Chapter 226: Chapter 226: The Month of Grace

The waiter retreated with the kind of discretion that deserved a medal.

Dean watched him go, then looked back at Arion. “He absolutely noticed.”

Arion adjusted his crooked tie with no urgency whatsoever. “He was paid to notice nothing.”

“That is not comforting.”

Arion hummed and reached for Dean’s hand again. “I don’t see the problem. We are engaged and soon to be married.”

Dean felt the familiar pull of him.

That quiet, impossible pull that Arion had on people without raising his voice, closing his fingers too tightly, or doing anything as rude as asking for surrender. He just held out his hand, warm and patient. Dean, who had spent most of his life thinking that resistance was proof of independence, put his fingers in Arion’s like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Perhaps that was the best part.

It was natural.

This folding of his did not feel like defeat anymore. It felt like choosing where to rest.

“Decorum, Arion,” Dean murmured, even as his fingers tightened around the alpha’s hand. “Some of us have a reputation for icy distance to maintain. I cannot have you melting it all in one city at dinner.”

Arion leaned forward, scar shifting slightly with the curve of his smile. “Your ice has been melting since the day you accepted that ring.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Bold.”

“True.”

“Do not confuse those.”

“I rarely do.”

Dean lifted his glass, hiding the smile threatening the edge of his mouth. “Do not get ahead of yourself. You still have a birthday coming up in a month. If you continue being this insufferable, I may give you a very polite, very formal handshake.”

Arion’s brow rose. “A handshake.”

“A firm one.”

“After all this?”

Dean’s smile turned secretive. “Especially after all this.”

Arion’s thumb traced the line of Dean’s palm. “You have a plan.”

“I have several plans.”

“For my birthday?”

“For many things. Your birthday happens to be one of them.”

Arion’s gaze sharpened with immediate, focused interest.

Dean loved that.

He loved the shift in power, the way one small secret could make the crown prince of Alamina still completely, every ounce of that severe attention turning toward him. Arion could read his moods, intercept his plans, rearrange university logistics, and bribe Sylvia with enough sauce to buy her loyalty for a week, but Dean could still do this.

He could still make him wait.

“A secret plan,” Dean said, leaning back and taking a slow sip of wine. “And no amount of gold-eyed staring or tactical kissing will make me tell you what it is.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. You like maps, Arion. You will simply have to wait thirty days to see where this one ends.”

Arion let out a low, helpless laugh, his fingers tightening around Dean’s. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m your fiancé,” Dean corrected, warmth blooming in his chest before he could stop it. “And I’m expensive.”

“That is also true.”

“Good. Order the second course. I’m starting to think about the wings Sylvia is currently inhaling, and I refuse to let her out-eat me by proxy.”

Arion did not reach for the menu.

He kept looking at Dean.

Really looking.

The kind of look that used to make Dean defensive because it felt too much like being studied but now made him ache because he knew the difference. Arion was not assessing him. He was memorizing him. The sharp mouth, the blonde hair, the violet eyes, the hand in his, the ring catching the amber light, the terrible little smile Dean wore when he thought he had gained the upper hand.

“You already gave me what I wanted,” Arion said quietly.

Dean’s breath caught, his eyes widening.

The warmth in his chest became unbearable.

“Do not,” he warned.

Arion’s mouth curved. “Do not what?”

“Say things like that while holding my hand in public.”

“We are in a private booth.”

“With a waiter who notices too much.”

“He is paid not to.”

“That does not erase his eyes.”

Arion’s thumb moved over Dean’s ring. “Dean.”

“No.”

“I mean it.”

“I know,” Dean said, and hated that his voice softened.

Arion’s expression changed at that.

Not victorious or his usual smug grin. Only happy and so touched by the fact that Dean had not looked away that the entire table seemed to grow too small around them.

Dean set his glass down with care. “You are becoming sentimental again.”

“I’m being honest,” he said, his voice doing unspoken things to Dean’s restraint.

“Worse.”

Arion laughed softly.

Dean did not let go of his hand.

That, of course, made Arion look even happier.

So Dean narrowed his eyes and said, “You have one month of grace.”

Arion’s smile slowed. “Grace?”

“One month until your birthday. During this month, I may tolerate certain levels of unbearable behavior because I am generous, romantic, and apparently suffering from a temporary decline in judgment.”

“Temporary?”

“Do not test the grace period.”

Arion leaned closer, his voice dropping low enough that it slid beneath the restaurant’s quiet hum. “And after the month?”

Dean’s smile returned, small and dangerous.

“After the month,” he said, “you get your present.”

Arion’s gaze darkened.

Dean felt the satisfaction of that reaction all the way down to his bones.

He squeezed Arion’s hand once, then finally released him and picked up his fork.

“Now eat,” Dean said. “Before I decide you need to fast for humility.”

Arion was still watching him. “Dean.”

“What?”

“I’m looking forward to my birthday.”

Dean took a bite of the second course as the waiter set it down, pretending the heat in his face was from the food.

“You should,” he said.

Then, quieter, because he was cruel but not entirely merciless, he added, “I am too.”

Arion went still.

Dean did not look up.

He did not need to.

He could feel the happiness across the table, warm and bright and utterly impossible to defend against.

And for once, Dean let it stay.

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