Dean had made a lot of decisions in his life based on survival.
Most of them looked reasonable on paper. Most of them sounded mature when you explained them to an adult who wanted reassurance that you were fine.
This one did not.
Dean stood in Arion's bedroom and stared at the bed like it was a diplomatic scandal waiting to happen.
It was obscene, of course. Alamina didn't do drama, and yet their Crown Prince slept in something that looked like it could swallow three people and a civil war. Dark linens. Thick, expensive throws and pillows that looked aggressively supportive. The room smelled faintly of vetiver even when the man wasn't in it, because the walls had probably absorbed him the way the palace absorbed everything else.
Boreas padded in behind Dean and immediately acted like this was his room too, circling once and then flopping near the foot of the bed with the satisfied confidence of a creature that had never once questioned whether it belonged somewhere.
