When the room finally went quiet again, Arion lay back against the pillows, breathing slower, eyes half-lidded in a way that made him look drugged on his own satisfaction. The vetiver in the air was still there, but it wasn't a storm anymore - it had softened into something heavy and possessive, like a blanket thrown over a threat.
Dean sat beside him, posture deceptively casual for a man who had just looked a crown prince in the eye and treated him like a problem to be solved. His hair was a mess. His mouth was still too pink. His expression, however, was infuriatingly composed - like he'd done paperwork, not weaponized sex.
Arion watched him.
Not with hunger this time, though it lived under his skin like a second heartbeat, but with something sharper.
Dean caught the look and lifted a brow. "What?"
Arion's mouth twitched. It tried to become a smirk, and then it failed spectacularly by growing wider. "I was just thinking."
