Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Sylvia woke to pain.

Her body seemed to have gathered a committee during her unconsciousness, and every part of it had arrived with complaints.

Her chest hurt. Her spine hurt. Her wrists ached as if she had spent hours gripping something too tightly. Her throat was raw, though she could not remember screaming past a certain point.

But the worst was her throbbing nape. It felt like something under her skin had grown roots while she slept and now pulsed there, new and hot and furious by existing.

Sylvia made a small sound.

The arm around her tightened immediately.

She froze. For one panicked second, she did not know where she was.

Then the scent reached her.

Antiseptic. Clean sheets. Medicine. Burned metal. Blood beneath bandages.

And Thomas.

Thomas, dark and warm and steady, surrounding her in a way that should have been impossible in a hospital bed designed for one injured person and absolutely not for a seven-foot commander with recently torn ribs.

”Sylvia,” he said, his voice was rough and worried.

She opened her eyes.

The first thing she saw was his chest.

Bandages wrapped around him from ribs to shoulder, white against skin still marked with bruises and sealing foam residue. Medical lines disappeared under the bandaging. A monitor glowed behind him, its readings steady but insultingly busy. Someone had cleaned the blood from his face, but there was still a faint cut along his cheek and shadows under his eyes.

He looked terrible but alive and stable.

Sylvia tried to sit up.

Thomas stopped her with one hand at her back. ”Slowly.”

”You are injured.”

”Yes.”

”Why are you in my bed?”

”Our bed.”

”This is a hospital.”

”I was specific.”

That sounded so much like him that Sylvia almost cried.

Instead, she swallowed and immediately regretted it. Her throat scraped.

Thomas reached for the cup beside the bed before she could ask. His hand shook slightly.

Sylvia saw.

His eyes saw her seeing.

Neither of them mentioned it.

He helped her drink, careful and steady despite the tightness around his mouth.

When she pulled back, her nape pulsed again.

She flinched.

Thomas’s face changed. ”Pain?”

”My neck.” Her voice came out small and hoarse. ”My nape. It feels...”

She stopped as she did not have words to describe it.

Thomas’s gaze dropped there with an expression so carefully controlled it frightened her more than panic would have.

”What?” she asked.

”Sylvia.”

”What?”

He did not answer quickly enough.

Her hand flew to the back of her neck.

Thomas caught her wrist before she could touch it. ”Do not press.”

That made fear wake fully.

”Thomas.”

His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist. ”There is swelling.”

”Swelling?”

”Yes.”

”That is the word people use when something is wrong and they want civilians to stop asking questions.”

His mouth curved faintly but vanished so fast that Sylvia barely caught it.

”It is not an injury,” he said.

Sylvia stared at him.

The new thing beneath her skin pulsed again, as if answering before she could open her mouth.

”Did Nero really succeed?”

Thomas’s grip tightened around her wrist. Sylvia understood he wanted the answer to be no and knew it could not be.

”Yes,” he said.

The word landed too quietly for something that had rearranged her body.

Sylvia stared at him.

Then her free hand moved again, slower this time, toward her nape. Thomas caught her fingers before they reached the swollen skin and held them between his own.

”Do not touch it yet.”

”Thomas.”

”It is new,” he said, and the roughness in his voice deepened. ”Seven said pressure could make the pain worse.”

”New,” Sylvia repeated.

The word did not make sense.

A dress could be new. A pair of shoes. A room. A terrible court title someone handed to a person because politics had decided names were more important than comfort.

A part of her body should not be new.

Her nape throbbed again, hot and deep beneath the skin, and this time she felt something answer from inside her chest. A thin pulse—fragile, unfamiliar, and horribly alive.

Thomas inhaled sharply.

Sylvia froze. ”Did I hurt you?”

”No.”

”You made a sound.”

”I felt you.”

Sylvia pulled her hand back against her chest, but Thomas did not let go completely. His fingers stayed around hers, grounding without trapping.

”I felt you too,” she whispered.

Thomas closed his eyes, his lashes trembled once, and for one terrifying second, Sylvia thought he was in pain again.

Then she realized his breathing had eased.

The monitor beside him softened its rhythm.

Her throat tightened. ”I did that.”

”Yes.”

”I do not know how.”

”I know.”

”What if I do it wrong?”

Thomas opened his eyes. ”Then we learn.”

”That is not a medical plan.”

”No.”

She laughed, and the sound broke halfway into a wince.

Immediately, Thomas shifted as if to check her, then stopped because the movement pulled at his own bandages. His mouth tightened but did not complain.

That, for some reason, made Sylvia furious.

”You are hurt,” she said.

”I will be fine,” Thomas said, but Sylvia’s furrowed brows and the fury in her pheromones made him explain. ”I’m a dominant alpha; the only thing that can hurt me is berserk. Other wounds are going to heal in less than two weeks.” He exhaled. ”You have pheromones that are stabilizing me, Sylvia.”

Sylvia searched his face.

”You’re saying that as if it explains why you climbed into my hospital bed with torn ribs.”

”It explains why Seven allowed it.”

”Seven allowed this?”

”It was medically recommended.”

She blinked.

”For me?”

”For both of us.”

Silence settled between them.

Her hand tightened around his.

”What happens now?”

Thomas looked at their joined hands before meeting her eyes again.

”We learn.”

”How to be this?”

”Yes.”

”I don’t know how.”

”I know.”

”What if I do it wrong?”

”You won’t.”

”You don’t know that.”

”I do.”

She laughed weakly, only to wince.

Immediately, Thomas shifted as if to steady her before his own injuries stopped him. Frustration crossed his face for only a moment.

”You’re hurt,” she whispered.

”I’ll heal.”

”And me?”

His thumb brushed gently across her knuckles.

”You’ll heal too.”

She looked down at their hands.

The strange pulse beneath her nape answered with another quiet throb.

This time, it wasn’t frightening.

It was simply... there and new.

Sylvia exhaled slowly and leaned into his side, careful of his ribs.

Thomas rested his cheek lightly against her hair.

Neither of them understood what Nero had made them.

Neither of them understood what came next.

For the first time since waking, Sylvia realized they did not have to.

Not today.