Chapter 26: Chapter 26: Threshold
The moment Christopher’s shoes touched the gravel, fire shot up through his arches. He bit back a hiss, shoulders stiffening as the sting of blisters reminded him how long he’d been on his feet. The cool night air wrapped around him like a damp sheet, heavy with the scent of clipped hedges and wet stone.
His hand was still in Dax’s.
He’d meant to pull it back as soon as he stepped out, but the King’s grip hadn’t loosened and, worse, Chris hadn’t made himself let go. Dax’s palm was warm, steady, and twice as big as his.
He forced himself to look up.
The mansion rose out of the dark like something from another century. The slate roof glistened under the thin wash of moonlight, chimneys jagged against a clouded sky. Columns climbed toward the night like pale bones; every balustrade and cornice caught a silver edge. Gardens stretched in precise geometry, hedges were carved into perfect shapes, pools of water reflected the faint glow of hidden lights. Even in the black hour of midnight, the place radiated wealth and permanence, a palace pretending to be a house.
Chris swallowed, jaw tightening. ’Figures,’ he thought grimly. ’Of course it’s a castle. Why wouldn’t it be?’
Beside him, Dax moved easily across the gravel as if the earth itself shifted to suit his stride. His shoulder brushed Chris’s once, a subtle steering toward the wide stone steps.
"Careful," Dax murmured, glancing down. His voice carried a quiet amusement. "These paths were built for carriages, not your shoes."
Chris let out a sharp breath through his nose, the closest he’d give to a laugh. "No kidding," he muttered, shifting his weight to ease the ache. "My feet might never forgive me."
Three steps up the marble, the pain sharpened. ’Enough.’
Chris stopped dead.
Dax turned his head slightly, one brow lifting in question, but his grip didn’t loosen.
"Hold on," Chris muttered, voice clipped. He crouched smoothly, tugging at the laces. The shoes came off with a hard pull, leaving his feet aching but free. He straightened again, in socks, taking his sneakers in his free hand.
"The marble’s clean enough," he said flatly, dangling the shoes from his hand. "I’m not bleeding for you."
For a beat, silence. Dax’s violet gaze lingered, unreadable. Then, without a word, he snapped his fingers.
Chris’s chest tightened, pulse jumping. He froze. For a sharp, burning moment he thought it was meant for him, a command to move like he was some well-trained hound. Fury flared fast in his gut, heat rising up his throat.
But before he could spit the words forming on his tongue, the sound of soft steps cut through the air.
From the shadow of the doorway, one of the villa’s attendants approached, immaculate in black. Without hesitation, the man knelt and placed a pair of slippers on the top step.
Chris blinked at the slippers, the simple dark leather catching a dull gleam of moonlight. Soft-soled. Lined. Clearly not the kind of thing you tossed at a servant.
His jaw flexed. "You keep these lying around for kidnapped guests?" he muttered, trying to keep his voice dry instead of shaking.
Dax’s mouth curved, slow and faint. "For anyone whose feet are bleeding before they reach my door," he said lightly, the line walking the edge between joke and statement. "But I suppose tonight that means you."
Chris didn’t move at first. His whole body still buzzed with the instinct to jerk away, to snarl, to throw the shoes back down the steps just to make a point. But the cold marble was already biting into his socks and his arches throbbed like open wounds.
He exhaled through his nose, crouched again, and slid the slippers on. They were warm, absurdly comfortable, and fit better than they should have.
"Great," he said, straightening, sneakers dangling from one hand. "Now I’m a hostage in house shoes. Perfect."
Dax’s laugh was low and quiet, more rumble than sound. He adjusted his hold, still not letting go of Chris’s hand, and started them moving again up the last steps. "Hostage?" he echoed mildly. "You walked out of a bus into my car, Malek. If you wanted to run, you would’ve tried."
Chris shot him a sideways look, black eyes sharp. "Yeah, because running from a seven-foot-three king with a private army always ends well."
Dax’s smirk deepened, but his tone stayed smooth. "It would have ended the same, maybe a little more shaken."
Chris snorted under his breath, a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. "You make it sound like a choice." His hand shifted in Dax’s but didn’t pull free; the king’s grip was warm, steady, almost gentle, and that was worse than any threat.
"It was," Dax said quietly, the faintest edge of amusement still in his voice. "You made it."
The last steps rose before them like a pale wave. Ahead, the carved double doors began to open without a sound, pushed from the inside by uniformed attendants who stepped back the moment the gap widened. Light poured out, soft and gold, diffused through chandeliers deeper in the hall, spilling across the marble landing and up their faces.
The villa swallowed him whole the moment he crossed the threshold.
From the outside, the building was impressive enough to be considered a castle.
Inside, it was worse.
The foyer unfolded into light and height that felt almost obscene. Glass soared overhead in a wall of arched windows, spilling moonlight and reflections of the courtyard gardens into the vast interior. White sofas gleamed on handwoven rugs, their pale leather unscuffed, arranged with the kind of symmetry only money could demand. A grand piano sat in one corner like an ornament. Vases of fresh flowers gave off a faint perfume, something crisp and expensive.
Chris’s jaw clenched as his gaze swept upward. Balconies lined the second story, carved railings overlooking the space as though every step had been designed to remind guests they were small. Even the silence pressed differently here, curated, trained into obedience by men who had never known want.
His slippers made no sound on the marble. He hated it. Hated the way the cold stone seemed to mock his raw heels even cushioned now, hated the soft hush of each step as if the house itself had already swallowed him.
Dax hadn’t let go of his hand. He moved with unhurried certainty, guiding him further in, his stride as steady as if this were his palace rather than a villa in another duke’s domain. Servants appeared and vanished at the edges of Chris’s vision.
For a moment, Chris almost laughed. Bitter, sharp. Waiters, tailors, marble floors. And me. Barefoot in borrowed slippers. I should be at a desk with pencil smudges on my hands and a stack of blueprints, not...
His chest tightened.
’Not here.’
Dax’s voice cut through his spiraling, low and unbothered. "You don’t like it."
It wasn’t a question.
Chris swallowed, forcing his black eyes away from the high carved ceiling. "It’s a bit much," he said, sarcasm coiled tight to mask the truth. "Though I suppose that’s the point."
Dax glanced at him sidelong, violet eyes gleaming, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. "Exactly the point."
Chris exhaled sharply through his nose. He hated how right the man sounded.
The villa around him felt less like a home than a declaration: ’you are inside my walls now. And walls don’t let go.’