Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Again

Arion had not slept.

That, in itself, was not unusual.

Dominant alphas rarely required more than three hours of rest in a night, and Arion had long since stopped pretending to follow even that rhythm. Two nights without sleep was unremarkable. He usually rested for two hours every three or four days, when his body finally demanded it. Sleep had become maintenance with every use of his pheromones, and now nothing felt like comfort to him.

Tonight, it had simply not happened.

He was seated in the armchair of the guest suite in the diplomatic wing that had been assigned to him. His pose was relaxed in a manner that only someone with total control could achieve, with one foot resting on the knee of the other. The room was quiet, orderly, and impersonal. It had been chosen by Emperor Sirius himself, tasteful enough to show respect and distant enough to maintain boundaries.

Arion appreciated that.

He was dressed simply: dark blue trousers, pressed and immaculate, and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to expose the watch at his wrist. The metal caught the low light when he shifted his hand, the only movement in an otherwise still room.

A tablet rested against his palm.

Lines of text scrolled slowly as he reviewed the latest modifications to the engagement contract between Alamina and Palatine. Every clause had been revised, weighed, and refined. Jurisdictional language. Succession contingencies. Medical oversight. Relocation protocols. Timeframes written carefully enough to be read as patience rather than delay.

Arion absorbed it all without visible reaction.

This was the fourth revision in as many days.

They were stalling.

Not out of malice. Not even out of distrust. He understood the strategy well enough. Palatine was buying time, ensuring protections, and softening the inevitable so it looked less like submission and more like choice.

Arion allowed them that illusion.

His golden eyes moved calmly across the screen, cataloguing what had changed, what had not, and what remained deliberately vague. He made a mental note of the phrasing Lucas had clearly insisted on. Another of the adjustments Trevor had fought for. Sirius’s hand was there too, subtle for anyone that didn’t know his style well enough.

Dean’s name appeared more often now.

That, too, was expected.

Arion closed the file and let the silence settle in his mind, his gaze drifting briefly to the tall window across the room. Dawn had not yet broken, but the sky had begun to lighten at the edges, the city holding its breath before morning.

He could feel it.

A familiar pull at the edge of his perception, quiet but persistent, like a thread under tension. It had been there since the previous day, since the first time he had seen Dean in person, and it only got stronger after the other night’s dinner.

Dean chose to interrupt the negotiation and the stalling and accept Alamina’s proposal.

Arion did not mistake it for coincidence.

He checked his watch, then rose smoothly from the chair, setting the tablet aside. His body felt normal; there was no tremor of exhaustion nor loss of focus. Control remained intact.

For now. Mostly because he found his perfect omega.

He adjusted his cuffs, straightened the line of his shirt, and moved toward the door leisurely. There was no need to rush. He had waited a month already. A few more minutes meant nothing.

What mattered was that Dean was awake.

And that, finally, they were no longer circling the same problem from opposite sides of a table.

Arion reached the corridor, already certain of the direction he needed to take.

He did not hunt.

He simply went to where Dean was.

—

Dean should not have left his room.

This became obvious somewhere between deciding to shower like a functional adult and stepping into the corridor with the false confidence of someone who had briefly forgotten how his life worked.

He had made a choice, and after talking with Lucas, he’d even managed to convince himself that it was a choice he could enjoy, at least for a while. People were already praising him for it, for the maturity he’d shown, for the composure with which he’d handled pressure that would have broken older men.

Dean suspected most of them had never tried being the solution to an international problem before breakfast.

In all honesty, he couldn’t take another day of it. Another briefing. Another carefully worded reassurance. Another week of his family negotiating with an empire that was absolutely, unshakably set on having Dean as the mate of their Crown Prince.

Over a month of polite pressure had done strange things to everyone involved.

Sebastian looked like he’d aged ten years and lost the ability to enjoy coffee. Trevor had perfected the art of controlled silence, which was always a warning sign. Lucas, infuriatingly, remained calm but watchful, patient, and far too perceptive for Dean’s comfort.

Dean himself had learned there were only so many times one could hear ’this is for the greater good’ from people he didn’t know before the urge to scream became overwhelming.

None of that meant he was ready to face the consequences in person.

The hot water of the shower softened the panic into something manageable, and for a few blessed minutes Dean convinced himself that if he stayed calm, stayed neutral, and stayed invisible, the palace might cooperate.

It did not.

He dressed carefully – nothing formal, nothing provocative, nothing that could be interpreted as signaling anything to anyone. The outfit said, ’I am a person who simply exists and I’m definitely not hiding from a crown prince.’

This was, in hindsight, optimistic.

So he stepped into the corridor.

The palace was quieter at this hour, sunlight filtering through tall windows and catching on polished stone. The calm felt deceptive, one that suggested nothing dramatic should happen here.

Dean made it all the way to the outer gallery overlooking the gardens before he exhaled.

Below him, roses were in full bloom, heavy with color and scent, ivy climbing wherever it pleased. Wind moved through the courtyard just enough to scatter sound and carry scent away from the upper levels.

Dean leaned against the cool stone railing and let himself breathe.

Thirty seconds passed.

Then that familiar, cursed awareness crawled up his spine.

“Oh no,” Dean whispered.

Slowly, carefully, as if moving too fast might summon something worse, he turned.

Arion was standing on the balcony railing.

Again.

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