Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Dean had been mourning the day he decided he wanted to attend a normal university.

Then he remembered that he had eventually decided university would waste too much time and that he would rather work.

What exactly had been in his head?

Now he not only worked but was also standing inside one of Alamina’s military training centers in black tactical clothing, staring across an almost offensively empty floor at his husband.

Arion had removed the weapons.

That was acceptable.

Arion had also ordered the training floor cleared of loose debris.

That was personal.

Dean slowly looked toward Arion.

"You had them clean the corners."

"Yes."

"There was dust there yesterday."

"I know."

Dean narrowed his eyes.

Arion stood on the opposite side of the training center in black combat trousers and a fitted shirt, looking entirely too composed for someone who had deliberately sabotaged Dean’s working environment.

Nature had already given him enough advantages.

Sigma pheromones were absurdly versatile even before Arion’s years of military training were considered. He could leave residue concentrated enough to kill, distort perception until a person’s mind ignored an entire section of space, suppress other secondary genders, and manipulate infected beasts in ways ordinary dominants could not reproduce.

Dean could neutralize all of it within approximately a meter.

Which was why fighting Arion had always been less a question of whether Dean knew what he was doing and more a question of whether he could get close enough before Arion made that impossible.

Dean finally understood why Arion asked him to train together after months of doing it separately.

"You are trying to tire me out."

Arion did not bother denying it.

"Yes."

Dean stared at him.

"You dragged me here because you think if I am exhausted enough, I will stop having ideas."

"I know you will."

Dean’s expression sharpened. "You cannot exercise the initiative out of me."

"No. But I can make climbing out of bed afterward significantly less attractive."

Dean almost smiled.

Three years together had apparently taught Arion that forbidding Dean from doing something only encouraged him to find a more technically permissible version of it.

So instead, Arion had decided to exhaust him.

"You are worried I am going to do something with the beast tests."

"And Draxil."

"I said I accepted the plan."

"You accepted it while looking dissatisfied."

"That is not a crime."

"With you, it is an early-warning system."

Dean rolled his shoulders once.

"Fine."

Arion’s brows lifted slightly.

Dean lowered his center of gravity.

"But when you lose, I am going to become significantly more difficult."

Arion disappeared.

Dean’s eyes remained pointed toward the place Arion had occupied, yet his attention slid away from it instinctively, his mind insisting that the empty space did not matter.

Dean did not broaden his field because he knew how Arion fought, but he did begin to move.

Arion knew Dean’s usual sequence: projectiles to control movement, close distance through the opening, neutralize at contact, and then strike before the opponent recovered from suddenly losing pheromonal control.

Without ammunition, Dean skipped directly to making himself inconvenient.

He moved left instead of toward where instinct suggested Arion had gone.

A faint change in pressure brushed across the back of his neck.

Dean pivoted.

His neutralizing field caught Arion at the edge.

The distortion vanished.

Arion was already moving.

Dean blocked the first strike with his forearm, twisted under the second, and drove his shoulder toward Arion’s chest.

Arion caught him.

Dean expected that.

He hooked one leg behind Arion’s knee instead.

Arion shifted his weight before Dean could take it out.

Unfairly heavy bastard.

Dean released him immediately rather than waste strength fighting mass he could not overpower.

He moved away.

Arion followed.

Dean smiled.

"You are supposed to tire me out, not yourself."

"I have considerably more stamina."

"Arrogant."

"Accurate."

A dense wave of pheromones hit him.

Dean neutralized only the portion touching his body.

He did not waste energy expanding farther.

Arion had taught him years ago that a battlefield did not reward dramatic displays of ability. Dean’s field was strongest when compact, and against someone like Arion, wasting it across empty space was idiotic.

The pressure disappeared from around him.

Dean stepped through it as his advantage.

Arion’s pheromones could make most opponents hesitate before they ever reached him.

Dean walked through them.

He closed the distance, caught Arion’s wrist, pulled him forward, and drove an elbow toward his ribs.

Arion blocked.

Dean changed direction halfway through and struck his thigh instead.

Arion’s eyes narrowed.

Dean smiled brightly.

"I thought you were tired."

"I am becoming energized by spite."

"I should’ve tired you out in bed."

For half a second. Dean’s smile disappeared. Then his eyebrows rose. "That sounds like an admission that your current strategy is ineffective."

"It sounds like I chose the wrong method."

"You chose the slower one."

Arion stepped forward.

Dean immediately shifted back, keeping enough distance that Arion could not simply grab him again. "No changing methods halfway through."

"You said there were no rules."

"That was before you became indecent."

"I am married to you."

"That does not improve your defense."

Arion’s pheromones rolled toward him again.

Dean neutralized them before they reached his skin and moved in at the same time, using the opening to strike for Arion’s ribs.

Arion caught his wrist.

Dean twisted.

Arion caught the other one too.

That was considerably less useful.

Dean tried to drive his knee upward, but Arion turned his body and trapped him against his chest instead, both wrists secured in one hand.

Dean exhaled sharply.

"You are cheating with size now."

"I have always had this size."

"You are using it maliciously."

Arion looked entirely unrepentant.

Dean attempted to wrench one hand free.

Nothing.

His field was still active, leaving Arion with no pheromonal advantage at all, which unfortunately did absolutely nothing about the arm locked around Dean’s waist.

"You are tired," Arion said.

"I can still fight."

"I know."

That was apparently the problem.

Dean rested his forehead briefly against Arion’s shoulder, breathing hard enough now that pretending otherwise would have been insulting to both of them.

Then he bit Arion through his shirt.

Arion went still.

Dean smiled against the fabric.

"You said biting wasn’t part of the exercise."

"It isn’t."

"Then stop giving me opportunities."

Arion released one long breath.

"Another thirty minutes."

Dean lifted his head in outrage.

"That was retaliation."

"Yes."

"Completely unethical."

"You bit me."

"You deserved it."

Arion started dragging him back toward the center of the training floor.

Dean planted his heels uselessly against the mat.

"I am filing a complaint."

"With whom?"

Dean considered it.

"Your mother."

Arion paused.

Dean smiled.

Finally, a threat with measurable effect.

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