrality.

"With His Highness," he said.

Sylvia’s brows rose. "Which one?"

The guard stared at the wall again, as if the wall might answer for him.

Sylvia waited.

The second guard finally spoke, tone flat and merciful. "The Crown Prince."

Sylvia exhaled, relieved. "Great. Where is the Crown Prince not currently asking my friend emotionally catastrophic questions?"

Silence.

Sylvia pressed her lips together and nodded as if that had been unreasonable.

"Fine," she said, correcting herself. "Where is Boreas located?"

The first guard hesitated for a fraction, as if consulting an internal manual titled ’How to Handle Teenagers With No Fear.’ Then he gestured with his chin down the corridor.

"Left," he said. "Second door. Suite."

Sylvia’s face lit up like she’d been handed a treasure map. "Perfect. Thank you."

The guard didn’t respond.

Sylvia added, because she couldn’t help herself, "Also, you didn’t hear anything."

Both men remained perfectly still.

Sylvia nodded decisively. "Excellent."

She took two steps away, then paused and looked back at the closed door like it was a crime scene and she was the getaway driver.

From inside came a quiet thud, probably Dean leaning his forehead against something in despair.

Sylvia winced with fondness, then lifted her voice just enough to be heard through the wood.

"DEAN," she called cheerfully. "DON’T DIE. I’M GOING TO PET THE DOG."

A muffled sound answered her, something between a curse and a strangled prayer.

Sylvia smiled, satisfied, and hurried down the corridor, clutching her bag of dried meat like a peace offering.

Behind her, Arion’s men stayed where they were, still guarding the door, still refusing to acknowledge that anything had just happened, because in this palace, survival often looked exactly like pretending you had no ears.

—

On the other side of the door, the air changed the moment the latch clicked.

Dean hadn’t moved far; there hadn’t been time, not with Sylvia’s voice still echoing in his ears and that question still hanging in his mind.

Is that true?

He took one step back on instinct, because retreat was the only reflex his dignity had left.

Arion followed, closing space with the calm inevitability of a dominant who had decided he wasn’t letting the subject die.

Dean felt the shift in his bones before he understood it. The subtle pressure of pheromones, controlled to the point of being almost polite but still clearly present, Arion’s presence becoming a wall, a boundary, a cage built from posture and proximity instead of force.

Dean’s back met the door with a soft thud.

He stiffened in sheer secondhand horror at the fact he’d been physically herded into a position that looked like a scandal waiting to happen.

Arion’s hands rose up on either side of Dean’s shoulders, palms braced against the wood, arms framing him and blocking escape routes without touching him. A cage made of muscle and determination.

Dean’s breath caught, sharp with irritation and heat. "Don’t do that."

Arion didn’t move his arms.

But his gaze held Dean’s with a careful intensity, as if he were listening not only to the words but also to what Dean wasn’t saying.

"I’m not touching you," Arion said quietly.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. "You’re still cornering me."

Arion’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Yes."

Dean exhaled through his nose, trying to find his temper, trying to anchor himself in something safe like sarcasm. "You have excellent timing."

"I do," Arion agreed, unbothered, and the agreement was so smooth it nearly made Dean laugh.

Nearly.

Arion’s eyes flicked briefly to Dean’s mouth, then back up, steady. "Answer me."

Dean’s jaw tightened. "Which part. The part where Sylvia commits treason with her mouth, or the part where you stand in my wing looking like a religious experience and expect me to be normal about it."

Arion’s gaze didn’t waver. "The part where she said you like me."

Dean held the stare for a long beat, the way he did when he was deciding how much truth he could afford.

Then he lifted his chin a fraction, stubborn. "I do."

It should have been enough.

It was not enough.

Arion’s breathing changed as if the word ’do’ settled somewhere in him and demanded more.

"That’s not what I’m asking," Arion said softly.

Dean’s brows drew together. "It’s exactly what you asked."

Arion shook his head once, slowly. "No."

His voice remained calm, but there was something in it that made Dean’s heart race - something dangerously earnest.

"I’m asking," Arion said, "if you like me because the agreement tells you to. Because the palace needs it. Because your country needs it."

Dean went still.

Arion’s eyes sharpened. "Or because you want me."

Dean’s throat tightened in a way that was not irritation anymore.

He tried to default to deflection, to humor, to anything that didn’t require him to step into this without armor.

"You’re dramatic," Dean said.

Arion’s mouth twitched. "Yes."

Dean blinked. "That wasn’t supposed to be an agreement."

Arion didn’t smile. He didn’t let the banter save Dean.

"I’m serious," Arion said, and the words came low, careful, as if he was trying not to spook something fragile. "Tell me it’s not only duty."

Dean’s fingers curled once at his sides.