Chapter 70: Chapter 70: Stop masking

The call ended, and the silence that followed was almost worse than the voices.

Dean kept the phone in his hand for a few seconds too long, thumb hovering over nothing, eyes fixed on a dark screen as if staring hard enough could rewind time. The suite around him was dim and quiet in that particular palace way – thick curtains, soft lamp light, and the faint hum of climate control hidden somewhere in the walls.

He lay back down, because he was stubborn and because he refused to let a two a.m. call steal sleep from him.

He pulled the duvet up to his chest and told himself, firmly, that he could sleep after that.

That he could simply close his eyes, breathe, and let his brain do what brains were supposed to do at night: turn off.

It didn’t.

His thoughts kept circling, sharp and repetitive, like a finger worrying a bruise.

The betrayal was intimate in a way politics rarely managed. His grandfather had watched him grow and still thought of him as something to be routed, tethered, and distributed.

’He wanted to pimp me…’

Dean shut his eyes harder, as if pressure could seal the thoughts out.

’No.’

’Think of a different topic. ANYTHING’

’Sylvia.’

Dean latched onto Sylvia the way a drowning man grabbed driftwood, because Sylvia was loud enough in Dean’s head to compete with nightmares.

He could see her from yesterday, standing in the corridor like she’d been personally assigned by the gods to test the palace’s patience. She’d tilted her head, squinting at a discreet panel on the wall.

“What’s this?” Sylvia had asked, already leaning in.

Dean, half paying attention and already exhausted, had glanced over. “Probably nothing. Don’t touch it.”

Sylvia turned slowly, eyes bright with that special curiosity that should’ve been registered as a weapon. “When you say ’don’t touch it,’

what I’m hearing is ’it’s touchable.’”

“Sylvia,” Dean had warned.

She’d pointed at it. “It’s literally a button.”

“Yes,” Dean had said, already knowing he was doomed. “That’s exactly why you don’t—”

She pressed it.

The alarm that followed hadn’t been deep, echoing, and ancient, like the palace itself had opinions about being poked by civilians. Lights blinked. A door in the distance did something ominous. Dean’s soul briefly left his body.

And Sylvia…

Sylvia had stared at the flashing light with wide-eyed reverence and whispered, “Oh my god.”

Then the guards had appeared. Like the walls produced them.

Sylvia had lifted both hands, palms out, like she was being arrested by history itself. “I thought it was mood lighting!”

Dean had buried his face in his hands. “Why would mood lighting need an alarm?”

Sylvia had looked at him like he was the weird one. “Because this place is dramatic, Dean. It’s built for drama.”

That memory tugged an unwilling laugh out of him now, soft and short, one that died quickly because his mind slid back to the ugly part.

He tried to redirect again.

’Lunch.’

He has lunch tomorrow.

’No.’

He will have lunch today.

Lunch with Otto and Minerva and the adult heirs of the couple. The children had school or tutoring, and they didn’t want to overwhelm Dean. The twins were a handful, Arion had said, as if that was a normal sentence and not a warning.

Dean tried to picture the lunch like it was a schedule item, something manageable. Otto asking him about university. Minerva smiling at him like she meant it. No talk of wills or clauses or proposals.

He tried.

Sleep still didn’t come.

The clock glowed discreetly across the room.

02:43.

Dean stared at it and looked away.

03:07.

His body sank deeper into the mattress, but his brain stayed upright, pacing.

He shifted onto his side, then his back, then his other side.

The sheets were too soft. The quiet was too loud.

03:39.

Dean exhaled through his nose and told himself he was fine.

’I’m safe. I’m thousands of miles away from Palatine.’

And therefore he could sleep.

04:00.

The numbers changed, and something in him gave up, the last thread of denial snapping cleanly.

Dean sat up slowly.

The room looked exactly the same, which was almost insulting. As if luxury could pretend nothing had happened.

He swung his legs off the bed and stood, the rug warm under his bare feet. He was awake now, whether he wanted to be or not.

And as he crossed the suite toward the bathroom, his mind – traitorous, stubborn – shifted to something else he had also been avoiding.

Arion.

Not the Crown Prince. Not the dominant alpha.

Arion, on the jet, turning the space around Dean into a pocket of calm without Dean even realizing it. Arion, giving him ten minutes like it was a promise. Arion, letting Dean have silence without punishing him for it.

Dean had stared at him from then on, caught off guard by how… civilized that was. How thoughtful.

Because in Palatine, Arion had been sharper. More openly territorial. He’d had that arrogant edge that made Dean want to bite back on principle.

Here, in Alamina, Arion hadn’t changed in intent; Dean could still feel the possessiveness like a steady weight whenever Arion looked at him, but he’d learned to wrap it in restraint.

Dean had always assumed he’d fall for someone the way most people did – slowly, reluctantly, with the careful steps he took around anything that might bruise him.

But this wasn’t slow.

This was… a plunge.

Like stepping off a ledge and only realizing midair that you hadn’t meant to jump.

And the worst part was that Dean couldn’t even pretend it was purely emotional.

Because Arion’s face card was criminal.

Dean had caught himself yesterday, watching Arion adjust his cufflinks with that effortless grace, the scar at his brow cutting through the perfection in a way that made him look dangerous rather than flawed. He’d caught himself thinking if he looked like that in a courtroom, ’I’d confess to crimes I haven’t committed.’

Dean hated himself for that thought.

He also didn’t take it back.

He reached the bathroom, turned on the lights, and the mirrors did their usual cruel thing: reflected him as if he belonged in this world.

Dean stared at his own reflection for a second: blonde hair a mess, purple eyes tired, and expression controlled purely out of habit.

’I’m going to brake.’ He thought grimly.

If he kept resisting everything, if he kept clenching around every emotion like it was contraband, if he kept performing ’polite and contained’ until his ribs forgot what breathing normally felt like… he would break.

And the worst part was that he could feel the other version of himself right under the surface, pressing like a tide.

The version that matched Sylvia. The version of him that Trevor, Lucas, and Sebastian knew better than anyone.

The part of him that wanted to laugh too loudly in hallways built for reverence and press buttons that clearly said ’do not touch.’ The part of him that wanted to meet Minerva’s warmth with something real instead of a trained smile. The part of him that wanted to look at Arion and say something honest and ugly and true, just to see if the Crown Prince would flinch.

Dean’s throat worked once. He swallowed.

The palace’s soft lighting made him look calmer than he felt. It was a lie, like all good court lighting was.

He braced his hands on the edge of the sink and leaned forward, studying his own face like he could interrogate himself into compliance.

A laugh slipped out of him.

He heard Sylvia in his head like a ghost with zero respect for decorum.

’You’re going to give yourself a stress ulcer before you even get to the fun part.’

Dean huffed, almost amused despite himself, and wiped a hand down his face.

“You’re not here,” he muttered aloud, because talking back to imaginary Sylvia was apparently where his life was now.

’Not physically,’ Sylvia’s voice said in his memory, bright and smug. ’But I’m spiritually present. Also, I told you. He’s being normal now.’

Dean squeezed the bridge of his nose and decided to stop masking himself.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep