"For someone who runs away," Arion said quietly, handing his coat to a server without once breaking eye contact, "you have remarkable nerve."
The words were calm. The tone was not.
Dean felt his good mood crack on impact.
He lifted a brow, unimpressed, even as something in his chest tightened. "I've been here for less than a minute," he replied coolly. "And that's your opening line? No greeting, no small talk, just straight to accusations?"
It was, he had to admit, much easier to stay composed when Arion spoke. The effect of the man's presence dulled the moment he opened his mouth and reminded Dean exactly why he'd left the palace in the first place.
Arion took his seat across from him, movements controlled, every inch the Crown Prince who had never been told no and had rarely had to wonder what people meant. "You disappeared without a word," he said. "You let your family redraw terms, raise walls, and turn distance into a political statement. Excuse me if I'm not indulging you anymore."
Dean's lips curved in a dry smile. "I went home. To my own house. Forgive me if I didn't submit a travel itinerary to Alamina first."
Arion's eyes narrowed slightly. "You knew what it would do."
The admission hung between them, sharp and unvarnished.
"And you did it anyway," Arion went on. "After agreeing to an engagement. After choosing."
Dean leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, posture relaxed but eyes clear. "I chose an alliance. I did not choose to be spoken about like an outcome instead of a person. And I certainly did not choose to be married tomorrow."
Arion's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"My parents were worried you would use the advantage you have over me," Dean continued calmly. "You know, things like status, power, and age and experience. And judging by how fast you wanted to close the distance, they weren't entirely wrong." He paused, then added, quieter but no less firm, "They asked for two years so I could stand on equal ground with you. So that when I come to Alamina, I come as your partner, not your acquisition."
Arion's gaze sharpened.
"But you would rather take me now," Dean said, meeting his eyes, "and call it efficiency. You interpret Palatine making sure I remain safe, independent, and fully informed as an insult to your authority. As if their concern for my autonomy is somehow a challenge to your rank."
The air between them tightened.
"You mistake caution for hostility," Arion said coolly.
"No," Dean replied. "I think you mistake patience for resistance."
For a moment, neither of them spoke, the air between them taut with unyielding will.
Then Arion leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. His voice was low, carrying the weight of someone who was used to being obeyed.
"You are not a political hostage, Dean. You are not being taken and hidden where no one would find you. You are being chosen to stand at the center of a nation's future."
Dean's mouth curved, not quite a smile, more a sharp line of restrained defiance. "Then why all the escalation? From the first briefings, Alamina spoke of an engagement. Now His Majesty Emperor Otto wants marriage."
Arion's gaze didn't flicker. "Because time is not a luxury we measure the same way."
Dean leaned in as well, mirroring him unconsciously, stubborn meeting stubborn. "And you think that makes it acceptable to move the goalposts without warning? To decide that my life should accelerate because your empire is impatient?"
"Because the world is unstable," Arion replied coolly. "Because dominant alphas without anchors become liabilities. Because my father has watched too many nations fall apart while waiting for comfort and gradual transitions."
"And because you let him," Dean shot back. "You shielded Palatine from him until I asked for distance. Then suddenly the old doctrines appear, the Temple language, and the containment protocols. That's not coincidence, Arion. That's pressure."
Arion's jaw tightened, just a fraction. "It is reality."
"No," Dean said quietly, firmly. "It's strategy. And I won't pretend it isn't."
A slow smile curved Arion's mouth, and this time there was nothing human in it. His golden eyes darkened, instinct and possession surfacing without disguise. The air in the room shifted as his pheromones rolled, pressing against Dean's senses with the language of dominance.
"We can be stubborn and argue until we're out of breath," Arion said. "But understand this, Dean. You are mine, whether you like the truth of it or not."
The word hit like a strike.
'Mine.'
Dean straightened instantly, every muscle going taut. His fingers clenched around the napkin on the table until the fabric creased. "Then there is no point in this meeting," he said, voice cold and controlled. "I don't know why I expected understanding, or even an apology. You would rather double down and call it destiny."
He pushed his chair back and rose. "I will let my family and the Imperial House of Palatine handle this from here."
"Dean," Arion said.
The single word lashed into the room. His pheromones surged, pressing at the edges of Dean's senses, even harder than a minute ago. Arion was proving that he could force Dean into submission by his pheromones alone but chose not to.
"Sit."
Dean felt the command in his bones and rejected it just as instinctively. He turned to leave, refusing to let his body respond where his will would not.
Behind him, Arion leaned back in his chair, idly turning a knife between his fingers, the movement slow, elegant, almost hypnotic. When he spoke again, it was calmer but far more dangerous than Dean had ever heard him.
"Leave before I give you permission," Arion said softly, "and Sylvia Croft will not make it home tonight."