Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

"My mate," he said.

The new gland at Sylvia’s nape throbbed.

Thomas felt it. His eyes darkened, and his entire body went still with the brutal discipline of a man holding himself by the throat.

Sylvia resented that a little.

She stepped closer.

Thomas did not move away, but he did not reach for her either. His hands remained at his sides, fingers curled, every line of him saying he wanted and refused in the same breath.

"Tom."

"I am here."

"I know." She lifted both hands slowly and placed them against his chest, over the fresh black shirt Florian had brought him. "That is the problem. You are here like a wall again."

His mouth tightened. "You need walls."

"I need a chair. Maybe soup. Possibly a nap. I do not need you glaring at harmless beta cooks because they offered me food."

"He was too cheerful."

"John?"

"Yes."

"Thomas, he looked like a man mourning citrus."

"That does not mean harmless."

Sylvia stared at him.

His expression did not change.

Then, because apparently her life had become ridiculous enough to allow this, she laughed.

It was small. Tired. A little rough around the edges. Her nape pulsed with it, and Thomas’s field softened immediately, as if the sound had been handed directly to his bones.

His eyes lowered to her mouth.

"You are impossible," she whispered.

"Yes."

"No argument?"

"No."

That made her smile fade.

Sylvia’s hands tightened in his shirt.

"I became this because of you."

Thomas went completely still.

She felt it in her palms before she saw it on his face.

"Sylvia."

"No, let me say it." Her throat tightened, but she kept going. "I became a dominant omega because of you. Not because I woke up one morning and thought, ’You know what would improve my already complicated life? A new gland and seven medical bracelets.’"

His breath shook once.

"If I had not loved you," she said, softer now, "if I had not been with you, I would never have thought about it. I was beta. I had my life. I had no reason to accept Nero’s offer. I only thought about changing because I saw what happened to you when you were tired. When your pheromones recoiled. When you came back from the field and pretended you were fine because everyone needed you to be fine."

Thomas’s eyes closed.

She leaned closer. "I hated not being able to help."

"You helped."

"Not like this."

"You should not have had to."

"I know." Her voice trembled. "But I chose. I chose because you were on the floor bleeding, and I thought if I stayed what I was, I might lose you."

Thomas opened his eyes.

There was grief in them and guilt. And something possessive enough to make the room feel smaller.

"I told you that you were enough," he said. "I meant it."

"I know."

His jaw tightened. "Then why does it feel like I failed to make you believe me?"

Sylvia’s new field stirred, reaching for the wound in that sentence before she knew how to stop it.

This time, she did not pull it back.

Thomas inhaled sharply as it brushed him.

"Because fear is rude," she said. "It does not care if people we love say the right things. It just keeps repeating the ugly ones."

Thomas stared at her.

Sylvia lifted one hand from his chest and touched his jaw. "You did not make me feel lacking. The world did. Andrea did. Every field rotation where I watched you hurt and could only stand there did. You were the only person telling me I did not have to become useful to be loved."

His eyes darkened.

"And now," she continued, "I am useful. Fine. Horrifying, but fine. That does not mean I stopped hearing you."

Thomas’s hand rose slowly, stopping near her waist. "May I?"

That nearly broke her.

"Yes, Tom."

His arm came around her with painful care, holding her. Even restrained, his relief washed through her, dark and warm and terrified.

She pressed her forehead against his chest.

"I am not stupid," she said.

"I never said you were."

"You imply it when you look at every dominant alpha like they arrived with kidnapping paperwork."

His chest shifted under a reluctant breath that almost became a laugh.

Sylvia tilted her head back. "If anyone does anything, I will yell."

Thomas’s expression changed immediately.

"Do not yell."

"There it is."

"Sylvia."

"I know you hate it."

His hand tightened at her back. "I do not hate it."

"You do. You used to glare at me like I had declared war."

"You screamed in the hallway because I said the tea was too sweet."

"I was proving a point."

"You were irritating me."

"I was flirting."

"You were assaulting my nervous system."

She smiled despite herself. "It worked."

"It awakened every instinct I have to fight."

"I know," she said, and the humor softened. "You told me."

He looked down at her.

Before all this, before Nero, before Andrea, before medical collars and official lies, Sylvia had once screamed his name across a quiet palace corridor because he had annoyed her and because she had enjoyed watching the unshakeable Commander Lancaster lose half his composure.

Thomas had gone white with fear.

Later, in a room with the door shut and his hands clenched so tightly behind his back she had thought he might bruise himself, he had told her what screaming did to him. How it cut through training. How it made his field rise before thought. How every instinct he had read danger, attack, protect, and kill.

She had stopped after that.

Now she touched his cheek and said, "I would not scream to tease you anymore."

"I know."

"But if someone tried to take me, I would scream loud enough to make your ancestors rise."

Thomas’s eyes closed.

His field wrapped around her.

"I would come," he said. "No matter where or who stood between."

Sylvia’s chest ached. "I know, Tom."

His forehead lowered to hers, careful of the collar, careful of every new piece of her. "That is what frightens me."

She understood.

He was not only afraid someone would take her.

He was afraid of what he would become getting her back.

Sylvia’s fingers curled into his shirt. "Then we plan."

His eyes opened.

"We make rules," she said. "I learn what interest feels like, what pressure feels like, what threat feels like. Dean teaches me what he can. Seven complains. Your mother terrifies people. Florian follows us like an offended shadow."

Thomas’s mouth moved faintly.

"And you," she said, tapping his chest once, "tell me when your body is reacting before your mind agrees with it."

"That may be often."

"I have noticed."

"I will try."

"No. You will do it."

His brows lifted slightly.

Sylvia smiled. "I am your mate, apparently. I can be unreasonable too."

The word "mate" moved between them differently this time.

Thomas’s hand came up to cover hers against his chest. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, you can be unreasonable."

Her throat tightened again.

The new scent in her body stirred, faint and uncertain, warm under rain and something floral not yet opened. Thomas went still when he felt it, his control locking down on reflex.

Sylvia saw.

She reached up and touched his mouth with two fingers.

"Do not run away from it," she said.

His eyes were very dark. "I do not want to overwhelm you."

"Then don’t. Stay and don’t."

"That is harder."

"I know." She smiled faintly. "I am giving you difficult orders because you respond well to command."

He huffed once.

He stood there in the soft bedroom of his Roslew villa, wounded and possessive and frightened of his own want, and let Sylvia’s new scent exist between them without turning it into urgency.

Without turning it into a mark.

Without turning it into another decision made in fear.

Sylvia leaned into him fully this time.

His arms closed around her.

"If I became this because of you," she whispered, "then you have to help me live with it."

Thomas’s voice was rough against her hair. "I will."

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