Chapter 74: Chapter 74: Long life

Arion’s head turned a fraction, as if he hadn’t expected that.

Dean didn’t look away. “Don’t give me that look,” he said, voice low, practical in a way that surprised even him. “He was… decent to me. Sometimes. He could be charming. He could be generous. He could sit me on his knee when I was little and make me feel special.”

His throat tightened once, then he pushed past it.

“But he was still him,” Dean continued. “A constant pressure. Like the whole family lived with a weapon on the table, and everyone pretended it was decoration.”

Arion’s gaze sharpened, listening.

“The adults were always guarded around him,” Dean said, and his tone shifted into something that sounded like an old, tired truth. “Always choosing words, always measuring reactions, always making sure no one laughed too loud or said the wrong thing. Trevor and Lucas tried to keep us out of it, Sirius tried to change the country out from under that shadow, but…” He let out a short breath. “Caelan still loomed. Over everything.”

Boreas huffed softly, as if punctuating the point, and Dean almost smiled at the absurdity of having a canine audience to his family trauma.

Dean looked at Arion again. “So yes,” he said. “I’m glad he’s gone.”

Arion didn’t flinch. If anything, some tension eased out of his shoulders, like Dean had just confirmed something Arion had already decided to believe about him.

Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And before you start with the morality lecture… don’t.” His voice turned dry. “If you want me to be horrified on principle, you picked the wrong grandson.”

Arion’s mouth twitched into something that almost qualified as a smile. It looked reluctant on him, like he didn’t use it often enough for it to feel natural.

“I wasn’t going to lecture you,” he said. He hesitated, and for Arion that hesitation meant effort in choosing his words. “If anything… I expected you to be distraught.”

Dean blinked at him, instantly suspicious. “Why?”

The question came out sharper than intended, because Dean could already feel the instinctive urge to square his shoulders, to prove he wasn’t soft just because he could admit relief. He hated that reflex. He hated how court life trained it into you like posture.

Boreas chose that moment to sprint ahead, as if the palace belonged to him on a legal technicality. The dog launched toward a carved wooden door with the confidence of someone who had never been told no in his life, jumped up, caught the handle with his mouth, and yanked.

The door clicked open.

Dean stared at the dog. Then at the door. Then at Arion.

Arion didn’t even look surprised. He just walked through like this was normal, like doors were simply suggestions Boreas occasionally negotiated with his teeth.

“Because,” Arion said, finally answering, voice low as he carried Dean over the threshold, “if you were distraught… I would have an excuse to comfort you.”

Dean went very still.

It was such a simple sentence. Just an admission laid down like a fact.

Dean’s ears warmed against his will. “So you wanted me miserable,” he said, because sarcasm was the only way he knew how to handle tenderness without choking on it.

“I wanted you close,” Arion corrected, unbothered. “There’s a difference.”

Dean swallowed, then forced a scoff. “That is not a difference; that is you rebranding possession.”

Arion’s gaze flicked down to him, amused in that infuriating, controlled way. “Yes.”

Dean stared at him. “You’re just admitting things now.”

“I’m in my rooms,” Arion said, as if location mattered. “The walls are loyal.”

Dean looked around automatically, because of course he did.

Arion’s wing didn’t feel like the rest of the palace. The same obscene luxury was there – high ceilings, pale panels, and gold detailing that pretended it was tasteful – but the space was lived-in. There were signs of routine: boots lined neatly near a bench, a tray with an empty cup, a stack of documents that looked like they’d been read rather than displayed, and a folded throw on the sofa like someone actually sat there without an audience.

And, most tellingly, there were dog toys.

Dean’s brain latched onto that detail like it was a life raft. “You have a dog bed.”

“Yes.”

“And toys.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t think that was relevant information about you.”

“Are you mad at me that I didn’t tell you about Boreas?” Arion asked while putting him on the couch.

Dean’s brain latched onto the dog bed and the scattered toys like they were proof the world was lying to him.

“I just…” He dragged a hand down his face, then pointed vaguely at Boreas, as if the animal needed to be singled out in court. “I never imagined you as the type of man to have a dog.”

Arion’s expression stayed calm, but his eyes held that faint, amused glint Dean was starting to recognize as deeply unfair. “Why?”

“Because you look like the type of man who would have a dog,” Dean said, choosing his words carefully, “and the dog would be cared for by staff. Like… professionally. On a schedule. With a clipboard.”

Boreas huffed and leaned his head harder against Dean’s thigh as if offended on Arion’s behalf.

Arion’s mouth twitched. “He is cared for.”

“Not what I meant.”

“I know.” Arion moved past the couch, unhurried, and pressed a discreet button on the wall panel. His tone when he spoke into the system was clipped and efficient, like this was a normal part of the palace’s morning routine. “Bring dry clothes for Dean to my sitting room. Now.”

A soft acknowledgement came through, barely audible, and then silence again.

Dean watched him, then looked back at Boreas, still trying to reconcile the image in front of him with the man he’d met in Palatine. “You actually… keep him with you.”

Arion shrugged like it was obvious. “He’s been in my life since I was a child.”

Dean blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Dean’s gaze swept over Boreas again – thick fur, bright brown eyes, all that effortless power coiled under friendliness. “But he doesn’t look old.”

That finally pulled a real laugh out of Arion, low and warm, like it didn’t come out often enough to be wasted on small talk.

“He isn’t,” Arion said, still amused. “Not in the way you mean.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

Arion glanced at Boreas with quiet fondness that Dean found inconveniently soft. “Boreas has pheromones,” he said simply. “He’ll live many more years.”

Dean stared. “Your dog has pheromones.”

“Yes.”

Dean let out a slow breath, like he was trying to accept that sentence without losing dignity. “Of course he does. Because why would anything in your life be normal?”

Boreas chose that moment to stand, circle once like he was settling into a meeting, and then sit beside Dean’s legs, shoulder pressed close.

Dean’s voice went quieter despite himself. “So… How did you want to comfort me?”

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