"Eight."
Dean blinked like the number had slapped him.
It wasn't the number itself - Dean was not naïve enough to expect a dominant Crown Prince with a military career and a country on his shoulders to have lived like a monk. It was the way Arion said it. Like a fact placed on the table with the same firm calm he used for Parliament, monsters, and borders.
Dean leaned back slowly, the leather accepting him like a quiet conspiracy. "Huh," he said, because his mouth needed to do something that wasn't showing emotion.
Arion's gaze didn't move. "You are surprised," he noted.
Dean's lips pulled. "That's mild respect," he said, then added quickly, because he refused to let Arion think he'd won anything, "for honesty. Not for… whatever this is."
Arion's mouth twitched, faintly. "Why would I lie?" he asked, like a reminder and a warning.
