Chapter 23: Chapter 23: Chris and the king (1)
The streetlamp buzzed faintly overhead, the night too still for comfort. Christopher jammed his hands in his pockets and forced his shoulders to stay loose under the weight of that violet gaze. He could feel it even across the empty curb: not just attention but a pull, heavy as a hand at the back of his neck.
Dax took another step closer, stopping just at the edge of his space. Up close, the casual shirt and pushed-up sleeves did nothing to blunt the aura he carried, the easy command of a man who’d moved armies with a word.
"Get in," Dax said softly, tilting his head toward the sleek black car behind him. "We have something to discuss."
It wasn’t a request.
Fuck.
Christopher’s pulse jumped. His mind raced through every option, every escape route, every excuse and discarded them all. Running would be suicide. A king’s pride was one thing, but this king’s fury was something else entirely. Dax of Saha, the man whispered in the same breath as violent negotiations and broken treaties, wasn’t someone you defied and walked away from unscathed.
He could feel the eyes watching from the shadows, guards or worse, ready to move if he tried anything. Probably already betting how far he’d get before they pinned him to the asphalt.
He inhaled slowly, smoothed his face, and let his shoulders loosen like he wasn’t counting the exits. "Of course, Your Majesty," he said quietly, voice steady despite the tightness in his chest.
Dax’s faint smirk returned, small but knowing, as if he’d read every thought. He stepped aside, one hand brushing the car’s polished roof as he opened the rear door with a smooth pull.
Christopher hesitated only long enough to swallow the last of his pride. ’Play along, survive.’ He slid into the back seat, the leather cool against his palms. The door shut behind him with a muted click that sounded far too final.
Dax followed a heartbeat later, sliding in beside him with unhurried grace. The interior of the car was big enough to feel like a private lounge, two long benches facing each other, a low console between them. Even in that generous space, Dax seemed to take up all the oxygen.
He sat opposite Christopher, a man built on a different scale entirely. Seven-foot-three, all long lines and quiet weight, he didn’t need a crown or a uniform to look like a king. His shoulder-length hair, pale as sun-bleached gold, caught every flicker of passing streetlight; his eyes, deep violet under straight brows, were colder than the glass separating them from the night. The simple dark shirt he wore only sharpened the effect, its cuffs rolled to his forearms, with no embroidery to soften the breadth of his shoulders or the length of his frame.
Across from him, Christopher’s five-foot-eight frame felt small in comparison, sneakers braced on the carpeted floor, while Dax’s long legs stretched out with the kind of ease that said he was in control of the space and everyone in it. Even sitting still, the King of Saha had the aura of a predator at rest.
He didn’t speak right away. The car eased off the curb, smooth and silent, headlights carving a clean path into the night.
Christopher sat straight, hands folded loosely in his lap, staring ahead but feeling every inch of that gaze on him. His heartbeat pounded, steady but hard, each thud a reminder: ’You got in the car. There’s no turning back now.’
Dax’s voice finally broke the silence.
"Now," he said, violet eyes catching the streetlight glow as they turned onto a quieter road, "let’s talk about why a dominant omega has been hiding in plain sight... and why you thought you could hide from me."
Christopher didn’t flinch, but the heat crawled up the back of his neck like a hand pressed there. ’Hide from you? Don’t flatter yourself; I hid from everyone.’
He didn’t turn his head. Didn’t give Dax the satisfaction. "I didn’t know I needed your permission to exist," he said mildly, teeth aching from holding his tone in check.
Dax laughed, rolling low in his chest, darker than amusement, the kind of sound that tasted like power and warning. "No, you don’t," he agreed. "But you’ve been living on my border, wearing a mask you barely stitched together, working in shadows that don’t belong to you."
’For fuck’s sake. Can you be more dramatic?’
"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I’ve lived in Palatine all my life. I didn’t hide from a king who didn’t even know I existed until tonight." Christopher tried, and almost failed, to keep his attitude wrapped in something like respect.
Dax hummed lowly, something predatory curling beneath the sound. "Palatine," he echoed, as though it were a bad joke. "Yes. Under their nose. Under mine."
He leaned back with one arm draped along the top of the leather, imitating the pose of a man at ease. No one sat like that unless they already knew they’d won.
"You think borders mean anything to me?" Dax asked, voice mild, almost bored. "The only thing they’ve ever done is slow down fools who thought distance could make them safe. You know what you are, Christopher. And that’s why you were hiding."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, lowering himself to Christopher’s level. His voice dropped an octave, softer, colder.
"You could have stayed hidden. But you didn’t."
Christopher’s hands stayed still. His throat burned.
Dax’s smirk returned, quieter now. "You walked into that ballroom like a shadow. And then you stepped into my line of fire, pulled the poison out of a toast made for me, and expected no one to look twice?"
Dax said nothing for a minute, allowing Chris to process what he was implying, which Chris, despite himself, found almost insulting.
"Tell me, was it instinct? Or were you hoping I’d owe you?"
Christopher exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tight, something fraying beneath the carefully built calm. "Your Majesty," he said, voice clipped, "you’re reading too much into it. I would’ve done it for anyone else. Your poisoning would’ve caused a diplomatic headache, and I don’t like being near fallout I didn’t cause."
Dax’s faint smile stayed, mocking, pleased, and infuriating. And something in Christopher snapped. ’Fuck you,’ was all he could think.
He turned toward him fully, black eyes sharp as glass. "You think I saved you because I wanted something? You think I walked into that hall hoping you’d owe me?" He laughed once, dry and bitter. "You’re proving me right. Every damn reason I ever had to keep my head down, to fake test results, to let my sister take the official shifts while I freelanced, this is why."
Dax’s smile faded.
"Because I’ve seen what happens when people don’t hide," Christopher said finally, meeting that violet gaze head-on. "You think I didn’t watch the court talk about Lucas Fitzgeralt? What did they whisper before he married the Duke? He’s proof of it. What families do when they smell power, when they see something rare enough to bleed for." His jaw tightened. "You want to know why I buried it? Because I didn’t want to be sold, or used, or broken before I was old enough to fight back."
The words hung there, too loud for the quiet of the car, too raw to take back. Christopher didn’t care. He leaned in slightly, hands braced on his knees, eyes locked onto Dax’s as if daring him to scoff, to dismiss it, to do anything but listen.
"You call it hiding," Christopher said, voice low and fast, "but it was survival. I had to claw my way through jobs that didn’t ask questions. I watched nobles sniff the air when I passed and thanked the gods they smelled nothing. I learned how to dilute my scent before I even had my second conversion. Because I knew what would happen if I didn’t."
His voice cracked from the restraint it took not to reach for the door handle. "I didn’t step into that ballroom to save you. I stepped in because I saw a glass with the same tint I watched kill someone two years ago, and my body moved. To me you are as important as any stranger."