Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Sylvia checked the fourth option of date clothes and felt the urge to burn everything she owned.

In theory, it was only a casual date at a coffee shop.

Well, as casual as a date could be with a dominant alpha with political power like Thomas Lancaster.

Which meant not casual at all.

Which meant the soft cream sweater was too gentle, the dark blue dress was too serious, the black trousers made her look like she was going to an administrative hearing, and the pale green blouse looked like she was trying too hard to seem harmless, which was absurd, because Sylvia had accidentally tripped three people at Dean and Arion’s wedding for badmouthing Dean and had not felt guilty about it for even one second.

Technically, she had tripped one.

The second had fallen because he was holding the first.

The third had been Gregoriana.

No, that was unfair.

Gregoriana had not fallen.

Gregoriana had joined.

That was how Sylvia had gained a princess.

Not in the normal way, of course, because Sylvia’s life had stopped using normal routes somewhere between becoming attached to Dean, surviving palace events, and finding herself emotionally threatened by the existence of Thomas Lancaster’s shoulders.

Gregoriana Alamina, Arion’s first younger sister, twenty years old, alpha but not dominant, and known as Riana to family and friends, was currently sprawled across Sylvia’s small sofa like she had been born to occupy other people’s apartments without apology.

She wore wide-legged trousers, an oversized white shirt tucked carelessly at the front, and three gold rings that looked too expensive for someone eating chips straight from the bag.

”Burning everything is dramatic,” Riana said.

Sylvia turned from the mirror. ”I did not say that out loud.”

”You looked at the wardrobe like you were calculating fire damage.”

”I am having a crisis.”

”You have been having a crisis for forty minutes.”

”It is a date with Thomas Lancaster. THE Thomas Lancaster.”

Riana slowly lifted one chip and pointed it at her. ”I know. I was there when he asked you.”

Sylvia pressed both hands to her face. ”That makes it worse.”

”It was very romantic.”

”It was terrifying.”

”He looked like he was going to war.”

”That is his face.”

”No, his usual face is military restraint. That was different. That was military restraint with emotional consequences.”

Riana considered that. ”Accurate.”

Sylvia groaned and turned back toward the mirror.

The current option was a soft gray dress that reached just below her knees. Simple. Pretty. Not too formal. Not too casual. Normal women wore this on normal dates with normal men who did not appear to be capable of commanding silence by breathing slightly deeper.

Unfortunately, Thomas was not normal.

Thomas had stood in wedding formalwear beside Dean and Arion with his posture straight, his expression controlled, and his eyes steady enough to make Sylvia forget she knew how knees worked. He had offered her one date with such candor that it was impossible to laugh, decline, or hide behind sarcasm for more than three seconds.

One date.

A chance.

Temporary, perhaps.

Dangerous, definitely.

And now Sylvia was standing in her apartment, dressed like she was either meeting a respectable aunt or attending a very polite funeral.

”No,” she said.

Riana sighed. ”That is the fourth no.”

”It looks wrong.”

”It looks fine.”

Sylvia turned. ”Do not use emotional-support-princess logic on me.”

”I am not emotional support. I am strategic reinforcement.”

”You are eating chips on my sofa.”

”Strategically.”

Sylvia tried not to smile.

She failed a little.

Riana was very easy to like. She had sharp dark brown eyes, a quick mouth, and the careless confidence of someone raised in an imperial family but not interested in performing gravity every second of the day. She was not dominant, but she was still alpha enough that rooms noticed her when she entered and princess enough that people reconsidered their manners before they opened their mouths.

At the wedding, Sylvia had been trying to behave.

Truly.

Dean had looked beautiful. Arion had looked like a man who would declare war on architecture if it blocked his view of his husband. The vows had been enough to ruin everyone emotionally.

Then three noble idiots near the back had decided to whisper about Dean not being some bullshit enough, and that was unacceptable.

Sylvia had not meant to trip anyone.

Her foot had simply become politically active.

The first idiot went down with a strangled sound.

The second grabbed his sleeve and followed.

The third turned to complain, only for Riana to step beside Sylvia, smile brightly, and say, ”How embarrassing! You should be more careful. People might think your balance reflects your bloodline.”

They had been friends ever since.

Now that same princess was in Sylvia’s apartment, watching her fail at getting dressed for coffee.

”How... How did I get entangled with so many powerful people?” Sylvia asked the ceiling, because no gods were good enough to leave her life alone.

”You have Dean as a friend,” Rina said, flinging a strand of black hair out of her way of eating chips.

”Yes, Dean. Not Nero, Thomas, you... and others.”

Rina shrugged. ”I recommend you dress in that pair of jeans with that T-shirt. Your tits look amazing in it.”

Sylvia froze.

Then slowly turned her head away from the ceiling and toward the princess currently eating chips on her sofa, like she had not just thrown a grenade into the middle of Sylvia’s emotional crisis.

”I am going on a coffee date,” Sylvia said. ”With a dominant alpha with political authority, military posture, and a face that makes people to lower their voices in corridors.”

Rina considered that while chewing. ”All the more reason.”

Sylvia stared at her. ”All the more reason to wear the shirt that makes my tits look amazing?”

”Obviously.”

”That is not obvious. That is insane.”

”No,” Rina said, flinging another strand of black hair out of her face. ”Insane is dressing like you are going to an embassy brunch because a man with shoulders asked you for coffee.”

Sylvia opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Nothing useful came out.

Rina pointed toward the pile of rejected clothes on Sylvia’s bed with the chip bag. ”Those are fear outfits.”

”The blue dress is pretty.”

”The blue dress says, ’I am prepared to be judged by your family.’”

Sylvia’s soul left her body for a moment.

Rina continued without mercy. ”The gray one says, ’I have accepted an unpaid internship in sadness.’ The cream sweater is nice but too soft. You will spend the whole date trying not to spill coffee on yourself. The black trousers are for a disciplinary meeting.”

Sylvia looked at the trousers.

Unfortunately, Rina was right.

She hated that.

”You’re my age,” Sylvia said. ”You should not be this good at ruining people.”

”I grew up with Arion.”

”That explains too much.”

”It explains everything.”

Sylvia pressed both hands to her face and exhaled through her fingers.

Her apartment looked like a wardrobe had exploded in self-defense. Clothes were draped across the bed, over the chair, and across the edge of the vanity, and one cardigan had somehow ended up on the lamp. The room smelled faintly of perfume, panic, and the salt-and-vinegar chips Rina had brought as moral support.

It was supposed to be a casual date.

Coffee.

One coffee.

One harmless meeting in a quiet coffee shop with Thomas Lancaster, who had asked her with the expression of a man preparing to accept consequences rather than flirt.

That was the problem.

Thomas did not flirt like normal people. He did not toss out compliments carelessly or smile in a way that allowed plausible denial. He looked at Sylvia as if he had already thought through the cost of wanting her and had decided to ask anyway.

How was a woman supposed to dress for that?

”What if the T-shirt is too much?” Sylvia asked.

Rina looked at her as if Sylvia had personally disappointed the empire. ”It is a T-shirt.”

”You just said my tits look amazing in it.”

”They do.”

”Then it is not just a T-shirt.”

”That is your body’s fault, not the fabric’s.”

Sylvia grabbed a pillow and threw it at her.

Rina caught it with one hand without losing the chip bag.

Alpha reflexes.

Deeply unfair.

”I hate you,” Sylvia said.

”No, you don’t. I am saving you from looking like you have prepared a policy statement on emotional distance.”

Sylvia looked down at herself.

The fourth outfit was still on her: a modest dark skirt and a pale blouse that had seemed elegant when she put it on and now looked, after Rina’s assessment, like something worn by a woman about to apologize for existing near nobility.

She hated that too.

Rina stood, wiped her fingers on a napkin with shocking elegance for someone who had been eating chips like a raccoon, and marched to Sylvia’s wardrobe.

Sylvia narrowed her eyes. ”Do not invade.”

”I am a princess.”

”That does not give you legal authority over my wardrobe.”

”No, friendship does.”

”We have been friends for less than a week.”

”Fast alliances are traditional in times of war.”

”This is not war.”

Rina pulled out the jeans. ”This is worse. This is dating.”

Sylvia had no argument ready for that.