The next morning, Arion discovered that Dean could survive infected beasts, corrupted pheromones, swarm breaches, battlefield exhaustion, an early heat, his own family's emotional ambushes, and Arion's rut with less visible distress than he could survive the phrase, "Lucas and Mia will arrive in two hours."
Dean had been pacing for eleven minutes.
Arion knew because he had watched him cross the sitting room fourteen times while pretending not to count, one hand buried lazily in Boreas's thick fur as the malamute occupied half the sofa like an imperial war beast that had retired into luxury. Boreas, who had no understanding of wedding politics and every understanding of personal comfort, lay with his enormous head on Arion's thigh and accepted petting with the solemn gravity of a creature doing important diplomatic work.
Dean passed the low table again.
Then the windows.
Then the doors.
Then the sofa.
