Two days later, Dean decided that civilization had failed him in the simple, practical sense that civilization still expected people to stand upright after a suppressed heat, a delayed rut, a royal wedding, a temple disaster, prophecy, emotional collapse, and Arion deciding that their honeymoon had been interrupted long enough.
Dean was not standing upright.
Dean was draped across the long couch in the private lounge, half buried in one of Arion’s loose shirts, which was too large on him in every possible direction and therefore perfect. One sleeve had fallen off his shoulder. The hem reached far enough down his thighs that it suggested modesty without committing to it, and the thin fabric shifted every time he moved in a way that made several things no one had asked about unclear.
Arion had been looking at him for ten minutes.
Dean knew because he had counted.
Badly.
He was too tired to count well.
"You are staring," Dean said.
Arion, who sat in the armchair opposite him with a tablet in one hand and absolutely no visible evidence that he had read a single word on it, did not deny it.
"You are wearing my clothes."
"I am recovering."
"In my clothes."
"Yes. They were available, large, and emotionally supportive."
Arion’s gaze moved from the exposed line of Dean’s shoulder to the collar at his throat.
Dean felt the attention like a touch.
The collar was new.
Not the first one.
Not even the second.
Two more had arrived that morning, delivered in a discreet velvet case by guards who had clearly been warned that anyone who looked too curious would be reassigned to a frozen border post until their grandchildren retired.
The remaining two collars and the matching tie pins were due the next day.
Arion had listened to the report with terrifying calm, inspected the mechanisms, checked the stones, the clasps, and the internal lining, and then made a quiet decision that had not been spoken like a rule but had immediately become one.
Dean would have a collar on at all times.
Arion had fastened the new collar around Dean’s throat with hands so gentle Dean had briefly considered filing a complaint with the gods.
Pale silver this time, almost white in the light, with deep blue stones set low enough not to feel ceremonial. Softer than the wedding one. Less formal. A private thing pretending it was jewelry.
Arion had checked the fit three times.
Dean had pretended to be annoyed.
Then Arion had kissed the back of his neck, just beneath the clasp, and Dean’s entire argument had fallen apart like an underfunded government office.
Now the collar sat against his throat, warm from his skin.
Dean touched it with two fingers.
Arion’s eyes sharpened.
"It is comfortable," Dean said before he could ask.
"I did not say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was considering it."
"You consider very loudly."
Arion set the tablet aside, apparently abandoning the pretense of productivity. "You look tired."
Dean stared at him.
Arion’s mouth curved slightly.
Dean narrowed his eyes. "Do not look pleased with yourself."
"I am not."
"You are practically glowing."
"That may be happiness."
Dean looked him over.
That was a mistake.
Arion was dressed only in loose lounge trousers and a dark robe left open at the chest, his hair still damp from the bath, the faint mark of Dean’s teeth visible near his shoulder. He looked rested and ruined at once, his gold skin warm in the late afternoon light, his eyes softer than they had any right to be after the last two days.
Dean had helped do that.
The thought made his face heat.
Arion noticed, of course.
"Dean."
"No."
"I have not asked anything."
"You were going to."
"I was going to ask whether you needed water."
Dean hesitated.
"I hate when you use health as a weapon."
"I am keeping my husband alive."
"You have been saying that a lot for someone who is responsible for my current condition."
Arion leaned back, amusement moving through his expression slowly, like sunlight crossing polished metal. "Your current condition appears comfortable."
"My current condition is suspicious. I cannot feel my legs properly."
"That is not new."
Dean grabbed the nearest cushion and threw it at him.
Arion caught it without effort.
Dean hated that.
He loved that.
Both things were becoming increasingly inconvenient.
"Bring that back," Dean said.
Arion rose.
Dean immediately realized his mistake.
Arion crossing the lounge in the late afternoon light should have been illegal. There should have been laws. A council. A public safety announcement. Something.
Instead, there was only Dean on the couch, wearing Arion’s shirt and possibly nothing else, watching his husband approach with a cushion in one hand and that patient, predatory softness in his eyes.
Arion stopped beside him.
Then he looked down.
Dean looked up.
The shirt slipped further off one shoulder.
Arion’s gaze flickered.
"What?" Dean asked.
Arion’s attention returned to his face with the kind of discipline that deserved either praise or punishment.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
Arion placed the cushion carefully behind Dean’s back instead of answering.
Dean settled against it because his spine immediately betrayed him by enjoying the support.
Arion crouched beside the couch.
The movement brought him level with the collar.
His fingers rose, paused, then touched the clasp.
Dean sighed. "Again?"
"Yes."
"You checked it twenty minutes ago."
"Nineteen."
Dean opened his mouth.
Closed it.
"That is worse."
"It has not shifted."
"Then why are you checking?"
"Because I want to."
Dean’s pulse tripped.
Arion’s fingers slid lightly along the inside edge, making sure the lining sat smooth against his skin. There was nothing possessive in the pressure, nothing harsh, but the attention itself was devastating. Arion looked at the collar as if it mattered. As if Dean’s skin mattered more.
As if the jewelry were not proof of ownership, but proof of care.
Dean swallowed.
Arion’s gaze lifted at once. "Too tight?"
"No."
"Does it rub?"
"No."
"Do you want to change it?"
Dean’s fingers closed around his wrist before Arion could pull away.
"No."
The word came out softer than intended.
Arion went very still.
Dean looked away, suddenly fascinated by the edge of the couch. "It is fine."
"Fine."
"Yes."
"You are holding my wrist."
"I am making sure you do not hover."
"I am already crouched."
"You can hover from any position. It is one of your talents."
Arion’s mouth curved.
Dean hated how much that helped.
For a while, Arion did not move. He only stayed there, hand near Dean’s throat, wrist caught in Dean’s loose grip, the room quiet around them. The sea murmured beyond the balcony doors. Somewhere in the villa, the staff moved with the careful silence of people who had spent two days pretending they did not know exactly why the crown prince and his husband had not attended breakfast, lunch, dinner, or any form of organized society.
Dean hoped they were well paid.
"The last two and the tie pins tomorrow."
"I heard the report."
"I thought we could choose which one you wear for travel."
Dean stared. "You have categories?"
"Yes."
Dean closed his eyes. "Of course."
Arion kissed the inside of Dean’s wrist.
Dean’s eyes opened.
Arion’s mouth lingered there for one breath too long.
"You do not have to wear one all the time," Arion said, even though everything in his expression said he wanted exactly that. "Not if it bothers you."
Dean looked at him.
Arion, even half-consumed by rut and possession and all the instincts they had both stopped suppressing, still gave Dean the door before touching the lock.
Dean discovered that he loved him even more now.
"It does not bother me," he said.
Arion’s eyes softened.
Dean pointed at him weakly. "Do not look like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I just handed you a kingdom."
"You did."
Dean’s throat tightened.
For once, no clever answer arrived.
Arion saw that too, and instead of pressing the advantage, he leaned forward and kissed the collar first, then the skin just above it.
Dean’s breath caught.
"Arion."
"Yes?"
"I am too tired."