Chapter 232: Chapter 232: Lost pastries.

“You look awful,” Dean said.

Arion’s lips curved. “You always say that when you’re happy to see me.”

Dean’s fingers tightened in his coat. “I am not happy to see you. I am assessing your physical condition and finding it wanting.”

“Wanting?” Arion’s hand slid from Dean’s waist to the small of his back, pressing him closer until there was no space left between them. “I can remedy that.”

Dean’s breath hitched. “You smell like jet fuel and imperial decisions.” He paused, just long enough to make the next line land properly. “Where are my pastries?”

Arion stared at him.

Then, because Dean was impossible and because loving him had apparently destroyed the last of his ability to remain consistently severe, he laughed.

“They’re coming,” Arion said, laughter still lingering at the edge of his voice.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “That sounds like a man who has arrived without them.”

“I arrived with priorities.”

“I was one of the priorities.”

“You were the first one.”

“That is not an answer to the pastry question.”

Arion let his hand tighten on Dean’s back. “The car behind me has them.”

Dean considered this. “Acceptable. Barely.”

“I crossed half the empire.”

“And still nearly failed on sweets.”

Arion’s thumb moved once against the small of his back. “I said nearly.”

Dean looked at him for another second, then sighed with all the suffering of a prince forced to tolerate borderline incompetence in someone he loved too much to punish properly.

“You are running on fumes,” Dean said.

“Yes.”

“You haven’t eaten.”

“No.”

“You have reports in your bag.”

“Most likely.”

Dean closed his eyes briefly, as if petitioning patience from a higher and probably absent authority. When he opened them again, his expression had sharpened into that elegant, ruthless practicality Arion had come to crave almost as much as the softer things.

Dean reached for Arion’s shirt buttons and started to unfasten them, ignoring the coat for a moment. “Then let’s put you to sleep.”

Arion caught Dean’s wrists, stilling his hands. “Sleep isn’t what I had in mind.”

Dean looked up, and the violet of his eyes was dark with understanding. “No?”

“No.” Arion’s voice was low, rough with exhaustion and want. “I told you. I have plans for you.”

“Your plans can wait until you’ve rested.” Dean twisted his hands free and resumed his work on the buttons. “You’re not coherent enough to execute them properly.”

“I’m coherent enough for this.” Arion’s hands moved to Dean’s hips, pulling him flush against him. “I’ve been coherent enough for this for four nights.”

Dean’s fingers stilled on the last button. “Four nights?”

“Mmm.” Arion’s head dipped, his mouth finding the sensitive skin behind Dean’s ear. “Every night. In my bunk. In the command tent. Once in the back of a transport vehicle.”

Dean shivered, his hands falling to his sides. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Arion’s teeth scraped gently. “I thought about you in the shower this morning. Thought about you on the flight back. Thought about you as I was dismissing my aides and ignoring my reports.”

Dean’s breath hitched. “That’s… efficient.”

“I’m a prince of the empire. Efficiency is my specialty.” Arion’s hands slid under Dean’s shirt, mapping the warm skin of his back. “Except where you’re concerned. Where you’re concerned, I’m entirely inefficient.”

“Arion…” Dean started, but it dissolved into a gasp as Arion’s mouth found his again.

This kiss was different from the first. Slower, deeper, more exploratory. Arion took his time, learning the shape of Dean’s mouth again, the way his tongue moved, and the little sounds he made when Arion’s fingers tightened on his back.

When he pulled back, Dean was swaying slightly, his eyes glazed. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“Is it working?”

“Yes.” Dean’s hands came up to frame Arion’s face. “But you still need to rest.”

“I’ll rest later.” Arion’s voice was firm. “Right now, I need you.”

Dean studied him, his expression softening. “You’re impossible.”

“Completely.” Arion’s thumb stroked Dean’s cheekbone. “But I’m yours.”

Dean sighed, but it was a sound of surrender rather than exasperation. “Fine. But we’re doing this my way.”

“Your way?”

“You’re going to let me take care of you.” Dean’s hands moved to Arion’s shoulders, pushing the coat off. “And then you’re going to let me take care of you.”

Arion grinned. “That sounds suspiciously like you getting what you want.”

“Isn’t that the definition of a successful negotiation?” Dean’s fingers worked at the buttons of Arion’s shirt, pushing it open to reveal the dark gold skin beneath. “Besides, you’ll get what you want too. Eventually.”

“Eventually?”

“I have standards.” Dean leaned in, pressing a kiss to the center of Arion’s chest. “And right now, you don’t meet them.”

Arion’s laughter was low and warm. “You’re the only person in the empire who would tell me that.”

“Good.” Dean’s mouth moved lower, tracing the line of Arion’s sternum. “Someone needs to keep you humble.”

Arion’s hands moved to Dean’s hair, fingers tangling in the soft, blonde strands. “Humble is not a word anyone has ever used to describe me.”

“They haven’t been trying hard enough.” Dean’s tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of Arion’s skin. “Now, are you going to cooperate, or do I need to get creative?”

“Creative sounds promising.”

Dean looked up, his eyes dark with mischief. “I have ways of making you compliant.”

“Show me.”

Dean showed him, but not with the immediate surrender Arion expected.

Instead of stripping him bare, Dean guided him backward through the sitting room, then their bedroom, until Arion’s legs hit the edge of their bed. He gave a light, firm push. Arion went down more from surprise than lack of balance, sinking onto the mattress with a soft thud.

Dean stood over him, a predator in his own right, his violet eyes gleaming. “You’re exhausted. You’re running on imperial willpower and four nights of missing me. You think you’re in charge here, but you’re not.”

Arion propped himself up on his elbows, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Is that so?”

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