Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Sylvia expected the Queen of Rohan to be waiting at the bottom of the aircraft stairs.

She had spent the final minutes of descent preparing for exactly that possibility, straightening a dress that had never been crooked, arranging her expression into something respectful without appearing terrified, and trying to remember whether one bowed to Heather as a foreign noblewoman, Thomas’s mate, or the newly classified dominant omega whose medical registration had probably reached half the royal administration before the wheels touched the ground.

When the cabin door opened, cold mountain air entered first, carrying the scents of rain, fuel, and pine.

Thomas stepped onto the stairs ahead of her, then turned and held out his hand.

Sylvia placed her fingers in his and descended beside him, her pulse rising with every step until Thomas’s field drew closer around her, heavy and steady enough to keep the new gland beneath her collar from reacting to every unfamiliar dominant presence on the ground.

There was no ceremonial delegation waiting below.

No line of royal officials.

No musicians, photographers, or tearful queen.

There were several discreet security officers, two dark vehicles, and two familiar figures standing beside the first car.

Sylvia’s relief arrived so abruptly that her field escaped with it.

Daniel felt it first.

His stern expression softened as soon as he saw her, and he took two steps forward before apparently remembering that Sylvia had only recently been declared healthy and that approaching a newly transformed omega too quickly might cause every protective alpha on the tarmac to react.

Marianne did not show the same restraint.

She crossed the distance between them and embraced Sylvia with enough warmth to make it clear that familiarity outweighed medical protocol, though her arms remained careful around Sylvia’s shoulders and avoided the protective collar at her nape.

”You look better than the reports made you sound,” Marianne said.

”That is because medical reports are written by people who enjoy making survival appear deeply concerning.”

Marianne drew back just far enough to inspect her face.

The look was familiar. Sylvia had endured it before across dinner tables and private sitting rooms whenever Marianne believed Thomas had failed to disclose something relevant about his life.

Today, however, the examination lingered on Sylvia’s eyes, her color, and the steadiness of her breathing rather than the mark visible above the collar of her dress.

”You frightened us,” Marianne said quietly.

”I frightened myself.”

Behind her, Thomas descended the final step.

Marianne turned and struck him across the chest.

The impact was not especially hard, but it carried considerable maternal disappointment.

Thomas accepted it without moving.

”That one was for nearly dying,” she said.

”I expected worse.”

”The rest will wait until you have healed enough for me to stop feeling guilty.”

Daniel reached Sylvia next, touching her shoulder before pulling her into a gentler embrace. He had always possessed a quieter affection than Marianne, expressed through practical questions, carefully chosen food, and the habit of noticing discomfort before anyone admitted to it.

He stepped back and studied her with the same concern he had shown during his visits to Alamina, though the circumstances had changed enough that his gaze briefly caught on the collar at her nape.

”How do you feel?”

”Healthy, apparently.”

”That was not the question.”

Sylvia sighed. ”Tired. Nervous. Slightly overprepared for a royal confrontation that does not seem to be happening.”

Daniel’s mouth curved.

Marianne glanced toward the empty section of tarmac behind them. ”Heather wanted to come.”

Sylvia waited for the rest.

”We stopped her,” Daniel said.

”You stopped the Queen of Rohan?”

”It was a collective effort,” Marianne replied. ”She had planned a formal reception.”

”With banners,” Daniel added.

”And a military escort.”

”Musicians were discussed.”

Sylvia looked at Thomas.

He appeared unsurprised.

”You knew.”

”Yes.”

”And you allowed me to believe she would be waiting here.”

”You were already prepared for that outcome.”

Marianne gave her son a tired look before returning her attention to Sylvia. ”You are not meeting Heather today.”

The tension that had survived the flight loosened inside Sylvia.

Her field spread warmly over the wet tarmac again, carrying relief so clearly that Thomas’s hand settled against the small of her back.

Marianne noticed the exchange.

This time, her interest was far too sharp to conceal, but she mercifully postponed whatever questions had formed.

”You will meet her in two days,” Daniel explained. ”Heather was persuaded that allowing you to recover from the journey would be more sensible than surrounding you with half the royal court.”

”Persuaded,” Marianne repeated. ”Not pleased.”

”She sent six messages during the flight,” Thomas said.

”Nine,” Daniel corrected. ”She began sending them to me after you stopped answering.”

Thomas did not appear troubled by this.

Sylvia looked between them. ”Where are we going, then?”

”Home,” Marianne said. ”You should see where Thomas was raised before Heather claims the two of you for the palace.”

The word struck Sylvia with unexpected softness.

Home.

Not the palace residence Thomas used when military obligations required him to remain near the court, nor one of the secure royal properties she had imagined being taken to, but the place that had existed before Commander Lancaster, before Alamina, and before Thomas became a man people compared to fortifications.

Thomas helped her into the car.

Marianne and Daniel sat opposite them, while a second vehicle carrying security pulled into position behind. The airport lay beyond the southern edge of the capital, separated from the city by stretches of dark forest and low hills veiled in the remains of morning rain.

As they drove, the trees gradually opened.

Varlen rose ahead of them between the mountains.

The capital had grown along both banks of a wide river, its older districts climbing the lower slopes in terraces of stone, copper roofs, and narrow gardens. Modern towers of glass and pale metal stood among them without entirely overwhelming what had come before. Bridges crossed the water at uneven intervals, some broad enough for six lanes of traffic, others old and arched, preserved for pedestrians beneath strings of lights.

Sylvia leaned toward the window.

From the aircraft, the city had appeared severe, enclosed by mountains and defensive walls. From the road, it looked greener and more complicated, softened by trees planted along the boulevards and flowers spilling from apartment balconies.

Thomas’s hand rested over hers.

He pointed out the military district without prompting, then the old aviation command where Marianne had spent much of his childhood, and a hospital built into the side of the northern hill because someone had once determined wounded soldiers recovered better when given an impressive view.

Marianne corrected two of his dates.

Daniel corrected her correction.

For several minutes, they argued with the easy precision of people who had repeated the disagreement before.

Sylvia watched the city pass and felt the last of her fear begin to settle into something closer to curiosity.

A large metal sign welcomed them to Varlen as the road widened near the river.

The name appeared again across the entrance to a public garden, then on the side of a government transport building, and finally in enormous letters along the stone wall of a civic square.

Sylvia looked from the signs to Thomas.

”Varlen was the former king?”

”Yes.”

”He named the capital after himself?”

”Yes.”

”While he was still alive?”

Daniel looked out of the opposite window, concealing the beginning of a smile.

Marianne did not bother.

”He renamed it during his third year on the throne,” she said. ”The capital already had a perfectly respectable name, but he believed the country required a symbol of renewal.”

”And the symbol was him,” Sylvia concluded.

”He was very committed to the concept.”

Thomas’s expression remained solemn. ”He also commissioned statues.”

”How many?”

”No one agrees.”

”Fourteen were officially recorded,” Daniel said. ”There may have been more in private government buildings.”

”Two were removed,” Marianne added.

Sylvia looked at her.

”The sculptor was overly committed to realism.”

Thomas’s field shifted with restrained amusement.

Sylvia turned toward him. ”You grew up in a capital named after a man who commissioned nude statues of himself.”

”They were not all nude.”

”That does not improve the history.”

”No.”

The car crossed the river, carrying them through the center of Varlen. Ahead, the royal palace stood above the oldest district behind dark walls and layered gardens, its towers visible from almost every major road.

Sylvia’s attention returned to it.

”Heather has truly been trying to change the name for six years?”

”Since the first week after she took the throne,” Marianne said.

”She attempted to restore the previous name,” Daniel explained. ”The council requested public consultation.”

”The public consultation required a historical commission,” Thomas continued. ”The historical commission produced several alternatives.”

”None of which the traders accepted,” Marianne said, ”because changing the capital’s name would require replacing every sign, registration, address, license, tourism campaign, and piece of official stationery.”

”Heather offered to pay for the signs personally.”

”That created a constitutional dispute.”

Sylvia turned away from the palace. ”Of course it did.”

”The current proposal is to allow the population to vote,” Daniel said.

”When?”

”The committee has not yet approved the wording of the question.”

”After six years?”

”They are making progress,” Thomas said.

Sylvia felt the seriousness of his answer through their bond and realized, with some horror, that he genuinely believed it.

”What does Heather call the city?”

Marianne smiled. ”Usually ’the capital.’”