Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 165: National treasure

The days that followed blurred into a disciplined kind of chaos.

Chris’s schedule had gone from brutal to absurd. Lessons in diplomacy and public address were stacked like bricks over etiquette drills, and now Killian had quietly slotted in three extra "fitting reviews," masked behind vague calendar titles so seamlessly even the palace AI system assumed he was being tailored for the state dinner.

He survived on caffeine, sarcasm, and pure spite. The robe stayed a secret. Barely. More than once he’d caught himself mid-sentence around Dax, nearly saying ’hemline’ instead of ’headline.’

By day three, Dax had looked at him over breakfast, still half-asleep and in a robe of his own, and said, "You’re twitching like you’re hiding a diplomatic scandal."

Chris had just nodded and replied, "Sleep deprivation is a scandal."

"You can reduce the hours of lectures again; don’t let Cressida and Sahir bully you in their madness."

"I’m fine," Chris said, stabbing his eggs with more force than necessary. "It’s not that bad." 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

Dax only hummed in response, not quite believing him. But he didn’t press, just tilted his head slightly, as if measuring the distance between tolerance and breaking point. If Chris ever said the word, he’d intervene. No committee or etiquette demon would survive it.

But Chris didn’t say it.

So Dax let it go, for now.

And Chris returned to juggling espionage-level secrecy and robe fittings hidden behind "cultural integration."

By the fifth day, the ache behind his eyes had become a steady pulse. Even Serathine, during one of their afternoon reviews, had peered over the rim of her teacup and said gently, "You’re starting to resemble your king when he hasn’t slept in three weeks. I’m not sure whether that’s endearing or alarming."

Chris hadn’t had the energy to answer. He’d barely seen Dax, who returned to their suite at ungodly hours and left long before dawn. Their conversations had been reduced to fragments: a shared glance, a squeeze of a shoulder, the warmth of Dax’s scent lingering on a pillow.

Now, as he stood before the mirror in the East Wing guest suite, adjusting his cuffs for the evening, the exhaustion showed only in the faint crease at the corner of his mouth, the only part of him that refused to obey the immaculate image.

The suit he wore was simple: a black three-piece tailored with military accuracy, its lines clean and understated. It made him look like someone who could sign a treaty or assassinate a prince and do both with the same hand. The collar at his throat caught the warm light every time he moved. It hummed faintly, a quiet resonance of scent and power.

Chris exhaled slowly, straightening the line of his jacket. The mirror reflected back a version of him that looked calm. Too calm. As if he had everything under control. He didn’t. Not even close.

Behind him, Killian’s reflection moved with the smoothness of someone who knew every corridor in the palace by sound alone. "You’re three minutes ahead of schedule," he remarked, adjusting a cufflink that didn’t need adjusting. "You’ve either broken time or you’ve stopped caring about it."

"Option three," Chris muttered. "I’m too tired to be late."

Killian’s mouth curved faintly, the butler’s version of a belly laugh. "A sane philosophy."

He stepped back just as the door opened without a knock.

Dax entered.

He wore midnight blue, trimmed in muted gold thread, formal enough to be appropriate, and relaxed enough to be unmistakably him. His eyes swept the room once before finding Chris and then stopped.

Something in his posture shifted. The tension in his shoulders from hours of political warfare eased. His gaze narrowed, tracing every line of Chris’s suit like it had personally offended him for existing this long without his knowledge.

"You’re early," Chris said, trying to sound normal, but his voice came out lower than intended.

Dax didn’t say anything; he crossed the floor in three steps and stopped in front of Chris.

He just reached up, fingers brushing the edge of the jacket, then the collar, his collar, before sliding behind Chris’s neck and pulling him forward into a kiss.

The kiss was more intense than Chris expected, with Dax’s lips pressing firmly against his. The warmth of their breath mingled as Dax slid his tongue into Chris’s mouth, exploring with a confident, almost possessive gesture. Chris could taste the lingering flavor of something sweet and minty, a unique blend that was uniquely Dax. Their tongues tangled, a dance of desire and need, as Dax’s hands gripped the back of Chris’s neck, holding him in place.

Chris’s hands curled once into the fabric at Dax’s waistcoat before he forced himself to step back just enough to speak.

"That’s not how state dinners usually start," he said, voice lower than he meant it to be.

Dax’s eyes stayed on him. "You don’t usually look like that."

Chris arched a brow. "Like what?"

"Like every single person in that dining hall is about to learn what it means to envy me." The words are both reverent and possessive. Like a secret he’d decided not to keep.

Killian coughed once, gently. "We are now four minutes behind schedule."

Neither of them moved.

Then Chris blinked, shook his head faintly, and pulled his expression back into something resembling composure. "Let’s go, then. Before Sahir decides I’m disrespecting the government again by existing."

Dax offered his arm. Chris took it, exhaling once more to settle his pulse.

As they walked down the corridor toward the East Wing dining hall, Chris felt it again, that subtle shift in the air, low and steady, like the room was holding its breath.

The collar was reacting.

Or more precisely, Dax was doing it again, feeding his pheromones into the link like it was second nature. There wasn’t a flare or a pulse of heat. Just a quiet sync, so smooth that Chris almost missed it, if not for the faint vibration where the platinum rested against his skin.

It was like someone adjusting the thermostat in a room and pretending nothing changed.

Chris didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. He could feel Dax’s focus like a low-pressure system brushing too close.

"You’re doing it again," Chris murmured, voice low as they passed a pair of servants who bowed without meeting their eyes.

"Doing what?" Dax asked, his tone infuriatingly innocent.

"Marking me like a very expensive, state-approved air freshener."

Dax’s mouth twitched. "I prefer the term ’national treasure."

Dax’s hand flexed slightly beneath Chris’s where it rested on his arm. "It’s a preventative measure."

Chris adjusted his pace half a step, enough to make the movement seem intentional. His expression remained neutral, composed, almost bored, but the corner of his mouth ticked up.

"Preventative?" he echoed, like he didn’t already know.

"Mhm." Dax’s tone was soft but unrepentant. "For everyone who’s thinking too hard about where your seat is tonight. Or how much skin is visible between your cuff and your collar. Or what I’d do if they touched you."

Chris inhaled slowly, gaze fixed ahead. "You’re leaking menace again."

"I’m sharing it generously."

Chris huffed a dry laugh under his breath. "You really don’t want me to have a peaceful dinner, do you?"

"I want you to have a very clear one," Dax said. "One without misunderstandings. Or interruptions."

They reached the tall doors of the dining hall. The staff stationed there bowed deeply, stepping aside in practiced synchrony.

Chris glanced sideways, deliberately not looking at Dax’s eyes. "And this is your version of subtle?"

Dax smiled faintly. "I didn’t say it was subtle, but it would be effective."

The doors opened. Light spilled out across the marble, catching on the platinum collar and the crisp edges of Chris’s suit like it had been waiting for this moment.

Chris didn’t falter.

He stepped forward with Dax at his side, back straight, pulse steady, scent sharp with cool clarity smothered in the king’s pheromones.