Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina-Chapter 59: No drama.

The question left Dean’s mouth and didn’t dissolve into the plane’s hum the way smaller questions did. It stayed. Sharp. Heavy. Like it had the right to demand a real answer.

Arion’s gaze held his for a moment, and the look made Dean feel like he was being evaluated for structural integrity.

Dean hated that feeling.

He also hated that he needed it.

"I’m not asking you to sell me the engagement," Dean said quietly, before Arion could begin. "I’m not... having second thoughts about the contract."

Arion let out a long breath, the kind that sounded like he’d been holding himself back for hours. "I’m not implying that," he said. "I’m... taking a little more time to phrase it in a way that won’t hurt you again."

Dean’s brow lifted, half amused, half curious. "So you learned to be careful with your words?"

Arion’s mouth twitched. "If you’re asking whether I’ve stopped thinking you’re mine," he said calmly, "no. I’m choosing my words. The meaning is still there."

Dean laughed, and for a second the cabin light caught his purple eyes and made them look almost luminous, like something royal that had been misplaced into a nineteen-year-old’s face.

"You’re such an asshole," Dean said, still laughing. "Good thing I like your face."

Arion’s gaze didn’t waver. "You like more than that."

Dean’s smile faltered just a fraction, not because he disagreed, but because Arion said things like that like they were inevitable, and Dean had a complicated relationship with inevitability.

He scoffed to cover it. "Don’t get ahead of yourself."

Arion leaned back, unbothered. "I’m not," he said. "I’m being accurate."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes. I get it. Now what should I brace for? Family drama? Sibling rivalry? Assassins?"

Arion raised a brow, the pale claw scar cutting through the expression and making the amusement look sharper than it probably was. "Probably some drama," he said. "Even in Alamina there are bad apples."

Dean’s eyes narrowed. "That is not reassuring."

"It isn’t meant to be," Arion replied, perfectly calm. "It’s meant to be accurate."

Dean huffed. "So which is it? Drama, rivalry, assassins?"

Arion’s gaze held his, his golden eye unblinking. "Yes," he said simply.

Dean stared. "That’s—"

"A complete answer," Arion finished, unbothered.

Dean let out a short laugh, then rubbed a hand over his face. "God."

Arion’s mouth twitched. "Until we marry, there won’t be much for you to do aside from tolerating your fiancé," he continued, "and continuing your life as an undergrad student."

Dean’s brow lifted. "Oh, that’s it? Just... study and tolerate you. Easy."

Arion’s eyes warmed faintly. "And your feral friend."

Dean blinked. "My—"

Arion didn’t even hesitate. "Sylvia."

Dean’s mouth opened and closed once. "She is not—"

"She is," Arion said matter-of-factly, like he was naming a weather pattern. "She’s bubbly, charming, and one wrong tone away from biting someone on principle."

Dean’s ears warmed. "She doesn’t bite."

Arion’s brow rose. "Not with her teeth, and even then, I’m not entirely confident she wouldn’t do it just for the chaos."

Dean made a sound between a laugh and a groan. "Fine. She definitely would, now that she knows she has political immunity."

He shifted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position, and realized, annoyingly, that the conversation had drifted into something heavier than he’d wanted. The plane felt too small for politics, crowns, and survival strategies. He wanted something human. Something stupid. Something that didn’t make his stomach tighten.

"Let’s get back to knowing you," Dean said, voice casual on purpose. "Not the Crown Prince, nor the dominant alpha."

Arion hummed as he unbuttoned his military coat, shrugging it looser like he was shedding a layer of official weight. "What do you want to know?"

Dean didn’t even pretend to think.

"How many lovers have you had?"

Arion paused mid-motion.

Arion didn’t look shocked by the question, but Dean’s timing was so aggressive that it almost elicited a reaction from him.

His gaze slid to Dean, steady and intent again, except now the intent felt... different. Less statecraft. More predator being handed a toy and deciding whether to play nice.

"Is this," Arion asked calmly, "you getting to know me?"

Dean lifted his brows. "It’s me verifying I’m not marrying into a personal disaster."

Arion’s mouth twitched, faintly amused. "You already are."

Dean’s eyes narrowed. "Answer."

Arion finished unbuttoning the coat, folded it with military neatness, and set it across his lap like he had all the time in the world.

"Define lovers," he said.

Dean blinked. "That’s - no. Don’t lawyer your way out of this."

"I’m not," Arion replied, maddeningly calm. "I’m clarifying. Alamina doesn’t do drama, remember? Precision prevents unnecessary bloodshed."

Dean scoffed. "We’re on a plane."

"Unnecessary turbulence," Arion corrected, without missing a beat.

Dean stared at him, then laughed under his breath because it was either laugh or throw a pillow at his face.

"Fine," Dean said. "People you slept with."

Arion’s gaze held his for a long moment. Then, with infuriating honesty...

"Not many," he said.

Dean’s brows lifted. "That’s a suspiciously broad answer," he said, voice light but his eyes sharp. "Be specific. A number. Like you like to remind me."

A beat passed. The jet’s steady, muted roar filled the pause, softer than a commercial plane, more intimate somehow, like the sound belonged to them alone. Their private sitting area was dim-lit and calm, the kind of calm money bought on purpose: wide seats facing each other, a low table, a small bar that looked untouched, and a hallway disappearing toward two bedrooms Dean was actively refusing to think about.

Arion didn’t look away. He didn’t fidget. He just watched Dean as if Dean had handed him a knife and asked him to demonstrate trust.

"You want a number," Arion said.

"Yes," Dean replied immediately. "I want a number, Crown Prince. No loopholes. No definitions. No speeches about how Alamina doesn’t do drama."

Arion’s mouth twitched faintly, like Dean’s stubbornness was either entertaining or inevitable. "Fine."

Dean waited, chin lifted, ready to pounce on anything that sounded like evasion.

"Eight."