Chapter 126: Chapter 126: No Fear

Dean’s last kiss lingered in the air between them, carried by the scents of vetiver and minty sweet lemonade.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Arion stayed close, hands still at Dean’s hips, holding him with the peaceful assurance of someone who didn’t need to prove anything to the world but still wanted the world to understand.

Dean’s breath was uneven. His cheeks were warm. His pride was bruised and annoyed about it.

Arion’s gaze stayed on Dean’s mouth for a beat longer than was polite.

Then Arion exhaled slowly, like he was forcing the jealousy back into its cage with sheer discipline.

And finally, he moved.

He lifted Dean down from the table as easily as he’d put him there and set him onto the wooden floor.

Dean’s feet found the ground with a soft thud, and he neatened his shirt in spite of still being without a crease.

Arion remained close, leaving little space between them, but his hands moved away from Dean’s hips and toward Dean’s forearms.

Dean lifted his brows. “Are we done?”

Arion’s mouth twitched and a soft smile appeared. “No.”

Dean sighed dramatically. “Of course not.”

Arion’s eyes flicked toward the door.

Dean followed the glance on instinct, then froze.

There were faint scents under the coffee, as well as Arion’s lingering pheromones – familiar signatures that could be heard if you paid attention.

Dean’s voice dropped. “They’re still here.”

Arion nodded once. “Yes.”

Dean stared at him. “How long?”

Arion’s expression remained calm. “Long enough.”

Dean’s mouth opened, then closed again. “You—”

Arion cut in quietly, like he’d decided Dean didn’t need to waste energy on outrage. “They didn’t leave, but they did change rooms if that makes you feel better.”

Dean stared at him.

It did not make him feel better.

It made him feel like he was living in a palace-themed documentary about boundary violations.

He dragged a hand down his face, then let it drop, because he refused to look as flustered as he felt. His shirt was perfectly neat. His hair was fine. His dignity was… elsewhere.

Outside the door, a faint murmur of voices leaked through – too soft to make out words, but loud enough to confirm that, indeed, they were waiting like a pack of bored predators outside a locked pantry.

Dean inhaled slowly.

Rationally, the correct thing to do was to open the door, step out, and face them like a functioning adult with political training and a spine.

Rationally, Dean should not let Zion smell victory.

Rationally, Dean should not give Nero the satisfaction of knowing he’d successfully detonated anything.

Rationally, Sebastian’s presence meant safety, Sebastian’s calm was contagious.

Dean considered all that.

Then his mind replayed Zion’s voice, ’I can smell it,’ and Dean’s soul attempted to crawl out of his body again and live under the table permanently.

Dean looked at Arion.

Arion was once again perfectly composed. Tall, still, controlled. Jealousy leashed back into his ribs like it had never existed. The bite mark on his palm had faded into a casual detail rather than a declaration. If anyone walked in right now, Arion would look like a man who had done nothing more scandalous than drink coffee in his own breakfast room.

Dean, unfortunately, did not have Arion’s talent for pretending he hadn’t been kissed into submission five minutes ago.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, weighing options like they were weapons on a tray.

Then he made a choice.

A deeply irrational one.

He stepped closer to Arion, lowered his voice, and said, very plainly, “Sneak away with me.”

Arion blinked.

Just once.

And in that single blink, something bright and amused cut through his composure like sunlight.

His brow rose. Slowly. Higher than was polite.

Dean held his stare, daring him to laugh.

Arion did not laugh.

He looked… delighted.

“Sneak away,” Arion repeated, like he was tasting the words.

Dean’s face warmed. “Yes.”

Arion’s smile deepened by a fraction, barely there, but it hit Dean like a hand to the chest anyway. “Dean,” Arion murmured, low enough that the walls couldn’t gossip, “if we both disappear, it becomes a story.”

Dean’s shoulders stiffened.

Arion didn’t let him dodge it. He kept his tone calm, almost gentle, as if explaining battlefield math.

“They’ll follow,” Arion continued. “Zion will turn it into a sport. Nero will treat it like a challenge. Sebastian will assume something is wrong and escalate security. And then the entire wing will know you tried to run.”

Dean clenched his jaw, because Arion was always correct in the same way: painfully, infuriatingly, strategically correct.

Dean muttered, “I hate when you’re right.”

“I know,” Arion said.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “So what, we just… open the door and let them eat me alive.”

Arion’s gaze warmed, the amusement fading into something steadier. “No.”

Dean blinked. “No?”

Arion took a step closer, his hand settling on the back of Dean’s neck. “You leave,” Arion said simply. “Now.”

Dean stared at him like he’d misheard. “What?”

Arion’s voice stayed even. “You go. Walk out like nothing happened. Let Zion exhaust himself on the concept of disappointment. Let Nero get bored when there’s no reaction to feed on. Let Sebastian see you standing on your own feet and decide you’re safe.”

Dean’s mouth opened, then closed again.

Arion’s thumb brushed lightly at Dean’s nape. “And I will deal with the rest.”

Dean’s throat tightened, inconveniently.

“You’re… volunteering to be eaten alive instead,” Dean said, voice rough with a suspicion of gratitude he didn’t want to admit.

Arion’s mouth twitched. “I’m better at it.”

Dean let out a quiet, helpless laugh, then immediately regretted it because it softened the room in a way that made him feel exposed.

“Arion,” Dean started and stopped, because he didn’t know what he was trying to say without sounding like a person with feelings.

Arion leaned down, kissed him once, and then straightened as if nothing had happened.

Dean’s pulse stumbled.

Arion’s eyes held his. “Go.”

Dean looked toward the door.

He could almost hear Zion vibrating on the other side. He could practically picture Nero’s grin, too sharp to be innocent. Sebastian’s patient stillness, the only thing in that trio that wasn’t actively trying to ruin Dean’s morning.

Dean, who could face ministers and threats and negotiations without blinking, felt his spine fold the moment his own blood got involved.

He hated that about himself.

He also, unfortunately, trusted Arion.

Dean exhaled, long and resigned, and nodded once.

“You’re sure,” Dean asked, because apparently he needed to hear it.

Arion’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”

Dean swallowed, then stepped away before he could second-guess himself.

He adjusted his shirt, smoothed his sleeves, and rebuilt his expression into something neutral and unbothered.

Professional diplomat.

Not “man who almost begged an heir to sneak away with him.”

He paused at the door, hand on the handle, and glanced back once.

Arion stood where he’d always stood in rooms like this: tall, composed, and dangerous in the quiet way that made people act. The jealousy was leashed again, hidden under manners, but the claim in his gaze stayed.

Dean’s chest tightened.

Then, because Dean was not brave when it came to family chaos, he did exactly what Arion told him to do.

He opened the door and walked out.

Zion’s head snapped up immediately, eyes wide with gleeful accusation. “Aha—”

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