Chapter 493: Familiar

Dean had been correct when he decided he did not want details.

Unfortunately, Arion had brought them home anyway.

Not intentionally.

There had been no dramatic confession the moment he walked through the private residence, no attempt to frighten Dean with whatever had happened in the restricted zone. Arion had showered, changed into soft black trousers and a dark shirt, kissed Dean exactly as he always did, and spent the first half hour behaving so normally that Dean might have believed the meeting had been uneventful.

Then Dean had noticed the security archive open on Arion’s tablet.

Now they were sitting at the small dining table in their private sitting room while a recording of Arion turning into something disturbingly similar to an infected beast played beside Dean’s plate.

"This," Dean said, pointing his fork toward the screen, "is precisely why I said I didn’t want to know."

Arion cut another piece from the roasted pork on his plate.

"You opened the file."

"You left it open."

"It was locked."

"I know your password."

"That does not improve your argument."

Dean stared at him.

Pregnancy had apparently removed whatever remained of his patience along with his ability to politely pretend food was acceptable.

The cook had sent roasted pork with potatoes, green beans, and a light herb sauce because those were all currently safe foods. Dean had already informed the kitchen that the potatoes were good, but, the beans had been murdered through overcooking, and whoever had decided to add lemon zest to the sauce should be questioned about their motives.

Arion had listened to the entire critique without blinking.

Dean had no idea how.

"You looked like a beast."

"That is an exaggeration."

Dean reached for the tablet.

"No, it is visually documented evidence."

He dragged the progress bar backward.

Arion stood beneath the trees surrounded by corrupted animals, his shirt open at the collar where dark gland channels had spread across his skin, his posture eerily still while those unnatural yellow eyes stared past the camera.

Dean enlarged the image.

Arion stopped eating.

Dean enlarged it again.

"Absolutely not."

"Dean."

"Look at your eyes."

"I was there."

"That makes one of us, because apparently I was at home hiding ducks while my husband became the patron saint of infected wildlife."

Arion’s fork paused halfway to his plate.

Dean froze.

That had slipped out.

Arion slowly looked around the room.

Dean took a drink of water.

"Interesting choice of words."

Dean swallowed.

"Focus on your eyes."

"We are returning to the ducks later."

"No, we are not."

Arion’s mouth almost curved.

Dean hated that he could find any of this amusing.

He looked back at the frozen image.

The humor disappeared quickly.

His mate looked wrong. Not sick. That would almost have been easier.

There was strength in the image, too much of it, something feral sitting beneath Arion’s usual control while the beasts around him behaved as though he belonged among them.

Dean pressed his palm unconsciously against his stomach.

"I don’t understand how you are this calm."

"I’m not."

"You are eating."

"I missed lunch."

"That is not an acceptable measure of emotional stability."

Arion set down his fork.

Dean looked at him properly.

There it was.

Not panic, because Arion rarely allowed himself that luxury, but tension in the set of his shoulders and the way his thumb had been rubbing slowly across the side of his index finger since dinner began.

Dean exhaled.

"I’m trying very hard not to freak out."

"I noticed."

"You had black lines across your glands, ordered infected beasts to sit, and then apparently made them defend you."

"They did that before I told them anything."

"That is worse."

"Yes."

Dean stared at him.

"That was not supposed to be agreement."

Arion leaned back slightly.

The familiar scent of vetiver remained soft in the room, enough to settle Dean’s stomach without filling the space.

Normal. Entirely Arion.

Dean looked back at the paused recording.

Those eyes continued bothering him. Not simply because they were beastlike. Because he had seen them before.

The realization came gradually enough that Dean frowned before he understood why.

He enlarged Arion’s face once more.

Golden irises turned unnaturally bright, pupils altered under the intensity of whatever had been happening inside his body.

Dean stopped moving.

Arion noticed immediately.

"What?"

Dean did not answer.

He was remembering another version of those eyes.

A bedroom kept dark.

Arion in rut.

The usual gold sharpened into something brighter and less human whenever his control frayed, especially after he had suppressed himself too long and the eventual rut hit hard enough to strip away most of the civilized restraint he normally carried like armor.

Dean had always assumed it was simply an extreme expression of Arion’s secondary gender.

He looked from the image to his husband.

"I’ve seen this."

Arion’s expression changed.

"Where?"

"Your eyes."

Dean rotated the tablet toward him.

"They do this in rut."

Arion looked at the image.

Dean continued more slowly now, following the memory.

"Not every time. When you’re managing it normally, they get brighter, but not like this."

Arion said nothing.

"When you suppress too long."

That landed.

Dean remembered one rut in particular after Arion had postponed it around negotiations and security problems until his body finally stopped cooperating. By the time he gave in, his pheromones had been viciously concentrated and his eyes had looked almost exactly like the ones on the screen now.

Dean had mocked him for looking wild.

Neither of them had considered it medically significant.

"You were unhinged after that suppression," Dean said.

Arion gave him a look.

"That description is unnecessary."

"It is accurate."

"I remember the week."

"So do I."

Dean studied the photograph again.

The black lines were new. The beasts were certainly new. But perhaps the eyes were not.

A small knot formed beneath his ribs.

"We have to tell Victor."

Arion’s face closed immediately.

Dean noticed.

"Oh, don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"That expression where you decide something is inconvenient and therefore perhaps reality can be ignored until it improves."

"I do not do that."

"You absolutely do."

Arion picked up his glass.

"Victor already has enough theories."

"This isn’t a theory. It’s a historical symptom."

"It happened during rut."

"Exactly."

Arion drank slowly.

Dean could practically watch him constructing objections.

Maybe rut physiology was irrelevant. Maybe the eyes were a normal sigma response. Maybe telling Victor would result in another twelve tests, six consultations, and somebody suggesting Dean spend a day on the opposite side of the palace again.

Dean understood why Arion disliked the idea.

He still reached for his phone.

Arion narrowed his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"Messaging Victor."

"No."

Dean looked at him over the screen.

"Our son currently has a father who can apparently command corrupted beasts. You do not get to become difficult because the doctor might order more blood work."

"Dean."

"You should have considered that before developing mysterious wildlife eyes."

Arion stared at him for several seconds.

Dean stared back.

Pregnancy had removed his filter.

Apparently it had also removed Arion’s chances of winning this particular argument.

Dean opened Victor’s contact.

Across the table, Arion sighed.

"Tell him they appeared only after prolonged suppression."

Dean began typing.

"I know."

"And not during every rut."

"I know."

"And do not call them wildlife eyes."

Dean paused.

Then smiled.

"I wasn’t going to."

Arion’s suspicion deepened.

Dean sent the message before he could take the phone away.