Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Chapter 359: Chapter 359: No Openings

The first thing Sebastian did after leaving Arion and Dean’s palace was return to his town mansion, send his driver, Mattias, on break for the day, and message Melanie, his chief secretary, to prepare the jet for the next morning.

He was not going to waste time.

His duty was in Palatine. His home was in Palatine. His work was in Palatine. Dean had Arion now, and as much as Sebastian had hoped it would take a little longer, his younger brother was already bonded, already collared, and very much in love with his husband.

Arion, for all his impossible height and imperial arrogance, was also very clearly at Dean’s feet.

Sebastian could not blame him for that.

A dominant alpha was the most devoted creature alive when it came to their mate.

That, unfortunately, was part of the problem.

He entered his bedroom, undressed with mechanical efficiency, and stepped into the shower before his mind could circle the dinner too many times and turn worry into obsession.

The water struck his shoulders, hot enough to sting.

Sebastian lowered his head beneath it and braced both hands against the tile.

The words from dinner moved through his skull in orderly lines, which was somehow worse than panic. This was analysis, cold and relentless, and Sebastian had been trained far too well to ignore it.

The truth was that he did like Nero. Well... not romantically. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But Nero had always occupied a strange place in Sebastian’s mind, somewhere between family-adjacent danger, impossible royal complication, and the boy who had grown too quiet too young because everyone had discovered he could kill monsters before he was old enough to be trusted with his own heartbreak.

Sebastian had liked him.

He had trusted him in limited, careful ways.

He had even, in some distant future he had never allowed himself to touch too closely, wondered if time might make Nero easier to meet.

Then the confession had happened.

I like you.

Sebastian closed his eyes.

He had known the door was there.

That was the part he hated admitting.

He had known it in the way Nero looked at him, stayed close without touching, and went still whenever Sebastian spoke to other people with charm that made politics easier. He had known it and hoped, with a cowardice he disliked in himself, that if he never opened the door, Nero would eventually walk away from it.

Instead, Nero had opened it himself.

And Sebastian had handled it badly.

He could admit that now, alone under hot water with no one watching him be honest.

Sebastian’s fingers tightened against the tile.

The memory returned with perfect clarity.

Nero bracketing him against the corridor’s wall.

Purple eyes empty of warmth.

That awful, soft voice near his ear.

As if your consent is the only thing that matters here.

Sebastian’s breath caught despite himself.

He hated that too.

He hated that his body remembered the fear before his mind could tame it. Hated that, even now, with water pounding against his skin and security around the mansion, some part of him still felt the cold wall at his back and Nero’s hands on either side of his head.

Sebastian lifted his head and opened his eyes.

"No," he said quietly.

The word disappeared beneath the water, but he felt it settle in his chest.

No.

He would not give Nero an opening.

Not one.

Nero had asked to be strangers.

Very well.

Sebastian would give him exactly that.

He turned off the water and reached for a towel.

By the time he stepped out of the bathroom, steam rolling behind him, his phone was waiting on the counter with three new messages.

One from Dean.

Tell me when you get home.

Sebastian stared at it, then typed back:

I am home. Stop hovering through your husband.

Dean’s reply came almost immediately.

I am hovering independently.

Despite himself, Sebastian’s mouth curved.

Then another message arrived.

From Melanie.

Jet confirmed for 8:30. The Palatine office informed. Security rotation updated. Shall I notify the Grand Duke’s household?

Sebastian’s smile faded.

He typed:

No. Do not notify Father or Papa yet. Mark the return as administrative. No medical flag, no security escalation visible to family channels.

A pause.

Then Melanie replied:

Understood. Should I ask questions now or after coffee?

Sebastian let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

After coffee.

Then he added:

Also, if anyone from a temple institution requests a meeting, call, private blessing, consultation, protective escort, vision clarification, or "urgent spiritual guidance," decline and forward directly to me, Prince Arion, and Commander Hendrik.

Melanie’s reply took longer this time.

That bad?

Sebastian looked at the screen.

Then wrote:

Possibly useless panic. Possibly not. Either way, no private access.

Understood.

He set the phone down and dressed slowly, choosing comfortable house clothes.

When he returned to the bedroom, the city outside the windows was quiet. Roslew glittered beneath the night, bright and calm and unaware that people in sealed rooms were discussing its fall as if cities could be reduced to lines on a projection.

Sebastian stood there for a long moment, towel still on his shoulders, his damp hair resting on it, and thought of Lucas.

Of Trevor.

Of the way they had looked after Dean’s wedding, tired but happy in the fragile, cautious way people become happy after months of holding their breath. They had earned that. Both of them. They had carried enough impossible things: Palatine, timelines, dominants, children, a greedy former emperor, wars that had nearly happened, and futures that had needed to be survived before they arrived.

They deserved a few days of peace.

Sebastian would not be the one to take that from them until there was something real to hand over.

His phone buzzed again.

Dean: Are you angry at me?

Sebastian closed his eyes.

His little brother, newly married and newly returned from a honeymoon interrupted by prophecy and politics, was still trying to reach across the distance and check whether the hurt had landed where he feared.

Sebastian picked up the phone.

Yes.

He sent it.

Then, before Dean could spiral, he added:

But not because you told me.

Dean’s typing bubble appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

Sebastian waited.

Finally: That is only mildly reassuring.

Sebastian replied: It was only meant to be mildly reassuring.

A pause.

Then Dean sent: I love you.

Sebastian looked at the words until his chest hurt.

I know.

Then, softer because Dean deserved it:

I love you too. Sleep.

Dean sent back:

You first.

Sebastian laughed.

He placed the phone face down on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed.

Sleep would not come easily.

That was fine.

He had survived worse than a sleepless night.

He had survived inheritance negotiations at sixteen, border councils at nineteen, and the exhausting weight of being the first son of Lucas and Trevor Fitzgeralt, which meant everyone expected grace, strength, and an alarming capacity for not falling apart in public.

He could survive temple visions.

He could survive Nero’s obsession.

He could survive his own fear.

What he would not do was give Nero a path back into his life through prophecy, pity, guilt, or terror.

Sebastian looked toward the dark window.

Somewhere beyond Roslew, in Saha, Nero existed like a storm held behind glass. Eighteen. Soon nineteen. Too young, too powerful, too wounded, too certain when certainty was the last thing he should be allowed.

Sebastian’s jaw tightened.

If there was any chance the temple’s reports were true, if there was any chance Nero could become the disaster those visions feared, then Sebastian’s answer had to be clearer than it had ever been.

If that day never came, then so be it.

He lay back on the bed without turning off the lamp.

The room remained lit, quiet, and watchful.

Sebastian closed his eyes and made himself a promise.

Nero would not get close enough to mistake his feelings again.