Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 144: Back in place

Chris hesitated for one beat too long, then exhaled and obeyed. His towel slipped slightly down his shoulders as he faced the window, the light casting pale gold across his skin. In the reflection, he could see Dax behind him, tall and composed, his expression unreadable.

The first touch was feather-light. Dax’s hand brushed the side of his neck, steadying him, his fingers impossibly warm against skin that felt suddenly too exposed. The cold weight of the collar was followed by a whisper of metal gliding against the base of his throat as Dax secured it.

Chris’s breath stuttered.

"This isn’t necessary," he said, though it came out too low, too thin.

"It’s kind of late to retreat now," Dax murmured. "I made the collar for myself, too."

His fingers found the clasp at the back and paused for a moment. The hum of pheromones stirred faintly under his touch, the collar recognizing its maker, waiting.

Chris could feel Dax’s breath on the back of his neck, close enough to count heartbeats.

Then Dax bent slightly, and before the clasp locked, he pressed a kiss just below the line of Chris’s hair.

It was a soft and devastating acknowledgement, a touch that did not seek permission because it knew it had been given somewhere, silently, long before this moment.

Chris froze. The air left his lungs in one startled, soundless rush. Every muscle went taut, every thought scattered. The scent that rolled off him was hot, clean, and sharp, with dominant omega pheromones startled to stillness.

"Dax," he managed, low and warning. Except it didn’t sound like a warning. It sounded like surrender disguised as irritation.

"Relax," Dax said near his ear, voice rougher now, the edge of restraint audible. "It helps if you breathe."

"I am breathing," Chris snapped, though it came out breathless.

Dax smiled against his skin. The collar clicked shut with a soft, decisive sound. A hum followed, sealing itself in a way that always felt magical and full of promise.

The change was instant. The noise in Chris’s head dulled. His scent steadied, the chaos of earlier folding inward until everything felt quieter, more centered, like the world had taken one collective breath and let it go.

"There," Dax murmured, voice low and even again. "Better."

Chris turned slightly, just enough to glance at him over his shoulder. "You kissed me," he said, tone clipped and accusing, though the slight tremor in his voice betrayed him.

Dax’s hand was still at the back of his neck, his thumb resting lightly on the clasp as if testing that the mechanism held. The faint pulse of pheromone current between them was subtle, intimate, and alive.

"I did," Dax said quietly, not even pretending to deny it. "You looked like you needed grounding."

"Grounding?" Chris echoed, incredulous. "That’s what we’re calling that now?"

His voice came out sharper than he intended, but Dax only smiled, a small and infuriatingly calm expression that existed precisely because his pulse didn’t.

"You’re shaking less," Dax observed.

"That’s not the point," Chris muttered, though it kind of was. The tension in his shoulders was gone. The static in his head had faded into something soft, almost warm. It was easier to breathe and think, except for the part of his brain that was still screaming about the kiss.

He turned his head a little more, enough to catch Dax’s reflection in the window. The alpha’s posture was relaxed as ever, his white shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Picture-perfect composure. Except...

Except Chris could see it now. The small betrayals. The rise and fall of Dax’s chest, the faint hitch that shouldn’t be there. The pulse in his throat was quick and strong, just like his.

"You look calm," Chris said finally, his voice quiet but edged with something sharp and knowing.

"I am calm," Dax replied, deadpan.

Chris huffed a laugh, low and disbelieving. "Liar. You’re unraveling too."

For the briefest moment, Dax considered denying it again, as he always did reflexively. But there was nothing wrong with Chris knowing what he felt. Not anymore.

He placed his hands on Chris’s waist, remained firm but careful, and with a small, unguarded thump, let his forehead fall against his omega’s shoulder.

The sound was soft and barely audible, but its weight settled the room. The gesture was neither desperate nor theatrical; it was exhaustion reserved for someone who would not weaponize it.

Chris went perfectly still. Then, slowly, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

"You’re terrible at pretending," he muttered, voice quieter now, almost fond despite himself.

"I know," Dax said, his words muffled against the warm fabric at Chris’s shoulder. "You just make it worse."

Chris blinked, momentarily thrown off by the honesty in that. "I make it worse?"

"You do," Dax said simply. "You walk in, and everything that’s supposed to stay silent starts talking again."

Chris swallowed, throat dry. "You make that sound poetic."

"It’s not," Dax said softly, lifting his head just enough for his breath to brush the back of Chris’s neck. "It’s inconvenient."

Chris would’ve laughed, he almost did, but the warmth in that single word stopped him. The faint hum of the collar matched the rhythm of Dax’s pulse against his back, steadying both of them in a way neither could name.

The silence that followed was gentle and balanced. Their pheromones had settled into something even, a rare middle ground that wasn’t about dominance or control but balanced.

Chris tilted his head slightly. "You good now?"

Dax’s smile was small but real. "Getting there."

"Good," Chris muttered, because admitting it out loud would’ve been too much. "We can’t both be disasters before breakfast."

He was about to step forward when a discreet knock broke the moment.

Both men froze.

Killian’s voice followed, perfectly composed as always. "Your Majesties."

Chris groaned under his breath. "Of course."

Dax straightened but didn’t step away immediately, one hand still on Chris’s waist as if securing him. "Come in."

The door opened and Killian entered, immaculately dressed, posture perfect, eyes politely avoiding the sight of his king standing close enough behind Chris to count heartbeats.

"Lady Serathine and Lady Cressida have arrived," Killian announced, his tone professional but carrying the faint weariness of a man used to chaos. "They are currently waiting in the breakfast room."

Chris blinked, disbelieving. "Waiting? As in already here?"

"They... invited themselves," Killian confirmed, pausing delicately before continuing. "They expressed their enthusiasm to begin your lessons at once, Your Grace. They called it..." his voice flattened just slightly, "’an auspicious morning for discipline and refinement.’"

Chris made a strangled sound. "It’s before breakfast."

Killian inclined his head, sympathy disguised as decorum. "Indeed, Your Grace."

Dax’s quiet laughter rumbled against Chris’s back. "You’re very popular this morning."

"Oh, I’m beloved," Chris muttered. "By sadists."

Killian’s expression didn’t change, though the corner of his mouth twitched, just barely. "Shall I tell them you will join them shortly?"

"No," Chris said flatly. "Tell them I’m undergoing a delicate medical procedure. Or dead. Whichever sounds more plausible."

Dax finally stepped back, amusement curling through his tone. "He’ll be there in ten minutes."

Killian inclined his head. "Very good, Your Majesty."

As the steward departed, the door closing softly behind him, Chris turned toward Dax with narrow eyes. "You’re enjoying this."

"I am," Dax said unapologetically. "Someone has to."