Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 156: Too much information (Win-Win)
The palace had settled back into its usual rhythm or as close to a rhythm as it ever had.
Five hours of lessons instead of twelve felt almost like a vacation. Almost.
Chris sat on the couch in the sitting room with his laptop open over his knees, one ankle crossed over the other. The late afternoon light came in slanted through the tall windows, warm enough to soften the edges of the room. There was a half-finished cup of coffee on the table, his second or third. Hard to remember.
Rowan sat across from him, one hand resting on the arm of the chair, the other holding his phone. He didn’t speak unless he needed to, which Chris appreciated. Rowan’s presence was a shield with muscles and decent situational awareness, but also, he was quiet most of the time. Chris could breathe around him.
"Your blood pressure is not going to like all that caffeine," Rowan said, not looking up from whatever report he was reading.
Chris clicked something on the screen. "My blood pressure can send a memo to my stress levels."
Rowan made a low sound, that was somewhere between agreement and disapproval. The kind of sound that meant noted.
Chris exhaled, leaned back and typed: ’traditional sahan mate customs.’
The first article from the Royal Cultural Archive was painfully official, with a crest watermark and serif fonts. It went straight to omega ceremonial attire, including a reference photo of the same layered silk and mooncloth robes Chris had seen in his wardrobe weeks ago. The ones he had sworn he would never wear. Ever.
He didn’t grimace, but his eyebrows lowered in a way that implied internal screaming.
Rowan glanced up at the shift in posture. "Problem?"
"The robes," Chris answered, eyes still on the screen.
Rowan nodded in the slow, understanding way of someone who had also experienced trauma in the form of aristocratic fashion.
Chris continued scrolling. Another page discussed royal consort collar design, history, and symbolic attachment. His own collar was listed as a modern specimen of a "legacy-integrated consort band," notable for its material value and pheromone lock signature keyed to the reigning sovereign.
Value: 27.8 million crowns
Materials: Legacy moonsteel and platinum alloy, House Altera crestwork, phoenix-solder filigree
Security: Locked to King Evrin Dax’s pheromone signature.
Functionally: Museum grade.
"Please tell me that I’m not wearing a museum piece." Chris pleaded with Gods more than any other human.
Rowan chuckled. "So you found out just now?"
Chris closed the laptop halfway, just enough to hide the worst of the screen, as if the collar’s price might climb higher if he looked at it too long.
"I thought it was... expensive," he said, slow and careful, like someone reviewing decisions made during a blackout. "I did not think it was... heritage-level national treasure expensive."
Rowan set his phone down. "It is insured. The palace treasury would handle compensation if anything happened to it."
Chris blinked. "If anything happened to it? Rowan, what exactly do you think I do in a day that might damage a piece of regalia worth more than the average mineral rights of a border province?"
Rowan lifted an eyebrow. "You walked into a door two days ago."
Chris looked offended. "The door was glass."
"It was open," Rowan clarified.
Chris stared at him. "Your job is supposed to be protecting me, not logging my tragedies."
"I am protecting you," Rowan said, straight-faced. "By establishing precedent."
Chris shut his eyes because arguing would only end in him remembering the sound of that thunk and Dax’s silent, pained inhale from across the hall.
He opened the laptop again.
Which was a mistake.
The next link was a private blog: Sahan romance aesthetics, watercolor banners, and cursive headers. The heading read:
"Devotion Worn in Cloth: Robes as an Expression of Surrender and Sovereignty."
Chris regretted breathing.
The article went on about how ceremonial robes were not just clothing but a gesture. A visible statement of, "I choose to stand beside you," rooted in Sahan courtship practices that predated half their current political borders.
It also described, in far too much dreamy vocabulary, how the sovereign typically reacted when their mate wore them. And two scrolls later it got weirdly sexual.
Chris scrolled faster.
Rowan didn’t comment, but Chris could feel the awareness across the room. Security training or just basic alpha sense, hard to tell.
The blog continued:
"...it is not submission but acceptance. The robes were never meant to mark ownership. They were designed to signal that the omega has chosen the alpha back, as well as to enhance the elegance of their frame."
Chris didn’t slam the laptop shut, but it was close.
He exhaled and slouched back into the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes like a man accepting an unfair divine joke.
"So," he said, voice flat, "my brilliant romantic plan is to wear the fucking robes."
Rowan waited a beat. "Language."
Chris dropped his arm just enough to look at him. "Don’t start. I get one curse. I earned one curse."
Rowan nodded. "Fair."
Chris sat upright, shoulders tense again.
"They look like dresses..." He looked over the terraces and sea of greens that marked the royal gardens. "If I order one, Dax would know."
Rowan glanced up. "Want me to ask Killian? He’d know the traditions better than the internet."
Chris gave him a flat look. "Killian would tell Dax I’m planning something, and then Dax would wait for me to confess like a smug cryptid."
Rowan’s mouth twitched. "Correct. He would."
"No. I can’t live with that. If I’m going to do this, Dax should suffer at least a few hours."
Rowan’s posture tightened. "Christopher, don’t. The king will love it, yes... but you’re asking for risk. Public reveal at a gala is a different animal."
Chris tilted his head. "Why? The robes are decent enough."
"Oh, Gods, why did I take this job?" Rowan asked to the ceiling.
"Because of the pay, and Dax asked for it." 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂
"Yes, that. Now let me live so I can collect my salary."
"Why are you acting like I would set the palace on fire?" Chris asked, genuinely confused.
"Because the king would go feral when he would see you in those robes."
Rowan watched him for a long second, then let out a sound that was half a surrender and half a laugh. "You do realize the optics, right? Ministers will interpret it as allegiance, journalists will devise strategies, and half the network will air think pieces before dessert. He’ll appear to be claiming you publicly and permanently. That changes things."
Chris didn’t flinch. He met Rowan’s steady, practical stare and was deliberate in his reply. "I know. I know what it’ll mean. I know what he’ll want when he sees me. I know it’s a statement. I know it’s sexual for Dax, too, not just symbolism. I’ve thought about that."
Rowan’s expression went from warning to incredulous. He opened his mouth to argue and then closed it. He pinched the bridge of his nose like a man rehearsing civility. "You’re an omega with no survival instincts," he muttered, then gave up on the mutter and said aloud, "Fine. If you’re doing this, we do it right."
Chris let the corner of his mouth lift. "That is the plan."
