Chapter 152: Chapter 152: Evidence

By late morning – possibly lunch, possibly some morally ambiguous hour in between – Dean had reached a state that could loosely be described as alive.

Which, given the rut, the mark on his neck, the very real soreness in places he preferred not to think about too hard, and Arion’s continued existence in his immediate orbit, already felt like a respectable achievement.

He had been properly bathed.

Properly this time, meaning he had insisted on it with all the authority of a man clinging to the last scraps of personal agency, and Arion, smug, patient, and offensively competent, had actually behaved. More or less. There had been assistance, because standing too long had still felt like an act of betrayal by his own body, but there had been no new crimes, no seduction, and no second round of pheromonal warfare in the shower.

Dean had counted that as a victory.

Now he sat curled into the corner of the bed in soft clothes that definitely belonged to Arion, because apparently all of Dean’s own things had either been relocated, wrinkled beyond forgiveness, or deemed unworthy of post-rut recovery. His hair was still slightly damp. A tray sat nearby with coffee, good food, extra water, and enough fruit to suggest someone in the palace thought vitamins could fix being thoroughly claimed by a nightmare sigma.

Dean had coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.

Across from him, near the windows, Arion sat in a chair with a tablet and several documents open beside him, dressed in dark clothes that looked too elegant for someone who had, less than half a day ago, pinned Dean into a mattress and rewritten his brain chemistry. He was working with a level of calm focus that should have been against the law.

Dean resented him on principle.

He took another sip of coffee and unlocked his phone with the weary caution of a man who expected several disasters, three messages from Nero, and at least one attempt by the outside world to ruin his mood.

The phone lit up.

Messages.

Notifications.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “If anyone has scheduled me for anything today, I’m declaring war.”

Arion did not look up from the document in his hand. “No one has scheduled you.”

Dean squinted at the screen. “That sounds suspiciously like prior interference.”

“It is,” Arion said calmly.

Dean looked over his coffee cup at him. “You’re controlling.”

Arion lifted his gaze, golden-eyed and completely unrepentant. “Yes.”

Dean rolled his eyes and went back to his phone.

He skimmed the first few things without interest. Security updates. A brief message from Sylvia timestamped hours earlier that simply read ’alive, leaving now,’ which sounded ominous in hindsight. One message from Otto that Dean refused to open on medical grounds. Two from Natalie. One from Mia that only contained a string of question marks and one knife emoji.

Reasonable.

He scrolled lower.

Then stopped dead.

Dean blinked once.

Then again.

He then lowered the coffee by several inches and stared at the screen like it had personally offended him.

On it, in what looked like some selectively private but still visible royal social feed, was a photo of Nero.

Nero.

Nero, on a couch, in civilian clothes, looking unfairly beautiful and dangerously relaxed, with white-blond hair loose, one arm around Sylvia’s waist, and the distinctive remains of sauce near the corner of his mouth.

Sylvia was half in his lap, laughing, holding fries like she had been caught mid-crime and chosen joy. The coffee table in front of them was buried in takeout. Both of them looked comfortable. Close in a way that was not polished enough to be staged and therefore looked even worse.

The caption read: Better company.

Dean stared.

His eyes flicked back to the image.

Then to the caption.

Then to Nero’s hand at Sylvia’s waist.

Then to Sylvia in his lap.

Then back to the caption.

Dean slowly lowered the phone into his lap.

“Arion,” he said.

Arion looked up immediately.

Dean’s voice was very flat. “I have either suffered neurological damage from too much sex, or Nero has chosen violence through social media.”

Arion was quiet for a beat. “Show me.”

Dean held up the phone with the solemn horror of a man presenting evidence in court.

Arion stood, crossed the space between them, and took the phone.

Dean watched his face carefully.

Arion looked at the image.

Then at the caption.

Then, with a control Dean found deeply offensive, he handed the phone back.

Dean stared. “That’s your reaction?”

Arion returned to the chair with impossible composure. “It appears he left the gala.”

“I know he left the gala,” Dean snapped. “That is not the issue. The issue is that Nero seems to have left the gala, found Sylvia, fed her fries, put her in his lap, and then posted proof like a man with no fear of consequences.”

Arion sat down. “Yes.”

Dean blinked. “Yes.”

“Yes.”

Dean’s mouth fell open. “That is not analysis, Arion. That is visual literacy.”

Arion resumed scrolling through the document on his tablet. “You asked for my reaction.”

“I asked for a useful one.”

Arion glanced up. “What exactly would you like me to say?”

Dean stared at him in outrage. “I would like you to say, Dean, this is an obvious targeted act of emotional warfare, and we should all be extremely concerned.”

Arion considered. “That is possible.”

Dean pointed at him. “Possible.”

Arion’s gaze returned briefly to the phone in Dean’s hand. “Nero does not usually post things without intent.”

“There!” Dean said, triumphant and scandalized all at once. “There it is. Intent.”

Arion inclined his head once, as if he had merely confirmed rainfall.

Dean looked back at the photo and narrowed his eyes.

“No,” he said slowly.

Arion didn’t look up. “No what?”

“No, this is evil.”

“That is a matter of perspective.”

Dean held the phone closer to his face. “That is Sylvia in his lap.”

“Yes.”

“And sauce on his face.”

Arion paused, then looked again.

Dean saw the exact moment Arion noticed the sauce.

One dark brow lifted very slightly.

Dean pointed. “You see it.”

“I see it.”

Dean leaned back into the pillows with the air of a man processing a national emergency. “Oh, this is sick. This is deliberate.”

Arion’s mouth twitched.

Dean stared. “Don’t you dare smile.”

“I’m not.”

“You are internally.”

Arion did not deny it.

Dean looked at the caption again and then groaned aloud, dragging one hand down his face. “Better company,” he read, scandalized. “Better company. Nero, you manipulative, beautiful menace.”

Arion returned to his chair with all the calm of someone who had not just witnessed a social detonation. “It is concise.”

Dean looked at him with naked betrayal. “Why are all of you like this?”

Arion said, “Like what?”

“Strategic,” Dean hissed. “Emotionally repressed. Attractive enough to make it everyone else’s problem.”

Arion’s gaze lifted, deeply unhelpful. “You seem distressed.”

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