Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 167: Button

Chris stepped inside the bathroom briefly, long enough to let the heavy door close behind him, splash cold water on his face, and stare at his own reflection until the tension in his jaw gave a little. The light was harsh. The sink was spotless. He pressed the edge of the counter and took two long, measured breaths.

Then he walked past the row of dark marble stalls, past the antique sconces shaped like twin moons, and let himself out through the side door that opened into one of the narrower gallery halls. A quick left, past two closed staff corridors, and there it was, an exit to the small East Wing balcony, carved out between the southern towers.

The moment the glass door clicked shut behind him, Chris exhaled properly for the first time all evening.

The air outside was sharp with summer jasmine and heat-worn stone. A warm feeling that lingered on the skin long after sunset, heavy with memory. A light breeze stirred the edge of his jacket as he walked to the edge and placed his hands on the stone balustrade.

From this angle, the city lights looked soft, blurred slightly by the humidity in the air. The palace gardens stretched below like shadow-draped lace, and further out, the faint hum of traffic and laughter wrapped around the night like a distant chorus.

Chris tilted his head back.

No stars tonight. Just a pale dome of cloud haze, glowing faintly from the city below.

He could still taste the wine on his tongue. Still feel the warmth of Dax’s palm from earlier, like the ghost of possession burned into the bone.

Mate.

Future queen.

He’d known it was coming. Dax had never been one to hide things once decided. But still. Hearing it out loud. In front of everyone. Declared like a sentence or a vow, he didn’t know which one yet.

And it wasn’t the title that weighed on him.

It was the eyes. The ones at the table. The ones that would follow. The ones that would look at him now not as a guest, or an anomaly, or even an omega. But as the consort to a king who had never once played by the rules of the court.

He didn’t hear the balcony door open.

He felt it.

A shift behind him. The faint scuff of an expensive leather sole. A breath drawn with the expectation of being listened to.

Chris didn’t turn right away.

"Beautiful view," a voice said, smooth like old coins, polished from years of committees and private wealth.

Chris’s shoulders tightened. Just enough to register.

He turned.

The deputy minister, the one who’d been watching him through dinner, stood in the doorway. Hands clasped behind his back. Smile too polite to be anything but predatory.

"Minister Draven," Chris greeted, tone neutral.

"So you do know who I am," the man said, stepping closer without permission. "I wondered. You didn’t look overly educated when you arrived."

There were a great many ways to respond to that.

Chris chose none of them. He’d met these types of people while working freelance; there was no argument that would point out their error.

Draven’s eyes flicked slowly to the collar.

"Quite the... gesture," the minister murmured. "Though I suppose when one comes from nothing, it must be easy to let another man dress you."

Chris said nothing.

The silence left a vacuum Draven eagerly filled.

"Tell me, Christopher," he continued, voice lowering, "when the King discovered what you were, did he have to pay extra? Or was the novelty valuable enough on its own?"

’Ah. There it is. Of course he is a contemptuous asshole.’

Chris didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too sharply. Just watched him.

Draven smiled, thin and pleased with himself.

"A dominant omega," he said, as if naming a creature in a cage. "Tragic, in a way. So rare. So precious. And yet anyone with a critical mind can look at you and see..."

"Don’t finish that sentence," Chris said, quietly.

Draven continued anyway, leaning in just a fraction.

"...someone who probably had to spread their legs to survive before the King found them."

The night breeze stilled. The warmth in the air dropped. Even the cicadas outside stopped their song. The platinum at Chris’s throat went cold where it touched his skin.

’Fucking bastard. I can smell your recessive, insecure ass.’

The temperature dropped enough for condensation to form along the stone balustrade, tiny beads of frost glinting in the light.

Draven didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.

"Am I right, or am I?"

Draven’s words hung in the air like rot. His tone was slick and certain, the kind of voice men used when they believed they were untouchable, when they’d spent their entire careers slipping through cracks wide enough to swallow lesser people whole.

Chris didn’t flinch.

He simply raised his wrist, turned it with a lazy flick that might’ve passed for boredom, and pressed the small, unmarked button set into the underside of his matte black watch, which would bite if you weren’t careful. Rowan’s idea.

He’d never used it before.

’I wonder if they would tackle him like in the action movies,’ Chris thought, elbow resting now against the cold, wet rail as he leaned back slightly, letting his weight settle into the ancient stone like he had all the time in the world.

Nothing happened.

At least, not in the first five seconds.

But then, like thunder muffled behind velvet curtains, he felt them.

Boots, silent against marble. The door opened with a soft hush. Just enough movement to shift the air.

Rowan entered first. Dressed in midnight black with deep purple trim, with no insignia but the ring at his collar and the way the air moved around him. He wasn’t angry, but he was focused, and when Rowan focused, entire buildings held their breath.

Behind him came four others, all of them alphas, all of them tall enough that the stone lintel barely cleared their shoulders. They didn’t speak. Their presence was the kind of quiet that comes with confidence sharpened to a weapon’s edge, the kind that only comes from knowing exactly how much damage you were allowed to do and then doing slightly less out of courtesy.

The fifth one entered last. Dark-skinned, with eyes like molten steel, his hand was already flexing at his side like he was hoping for an excuse.

Draven didn’t turn at first. Didn’t understand what was behind him until the click of the door locking registered.

Only then did the minister glance over his shoulder.

Only then did his mouth pull into something less smug.

Rowan stepped forward with the deliberation of a man already mentally writing the report. His gaze slid to Chris first, sharp and assessing, making sure he wasn’t touched. A brief, subtle nod, enough to say I’ve got it without making it a scene.

Chris nodded back, just as quietly.

Then Rowan turned to Draven. His voice, when it came, was polite like a gun pointed at the target.

"You are in breach of protocol."

Draven bristled. "I was simply having a conversation."

"Unaccompanied by certified staff, unvetted, and totally uninvited." Rowan tilted his head, slow, like a predator giving fair warning. "With the King’s consort."

"I wasn’t aware he needed a babysitter."

"I don’t," Chris said, voice low and even. "But I like my security tall and judgmental."

One of the alphas near the back snorted softly. The one with the steel eyes shifted his stance, fingers tapping against his thigh like he was already counting down to permission.

Rowan didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

"Minister Draven," he said coolly. "You will be escorted off the premises for tonight. Your clearance is now under review by the Prime Minister’s office. You will remain silent until addressed."

"This is absurd," Draven snapped, suddenly too loud, the veneer cracking. "I haven’t done anything..."