The imperial palace of Palatine had a scent even before you stepped inside.
It wasn't just one thing. It was layers of polished stone warmed by sunlight, old paper, expensive citrus cleaner, faint floral diffusers that tried far too hard to be harmless, and beneath it all the constant, invisible punctuation of pheromones: guards who smelled like duty, aides who smelled like stress, and nobles who smelled like entitlement and perfume trying to mask it.
Sylvia Croft inhaled like she was tasting the air.
Dean watched her with the weary calm of a man who had already accepted the inevitable.
"You're not a hound," he told her.
Sylvia didn't look at him. Her eyes were fixed ahead, expression intent, as if the corridor itself were about to confess. "I'm not a hound," she agreed. "I'm a concerned civilian."
Dean sighed. "You are a concerned civilian in a palace full of dominants. That's like bringing a candle into an armory and calling it a vibe."
Sylvia's nostrils flared again - subtle, completely unserious - and she leaned a fraction toward the air as though it might whisper the Crown Prince's location directly into her lungs.
Dean gave up.
Because there was no version of reality in which Sylvia did not attempt to scent-track a foreign Crown Prince out of pure spite and friendship, and Dean was too tired to pretend he had control over Sylvia Croft's life choices. He had warned her. He had pleaded. He had tried logic. Now he was choosing entertainment, because if he didn't, he'd start thinking about contracts and birthdays and the way 'after your birthday' had become a line in his life that everything was leaning toward.
"Okay," Dean said lightly. "Let's establish rules."
Sylvia's eyes flicked to him, suspicious. "Rules? From you? What happened?"
"I evolved," Dean said. "I'm growing as a person."
Sylvia squinted. "Terrifying."
Dean held up a finger. "Rule one: no sniffing people."
Sylvia blinked. "I'm not sniffing people."
Dean lifted his brow.
Sylvia corrected, "I'm sniffing the general area."
Dean nodded like this was a reasonable legal loophole. "Palatine will be relieved."
They kept walking, and nothing about their presence drew more than the usual glances, because there was nothing suspicious about Dean Fitzgeralt strolling through his uncle's palace like he belonged there.
He did belong there.
He was Sirius's nephew. He was a Fitzgeralt. He was a dominant omega, which meant half the palace treated him like a priceless national resource, and the other half treated him like a potential catastrophe to be managed gently. Either way, nobody with a functioning survival instinct looked at Dean and thought: 'easy target.'
And now, on top of all of that, he was Arion's fiancé-to-be.
So guards didn't put pressure on him and his guests like they did with the rest. They moved aside.
Sylvia, of course, hadn't been raised on protocol.
She slowed near a corridor junction, head tilting as if she'd picked up a new layer of information.
"Oh," she murmured. "There's a meeting nearby."
Dean's mouth twitched. "How would you know that?"
"Because the air tastes like men trying not to fight," Sylvia said serenely. "And because there's an unnatural density of guards. And because someone here used too much cologne. That's always diplomacy."
Dean leaned in, voice low. "Stop narrating."
Sylvia smiled. "Let them hear. I'm a civilian. Civilians are allowed to be annoying."
Dean snorted. "That's not in the law."
"It's in my personality," Sylvia replied.
They drifted toward one of the smaller meeting buildings, those private rooms that Palatine pretended were for calm conversation and everyone knew were for controlled pressure. The corridor widened into a neat antechamber: pale stone, a ridiculous arrangement of white flowers, and a console table that looked like it had never been touched by a human emotion.
Two guards stood at the door.
They recognized Dean instantly.
"Lord Fitzgeralt," one said, neutrally. A greeting that also meant, 'We know exactly who you are, and we will not be the ones who mishandle you.'
Dean inclined his head, polite and bored. "Gentlemen."
Sylvia leaned toward Dean and whispered, "They smell like they've never smiled."
Dean whispered back, "It's Palatine. Smiling is an optional add-on."
The guard's gaze flicked once to Sylvia, then back to Dean, keeping his professional composure, waiting for Dean to set the tone. Dean could have made this formal. He could have made Sylvia behave.
He didn't.
He was resigned, yes… but also, absurdly, curious. This whole thing had been contracts and clauses and calm voices over tea. He wanted something to feel real again, even if that meant watching Sylvia try to square up to a man bred and trained to be an apex predator.
"Don't worry," Dean said casually, as if they were discussing weather. "She's not armed."
Sylvia whipped her head toward him. "Dean!"
Dean continued, unbothered, "She's just… emotionally motivated."
The guard didn't react. He'd probably heard worse from nobles who wore jewelry shaped like threats.
Sylvia smiled brightly at the guards. "Hi."
They didn't smile back, but they didn't stop her either. Because Dean was there, and Dean wanted her there, and Dean was important enough that his choices were treated like they carried official weight.
Dean leaned in again, murmuring, "Remember. Words."
Sylvia murmured back, delighted, "Aggressive words."
Dean's mouth twitched. "Perfect."
They waited. Too close to the door to pretend it was an accident, and too casual to be stopped without causing a scene. Palatine etiquette required people to ignore obvious truths until they became official.
Sylvia inhaled one more time.
Then she straightened, eyes gleaming. "Found him."
Dean lifted his brows. "Did you?"
Sylvia whispered, "Either him… or someone with the exact same terrifying problem."
Dean's mouth twitched. "That narrows it down."
And then the door opened.
Sylvia went still in the way a person goes still right before doing something unforgivable.
Dean felt his stomach tighten, and not entirely from dread.
Because a part of him, annoying, inconvenient, and real, registered something else too.
Arion would be pleased because Dean was there. Close. Within reach. Like the palace had delivered him to the door on purpose.
Dean's feelings about that were… mixed.
There was the rational part that reminded him this was strategy, this was an alliance, and this was a contract everyone had agreed to because it was the cleanest option.
And there was the other part - the part that had been watching Arion's face across rooms, the part that had noticed how Arion's attention snapped to him like instinct - that part that went tight and hot and resentful because it didn't like being predicted.
Dean didn't move.
He just leaned slightly toward Sylvia and whispered, resigned and amused all at once, "Try not to start a war."
Sylvia whispered back, bright with intent, "No promises."
Dean smiled faintly.
Fine.
Let Arion be pleased.
Dean would survive it.