By the time the first dishes arrived, the edge of the confrontation had dulled into something quieter, though no less charged.
Arion had insisted on ordering. The staff moved quickly and deferentially, careful not to intrude more than necessary. Whatever veil his pheromones had laid over the room earlier, it had faded into something subtle now, enough to keep curiosity at bay, not enough to smother the air.
Dean sat across from him, posture guarded but no longer coiled like a spring.
The food helped. Warm, rich, actually good. Not the delicate portions meant to impress donors and critics, but real plates, meant to be eaten. Dean hadn't realized how hungry he was until the first bite, and the tension in his shoulders eased despite himself.
He hated that it worked.
Arion watched him in silence for a moment, the way a predator might watch something that had stopped baring its teeth but hadn't yet decided whether to run.
"You look less like you're planning a murder," Arion observed quietly.
Dean shot him a look over the rim of his glass. "Don't get optimistic. This is a temporary ceasefire, granted on the grounds of edible food."
Arion's mouth curved faintly. "I will accept these terms."
Dean took another bite, slower now, his movements losing some of their earlier sharpness. The fury had burned down to embers, leaving behind wariness, pride, and the faint, dangerous calm of someone who had decided not to explode but had not forgiven.
After a moment, he set his fork down.
"Just so we're clear," he said, voice even, "this doesn't disappear."
Arion lifted his gaze. "Clarify."
"Sylvia will hear about this," Dean continued. "About everything that happened here."
A pause.
Arion leaned back, tilting his head thoughtful. "Should I be scared?"
Dean's lips twitched, humorless.
"You should be respectful," he corrected. "She's not impressed by titles, and she has a very long memory when someone threatens the people she loves."
Arion studied him for a moment, then leaned back slightly, expression thoughtful rather than contrite. "So I will be judged by a civilian with no interest in protocol and no fear of telling me exactly what she thinks."
"Yes," Dean said simply. "And you will survive it."
A faint, dangerous amusement flickered in Arion's eyes. "I always do."
Dean picked up his fork again, but his gaze stayed sharp. "She's my friend. If you want to be anywhere near my life, you don't get to pretend the people in it are background noise."
"I don't," Arion replied. "I misused one. I won't pretend it was wise."
Not the same as I won't do it again. The distinction hung there, subtle and deliberate.
"She will hate you," Dean added.
"Probably," Arion agreed calmly. "But hatred is still attention. And attention can change."
Dean paused, narrowing his eyes. "You're planning something."
Arion's mouth curved in a soft grin. "I am always planning something, but this time it has nothing to do with you… or your friends."
"You know… I've realized something about you." Dean said, leaning back while a waiter took his empty plate. "You are petty."
Arion watched the plate disappear, then looked back at Dean, one brow lifting with faint, dangerous amusement.
"Petty," he repeated. "That's your conclusion after all this?"
"Yes," Dean said without hesitation. "Strategic, terrifying, arrogant… and deeply, spectacularly petty. You don't just want control. You want the last word. You want to win."
Arion's smile didn't fade. If anything, it widened. "Winning is a habit formed by survival."
"No," Dean countered. "Winning is a habit formed by pride. Survival is knowing when to step back. You?" He tilted his head slightly. "You'd rather bend the world than admit you were wrong, unless the cost of not admitting it is losing something you want."
Silence, brief and thoughtful.
"And you," Arion said quietly, "are a spoiled creature who has never had to choose between being right and being alone."
Dean's eyes flashed. "I choose people. You choose outcomes. That's the difference."
Arion leaned back in his chair, studying him with open intent now, no longer hiding the calculation behind diplomacy.
"And yet," he said softly, "you're still here. Eating the food I ordered. Arguing with me instead of walking away."
Dean hesitated, just a fraction.
"Careful," he warned. "Don't start building narratives in your head."
Arion's gaze didn't waver. "I don't build narratives. I observe patterns."
"And what pattern do you think you see?"
"That you would come with me to Alamina." He said while the waiter served them the dessert and disappeared as soon as possible.
Dean glanced at the dessert, then back at Arion, expression unreadable for a second.
"When the time is right," he said quietly and chose to let the prince get the idea behind his words.
Arion inclined his head, accepting the condition without comment.
They finished the dessert in a quieter atmosphere, the tension no longer thick enough to cut, but still present, coiled and waiting. The restaurant returned to its low murmur, the world slipping back into place around them as if nothing seismic had just passed between a Crown Prince and a man who refused to be bent.
The drive to the Fitzgeralt mansion was silent.
When the car finally stopped, Dean reached for the handle.
"This isn't over," he said, not looking back. "And Sylvia will hear everything."
"I know," Arion replied, amused.
Dean hesitated, then stepped out. The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
The moment the sound faded, Arion's composure shattered.
His hand came up to his temple, fingers digging in hard as a wave of burning pain tore through his skull. The controlled veil of pheromones he had held for hours collapsed internally, recoiling on itself like a snapped wire.
Fire bloomed behind his eyes.
His head felt as if it were being split open from the inside, pressure and heat crashing through him in violent pulses. The aftershock of suppressing, shaping, and weaponizing his pheromones for so long roared back with brutal vengeance, his nervous system screaming in protest.
Arion leaned forward in the seat, breath turning sharp, controlled discipline the only thing keeping him upright.
The burning spread down his spine, into his chest, a sickening, searing reminder of the cost of dominance pushed past its limits.
Only one thought kept coming to mind, like cold hands from deep dark water: 'it hurts.'