Chapter 22: Chapter 22: The side of him (1)

“Dad.”

Relief crossed Dean’s face first, quick and unguarded, before he remembered himself and straightened. His hand, however, did not leave Arion’s chest.

Lucas took in the scene in a single sweep: the Crown Prince seated, calm but watchful; his son standing far too close for court protocol and far too calm for someone who had just been in the center of a pheromone backlash; the air still thick with the echo of dominance and pheromones.

Dean was still letting his out to balance Arion even if there was no urgency now.

Lucas almost laughed, but he tried hard to keep his face straight.

“Highness,” Lucas said evenly.

Arion inclined his head, every inch the heir to an empire despite being told to stay put. “Your Grace.”

“And you,” Lucas added, eyes flicking back to Dean, “were supposed to return to the palace tonight.”

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, stubbornly, “He collapsed in my arms. I’m not leaving him alone ten minutes after the doctor walks out.”

Arion’s gaze sharpened with something that might have been gratitude or might have been possessive instinct, carefully leashed. “I am not alone. My security…”

“Your security is outside,” Dean cut in. “You’re inside. You’re in backlash recovery. And you’re staying.”

Dean’s voice didn’t waver.

Arion looked at him for a long second, something intense and unreadable moving behind the gold of his eyes, before he inclined his head again in quiet agreement. “As you wish.”

Lucas watched that exchange with the sharp, unblinking focus of someone who had lived beside a dominant alpha for decades.

He knew that look.

He had seen it in Trevor’s eyes countless times when instinct surged and control was being handed over. When an apex predator chose to be still because the one in front of him mattered more than the world.

Until now, only Dean’s stubbornness had kept Arion at arm’s length. Contracts. Waiting periods. The months of restraint that had hit him like a physical wound, followed by a backlash that had come far too soon to be coincidence.

And now…

Now his son was standing there, hand on the prince’s chest, scent open and protective, and very clearly placing himself between Arion and the rest of the world.

Lucas exhaled slowly.

“Windstone,” he said, without taking his eyes off the pair. “Have the guest suite prepared. The one in the east wing.”

Windstone inclined his head at once. “For His Highness.”

“Yes.”

Arion’s gaze shifted to Lucas, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. “Your Grace, I did not…”

“You didn’t ask,” Lucas agreed calmly. “But you also didn’t leave when my son told you to stay. So you will remain here tonight.”

A pause.

Then Arion inclined his head, deeper this time. “I accept your hospitality.”

Dean turned toward Lucas, eyes widening just a fraction. “Dad—”

Lucas met his gaze, something soft and knowing beneath the composed exterior. “You’re already defending him. The least I can do is make sure he does it from a bed and not from your arms while he’s half-conscious.”

Dean flushed. “That’s not what I meant.”

Lucas’s lips twitched. “Of course it isn’t.”

But he had seen it. The way Dean looked at Arion. The way Arion watched Dean as if the room rearranged itself around him. The way instinct and restraint were locked in careful, dangerous balance.

His son had fallen for the face first.

Lucas had done the same once.

He turned back to Windstone. “Let the staff know. Full discretion. His security coordinates with ours. No interruptions unless medically necessary.”

“Immediately,” Windstone said, already moving.

Lucas then faced Arion again. “I need a moment with Your Highness. Dean, can you help Windstone?”

Dean hesitated.

It was only a second, but Lucas saw it—the instinct to stay, to plant himself right where he was, between Arion and the rest of the world. He was already territorial in ways Dean himself probably hadn’t named yet.

Then he nodded.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “I’ll be right outside.”

His hand slid from Arion’s chest at last, the contact breaking reluctantly. Arion’s eyes followed the movement with an intensity that was almost a physical pull, clearly disliking the loss of it.

Windstone waited at the door, offering Dean a gentle, grandfatherly smile. “Come, young master. Let us bully the staff into proper efficiency.”

Dean snorted despite himself and followed him out.

The door closed softly behind them.

Silence settled between two men who understood power and instinct too well and were finally alone.

Lucas did not sit.

He leaned on the doorframe, arms loosely crossed, gaze on the Crown Prince, who sat on his couch as if he owned the world and had, for the first time in years, chosen not to.

“You timed it,” Lucas said calmly.

Arion’s golden eyes lifted in those cool ambers Lucas had met so many times in the last three months.

“The backlash,” Lucas continued. “You’ve been riding the edge for weeks. You know your limits better than any physician. And yet you let yourself cross them while having a meeting with my son.”

Arion leaned back, his entire stance changing in seconds. He didn’t look like someone in pain or even inconvenienced. “Yes. Of course, I did.”

“You lied to him.” Lucas replied, his tone cold as ice.

Arion’s lips curved. “You, Lucas Fitzgeralt, are the last person who gets to scold me for a calculated stunt. I was in backlash, a controlled one, yes, but you…” His gaze sharpened, a cruel glint in it. “Did you tell your sons this isn’t your first life?”

Lucas did not let the surprise reach his face. He didn’t know how someone outside his inner circle knew. And for sure he wasn’t expecting the Crown Prince of an empire on the other side of the world to know.

“This is how you want to play?” he asked quietly.

“Maybe.” Arion crossed one ankle over his knee with the effortless elegance of a dangerous man. “But I haven’t spoken of it beyond this room. My point is simpler: even the strongest families cannot bury everything forever.”

Lucas’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?”

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