Chapter 77: Chapter 77: Even asleep

Arion didn’t dignify that with a response.

Minerva’s gaze slid down to Boreas. “And Boreas decided to become a chest plate.”

Boreas cracked one eye open at the sound of his name, assessed Minerva like she was a familiar threat, and then placed his head more firmly under Dean’s chin with the slow, possessive deliberation of someone making a statement.

Minerva made a soft sound of approval. “Good boy.”

Arion finally lifted his eyes to her. “What do you need signed?”

Minerva held the folder out, but her attention stayed on Dean, not on the paperwork. “It’s a shipment authorization,” she said, “and a scheduling adjustment for the morning briefing.”

Arion’s thumb flicked across the tablet with practiced ease, bringing up the signature protocol.

Minerva watched him for a moment, then added lightly, “You delayed your first meeting.”

Arion didn’t blink. “Yes.”

“Because Dean is asleep in your lap,” she said, like she was stating a weather report.

Arion’s grip around Dean’s waist tightened by a fraction. Not enough to wake him. Just enough to remind the world where Dean belonged.

“Because Dean needs sleep,” Arion corrected.

Minerva hummed, delighted. “Of course. Purely humanitarian.”

Arion signed without looking, the motion smooth, controlled, and effortless. He handed the folder back.

Minerva took it but didn’t move away.

Instead, she leaned slightly, eyes softening as she studied Dean’s face. Dean’s lashes were still, his mouth relaxed, the usual tension in his expression finally gone. He looked younger asleep, less guarded. Less like a person who’d learned to be careful with his feelings because the wrong person could weaponize them.

Minerva straightened, her teasing gentling into something else.

“He’s comfortable,” she said quietly, more observation than question.

Arion didn’t speak at first. His gaze dropped to Dean and stayed there.

“Yes,” he said, and the word sounded like possession wrapped in something almost reverent. “He is.”

Minerva’s eyes flicked back to Arion – sharp again, because she couldn’t help herself.

“You’re going to pretend this is accidental,” she said.

Arion’s gaze returned to her, unamused. “It’s early.”

“It’s always early when you’re involved,” Minerva replied sweetly. “You don’t sleep enough to qualify for normal hours.”

“Don’t make me postpone the lunch too.” Arion said, knowing that his family was eager to meet the person Arion accepted as a mate.

Minerva’s eyes widened a fraction, the way they did when she’d just been handed a weapon and was deciding how lovingly to use it.

“Oh?” she murmured. “Postpone the lunch?”

Arion didn’t look away from her. He kept his voice low, flat, and absolutely too calm for a man making threats over a meal. “If you want to keep talking, I can.”

Minerva glanced down at Dean again – sleeping warm and boneless in Arion’s lap, Boreas still draped across him like a living seal – and then back at Arion with a slow, delighted smile.

“You’re bluffing,” she said.

Arion’s mouth twitched. “Try me.”

Minerva leaned in, whisper-quiet on purpose, like she was conspiring with the furniture. “You realize you’ve just said, ’don’t make me postpone lunch’ while actively postponing lunch.”

“I haven’t postponed anything yet,” Arion said.

Minerva’s brows lifted. “Arion. The staff has been resetting the dining room for the last hour.”

Arion’s gaze flicked once toward the tablet – an absent, dismissive glance – and returned to her. “They can reset it for another hour.”

Minerva’s smile sharpened. “You’re going to give Otto grey hair.”

“Otto,” Arion started, then stopped himself. His jaw tightened slightly. “My father already has grey hair.”

“More grey hair,” Minerva corrected, pleased with herself.

Arion’s eyes narrowed. “Minerva.”

Minerva held up the folder like a shield. “Yes?”

Arion’s tone turned quieter, more pointed. “Go away.”

Minerva’s smile softened into something smug and fond at the same time, which was unfair. “I was going to,” she said. “Until you threatened lunch like it was an act of war.”

“It is an act of war,” Arion replied calmly. “Against my patience.”

Minerva made a thoughtful sound, then looked down at Dean again. “You know,” she said, “for someone who swears Alamina doesn’t do drama, you are staging a very intimate scandal.”

Arion didn’t even blink. “It’s not staged.”

Minerva’s eyes glittered. “Oh, so it’s genuine. That’s worse.”

Arion shifted his hand slightly at Dean’s waist, a subtle adjustment that tightened the hold without waking him. The movement was careful – possessive, yes, but also protective, like Arion was securing something he didn’t intend to lose.

Minerva watched that hand, then lifted her gaze to Arion’s face with an expression that said she knew exactly what she was looking at.

“You’re going to pretend it’s for his health,” she murmured.

“It is for his health,” Arion said, deadpan.

Minerva’s brows rose. “And your happiness?”

Arion’s stare held hers. “Also his health.”

Minerva let out a soft laugh, the kind she kept for private moments. “You’re impossible.”

Arion’s eyes warmed faintly. “You raised me.”

“I did not,” Minerva replied immediately. “I merely survived you.”

Boreas’s tail thumped once, as if agreeing.

Minerva sighed, dramatic enough for the palace to approve, and adjusted the folder against her side. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll let the family know you’re…”

“Busy,” Arion supplied.

Minerva’s smile went razor sharp again. “Breathing.”

Arion’s gaze slid toward the door. “Minerva.”

She turned as if to leave – then paused, because she couldn’t help herself and because the universe loved timing.

Dean made a small sound in his sleep. A soft, disgruntled noise, like his body had briefly remembered responsibility and resented it.

Arion’s eyes dropped instantly, the shift in attention so immediate it bordered on instinct.

Dean blinked slowly, lashes fluttering. His eyes opened halfway – purple, unfocused, heavy with sleep – and he stared at Minerva like his brain was trying to identify whether she was real or a hallucination produced by palace air.

Minerva froze mid-step, delighted.

Dean’s gaze slid, sluggishly, to Arion.

Then his brows knit with the vague moral outrage of someone half awake and still principled.

“You,” Dean rasped, voice thick and accusing. “You have… no right…”

Arion didn’t move. “To what?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed with great effort. “Delay the lunch.”

Minerva pressed a fist to her mouth to stop herself from laughing out loud.

Arion stared at Dean. “I didn’t…”

Dean lifted one hand weakly, like he was issuing a royal decree from the battlefield of his own exhaustion. “Yes. You did.”

Arion’s mouth opened.

Dean dropped his hand back onto Arion’s chest as if it belonged there, then closed his eyes again immediately, as if the entire complaint had been filed and could now be ignored by the universe.

He took one breath. Two. And fell right back asleep.

Boreas resettled on Dean’s chest with a satisfied huff, tail thumping once, slow and pleased, as if Dean had just reinforced the correct hierarchy.

Arion stared down at Dean for a long second, expression caught between disbelief and something far softer.

Minerva, meanwhile, had lost the fight against her amusement. She leaned against the doorframe, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Arion finally lifted his eyes to her, unimpressed. “Don’t.”

Minerva wiped at the corner of her eye with one finger, still smiling. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking loudly,” Arion said.

Minerva’s grin widened. “He just scolded you in his sleep.”

Arion’s voice turned dangerously calm. “He is not asleep.”

Minerva looked down at Dean’s slack face and Boreas’s smug sprawl. Then she looked back at Arion.

“He is unconscious,” she corrected sweetly. “And you are being managed.”

Arion’s jaw tightened. “Go.”

Minerva finally straightened, smoothing her robe like she’d been perfectly composed the entire time. “Fine,” she said, still smiling. “I’ll inform Otto and the others that lunch will be slightly delayed.”

Arion’s gaze sharpened. “Minerva.”

She lifted both hands innocently. “What? I’m being accurate.”

Arion exhaled once, controlled. “Tell them it’s my fault.”

Minerva’s smile gentled, just a fraction. “Oh, I will,” she promised. “With great enthusiasm.”

She slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.

Arion remained where he was, Dean asleep in his lap, Boreas acting as a furry paperweight, the tablet still open in his hand – reports waiting, the palace moving, the day trying to start without permission.

Arion looked down at Dean again.

Then, very carefully, he adjusted the blanket higher over him, like the world could wait its turn.

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