Chapter 95: Chapter 95: Sylvia

Sylvia was pacing like a caged animal inside Dean’s wing in the palace of Alamina.

Not because she was lost. Sylvia didn’t get lost. She prowled. She claimed corridors with sheer attitude, boots quiet against polished floor, and hair pinned back like she had better things to do than exist politely.

She had come to see the dog.

She wanted to greet Boreas and maybe, maybe, to steal him.

Boreas was, in her professional opinion, the only creature in this palace with the correct priorities.

She turned the corner with purpose, already rehearsing the bribe in her mind—some dried meat she brough on her way to the palace, a scratch behind the ears, the kind of tone that said, “You could have a better life with me, you know—”

—and nearly walked straight into the Crown Prince.

Arion appeared like a problem manifesting.

He was dressed like sin incarnate, flanked by his usual team, already doing… whatever crown princes were supposed to do when they weren’t actively terrifying the country. Sylvia had never bothered to ask, and Dean was fortunate enough that his parents had left that part out of his education until he was at least twenty.

She’d meant to ignore him.

Take the parallel corridor, keep her mission pure, and never speak to royalty unless it is necessary for national survival.

But something caught her eye.

A bitten lip.

Not a split from a fight. Not the kind of careless injury you get from cold weather or impatience.

Sylvia had stared for exactly one second too long.

Arion’s gaze had flicked to her, lazy and sharp at once, and Sylvia, despite herself, had filed the image away as evidence.

And now, half an hour later in Dean’s wing, she was pacing like a caged animal, trying to decide which possibility was worse.

Either Dean had returned to normal and gotten frisky with Arion—

—or Arion was cheating.

Neither option sat well with her.

One implied Dean had finally chosen chaos on purpose.

The other implied Arion was suicidal.

Sylvia stopped mid-step and stared at the wall like it might confess.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself. “Let’s be rational.”

Rationally, Arion cheating made no sense. Not because men weren’t idiotic, but because Arion was not the kind of idiot who gambled with an empire’s stability, and Dean Fitzgeralt’s existence had become a stabilizing factor the palace was quietly treating like a strategic resource. Arion did not get to sabotage that without consequences.

Also, Sylvia had seen Arion look at Dean.

Once. It had been enough.

That was the look of a man that screamed ’mine’ with all his might.

So, rationally, it was the first option.

Dean had gotten frisky.

Dean, who had spent years cultivating a reputation for being composed and untouchable and just polite enough to make everyone forget he had teeth.

Dean, who now apparently had teeth in a very literal sense.

Sylvia’s mouth twitched, equal parts delighted and horrified.

She resumed pacing.

“Why are you pacing like some evil character planning the downfall of the world?” Dean asked, voice dry, as he emerged from the bathroom after a long bath, hair damp, sleeves pushed up, looking infuriatingly calm for a man who had apparently bitten royalty and then gone to soak like it was self-care.

Sylvia stopped mid-step and turned on him.

“You take baths,” she said, as if it was evidence. “Of course you do.”

Dean blinked once. “What the heck is wrong with you today?”

“It’s avoidance,” Sylvia corrected.

Dean’s mouth twitched. “You’re in my wing.”

“I was here for the dog,” Sylvia said, then pointed at him like a prosecutor who had just found the murder weapon. “And then I saw the prince with a bitten lip.”

Dean sighed with the patience of a man who had survived emperors and still found this more exhausting. “Sylvia—”

“No,” Sylvia cut in, voice bright with accusation. “Answer.”

Dean leaned against the doorframe, damp hair dripping slowly at his temples, posture loose in the way people were loose when they didn’t feel threatened. The audacity of it made Sylvia’s eye twitch.

Sylvia crossed her arms. “Did you get frisky with the prince?”

Dean stared at her for a beat that was entirely too long.

Then he said, with smooth, infuriating calm, “Define frisky.”

Sylvia made a sound of pure suffering. “Oh my god.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed faintly, amusement flickering. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m investigating,” Sylvia snapped. “Because if you didn’t do it, then he did it with someone else, and if he did it with someone else, then I have to decide whether to commit treason or just murder him socially.”

Dean’s brows lifted. “That escalated quickly.”

“Like your determination to tame the prince?” Sylvia shot back.

“But I am,” Dean said, and the grin that followed was bright enough to be illegal.

Sylvia stared at him.

Not because she didn’t believe him; she did, and that was, frankly, terrifying.

“You’re smiling,” she said slowly, pointing at his face like she’d caught him committing a crime. “You’re actually smiling like a man who thinks this is fun.”

Dean’s grin only widened, shamelessly. “It is fun.”

Sylvia made a sound that was half choke and half prayer. “Dean Fitzgeralt, you are going to get us all executed.”

Dean shrugged with exaggerated innocence, damp hair dripping at his temples. “Executed with what? Domesticity.”

Sylvia’s eyes narrowed. “That is not a weapon I’m comfortable with.”

Dean’s gaze flicked up, amused. “You should be. It’s the only thing that works on him.”

Sylvia stared, then looked toward the corridor as if she expected Arion to appear on cue and confirm it by attaching himself to Dean’s throat again.

“So you embraced your chaotic self again,” she said at last, with the tired resignation of someone watching a friend walk willingly into a storm. She sighed. “Good for you.”

Dean’s grin turned sly. “You say that like it’s a moral failing.”

“It is,” Sylvia replied calmly. “But it’s yours, and you’ve clearly decided to commit to it.”

Dean’s mouth twitched like he wanted to protest and realized it would be pointless. “What do you want, Sylvia?”

Sylvia straightened, her expression returning to purpose. “I’m going to stay away from you and your fiancé,” she announced, very firmly, like it was a health decision. “I’m here for the dog.”

Dean blinked once. “You’re actually here for Boreas.”

“Yes,” Sylvia said, instantly serious. “You told me yesterday on the phone that Arion has a war dog with opinions, and I’ve been thinking about it all night.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “That’s weird.”

Sylvia’s eyes narrowed right back. “It’s not weird. It’s priorities.”

Dean exhaled through his nose. “He’s not my dog.”

Sylvia waved a hand, dismissive. “Details.”

Dean’s tone went blandly informative, the way he spoke when he was trying to prevent Sylvia from committing a crime. “Boreas is with his owner.”

Sylvia paused. “God damn it.” Then with all her might. “Dress up. You distract the owner, and I take the dog.”

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