Chapter 117: Chapter 117: Burgers and Royalty

Dean came out of the bathroom clean enough to qualify as a new person.

His hair was damp and finally tamed into something that suggested sanity. His collar sat where it belonged. The faint tension in his shoulders had eased – not because anything was actually fine, but because hot water was a temporary religion and Dean had always been good at worshipping practicality.

He smelled like soap.

Not vetiver or panic or the afterimage of a crown prince’s control fraying at the edges and Dean stepping into the storm because now that was his job.

His thoughts remained focused on how good Arion looked and how much he wanted to do it again. Was he just horny after using his pheromones? Maybe, but he didn’t want to think too hard about it. Dean still loved Arion’s face, body, and, most importantly, his personality, which had the emotional intelligence of a rock.

Sylvia looked up from the armchair the second he entered the sitting room.

Her eyes swept him head to toe again, automatic and merciless.

Then she nodded once. “Better.”

Dean exhaled like he’d been waiting for permission to exist. “Thank you.”

Sylvia’s gaze slid toward the low table.

Two plates with burgers and fries sat there like an act of rebellion.

Dean stared at them.

Then he stared at Sylvia.

Sylvia lifted one innocent brow. “What?”

“You ordered burgers,” Dean said slowly, like he was reading evidence out loud in court.

Sylvia’s mouth twitched. “Yes.”

“In the palace.”

“Yes.”

Dean’s lips parted, then closed. He tried to find a logical objection. He failed because his stomach made an enthusiastic sound that betrayed him immediately.

Sylvia’s eyes gleamed. “Oh.”

Dean glared at her, already reaching for the plate. “Don’t.”

“You like burgers,” Sylvia said, satisfied in the way only a menace could be when proven right.

Dean sat down and opened the box with the resigned reverence of a man accepting both nourishment and humiliation.

The smell hit him: grease, salt, warm bread, the type of comfort food that belonged in a car at midnight, not behind palace security and velvet drapes. And yet his body reacted instantly, like it recognized the language.

He took a bite.

His shoulders dropped a fraction.

Sylvia watched him like she’d just confirmed a hypothesis. “You have Lucas’s taste.”

Dean paused mid-chew and shot her a look. “Don’t start.”

Sylvia shrugged. “It’s not an insult. It’s just… genetic affection for fast food. Royal blood, refined palate, and then you all turn into raccoons the moment someone offers fries.”

Dean swallowed. “I am not—”

“You are,” Sylvia said calmly. “You look happier.”

Dean glared at the burger as if it had betrayed his image. “I’m just hungry.”

Sylvia hummed. “Sure.”

They ate in a rare, almost peaceful silence – Dean inhaling food like he hadn’t been running on adrenaline and shame for hours, Sylvia picking at hers with the casual confidence of a woman who would absolutely eat a burger in the palace and call it class warfare.

By the time Dean finished, the exhaustion that had been held back by necessity finally came creeping in.

He leaned back, eyes half-lidding for a second, and realized he could fall asleep sitting up.

Sylvia noticed immediately, because of course she did.

“You’re tired,” she said.

Dean’s voice came out flat. “No.”

Sylvia’s eyes narrowed. “You just blinked like you saw the afterlife.”

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m fine.”

Sylvia made a soft sound of amused disbelief. “Dean.”

He didn’t answer, because he didn’t have anything that wouldn’t be either a lie or a confession.

The door chime sounded.

Dean’s spine straightened on instinct.

Sylvia didn’t move, only watched him with that familiar expression that said, ’You see? Not normal.’

The door opened.

Arion walked in as if the suite belonged to him by natural law, dressed properly now, hair brushed back, and posture immaculate. He looked like a crown prince again instead of the feral monument Dean’s memories still carried.

Except his gaze landed on Dean and softened in a way that made Dean’s stomach flip with quiet, irritated emotion.

Behind him padded Boreas.

The dog’s paws were silent on the carpet, but his presence wasn’t. He moved like a furry avalanche with opinions, tail swishing slowly, eyes bright and curious.

He spotted Sylvia first.

Boreas’s entire face lit up like he’d found his favorite person in the world.

Sylvia’s posture stiffened.

Dean watched, suddenly entertained despite himself, as Boreas approached Sylvia with the solemn intensity of a wolf greeting a pack mate, then pressed his massive head into her lap like he was claiming his reward.

Sylvia froze for precisely half a second.

Then her hand came down, fingers sinking into thick fur with the ease of someone who pretended she’d been inconvenienced and then immediately folded into devotion.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” she murmured, her voice softening in a way that made Dean’s chest twist with reluctant affection. “Aunt Sylvia is here.”

Boreas sighed like he’d been holding his breath all day and finally found safety. His tail thumped once, heavy enough to qualify as furniture rearrangement.

Dean stared. “Did you just call yourself his aunt.”

Sylvia didn’t look up. “I am his aunt.”

“You met him yesterday.”

“And yet,” Sylvia said serenely, scratching behind Boreas’s ear, “I have known him spiritually for years.”

Boreas leaned harder into her hand like he agreed with the paperwork.

Arion’s mouth twitched. “He’s adopted you.”

Sylvia sniffed, offended. “No. I adopted him. There’s a difference.”

Dean exhaled through his nose, a quiet laugh trying to break through his exhaustion. “You’re sore from running all day, and you’re still enabling him.”

Sylvia’s expression didn’t change, even as her fingers kept moving. “Soreness is temporary. Boreas’s happiness is eternal.”

Boreas let out a pleased huff, then nudged her knee like he wanted more worship.

Sylvia gave it to him without hesitation, leaning forward slightly despite clearly regretting the existence of muscles. “Yes, yes, auntie’s here. Don’t look at me like that. I already ran for you.”

Dean watched the interaction like he was witnessing a civilian successfully infiltrate the most dangerous level of palace life with nothing but stubborn affection and audacity.

It was impressive.

It was also deeply on brand for Sylvia.

Arion stepped closer, gaze going from Boreas to Dean, and the softness in his eyes returned – quiet, private, and dangerous, because it made Dean feel seen.

Arion reached out, fingers brushing Dean’s shoulder like a check-in disguised as nothing. “You ate.”

Dean’s spine stiffened on instinct. “Yes.”

Arion’s mouth curved. “Good.”

Dean hated that word now.

Sylvia’s eyes lifted briefly, amused. “He likes being told ’good.’ It gives him structure.”

Dean shot her a glare. “Sylvia.”

She smiled sweetly. “What? I’m observing.”

Arion’s hand lingered another second, then withdrew with visible effort, like leaving Dean alone in this suite was against Arion’s instincts but not against his discipline.

“We have to go down,” Arion said, voice shifting into protocol. “They’ve arrived.”

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