Chapter 29: Chapter 29: Wine with the king
Dax sat at ease on a deep sofa upholstered in charcoal velvet, one arm draped along the backrest, long legs stretched out toward the low table in front of him. The table itself had been set like a casual feast: narrow boards of cheeses and cured meats, a bowl of dark grapes, a small stack of thin crackers, and a decanter of wine breathing beside two crystal glasses. It looked unstudied, but Chris could tell at a glance it had been curated, the kind of "informal" spread that still required servants and planning.
Dax, too, had changed. He wore dark silk pajamas, the shirt left half-buttoned beneath a robe of the same hue, its belt hanging loose. The cut bared the hard plane of his chest and the slow rise and fall of his breathing. On another man it might have looked careless. On Dax it read as a predator at rest.
He looked up when Chris stepped out, black eyes catching the low light. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then the corner of Dax’s mouth tilted in a flicker of satisfaction.
"You’re on time," he said, his voice a low rumble that filled the quiet as easily as his body filled the sofa. His gaze slid over the loose grey cotton clinging damply to Chris’s skin and lingered for a second too long before returning to his face. "Good. Sit. Eat something before you faint on me."
Chris didn’t comment. He didn’t have the energy to.
His heels screamed with every step. The slippers dulled the pain but didn’t erase it; the skin there was raw, rubbed open by hours of hard leather and marble floors. He crossed the room stiffly, jaw tight, his black eyes darting once to the food before he dropped into the sofa opposite.
The cushions dipped under his weight, swallowing him in a softness that felt almost indecent after the day’s grind. The muted grey of his borrowed sleepwear blended into the velvet like camouflage, but his posture betrayed him; he stayed upright, shoulders squared, as if he were still standing at attention.
Dax poured without asking, the dark wine catching the lamplight as it slid into crystal. "Eat first," he said again, more a command than an invitation, and nudged the nearer plate an inch toward Chris with two fingers. "You’ve been running on nerves and air since you arrived. That stops here."
Chris picked up a grape instead of answering, biting into it with more force than necessary. The sweetness burst sharp on his tongue, but it did nothing to ease the hollow ache in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten since morning. His body wanted this food, but his pride hated the idea of feeding at someone else’s table... his table.
"You look tired," Dax observed, sipping his wine with lazy precision.
Chris let out a humorless huff. "Sharp eye. Must be why they made you king."
Dax’s mouth curved just a little at the jab, but the expression never quite reached his eyes. "No," he said softly, setting the glass down with a faint chime of crystal. "They didn’t make me anything. I took it."
"Like you do with me?"
For the first time that night, Dax’s hand stilled mid-movement, the glass poised just above the table. Violet eyes lifted to meet black, and something flickered there, heat, possession, a flash of the man who had taken a throne, but then it was gone, hidden under a slow exhale and an easy smile.
"Not like you," he said lightly, as if the question had been a joke instead of a blade. He set the glass down with a muted chime and reached for the decanter. "I took a throne with blood and war. You are special."
He poured more wine, the dark liquid catching the lamp’s glow as he slid the refilled glass across the table. "Here," he said, voice low but warm. "You’ve been running since dawn. This will take the edge off." His tone wasn’t a command but an invitation, the kind of coaxing a host might use on a shy guest.
Chris hesitated, then wrapped his fingers around the stem. The glass was cool, the wine dark and soft on his tongue. Warmth bloomed a moment later, seeping into his already tired muscles.
Dax stayed as he was, one arm draped lazily along the sofa’s back, robe falling open just enough to hint at the body underneath, but everything about him signalled ease rather than threat. He broke a cracker, popped a piece of cheese into his mouth, and spoke with a little smile that made the words sound harmless. "Eat something. The staff went to a ridiculous amount of trouble to make it look casual."
Chris picked up another grape almost automatically. His stomach still knotted at the idea of feeding at someone else’s table, but the wine dulled the edge of it, and Dax’s quiet humor chipped at his guard.
"See?" Dax murmured, tilting his own glass in a small salute. "Not so hard."
Chris took some crackers and cheese; it’s better to have something in his stomach than to try to fight someone that could force him to do it.
He’d just taken his second bite of cheese when a faint vibration reached him through the cotton pocket of the trousers. Chris blinked down. He hadn’t even realized he’d shoved his phone back in there after showering. It must have been on silent the whole night, muted out of habit.
Another small tremor against his thigh. He fished the device out with fingers that felt clumsy from heat and wine. The screen lit his face with a cold glow.
Forty-three missed calls. All from Clara.
The neat little stack of numbers sat under her name like an accusation. The last one had come barely five minutes ago. For a moment he just stared, thumb hovering over the glass, the wine suddenly sour on his tongue.
Across from him Dax watched the small rectangle appear in Chris’s hand but didn’t move. He stayed exactly as he was, one arm along the backrest, robe open just enough to look like an accident, and expression carved into lazy patience. Only the faintest lift of an eyebrow betrayed that he’d noticed.
Chris swallowed, thumb brushing the edge of the screen. "Shit," he muttered under his breath.
Dax tipped his glass, voice easy. "Problem?"
Chris shook his head automatically, black eyes still on the glowing display. "Forty calls isn’t a problem; it’s a crisis." He tried for a joke but it came out thin, frayed at the edges.
"Then answer her," Dax said, the suggestion sounding almost like a kindness.
"You want me to answer my crazy ex?" Chris asked dryly, thumb still hovering over the screen.