Dean laughed under his breath. "Of course."

"Dean."

"No, say it." Dean’s voice was flat now. "We already knew he was trying it. There is not much damage it can do now." He shrugged, though Arion saw the strain beneath the motion, the way his fingers remained sunk too tightly into Boreas’s fur. "You are my mate and, let’s be honest, I won’t go down without a fight."

Arion looked at him for a long moment.

That was one of the things he loved most and hated most about Dean: his instinct to stand with blood in his mouth and call it strategy before admitting anything hurt. Dean could be wounded, furious, humiliated, cornered, and still his first impulse was not collapse, but retaliation. Not because he was fearless. Arion knew better than that now. Dean had fear. He simply considered surrender more offensive.

"No," Arion said quietly. "You won’t."

Dean’s mouth curved without warmth. "So? Say the rest."

Arion’s jaw flexed once. "Three other dominant alphas. All in their fifties. The metadata suggests Caelan prepared draft proposals for them alongside Thomas’s version. One appears connected to Draxil, likely a military house with containment failures in its line. One is tied to southern Rohan, an older alpha with command authority and a history of controlled strain. The third belongs to a Palatine-aligned industrial family that profited from containment contracts and had reason to want access to your ammunition ability."

Dean looked toward the windows, where the morning light still had the audacity to be beautiful. "He really did look at me and see a technical solution with a pulse."

Arion moved before he could stop himself, his hand finding the back of Dean’s neck again. Dean leaned into it slightly, not enough to seem fragile, just enough to admit the touch helped.

"The important part now," Arion said, forcing his voice to remain steady, "is that Andrea having those drafts means his family had access to restricted Palatine material that even Palatine, Saha, and Alamina could not recover. They held it through an active multi-country inquiry, then attempted to use it for reputational sabotage."

Dean’s eyes shifted back to him. "Treason."

"Yes."

"And Andrea knew."

"Yes."

Dean breathed out, slow and thin. "Then let them burn."

Before Arion could answer, there was a knock at the sitting room door. Boreas lifted his head immediately, ears alert, his body pressing protectively against Dean’s knee as if he had decided the entire palace had become suspicious.

Arion did not look away from Dean. "Enter."

One of his aides stepped inside, tablet held against his chest, his expression carefully neutral in the way palace staff became when neutrality was the only safe emotion left in the building. "Your Highness. Lord Dean."

Dean’s mouth twitched. "That tone means something terrible has put on formal shoes."

The aide hesitated for a fraction of a second, then wisely chose not to respond to that. "Lord Thomas Lancaster is requesting to speak with both of you. He is currently in the eastern antechamber."

Arion’s expression sharpened. "Did he say why?"

"Yes, Your Highness. He said he believes he may have accelerated Andrea’s attempt by ending their arrangement last night." The aide’s gaze flicked briefly toward Dean before returning to Arion. "He also said the matter concerns Lord Dean directly and that he will wait as long as needed."

Dean closed his eyes.

For a moment, Arion considered refusing. Thomas had enough guilt to choke on without being dragged in front of Dean immediately, and Dean had Lucas and Mia arriving soon, Otto’s briefing pending, and an entire scandal trying to grow teeth before lunch. But Dean opened his eyes before Arion could speak, and the look on his face was already decided.

"Bring him in," Dean said.

The aide looked to Arion.

Arion nodded once. "Bring him."

The aide bowed and left.

Dean stared at the door after it closed. "He thinks this is his fault."

"He believes Andrea reacted because Thomas ended the arrangement."

"He probably did," Dean said. "But that is not the same thing as fault."

"No."

Dean laughed once, softly and without humor. "Andrea would have used it anyway."

Arion’s gaze stayed on him. "Yes."

"Maybe not this morning. Maybe not through those exact outlets. Maybe he would have waited until the wedding preparations were public enough, or until Thomas returned to Rohan, or until he could make himself look like the injured party. But he was always going to use it." Dean’s mouth tightened. "He didn’t hold those documents because he forgot they existed. He held them because they made him feel less humiliated."

Arion watched him carefully.

Dean’s anger was still there, but it had become lucid. Almost frighteningly so. "I think there were two things he was reaching for. He wanted Thomas to feel bad and guilty, as he knows how honorable and nice Thomas is."

"Yes," Arion said.

"And the second was us." Dean’s fingers curled once over Boreas’s head. "Our wedding. Our public image. If the rumor took root, even briefly, everyone would start looking at us like this marriage is a repair project dressed in black and gold."

Arion’s voice went cold. "No one important would believe that."

Dean gave him a dry look. "I know you are imperial enough to think that solves things, but civilians matter too, Arion. They matter because they create atmosphere. They decide whether a wedding feels like celebration or scandal management. They decide whether my name gets spoken with pity, mockery, or suspicion."

Arion accepted that with a small incline of his head, even though every part of him wanted to reject it violently.

Dean was right.

Public feeling mattered. Not more than truth, but enough to poison the air before truth arrived.

The door opened again, and Thomas Lancaster stepped inside.

He looked as if he had not slept. His short brown hair was neat, his formal jacket impeccable, his broad shoulders squared with military discipline, but there was a weariness beneath his calm that no tailoring could hide. Soft brown eyes moved first to Arion, then to Dean, and the regret in them was immediate and naked enough that Dean’s expression tightened before Thomas even spoke.

"Dean," Thomas said. "Arion."

Dean lifted one brow. "If you apologize before sitting, I may throw something."

Thomas paused.

Arion almost smiled despite the situation.

Dean pointed toward the chair opposite them. "Sit down, Thomas. You are seven feet tall and radiating guilt. It’s oppressive."