Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Over the last two years, Dean had come to understand his pheromones better than before.

That was the polite way to phrase it.

The less polite way was that Dean had learned he could use almost anything as ammunition.

His field of neutralization had become stronger, steadier, and far more precise. It no longer spread like instinct alone. It obeyed him now, tightening, thinning, expanding, sharpening around command zones, injured soldiers, unstable dominants, infected residue, and whatever else the universe decided to throw at him before breakfast.

Dean refused to give Arion full credit for that.

Or the bond.

Even if it was mostly training with Arion and the bond.

Unfortunately, knowing one had become useful in a beast season did not protect one from paperwork.

Dean sat at the long table in the eastern administrative room, surrounded by his tablet, stacked folders, printed clearance forms, beast-season supply inventories, and a ceremonial approval file so boring he suspected Minerva had assigned it to him as punishment for being competent.

Across the room, Sylvia paced like a person trying not to tear a hole through the palace carpet with pure anxiety.

Dean signed another logistics approval and stared at the next page with rising hatred. ”If this document asks me one more time to confirm whether emergency tent fabric is flame-retardant, I will defect.”

Sylvia did not answer.

Dean looked up.

She had reached the window again, turned sharply, and started back toward the table. Her hands were clasped in front of her, then behind her, then at her sides, as if none of her limbs had received the same instructions.

”Sylvia.”

”I am fine.”

”You are walking like the floor owes you money.”

She stopped. ”Andrea is going to try something.”

Dean’s expression sobered.

Andrea Vale.

After years of being useless in ways that somehow still caused damage, Andrea had finally become useful for one purpose: being disposed of.

Oddly enough, for most of his life, his pheromones had been classified as limited. Stabilizing dominant alphas. Nothing more. Nothing particularly dangerous, nothing especially rare, nothing worth fear.

Or that was what Andrea had wanted everyone to believe.

Arion, Dean, and Nero had discovered otherwise.

Andrea had luring pheromones for beasts.

That explained some of their problems.

A great deal of them, actually.

Dean leaned back in his chair. ”Yes. He probably will.”

Sylvia stared at him. ”That is not comforting.”

”I was not attempting comfort. I was confirming your excellent instincts.”

”Dean.”

”What?”

”You and Arion are going on the field.”

”Yes.”

”Nero is going on the field.”

”Very dramatically, I assume.”

”Eva is going near the field with Andrea.”

”Under Sahan monitoring, Alaminian oversight, Draxil witnesses, and enough hidden sensors to make Andrea’s skeleton feel supervised.”

Sylvia’s mouth tightened. ”And Thomas is on one flank alone.”

Dean blinked once.

Ah. So that was the true center of the pacing.

Dean set the tablet down.

Thomas Lancaster had been assigned to one flank, alone in the way commanders were alone: surrounded by soldiers, systems, weapons, air support, and all the dreadful responsibility that made none of that feel like company. He was there because he was good. Because Rohan needed visibility. Because he was steady under pressure and terrifying when necessary.

And because politics had teeth.

Sylvia was a beta.

She could not go onto an active beast field. Not without protective pheromone support, not without military classification, not without becoming one more vulnerable body everyone else had to account for.

She knew that.

Knowing did not help.

”I hate this,” Sylvia said quietly.

Dean’s tone gentled. ”I know.”

”No, I hate this in a way that makes me want to be unreasonable. I hate that all of you can go because your bodies are built for disaster, and I am supposed to sit somewhere safe and wait for messages that may be delayed, filtered, or delivered by someone using the voice people use before they ruin your life.”

Dean rose from his chair.

Sylvia looked away quickly, which did not work, because Dean had known her too long to be fooled by the angle of her face.

”I am not useful there,” she said.

”You are not trained for there,” Dean corrected.

”That is a prettier sentence.”

”It is also the accurate one.”

Sylvia laughed once, small and miserable. ”Minerva would be proud.”

”Minerva assigned me emergency tent fabric approvals. She has forfeited the right to pride.”

That managed to pull a weak smile from her.

Dean came around the table and stopped in front of her. ”Thomas knows what he is doing.”

”I know.”

”Eva will be protected.”

”I know.”

”And Andrea Vale is walking into a field designed by people much worse than him.”

Sylvia looked at him. ”That should make me feel better?”

”It makes me feel better.”

”You are one of the worse people.”

Dean placed a hand over his heart. ”I am wounded.”

”You are approving flame-retardant tents while planning a battlefield trap.”

”That is governance.”

Sylvia stared at him for half a second.

Then, despite herself, she laughed.

Dean smiled faintly, then turned back toward the table when his tablet chimed.

A new message appeared from Arion.

Field assignments confirmed. Do not overwork. Also, Seven says you skipped the second dose.

Dean stared at the screen.

Sylvia leaned over his shoulder. ”Did you?”

Dean locked the tablet. ”No comment.”

”Dean.”

”I am being persecuted from multiple directions.”

”You are being medicated.”

”Again. Prettier sentence.”

Sylvia gave him a look that reminded him horribly of Minerva.

Dean sighed, reached for the medicine beside his tea, and swallowed it with as much dignity as possible.

Sylvia nodded, satisfied.

Boreas, who had been sleeping near the door with suspicious awareness, thumped his tail once.

Dean pointed at him. ”No.”

Boreas barked.

Sylvia blinked. ”Does he always do that when you take medicine?”

”He does it when I sneeze too.”

”That is adorable.”

”It is surveillance.”

”It is love.”

”It is loud.”

Sylvia smiled, then looked back toward the window, her worry returning, though softer now.

Dean followed her gaze.

Beyond the palace glass, Alamina prepared for beast season. Roads were being sealed. Command posts reinforced. Hospitals stocked. Families warned. Soldiers briefed. Dominants rotated. Omegas protected. Betas moved into roles that were no less vital for being farther from the first line of blood.

And somewhere inside those preparations, Andrea Vale thought he had been granted a chance.

Dean almost pitied him.

Then he remembered the wedding breach.

Dean returned to his chair and picked up the next administrative file.

Sylvia resumed pacing, but slower this time.

Dean glanced at the title on the screen and groaned. ”Wonderful. Water-resistant blanket procurement.”

Sylvia looked at him. ”Is it flame-retardant?”

Dean closed his eyes. ”I will banish you.”

She smiled faintly. ”You would miss me.”

”Yes,” Dean said, signing the approval. ”That is why I would make it a temporary banishment.”

”Charming.” She said, moving her eyes to the window.

Dean leaned in his chair and decided to be a danger to everyone. ”Did you ask Nero to change your secondary gender?”