"I'm coping," Dean added under his breath. "This is madness."
Arion's gaze lingered on him for a second longer than necessary, like he was cataloguing the way Dean's mouth curved when he tried, and failed, to be serious. Then he looked ahead again, already guiding them through the side corridor and into the sitting room that waited like a pocket of quiet carved out of the palace's appetite.
The door closed. The noise and the eyes stayed outside.
Lemonade appeared as if summoned by the word itself. A low table, pale light, and soft couches that pretended to be harmless.
Sylvia sat first. She dropped into the couch like she was planting a flag.
Dean followed, still trying to get his breathing under control.
Arion remained standing for a moment, studying them both, and this time his attention didn't slide past Sylvia. It stayed on her as if he'd finally decided she was not furniture.
"You asked why I used your name," Arion said.
Sylvia folded her arms. "I did. And don't try to reframe it as 'strategy' and call it a day."
Dean watched Arion's posture shift. The predator's ease didn't leave, but the man seemed to shed one of his shields like he did with his coat.
Even though Dean considered it a wonder, Arion appeared more… human now.
"I knew it would make him stop," Arion said simply.
Sylvia blinked, totally unimpressed by the answer. "That's your defense?"
Dean could only imagine that his friend had an entire narrative in her head about how the prince would react, and this was none of them.
"It's my explanation," Arion replied. "I learned very quickly that Dean does not bend for pressure applied to himself. He bends for pressure applied to what he values."
Dean stiffened slightly. "Arion."
Arion's eyes went to him immediately. "You don't," he said quietly, "but you pause. And in politics, a pause is everything."
Sylvia was silent for a beat, processing. Then she scoffed. "So you threatened me to see if he'd protect me."
Arion didn't look away. "Yes."
"And if he hadn't?" she pressed.
Arion's jaw tightened just a fraction. "Then I would have misjudged him."
Dean's throat tightened. "And what would you have done then?"
The prince shifted, placing his right leg over the other with unhurried elegance, the posture of a man entirely at ease in the middle of tension, scrutiny, and accusation. He looked almost…entertained by it. By them.
"Well," Arion said calmly, "it's not as if I had a choice to begin with. Dean is the only compatible dominant omega suitable to be my mate. Whether I liked him or not was never one of my luxuries." His gaze lifted, settling on Dean with a frankness that made something in Dean's chest tighten. "But I do appreciate that I do."
Sylvia stared at him like she was trying to decide whether she wanted to throw her lemonade at his face or frame the glass and hang it on a wall as proof she'd survived meeting him.
Dean watched her expression shift through about seven stages of outrage in silence, which was honestly the most alarming thing Sylvia had done all day.
Then she scoffed again, because she was Sylvia, and she refused to be moved on principle.
"So," she said, voice sharp, "you're basically saying you didn't even have a choice, and you still chose to be a menace."
Arion's mouth twitched. "I chose to be efficient."
Sylvia narrowed her eyes. "That's not better."
"It's honest," Arion replied, and the way he said it made the word sound like a weapon he'd learned to wield carefully.
Sylvia opened her mouth, probably to say something feral and criminal, then paused, as if realizing she had to recalibrate, because Arion wasn't reacting like the villains in her head.
He wasn't flaring dominance. He wasn't dismissing her. He wasn't trying to crush her with royal indifference.
He was… sitting there almost polite.
Painfully aware, Dean thought of exactly how dangerous he was and exactly how little Sylvia could do about it.
And instead of pushing, Arion did something worse.
He charmed her.
"With respect," Arion said mildly, gaze steady on Sylvia, "you've done your duty."
Sylvia blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You made your point," Arion continued, as if explaining terms in a treaty. "You protected him. You established that he comes with loyalty." His eyes flicked briefly, possessively, to Dean, then returned to Sylvia. "I value that."
Sylvia's lips parted.
Dean could see it. The exact moment Sylvia's brain tried to stay angry and her instincts betrayed her anyway, because no one had ever spoken to her like she mattered in a royal room. Most nobles treated civilians like furniture. Arion was treating her like a weapon Dean kept close.
Sylvia tried to recover by leaning into offense. "You value it. Great. You still used my name."
Arion inclined his head once. "I did."
"And you're going to apologize?" Sylvia demanded, chin lifted.
Dean choked on a laugh before it could fully form. Sylvia asking a crown prince to apologize like he was a badly behaved classmate was… breathtaking.
Arion didn't flinch.
"Yes," he said.
The single word landed with enough calm certainty that Sylvia's mouth actually closed.
Dean froze.
Sylvia froze.
The servant in the corner, who had been pretending not to exist, looked like they might faint out of professional confusion.
Arion continued, tone measured. "Not because I regret protecting my position with the tools I have. But because you didn't consent to being one of those tools."
Sylvia stared at him, her outrage scrambling for footing.
Dean stared at him too, because Arion did not do things out of sympathy. If he said that, he meant it.
Sylvia's eyes narrowed, suspicious again. "Are you… trying to make me like you?"
Arion's mouth twitched. "Do I need to?"
Sylvia's nostrils flared. She was fighting it. She was actively fighting the urge to be impressed.
Dean's shoulders started shaking.
Sylvia glanced at him. "Do not."
Dean pressed a fist to his mouth. "I'm not—"
"You are," Sylvia accused. "You're laughing."
Dean's voice cracked. "I'm not." Then bursted into a laugh.