Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Thomas stared at her.

Sylvia was already looking past him toward the palace with the focused expression of someone who had converted emotional disaster into a practical errand and now expected the world to cooperate.

”You want to drink,” Thomas said.

”Yes.”

”With me.”

”Yes.”

”After meeting me properly for the first time in a garden where you nearly walked into a fountain.”

Sylvia pointed at the fountain without looking at it. ”That was not my fault. It was placed aggressively.”

”It is decorative.”

”That is how it lowers your guard.”

Thomas looked at her for a long moment, then said, very carefully, ”You should not trust strangers.”

Sylvia turned back to him. ”I don’t.”

”You just invited me to drink with you.”

”You’re not a stranger.”

”I am fairly certain we have exchanged fewer than ten complete sentences.”

”You are someone Dean knows, Arion trusts, and apparently the sort of man who catches exhausted women before they lose a fight with palace landscaping.” She lifted one hand and began counting on her fingers. ”That is enough verification for today.”

Thomas’s mouth curved faintly despite himself. ”That is a low security threshold.”

”No, that is efficient delegation.” Sylvia tapped her temple. ”There is only so much brain I can use in one day, and most of mine was spent convincing Dean that eloping into an infected restricted zone would upset his father.”

”It would upset several people.”

”Yes, but Lucas matters because he can make disappointment sound like a medical condition.” Sylvia shivered theatrically. ”I have seen Dean fight nobles, alphas, bureaucrats, and one malfunctioning hotel door. Lucas says one gentle sentence, and suddenly Dean looks like he personally betrayed civilization.”

Thomas considered that and nodded. ”Parents have an unfair advantage.”

”You sound like someone whose mother is terrifying.”

”She is.”

”Excellent. Then you understand.” Sylvia stepped around him and began walking toward the terrace doors with renewed purpose. ”Come on.”

Thomas did not move immediately. ”I have to speak with Andrea.”

Sylvia stopped and turned halfway back, her expression losing some of its manic brightness.

”Do you want to?”

Thomas looked toward the palace, toward the corridors where Andrea was somewhere inside, beautiful and furious and perhaps already preparing the version of the conversation in which he became the wounded party.

”No,” Thomas said.

Sylvia studied him for a second, then nodded once with the absolute certainty of someone who considered the matter solved. ”Then off to drink we go.”

”It is not that simple.”

”It almost never is.” She turned again. ”But you asked if you wanted to. You don’t. That means you need at least one glass before you go do the horrible, necessary thing anyway.”

Thomas followed this time, though he did so with the faint confusion of a man being led into disobedience by someone significantly smaller, less politically placed, and far too confident for the circumstances.

”I am not avoiding him,” he said.

Sylvia waved a hand. ”Obviously not. You’re emotionally pre-processing. Very respectable. Probably military-approved if we use the right words.”

”That sounds fabricated.”

”Most useful things are.”

They crossed the garden path together, Sylvia careful now to keep a respectful distance from the fountain while pretending she had not changed course because of it. Thomas noticed and chose not to mention it. He was apparently learning self-preservation.

At the terrace steps, a passing attendant slowed and bowed. ”Lord Lancaster. Lady Sylvia.”

Sylvia straightened with sudden, alarming dignity. ”We require wine.”

The attendant blinked. ”Of course, my lady. Would you prefer the east salon or—”

”Somewhere with chairs, alcohol, and no wedding planners.”

The attendant absorbed that with the professional calm of palace staff who had clearly survived worse. ”The small blue parlor is currently unoccupied.”

”Perfect.”

Thomas looked down at her. ”You know where that is?”

”No. But I said ’perfect’ because confidence creates pathways.”

The attendant, to his credit, did not react. ”I can escort you.”

”Wonderful.” Sylvia looked up at Thomas, then added with cheerful brutality, ”Also, he’s paying.”

Thomas blinked.

The attendant looked politely at nothing.

”I am?”

”Yes.”

”For the wine you requested?”

”You’re seven feet tall, noble, tragic, and clearly rich enough to look sad in tailored clothes. I am Dean’s emotionally exhausted civilian friend who almost drowned in a fountain. This is basic resource distribution.”

Thomas stared at her.

Then, for the second time in less than ten minutes, he laughed.

It came more easily this time. Still quiet, still tired, but less broken at the edges. Sylvia looked deeply pleased with herself, as if she had filed a successful report.

”I can pay,” Thomas said.

”Excellent. Healing has begun.”

”I am not sure this qualifies as healing.”

”It qualifies as step one. Step two is drinking. Step three is you telling me nothing confidential while somehow looking less like a doomed statue.”

Thomas followed her into the palace, the attendant leading them toward the small blue parlor through a side corridor that smelled faintly of beeswax and summer flowers. The lights were already lit inside, soft and golden, throwing warmth over blue walls, silver trim, and a low table arranged with cut crystal glasses.

Within minutes, wine arrived.

Sylvia dropped into a chair as if she had personally defeated the day and accepted a glass from the attendant with grave appreciation.

Thomas remained standing for half a second too long.

Sylvia pointed at the chair opposite her. ”Sit before I start diagnosing you again.”

He sat.

The chair looked dangerously insufficient beneath him but held.

Sylvia lifted her glass. ”To not falling into fountains.”

Thomas picked up his own glass. ”To aggressive landscaping.”

She smiled. ”See? You’re learning.”

They drank.

For a little while, neither of them said anything important. That was perhaps why it helped. Sylvia spoke about Dean’s wedding panic, Arion’s suspicious calm, Boreas apparently learning how to open doors, and the horrifying possibility that Minerva, Lucas, Serathine, and Mia might form a planning committee powerful enough to violate several treaties.

Thomas listened.

He asked questions when appropriate.

He laughed once when Sylvia described Dean’s plan to hide inside the wardrobe during fittings, only for Arion to point out that the tailor would simply measure the wardrobe too.

The wine was good. Of course it was. Alamina did not seem like the sort of empire that allowed bad wine near its small blue parlors.

After half a glass, Sylvia’s energy softened from manic to merely animated. She set her glass down and looked at Thomas more gently.

”You know,” she said, ”you don’t have to tell me anything. I mean that.”

”I know.”

”But I’m going to say one thing, and then you can ignore me because I am a beta with no official authority and questionable fountain awareness.”

Thomas’s mouth curved. ”Go on.”

”If someone hurts you quietly for long enough, it starts feeling embarrassing to admit it hurt. Like you should have noticed earlier, or stopped it faster, or been smarter.” Sylvia shrugged, but her eyes stayed steady. ”That’s nonsense, obviously. People are very talented at becoming disasters slowly.”

Thomas looked down at the wine in his glass.

The words should not have landed as precisely as they did.

”And if the disaster is beautiful?” he asked quietly.

Sylvia’s mouth twisted. ”Then people take longer to admit it’s still a disaster.”