Chapter 121: Chapter 121: Weakness

Dean did bite him in the end.

Not hard enough to break skin, not dramatic enough to be classified as an assassination attempt—just a sharp, sudden press of teeth to the side of Arion’s arm, right where Arion’s hand rested on the small of his back, as if he understood the concept of direction.

Arion didn’t flinch.

Which was, frankly, infuriating.

He only inhaled slowly and deeply, the way an alpha did when he wanted to memorize someone down to the temperature of their anger. Then he looked at Dean with quiet, bright interest, as if Dean had just answered a question Arion hadn’t asked out loud.

Dean released him, eyes narrowed, chin lifted in defiance.

“Stop smiling,” Dean hissed.

“I’m not smiling,” Arion said, with the effortless sincerity of a liar born into power.

Dean stared at him.

Arion’s mouth committed the tiniest betrayal, with one corner rising like a secret.

Dean’s teeth clicked. “You like it when I’m mad.”

Arion’s golden eyes warmed. The scar on his face, the one that cut through his brow and cheek, the one that looked like violence had tried to claim him and failed, pulled slightly as his expression softened into something that made Dean’s stomach drop.

“I like you,” Arion corrected, voice quiet.

Dean froze.

Because that was the problem.

Not the pheromones, not the palace, not the heirs, not the fact that people kept treating Dean like he was some delicate diplomatic object that needed to be stored in the correct wing to preserve political stability.

The problem was Arion’s face, and that made Dean do all the things until now.

Arion was handsome in an unfair way – golden skin that always looked warm, eyes the same shade as sunlight on metal, and that scar that made him look like he’d been carved out of consequence instead of privilege. He was the type of beautiful who made people tell the truth unintentionally.

Dean’s throat tightened.

He looked away first, like that counted as winning.

“Move your hand,” Dean muttered.

Arion dared to grin. “You were the one deciding that the bite on my hand wasn’t enough,” he said shamelessly, waving the other bitten hand. The pulp of his thumb carried a faint red mark like a signature.

Dean’s face went hot so fast it felt like an insult.

“That was,” Dean said tightly, “administrative.”

Arion’s brows lifted. “Administrative.”

“Yes,” Dean snapped. “Corrective.”

Arion’s smile widened in a way that should have been illegal in a palace corridor. “So I should expect more… corrections as we cohabitate.”

Dean stopped walking.

Arion also came to a halt right away, because, of course, he didn’t drag Dean like a leash. He simply moved the world until Dean was walking in the direction Arion wanted and then waited for Dean to realize it.

Dean stared at him with lethal intensity. “If you say ’cohabitate’ again, I’m going to bite you somewhere that shows.”

Arion’s eyes gleamed, bright and dangerous. “Is that a threat?”

Dean held his stare for a full second longer than dignity recommended because if he looked away first, Arion would file it under ’victory’ and then weaponize it for the rest of his natural life.

“It’s a promise,” Dean said, voice flat.

Arion’s mouth curved, slowly. “A promise.”

Dean’s entire soul tried to walk out of his body again and claim diplomatic immunity.

He turned on his heel and started down the corridor with purpose – purely so Arion wouldn’t see how badly that look, that scar, that stupid golden warmth in his eyes made Dean’s pulse trip over itself.

Behind him, Arion fell into step, unhurried, as if he’d already decided the outcome and was simply allowing Dean to arrive at it in his own time.

Dean muttered without looking back, “Stop enjoying this.”

Arion’s tone was mild. “You’re the one making threats.”

Dean snapped, “I’m not making—”

“You are,” Arion said, and there was a quiet amusement in it, but also something else: patience that felt like a hand at Dean’s back even when Arion wasn’t touching him. “And you don’t sound like you hate it.”

Dean’s steps faltered half a fraction.

He hated that Arion was right. Dean didn’t hate any of it.

That was the humiliating part. He hated the fact that he didn’t hate it.

He hated the way his body had started reacting as if Arion were not just an heir, not just a problem, not just a threat to Dean’s carefully maintained independence, but… a point of gravity.

Dean kept walking anyway, because stalling only gave Arion more time to talk.

And Arion talking was a slow, elegant form of conquest.

—

Dean did not sleep alone.

That was the first betrayal… one that he expected.

The second betrayal was that Arion did not crowd him… one that he didn’t expect.

Arion didn’t treat Dean like a captured prize or a fragile asset. He didn’t press him into anything. He simply made space – warm, steady space that Dean could step into without being asked twice, without being watched too closely, without being mocked for the fact that his hands shook for a moment when the door shut behind them and the palace became very far away.

They existed in the same room like two dangerous animals testing the air.

Dean brushed his teeth with stiff efficiency and refused to look at the mirror too long.

Arion changed out of his formal clothes with the calm ease of someone who had never once worried about being seen.

Dean hated him for it.

Dean hated himself more.

When they got into bed – because Arion’s bed was, apparently, now a shared political resource – Dean lay on his side facing the wall with all the solemnity of a man preparing for a funeral.

Arion lay behind him, not touching at first, only close enough that Dean could feel heat through the sheets, a quiet presence that didn’t demand but didn’t leave.

Dean kept his voice dry. “If you start purring, I’m leaving.”

Arion’s breath brushed his neck, warm and amused. “I don’t purr.”

“You absolutely do,” Dean muttered.

Arion’s hand settled at Dean’s waist, careful. Dean’s body answered before his mouth could.

He sensed Arion’s stillness shift—approval held under control, as if Arion had learned restraint the hard way and was now wielding it like a knife.

“Dean,” Arion murmured.

Dean’s embarrassment flashed hot. “Don’t.”

Arion paused. “Don’t what?”

Dean clenched his jaw. “Don’t… make it sound like—”

“Like what?” Arion’s voice was quiet, close. “Like I want you?”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

The worst part was that Arion sounded like he meant it.

Not in the way men said it to win. In the way men said it when they were already lost and had accepted the fall.

Dean’s throat tightened. “You’re infuriating.”

“I know,” Arion said softly. “And you’re safe… This night at least.” He said with an amused grin.

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