Arion shut down.
It happened in layers, first the edge went blunt, then the heat under his skin stopped prowling and started sinking, then his eyes lost that sharp, feral brightness and turned heavier, slower, like the world had become distant enough to be tolerated.
Seven watched it with the exact expression of a man who had seen too many princes insist they were fine until their bodies proved otherwise.
He had not used only inhibitors.
He'd used a mix.
A pharmacological cocktail that, if Seven had injected it into a normal person, would have knocked them out like a sack of stone.
The kind that could probably knock down a horse.
On Arion, it merely made him… human.
Barely.
Arion's head lifted from Dean's lap with visible effort. His hands, still on the carpet, flexed once, then went still. His breathing slowed into something controlled and heavy, the aftertaste of rut dulled by chemistry and willpower.
