Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 173: The mirrored image

The six days between the shower and the gala had been a masterclass in suffering.

The quiet, maddening suffering where every breath hurt a little and every glance from Dax felt like being slowly unraveled by someone who didn’t know they were holding the thread.

Chris had survived. Barely.

He’d slept on the far edge of the mattress like it was hostile terrain, a diplomatic boundary line drawn in linen and pain. He’d kept perfectly still when Dax pressed a casual kiss to the top of his head, like that meant nothing. Like Chris wasn’t on the verge of spontaneous combustion.

He’d breathed through every second his instincts screamed at him to give in, to lean closer, slide a hand along Dax’s forearm, and bury himself in the warmth curling low in his lower abdomen whenever the man so much as rolled up his sleeves.

’Gods, those arms.’

Chris had started to genuinely question his grip on reality. Dax was attractive. That was fine. He was gorgeous, magnetic, and built like a tank. That was also fine.

What wasn’t fine was the fact that Chris’s body now had a full internal catalog of all the places Dax’s shirt stretched just a little too tightly. Or how his voice dipped an octave when he was reading late at night. Or how, three days ago, he’d caught Dax in nothing but a towel and nearly dropped the entire tray of tea he wasn’t supposed to be carrying in the first place.

He was still spiraling by the time he sat in front of the mirror.

He sat before the mirror, the robe, the robe, already draped over his frame, the fabric settling around him in black and bronze perfection. Every line was tailored to his movement, every shimmer planned to the last inch of fabric. The faintest turn of his head caught the diamonds at his throat, the light rippling across the platinum alloy in a halo that looked anything but holy.

And still, Serathine wasn’t satisfied.

"You need the earrings," she said, holding up the diamond set that matched his collar, delicate things that gleamed with a quiet, lethal brilliance. "It will tie the entire look together."

Chris looked at her reflection, unimpressed. "I can’t feel my face, Serathine."

"You look magnificent," she replied calmly. "That’s what matters."

"I’m not supposed to look magnificent; I’m supposed to survive the night," he muttered, reaching up to rub the edge of his jaw, only for Cressida’s stylist to smack his hand away with the speed of a hawk.

"Don’t touch!" she snapped. "The foundation is set, the contour is balanced, and the powder is sealed. If you ruin it, I will cry."

Chris blinked at her through the mirror. "You put lipstick on me."

"Soft rose," Cressida said absently, scrolling through something on her tablet. "It balances the undertone of the bronze embroidery. Be grateful I vetoed the gloss."

"Gloss?" Chris repeated, incredulous.

Serathine made a thoughtful hum. "The earrings would complement the lipstick, you know."

"Absolutely not."

"Christopher," Serathine said, in that patient tone only women accustomed to running empires could manage. "You are walking into a hall filled with at least two hundred ambassadors, over twenty cameras, and one man who will almost certainly stop breathing when he sees you. The least you can do is let me accessorize you properly."

Chris leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly. "He’ll stop breathing when he sees this cleavage, because he’ll be planning which wall to press me against first, not because of the earrings."

Cressida looked up at that, finally torn from her screen. "Then it’s working."

"That’s not the goal," Chris shot back.

"Of course it is," Serathine said smoothly. "You’re the crown consort. Looking like a diplomatic accident waiting to happen is part of the brief."

Chris gave her a withering stare in the mirror. "It’s supposed to be a gift for Dax. Not the king or the others."

Serathine didn’t blink. "It is a gift for Dax. That’s why it’s wrapped in velvet, diamonds, and consequences."

Cressida smirked behind her tablet. "And if others happen to weep in silence when they realize he got there first? Even better."

Chris groaned softly and dropped his head back against the high chair rest. "I can’t believe I let you two plan this."

"You let us?" Serathine arched a brow, gently adjusting the fall of his robe over one shoulder. "Darling, you begged us."

"That was before I saw the neckline."

"That neckline," Cressida said, now standing and circling him like a stylist evaluating a prized artifact, "is statecraft. If Dax doesn’t murder someone before the second course, I’ll be disappointed."

Chris didn’t respond. Mostly because he wasn’t entirely sure he could.

The man in the mirror wasn’t dressed to attend a diplomatic gala.

He was dressed to start a war with the very man celebrating his 34th birthday.

Every thread of the robe shimmered like a weaponized secret. The dark fabric spilled from his shoulders in molten black, each bronze embroidery curling like smoke, like temptation. The drape fell just far enough to suggest luxury and danger, both. The pleats at his waist were sharp enough to cut, cinched by a belt that should’ve been declared illegal. 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

And the neckline...

Gods.

The neckline alone should’ve been escorted out by security.

Chris swallowed hard as the part of his brain responsible for coherent thought had just laid down and died.

Cressida was still speaking, something about camera angles and heel height, but it barely registered. He couldn’t tear his eyes from his own reflection.

He looked... expensive and like an omega fashion model had stepped out of a magazine cover.

"I... This is not me." He turned to the others.

Serathine tilted her head, like she was trying to decide whether to laugh or slap him with a fan.

"That’s the point," she said finally, smoothing a single imaginary wrinkle from his sleeve. "You’re not just you tonight. You’re every fantasy Dax has ever had, tailored to diplomatic specifications and delivered with a bodyguard escort."

As if summoned by the word "escort," the door opened without a knock, because of course they didn’t need one, and in stepped Killian and Sahir.

They stopped in unison.

Absolute silence.

It was rare to see Killian speechless. Rarer still to see Sahir’s expression slip into something other than diplomatic steel or fond exasperation. But right now? They both stood there like the universe had personally pulled a curtain back on divine punishment and asked, "So. Thoughts?"

Chris stared at them through the mirror. "Say something."

Killian made a sound. It might’ve been a cough, might’ve been a prayer.

Sahir blinked slowly. "Did Dax find out?"

"No," Cressida answered, tone smug. "He hasn’t seen him yet."

Killian looked like he needed to sit down. "That’s cruel."

"It’s necessary," Serathine corrected. "Besides, the gala is public. Chris is officially his now. It’s only right he looks like something no one else can ever touch again."

"Touch?" Sahir murmured, eyes narrowing as he stepped closer. "He’s going to combust."

Chris gave him a look. "That’s what I said."

Sahir waved vaguely at the whole ensemble. "No, I mean actually combust. We may need to clear the second balcony."

Killian, ever the professional, recovered just enough to straighten his cuffs and adjust his stance. "Your Highness," he said with a deep breath, "we’re here to escort you to the ballroom."

Chris remained seated.

"I need a minute."

"You’ve had one," Serathine said kindly.

"And?" he asked.

"And if we wait another, I’m going to start crying over how perfect you look and ruin my makeup." She gave him a warm pat on the shoulder. "Stand up, darling. It’s time."

Chris stood. Slowly.

The robe fell into place like it had been made for drama. The diamonds caught the light again. The earrings gleamed.

Killian made a noise that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter.

Sahir didn’t even try to hide his grin this time. "He’s going to lose his mind."

Chris gave them both a flat look as he passed. "You’re enjoying this too much."