"Yours."
The word landed far lower in Dean's body than it had any right to.
It was only one word. A smug one. A possessive one. A word delivered by a man currently attached to him like a decorative curse and smelling like an entire forest had decided to move indoors.
And yet.
Dean's breath caught.
That was the first warning.
The second was subtler: a sudden weakness in his knees, not pain exactly, but that dangerous, liquid instability that came when Arion's pheromones stopped being merely oppressive and started sinking past Dean's irritation straight into biology.
Dean's hand tightened in Arion's hair.
Arion noticed immediately.
His expression changed before Dean could pretend nothing was happening. The lazy satisfaction vanished, replaced by sharp attention. His arms tightened and shifted in a single smooth motion.
"Dean?"
Dean exhaled through his nose, annoyed at the room, at Arion, and at his own body for choosing now to become melodramatic.
"Don't," he muttered.
