Chapter 27: Chapter 27: Egos

Trevor’s eyes narrowed. Lucas’s gaze slid to Dean with the quiet warning of a man who didn’t love being corrected at his own table. Arion, of course, looked faintly amused, as if Dean had just confirmed a theory he’d been testing.

Dean hated all three expressions equally.

“This is a clash of egos,” Dean said, voice firm, because if he didn’t say it now it would rot in his chest all day. “Big ones. Legendary ones. And it’s rich coming from me, I know, but you’re acting like the only options are total secrecy or total chaos, like nothing in between exists.”

Trevor opened his mouth.

Dean raised a hand. “Just one more thing, Father.”

Trevor stopped, not because he agreed, but because he trusted Dean enough to let him finish.

Dean took a breath and looked from Lucas to Trevor, then to Arion.

“Both parties are… not entirely wrong,” Dean said carefully. “In Palatine there are already discussions about how to handle dominants better. Yes, it’s late, and yes, it’s messy, but it’s happening.”

Arion’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpened, like the information mattered.

Dean leaned back slightly, letting the sarcasm slip in because it was the only way he could keep this from turning into a lecture. “Also… have you met Grandpa Caelan? If you’re expecting Palatine to evolve quickly and gracefully, you’re either optimistic or suicidal.”

Lucas’s lips twitched, betraying the smallest, unwilling amusement.

Trevor looked like he wanted to be annoyed and failed.

Dean turned his gaze fully to Arion again, and the humor dropped out of him.

“But being right,” Dean said, calm and precise, “does not give you permission to be an asshole about it.”

Arion’s mouth tightened. “I wasn’t—”

“You were,” Dean cut in without hesitation. “Last night. And this morning. And I’m not going to keep translating you into something my family can tolerate.”

A beat of silence.

Dean’s fingers tightened around his mug, knuckles whitening for a moment before he forced them to relax.

“And honestly,” he added, quieter now, “neither tactic is good. Not Palatine’s habit of hiding things until the body screams. Not your habit of shoving the truth into people like it’s a weapon and calling it urgency.”

Arion went still.

Trevor’s eyes remained hard, but they weren’t on Dean like he was the problem. They were on Arion, like he was waiting to see if the man would listen.

Lucas didn’t interrupt. He simply watched Dean the way he always did when Dean stepped into a room and decided to be the adult.

Dean exhaled slowly.

“But this discussion,” Dean said, voice steady, “is not about what Alamina and Palatine owe each other. It’s not about treaties, troops, or who’s been bleeding on which border while the other side sends condolences.”

Arion’s gaze narrowed, as if he didn’t like being redirected.

Dean didn’t care.

“This is about me,” Dean said, and then looked directly at Arion. “And you.”

Another beat.

“If you want to complain about Palatine’s policies,” Dean continued, “keep it for Sirius. He’s the Emperor. He’s the one who gets to decide what help goes where and how the system changes. Not my father. Not my home. Not at my breakfast table.”

Trevor’s jaw tightened in approval he didn’t voice.

Lucas’s eyes softened, just slightly, proud and furious at the same time.

Arion’s gaze flickered, annoyance first, then something else, something quieter. Respect, maybe. Or the recognition of a boundary being brutally drawn.

Dean set his mug down.

“So,” Dean said, “here’s what we’re doing. You two,” he nodded at Lucas and Trevor, “you can hate him all you want. Privately. Quietly. With dignity. I don’t need you to like him.”

Trevor’s lips pressed together. “Dean—”

Dean looked at him. “I know.”

Then he looked back at Arion.

“And you,” Dean said, “you can be bitter. You can be exhausted. You can be angry about your homeland and your responsibilities. But you do not get to bring those wars into my family and call it necessary.”

Arion’s voice came low. “I—”

Dean held up a finger. “No. Listen.”

Arion stilled again, the spoiled, apex part of him clearly chafing, and the part that cared enough to obey winning anyway.

Dean’s tone softened by a fraction, just enough to make it hurt.

“If you want me,” he said, eyes steady, “then you get me clean. Not at the cost of my father’s peace. Not with my family as collateral. Not with your temper dressed up as truth.”

Silence spread across the table.

Dean didn’t look away. He held Arion’s gaze with the calm cruelty of someone who wasn’t bluffing, who had decided that love could exist only inside boundaries strong enough to survive it.

Arion’s jaw flexed once. His hands tightened around his cup. For a moment it looked like instinct would win, like he would bristle, snap, and turn this into a battle he could control.

Then he exhaled.

Arion set the cup down carefully, as if he didn’t trust himself not to crush it.

“Understood,” he said, voice low. “I heard you.”

Trevor didn’t relax. Lucas didn’t smile. But something in their posture eased anyway, the tiniest shift that meant ’Good. He’s listening.’

Dean’s shoulders loosened a fraction, and only then did he realize how tightly he’d been holding himself together.

Lucas reached for his own cup, calm as ever, but his eyes flicked to Dean with a warmth that didn’t need words. Pride, sharp and quiet. The kind that sat behind his sternness like a foundation.

Trevor’s approval was less gentle. He leaned back in his chair, gaze still on Arion, but his hand moved to Dean’s shoulder, a single squeeze. It said: ’I’ve got you.’ It also said, ’You did well.’

Dean swallowed, looked down at his mug, then back up, as if pretending he hadn’t felt it.

Arion’s gaze stayed on Dean for another second longer than necessary.

Then, he shifted it away.

Dean watched him do it and understood what it cost.

If Arion kept his guard up, if he kept treating this like a siege, he would clash with Lucas and Trevor until the mansion cracked around them. And Dean would be stuck in the middle of a war he never asked for.

Arion knew it too.

He drew in a slow breath, the kind of controlled breathing soldiers used to steady their hands.

“Fine,” Arion said, and the word sounded like a concession scraped from pride. “I will keep my politics out of your home.”

Trevor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Good.”

Arion’s gaze shifted to Lucas, and the stubborn clarity of a man who had seen too much to accept comforting lies returned.

“But,” Arion said evenly, “you should understand something, Lucas Fitzgeralt.”

Lucas’s expression didn’t change. “Go on.”

Arion didn’t raise his voice. “The secrecy around your past,” he said, “is a handicap for both of your children.”

Dean’s stomach tightened.

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