Dean decided to go with the fancy suit. The second one remained on the hanger as a quiet insurance policy in case someone threw a glass of wine at him.
Technically, that wasn't something that would happen to him. Not to a Fitzgeralt, not to Sirius's nephew, and for sure not to a dominant omega about to anchor an alliance.
And yet… with the way the last weeks had gone, Dean didn't trust the universe not to get creative.
He sat at his desk with his tablet open, the room lit by soft lamplight and the faint glow of the capital beyond the window. Now that things had semi-settled - semi, because nothing ever truly settled in Palatine - he'd decided to do what he always did when his life threatened to become someone else's narrative.
He would learn.
He was reading about the imperial House of Alamina, the family he was marrying into, the people who would soon have the right to smile at him like they owned a piece of his future.
Arion was the third son of Emperor Otto.
Ten siblings.
Dean paused on the number, reread it, and felt his soul quietly leave his body and come back holding a clipboard. Ten. Not counting Arion. Eleven children in total, a dynasty that didn't merely reproduce… it expanded.
Two older sisters, born to the former Empress Beatrice.
Beatrice had died from a complication with her pheromones.
Dean stared at the line for a long moment. It was written in that dry, official tone archives used when they didn't want you to think too hard about the fact that bodies were political, even in death.
Less than three weeks from diagnosis to the end. A woman evaporating from the world because something inside her turned lethal.
Dean's throat tightened, unpleasantly. He scrolled again.
The rest of the siblings were born to the current Empress, Minerva.
Arion was the only dominant among all eleven children.
Dean felt irritation rise on reflex, because of course Arion had to be rare. Of course he had to be a biological anomaly with the type of dominance that made the court orbit him whether it wanted to or not.
And yet, the more Dean read, the more one fact kept refusing to align with the rumors he'd heard.
Arion hadn't simply been handed the position of Crown Prince because he was dominant.
In Alamina, dominance was not a guarantee that it would come with a crown too.
The title had been gained with military postings. Diplomatic missions. Crisis management. Years of competence carved into official records with a kind of reluctant respect that irritated Dean more than it should have.
Because it meant Arion wasn't just terrifying.
He was capable.
Dean leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "Of course you are," he muttered to the screen, as if Arion could hear him through the archives.
He clicked open Sylvia's folder next, because Sylvia had, of course, compiled links like a woman building a personal dossier for war. Gossip threads. Photo collections. "Anonymous" testimonies that were clearly written by people who either adored Arion or wanted him dead.
Dean hovered over the first link, already bracing for the headache.
Then the door opened.
Someone stepped into the room without knocking, which meant two things: one, he was family; two, something had gone wrong.
Lucas's face told Dean the rest.
Dean didn't even pretend innocence. He lifted both hands in immediate surrender. "Whatever it was," he said, voice dry, "it wasn't me this time."
Lucas closed the door behind him with movements that suggested he was restraining himself from slamming it. In the other hand he was carrying a box.
"I know," Lucas said.
Dean blinked. That was… not the usual opening.
Lucas crossed the room and stopped by the desk, his gaze flicking once to the suits on the hanger.
"You chose the dramatic one," Lucas observed.
Dean shrugged, trying to keep it light. "If I'm going to suffer, I might as well look expensive doing it."
Lucas's mouth twitched faintly, but the humor didn't reach his eyes.
Dean's posture shifted. The joking tone faltered. "Okay," he said, quieter. "What happened."
Lucas didn't answer immediately. He looked at Dean's tablet, at the page about Alamina, at the line still open on the screen—Beatrice. Pheromone complication. Three weeks. Then he looked back at Dean.
"I called Arion's secretary, Zyon," Lucas said at last. His voice was eerily quiet. "We need to meet in twenty minutes."
Dean blinked. "What? Why?"
He didn't mind a meeting with Arion's staff now after they made peace. He minded the speed. Lucas wasn't a man who rushed unless something had already caught fire.
Lucas didn't explain. He exhaled once and set a long velvet box on the desk in front of Dean like he was placing down evidence.
Dean raised a brow, then picked it up and opened it.
Two collars lay inside, nestled in dark velvet.
One was slim, understated, almost merciful. The other was ceremonial, heavy with metalwork and stones that caught the light like a warning. Both of them gleamed with something that felt uncomfortably close to malice, as if the objects knew what they were for.
Dean's throat tightened. "What is this?"
"Caelan's newest idea," Lucas said, flat. "And before you ask. No. None of them came from Arion."
Dean's eyes snapped up. "Then why are they here?"
Lucas's jaw worked once. He looked disgusted in a way Dean had rarely seen.
"It's stupid," Lucas said. "It's framed as protection. A lock meant to be secured with your pheromones. Only you should be able to unlock it when the time is right… when you're ready to mate with Arion."
Dean stared down at the collars again, anger rising hot and fast. "So he used it to show us he's still in control."
Lucas exhaled. "Yes."
Dean's fingers curled around the edge of the case. "Sirius approved this?"
"Sirius found out an hour ago," Lucas said tightly. "Caelan sent it through like an order. Like he still gets to decide what happens to other people's bodies."
Dean's stomach turned. "And you want to meet Zyon because…"
"Because Arion is on his way," Lucas said, revealing the reason for the rush, the reason the air in the room felt too suffocating. "He doesn't know."
Dean went still.
"He doesn't know," Dean repeated, quieter.
Lucas shook his head once. "Not yet. And he shouldn't find out from a palace rumor or a last-minute clause shoved under his nose. He finds out from us, with a solution already forming."
Dean's pulse thudded hard. He stared at the ceremonial collar and felt something cold settle under the anger.
"Does Caelan expect me to wear this," Dean asked, voice tight, "on my birthday?"
Lucas's mouth twisted. "Yes."
Dean's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Of course he does."
Lucas leaned slightly closer, voice low. "We're not doing it his way."
Dean looked up at him, purple eyes bright. "Then what are we doing?"
Lucas's gaze held, steady and fierce. "We're meeting Arion. And we're replacing this with something you choose. Something you and Arion agree to. Not something Caelan uses to remind everyone he still knows how to pull chains."
Dean swallowed, then nodded once.
He closed the box carefully, as if it might bite, and pushed it away from him like distance could make it less real.
"Twenty minutes," Dean said, voice controlled.
Lucas nodded. "Twenty minutes."
Dean stood, already reaching for his jacket, and his reflection in the mirror caught him in a casual attire while his eyes anything but casual.
He glanced once at the velvet box.
Then away.
"Let's go," Dean said, and the words came out calmer than he felt.