By late evening, the palace had stopped pretending the day had been normal.

House Vale was under public investigation. Andrea was alive, which Dean considered generous enough to no longer be his moral concern. Lord and Lady Vale had been removed from the capital under restriction, their accounts frozen, their access revoked, and their name already rotting across every official and unofficial channel connected to Alamina’s court.

Inside the Crown Prince’s private residence, the wedding had somehow survived its first siege.

Lucas, Mia, and Minerva had left nearly an hour ago, after turning the receiving lounge into a controlled disaster zone of fabric samples, floral options, seating notes, draft palettes, and enough commentary to make three professional planners request written summaries before taking over.

The professionals would handle it from there.

That was what Minerva had said.

Dean did not fully believe her. Royal professionals were still people, and people could ruin a perfectly acceptable concept by becoming enthusiastic near ribbons and obscene budgets.

Still, the structure existed now.

Black and gold for Alamina.

Deep wine for him.

Palatine ivory in flowers and lining, not swallowing him.

Imperial green is carefully woven throughout the design, as peace rather than a flag being planted.

The room was quiet now. The wall screen had gone dark. Most of the swatches had been removed, though Dean had refused to let the wine-red fabric leave before he could examine it under morning light.

Boreas slept near his hip, sprawled like a white and brown, oversized guardian of emotional collapse. One paw rested over Dean’s ankle, pinning him in place with gentle tyranny.

Dean sat on the floor beside the low table, holding the wine-red swatch between two fingers and pretending to study it.

"It looked better under afternoon light," he said.

Arion stood near the doorway, watching him.

He had changed out of the formal black suit he had worn to destroy the Vales, but even in dark lounge clothes he still looked too composed for someone who had spent the morning choking Andrea, publicly killing a noble house, and then discussing collar structure with calm authority.

Dean found that offensive.

Attractive.

Mostly offensively... attractive.

Arion stepped inside. "Then we’ll look at it again tomorrow afternoon."

Dean glanced up. "You say that like you expect me to still care tomorrow."

"You will."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You are becoming arrogant about my wedding opinions."

"You have strong wedding opinions."

"I have aesthetic standards."

"And I have seven suits."

Dean looked away first.

A mistake.

Arion crossed the room and sat on the floor beside him.

Dean turned his head. "You know furniture exists."

"I’ve heard rumors."

"You are Crown Prince of Alamina."

"And you are on the floor."

Dean stared at him.

Arion remained calm.

Dean looked back at the swatch, because looking at Arion too long made the room warmer in ways he did not want to examine after a day full of treason, family affection, and floral symbolism.

"You smell calmer," Dean said.

"I am calmer."

"Good."

"Are you?"

Dean rolled the edge of the swatch between his fingers. "No."

Arion did not answer.

That was unfair of him. Silence gave Dean space, and Dean did not always want space. Sometimes he wanted someone to interrupt him before he had to tell the truth.

Unfortunately, Arion had become excellent at knowing when not to speak.

Dean exhaled. "I don’t feel bad that House Vale is ruined."

"I know."

"I don’t feel bad about Andrea either."

"I know that too."

Dean’s mouth tightened. "I keep thinking I should."

"Why?"

"Because that would be... civilized?"

Arion looked at him with open disbelief.

Dean glared. "Do not look at me like that. I can consider civilization."

"You can."

"I heard the doubt."

"You imagined it."

Dean huffed and leaned back on one hand. "Fine. I don’t feel bad. He tried to turn Caelan’s old rot into a headline. His mother called me fresh meat. His family kept proposal drafts like investment documents. I hope they enjoy provincial irrelevance and monitored communications."

Arion’s eyes warmed slightly. "Very civilized."

"Shut up."

"I said it respectfully."

"You said it as my mate, which means it was suspicious by default."

Arion reached for the swatch in Dean’s hand but did not take it. His fingers only brushed the fabric near Dean’s.

Dean let him.

For several breaths, they touched the same small piece of wine-red cloth in silence.

Then Arion said, "You laughed today."

Dean’s shoulders tightened. "Everyone keeps making observations."

"I liked it."

Dean looked at him then.

Arion’s face was softer than it had been all day. Not gentle in the way harmless people were gentle. Arion would never be harmless, and Dean did not want him to be. But the old coldness had folded back beneath his skin, leaving something quieter. Something that wanted nothing from Dean except to be allowed near.

Dean swallowed.

"I didn’t hate the planning," he admitted.

Arion’s fingers stilled against the swatch.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Do not make it a moment."

"It is already a moment."

"I will bite you."

"You can."

The simplicity of that answer was almost intolerable.

Dean looked away. "I liked that they came and that Lucas hugged me before scolding me."

"He did not scold you."

"He was going to."

Arion’s hand shifted, touching the back of Dean’s fingers. "He loves you."

Dean closed his eyes. "That is emotionally unnecessary."

"It seemed relevant."

"It is always relevant. That is the problem."

Arion’s thumb moved slowly over his knuckles.

Dean opened his eyes again but did not pull away.

Dean lifted his eyes. "I know what you are, Arion."

The room went still.

Dean continued before pride could stop him. "You are not gentle because violence isn’t there. You are gentle with me because you choose to be. There is a difference."

Arion did not move.

Dean’s voice lowered. "I don’t want you harmless. I never did. I just hate that people keep dragging you back to the edge because they think touching me is safe."

Something dark moved in Arion’s eyes, but it stayed controlled.

Dean reached up and touched Arion’s jaw.

"I am here," Dean said.

The words were quieter than he intended.

Arion’s eyes closed for half a second.

When he opened them, the softness there made Dean’s chest ache.

"I know," Arion said.

"No, I mean..." Dean frowned. "I am here. Not in a proposal. Not in a file. Not in whatever stupid story Andrea or his mother wanted to make. Here. With you. On the floor. Supervising fabric badly."

Arion covered Dean’s hand with his own.

"You supervise fabric very well."

Dean stared at him.

Then snorted despite himself. "That is what you took from that?"

"No. But you looked like you needed something less dangerous to answer."

Dean hated how well Arion knew him.

He leaned forward and kissed him.

It was not dramatic. There was no heat, no rut, and no biological urgency that was strong enough to overpower thought. Just Dean’s mouth against Arion’s, tired and warm and a little clumsy from the long day. Arion answered softly, one hand rising to Dean’s waist.

Dean shifted closer.

Arion let him set the pace.

When Dean pulled back, Arion’s eyes were darker, but not with violence this time.

Dean rested his forehead against Arion’s. "I am tired."

"I know."

"Stop knowing things."

"No."

Dean smiled despite himself.

Arion’s hand moved slowly up his back. "Do you want bed?"

"Yes. But if I stand, I will remember I have bones."

"I can carry you."

"I knew you were going to say that."

"You can say no."

Dean looked at him.

Arion waited.

That was the problem. Arion would wait, even when he wanted.

Dean sighed. "Fine. But not because I need help."

"Of course."

"It is because you enjoy it."

"Yes."

"That was too honest."

Arion stood and lifted him in one smooth motion before Dean could object again. Dean grabbed his shoulder with a muffled curse. Boreas lifted his head, saw Dean in Arion’s arms, and immediately dropped his chin back down.

"Traitor," Dean told the dog.

Boreas thumped his tail once without opening his eyes.

Arion carried him toward the bedroom.