Arion didn't like being summoned.
He liked it even less when the request came through his own office, through Zyon's careful voice and careful wording, that only happened when someone was trying not to trigger a diplomatic incident with a sentence.
"Lord Fitzgeralt requests a meeting," Zyon had said. "In person. Immediately."
Arion had paused mid-motion, shirt half-buttoned, hands still, his thoughts already mapping the last time Dean Fitzgeralt had been involved in an "immediate" anything. It never meant something simple. It never meant someone wanted tea.
"Trevor and Sebastian?" Arion had asked, because it was the first variable he checked now. The Fitzgeralts were never just one person.
"Away," Zyon had replied. "Diplomatic delegation. They return in two days."
Which meant Lucas and Dean were alone.
Which meant this was either urgent… or an ambush.
Arion had nodded once and told Zyon to arrange it.
Zyon had chosen the location with the kind of precision that made Arion's instincts go quietly alert: the restaurant.
Not any restaurant. The restaurant.
The one where Dean and Arion had last argued hard enough to leave a bruise in the memory of the room. The one Arion knew they had been monitored only by Sirius's men. A place to go if you wanted trustworthy privacy and didn't mind the symbolism of returning to a battlefield.
Whatever Lucas had to say, it wasn't going to be something Arion liked.
He arrived early.
The staff took his coat the moment he stepped inside, moving around him with the careful deference reserved for men who could turn dangerous without raising their voice. He wore a black shirt, collar open at the throat, sleeves rolled once because he was tired of pretending he wasn't a predator when everyone in the room could smell it anyway.
He chose a table in the back, partially screened by a tall plant and the angle of the wall. It had the best sightline to the entrance.
Zyon hovered for a moment, then withdrew to a respectful distance, leaving Arion alone with the low murmur of the dining room and the quiet clink of glassware.
Arion waited.
His body was still, but his mind wasn't. It ran through possibilities with the cold efficiency he'd been raised on.
A breach in contract. A new clause. A demand. A warning. An insult delivered through procedure.
Palatine had an entire culture built on making cruelty look like protocol.
And Dean…
Arion exhaled slowly.
Dean had been better lately. Less braced. Still sharp, still defiant, still irritatingly principled, but… better. The last argument had ended in something that almost resembled peace, and Arion had been stupidly, privately pleased to see Dean smile without immediately regretting it.
That was why this felt wrong.
If Dean was coming here with Lucas, something had shifted.
The door opened.
Arion didn't move. His attention snapped to the entrance like instinct, his senses cataloguing the room in a single sweep.
Lucas came in first.
The man moved like a wall in expensive clothing, his presence that didn't need guards because it had a reputation instead. His eyes scanned, found Arion, and held for a beat.
Then Dean stepped in behind him.
And Arion's focus narrowed until the room became irrelevant.
Dean was dressed in a suit that made him appear older than his actual age. His hair was neat. His posture was steady. His face was calm.
His eyes were not.
Arion felt something tighten in his chest, quiet as a trap closing.
Dean's gaze met his across the distance.
For a fraction of a second, it softened in recognition, relief, and irritation, too many things braided together.
Then Dean's eyes flicked down and away, as if he hated himself for making it visible at all.
Arion stood to meet them properly. Zyon shifted subtly in the periphery, becoming a quiet shadow again.
Lucas reached the table first.
"Your Highness," Lucas said, smooth and respectful in tone, but with no warmth in it.
"Lord Fitzgeralt," Arion replied, matching the formality.
Dean stood beside Lucas, and Arion's gaze caught him again, held him for a beat too long.
"Dean," Arion said, quieter than the rest of his words.
Dean's mouth twitched faintly. "Arion."
"Given the urgency of this meeting," Arion continued, voice smooth, controlled, "I assume I'm about to hear something I don't like."
Lucas didn't deny it. He didn't soften it. He simply sat, pulled the long velvet box from his coat, and placed it on the table in front of Arion with the care of a man setting down a weapon.
The sound it made, barely a thud, was too loud in the private corner of the restaurant.
Dean watched Arion's hand hover over it.
For a second, Arion didn't open it. He just looked at the box as if he could smell the intention sealed inside. His posture was relaxed, still carrying the remnants of whatever "casual" had meant for him today.
Then he lifted the lid and the change in him was immediate.
The ease drained out of his face as if someone had pulled it away. His gaze sharpened. The air around him tightened with controlled dominance, enough that Dean felt his own spine straighten on instinct.
Arion stared at the contents for one beat then his eyes lifted.
"Who?" Arion asked. "Who dared to send my fiancé a set of collars?"
Lucas didn't flinch. He didn't play politics with the answer. He met Arion's gaze head-on.
"Caelan," Lucas said.
The name landed like a stone.
Arion didn't move. The pressure in the air didn't spike, but somehow that was worse. His control was so absolute it made the room feel smaller.
"Sirius will explain everything," Lucas added, voice cool. "He found out late. He's handling the fallout. But that's not why we're here."
Arion's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then why?"
Lucas's hand rested on the velvet box. "Because this shouldn't have happened behind your backs to begin with."
Dean's jaw tightened. He didn't look away. He let Arion see the anger sitting in him, hot and ugly, because he was tired of pretending he wasn't affected by things that involved his body and his choices.
Lucas continued, calm and cutting. "This isn't a security detail. It's not a tradition clause. It's not a last-minute 'solution' pushed through by an old man who thinks control counts as care."
Arion's gaze flicked to Dean for half a second and Dean held it, steady.
"We're here," Lucas said, "because it's your right. Yours and Dean's. As a couple." His voice hardened slightly on the word, like he was making it a boundary no one could cross. "If there is going to be a collar involved at all, you choose it. Together. You decide if it exists, what it looks like, what it means, and when it's worn."
Arion's fingers tightened once on the edge of the table. The dominance in the air eased by a fraction.
Dean let out a slow breath, relief and anger tangled together.
"It should've been that way from the start," Lucas finished, quieter but no less lethal. "Not handed to you in a velvet box five days before the ceremony like you're props in someone else's play."
Arion's gaze stayed on Lucas for a beat, then slid to Dean again.
"Do you want a collar?"