Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 148: I can’t.

Chris’s head was in his hands. The coffee in front of him was untouched, steam curling up like a taunt. His usual latte had been replaced with something dark and merciless halfway through the week, after Dax declared that "milk isn’t going to survive my court." Chris didn’t argue because he needed the strength.

"I can’t do it," he muttered, voice muffled against his palms. "I can’t go back there. I’d rather die. Just kill me. Make it quick."

Across the table, Rowan and Nadia exchanged the kind of look people reserved for a friend in the middle of a breakdown or, in this case, a royal training schedule.

Rowan leaned back in his chair, the movement slow, careful not to startle the omega in front of him. The alpha’s dark red hair was slightly disheveled, and his hazel eyes were sharp even with his usual calm. "You’ve survived seven days of professors, drills, and court rehearsals," he said dryly. "You can’t die now. The King would kill everyone else if you do. I’ve barely cleaned up after Hanna."

Chris lifted his head and stared at him, deadpan. "You forgot who was the victim here."

"I did not," Rowan replied evenly. "But the King disposed of Cornelia Altera too. She was the mastermind."

"Dax did what?" Chris asked, his voice pitching up in disbelief.

"Cornelia Altera, the former king’s last consort, had planned all your suffering through Hanna," Rowan said like it was just another Tuesday. "He killed her. Saying the King was angry is... an understatement. She also rerouted the collar destination to you." 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

"Huh..." Chris leaned back, one hand brushing instinctively over the silver at his throat. "Well. Good riddance."

He didn’t want to care about a woman he’d never met, who had twisted his life, driven wedges, and nearly destroyed him from within. If Dax were the kind of man she’d wanted him to believe, Chris thought, ’I’d already be dead. Or worse.’ He swallowed hard and focused on the coffee again. ’Good thing he’s only half mad... most days.’

Rowan’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile barely there. "That’s one way to put it."

Chris stared for a beat longer, then sighed and took a sip of the bitter brew. It hit like punishment, all edge and no mercy, but he took another anyway. "Remind me to never underestimate how fast Dax moves when he’s angry."

"Fast," Rowan said mildly, "isn’t the word I’d use."

Nadia, who’d been quietly checking the vitals log on her tablet, finally looked up. "Efficient," she offered. "Ruthless, maybe. But not fast. Fast implies that he hesitated, which he never does."

Chris blinked. "You people talk about assassination like it’s the weather."

"Occupational hazard," Rowan said.

"We work for the King," Nadia added solemnly.

Chris groaned, slumping forward again. "Right. Of course. The same King who apparently kills people between meetings and still expects me to survive three hours of etiquette drills with a woman who thinks blinking too much is undignified."

Nadia smiled faintly. "You’re adapting well."

"Adapting?" Chris echoed, incredulous. "I’m dissolving."

"Semantics," Rowan said with a straight face.

Chris shot him a look. "You’re enjoying this."

"I’m alive," Rowan countered. "That’s enough enjoyment for me."

The omega dragged a hand through his hair, muttering, "Unbelievable. I’m surrounded by psychopaths with perfect posture."

Nadia ignored the insult with professional grace and leaned forward, fingers brushing his wrist as she removed a small adhesive monitor from his arm. "You can stop worrying about the patch," she said, setting it aside on the tray. "Your readings have been stable all week. The collar is doing its job by keeping your pheromones balanced, pulse regular, and stress levels within reason."

Chris arched a brow. "Within reason?"

She smiled. "For you, yes."

He groaned again. "Saints help me."

Rowan glanced at the clock on the wall. "You’ve got twenty minutes until your next lesson."

Chris’s head snapped up. "No. Absolutely not. I’m not going back to the court rehearsal. If Cressida tells me one more time that my hand placement is a reflection of state dignity, I’m defecting."

Nadia stifled a laugh. "Defecting to where?"

"I don’t know. Somewhere without forks with assigned political meaning."

Rowan took a sip of coffee, unbothered. "You’ll have to get used to it. The court already calls you His Majesty’s stabilizer."

Chris froze. "His Majesty’s what?"

"Stabilizer," Rowan repeated, deadpan. "Apparently, you’re the reason he hasn’t publicly executed anyone this week. Rumor says your presence keeps the King’s temper in check."

Chris blinked at him. "So I’ve gone from structural engineer to human tranquilizer."

"Essentially."

He was still processing that indignity when a knock interrupted them.

The door opened before anyone could answer. Cressida Fitzgeralt entered first, posture immaculate, her expression unreadable. Behind her, Serathine D’Argente followed with all the poise of a duchess who didn’t need introductions.

"Good morning, Christopher," Serathine said, her amber eyes glinting with quiet amusement as she surveyed the scene. "I see your enthusiasm remains intact."

Cressida set her gloves on the table with care. "He’ll need it. We’ve come early to begin his preparation."

Chris sat up straighter, wary. "Preparation for what?"

"For your first state dinner," Cressida said simply. "The formal gathering with the Prime Minister and His Majesty’s key allies before the King’s birthday celebration. Consider it your introduction to the Empire’s real players."

He blinked. "That’s in a week."

Serathine’s smile was all grace and quiet cruelty. "Indeed. Which is precisely why we’re starting now."

Chris stared at her as though she’d just suggested a public execution. "You can’t possibly train me for a state dinner in seven days."

Cressida adjusted her cuffs, her expression calm and impenetrable. "We don’t have to make you perfect, Christopher. We only have to make you presentable."

"That’s not comforting," he muttered.

"It wasn’t meant to be," Cressida replied smoothly. She crossed to the table and laid down a neatly stacked folder thick with notes, names, and seating charts. "The Prime Minister enjoys testing newcomers, particularly those close to His Majesty. He’ll attempt to provoke you. You will not rise to it."

Chris blinked. "I’ll try, but I make no promises."

"Try harder," she said flatly.

Serathine, ever the diplomat, offered a softer smile. "The dinner will be small. Intimate, even. Only twelve guests: the Prime Minister, three senior ministers, the Rohan and Palatine ambassadors, and two trade delegates. Of course, the press will also be there in disguise."

Chris’s stomach dropped. "Twelve guests and half the Empire watching."

"Exactly," Cressida said, completely unfazed. "You’ll be seated to His Majesty’s right. The Prime Minister directly opposite. You will recognize them from the colors they wear."

Serathine set her tablet down and turned the screen toward him. The image displayed was a formal seating plan, elegant in its simplicity but coded in colors. Gold. Violet. Silver. A few muted tones of navy and emerald.

Chris squinted. "You’re color-coding people now?"

"In a sense," Cressida said smoothly, already unfolding a small velvet case that contained fabric samples of each shade. "The mantle colors are symbols of authority, a tradition kept from Dax’s grandfather’s rule. They’re worn only during official assemblies, ceremonies, or court or state dinners such as this one."

Serathine nodded, her tone patient. "Outside of official occasions, anyone may wear these colors freely. But during formal gatherings, the mantle or shawl is the declaration of allegiance. It’s how the court sees where power stands."

Chris leaned back, expression skeptical. "So it’s basically political branding."

"That’s one way to put it," Cressida replied, not even pretending to disagree. She pointed to the first square of gold fabric, richly embroidered. "Gold represents the throne. It is His Majesty’s color alone. The King wears it as his mantle, and no one else is permitted to during official functions."

"Not even an accent?" Chris asked. "You people run a monarchy or a color monopoly?"

Serathine’s lips curved faintly. "Both, dear. The gold mantle signifies the crown’s dominion. To wear it otherwise would be to claim sovereignty. That’s treason, even in silk."