Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina-Chapter 186: Help

"I need your help."

Dean’s brain short-circuited for a full minute. He tried to think about maybe duties as the fiancé of the Crown Prince, but nothing clicked.

Arion’s mouth moved faintly, which in another context might have been amusement, and here it was simply the expression of a man watching Dean reach entirely the wrong conclusion at impressive speed.

"I beg your finest pardon?!" Dean yelled. "Why? And why does it sound bad for my mental health?"

"Because," Arion said, "you hear the phrase ’I need your help’ and assume I’m about to make you attend something ceremonial."

Dean stared at him. "That is because you are a crown prince and this palace is eighty percent ceremonial ambuscade by volume."

"That estimate is too high."

"It is conservative."

Arion ignored this. "No ceremony. No public appearance. No diplomatic spouse duties. No luncheon. No dinner. No smiling at idiots."

That stopped Dean.

Not fully.

Enough to redirect him.

His suspicion shifted from social horror to operational concern, which Arion believed was the more useful version.

"Then why," Dean asked more carefully, "am I in your office with my academic file open on your desk like evidence in a corruption trial?"

"Because your file contains the most recent measured data on your neutralization radius, your recovery time, and your dominant response stability."

Dean blinked.

Then blinked again.

"You weaponized my university records."

"I weaponized the information gathered after your fight with Nero." Arion took the report in his hand. "Very new information that your parents, the Emperor Sirius and Palatine, neglected to mention."

Dean stared at him.

That phrasing landed in layers.

First the offense.

Then the implication.

Then the much worse realization finished unfolding across Dean’s face, and with it came something Arion had not expected to see there.

Shame.

Small. Real. Immediate.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, fingers catching briefly on the collar and the mark beneath it as though the contact might help him think faster or at least survive the next ten seconds with some dignity.

"Actually..." he said.

Arion’s eyes narrowed.

Dean looked at the report, not at him. "They don’t know."

The room went still.

"What?"

Dean winced at the volume, then had the self-preservation to answer quickly. "The only one who knows is Nero. No adults know. They just know that I can use anything as ammunition."

Arion stared at him.

For one clean second he did not understand the sentence, which was rare enough to be insulting.

Then he did.

And the understanding was so offensive it almost circled back into admiration before settling, properly, into fury.

"No adults," he repeated.

Dean’s hand was still at his nape. "Yes."

"No one in Palatine."

"No."

"No one in Saha."

"No."

"No one thought to mention that you can nullify an enigma’s pheromones at close range."

Dean’s mouth tightened. "Not exactly."

Arion stepped closer. "Dean."

That tone usually made ministers reconsider their life choices.

Dean only looked more embarrassed, which somehow made the whole thing worse.

"I didn’t know it would work like that," he said. "Not fully. We figured it out during training."

"We."

"Nero and I."

Arion closed his eyes for one second.

Of course.

Of course the empire’s most strategically useful biological detail had been discovered not in a controlled medical study, not in a properly supervised dominant-response evaluation, but by Dean and Nero beating each other into walls until pattern recognition happened.

When he opened his eyes again, Dean was watching him with all the caution of a man who knew very well this explanation was not improving the situation.

"You discovered a major dominant interaction anomaly," Arion said, very evenly, "in a private fight with my cousin."

Dean lifted one shoulder weakly. "When you phrase it like that, it sounds irresponsible."

"It was irresponsible."

"It was also informative."

Arion laughed once.

There was no humor in it.

Dean’s hand dropped from his neck. "I’m aware this is not ideal."

"No," Arion said, "you are aware this is catastrophic."

Dean looked offended. "That feels excessive."

"You are standing in my office telling me that a capability relevant to contamination response, dominant combat, and half the operational doctrine near the Capital has apparently existed in undocumented form because you and Nero never thought to mention it to a single qualified adult."

Dean considered that.

Then, with visible reluctance, said, "All right. That version does sound bad."

Arion stared at him.

Dean had the decency to look a little miserable about it now, which was the only reason Arion did not start pacing again. The collar at Dean’s throat caught the light when he shifted, and the brief, unconscious touch to the mark had already done its damage to Arion’s temper in a different direction.

Not now.

Focus.

"No adults know," Arion repeated, reshaping the conversation so that it did not become overly personal. "How is that possible?"

Dean exhaled once through his nose. "Because no one was measuring for that. They were measuring telekinetic control, response speed, and the usual dominant interactions. And because Nero..." He hesitated.

Arion’s eyes narrowed further. "Because, Nero, what?"

Dean looked away for a second, which was answer enough to be infuriating.

"The thing is..." He rubbed once at the back of his neck again, then visibly thought better of touching the collar too much under Arion’s stare. "I discovered I could do it because Nero was literally mopping the floor with me, and I hated his smug arrogance about the fact that nobody our age could beat him. So the skill appeared and... I could beat him for once." He made a vague, deeply unhelpful gesture with one hand. "Neither of us hid it for malicious reasons."

Arion stared at him.

That explanation was so appalling in its sincerity that for one dangerous second he could not decide whether to be furious, impressed, or offended on behalf of every medical and military department in two kingdoms.

"You discovered a strategically significant dominant interaction ability," he said at last, very evenly, "because you were losing an argument physically."

Dean winced. "When you phrase it like that, it sounds stupid."

"It was stupid."

"It was also effective."

"That is not a moral defense."

"No," Dean muttered. "I’m noticing that keeps coming up today."

Arion kept looking at him.

Dean, perhaps realizing that he had not yet reached the bottom of this particular hole, sighed and added, "At first it just felt like Nero’s pressure stopped working properly when I got close enough and angry enough. We thought it was a fluke. Then it happened again. Then I threw him into a wall. At that point, the scientific process became less formal."

Arion closed his eyes for one second.

When he opened them again, Dean was watching him with the expression of a man dimly aware he had made everything worse and not yet decided whether apology or stubbornness had better survival odds.

"Why," Arion asked, quieter now, "didn’t you tell me?"