Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 177: Indulgence (Win-Win)

Chris had never been so aware of fabric in his life.

"Ah," whispered Minister Leclair of the Eastern Ports, her fan fluttering lazily as she passed. "So that’s the new consort design trend. We’ll all be in trouble."

Rowan shifted beside the pillar near the royal dais like he was reconsidering the structural integrity of the ceiling.

Across the floor, Sahir leaned close to Killian and muttered something sharp and delighted under his breath. The Prime Minister looked like a man who had just been handed the winning hand in a five-year diplomatic chess match.

Cressida, seated in the front row with her legs elegantly crossed and a glass of champagne in hand, did not blink. She looked at Chris the way one might study a warship being unveiled in gold.

Serathine sipped from her flute. "Beautiful execution," she murmured. "A shame about the reaction it’s causing."

"Oh?" Cressida asked dryly. "You mean the King’s soul detaching from his body every time someone glances at his consort’s chest?"

Because Dax had not moved his hand from Chris’s back. He looked shameless and charming to Chris, but to the others, he looked like a ticking bomb.

And if it were not for the presence of two bishops, five foreign ministers, and one camera drone on low hover from the state broadcasting team, he would have pinned Chris to his side like a threat.

Every time a dignitary handed him a gift and then looked too long at Chris, something sharp flared behind his purple eyes.

The worst offender so far had been the Foreign Secretary from Rohan, who had bowed far too low, smiled far too warmly, and actually dared to compliment the embroidery.

"I assume," he said with amused interest, "that the robe was made as a tribute to you, Your Majesty. Quite the indulgence. I see why our princess was refused now."

Dax’s eyebrow raised. "I’ve refused her because she is a child."

The Foreign Secretary blinked.

The room did not.

Chris, to his eternal credit, did not spit his drink. Though the motion of his throat when he swallowed said it was a near thing.

Across the room, someone choked on their canapé. Sahir looked upward, like asking the gods for strength, while Rowan finally, finally, reached for the comm at his shoulder and murmured something that sounded suspiciously like a threat assessment involving satin and homicide.

Dax, meanwhile, didn’t even blink.

"She is fourteen," he continued calmly, "and you’re suggesting she compete with a consort who designs his own attire and understands geopolitics. Forgive me if I’m loyal to my mate. A concept your king can’t comprehend."

Chris did not breathe for a full second.

’Mate?’

’Mate????’

’Sure, in an hour, if things went the way the entire east wing currently predicted, yes. But right now?’

Right now he was unmarked, unmated, still in the pre‑everything phase, and Dax had just publicly declared him something that would make every gossip outlet, every foreign court, and every gold‑leafed scandal column combust in real time.

Chris turned his head, very slowly, very carefully, and looked at Dax like the man had just sprouted a second head and offered to start a dynasty with it.

Dax didn’t notice.

Or he did notice and didn’t care.

Which was worse.

The Foreign Secretary of Rohan, who had started the problem, was now blinking like someone had just slapped him with a legal treaty.

"I... of course... Your Majesty... naturally..." he stammered.

But Dax wasn’t done.

"You’ll relay that to your king, yes?" he added pleasantly. "I wouldn’t want any confusion about the hierarchy tonight. Not when the engagement would be announced so soon."

’This motherfucker!!!!’ Chris almost combusted from Dax’s words. He turned to the shameless king only to see what Dax was. Infuriatingly handsome, his blonde hair shining in the light and his purple eyes filled with provocation.

This was supposed to happen too, someday, but no, this alpha had decided to be in full-mode unhinged.

Chris’s eye twitched.

A single, restrained tick of the brow. One that said: ’I have never killed until now, but I can make an exception for you.’

The crowd, blessedly, was too stunned to interrupt. Somewhere near the northern platform, the orchestra had missed half a beat. Minister Leclair’s fan stilled entirely. Bishop Corven actually crossed himself.

And Dax? Dax had the nerve to look pleased with himself.

He hadn’t moved from Chris’s side. That hand remained anchored to the small of his back, immovable, hot, and branded there by God himself, apparently. The corner of his mouth quirked ever so slightly, as if daring the room to object.

"I will strangle you with this robe," Chris whispered, voice lower than diplomacy should allow. "You can’t just say things like that."

"I can," Dax murmured back. "I’m the King."

"That’s not a license for verbal warfare."

"It’s exactly that."

Chris forced a serene smile and raised his wine glass again, if only to buy time before public execution became necessary. The glass trembled slightly at the rim.

"Did you just escalate us from ’rumored affair’ to ’internationally announced betrothal’?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"I prefer the term ’inevitable destiny," Dax replied smoothly.

Chris nearly choked. "I will knee you in the royal jewels."

Dax finally turned toward him, just slightly, just enough for Chris to catch the deliberate drag of purple eyes down his frame. He leaned in, as though adjusting something on the collar.

He did not adjust anything.

"I placed the collar this morning," he said, voice silk wrapped around steel. "And I’m unlocking it when I’m done here. Everyone might as well know."

Chris’s ears went red. Not pink. Not warm. Red. And worse... he knew Dax knew.

"I hate you," Chris muttered, staring straight ahead like he was in a hostage video.

"No," Dax said, voice dark and low, "you’re just not used to being claimed in public."

Chris nearly shattered the wine glass.

Across the room, Sahir turned to Cressida and muttered, "Do we intervene?"

"Not unless the robe comes off," she said, without a blink.

"Killian?" Sahir asked.

Killian looked like he was witnessing either a divine ritual or a slow‑burn arson.

"They’re locked in a power spiral," he said simply. "No one should interfere with that."

Serathine, with perfect composure, sipped her drink again. "Besides," she said, "we’ve waited months for this."

Meanwhile, Rowan, poor, traumatized Rowan, let out a slow, tired breath and updated the palace security log.

21:08: His Majesty declared mating intentions.

21:09: Consort Chris did not flee. Possible hostage situation or mutual escalation.

21:10: The Public is unaware this wasn’t pre-scripted.

21:11: Kill me.

Back at the dais, Chris managed to whisper, "You do realize the public proposal was supposed to be after we bond or discuss it?"

Dax tilted his head like a king considering spoils of war. "I changed my mind."

"You what?"

"I waited three months," Dax said, deadpan. "You’ve worn my collar every day. You’ve endured diplomatic dinners, etiquette tutors, six weeks of consort protocol, and, somehow, you still haven’t murdered me."

"Yet."

"Exactly. And that’s love, isn’t it?"

Chris made a noise of internal collapse. If anyone caught it on camera, it would be filed under ’when consorts break.’

Dax’s thumb slid just slightly lower at the back of his waist, right under the waistband of his high-rise pants.

Chris narrowed his eyes.

"One hour," he said quietly. "That’s how long you have to keep smiling before I remove you from this gala like a federal incident."

"I look forward to it," Dax replied, grinning like the devil dressed in state embroidery.