Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina-Chapter 139: Containment [Win-Win]

"You’re doing this on purpose," Arion said quietly.

Dean blinked slowly, lashes lowering in mock innocence. "Doing what."

Arion’s gaze flicked once to Dean’s mouth, then back up, jaw tightening. "Provoking me."

Dean’s smile widened. "Is it working?"

Arion didn’t answer.

Instead, he took a measured step closer, as if gravity ate distance. The air shifted. Dean’s body responded immediately, scent warming under the suppressant, pulse jumping like it had been waiting for permission.

Dean didn’t hide it.

He let Arion see the reaction.

He wanted Arion to see it.

Arion stopped close enough that Dean could feel the heat of him without being touched. Close enough that the room felt smaller just because Arion existed in it.

Dean tipped his chin up slightly, as if offering.

"Go on," Dean murmured. "Fix it."

Arion’s eyes darkened. "You’re in pre-heat."

Dean’s smile turned sharp. "And you’re in control." He raised a hand and placed it on Arion’s chest. "And very sexy while brooding."

Arion went very still, because it landed in exactly the wrong place: on restraint, on pride, on the part of him that wanted to fold Dean into his body and shut the world out until Dean stopped tasting like honey and disaster.

He caught Dean’s wrist gently. Just enough to stop the slow slide of Dean’s fingers from becoming an invitation Arion couldn’t refuse.

Dean blinked up at him, pleased. "Oh. Touch."

Arion’s jaw flexed once. "Dean."

Dean’s lashes lowered, shamelessly. "Yes?"

Arion inhaled slowly, then exhaled slower, like he was physically pushing instinct back down into its cage.

The suppressant was doing something, but only a fraction.

It had smoothed Dean’s edges enough to keep him from biting a duke in public. It had not stopped the heat from turning Dean into... this.

Bold. Honest. Sexually charged like a weapon.

And Arion, tragically, liked this version of Dean a little too much.

That was the problem.

Arion looked at Dean’s mouth. Looked away. Looked back again.

Then he made a decision.

"Come," Arion said.

Dean’s brows lifted. "Where?"

Arion’s voice stayed low. "Our suite."

Dean’s grin brightened like he’d won a prize. "So you are fixing it."

Arion didn’t answer. He simply took Dean’s hand - firm, controlled, and undeniably possessive - and turned it toward the door.

Dean followed without resistance, which was alarming for an entirely different reason.

The moment they stepped out into the corridor, the palace noise hit them again - muffled music, distant conversation, footsteps, and guards pretending not to see anything.

Arion’s posture didn’t change. He became crown prince again in a single breath: calm, composed, untouchable.

Dean, unfortunately, stayed Dean.

He walked beside Arion like he belonged there, smile soft and dangerous, eyes bright with suppressed heat that had decided Arion was its favorite target.

"You know," Dean murmured as they moved, voice low enough that only Arion would hear, "if you pull me away from the gala this early, people will start rumors."

Arion didn’t look at him. "Let them."

Dean hummed, delighted. "Possessive."

Arion’s voice was flat. "Practical."

Dean squeezed Arion’s hand like he was testing the grip. "You’re taking me home."

Arion kept walking. "Yes."

Dean’s grin widened. "To bed."

Arion’s jaw tightened. "To control."

Dean leaned slightly closer as they passed a pair of guards. The guards didn’t move. They definitely listened.

Dean whispered anyway, because Dean was a menace. "Control me, then."

Arion’s fingers tightened around Dean’s hand - not enough to hurt, just enough to communicate: behave.

Dean took it as encouragement.

"Are you going to carry me," Dean asked sweetly, "or are we walking like responsible adults?"

Arion’s tone didn’t shift. "We’re walking."

Dean sighed theatrically. "Boring."

Arion’s gaze shifted to him, a sharp, golden look of warning.

Dean’s smile softened like he’d been petted. "There you go. That look. That’s the one."

Arion’s breath caught for half a second.

He did not stop walking.

They moved through the side corridors Arion clearly knew by heart - routes that avoided crowded intersections, doors that opened with the barest nod from security, and staff flattening politely out of their path. The palace gave Arion space like it feared him.

Dean filled that space with innuendos like confetti.

"You’re walking very fast," Dean observed.

Arion didn’t answer.

Dean continued, amused. "Is it because you’re eager?"

Arion’s voice stayed low. "It’s because you’re unstable."

Dean blinked, offended. "I am not unstable."

Arion shot him a look. "Dean."

Dean smiled again. "Okay, I’m a little unstable."

Arion’s jaw flexed.

Dean leaned closer, whispering, "But you like it."

Arion’s grip tightened again. "Quiet."

Dean’s eyes glittered. "Make me."

Arion’s throat worked once.

He turned into a private wing corridor - quieter, guarded, and far from the ballroom’s easy noise. The air changed here. Less perfume. Less politics. More of Arion’s personal scent was embedded in the walls, as if he owned them.

Dean inhaled and shivered, slow and pleased. "Home."

Arion didn’t correct him.

That was another problem.

They reached the suite door.

The moment they stepped inside, the palace noise cut off like a switch.

Dean turned his head, eyes bright. "Finally."

Arion shut the door behind them with a controlled click.

Dean watched the door close like it was foreplay.

Arion released Dean’s hand and immediately moved one step away, just far enough to breathe without Dean’s scent in his mouth.

He faced Dean fully.

His voice was quiet. "The suppressant isn’t enough."

Dean smiled, slow and wicked. "I noticed."

Arion’s eyes darkened. "You’re going to say something inappropriate every time I try to think."

Dean’s brows lifted. "No."

Arion waited.

Dean corrected, cheerfully, "Yes."

Arion exhaled, a sound that was dangerously close to a laugh.

Then his gaze sharpened; all amusement burned away into focus.

"Dean," Arion said, low, "you’re not allowed back into that ballroom like this."

Dean pouted, absurdly. "Like what?"

Arion’s eyes dragged over Dean’s mouth, his flushed cheeks, the too-bright eyes, and the way Dean stood like he was offering himself on purpose.

"Like trouble," Arion said.

Dean’s grin returned immediately. "So you’re keeping me."

Arion’s jaw tightened. "I’m protecting you."

Dean tilted his head. "I’m wet."