Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 174: The gala (1)

Dax had shaken twenty-seven hands, received twelve gifts, ignored four veiled insults, and smiled at least twice, out of pure political malice.

The ballroom was obscenely polished. Every pillar and every inch of gilded arch and backlit marble had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. The light glowed just warm enough to flatter skin tones and cold enough to feel expensive. One could almost forget they were in a place built for wars of etiquette and the occasional declared vendetta.

And that’s only because Dax got his hands on the guest seating after Killian signed it as final and strategically placed enemies at the same table.

Dax stood at the top of the dais, posture flawless, suit tailored so perfectly the military might’ve considered it a threat. A black jacket, gold thread along the collar, and his family’s crest at the left shoulder like a burn. The King’s Mantle draped behind him, gleaming gold in silent warning.

He wasn’t paying attention to the speeches.

Someone from the Vortheian trade delegation was saying something about economic partnership and sustainable logistics. But the king wasn’t listening anymore, his mind was wondering somewhere else.

Dax wasn’t a fool.

The palace might’ve been full of people who pretended not to notice when things shifted, encryption logs rerouted, access permissions quietly altered, and shipments labeled under diplomatic seal when they clearly weren’t, but he noticed everything.

Especially when it came to Chris.

Something had been moving beneath the surface for days now. His omega had that particular gleam in his eye again, the one that usually meant trouble wrapped in silk and an attraction he really tried to hide. Chris failed, but Dax let it happen.

Killian was being suspiciously efficient too, which was never a good sign. When Killian behaved too well, it usually meant there was a conspiracy he found amusing.

Still, Dax let it happen.

Not because he didn’t care, but because the idea of Chris scheming delighted him more than it worried him.

If anything, it was the one indulgence he refused to ruin.

The palace, in the week before his birthday gala, had turned into a living war schedule, with military briefings in the mornings, trade conferences in the afternoons, and state inspections that stretched well into the night. His temper was stretched thin, and even the ministers had started to flinch at the sound of his boots in the hall.

Now he was thinking about one thing: Where the hell was Chris?

Because Chris wasn’t just late.

He was late, unaccounted for, and, according to Sahir’s last text, "under final inspection."

That meant Serathine and Cressida had escalated to the nuclear tier of consort dressing.

Dax’s jaw ticked once.

His patience had been hanging by a thread the moment the third ambassador gifted him another ceremonial blade "inspired by the historic Sahan aesthetic," which actually meant forged in mass production and probably cursed.

The fourth veiled insult hadn’t helped.

But the silence after Sahir’s last message? That had done it.

"Where is he?" he murmured under his breath, low enough that only Killian, stationed near the dais with military precision, could hear.

Killian didn’t look up from his position by the second column. But Dax saw the barest shift of his shoulders.

"Coming," he said quietly, and if there was a glint of amusement in his tone, Dax pretended not to hear it. "Brace."

’Brace?’

’What the hell did that mean?’

Dax didn’t get to ask, because the back entrance to the ballroom opened with the quiet ceremonial timing that only someone like Killian, or worse, Sahir, could coordinate without alerting the orchestra or the press.

Dax forgot how to breathe.

Chris stepped into the ballroom with the poise that rewrote the wiring in his brain.

Every head turned. Conversations died. Cutlery stopped mid-air. A chandelier somewhere sparkled more aggressively.

And Dax...

Dax burned.

The robe was nothing short of an act of war. Midnight black and bronze, wrapped around his mate like temptation stitched into fabric. The drape over one shoulder exposed the line of his collarbone and just enough chest to incite an international incident. His collar caught the light like a declaration of ownership, a mark Dax had put there himself.

Diamonds and pearls glinted at his throat.

His hair was styled into something too perfect, a crown of soft rebellion and court flair, and the makeup...

Gods help him, Chris had makeup on. It was subtle, elegant, and terrifying in how beautiful the omega looked now. Designed to highlight every line of that face... those eyes, that mouth.

Chris wasn’t just dressed to impress.

He was dressed to kill, and then stand trial for it, looking absolutely unrepentant.

Dax couldn’t feel his legs.

There was a buzzing in his ears, faint and static-like interference on a secure line. He’d taken bullets to the arm with less emotional whiplash. He’d negotiated ceasefires in less compromising states of mental clarity.

Chris walked into that ballroom like it belonged to him.

And it did.

Because Dax would’ve handed it over, along with the palace, the kingdom, and any country foolish enough to question it.

The black velvet folded over his shoulders with sin-slick weight, tapering down into bronze embroidery that curled like smoke along his sleeves and hem. The tailored trousers cut sharply at the ankle, leaving only the tip of the shoe exposed.

And the neckline...

The deep V plunge of ivory silk drew the eye straight down the center of his chest, leaving very little to imagination and even less to mercy. Dax’s soul left his body again at the neckline, already mentally prepared to kill anyone who would stare too much.

And the shoes.

Heeled. Not much, just enough to give shape to the shoe, but enough to taunt him.

Dax didn’t know who had authorized heeled formalwear, Killian, he’d kill Killian, but Chris wore them like he was born in them, spine straight, chin lifted, gaze cutting through the stunned court with all the mercy of a guillotine.

Somewhere across the room, an ambassador dropped a champagne flute.

No one cared.

Because Chris was already crossing the floor, escorted only by Sahir, who looked like he was barely holding in a grin, and two stone-faced matriarchs trailing behind, who were clearly proud of their crimes.

Dax couldn’t move.

Couldn’t blink.

Couldn’t breathe.

Every part of him, every alpha instinct, every command forged in fire and raised in war, curled like a fist in his chest. The scent of Chris was faint under the weight of perfume and polish, but it was there, laced with warmth and ozone, threaded with a confidence Dax had only seen when Chris was planning his downfall in real time.

By the time Chris reached the base of the dais, the only reason Dax hadn’t leapt off the platform like a general abandoning rank was the centuries of Sahan etiquette carved into his bones.

Chris stepped up the stairs slowly, purposefully, each movement silent and poised, until they were standing face to face, the whole kingdom watching.

Chris’s gaze didn’t waver.

Neither did Dax’s.

"You’re late," Dax said, voice low and sharp, like it had scraped against the inside of his throat to form words.

Chris tilted his head slightly, just enough for the chandelier light to catch the glint of his earrings. "I was being gift-wrapped."

Dax’s jaw tightened. His hands itched.

He wanted to touch.

Wanted to claim.

Wanted to...

Chris leaned in, lips just brushing the shell of Dax’s ear, and whispered:

"Happy birthday, Your Majesty."