Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Four days after Snake Island, Amaru was awake.

That information had arrived shortly after breakfast and immediately rearranged everyone’s schedule.

Seven had warned them that once the infected-beast pheromones cleared his system, Amaru could regain consciousness anywhere between several hours and several days later. His metabolism had been suppressed for too long to predict anything precisely, and the medical team in Saha had spent most of the intervening time correcting dehydration, nutritional deficiencies, and the lingering effects of whatever else Claudia had used inside the chamber.

The important part was that Amaru had woken coherently.

He knew his name.

He knew where he had been.

He remembered the year.

He understood that he was now in Saha and had apparently accepted that information without attempting to tear apart the medical suite.

Even better, the examinations had confirmed something Dean had been afraid to ask during the first hours after extraction.

Amaru still had his scent glands.

Dean had read the report twice.

The glands had been repeatedly suppressed, injected around and chemically manipulated, but they were physically intact. Considering what Ashar had done to other dominants who threatened him, that alone qualified as better news than Dean had expected. Losing functional scent glands could destroy the biological regulation of any secondary gender; with dominants, whose entire endocrine and pheromonal systems operated at greater intensity, the psychological deterioration could become frighteningly fast.

Amaru had been spared that.

Whether Claudia had done so out of necessity rather than mercy was another question.

Dean suspected necessity.

He stood outside the private medical wing with Arion while Hunter spoke quietly with the Saharian security officer stationed near the lift. The facility occupied part of a secluded palace complex, modern enough that almost nothing about it resembled the ornate architecture visible outside its windows. Pale stone had given way to clean white walls, dark glass, and soft recessed lighting, while every door beyond the reception area required biometric clearance.

Nero arrived seven minutes late.

Dean knew because Nero announced it himself.

"I am seven minutes late because apparently abandoning one administrative meeting creates six more."

Dean turned.

Nero approached down the corridor in a fitted black suit edged discreetly in purple at the collar, his long white hair partially tied back and the remainder falling around his face. He carried a tablet beneath one arm and looked offensively composed for someone opening the conversation with a complaint.

Dean looked at the tablet.

"Is that the administration you supposedly suffered through?"

Nero glanced down as if mildly surprised to discover it still in his hand.

"I finished it."

"Then why are you complaining?"

"Because I had to finish it."

Dean stared at him.

Nero stared back.

Arion remained beside Dean with the expression of a man who had decided neither participant required assistance.

Nero continued, "Father also specifically instructed me not to bother Chris with any of it."

Dean smiled.

"There it is."

"It was malicious."

"It was parenting."

"I am almost twenty-two."

"And yet."

Nero narrowed his purple eyes. "You are enjoying this far too much for someone who dragged me out of Saha in the first place."

"You volunteered before Arion finished explaining."

"Under duress."

Hunter walked past them toward the medical doors.

"You were smiling when you landed."

Nero turned his head.

"Hunter."

"Yes, Your Highness?"

"Your contribution was unnecessary."

Hunter continued walking.

Dean laughed.

Nero sighed with enough theatrical suffering to suggest the entire Saharian administration had personally conspired against him, then finally tucked the tablet beneath his arm more securely.

Dean knew what it was that made Nero’s complaining entertaining rather than irritating. He complained about administration, schedules, ceremonies, and meetings while completing every piece of work expected from him and usually several things that were not. Nero had his own palace, his own administrative district, and enough responsibility that his disappearance to Snake Island had created real consequences.

He simply believed performing those consequences silently would be a waste.

Nero’s attention shifted past Dean toward Arion.

For a moment, the humor faded.

"What happened to your eyes?"

Arion looked at him.

Dean turned as well.

"What?"

Nero stepped slightly closer, studying him with the same concentration he had used on Duncan before deciding not to kill him.

"Nothing. They just look darker."

Arion’s eyes had always been dark gold, but under the cool medical lighting they appeared almost bronze, the color deeper around the pupil than Dean remembered.

Dean leaned closer.

Arion allowed the inspection with visible patience.

"They look normal."

Nero tilted his head. "Not quite."

Arion glanced toward the reflective glass beside them, then back at Nero. "I have been sleeping badly."

Dean frowned immediately.

"You said you were sleeping."

Arion touched the back of Dean’s neck before the interrogation could properly begin.

"I am fine."

Nero continued looking at him for another second.

Then his expression relaxed.

"Probably the light."

That was reasonable.

Four days of interrupted sleep, healing from the fight, repeated medical checks after the exposure on Snake Island, and too many hours discussing Claudia could explain quite a lot.

Dean filed the observation away anyway.

A physician emerged through the inner doors before he could ask anything else.

"Your Highnesses."

All three turned.

The doctor inclined her head first toward Nero, then Dean and Arion.

"Prince Amaru has been awake for approximately three hours. He has eaten a small amount, tolerated the neurological examination, and spoken with the psychiatric consultant."

"Results?" Dean asked.

"Encouraging."

She opened the tablet in her hand.

"He is oriented to time, place, and identity. Long-term memory appears intact from preliminary testing. There are gaps surrounding periods of heavy medication, which we expected, but no evidence so far of severe cognitive impairment."

"And the scent glands?" Dean asked, despite already reading the report.

"Structurally intact."

The physician continued. "There is scarring around both glands and evidence of repeated injection sites, but no surgical removal and no significant necrosis. Function is suppressed at present, partly from prolonged chemical interference and partly because we are keeping his pheromonal output low while his system stabilizes."

Nero’s expression had become more serious.

"Does he know who brought him here?"

"Yes."

That made Dean pause.

"How much does he know?"

"That you entered the Veyra residence and removed him after discovering the medical containment. We did not discuss Draxil’s current political situation beyond confirming that King Ashar is alive."

"Did he ask?"

"He asked several questions. We told him the people responsible for his extraction would answer anything political."

Arion finally spoke.

"Did he request to see us?"

"Yes."

The physician opened the inner doors.

Hunter stayed outside. There was no need to crowd a man who had spent years under controlled confinement with another armed security officer unless Amaru demonstrated a reason for it.

Nero fell into step beside Dean.

"You first."

Dean looked at him. "Why?"

"You were the one who wanted to find him."

"You crossed an ocean to stab his guard."

"Technically, Duncan survived."

"That is not an argument in your favor."

Arion placed one hand at Dean’s back and steered him through the door before the discussion developed further.

The medical suite was larger than Dean expected and deliberately unlike a hospital room. A sitting area occupied one side beside broad windows overlooking winter gardens, while the medical equipment remained concentrated near the bed at the opposite wall. Nothing was hidden, but nothing dominated the space either.

Amaru was not in the bed.

He sat in an armchair near the windows.

Dark hair had been washed and loosely tied at his nape, revealing the narrow medical patches placed over scent glands. He wore soft black trousers and a dark grey shirt provided by the palace, sleeves pushed halfway along his forearms. Four days of proper hydration and nutrition had improved his appearance, but he was still thin enough that the bones of his wrists showed more sharply than they should.

He looked up when the door opened.

His gaze moved first to Arion.

Then Dean.

Then Nero.

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