Dean woke up sore, caused by one possessive alpha prince currently asleep beside him with the expression of a man who had committed multiple crimes against morality and considered them emotional bonding exercises.
Dean stared at the ceiling for several long seconds.
Then at Arion.
Then back at the ceiling again.
The room smelled like vetiver, mint, sex, sleep, and enough pheromones to qualify as an atmospheric event. Sunlight spilled softly through the curtains across tangled blankets, discarded clothes, and Boreas, sprawled beside the bed like a guardian assigned to protect the scene of a very successful felony.
Dean attempted to move.
His spine immediately informed him that actions had consequences.
"…I hate you," Dean whispered weakly.
Arion did not open his eyes.
"Untrue."
"Mostly hate you."
A slow smile curved across Arion's mouth.
The bastard looked pleased. Rested, even.
Dean narrowed his eyes.
"You should not look healthier after that."
"You're glowing too."
