The honeymoon ended because the capital apparently had no respect for healing, marriage, or Dean’s pelvis.
Dean had several opinions about that.
He expressed none of them to the flight crew, because they looked carefully neutral when he and Arion boarded the private jet, and Dean had no desire to discover how much of Ylico’s villa staff had communicated with palace security. Judging by the way one of the guards looked at the floor with the concentration of a man counting individual fibers in the carpet, Dean suspected the answer was enough.
The jet lifted from Ylico beneath a sky so bright it felt insulting.
Dean sat beside the window in one of Arion’s oversized sweaters, a soft cream thing that had absolutely not been packed in his luggage and therefore had been stolen with legal confidence. The collar at his throat was the travel one, apparently, which was a phrase Arion had said that morning with a straight face and which Dean had still not forgiven.
It was darker than the private silver collar, made of matte blue metal with pale stones set close to the skin, understated enough for public travel but unmistakable to anyone who knew what they were looking at.
Dean kept touching it.
Across from him, Arion was reading through reports on a secure tablet, his expression controlled in a way that meant the capital had already begun reaching for him. Messages from Otto. Security updates. Temple summaries. Wedding aftermath. The quiet, relentless machinery of rule awaited the moment their jet crossed back toward Roslew.
Dean watched him for a while, because he was the normal one, staying away from work until his official return.
Then looked out the window again.
The sea dropped away beneath them, blue and indifferent. Ylico became a strip of light behind the wing, then a memory.
The honeymoon was over.
The world was not.
Sebastian had been in Dean’s thoughts since the temple.
Not constantly. Arion had made sure of that. Arion had successfully, deliberately, and thoroughly ensured that Dean’s mind was preoccupied with other things for several days.
But between sleep and waking, between baths and meals and the ridiculous tenderness of Arion checking the collar at his throat, Sebastian had returned.
Sebastian, who did not know.
Sebastian, who had laughed with Dean in gardens and argued with Nero as if Nero were not the most dangerous thing waiting patiently in the form of a prince.
Sebastian, who was twenty-five years old.
Dean’s fingers tightened against the edge of the blanket over his lap.
Arion looked up immediately, his matching tie pin sparkling in the recess light.
"You are thinking too loudly," he said.
Dean turned from the window. "That is my line."
"You stole my sweater. I can steal your line."
"I married a criminal."
"You knew that before the vows."
"I knew many things before the vows. I still did not know you had travel collars."
Arion’s gaze moved to his throat, softening despite himself.
Dean pointed at him. "No. We are not discussing how pleased you are with your organizational system."
"I said nothing."
"You glowed internally."
"That seems difficult to prove."
"I am emotionally gifted."
"You are."
The answer was too immediate.
Dean looked away first, annoyed to discover that after several days of being loved half senseless, Arion could still catch him off guard with sincerity.
Silence settled again, but it was not uncomfortable. The jet hummed around them, low and steady. Beyond the window, clouds drifted beneath the wing like scattered white stone.
Dean touched the collar once more, then made himself ask.
"Did Otto tell them?"
Arion did not pretend not to understand.
"No."
Dean’s chest tightened. "Lucas and Trevor?"
"No."
Dean exhaled slowly.
Arion set the tablet aside. The movement was quiet, and it made something in Dean’s stomach ease despite the tension in his ribs. Arion could have kept working. He did not.
"Otto and Hendrik have not told anyone outside the initial circle," Arion said. "Not yet."
Dean’s brows drew together. "They are still analyzing it."
"The archive. Ilara’s testimony. The timeline fragments. Anything that can be cross-checked against temple records, border breaches, infected beast movements, and old Saha reports."
Dean looked down at his hands.
"That sounds reasonable," he said.
"It is."
Dean laughed once without humor. "Of course it is reasonable to confirm information before telling people that someone they love is at the center of a future disaster. That is responsible. That is sane. That is exactly what governments are supposed to do."
Arion watched him.
Dean’s voice lowered. "But Sebastian is not a government problem."
"No," Arion said. "He is not."
"He is a person."
"Yes."
Dean swallowed, and the collar shifted faintly with the movement. Arion’s eyes flicked toward it, not possessive now, but attentive.
Dean was grateful for it in a way he was not ready to examine.
"I need to ask you something," Dean said.
"You can ask me anything."
That should have helped.
It made his throat tighter.
"When it is time," Dean said carefully, "tell Sebastian first."
Arion’s expression did not change, but his focus sharpened completely.
Dean leaned forward slightly. "Tell him. Only him. At least at first."
Outside the window, the clouds broke, and the mainland appeared beneath them in distant green and gold.
Dean barely saw it.
"He is twenty-five," he said. "He is an adult and older than me. He may be soft with people he trusts, but he is not fragile. And even if he were, it would still be his life. His body. His future. His choice."
Arion’s gaze held his.
Dean’s voice shook despite his effort to keep it steady. "I know our fathers would want to know. I know they love him. I know they love me, and I know they would do anything to protect him. But that is exactly why they cannot be told first. They would act from love, and love can still become a cage if everyone thinks fear gives them permission."
The words hung between them.
For a moment, Arion said nothing.
Then he rose from his seat and crossed the narrow space between them.
Dean looked up as Arion crouched before him, one hand settling on the armrest beside Dean’s thigh, the other lifting slowly to the edge of the collar.
He did not adjust it.
Only touched it.
"Hendrik said the same thing," Arion said.
Dean blinked.
"He did?"
"Yes."
Something inside Dean loosened so abruptly it almost hurt.
Arion’s mouth softened. "He said Sebastian was twenty-five. An adult. He said Sebastian should be told first and that the choice of whether Lucas, Trevor, or anyone else should know must belong to him."
Dean stared at him.
Then looked away fast, because his eyes had started to burn and he refused to cry on a private jet over Hendrik being emotionally competent.
That was not how dignity worked.
Arion’s thumb brushed lightly along the edge of the collar.
Dean breathed in.
Out.
"Good," he said, though it came out rough.
"