Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Sylvia made a small strangled sound. ”Please don’t say things like that.”

His mouth twitched. ”I was being honest.”

”That is the problem.”

”Would you prefer I lie?”

”No. I would prefer you develop a mild fear of my survival instincts.”

Thomas looked down at her.

There was a long, quiet moment where Sylvia had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, which was humiliating because it made her feel small in a way she usually despised. She had never liked men who used size as a language. Too many alphas did. Too many noble sons bent too close, spoke too loud, reached too freely, and expected height to become authority.

Thomas did none of that.

He stood near her like a wall that had decided to ask permission before offering shelter.

”No,” he said quietly. ”I do not think I will be afraid of you.”

Sylvia’s heart stumbled.

Thomas’s eyes softened. ”But I will be careful with you.”

Sylvia looked away first because self-preservation had finally returned from whatever holiday it had taken the moment Thomas opened the door.

”Coffee,” she said, with great dignity. ”I came here for coffee.”

”Of course.”

His hand left her back.

Sylvia missed it immediately and hated herself for that.

Thomas led her toward a table near the window, not the most hidden one but not the most exposed either. From there, she could see the street and the rain-dark pavement outside, the green frames of the windows turning the world beyond them into something soft and distant. There was a candle on the table, unlit, beside a little vase with white flowers.

Not roses.

Sylvia noticed that.

She did not know why it mattered, but it did.

Thomas pulled out the chair for her.

Sylvia paused.

He paused too, as if waiting to see whether she would accept the gesture or murder him with it.

She sat.

He pushed the chair in with the care of someone handling something precious and dangerous.

Sylvia folded her hands in her lap. Her fingers were cold. Her face was still hot.

Thomas took the seat across from her, and the chair, poor thing, made a faint sound of protest beneath the sheer absurdity of him. His knees almost brushed the underside of the table, and he adjusted with the quiet patience of a man who had spent his entire adult life pretending furniture was not personally insulting him.

Sylvia watched him for two seconds too long.

Thomas noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He seemed to notice everything.

”What?” he asked.

”You are too tall for this table.”

”I am too tall for most tables.”

”That sounds inconvenient.”

”It is.”

Sylvia glanced at the chair. ”Do you want another table?”

”No.”

”You look uncomfortable.”

”I am not.”

”Thomas.”

He looked at her.

Sylvia lifted her brows.

After a second, he admitted, ”A little.”

She almost laughed.

Not because it was funny exactly, but because the sight of Thomas Lancaster, commander, dominant alpha, and political weapon in human form, sitting with his legs carefully arranged under a café table like he was trying not to frighten the furniture did something terrible and warm to her chest.

”You reserved the entire café,” she said. ”Surely you could have reserved furniture made for giants.”

”I did not want to make it obvious.”

Sylvia stared at him.

He blinked once.

Then seemed to realize what he had said.

Sylvia placed both hands flat on the table. ”Thomas.”

”Yes.”

”The café is empty.”

”Yes.”

”There is a man in the bookstore pretending to read a book upside down.”

Thomas turned his head slightly toward the window, a smile breaking through.

”It was for you to relax. Florian is quite pissed that he had to be obvious.”

Sylvia turned her head slowly toward the window.

The man in the bookstore did not move.

He did, however, turn one page of the upside-down book with the grim dignity of a soldier enduring humiliation for the stability of the realm.

Sylvia stared at him for a minute, then looked back at Thomas.

”Florian,” she repeated.

Thomas took a moment before answering, and Sylvia had the distinct impression that he was deciding whether honesty would help or make things worse.

Unfortunately, Thomas Lancaster seemed to prefer honesty even when it walked into a room carrying a knife.

”My second-in-command,” he said.

Sylvia looked at the bookstore again.

Florian had now angled the book slightly higher, as if that would make the whole performance less tragic.

”Your second-in-command,” she said carefully, ”is pretending to read upside down in a bookstore because you are on a date with me.”

Thomas’s gaze settled on her face. ”Yes.”

Sylvia’s fingers curled slightly against the tabletop.

The warmth that spread through her chest was deeply inconvenient, mostly because it arrived before she could decide whether she wanted to be embarrassed, flattered, or annoyed on Florian’s behalf.

”Does he hate me?” she asked.

”No.”

”That was too fast.”

”He doesn’t hate you.”

”But?”

Thomas leaned back a little, and the chair gave another quiet complaint beneath him. ”He believes I should have chosen a location with better sight lines, fewer reflective surfaces, and a rear exit wide enough for emergency extraction.”

Sylvia blinked, shook her head mockingly, and blinked again.

”You discussed emergency extraction for coffee?”

”I did not discuss it.”

”Thomas.”

”He discussed it.”

”With you.”

”At length.”

Sylvia pressed her lips together.

Thomas watched her with a careful expression.

She lost the battle after three seconds and laughed.

It broke out of her before she could smooth it down, sudden and bright, filling the empty little café in a way that made the young woman behind the counter lift her eyes for half a second before very wisely pretending she had not heard anything.

Thomas looked at Sylvia as if she had done something far more impressive than laughing at his suffering second-in-command.

Sylvia caught that look, and her laughter softened, becoming dangerous for entirely different reasons.

”You are ridiculous,” she said.

”I have also been told that today.”

”By Florian?”

”By Florian. By Rina, indirectly. By my mother, repeatedly over the years.”

”Your mother sounds wise.”

”She is terrifying.”

”I like her already.”

”She would like you too.”

Sylvia’s smile faltered a little.

Thomas noticed. He noticed things with the precision of a man who had made a profession out of understanding danger before it fully entered the room.

”I did not mean to pressure you,” he said.

”I know.”

”Do you?”

Sylvia looked at him.

That was the problem, perhaps.

She did know.

If another man had said it, she might have heard ambition beneath the compliment. Expectation. Some invisible hand reaching forward to place her into a future she had not agreed to. Women around court were never simply liked. They were approved, evaluated, positioned, praised in ways that sounded soft but carried the weight of contracts, alliances, and bloodlines.

Thomas did not say it like that.

He said it like the thought had crossed his mind and escaped before he could file it away somewhere safer.

”Yes,” Sylvia said, quieter than she intended. ”I know.”

Thomas held her gaze for a moment.

Then he nodded once, accepting that without pushing further.

The young woman came over with the menus then, and Sylvia nearly thanked her out loud for saving them from whatever dangerous place the conversation had been about to fall into.