Two days after leaving the imperial palace, Dean sat in the wide, sunlit living room of the Fitzgeralt capital mansion and tried very hard not to think about how quickly everything had started to spiral without him.
He knew what was being discussed. He knew what kind of language was now being used: containment, precedent, stabilization, timelines, and security doctrine. He didn't need to be in the room to hear it; he could practically feel the tension stretching across borders like a wire pulled too tight.
And he understood it.
That was the worst part.
He understood why Alamina was pushing. He understood why Arion's father had stepped in. He even understood, in a cold, clinical way, why Arion had spoken the way he did.
It had been the truth, stripped of romance and diplomacy and anything soft: biology, power, instinct, future.
But understanding didn't mean accepting the cost.
Dean lay back against the arm of the couch, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his stomach like he was trying to physically hold himself together.
Civilians were now part of the equation. Borders. Armies. Stability. People who had no idea who he was and would never care how a dominant omega felt about being told he belonged to someone.
All because he had bristled when a Crown Prince said out loud what doctrine had always whispered.
Sylvia, sprawled sideways on the couch opposite him with her boots on the cushions and her phone balanced lazily in one hand, glanced over.
"You look like someone who just realized the universe does not, in fact, run on emotional consent," she said dryly.
Dean snorted despite himself. "You're supposed to be on my side."
"I am on your side," she replied. "That doesn't mean I'm going to lie to you. Normal people wouldn't care that you felt uncomfortable. They'd care that a Crown Prince wants you and that you said yes to an engagement that could stabilize half a continent."
She tilted her phone slightly, scrolling. "Public opinion would eat you alive if you framed this as 'I didn't like the way he said it.' They'd call you ungrateful and privileged."
Dean closed his eyes and tried to find some humor in all of this. "I am privileged."
Sylvia snorted. "Yes, you are. Obscenely so. Born into power, protected by it, loved by it. People would kill for the kind of safety net you have."
Dean's mouth twitched. "Which is exactly why they'd have no patience for me saying I don't like how that power is being used on me."
"Bingo." She glanced at him again, her expression softening. "They'd say, 'So what if he's possessive? So what if he assumes? He's a crown prince. That's how history works.'"
Dean opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. "And history is full of people who were quietly miserable while being told they were lucky."
Sylvia hummed in agreement. "That too. But from the outside? You didn't start a war. You didn't reject the alliance. You didn't even confront him publicly. You just… left the palace."
He exhaled. "And somehow that was enough to make everything explode."
"Because your family doesn't do subtle when it comes to you," she said dryly. "They escalated. Politely. Legally. With devastating efficiency. I'm not complaining - I live for this level of drama - but, technically, the Crown Prince could end it all by saying one word."
Dean turned his head slightly. "Sorry."
"Exactly." She flicked her phone aside and looked at him more seriously now. "Which tells you something important about him. And about you."
"Enlighten me."
Sylvia smiled, slow and knowing. "You're very, very good at revenge. The type of revenge that stays within the rules, follows protocol, and still makes the other person lose their mind."
Dean groaned softly. "I don't do revenge."
"You absolutely do," she said. "You just call it 'setting precedent' or 'requesting clarification' or 'following procedure.' Remember Professor Halvorsen? You didn't argue with him. You out-complied him until he rewrote his own syllabus."
"That was different."
"And the student council election?" she continued. "You didn't attack anyone. You just made everyone else look unprepared by being painfully competent."
Dean closed his eyes again. "I hate that you remember these things."
"I remember them because they were beautiful," Sylvia said. "Civilized. Lawful. Infuriating. You never break rules; you use them so precisely that the other side wishes they had."
Silence settled for a moment.
"You're not running from the Crown Prince," she went on quietly. "You're putting him in a position where he has to confront the fact that you're a person who reacts, someone who has autonomy. Honestly? It's top-tier drama for me."
Dean turned his head, one brow lifting. "So you're telling me to do it in my style? To taunt him while pretending to be innocent?"
The glint in his purple eyes was anything but innocent.
Sylvia laughed outright. "You? Innocent? When hell freezes over, maybe." She propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him with fond exasperation. "You didn't just leave the palace. You left knowing exactly what it would do to him. And knowing you, I'd bet my entire allowance for the year that you're already planning your return."
Dean's lips curved, slow and dangerous. "I wasn't planning on returning."
"Oh, you absolutely are," she said. "Just not on his schedule, but on yours, most likely calm, polite, and so perfectly behaved that it would be painful to watch. Perfectly behaved. And every second of it will drive him insane because he won't know whether you're there to reconcile or to remind him that he doesn't get to assume anything."
Dean stared at the ceiling again, thoughtful now.
"I don't want to humiliate him," he said quietly.
"You won't," Sylvia replied. "You'll do something far worse. You'll make him uncertain. You'll make him realize that the one thing he thought was fixed in his future isn't."
A pause.
"And dominant alphas," she added softly, "do not handle uncertainty well."
Dean closed his eyes, a slow breath leaving him.
"Of course they don't," he murmured. "I saw it in all the dominant alphas around me."
"So? What are you planning?" Sylvia asked while flicking a strand of long brown hair.
"To tame a beast."
Sylvia's mouth curved, equal parts amused and impressed. "That sounds ominous. Also very you."
Dean opened his eyes and finally looked at her, mischief settling into place behind the calm. "Not with chains," he added quietly. "With patience."
"Of course," she said. "Psychological warfare, Fitzgeralt edition."
He huffed a soft laugh. "I don't want to break him. I just want him to learn that trust isn't something you take. It's something you're given. And only when you've earned it."
Sylvia studied him for a moment, then nodded. "So you're going to make a dominant alpha wait, doubt, and realize that the one person he thought was fixed in his future is… mobile."
"Exactly."
"That's cruel," she said, delighted. "And completely legal."
Dean's lips curved, slow and composed. "I prefer 'educational.'"
She stretched on the couch, grinning. "Well, Crown Prince Arion is about to enroll in the most frustrating course of his life."
Dean leaned back, gaze drifting toward the tall windows and the city beyond, where an empire was arguing over timelines and treaties, and a very dangerous man was learning what distance felt like.
"To tame a beast," he repeated softly.
Not by force, but by making it choose to kneel.