Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina-Chapter 99: Loss of control

"I am," Arion said.

The lie was so beautiful Dean almost believed it.

Then the leash snapped.

The controlled, disciplined hunger in Arion’s scent vanished, replaced by a raw, possessive wave that smashed into Dean so hard that his knees buckled. The air in the room became heavy, thick with the unmistakable claim of a dominant who was done pretending. It was no longer just vetiver; it was the entire forest, dark, wild, and completely his.

Arion’s control discarded.

"You," Arion said, his voice a low, rough growl that vibrated through Dean’s bones, "are the most brutally honest creature I have ever met."

Before Dean could process the words, let alone formulate a reply, Arion moved. The hand at his waist tightened into an iron band, pulling him flush against his body. At the same time, Arion’s knee pushed between Dean’s legs with a dominant and deliberate force, parting his thighs and locking him in place. Dean gasped, his hands flying up to Arion’s chest to push, to steady himself, to do something.

Arion grabbed both of Dean’s wrists with one of his large hands, his grip unbreakable. He lifted them, shoving them up and pinning them against the door above Dean’s head. The position stretched Dean’s body, exposed his throat, arched his chest, and left him completely vulnerable to Arion.

The cage was back. This time, it was made of steel.

"I adore it," Arion snarled, his face buried in the crook of Dean’s neck, his lips brushing against the frantic pulse point there. "I adore every vicious, possessive, jealous word that comes out of your mouth. I’ve been waiting for it."

Dean’s mind was a blank wall of sensation. Arion’s knee pressed hard against his groin, the unyielding grip on his wrists, the overwhelming scent that clouded his thoughts and the hot breath on his skin. He was trapped, and his body was responding with a traitorous, desperate heat that made him want to arch into the restraint.

"Arion," he managed, his voice a choked, breathless thing.

"Say it again," Arion commanded, his teeth grazing Dean’s throat, not quite biting, a promise of what was to come. "Tell me you’re mine."

Dean’s head fell back against the door with a soft thud. He couldn’t think. He could only feel. "I’m yours," he whispered, his words ripped away by the sheer force of Arion’s will.

The growl that echoed in Arion’s chest was pure triumph. He lifted his head, his eyes blazing with a dark glow that was both threatening and enticing. He looked at Dean’s mouth, and the last of his patience evaporated.

He kissed him.

It was a brutal, deep, punishing kiss designed to erase every other mouth Dean had ever imagined and every other touch he had ever desired. Arion’s tongue swept in, capturing, possessing, and demanding a response Dean could not deny. He devoured him, tightening his grip on Dean’s wrists and pressing his knee up in a slow, deliberate grind that blurred Dean’s vision.

Dean moaned into his mouth, his voice helpless and broken. It was the moan he had threatened, the moan Arion desired, but it was far from a game. It was the sound of a dam breaking, of every defense he had ever built being washed away in a flood of want. He strained against the hand that held his wrists; he needed to touch, to ground himself in the overwhelming storm of Arion’s possession.

Arion finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against Dean’s. They were both panting, the air between them thick with the scent of their combined pheromones, a storm of vetiver and warm omega lemon mint.

Dean’s lungs burned.

Not from fear. Not even from the kiss, though that had left his thoughts in ruins.

From the fact that Arion’s entire body felt like a live wire wrapped around him, and Dean - traitorous, honest Dean - wanted to lean into it.

Wanting was not the problem.

The problem was that wanting and now were not the same thing.

Dean dragged in a breath, found what was left of his spine, and turned his face just enough that Arion’s mouth slid from his lips to the corner of his jaw.

"Stop," Dean said, breathless but clear.

Arion froze.

The change was immediate.

The hand on Dean’s wrists loosened first, then released entirely. His knee withdrew. The pressure at Dean’s waist remained for one heartbeat more, just enough to steady him rather than pin him, then that too softened.

Arion pulled back enough to search Dean’s face, eyes still dark with want, chest rising hard, scent storming the room, and then forcing itself into control by sheer will.

"Did I hurt you?" Arion asked, voice rough.

Dean swallowed, pulse still hammering. "No."

Arion held still, waiting.

Dean let his wrists drop and flexed his fingers once, grounding himself against the door. His whole body felt overheated, humming, furious with him for having standards at a time like this.

He looked at Arion - at the bitten lip, the blown pupils, the restraint dragging itself back into place one iron link at a time - and almost laughed from the absurdity of it.

"Yes, I have feelings for you," Dean said, still breathing too fast. "Yes, I just said half the humiliating things in my soul out loud." He lifted a brow, pointing despite the flush in his face. "That does not mean I want to go from treaty to confession to being devoured against a door in one morning."

For one dangerous second, Arion looked like he might apologize.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Don’t you dare."

That stopped him.

Arion’s mouth twitched.

Dean pushed off the door, only enough to stand properly, though he didn’t move far. "You can date me first."

Arion blinked once, as if the concept had short-circuited him more effectively than any pheromone surge.

Dean, encouraged by the confusion, continued with growing indignation. "Like a normal person. Or as close to normal as you can manage. We have the engagement celebration in two days. In Alamina. In public. In clothes. With witnesses."

Arion’s expression shifted.

It started as a flicker at the corner of his mouth.

Then it broke.

He laughed - low, warm, surprised out of him - roughened by arousal and relief and something so openly delighted that Dean felt his face heat all over again on principle.

"Oh, now you laugh," Dean muttered. "Excellent. I’m glad my boundaries are entertaining."

Arion shook his head once, still laughing under his breath. "They’re not entertaining."

Dean folded his arms. "Then why are you smiling like that?"

"Because," Arion said, and there was still laughter in his voice, still too much warmth, "you just stopped me from losing my mind and then ordered me to court you properly before the engagement feast."

Dean glared. "Yes."

Arion looked at him like he was catastrophically fond already.

"That is," Arion said softly, "the most you thing you’ve said all morning."

Dean opened his mouth to object, then shut it again because, unfortunately, that sounded correct.

Arion exhaled, the last edge of feral hunger easing out of his posture by degrees. Then, with a soft, unceremonious thud that made Dean’s breath catch for a completely different reason, he let his forehead, and then the side of his head, fall against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean went still.

Arion’s hands didn’t trap him this time. They settled at Dean’s waist and side, heavy and warm, less a restraint than a deliberate act of not reaching for more.

His voice, when it came, was muffled slightly by Dean’s shoulder and threaded with rueful amusement.

"If it were my choice," Arion said, "I would drag you to a priest right now."

Dean stared at the wall over Arion’s shoulder, because looking down at him would be a mistake.

"I know," Dean said dryly, though his hand had already come up of its own accord to rest at the back of Arion’s neck.

Arion made a low sound and leaned into the touch with shameless honesty.

Dean’s fingers tightened once in his hair.

"But it is not only your choice," Dean said, quieter now. "That’s the point."

Arion nodded against his shoulder. "I know."

Dean looked down then, finally, and found Arion watching him from too close, all that dangerous intensity banked into something cooler.

"Date me," Dean repeated, because he wanted the words on record.

Arion’s mouth curved. "I am trying."

Dean lifted a brow. "Cornering me by a door and almost flooding my wing with pheromones is not a date."

Arion considered that with offensive seriousness. "It was a poor opening attempt."

Dean made a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. "You think?"