Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Sylvia was released from the hospital with three medical bracelets, one soft protective collar at her nape, and a list of restrictions long enough to qualify as light reading for an academic conference.

She was not discharged.

Seven had been very clear about that.

She was transferred.

Apparently, there was a difference. The difference appeared to be that instead of being monitored by hospital staff in a hospital room, she would be monitored by hospital staff in Thomas’s villa while everyone pretended that made the situation more domestic.

The villa stood in one of Roslew’s quieter royal districts, set back from the street behind black iron gates and old stone walls softened by climbing green. It was not a palace. Sylvia had expected something severe and military, all straight corridors and modern architecture.

Instead, the house was warm.

Wide windows. Pale stone. A garden spilling over the side paths in organized rebellion. Modern security cameras hidden beneath carved eaves. An old fountain in the courtyard, currently turned off because someone had clearly decided the sound of running water might irritate a newly developed omega gland.

Sylvia stared at the front doors from the car.

Thomas sat beside her, rigid with restraint.

He had insisted on helping her out himself.

Then Marianne had looked at him through the window.

He had reconsidered.

Now Florian opened the door, offered Sylvia a hand, and stepped back the moment Thomas’s gaze touched him.

Sylvia was noticing too much lately.

Thomas came around the car and placed himself at her side, close enough that his sleeve brushed hers, every line of his body said "mine" so loudly she was surprised the staff did not hear it.

Maybe they did.

The housekeeper, a composed beta woman named Mrs. Avel, greeted Sylvia at the entrance with a respectful bow. Behind her stood two maids, one cook, one medical attendant, and two security officers who kept their eyes politely lowered.

Thomas introduced them one by one.

"This is Mrs. Avel. She runs the house. If you need anything and I am unavailable, she can make it happen faster than Florian and with less arguing."

Mrs. Avel inclined her head. "Commander Lancaster is exaggerating, Lady Sylvia."

"He is not," Florian said.

Thomas ignored him. "Mara handles the east rooms. John is the kitchen lead. He has already been informed of your current dietary restrictions and hates three of them."

John, a round-faced beta man with tragic eyes, said, "No citrus near the new gland sensitivity, my lady. It is a crime against flavor, but we endure."

Sylvia blinked.

Then smiled despite herself. "Thank you."

She had never been to this house, not because Thomas would not have allowed it, but because he was usually at her apartment or sleeping in the accommodations provided by the Alaminian Imperial Palace.

Thomas’s field shifted enough for Sylvia to feel the dark edge of satisfaction beneath her skin.

That was new too.

Before, Thomas’s feelings had been things she guessed from his jaw, his hands, and the tone that meant he was one sentence away from ending someone’s career. Now, sometimes, she felt them before they reached his face.

Pride. Relief. Possession. Especially possession.

Thomas led her inside.

"The east wing has been prepared for recovery," he said. "Bedroom, sitting room, medical alcove, and garden access. Your parents have rooms across the inner courtyard if they choose to stay. Mine are in the north suite. Marianne insisted on proximity."

"Your mother insisted?" Sylvia asked.

"Yes."

"Did you argue?"

"No."

She looked at him.

He looked back. "I am healing, not suicidal."

Mrs. Avel made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh and wisely pretended it was a cough.

Thomas showed her the layout with military precision, though Sylvia suspected he had rehearsed how not to make it sound like an evacuation plan. The bedroom had been softened with pale fabrics and low light. The bed was large enough for Thomas, which meant it was absurd. Beside it stood the discreet machinery Seven had approved: non-contact scanners, filtered ventilation, scent-level monitors, an emergency medical line, and a screen that could connect directly to the palace wing.

Sylvia looked at all of it and felt the new gland at her nape pulse.

Thomas immediately moved closer.

She looked at him.

He stopped.

Not because he wanted to, but because he made himself.

That was when she understood how hard he was trying.

The staff withdrew after the tour, one by one, leaving only Florian near the door and Thomas beside her. Even Florian left after a look from Thomas that Sylvia was fairly certain had not been discussed in any employment contract.

The door closed.

Sylvia stood in the middle of the bedroom that was apparently hers now, wrapped in a soft coat, and Thomas’s entire attention wrapped around her like a second wall.

She turned toward him. "Tom."

His expression sharpened at once. "Pain?"

"No."

"Nausea?"

"No."

"Dizziness?"

"No."

"Gland pressure?"

"A little, but that is not what I meant."

His mouth closed.

Sylvia folded her arms carefully, because dramatic movements still made her body complain. "You are being strange."

"I am often strange."

"You looked at Florian like he had personally applied to steal me."

Thomas went still.

Sylvia raised a brow. "He brought you a shirt after Andrea. He is your chief of security. I assume you trust him."

"I do."

"And Mrs. Avel?"

"Yes."

"The cook?"

Thomas hesitated.

"Thomas."

"He is harmless."

"He is also beta."

"I know."

She stared at him.

He looked away first.

That, more than anything, told her this was serious.

Sylvia stepped closer. "What is happening?"

Thomas’s hand flexed once at his side. He wanted to touch her. She could feel that now too, the restrained pull of him, careful because her body was new and healing and not yet entirely predictable.

"You did not feel my pheromones before," he said.

His scent was dark warmth under steel and smoke, threaded with the ache of wanting to wrap around her and lock every door between her and the world.

Her throat went dry.

"You are unmarked," Thomas said quietly.

Sylvia’s fingers rose halfway toward the medical collar before she stopped herself.

"That is because you said you would wait."

His eyes returned to hers. "I will."

Thomas’s voice lowered. "You are a dominant omega with a new scent, unstable output, and no mark. You have no trained defenses yet. You do not know how to push someone out if they push too hard. You do not know how to tell the difference between interest, dominance, and threat before it reaches your body."

Sylvia swallowed.

"And there are dominant alphas with no conscience," he said. "Men who would not care that you chose me. Men who would decide taking you away from me was a challenge, a prize, or a correction."

Thomas looked almost ashamed of that.

"I do not think the staff would harm you," he said. "I do not think Florian would betray me. I do not think Mrs. Avel would allow anything improper to happen in this house. But my body does not care what I think yet. It feels unmarked mate and unknown scents and tells me to stand between."

Sylvia stared at him.

Then, very softly, "Mate?"

His expression changed.

"I know we have not—"

"Tom."

He stopped.

She touched his sleeve.

"You can say it."

His breath left him slowly.

"My mate," he said.