Dean didn't bother denying it.
He dragged his fingers slowly through Boreas's fur again, more for the rhythm than anything else, and stared at the line where sunlight cut across the ceiling like something clean and distant from the rest of it.
"I'm thinking," he said, because there was no point pretending otherwise, "that you're going to disappear into something ugly again and expect me to sit here and behave about it."
Arion's hand tightened once, almost imperceptibly, over Dean's knee.
"That's not what I expect," he said.
"No?" Dean tilted his head, looking down at him. "Because historically, that is exactly what you expect. Everyone stands still. Everyone trusts you to come back. No one interferes with the Crown Prince while he goes to solve problems with violence and very bad odds."
Arion opened his eyes.
