Chapter 71: Chapter 71: Off the Leash

The shower washed the sweat of panic off his skin but changed absolutely nothing underneath it.

Dean stood under the heat until the steam fogged the mirror and the noise of the water filled the space so completely it could’ve been its own kind of insulation. He let it run over his face, his hair, and his shoulders, and he breathed like a person who was trying to convince his body that the world hadn’t just tilted.

When he finally stepped out, the air felt colder than it should have. The suite was still dark beyond the bathroom doorway, the palace still quiet in that old, expensive way that suggested the building itself approved of discretion.

Dean dried off, slower than necessary, because speed felt too much like pressure, and pressure felt too much like Caelan’s shadow.

Then he dressed.

He pulled on a soft T-shirt – plain, worn-in, the kind Lucas had always insisted he was allowed to have even when the world wanted him dressed like a symbol – and a simple pair of trousers.

He looked at the collar on the dresser, one of the options laid out for later, for aesthetics, for ’proper introductions.’

And he left it there.

That tiny act felt like rebellion in a room built to swallow rebellions whole.

Dean ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaled, and opened the door to his suite.

The hallway beyond was dimly lit, making everything seem soft-edged and unreal. It smelled faintly of polished wood and stone that had been standing for centuries. Somewhere far away there was a quiet footstep, the shift of staff moving like ghosts, but nothing close enough to demand anything from him.

He stepped out, as he needed to keep his head clear before he started to spiral again.

The palace at night was not asleep. It was simply… quieter about being alive.

Dean walked, barefoot and silent on thick rugs, then on stone that felt cool through the soles of his socks. The corridor stretched long and elegant, with ornate moldings above him, gilded frames, tall doors, and those stupidly perfect sconces that made everything look like a painting.

He remembered Sylvia’s voice immediately.

’This place is dramatic, Dean. It’s built for drama.’

And the thing was… she was right. It was obscene how theatrical it looked for a country that claimed it didn’t do theatrics.

Dean wandered because he could, and because standing still made his thoughts too loud.

The corridor seemed to go on forever, like the building itself had been designed by someone who believed humans deserved to get lost. Doors appeared at intervals, some closed, some slightly ajar, all of them too tall, too heavy, and too expensive to be casual.

He passed a sitting room that looked like it had never been sat in, a library alcove with a reading lamp still on as if someone had forgotten to turn it off, and a stretch of hallway where the carpet changed pattern so subtly it felt like the palace was correcting itself mid-thought.

At some point, Dean stopped and stared down two identical corridors.

He blinked.

Then he stared harder, as if the palace would take pity on him and rearrange itself into something logical.

It didn’t.

Dean exhaled through his nose. He might be lost.

A sane person would do what a sane person did in situations like this. They’d turn around. They’d find the nearest staff member. They’d ask for directions like a normal human being.

Dean was, unfortunately, not wired for that at four in the morning inside a palace that promised drama.

He took a right turn.

The corridor narrowed, then widened again, and the air changed, carrying something faintly sharp that wasn’t polished wood or old stone. Dean’s steps slowed. His skin prickled instinctively, as if his body had sensed a change before his mind.

He followed it.

The palace opened into glass.

A long conservatory-like passage with tall panes that looked out onto white gardens, the snow beyond lit pale by moonlight and discreet ground lamps. Frost traced the edges of the frames like lace. The world outside was silent, held still by winter.

Dean stopped at the threshold, staring.

There were gardens. Actual gardens. Not ’a decorative courtyard.’ Not ’a historically important lawn.’

Gardens.

And the door leading out was… unlocked.

Dean’s brows lifted. He wasn’t sure if that was Alamina being confident or Alamina being insane.

He stepped closer, pressed a hand lightly to the cold handle, then eased it open.

Cold air slid over him immediately, crisp enough to sting his lungs. He should’ve turned back.

Instead, he stepped out like the world hadn’t been trying to eat him for the last twenty-four hours.

The snow on the path had been cleared. The stone beneath was dark and wet from melted ice. Lamps lined the walkway low to the ground, casting soft light across sculpted hedges buried under white.

And then he saw him.

Arion was outside. Casually dressed. He wore a dark sweater and simple trousers, hands bare, hair slightly unstyled in a way that should’ve been illegal on principle. He looked like a man who runs in the morning like a maniac.

Dean’s brain stopped for a second, struggling to file that image anywhere sensible.

Then his gaze dropped.

Arion had a leash looped around his right hand.

Dean stared at it, mouth parting slightly, because that…

That was not a sentence he expected his life to contain.

Arion noticed him a beat later. His head turned, and his gaze landed on Dean with that steady focus that always felt like being seen too accurately.

For half a second, Arion’s expression went still, as if surprised Dean existed outside of his assigned schedule.

“Dean,” Arion said, voice low, almost amused. “You’re awake.”

Dean opened his mouth, likely to ask the obvious question: ’Why are you outside at dawn like a myth? Why do you have a leash? Why does this palace have gardens that look like they could host a duel?’ – but he didn’t get a single word out.

Because something moved in the snow.

Fast.

A blur of thick fur and muscle and enthusiasm launched itself down the path like a missile with opinions.

Dean had enough time to think, ’Oh no,’ before a massive malamute hit him like a friendly avalanche.

Dean went down with a startled yelp that would’ve been humiliating if the dog hadn’t immediately started sniffing him like Dean contained state secrets and snacks.

“Hey!” Dean shoved at the dog’s shoulders, which was like shoving a wall that loved you. “Excuse you…. What?!”

The dog huffed hot breath over Dean’s chest and then pressed its face against his throat with zero respect for boundaries, tail thumping hard enough to shake its entire back end.

Dean froze.

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