Chapter 48: Chapter 48: Last moments (1)

Serathine found out from Lucas that night.

Lucas told her plainly what Caelan had done: what he had pushed into the contract like it was his right, and what he had dared to put on Dean’s throat from a distance.

And what he had promised, years back, that he would never do again.

That he would retreat. That he would forget power. That he would stop treating people like pieces.

Serathine listened without interrupting. Her face didn’t change much as the words landed, one by one, each one colder than the last. When Lucas finished, she was silent for a long moment as recognition catching up with denial.

She understood then, with a clarity that made her stomach turn, how naive she had been.

She had believed Caelan could change. She had believed intelligent men were capable of change. They were, weren’t they? That was the comforting lie people told themselves when they had invested too much time into someone’s potential.

Caelan, apparently, had invested in nothing but his own entitlement.

Serathine had no tears for him. Not tonight. Tonight she only had that quiet anger that came from a woman who had kept her promises even when it cost her pride.

And Serathine was a woman who kept her promises.

She moved to the Fitzgeralt manor that same night, arriving with a small convoy and no apology for the hour. Staff rushed. Doors opened. The house made room for her the way it made room for any storm that arrived with purpose.

She didn’t make a scene.

She asked for a room. She gave instructions. She took off her gloves like she was shedding the last polite illusion she’d worn around Caelan for years.

Then she left him a message.

’Good riddance.’

And when she sent it, she felt something loosen in her chest. The quiet satisfaction of finally closing a door she should have shut a long time ago.

Caelan could keep his grandeur illusions.

Serathine was done keeping them under control.

—

Arion was savoring a glass of expensive cognac when the night finally settled into something almost quiet.

The private room Sirius had granted him was high enough that the capital looked distant, an ocean of lights spread beneath the window, gold and white and cold, Palatine shining the way it always did when it wanted to look untouchable. Arion stood there with his coat already discarded, black shirt still open at the collar, one hand around the glass, the other resting lightly against the window frame as if the city belonged to him for the duration of a breath.

The meeting with Lucas and Dean had ended quickly after that.

After he’d placed the collar on Dean.

On the pretty throat of his omega.

Arion’s mouth curved with quiet satisfaction at the memory, at Dean’s steady gaze, the way his pulse had jumped under Arion’s fingers, and the way the lock had accepted Dean’s pheromones like it had been waiting. A choice made together, clean and undeniable.

It had calmed something deep in Arion.

It had also sharpened something else.

Because even with that collar in place, even with Dean’s consent and Lucas’s support, the danger in Arion’s eyes hadn’t left. Not really. Not when someone had dared to reach between him and what was his. Not when that someone had done it with paperwork and “tradition,” like cruelty sounded better when you wrapped it in velvet.

Caelan.

Arion scoffed softly into the cognac, the sound barely audible against the hum of the city.

He hadn’t waited. The moment he’d left the restaurant, he’d told Zyon to arrange a meeting with Caelan as soon as possible – tonight, if the old man had any courage left.

Apparently, he did.

Arion’s smile didn’t warm when Zyon had confirmed it. It only sharpened into an expression that made grown men remember they had hearts to protect.

A quiet knock came at the door.

Arion didn’t turn yet. He took one last sip, then set the glass down with care, as if he was putting away the last piece of patience he intended to offer.

“Enter,” he said.

The door opened.

Zyon stepped in first, posture rigid with professional dread. Behind him, a pair of guards, escorted their guest with the kind of courtesy that was also a boundary.

Then Caelan walked in.

He looked exactly like the kind of man who had once worn a crown and never truly accepted its removal. Immaculate clothes. Controlled expression. The faint arrogance of someone who believed age automatically translated into authority.

His eyes swept the room, landed on Arion, and held.

Arion turned fully and greeted him with a smile. A smile that showed teeth without showing any effort.

“Lord Caelan,” Arion said, voice smooth, almost warm.

Caelan’s gaze narrowed slightly, as if he didn’t like being addressed as lord by anyone, least of all a foreign Crown Prince.

“You requested a meeting,” Caelan replied, tone measured. “Late.”

“I’m impatient,” Arion said simply. “And tonight seemed appropriate.”

Caelan’s attention flicked once to the window, to the city lights, then back to Arion, calculating. “I was told there was urgency.”

“There is,” Arion agreed, and the smile stayed on his face in a way that made it clear it wasn’t kindness keeping it there.

Zyon remained by the door, silent, his presence reminding everyone that this room was not neutral territory.

Arion took a single step closer. He didn’t need to loom. He was over seven feet tall. The world did the looming for him.

“I’m going to be direct,” Arion said softly. “You sent collars.”

Caelan didn’t blink. “A security measure.”

Arion’s smile deepened by a fraction. “No.”

Caelan’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand Palatine’s-”

“I understand,” Arion cut in, still smiling, and the interruption landed like a knife wrapped in velvet. “You wanted to mark territory.”

Caelan’s gaze sharpened. “Watch your tone.”

Arion’s smile did not change. Only his eyes did, now dangerously bright.

“My tone,” Arion said, “is remarkably generous considering you tried to place a chain on my fiancé.”

Caelan’s mouth thinned. “Your fiancé is a Fitzgeralt. He belongs to Palatine.”

Arion laughed once -soft, unbelieving.

“Dean belongs to Dean,” Arion said, voice still calm. “And Dean chose.” His gaze held Caelan’s. “You do not.”

The room felt colder.

Zyon didn’t move. The guards didn’t breathe louder. Even the city beyond the glass seemed to hold its light a little more carefully.

Caelan’s expression tightened. “Are you threatening me.”

Arion’s smile stayed in place like a promise. “No.”

Caelan’s eyes narrowed. “Then what is this?”

Arion took another slow sip of cognac, as if savoring the taste and the moment both, then set the glass down again.

“This,” Arion said, pleasant as a blade, “is me introducing myself properly.”

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