"I hate you," Dean informed him, the words lacking even a shred of the bite required to make them believable. "I hate your face, I hate your hair, and I especially hate that you've turned 'honesty' into a psychological weapon."
"You're still touching me," Arion pointed out, his voice a low, satisfied rumble.
"Muscle memory," Dean snapped. "Irrelevant data."
Boreas, apparently deciding that the negotiation had reached a stage of human sentimentality he no longer cared to witness, let out a long, dramatic huff. The massive dog stood, stretching with a slow grace that nearly knocked Dean off the pillows, before jumping off the bed with a heavy thud. He didn't look back as he padded toward the sun-drenched rug by the window, circling three times and collapsing into a heap of fur and indifference.
Arion didn't miss the opening.
