Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Seven examined the broken collar for a very long time.

Thomas stood beside Sylvia’s chair with the rigid composure of a man prepared to accept execution but unwilling to apologize for the circumstances leading to it.

Sylvia sat beneath the medical scanner in a fresh robe, the new mark at her nape uncovered and faintly tender, while Seven’s entire team pretended not to notice the bruises visible above Thomas’s collar.

The pretense was not convincing.

"The protective barrier was designed to resist an infected dominant omega," Seven said eventually.

Thomas remained silent.

"It was reinforced with pheromone-treated steel."

Still nothing.

Seven lifted one half of the destroyed clasp between two fingers. "You tore it apart with your teeth."

"I was not entirely myself."

"You were yourself enough to complete a permanent mating bond."

Sylvia raised a hand. "In his defense—"

"No," Seven said.

Her hand lowered.

One of the younger physicians turned toward a monitor before his expression betrayed him. Another became intensely interested in Sylvia’s blood-pressure readings.

Seven placed the ruined collar on the examination table and looked at Thomas.

"Sit."

"I am not the patient."

"You are now."

Thomas’s expression suggested that several international laws were being violated, but he sat in the second chair.

Sensors were fixed to his wrists, throat, and chest. Sylvia watched with considerable satisfaction as Seven attached a final monitor near his temple.

"Is that necessary?" Thomas asked.

"No," Seven replied. "But it improves my mood."

The examinations lasted nearly two hours.

Blood was drawn from both of them. Ether fields were measured separately and then together. Sylvia’s gland was scanned repeatedly, the newly formed bond mapped while Thomas sat close enough for their scents to settle naturally around one another.

Every result produced another quiet exchange between the physicians.

Sylvia had begun to suspect something was wrong when Seven finally removed his glasses and looked between them.

"You are stable."

Thomas leaned forward. "Define stable."

"Her gland is no longer behaving like an artificial structure under constant stress. The bond has integrated it into her endocrine and ether systems."

Sylvia touched the mark carefully. "So it is permanent."

"The gland was already permanent. The bond has made it functional."

"And the mark?"

"Healthy. Deep, but clean. No tearing, no abnormal inflammation, and no evidence of rejection."

Thomas’s shoulders loosened by a fraction.

Seven turned a screen toward them. Two lines moved across it, one darker and heavier than the other, rising and settling in coordinated patterns.

"Your fields are regulating each other," he explained. "Sylvia’s scent output is no longer fluctuating unpredictably. Your dominant field provides an external stabilizing pressure, while her bond response is reducing the chronic overactivity in yours."

Thomas frowned. "There was nothing wrong with my field."

Every physician in the room looked at him.

Sylvia patted his arm. "Tom."

Seven’s expression remained professionally neutral. "Commander, your baseline readings suggested that you had been living in a state of controlled physiological aggression for most of your adult life."

"I am a dominant alpha."

"You were one inconvenience away from becoming a natural disaster."

Sylvia nodded. "That sounds accurate."

Thomas looked betrayed.

Seven continued before he could object. "Your hormone levels have normalized. Your resting heart rate is lower. Your field no longer reacts to every unfamiliar alpha in the corridor as though territorial combat is imminent."

"They could be threats."

"They are laboratory assistants."

"That does not exclude them."

Seven breathed through his nose.

Sylvia covered Thomas’s hand with hers. The heavier line on the monitor settled almost immediately.

Every member of the medical team watched it happen.

Thomas looked at the screen and then at her fingers resting over his.

"You are more balanced than you have likely been in your entire life," Seven said. "Both of you are."

Sylvia searched his face. "And I am healthy?"

Seven looked down at her final results.

"Yes."

The word was so simple that Sylvia did not understand it at first.

Her throat tightened unexpectedly.

Thomas’s hand turned beneath hers, enclosing her fingers.

Seven’s voice softened. "Your case remains unique. We have no long-term data for a beta who developed a functional omega gland after infection and then formed a permanent bond with a dominant alpha. You will require full laboratory work every four months."

"For how long?" Sylvia asked.

"Until we have enough evidence to decide whether annual monitoring is safe."

"So forever."

"Possibly."

She considered that. "Can I threaten the physicians during those visits?"

"No."

"Can Thomas?"

"No."

Thomas said nothing, which was not the same as agreement.

Seven removed the final sensor from Sylvia’s wrist. "You may go home."

Thomas stood immediately.

Sylvia remained seated.

"Home?" she repeated.

Seven glanced toward her. "Unless you have developed an attachment to my examination room."

"No."

"Then leave before someone discovers another question."

Thomas lifted her before she could stand on her own.

"I can walk."

"You were examined for two hours."

"I was sitting for most of it."

"You lost blood."

"Three small vials."

"Four."

Sylvia looked over his shoulder as he carried her from the room. "Thank you, Seven."

Seven waved without looking up from the ruined collar.

"Bring him back if he attempts to bite through any further medical equipment."

Thomas continued walking.

"I heard that," he said.

"That was the intention."

Their house felt different when they returned.

Perhaps nothing had changed. The entry hall remained quiet, the late-afternoon light still crossing the dark wooden floor, and Thomas’s coat was placed on the same hook he used every day.

But Sylvia entered without a medical collar.

Without a physician following behind her.

Without wondering whether her body would turn against itself before morning.

Thomas set her down only after they reached the sitting room.

She touched her bare nape.

"Healthy," she said quietly.

Thomas stood in front of her, his gaze fixed on the mark he had left there. The sight of it still changed his expression into one of possessive, shaken, and almost disbelieving.

"Healthy," he agreed.

Sylvia smiled. "You look disappointed."

"I am attempting not to carry you back upstairs."

"That does not sound like disappointment."

"No."

He bent and kissed her forehead, lingering there until her arms folded around his waist.

For several moments, neither of them spoke.

Then Thomas said, "Heather wants to meet you."