Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 102: I missed you.

The bedroom was quiet, too quiet for a space that usually thrummed with the hum of security sensors and the low rhythm of Dax’s presence.

Chris stopped just past the threshold, heart hammering like it hadn’t gotten the memo that this wasn’t a crisis, merely potential embarrassment in progress.

The air smelled faintly of steam and spice. A thin mist still clung to the mirror on the far wall. That was the first sign.

The second was the sound of water, dripping faintly somewhere beyond the adjoining door.

Chris froze.

’Oh, no.’

He hadn’t missed the soft hum of machinery that meant Dax’s aircraft had landed, but he hadn’t actually processed what that meant. And now, apparently, it meant Dax was home.

Home and... in the bathroom.

He should leave. Immediately. Like a sane person.

Instead, he stood there, his brain trying to compute escape routes and decor details simultaneously. He could still make it to the corridor before...

The bathroom door opened.

Steam rolled out in a wave of warmth, followed by Dax Altera, who emerged with all the unbothered grace of a man who owned gravity. His hair, white-blonde and still damp, fell in careless disarray over his forehead, and he was holding a towel in one hand, rubbing it over the back of his neck.

The other towel, if one could even call it that, sat dangerously low on his hips, a whisper of fabric away from public indecency.

Chris forgot how to breathe.

Dax hadn’t noticed him yet, which made it worse. He moved toward the wardrobe, all lazy strength and smooth muscle, the kind of motion that made every civilized thought Chris had left pack up and flee the country. Water still tracked down his spine, vanishing into the line where the towel barely held on.

’No,’ Chris told himself firmly. ’No. You are not doing this again. You are a rational adult. A professional. You are not salivating...’

Dax looked up.

Their eyes met through the haze of steam. For a long, mortifying second, neither of them spoke.

Then Dax smiled, slow, faint, and far too aware. "There you are; it took you long enough to come," he said, voice low from travel and sleep deprivation, yet somehow still rich enough to make Chris’s knees debate mutiny.

"I live here," Chris managed and immediately regretted every word.

Dax’s smile widened just a fraction. "True." He slung the towel over his shoulder and walked closer, the floor silent under his bare feet. "I expected to find you working."

"I would be," Chris said tightly, "if someone hadn’t confiscated my job."

"Ah." Dax stopped a few steps away, close enough that the air seemed to shift between them. "Occupational hazard of being mine, I suppose."

Chris stared at him because there was no safe way to look anywhere else. The man was carved like an expensive sin, all sharp lines, pale gold skin, and effortless command. And of course he smelled good, of spice and warmth and that impossible undercurrent that made Chris’s pulse skip even harder.

He needed to get out of here. Immediately. Preferably without falling over or combusting.

"I just came to... uh... check if you’d arrived."

"Consider me checked," Dax said easily, reaching past him for the towel on the dresser. The movement brought him close enough that Chris could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "You were waiting?"

"No."

’Yes,’ his traitorous scent glands whispered.

Dax raised an eyebrow, amused. "You sound certain."

"I was... outside. Breathing."

"Breathing," Dax echoed, the faintest smile curling his mouth. "Is that what we’re calling it now?"

Chris swallowed. "You’re dripping on the carpet."

"Am I?" Dax looked down, as if the towel around his waist were an unfortunate technicality. "I suppose I am."

"Tragic," Chris muttered, turning toward the door before his dignity filed for permanent leave. "You should... fix that."

He made it halfway there before Dax’s voice, soft but unmistakably commanding, stopped him.

"Christopher."

He turned. Slowly. Against better judgment.

Dax stood in the center of the room now, the towel gone from his hair, his posture loose but his gaze intent. "I missed you."

For a heartbeat, Chris thought he’d imagined it. The way Dax said it, quiet and even, didn’t fit the man who barked orders and made diplomats flinch with a glance. It was... disarming.

And that made it worse.

His pulse stumbled somewhere between disbelief and panic. "You... what?" he managed, voice catching in the middle like it couldn’t decide whether to scoff or break.

"I missed you," Dax repeated, softer this time.

The space between them wasn’t large, but it might as well have been an entire border. Dax closed it in three steps, the air between them tightening with every one.

"Don’t..." Chris started too late.

Dax reached for him, one hand finding his wrist, still hot from the shower, the other sliding to his waist as if it belonged there. The contact sent a current straight through Chris’s nerves, sharp and uninvited. His breath hitched.

"Dax," he warned, but it came out all wrong... sounding more like surrender.

"Christopher," Dax murmured back, and then he was close enough for the world to dissolve.

The kiss wasn’t planned. It was too real for that, rough-edged from travel, heat, and the kind of restraint that had clearly been stretched thin for days.

Chris’s thoughts scattered like papers in a storm. The first sensation was soft warmth, Dax’s mouth against his, tasting faintly of mint and steam. The second was pressure, his body pulled flush against the king’s, towel, shirt, and skin colliding in ways his rational brain absolutely could not handle.

His hands went up automatically, one landing on Dax’s chest, the other somewhere near his shoulder.

He felt the shudder Dax tried to hide and, for the first time, felt like he was at an advantage. Chris pushed the kiss deeper, softly moaning when Dax’s pheromones surrounded him.

Dax’s breath caught, a quiet, guttural sound that vibrated through Chris’s chest and dragged a shiver up his spine. The kiss deepened again, slower this time. Dax’s hands were firm where they held Chris: one at his waist, the other sliding up to cradle the back of his neck, thumb brushing the soft skin beneath his jaw.

Chris couldn’t think. He didn’t even try. The faint smell of steam and spice still clung to Dax’s skin, rich, warm, and maddening. Water beaded along the line of his collarbone, trailing under the towel that hung, barely, at his hips. His body was hot and solid, every breath he took pulling the air from the room.

Chris tried to speak, to push him away, but his words dissolved into another sound, low, helpless, half a sigh, half a moan. Dax’s mouth curved against his, amused and hungry all at once.

"You taste like coffee," Dax murmured against his lips.

"You taste like a crime scene," Chris shot back, or tried to, but the words came out wrecked, swallowed by the next kiss.

Dax laughed quietly, that deep, warm sound that made the hairs at the back of Chris’s neck rise. The air between them thickened, charged, heavy with pheromones and steam. The omega in him wanted to melt into it, to give in, but the engineer in him wanted to file an official complaint against biology.

The horrifyingly familiar sound threaded through Chris’s mind: the quiet click of the suite doors unlocking.

Chris froze mid-breath. Dax’s head turned slightly, the muscles in his shoulders tightening under Chris’s palms.

’No,’ Chris thought, too late.

The door opened.