Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina-Chapter 115: Conscience [Win-Win]

Dean returned to his suite the way men returned to crime scenes: cautiously, irritated, and with the distinct sense that if he looked too closely at anything, it would start talking.

The corridor outside his door was still too clean. The guards nodded like nothing had happened, like Dean hadn’t recently turned the building’s ventilation into a desperate prayer and Arion into a feral monument at his feet. Someone - probably one of Seven’s men - had even replaced the scent-neutralizer canister by the panel.

Dean keyed in his code and stepped inside.

His suite smelled like him again - clean linen, bitter coffee, the faint sterilized bite of electronics - and not like vetiver. Not like a crown prince’s satisfaction settling into fabric. Not like the memory of being dragged into Arion’s gravity and repeatedly deciding to stay.

He shut the door and leaned his forehead against it for half a second, breathing like a man who had just survived himself.

Then he remembered.

Sebastian.

Zion.

Nero.

Dean straightened so fast it almost hurt.

Later tonight, Sebastian was landing with Zion - Sirius’s son, Dean’s cousin, and, unfortunately, the kind of person who could walk into a room and sniff out scandal like it was a hobby. Tomorrow Nero arrived, which meant the palace would enter its favorite genre: public family chaos with diplomatic consequences.

Dean’s suite was about to become a transit station for disaster.

He took two steps toward the sitting area, already mentally listing the things that would need to happen before the evening: fresh sheets, scent blockers, any object that looked like it had been touched by a crown prince removed from visible surfaces and thrown into the sun, and a complete restructuring of his face.

Because his face...

"Don’t even try," a voice said.

Dean stopped.

Sylvia was in the sitting room like a moral verdict. Upright in an armchair with a tablet in hand and the expression of a woman who had seen too much of this family’s nonsense to be impressed by new variations.

She looked up.

Her gaze traveled over him slowly, clinically, like she was reading a report.

Hair: a mess he’d failed to tame.

Collar: slightly off, as if he’d dressed with one hand.

Mouth: still too pink.

Neck: definitely suspicious, even if he’d avoided anything that would show.

Posture: the posture of a man who had been thoroughly handled without the technical courtesy of finishing the job.

Sylvia paused.

Then she said, flat as a guillotine, "You look like you almost had sex."

Dean’s eyes snapped shut.

He still didn’t deny it. Denial implied debate. Debate implied details. Details implied Sylvia was asking follow-up questions like she was a prosecutor with free time.

Instead, he exhaled once and opened his eyes like a man who had decided to die with dignity.

"I don’t," he said.

Sylvia’s stare didn’t move. "Dean."

"I look tired."

"You look like you were in the middle of making a catastrophic decision and then someone rang a bell," Sylvia replied. "You also smell like you were near a crown prince who forgot the concept of restraint."

Dean’s jaw ticked. "We did not—"

Sylvia lifted a finger, silencing him without raising her voice. "I don’t care what you did or didn’t do. I care what you look like you did."

Dean stared at her, offended on principle.

Sylvia continued, unbothered. "Your mouth is still too pink."

Dean’s expression went blank with fury. "That’s... my mouth."

"It’s also evidence," Sylvia said, tapping her tablet once as if filing it under national incidents.

Dean turned toward the bar cart like it might offer asylum. He poured himself water, drank it like it was a sedative, and tried to reassemble his dignity with his bare hands.

Sylvia watched him with the calm of a woman who would absolutely walk into a war zone, take one look at the bodies, and ask who had tracked mud on the carpet.

Dean set the glass down carefully. "This family is insane."

Sylvia hummed. Not disagreement. Just... confirmation.

"Arion is insane," Dean added. "Sebastian is going to arrive and immediately attempt homicide. Zion is going to treat it like theater. Nero is going to land tomorrow and declare war on everyone’s privacy."

Sylvia’s eyes lifted, faintly amused. "You forgot yourself."

Dean blinked. "Excuse me?"

Sylvia leaned back, tablet balanced on her knee. "You’re listing the chaos like you’re the only normal person in this entire bloodline."

Dean’s lips parted, then closed.

Sylvia’s mouth twitched. "That’s adorable."

"I am the only normal one," Dean said, because it was either that or collapse.

Sylvia looked him over again, like she was measuring him for a coffin.

"Normal men," Sylvia said, "do not weaponize their own pheromone tolerance to pin a crown prince’s rut back into his body."

Dean’s face flashed hot. "That was... medical."

"Normal men," she continued smoothly, "do not bite royalty like it’s a love language."

Dean stiffened. "I bit him because he deserved it. It’s only his hand."

Sylvia nodded, as if that proved her point rather than salvaged his, and politely omitted to tell Dean that she was talking about the bit lip, not a new bite entirely.

"And normal men," Sylvia finished, voice mild and merciless, "do not walk back into their suite smelling like victory and panic and then immediately start planning how to erase all evidence before their relatives arrive."

Dean glared at her. "That’s called being responsible."

Sylvia’s eyes gleamed. "That’s called being chaotic with a clipboard."

Dean stared at her.

Sylvia held his gaze, utterly serene.

And then, as if she couldn’t help herself, she added, "Also - Arion is the one with bite marks. Which means the moment he shows up anywhere with his hand wrapped or his sleeve pulled down, Zion will notice, Nero will notice, and Sebastian will notice, and then we’ll all die."

Dean’s stomach dropped.

Sylvia smiled like she’d just lit a match and tossed it over her shoulder.

"Go pack a bag," she said. "Not for your dignity. That’s already dead. For your survival."

Dean’s voice came out tight. "Why are you here?"

"Because," she said simply, "you’re going to try to handle this alone, and you’re going to fail. And then you’ll call it ’fine’ and pretend you’re not drowning."

Dean swallowed, anger and something reluctant twisting together in his chest.

Sylvia tilted her head. "Now," she said, brisk again, "do you want to practice your lie for tonight, or do you want to tell Sebastian the truth and watch him attempt regicide in the arrivals hall?"

Dean stared at her for a long beat.

Then he turned toward his bedroom, defeated, and muttered, "I hate you."

Sylvia’s voice followed him, pleasant as a knife. "No, you don’t. You love me. I’m the only thing standing between you and your own instincts."

Dean paused at his bedroom door.

He didn’t look back, because if he did, he’d smile and she’d win.

Instead, he said, very carefully, "You are suspiciously calm today."