Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Chapter 362: Chapter 362: Back to her old self.

"You did things with Thomas."

Dean looked at Sylvia with a mix of surprise, pleasure, and slight disturbance.

"Sexual things."

Sylvia’s smile, which had survived Minerva’s office, two palace corridors, and the emotional aftershock of being politely removed from an intelligence-risk pipeline, fell into a very flat expression.

"Hello to you too."

"You do not understand." Dean took one step back from her, purple eyes widening with the offended sensitivity of a dominant omega whose nose had been personally attacked. "He pheromone-showered you. You reek of Thomas Lancaster."

Sylvia stared at him.

Then down at herself, she sniffed but felt nothing more than her usual perfume.

Then back at him.

"I do not reek."

Dean pressed one hand lightly to his nose. "You absolutely do."

"I bathed."

"Not enough."

"Dean."

"You smell like a very large military commander decided to mark the air around you as private property."

Sylvia’s face heated so violently she briefly considered walking back to Minerva’s office and asking for asylum.

Dean, horrible person that he was, noticed.

His eyes sharpened.

"Oh my God."

"Do not."

"Oh my God, you like it."

"I like many things. Privacy. Manners. Friends who say hello before accusing me of being covered in dominant alpha fumes."

Dean looked delighted and deeply scandalized. "I was gone for a honeymoon, and you acquired Thomas Lancaster?"

"I did not acquire him."

"Did he acquire you?"

Sylvia pointed at him. "That tone is very close to treason against my feelings."

Dean opened his mouth.

Then paused.

His gaze drifted over her face more carefully this time, past the blush, past the embarrassment, past the way Sylvia was trying to stand as if her entire life had not become politically complicated before lunch.

His expression softened.

"There you are," he said quietly.

Sylvia blinked. "What?"

"You look like yourself again."

That hit harder than it should have.

Sylvia looked down, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her sleeve. "Your mother-in-law said something similar."

"Minerva?"

"Yes."

Dean’s eyebrows lifted. "That is never casual."

"She suspended my training as your secretary."

Dean’s amusement vanished. "She did what?"

"Dean."

"I can speak to her."

"Dean."

"I can argue very politely."

"That is exactly what worries everyone."

He stopped.

Sylvia exhaled and sat down before her legs decided to become dramatic. Dean’s private sitting room was bright with morning light, too elegant for emotional honesty, but at least there were cushions, and after Minerva, Thomas, and the palace secretary with the silent feet, Sylvia felt she deserved fabric support.

Dean sat opposite her, still watching carefully.

Sylvia hated how good he was at that.

"It is because of Tom," she said.

Dean’s expression tightened. "Because of Rohan."

"And Alamina. And you. And intelligence access. And the fact that apparently if I am training as your secretary while involved with Thomas Lancaster, people can interpret me as a channel between military interests, private information, and whatever terrifying things your office will eventually handle."

Dean closed his eyes. "That is technically correct."

"I know that."

Dean opened his eyes again. "Are you hurt?"

Sylvia thought about lying.

Then she thought about Minerva’s face, calm and kind, telling her that politics was training, exposure, and repeated embarrassment. She thought about the list of invisible responsibilities attached to Dean’s office: the letters, the schedules, the secrets, and the kind of documents that could hurt people if mishandled.

She thought about herself, bright and curious and loyal, yes, but also twenty years old and not raised to see every knife inside a compliment.

"No," she said slowly. "Not really."

Dean studied her.

Sylvia took a breath. "I thought I was. For a minute. I wanted to be useful to you. I wanted to be close enough to help. And secretary sounded important."

"It is important."

"Yes," Sylvia said. "That is the problem."

Dean went quiet.

Sylvia smiled faintly, but this time it did not wobble. "I do not think I understood how important. You see consequences like... like strings in a room. I walk in and think the chandelier is pretty."

Dean’s mouth moved slightly. "The chandelier is usually plotting."

"That is what I mean." She said, throwing her hands in his direction.

He laughed despite himself.

"I think Minerva took something from me before it became too heavy," Sylvia admitted. "And I think I am grateful, which is very annoying, because I had prepared to feel insulted."

Dean leaned back slowly.

"Oh."

"Yes. Oh."

His face softened again, but not with pity.

"She said you can give me a ceremonial position," Sylvia added. "Something visible and harmless."

Dean’s expression changed at once.

Dangerously.

Sylvia pointed at him. "No."

"I have not said anything."

"You look like you have already invented three titles, and one of them involves emotional support."

Dean’s eyes brightened. "Companion of Necessary Disruption."

"Absolutely not."

"Lady of Unscheduled Honesty."

"I am leaving."

"Civilian Advisor for Anti-Stagnation Measures."

"That sounds like a plumbing department."

Dean laughed, and Sylvia felt herself smile for real.

She could feel herself returning. It felt like stepping out from under too much noise.

"Minerva said she wants to see more of me," Sylvia said, quieter now. "She said you told her I was daring and bubbly."

Dean looked suddenly guilty.

Sylvia narrowed her eyes. "What else did you tell her?"

"Nothing damaging."

"Dean."

"That you threatened Arion and negotiated the apartment, income, and university."

Her flat expression returned. "I have several questions about that."

"Do not." Dean raised both hands in mock surrender. "I want peace, and I feel guilty that I did not see the pressure my position had on you. I am sorry."

"You do not have to apologize," Sylvia said, dismissing the worry with a wave of her hand, though her expression softened despite herself. "I do not want to be a burden for you or the others. I will remain your moral and emotional support. And Nero’s. And..." She paused, then sighed. "Thomas’s, apparently, though he is a boulder with feelings."

Dean blinked.

Then his mouth twitched.

"A boulder with feelings."

"A very well-dressed one."

"That is accurate."

"It is not an insult. Boulders are reliable. Difficult to move. Excellent against storms. Occasionally inconvenient in small apartments."

Dean’s expression changed into something deeply delighted and deeply unwilling to be merciful.

"In small apartments?"

Sylvia pointed at him. "No."

"I asked nothing."

"You asked with your face."

"My face is innocent."

"Your face is married and smug."

Dean’s hand went to his chest. "That was vicious."

"That was observation."

He laughed, and the sound loosened the last of the tension sitting between them.

Sylvia leaned back into the sofa, watching him with a warmth that felt much easier than the palace meeting had. This was Dean. Not the Crown Consort, not the dominant omega whose office could become a political fault line, not the newly bonded husband of Alamina’s crown prince.

Dean.

Her friend.

The one who looked at her like she was not a liability, or an intelligence risk, or a ceremonial position waiting to be invented, but simply herself.

"Maybe," Sylvia said after a moment, quieter now, "after I understand more of this world, I can be useful."