Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Chapter 331: Priests.

Dean looked at his lovely husband over the breakfast table as if Arion had gone insane in the last five minutes.

He placed his fork down with great care before speaking, because stabbing the roasted tomato on his plate with unnecessary violence would have been immature.

Probably.

"You are saying," Dean said slowly, "that we, as in me and you, have to meet with the head of the temples?"

Arion raised his scarred brow, amused. "Yes."

"Like religious temples?"

"Yes."

"With priests?"

"Presumably."

"With robes?"

"Most likely."

"With blessings?"

"Almost certainly."

Dean stared at him.

Arion’s mouth twitched.

Dean leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and said with great sincerity, "I would rather eat rocks."

Arion did laugh then.

It was not loud. Arion rarely laughed loudly unless Dean had done something that severely damaged his restraint, dignity, or composure, which Dean considered one of his marital responsibilities. But it was warm enough to make the servants at the edge of the breakfast room pretend very hard that they had not heard anything.

Dean was not amused.

Well, he was a little amused.

That was not the point.

"Do not laugh at me," Dean said. "I am expressing a political boundary."

"You are expressing breakfast violence toward geology."

"Rocks are more trustworthy than priests."

Arion reached for his coffee. "In Palatine, perhaps."

Dean’s eyes narrowed. "Do not say that like Palatine was being dramatic. We had an actual war with the church."

"I know."

"Because Benedict, the very holy, very divine, very rotten high priest, decided that corrupted followers and mind control were suitable tools for spiritual leadership, and Lucas was bound to suffer forever."

Arion took one calm sip of coffee. "I also know that."

Dean pointed at him. "Then why are you saying ’head of the temples’ as if you asked me to meet an elderly flower arranger?"

"Because in Alamina, the temples are not the Palatine Church."

Dean opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Then opened it again, because he disliked when Arion was reasonable before Dean finished being outraged.

"That sounds like something a temple person would say."

Arion’s scarred brow rose higher. "I am not a temple person."

"You are defending temple people."

"Dean."

"No." Dean picked up his fork again, not to eat, but because he needed a weapon that breakfast allowed. "You cannot look at me with those dark gold eyes and expect me to calmly go sit with the head of anything religious. I grew up in Palatine. Our relationship with the church is ashes, legal reform, and my fathers making a lot of people deeply unemployed."

Arion’s amusement softened.

That was worse, because soft Arion was harder to argue with than smug Arion.

"I know," he said quietly.

Dean looked away first.

Outside the tall windows, morning light spread across the palace gardens in pale gold, touching the trimmed hedges, the white stone paths, and the fountain beyond the terrace. Ylico looked almost indecently peaceful in the mornings.

Dean hated how pretty it was.

Pretty things were often traps.

He knew. He had married one.

Arion set his cup down. "The temples here are older than the church Benedict corrupted."

Dean glanced back at him.

Arion continued, "Alamina’s temples were never absorbed into the central church structure. They stayed local, tied to old rites, harvest ceremonies, succession observances, births, funerals, and seasonal oaths. They do not have the same hierarchy Palatine fought."

"Everyone says their priests are different."

"Yes," Arion agreed. "That is why my father kept auditors in place for years."

Dean paused.

That was more comforting.

Not morally comforting, perhaps, but politically comforting.

"Your father audited the temples?"

"Of course."

"Of course," Dean repeated. "Silly me. Why trust religious officials when one can financially terrify them?"

Arion smiled faintly. "Exactly."

Dean hated that he found that reassuring.

"How many disappeared?" he asked.

"From the original temples? None."

Dean blinked.

Arion’s gaze remained steady. "Several administrators were removed for mismanagement over the years. Two were imprisoned for embezzlement. One tried to use temple land as personal collateral for gambling debts and was exiled from court for being too stupid to rehabilitate."

Dean stared.

"That one sounds very Alamina."

"He was from the western coast."

"Ah. Coastal stupidity."

"Apparently."

Dean relaxed against the chair despite himself, but only slightly, because he still had principles and those principles were currently wearing boots.

"So they are not Benedict’s people."

"No."

"Not affiliated with the church Palatine burned out."

"No."

"Not secretly waiting to chant something over me."

Arion paused.

Dean pointed the fork harder. "Arion."

"There may be a formal welcome blessing."

Dean closed his eyes.

"It is traditional."

"I hate tradition."

"You married a crown prince."

"I was distracted."

Arion’s smile turned dangerous. "By what?"

Dean opened one eye and gave him a look. "Do not fish for compliments while feeding me to priests."

"I would never feed you to priests."

"You scheduled me with them."

"I scheduled us with them."

"You are larger. They will bless you first."

"Would that comfort you?"

"No. It would give me time to find a window."

Arion laughed again, and this time Dean did stab the roasted tomato.

It burst under the fork with satisfying violence.

A servant made the heroic decision not to react.

Arion watched him with entirely too much fondness. "My love, the head of the temples is seventy-eight years old."

"Benedict was old too... spiritually."

"She is a woman."

"Evil is gender-inclusive."

"She helped shelter families during the northern flood."

Dean hesitated.

Arion noticed immediately, the bastard.

"She also opposed Andrea’s family three times in council petitions regarding temple land and inheritance rites," he added.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. "You are bribing me with Andrea-related hatred."

"I am informing you of relevant political virtue."

"She opposed Andrea?"

"Publicly."

Dean lowered his fork.

Arion’s mouth curved.

Dean leaned back, mutinous but less committed to escape than before. "What does she want?"

"To formally recognize our marriage before the original temples of Alamina and offer a welcome to you as future consort."

Dean grimaced.

Arion met his gaze across the breakfast table, sunlight catching in the sharp line of his scar and the dark gold of his eyes.

"As my husband," Arion said. "As Dean Fitzgeralt, who will one day stand beside me as empress in Alamina. She requested the meeting because the original temples still hold public influence in rural provinces. If they welcome you properly, others will follow."

Dean’s fingers loosened around the fork.

That was the problem with Arion.

He could turn something ridiculous into something painfully important with one calm explanation, and Dean had not yet found a legal way to punish him for it.

"I still do not like priests," Dean muttered.

"Is understandable."

"Or head priests."

"She is called High Matron."

"It sounds like someone who can weaponize tea and morality."

"She probably can."

Dean stared at him. "You are not helping."

"I am being honest."

"Everyone I love is too honest. It is becoming a household issue."

Arion reached across the table, palm open.

Dean looked at his hand.

Then at his face.

Then, with exaggerated reluctance, he placed his own hand in Arion’s.

Arion’s fingers closed around his, warm and steady.

"If you are uncomfortable," Arion said, "we leave."

Dean studied him. "Even if it causes offense?"

"Yes." Arion brushed his thumb over Dean’s wedding ring. "It doesn’t matter the reason. We can leave any time you want."