Dean had been waiting for five hours.
Five fucking hours.
He had called Arion when Victor asked him to, heard his husband sounding sufficiently strange that every instinct in Dean's body immediately demanded an explanation, and then spent the next several hours receiving absolutely nothing from anyone involved in the operation.
Dean paced across the private sitting room with his phone in one hand and the other pressed against the underside of his stomach, trying to convince himself that the lack of communication meant the operation was proceeding normally.
Boreas followed him.
The enormous dog had apparently decided that pacing was a family activity and moved between the sofa and the terrace doors every time Dean changed direction, his claws clicking against the polished floor before falling silent on the thick rug.
Dean stopped.
Boreas stopped.
Dean looked down.
"You are not helping."
The dog wagged his tail.
Dean sighed and resumed walking.
