Chapter 154: Chapter 154: Luck

“Every second of it.”

Dean held his gaze for one beat longer than he wanted to, then looked away first.

After a moment, Arion leaned back slightly and said, “I don’t want to ruin the whole afternoon with blood and gore.”

Dean blinked at him.

That answer was so unexpectedly human, so unpolished compared to the rest of the conversation, that it caught him off guard for half a second.

“You say that,” Dean muttered, “like the first half wasn’t already plenty.”

A faint curve touched Arion’s mouth. “It was.”

Dean adjusted against the pillows with a small grimace, then frowned properly. “Wait.”

Arion looked at him.

“Did that make you a sigma?” Dean asked.

Arion shook his head. “No.”

Dean stilled. “No?”

“No,” Arion repeated. “That isn’t how it works.”

Dean narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to follow. “Then what the hell does?”

Arion rested one forearm over his thigh, his posture easy again now that he was stepping away from the worst of the memory. “Being sigma or an enigma depends on genetics. Not necessarily on early manifestation. Not on early rut either.”

Dean frowned. “So if they’d forced anyone else into a rut at eight, that wouldn’t have… done this.”

“No.” Arion’s tone stayed calm. “It would have made them suffer. It might have accelerated a dominance that was already there. It might have killed them. But it wouldn’t create sigma or enigma out of nothing.”

Dean went quiet.

Arion watched him for a second, then continued, “The mutation gave me an advantage. That part is true. It altered what was already there, sharpened it, fused into the dominance, and changed the thresholds.” His gaze dropped briefly, thoughtful rather than evasive. “But I’m sigma because both my parents were dominant and because, by sheer luck, whatever aligned in me aligned that way.”

Dean stared at him.

“Luck,” he repeated flatly.

Arion’s mouth moved slightly. “A stroke of it, yes.”

Dean gave him a long look. “That is a very offensive way to describe what sounds like a biological coup.”

“It’s accurate.”

“No,” Dean said, deeply unimpressed. “It’s clinically rude. I have dominant parents, and neither Sebastian nor I am like you or Nero.”

Arion’s mouth moved faintly. “I know.”

Dean looked at him over the rim of his cup. “Do you?”

“Yes.” Arion’s voice stayed calm. “It isn’t common.”

“That is one way to say it.” Dean lowered the cup to his lap and frowned at him properly now. “You and Nero are both statistical offenses.”

A small flicker of amusement crossed Arion’s face.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Don’t look pleased about that.”

“I’m not pleased.”

“You’re internally pleased. It’s written all over your terrible, symmetrical face.”

That one almost made Arion smile.

Dean shifted against the pillows again, slower this time, because his body was still making deeply judgmental comments about every movement. He noticed the small change in Arion before he even stood up: how his focus sharpened, how his shoulders relaxed, and how men like him moved when they had already made up their minds.

Suspicion hit instantly.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

Arion rose from the chair.

Dean watched him with immediate distrust. “No, I’m serious. Why are you standing?”

Arion said, “Coming here.”

“That is not an answer. That is a threat.”

Arion ignored that and crossed the room anyway, unhurried, in dark clothes, neat, with golden eyes maddeningly steady. Dean, who had already learned far too much in the past twenty-four hours about how dangerous calm could look on him, tracked every step with the wariness of a man who had once been devoured and had the bruises to prove it.

When Arion reached the bed, he sat down close enough that the mattress dipped, and Dean had to resist the humiliating instinct to lean automatically toward the heat of him.

Dean did not lean.

Dean remained a principled man.

A principled man who was now deeply suspicious.

He angled his head and looked at Arion out of the corner of his eye. “You have intentions.”

Arion’s brow lifted slightly. “I usually do.”

Dean stared at him for a second. Then, because clearly his own survival depended on vigilance, he added, “You are not allowed to turn a conversation about traumatic childhood medical intervention into seduction.”

Arion looked at him with a composure so complete it was almost insulting. “I’m not seducing you.”

Dean gave him a look. “Your standards for what counts as seduction are clearly corrupted.”

That finally pulled a small smile from him.

Dean saw it and felt instantly vindicated. “There. That. That face means I’m right.” He sighed with the force of ten gods and every dramatic instinct he possessed. “Nero commits image terrorism for romance. You attack a wounded mate with strategic tenderness. No wonder you two are cousins.”

That, unfortunately, pleased Arion.

Dean saw it happen a second before Arion moved.

His eyes narrowed at once. “No.”

Arion rose from where he sat, turned, and came over him in one smooth motion, bracing his arms on either side of Dean so the mattress dipped and the whole world suddenly looked much too golden-eyed and composed.

Dean stared up at him in immediate suspicion.

“This,” he said, “is exactly the sort of movement that destroys trust.”

Arion ignored that completely and lowered his head, nuzzling into the hollow of Dean’s neck with softness that should have been illegal. Dean could feel the shape of his smile, warm against his skin, infuriatingly pleased with itself.

“Do you want to know who Nero likes?” Arion asked, his voice low and smooth and sinful in a way that made Dean distrust every word on principle.

Dean’s eyes narrowed further. “What do you want in exchange?”

Arion’s grin widened against his throat. His nose brushed Dean’s skin again, once, slowly, like he had no intention whatsoever of behaving.

“One more time.”

Dean went still.

Then he stared at the ceiling with the exhausted outrage of a man whose body had already filed several official complaints and was now being asked to betray him again.

“You are unbelievable.”

Arion did not deny it. He only stayed there, broad shoulders boxing Dean in, calm and warm and very clearly still interested in exactly one form of negotiation.

Dean looked back at him. “I am injured.”

“I know.”

“I am tired.”

“I know.”

“I am still in recovery.”

Arion lifted his head just enough to meet his eyes, golden gaze shameless. “I know.”

Dean squinted at him. “This is not helping your case.”

Arion’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “So…” He dragged the word out on purpose, the bastard. “Do you want to know?”

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