Chapter 19: Chapter 19: Gardens in the dark
Christopher slipped out of the hall the first chance he got, tray dumped onto a passing cart with a muttered excuse about "rotation." His shoes clicked too loud against the polished floors until the carpeted back corridor swallowed the sound. The difference was jarring; gone was the music and the sugar-sweet laughter, replaced by the hum of vents and the faint, sour tang of disinfectant.
He dragged a hand down his face and exhaled, the sound bordering on a groan.
"Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Mia owes me so much beer for this."
The words came out low and sharp with sarcasm, but underneath was a bitter laugh he couldn’t quite swallow. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, head tipping back against the cool plaster, and stared up at the flickering strip light.
Dominant omega.
It was the kind of label people whispered like it was both a blessing and a curse, a myth and a weapon. He’d spent years hiding it under sweat and sarcasm, making himself forget it even mattered, and in a single glance that man had ripped the cover off like it was tissue paper.
Chris hissed through his teeth, shoving his hands into his pockets. His feet still ached, and the blisters forming under those stupid, shiny shoes felt like a cosmic insult.
"All this, just because Mia couldn’t keep her damn cycle calendar straight."
But even as he said it, he couldn’t be mad at her. She’d been desperate, heat-struck, and out of options, dangling the pay like bait. Chris had never been good at saying no when she pulled family into the mix.
And now? Now he had the tallest man in the room, the King of Saha, no less, staring at him like he’d been dropped on a platter.
Chris pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and muttered, "Gods above, if I die tonight, someone better tell Mia she’s the one to blame."
He pushed off the wall and kept walking. The corridor emptied into a service vestibule, a door propped open to a strip of manicured lawn and the garden beyond. Cool night air drifted in, carrying the scent of damp soil and clipped hedges, a relief after chandeliers and perfume. He slipped outside, letting the door ease shut behind him until the muffled thrum of the reception was just a heartbeat against the stone.
For a moment he just stood there, breathing. The garden paths stretched ahead in neat cream-gravel curves, roses and sculpted hedges throwing long shadows under discreet ground lights. There was no music or cameras. Only the hiss of sprinklers at the far end.
Chris shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and started walking, shoulders hunching as the tension bled out of him in tiny, stuttering exhales. "Brilliant plan, Malek," he muttered. "Save the king, blow your cover, collect blisters. Best night ever."
He rounded a clipped yew and saw them. Not head-on, nothing obvious, just shapes at the edge of the path. A figure pretending to check a gate latch. Another standing too still under a lamppost. A third shadow was moving when he moved. No uniforms, but the weight of trained eyes was unmistakable.
His stomach sank. He didn’t even need to reach for his senses; every instinct screamed security. Quiet, and placed like chess pieces. Watching him.
Chris slowed, forcing his expression into bland boredom, like any other staffer sneaking a breath of fresh air. ’You’re fit,’ he told himself. ’You’re fast. But ten alphas, spread and coordinated, isn’t a race I could win.’
He stopped near a marble planter, leaning one hip against it like he was on break, eyes on the gravel. His heart was pounding, but his voice came out as a low mutter, meant only for himself. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Can’t even take a piss without an escort."
He rubbed at his eyes, palms gritty from the tray. He could run, but they’d be on him before he hit the hedges. He could fight, but fighting would only confirm every suspicion Dax already had.
A breeze shifted through the hedges, cool against his overheated skin. "Fuck," he whispered under his breath, bitter humor curling at the edge of it, "now I have to think of an escape plan from a fucking King."
Gravel crunched somewhere off to his right. Not the soft hiss of sprinklers or the distant hum of traffic, but a calculated step, unhurried but heavy enough to carry through the manicured silence.
Chris kept his head down, eyes on the pale stones at his feet, but his pulse spiked. He shifted his weight casually, like a man stretching his calves, and slid half a step toward a side path. Maybe he could slip between hedges and get back into the service corridor before anyone...
Another crunch. Closer. Whoever it was wasn’t cutting him off yet, but they were matching his pace.
"Great," he muttered under his breath. "Perfect stealth. Shoes that squeak like dying mice. Real spy material, Malek."
He reached for his phone and thumbed it awake, the screen lighting his face in a harmless blue glow. To anyone watching from the shadows, he’d just become another bored staffer scrolling through feeds on a break. His thumb flicked up and down over nonsense: a news headline, a recipe, and an ad for wedding flowers. He didn’t read a word of it.
Inside, every nerve screamed. ’Stay calm. Don’t give them what they’re looking for. Don’t run.’
The crunch of gravel drew up behind him, then slowed. He could feel a presence now, not close enough to touch, but close enough that the hairs on the back of his neck lifted. He tilted the phone slightly, using the black glass as a mirror, catching the faintest blur of movement between hedges.
A tall silhouette had detached itself from the deeper shadows near the lamppost.
Chris forced a yawn, scrolling with exaggerated boredom. "Nothing to see here," he whispered to himself. "Just a guy on his break looking at cat videos."
Another crunch. Closer.
He angled the phone again, catching a flicker of pale fabric and a slant of familiar hair. His stomach dropped. No. No way.
Whoever it was stepped out from the hedge line, still half-hidden by shadow. The air seemed to still for a heartbeat, all hedges and ground lights and the cold glow of his phone screen.
Chris’s thumb froze over the glass. His pulse roared in his ears.
’No fucking way.’