Chapter 235: Chapter 235: Before the Guests

The knock on the door came exactly three minutes after Dean had decided he was fully dressed, only mildly doomed, and perhaps not yet too far gone to throw the velvet box out the window and pretend the entire evening was a misunderstanding.

He looked at the door.

Then at Sylvia.

Sylvia looked back with the radiant calm of a woman who had already chosen chaos and was waiting for it to arrive.

Boreas lifted his head from the carpet and gave a low, anticipatory huff.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “If that is him, you are not allowed to enjoy this.”

“I am already enjoying this,” Sylvia said. “That condition has failed.”

The knock came again, this time sounding like it was made by a man who had every right to enter the room without permission but, infuriatingly, chose to ask.

Dean’s heart misbehaved; one would believe that after half a year of this, his treacherous heart would get used to it. It did not.

“Come in,” he said.

The door opened.

Arion stepped inside already half-dressed for the evening, which was the first problem.

Black suit, no jacket yet; the white shirt beneath was still open at the throat as if someone had begun the process of making him presentable and then wisely abandoned it before they were injured. His hair was still faintly damp from his shower, the scar at his brow and cheek pale against the clean line of his skin, and there was still just enough weariness left around his eyes to make Dean want to ruin someone’s career for exhausting him.

He looked from Dean to Sylvia, then to Boreas, then back to Dean.

“I was told,” Arion said, “that I left my cufflinks in here.”

Dean stared at him.

Sylvia, without so much as a flicker of shame, said, “That is almost certainly true.”

Arion’s gaze flicked toward her. “Almost?”

“I’m creating an atmosphere of uncertainty.”

“That is not helpful.”

“It is to me.”

Dean looked between them with the tired clarity of a man beginning to understand that he had no allies left in his own rooms.

Arion stepped farther in.

Boreas stood, stretched with aggressive significance, and then, traitor to species and principle alike, walked directly to Arion for a greeting. Arion bent automatically, one hand resting briefly over the broad head with the ease of someone who had been claimed by the household beast long ago and no longer questioned it.

Dean watched that too long.

Then Sylvia, who had apparently decided subtlety was for weaker people, rose from the chaise and brushed imaginary lint from her sleeve.

“Well,” she said. “Since the cufflink emergency has clearly become life-threatening, I should leave.”

Dean turned to her at once. “No.”

“Yes,” Sylvia said.

“No.”

She smiled at him with the cruel affection of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing and had chosen to do it better. “You wanted it before.”

“That was theoretical.”

“And now it’s not.” She leaned closer as she passed him, lowering her voice to a murmur only he could hear. “If you fail to give him the gift now, I will tell Benjamin you hesitated.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “That is blackmail.”

“That is support.”

Then she turned to Arion, all innocence and diplomacy. “Your Highness, I believe the cufflinks are in the dressing room. Or the sitting room. Or perhaps fate intends you to look for them slowly.”

Arion’s mouth twitched.

Dean wanted to kill both of them.

Boreas, sensing movement, gave Sylvia a betrayed look when she moved toward the door.

“And you,” she said to the dog. “You come with me.”

Boreas looked at her with the profound betrayal of a creature who had not agreed to be removed from a promising emotional situation.

“Yes,” Sylvia said firmly. “You too. I am not leaving two princes and a witness with fur in the same room.”

Dean, who was already reconsidering every life choice that had brought him to this exact moment, said, “You are overstepping.”

“I am preserving the atmosphere.”

“You are committing treason.”

“I’m doing it elegantly.”

Boreas rose with the heavy reluctance of a beast being separated from the most interesting event in the palace, gave Dean one last mournful look, then followed Sylvia out.

The door closed.

The silence that followed was immediate and catastrophic.

Dean turned slowly, doing his best to keep his shaking fingers still.

Arion was still standing exactly where he had been, one hand half-lifted, the other hanging at his side, and the expression on his face had changed into something Dean instantly distrusted.

It was not merely happiness.

It was worse.

It was dawning realization.

The slow, bright, increasingly ungovernable understanding of a man who had just put several pieces together and found them all pointing in the same impossible direction.

Dean’s stomach tightened.

“No,” he said at once.

Arion looked at him.

Then at the box in Dean’s hand.

Then back at Dean.

The grin that spread across his face was not princely. It was not restrained. It was not even civilized in a way that could safely be shown to the public.

It was the grin of a man who had just discovered that his omega had secretly commissioned him a ring for his birthday and was trying, with visible effort, not to lose his mind before the guests arrived.

Dean took one step back on instinct, his fingers clenching harder on the small box. “No.”

Arion took one step forward.

“Dean.”

“No.”

“You commissioned me a ring.”

“It is not phrased like that.”

“It is exactly phrased like that.”

Dean could feel the heat climbing into his face now, hot and immediate and impossible to hide. He hated that. He hated being almost twenty and still not entirely in control of how quickly his body betrayed him when Arion looked too happy.

Arion, naturally, noticed at once.

The grin deepened.

Dean wanted to throw the velvet box at his head.

“You are making a terrible face,” he said.

“I’m making an excellent face.”

“You look deranged.”

“I look loved.”

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