Chapter 162: Chapter 162: Departures

A few days later, the palace began to empty.

Palatine was leaving.

Saha was leaving, and Alamina, at last, was exhaling.

Dean noticed it from the windows first.

He was no longer hiding in Arion’s suite with the intensity of a wounded animal, though he remained firmly in favor of strategic privacy whenever possible. His body had stopped filing formal complaints every time he moved, which he considered progress. His pride, meanwhile, remained in intensive care.

But he was upright, dressed and functional enough to be moved around the palace like a person instead of a post-rut cautionary tale.

So naturally he was miserable.

He stood near one of the long corridor windows overlooking the inner drive and watched as part of the Palatine convoy was prepared below in dark cars, disciplined lines of security, aides moving like shadows. Somewhere out there, Zion was almost certainly being chased toward a vehicle by at least one exhausted secretary and one man who regretted choosing public service.

Dean found that comforting.

Behind him, a door closed softly. He didn’t turn right away. He already knew who it was.

Arion had developed the profoundly irritating habit of finding him without effort, which was either romantic or oppressive depending on Dean’s mood. Today it felt mostly nosy.

“You’re brooding,” Arion said.

Dean kept looking out the window. “I’m observing.”

“You’re brooding while observing.”

“That is called thinking.”

Arion came to stand beside him, close enough to be there, not so close Dean could accuse him of anything without sounding unstable. “About?”

Dean turned his head at last and gave him a look. “As if you don’t know.”

Arion’s expression remained infuriatingly neutral.

That alone told Dean everything.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You do know.”

Arion looked out toward the drive. “I know a lot of things.”

“Mm.” Dean folded his arms. “And one of those things is why Nero and Sebastian have spent the last three days acting like being in the same room is punishable by law unless duty nails them to the floor?”

Arion said nothing.

Dean let out a quiet, suffering laugh. “So you really know why. Tell me why.”

Instead of answering, Arion stepped in behind him.

Dean had just enough time to feel offended on principle before Arion’s arms slid around his waist, slow and certain, drawing him back against a broad chest that felt far too warm and solid for a man trying to avoid a question. Arion bent, resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder with the shameless ease of someone who had decided physical distraction was now a legitimate rhetorical strategy.

Dean stared out the window in betrayal. “No.”

Arion’s mouth brushed lightly near his ear when he spoke. “If they didn’t tell you themselves, there is no reason for me to interfere or spread it around.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “That is an excellent sentence for a man actively dodging me.”

Arion’s arms tightened by a fraction. “It’s also true.”

Dean turned his head slightly, enough to glare at him from the corner of his eye. “What are you not saying?”

Arion’s voice lowered, smooth and entirely too pleased with itself. “I would rather talk about you than them.”

Dean closed his eyes for one brief second.

This was exactly the kind of answer that made maintaining righteous irritation unnecessarily difficult.

When he opened them again, he said flatly, “That is manipulative.”

“Yes.”

“You admit it far too easily.”

“It saves time.”

Dean looked back out at the courtyard, now half-empty from the departures, and muttered, “You and your family are a plague.”

Arion’s breath warmed the side of his neck in what might have been a laugh. “You’re mated into it now.”

“That,” Dean said, “is not the reassurance you think it is.”

Arion didn’t answer. He only stayed exactly where he was, his chin on Dean’s shoulder, his arms around Dean’s waist, like the question had already been successfully redirected and he saw no reason to rush the victory.

Dean hated that it was working.

Mostly.

He let his hands drop from their folded position and rested them lightly over Arion’s forearms, not because he was surrendering, obviously, but because standing there stiffly was becoming inconvenient and Arion was offensively comfortable.

“So…” Dean said after a moment, eyes still on the courtyard below. “Nero confessed, and it turned badly?”

Arion’s mouth brushed the edge of his shoulder as he answered, “If you know, why do you ask?”

Dean exhaled through his nose. “I’m deducing here.” He paused, then gave a small, grim nod. “But yes. You’re right. They should sort it out themselves.”

His hands tightened slightly on Arion’s forearms.

“In two weeks” he said, and now there was fresh suffering in his voice, “the university opens the new trimester.”

Arion went quiet.

Dean felt, rather than saw, the shift in him.

That was the problem with mates, Dean thought bitterly. They heard the words under the words.

Dean stared at the half-empty drive like it had personally betrayed him. “I was generous enough to postpone the horror while there were diplomatic guests. But now the guests are leaving, and apparently the machinery of education has chosen not to die with them.”

Arion’s arms remained around him, warm and steady.

“That is unfortunate,” he said.

Dean turned his head slightly and gave him a look. “Shouldn’t you be heroic and save me from it?”

Arion’s mouth moved near his shoulder, not quite a smile yet. “No.”

Dean stared at him.

“No,” he repeated.

“No,” Arion said again, calm and devastating. “You’re still going.”

Dean looked at him with the profound offense of a man who had expected at least one princely abuse of power in his favor. “That was the wrong answer.”

“It was the correct one.”

“I’m your mate.”

“Yes.”

“That should come with educational immunity.”

“It comes with many things.” Arion’s chin settled more comfortably on Dean’s shoulder. “Cowardice is not one of them.”

Dean’s mouth fell open. “Cowardice.”

Arion’s tone remained maddeningly even. “You’re not afraid of university. You’re afraid of being seen at university.”

“That is a far more specific and therefore more legitimate fear.”

“No.”

Dean turned more sharply in his hold, enough to glare at him properly. “You are being charmingly cruel.”

“Only cruel.”

“That is false. You’re enjoying yourself too much to be merely cruel.”

A faint curve touched Arion’s mouth at last. “Maybe.”

Dean let out a long, scandalized breath. “God. Incredible. I bare my academic soul to you, and you choose discipline.”

“I choose reality,” Arion corrected. “In two weeks you’ll be recovered enough to walk, argue, complain, and terrorize undergraduates with your face. So you’ll go.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Very well then.”

Dean’s smug tone made Arion’s body freeze.

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