Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

The restaurant Nero chose did not serve wings.

Sylvia knew this because the menu had words like confit, reduction, foam, and seasonal interpretation, which meant the kitchen probably considered oil something that happened to lesser buildings.

The dining room was all dark marble, warm gold light, tall floral arrangements, and servers trained to glide instead of walk. Every table looked like it had been arranged for a diplomatic engagement or a discreet scandal between people with inherited money and excellent posture.

Sylvia stared at the room.

Then she stared at Nero.

”You said wings.”

Nero, dressed in a black coat and looking violently expensive beneath the chandelier light, gave the room one calm glance. ”Yes.”

”This place looks like it apologizes to potatoes before slicing them.”

His mouth curved faintly. ”They have a kitchen.”

”That is not the same as having wings.”

Hale stood behind them with the expression of a man who had seen empires make worse decisions, but not necessarily funnier ones.

The maître d’ approached with the polished serenity of someone prepared to greet kings, ministers, lovers, and traitors, and occasionally all four at the same table.

”Your Highness,” he said with a bow smooth enough to qualify as architecture. ”Lady Sylvia. We are honored.”

Sylvia’s soul briefly left her body at being called Lady Sylvia, but Nero only nodded.

”We’ll need a private table,” Nero said. ”And wings.”

The maître d’ did not react.

That was impressive.

There was one tiny pause. Barely there. A single lost breath in the perfect machinery of service.

”Of course, Your Highness,” he said. ”May I ask what preparation you prefer?”

Sylvia slowly turned her head.

Nero looked at her.

Sylvia looked back.

Then, because she refused to be the weak link in this disaster, she lifted her chin and said, ”Spicy. Crispy. With fries.”

Another pause.

Even smaller this time.

”Certainly,” the maître d’ replied, with the solemn dignity of a man being asked to smuggle a war criminal through a wine cellar. ”Our chef will be informed.”

Nero smiled.

Sylvia covered her mouth with her hand as they were led through the dining room.

The servers did their best not to stare.

They failed with great elegance.

Their private table was tucked beside a tall window overlooking Alamina’s evening lights, with enough distance from the rest of the room to make the conversation feel safe and enough luxury around them to make Sylvia feel underdressed despite wearing one of the nicer outfits Dean had bullied her into buying.

Nero sat across from her, entirely at ease.

Sylvia stared at him over the candle.

”You brought me to one of the fanciest restaurants in Alamina to ask for wings.”

”Yes.”

”Why?”

His expression shifted, not much, but enough.

”Because months ago, I was having a very bad night,” he said. ”And you fed me wings and fries in your apartment.”

Sylvia went still.

The teasing answer died before it reached her mouth.

Nero looked out toward the city for a moment, violet eyes catching the gold reflection of the candles. ”I remember kindness when it is offered without strategy.”

Sylvia swallowed.

”That sounds dangerously close to emotional honesty.”

”It is my last day in Alamina,” Nero said. ”I thought I could risk one sentence.”

She huffed, but her chest felt strange.

Then Nero added, ”Also, you looked sad again.”

And there it was.

Sylvia leaned back, staring at him.

”You are very rude for someone pretending to be considerate.”

”I am considerate enough to bring you to a restaurant with good wine.”

”And no wings.”

”They are solving that.”

”They are probably holding a staff emergency meeting.”

Nero’s mouth curved. ”Good. It builds character.”

Sylvia laughed despite herself.

The first course arrived because apparently even emotional support wings required diplomatic preparation. Small plates, elegant bites, sauces drawn in artistic lines, food arranged like jewelry.

Sylvia ate one thing she could not identify and had to admit it was excellent.

Nero watched her expression.

”Do not look smug.”

”You like it.”

”I like food,” Sylvia corrected. ”That does not absolve you.”

Then, after a suspiciously long interval, two servers arrived carrying silver-covered trays.

They placed them down with the gravity of presenting royal decrees.

The covers lifted.

Wings.

Actual wings.

Golden, crisp, lacquered in a dark spicy glaze, placed on porcelain, like the kitchen had decided that if disgrace was inevitable, it would at least be plated beautifully. Beside them sat fries in a narrow silver basket, impossibly perfect, dusted with herbs no wing restaurant had ever needed.

Sylvia stared.

Then she whispered, ”This is the most expensive emotional support meal I have ever seen.”

Nero picked up a wing. ”You helped me when I was suffering from love.”

Sylvia froze.

He bit into the wing calmly, as if he had not just pulled the floor out from under the conversation.

She reached for her wine. ”We are not calling it that.”

”We are.”

”No, we are calling it poor judgment with romantic seasoning.”

”That is longer.”

”It is more accurate.”

Nero looked at her, amused, but gentler than before. ”Thomas?”

Sylvia nearly dropped her glass.

Across the room, a server performed the heroic act of pretending not to hear anything.

Sylvia lowered the glass slowly. ”You are too observant.”

”Yes.”

”That was not a compliment.”

”I know.”

She looked down at the wings because they were safer than Nero’s face. ”It’s not the same.”

”It is.”

”It isn’t.” Her voice came out quieter than she meant. ”You are a prince in love with someone impossible. I am a beta in love with a dominant alpha who needs things I cannot give him.”

Nero said nothing for a moment.

The restaurant continued around them, soft music, low conversation, and the elegant clink of crystal.

Then Nero said, ”Thomas Lancaster does not strike me as a man who mistakes biology for loyalty.”

Sylvia’s throat tightened.

”You don’t know that.”

”I know men like him,” Nero replied. ”He would rather suffer cleanly than take what is convenient.”

That was exactly the problem.

Sylvia looked out the window, blinking too fast.

”He is kind,” she said. ”That makes it worse.”

”Yes,” Nero said. ”Kind people are unbearable.”

A laugh escaped her, small and broken.

Nero pushed the fries toward her.

It was absurdly gentle.

Sylvia took one.

For a while, they ate in silence, two ridiculous people in a restaurant too refined for grief, surrounded by servers who were doing their absolute best not to acknowledge the Sahan crown prince eating wings with his fingers.

Then Sylvia said, ”Your impossible person?”

Nero’s hand paused over the plate.

She looked at him. ”Are they still impossible?”

His face settled into that calm, dangerous stillness she had seen before. The one that made him look less like a young man and more like a future king deciding how much truth the world deserved.

”Yes,” he said. ”We don’t even accidentally meet anymore.”