Arion didn’t need to be told twice.

He charged forward with a controlled violence that made Dean’s breath catch, one hand still anchored in his hair and the other sliding down to grip the back of Dean’s thigh. Arion lifted, guided, and claimed the space between them until Dean’s knees hit the edge of the mattress.

"Wait—" Dean started, but Arion was already lowering him back into the nest.

The shift was dizzying. One moment, vertical and fighting gravity; the next, sinking into the wreckage of blankets and stolen shirts with Arion following him down, the heavy weight of the alpha pinning him into softness. The scent of warm vetiver intensified, threading deeper into Dean’s lungs with each breath, releasing something in his chest that had been held taut since he locked that door.

"Wait?" Arion echoed, his voice rough against Dean’s throat where he’d started pressing open-mouthed kisses. "You said now."

"I said..." Dean’s argument dissolved into a gasp when Arion’s teeth grazed his neck. The restraint made Dean arch upward involuntarily, seeking more pressure, more contact, more alpha. "I was making a point about—ah—timing."

Arion laughed, low and dark, the vibration traveling straight through Dean’s sternum.

"Your timing is terrible," Arion informed him, but he was already working his ruined shirt off his shoulders, and Dean forgot to be offended because the sight of his mate bared above him, golden skin and coiled muscle and those impossible eyes burning with barely checked restraint, short-circuited what remained of his vocabulary.

Dean’s hands shook as he reached up and traced the planes of Arion’s chest, feeling the thunder of his heart beneath warm skin. The touch alone wasn’t enough. He dragged his nails down lightly, watching Arion’s jaw tighten at the sensation, watching his pupils blow wide with reciprocal want.

"You’re still wearing too much," Dean accused, which was ridiculous considering he was wrapped in nothing but heat and desperation, but Arion didn’t argue.

He arched back just enough to unfasten his trousers, bringing the muscles in his abdomen into sharp relief, which Dean traced with greedy eyes. Then Arion’s hands were on him, calloused after the weeks of hunting, dragging up the sensitive skin of Dean’s inner thighs with intent that made Dean’s spine curve off the mattress.

"Arion," the name came out broken, wrecked already, and they hadn’t even started.

"Here," Arion murmured, settling back over him, skin to fevered skin, the heavy press of his arousal against Dean’s hip sending a jolt through his spine and groin. "I’m here, Dean. I’ve got you."

Dean wrapped his legs around Arion’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back to close the remaining few inches between them. The movement opened him, exposed him, and Arion groaned, a sound like gravel and worship, before he found Dean’s mouth again and kissed him like breathing was optional.

Dean broke the kiss and tried to push Arion back, as he usually did, and take control of the dynamic, but this time Arion didn’t let him. The large hands caught Dean’s wrists and pinned them back onto the mattress, his engagement ring softly biting into omega’s skin.

Arion held him there, golden eyes dark and unyielding, the weight of his body pressing Dean deeper into the nest. The restraint wasn’t harsh, and Dean felt a shiver rack through him that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

"My alpha usually lets me," Dean tried, his voice lowered just like Arion usually liked. He tested the grip on his wrists, flexing against the fingers that circled them easily, feeling the cool metal of Arion’s ring pressing firm against his pulse.

"Your alpha is usually terrified of what you can do," Arion murmured, his mouth finding the line of Dean’s jaw, tracing downward with teeth and tongue. "But you’re in heat, and I’m in rut, and I think..." he paused to bite gently at Dean’s collarbone, feeling the arch and gasp it triggered. "I think tonight I get to keep you still."

Dean’s breath caught. He should have argued. His pride demanded it, scrabbling for purchase somewhere in the haze of pheromones and want. But the truth was, pinned beneath Arion’s weight, his wrists secured above his head in the tangled blankets, feeling the heat of his mate surrounding him... he didn’t want to move.

He wanted to be taken.

"You stopped wearing the collars," Arion whispered in Dean’s ear while shoving his head to the side to see the mark he left on Dean’s nape.

"We were fighting." Dean gasped at the contact of Arion’s wet tongue with the feverish skin of the mark.

Arion hummed, his pheromones filling the room to the point of Dean almost choking on them. "Let’s say that excuse held, then it’s my duty to give you another one."

"You really took Dax’s worst habits."

"Dean, he is my uncle, and we have the same bloodline."

Arion’s fingers traced the sensitive skin of Dean’s throat where the leather would sit, testing, asking without words.

"Turn over," Arion commanded softly.

Dean’s pride reared up one last time, a final spark in the drowning dark. "Make me."

Arion’s grin was all teeth and murky gold eyes. He didn’t try to convince Dean; when his mate’s mind settled on something, he didn’t give up, so Arion simply lifted him, turning Dean onto his stomach with an effortless strength that made Dean’s breath hitch in his chest and made his spine arch involuntarily, presenting.

Pillows rustled. The leather creaked. Dean felt Arion’s knee pressing between his thighs, opening him, and then a cool band of leather settled warm against his throat, buckling snug with a sound that resonated through Dean’s entire body.

Arion’s hand closed around the front of it, not pulling, just holding, his thumb finding the jump of Dean’s pulse beneath the strap.

The leather rested there with humiliating familiarity, warm almost instantly from his skin, the weight of it sinking straight into the overheated haze of his heat until his entire body reacted like Arion had touched him everywhere at once.

"There," Arion said again, quieter now. "Now you’re complete."

Dean should have argued.

He should have snapped something sharp about dramatics, monarchy, or alpha arrogance.

Instead, his face pressed deeper into the pillow while his pulse hammered violently beneath the leather and Arion’s thumb.

"That," Dean managed weakly, "was an evil thing to say."

Arion’s laugh brushed hot against the back of his neck.

"You liked it."