Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina-Chapter 88: Sleep

"Arion, wake up."

There was no answer.

Not a flicker of lashes. Not a tightening of awareness behind closed eyes. If anything, the prince appeared to fall deeper into sleep as Dean’s voice broke the silence, as if the sound confirmed rather than disturbed something.

Dean tried again to lift himself, bracing his palms against Arion’s chest.

Arion’s grip only tightened, a reflexive, unbreakable hold. Dean’s chest vibrated with a low growl of pure, territorial possession. It was the sound of a dominant claiming its anchor in a storm, a beast clinging to the only thing that could save it from drowning.

Dean’s own instincts screamed at him to fight, to struggle, to get away from the overwhelming dominance pinning him down. But beneath the panic, a cooler, calmer part of his mind took over.

This wasn’t an attack. It was a frantic, unconscious plea for safety.

Dean stopped struggling. He forced his tense muscles to relax, one by one. He let his body relax, melting against Arion’s chest rather than fighting it. He tilted his head slightly, giving Arion better access to his neck. Then he took a slow breath and let his pheromones flow in a soothing wave.

The effect was instantaneous.

Arion’s low growl faded into a deep, shuddering sigh. The crushing pressure of his arms eased, allowing Dean to breathe, but they did not let go. The frantic, panting breaths against his hair slowed, settling into the deep, even rhythm of true sleep.

Dean lay there, trapped and tangled, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against Arion’s ribs. He could feel the steady beat of Arion’s heart under his ear, a slow, powerful thrum that was gradually calming. Boreas, who had been watching the entire affair with the placid interest of a seasoned referee, now shifted closer, draping his heavy head across Dean’s legs with a soft whuff of approval.

Dean closed his eyes, the absurdity of the situation washing over him. He was being used as a human-shaped, pheromone-emitting security blanket by the Crown Prince of Alamina. He was, by all reasonable measures, in a ridiculous amount of trouble.

And still... he didn’t move.

He lay there long enough for the first rush of adrenaline to fade, leaving behind that strange, hollow silence that comes after panic when the body realizes there is no immediate threat. His palms were still planted on Arion’s chest, fingers splayed against warm skin through the thin fabric, and for a moment Dean simply listened, as if sound could teach him something his instincts refused to accept.

Arion’s heart was steadying.

It didn’t return to complete calm in the same way that it did for people who hadn’t spent their entire lives holding storms behind their ribs. It slowed gradually, one beat at a time, like a predator lowering its hackles only after it is certain the threat has passed.

Dean let another slow breath out, and with it, he let the pheromones remain.

He had released them with intention, but now the question was whether he would keep doing it. Whether he would pull back the moment Arion’s body loosened, the moment it became safe again to be Dean, careful, closed, and rational.

Dean didn’t pull back.

He kept the flow gentle and controlled, the kind of calm he could muster even when his mind was anything but calm. It was almost humiliating how effortlessly his body knew what to do when it came to caring for someone else.

Arion’s reaction was immediate enough to be frightening.

His shoulders, which had been subtly raised even in sleep, as if his body had been preparing to spring awake and fight, melted into the mattress. The muscles along his arms loosened further, turning that unbreakable hold into an embrace. His face shifted, a fraction of movement at the brow, the jaw unclenching as if something painful had finally been allowed to stop.

Dean felt it because he was pressed to him. Because he had nowhere to go but into the truth of what Arion’s body was doing.

The prince slept deeper.

—

Dean didn’t sleep.

He stayed suspended in that half-state between stillness and vigilance, where the body pretended to rest only because moving felt like it would break something fragile.

Arion had ended up draped over him the way a storm collapses after it’s spent itself. Dean had managed, inch by careful inch, to coax him into a position that didn’t cut off his own circulation, sliding an arm beneath Arion’s shoulders, letting the prince’s weight settle along his chest and stomach instead of straight across his ribs. Arion’s arms remained around him, still hugging, still keeping him, but no longer with that crushing desperation.

Now it was... comfortable.

Which was a problem in its own right.

Dean lay there staring into the dimness, one hand resting at Arion’s back, fingers occasionally moving through damp hair that had long since started to dry. He watched Arion’s face in the same way that you would watch something dangerous that had finally closed its eyes: beautiful, yes, but also powerful enough that beauty felt like a warning label.

Dark lashes. Strong cheekbones. A mouth that looked too soft for the things it said.

A man who could terrify a room by exhaling.

And right now, asleep, trusting Dean more than he trusted the world.

Dean’s pheromones remained low and steady, barely more than a quiet warmth in the air.

Arion moved a few hours later. His forehead nudged against Dean’s throat, and then his nose brushed the exposed skin there in a soft, searching nuzzle.

Dean went still.

Arion made a faint sound and pressed in again, breathing in at Dean’s neck as though he could drink calm straight out of him.

It tickled.

Dean’s throat tightened with a startled laugh he tried to swallow.

Arion nuzzled again, more insistently, mouth grazing skin without biting, just seeking the scent like a starving animal that had discovered food in its sleep.

Dean’s shoulders twitched, betraying him.

"Stop..." he whispered, voice strained, because the ticklish sensation shot straight through his restraint and turned it into something humiliating. "Arion..."

Arion’s eyes cracked open.

Gold. Sleep-darkened, unfocused at the edges, but still gold, still sharp enough to make Dean’s body remember what he was dealing with. The prince blinked once, slowly, as if the world had to come back into alignment around the fact that Dean was here.

Still here.

His gaze lingered on Dean’s face, then dipped to his throat like a creature following instinct more than thought.

Arion nuzzled again.

Dean jerked, letting out a quiet, helpless sound that was half laugh and half protest.

"That tickles," Dean hissed, mortified.

Arion’s lips curved, just barely. Not fully awake, not fully smug, but enough to show there was a mind behind the desire.

"Good," Arion murmured, voice rough with sleep. "Then you’re alive."

Dean stared at him.

"That’s your diagnostic method?"

Arion’s eyes were half-lidded again, and he breathed in at Dean’s neck with unmistakable satisfaction, the way a dominant does when the world finally smells right. His hand slid up Dean’s side with the arrogance of a man who had spent the night holding onto the edge and had decided Dean was the rope.

Dean tried to shift his head away to escape the tickle, but Arion followed, stubborn even in drowsiness, nose brushing skin again.

Dean’s laugh slipped out despite him.

Arion stilled for half a second, eyes opening a fraction wider as if the sound startled him more than any threat could have.

Then he exhaled, and his face pressed into Dean’s throat again, seeking more.

Dean’s fingers curled reflexively at Arion’s shoulder.

"You’re incredible," Dean whispered.