Chapter 157: Chapter 157: Witness Protection

The next day, Dean decided that recovery was a sacred private act and everyone else could go to hell.

He had valid reasons.

There was no universe in which the palace had not figured out what had happened in the crown prince’s suite.

Not after the ventilation system had nearly started a diplomatic incident of its own. Somewhere, surely, a very disciplined engineer had reviewed the spike logs and chosen the path of professional silence.

Dean respected that engineer deeply.

He did not, however, intend to face any living person who possessed eyes.

Which was why he was currently half-hidden behind Boreas.

The giant malamute had returned to the master suite late the previous day after, according to quiet palace rumor and one note written in Minerva’s elegant hand, being kept safe and spoiled elsewhere. Dean suspected the Empress had taken one look at the state of the suite, removed the dog before the worst of the pheromonal catastrophe set in, and then sent him back only once she judged the rooms survivable for large innocent beasts.

Boreas, now fully restored to his rightful position as enormous furry guardian of the bed, was sprawled across the carpet near the sofa like a snowstorm with opinions.

Dean was on that sofa, wrapped in a robe and a blanket, hair still not entirely under control, tea on the low table, expression set in the grim dignity of a man who refused to acknowledge that his own body had become public knowledge.

He heard the outer doors open.

Dean froze.

Boreas lifted his head.

Then came voices.

Two.

One of them made Dean close his eyes immediately.

“No,” he muttered.

The second voice answered something low and amused, and Dean almost slid off the sofa in despair.

“No.”

Boreas, uselessly calm, only thumped his tail once.

Dean pointed at him from behind the blanket. “You’re supposed to protect me.”

The dog blinked.

A knock came from the inner door.

Then Nero’s voice, smooth and infuriatingly composed, sounded through the barrier. “Dean.”

Dean stared at the door as if sheer refusal could erase reality.

Beside Nero, Zion said, “He’s awake. I can smell him.”

Dean’s eyes widened in horror. “I hate these people.”

There was a pause.

Then Nero, because apparently he had come here to personally worsen Dean’s morning, said through the door, “That was not subtle.”

Dean pulled the blanket higher and hissed, “Neither was your lap propaganda, so we’re even.”

A beat of silence followed that.

Then Zion laughed.

Dean looked at Boreas in betrayal. “Why are they here?”

Boreas yawned.

The door opened before Dean could decide whether pretending to be dead remained an option.

Nero entered first, because of course he did, dressed immaculately in dark clothes that had no business looking that polished on a man who had been caught on Sylvia’s couch with sauce on his face and emotional instability in his caption. Zion followed at an easier pace, all broad-shouldered ease and bright-eyed interest, the sort of man who looked dangerous only after one made the mistake of underestimating him.

Both of them stopped when they saw Dean.

Dean, who was very deliberately sitting behind Boreas so that the malamute occupied a significant portion of the visual field between himself and the rest of humanity.

Nero took this in with one raised brow.

Zion looked delighted.

Dean glared at both of them. “Leave.”

“No,” Zion said cheerfully.

Nero’s gaze moved over Dean once, sharp and brief, and then away with enough discretion to prove he still valued his life. “You look alive.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “That is the best compliment you could come up with?”

“It seemed safe.”

Zion crossed the room first and dropped into an armchair like he had every right to be there. “You look like you’re hiding from tax collectors.”

“I’m hiding from consequences,” Dean shot back with a glare. “Why are you here?”

“Because we’re leaving soon,” Nero said as he lowered himself into one of the chairs, “and then you can brood over your decisions in peace.”

Dean took a long look at him.

Which, unfortunately, was a mistake.

Because the moment he did, Arion’s voice came back to him with perfect, unwanted clarity.

’Nero has a crush on Sebastian.’

Dean visibly shuddered.

Zion noticed immediately. “That looked personal.”

“It is,” Dean muttered.

Nero’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“Nothing,” Dean said too fast.

That made Zion grin.

Nero remained still for half a second, which in men like him usually meant they were deciding whether or not to become dangerous.

Dean, who was sore, socially ruined, and still half-hidden behind a blanket and Boreas, chose survival.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I just remembered something upsetting.”

Zion leaned back farther, delighted. “Was it your own life?”

“Yes,” Dean snapped. “Among other things.”

That earned him the faintest movement at the corner of Nero’s mouth, which was not fair. It was difficult enough knowing what Dean knew now without Nero sitting there looking all composed and elegant and tragically, offensively invested in Sebastian.

Dean looked away first out of self-preservation.

He reached for his tea, aiming for normal.

Normal was a myth, but he believed in effort.

“So,” he said with great dignity, “you came here, confirmed I’m alive, delivered no food, and now you’ll leave me to my suffering.”

“That was roughly the idea,” Nero said.

Zion looked at Dean over the arm of the chair. “You’re trying very hard to act normal.”

Dean gave him a flat look. “Because I am normal.”

“No,” Zion said. “You’re in your crown prince’s suite wearing his robe, hiding behind his dog, and looking like the concept of sitting down has become an enemy state.”

Dean stared at him in outrage.

Then he pulled the blanket higher with the grim dignity of a man protecting the last scraps of his self-respect and muttered, “Zion, one more thing about my state and I will tell Uncle Sirius every secret I know about you.”

Zion blinked.

Nero looked away for a second.

Then Zion said, with sudden caution, “That feels disproportionate.”

“It’s not,” Dean replied coldly. “It’s mature.”

“You don’t know anything that serious.”

Dean gave him a long, flat look. “You want to test that theory while I’m bored, sore, and emotionally unstable?”

That, apparently, landed.

Zion sat back in the armchair and lifted both hands slightly. “All right. That was fair.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Thank you.”

Nero, curse him, was visibly trying not to smile.

Dean saw it immediately. “And you.” His head snapped toward him now. “If you try to steal my friend and use her in whatever sick plan you are concocting, if one strand of Sylvia’s hair is moved because of you, I will get revenge.”

That wiped the near-smile from Nero’s face at once.

Zion’s brows went up.

Dean, because he was already too far in and had no intention of stopping now, sat a little straighter in the sofa nest of blanket, robe, outrage, and dog.

“I mean it,” he said. “She is innocent. She got dragged into royal emotional nonsense because she has bad luck and excellent timing. If you turn her into collateral damage for your tortured little situation, I will become personally unbearable.”

Nero’s expression settled into something calmer, more serious. “I’m not using her.”

Dean gave him a look. “That picture says otherwise.”

“No,” Nero said. “That picture says she came with the idea.”

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