Chapter 212: Chapter 212: Honesty

“I hate you,” Dean informed him, the words lacking even a shred of the bite required to make them believable. “I hate your face, I hate your hair, and I especially hate that you’ve turned ’honesty’ into a psychological weapon.”

“You’re still touching me,” Arion pointed out, his voice a low, satisfied rumble.

“Muscle memory,” Dean snapped. “Irrelevant data.”

Boreas, apparently deciding that the negotiation had reached a stage of human sentimentality he no longer cared to witness, let out a long, dramatic huff. The massive dog stood, stretching with a slow grace that nearly knocked Dean off the pillows, before jumping off the bed with a heavy thud. He didn’t look back as he padded toward the sun-drenched rug by the window, circling three times and collapsing into a heap of fur and indifference.

Arion didn’t miss the opening.

With the main problem out of the way, Arion moved quickly like a predator who had finally found the weak spot in the line. He shifted his weight, turning his massive frame over Dean until the silver silk of the sheets twisted between them.

Dean didn’t even have time to gasp before he was pinned.

Arion didn’t crush him, but he caged him, his elbows braced on either side of Dean’s head, his heavy chest hovering just an inch above Dean’s. The sudden shift from ’pillow’ to ’predator’ was so fast it made Dean’s head spin.

“What was that about collateral?” Dean managed, his breath hitching as Arion’s scent, vetiver and scorched earth, slammed into him with the force of a physical blow.

Arion looked down at him, and his golden eyes were full of a smug happiness. “I believe the term was ’securing the asset.’”

“I am not an asset,” Dean bit out, though his hands had already found Arion’s shoulders, his fingers digging into the firm muscle there. “I’m a liability. Ask anyone in the Council.”

“The Council isn’t in this bed,” Arion reminded him. He lowered himself just a fraction more, the heat of his body radiating through Dean’s clothes. “And neither is Boreas. Which means I no longer have to negotiate for floor space.”

Dean tried to maintain his glare; he really did. He tried to summon the ghost of his earlier offense, to pull up a witty rebuttal about military overreach or the decline of Alaminian dignity. But then Arion’s nose brushed against his, and that low, rumbling laugh started in Arion’s chest – a sound that Dean felt more than he heard.

It was infectious.

Dean’s resolve shattered. He let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, his head falling back against the pillows. “You are the worst Crown Prince in the history of this empire. Truly. The absolute worst.”

“And yet,” Arion murmured, his own grin widening into something dangerously handsome, “I’m the only one you’re currently hiding from the world with.”

“I’m not hiding,” Dean corrected, though he was pulling Arion down by the collar of his shirt now, his eyes bright with a dangerous, happy heat. “I’m conducting a very long, very thorough evaluation of your field readiness.”

“Is that so?” Arion asked, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper as he closed the final inch of distance.

“Yes,” Dean breathed, his legs tangling with Arion’s as he pulled him fully into his space. “And so far, Your Highness, your compliance is the only thing that’s improving.”

Arion didn’t bother with a verbal comeback. He didn’t need one. He simply claimed Dean’s mouth, the kiss turning the room’s lingering silence into something warm, loud, and utterly without distance.

Arion broke the kiss and turned his head to Boreas. “Out.”

Boreas didn’t even offer the courtesy of a huff this time. The dog just stood there and shook himself with a rhythmic, heavy thudding of fur and muscle. Then he walked over to the door. He cast one final, judgmental glance over his shoulder at the tangled mess of limbs on the bed – clearly deciding that if the humans were going to be this loud, he might as well find a kitchen staffer whose soul was weak enough to be bartered for a slice of prime rib.

The heavy door clicked shut behind the beast, leaving the suite truly empty.

Arion didn’t waste the silence. He moved instantly, shifting his weight until he was caging Dean against the pillows, his elbows braced on either side of Dean’s head. Dean wrapped his legs around Arion’s waist and pulled him down until there was no air between them.

“You’re very bossy for someone currently in his pajamas,” Dean whispered, his fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of Arion’s neck.

“I am the Crown Prince,” Arion reminded him, his voice a low, vibrating growl against Dean’s lips. “And my current decree is that you stop talking about my military conditions and start fulfilling the fourth one.”

Dean laughed, a bright, genuine sound that was quickly swallowed as Arion claimed his mouth again.

“I hate that I like your decrees,” Dean muttered into the kiss, his hands sliding down Arion’s back to pull him closer.

“Lie to me tomorrow,” Arion countered, his teeth grazing Dean’s lower lip in a way that made every sarcastic defense Dean possessed shatter on contact.

Dean let out a breath that was too close to a laugh and too shaky to be one. “That is a vile sentence.”

“It’s a practical one.”

“You make practicality sound like foreplay.”

Arion’s mouth moved against his, not quite a smile, but enough to make the answer worse. “That sounds like your problem.”

Dean should have had a sharper reply than the noise that escaped him. It was a choked-off gasp, a sound of surrender as Arion’s mouth crushed his.

The kiss started with the pressure, a firm, unyielding weight that claimed his lips, molding them to Arion’s will. Dean could feel the slight roughness of Arion’s stubble against his own smooth skin, a delicious friction that sent sparks skittering across his jawline.

Arion’s tongue pressed firmly against the seam of Dean’s lips, making it clear that he wanted it. Dean’s lips parted on a ragged inhale, and Arion was already there, sliding into his mouth.

The sensation was slick and hot and impossibly intimate.

Dean could feel the texture of him, the way he explored every corner of his mouth with a thoroughness that felt new each time it happened. He mapped the roof of Dean’s mouth, stroked against the sensitive underside of his tongue, and retreated just enough to make Dean chase him instinctively, making Arion groan deep in his chest.

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