"How about you?" Arion asked, tilting his head.
Dean looked away because Arion had a habit of probing for weaknesses, and Dean's feelings were the one aspect of himself he refused to hand over on a silver tray.
"You don't get to ask that after dropping 'eight' like it's a weather report," Dean said, dry and perfectly composed.
Arion's gaze stayed on him like he was watching a door Dean had closed and deciding when to knock again.
"I asked," Arion said simply.
Dean exhaled through his nose, not bothered by the number he was about to give, only by what it would mean in Arion's head. "Two," he said.
Arion went very still in a way Dean was starting to recognize. Possessive instincts were leashed so tightly they didn't show unless you knew how to look.
"Two," Arion repeated, as if tasting it.
Dean lifted his brows. "Yes. Two. I'm nineteen, not a retired duke."
Arion's golden eye held his. "Before me," he said.
Dean's mouth twitched. "Obviously."
