Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 178: Patience of a King (Win-Win)
Neither of them remembered the final speech.
Not the closing fanfare, not the ceremonial procession, not the string quartet’s diplomatic rendition of the Sahan anthem. The moment the palace doors closed behind them, shutting out the applause, the flash of press drones, and the breathless commentary of ministers and nobles who had witnessed the royal equivalent of a romantic detonation, Dax let go of restraint like it was a costume he’d worn long enough.
The corridor outside the gala hall had been cleared ahead of time. Of course it had. Killian saw this coming a week ago. Rowan had probably cleared it by force.
Chris didn’t have the mental bandwidth to care.
Not when Dax moved like that, like a fuse was already burning somewhere under his skin.
The door clicked shut.
Dax turned.
Chris didn’t even get a full breath before his back hit the wall.
Hard.
He exhaled in one stunned beat, the marble cold behind him, Dax’s body heat pressed in front of him like a second skin. His hands went to Dax’s chest automatically in a futile attempt to ground himself.
Because Dax was no longer smiling.
That charming, diplomatic mask from the gala had vanished the second they were alone. In its place: hunger. Possessiveness, heavy, molten, and utterly devoid of shame.
"I’m going to ruin this robe," Dax said, his voice low, serious, and beautifully gone.
Chris’s mouth went dry. "It’s your gift; you can do whatever you want with it."
Dax only growled in response.
Chris’s hands trembled slightly as they moved to mirror Dax’s actions, his fingers tracing the line of Dax’s jaw before tangling in his hair. He pulled Dax closer, their bodies pressing together until clothes were just a thin line between them. Chris’s lips found Dax’s, his kiss as hungry and demanding as Dax’s, their tongues meeting in a frenzied dance of desire.
Dax’s hands moved to the back of Chris’s neck, his fingers deftly unlocking the collar’s lock. The collar fell away, and Dax’s mouth trailed down Chris’s throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, leaving a soft mark. Chris gasped, his head falling back against the wall, giving Dax better access. The sensation of Dax’s tongue, hot and wet, combined with feeling the hard length of Dax’s arousal pressing against him sent shivers down his spine.
Dax didn’t give him time to recover.
He hooked an arm beneath Chris’s thighs and lifted him clean off the ground, one smooth, fluid motion that made Chris’s breath catch and his spine arch instinctively. The robe rode up around his hips. The gilded hem spilled like molten thread over Dax’s arm, already wrinkled beyond salvation.
Chris’s arms locked around Dax’s neck without hesitation.
Dax walked them down the corridor they both barely saw, shouldering open the first private door left unguarded. The moment they were through, it slammed shut behind them with a low, final thud.
Chris didn’t know what room they’d entered, and he didn’t care.
All he knew was that Dax pushed him against the nearest surface, an antique cabinet or maybe a table, and kissed him like he meant to undo the last three months of restraint in one night.
The collar clattered onto the floor between their feet.
Chris clung to him, his fingers tugging at the clasps of Dax’s coat, pushing, pulling, anything to get closer. His breath came fast and shallow against Dax’s neck, lips brushing skin with every ragged inhale.
"You are the death of me." The alpha grasped while his pheromones, spice, and heat already filled the room with a suffocating weight to it.
"Now or after you destroy the bed?" Chris managed, breathless.
That earned a low laugh, the kind that thrummed through Dax’s chest and straight into Chris’s body. "After," he said, mouth grazing the line of his jaw. "I want you conscious for that part."
Chris bit back a sound, something between a curse and a moan, his fingers curling tighter into Dax’s coat.
Dax stepped forward again, crowding Chris against the wood until the omega’s legs gave in and he half-sat, half-sprawled across the edge of the cabinet. His thighs parted without thought. Dax stepped between them like he belonged there.
"I thought kings were supposed to be patient," Chris murmured, breath skimming against Dax’s lips.
"I’ve been patient," Dax said, dragging one hand up Chris’s thigh, slow and rough. "I’ve watched you play consort for every diplomat, bow your head, bite your tongue, and wear my collar like it didn’t burn."
Chris’s pulse stuttered. "It didn’t burn."
"It did. You just got good at hiding it."
The last clasp on Dax’s coat gave way, and Chris pushed it off his shoulders, revealing the fine linen shirt beneath, already wrinkled. Already damp with sweat.
"Take it off," Chris said, not asking.
Dax obeyed.
And then it was his turn.
Dax’s fingers worked the fastenings of the consort robe and of the high-rise pants with maddening movements, loosening one intricate tie at a time until the fabric slid from Chris’s shoulders like a confession. The robe and shirt pooled behind him, black and ivory against dark wood.
Chris looked up at him, flushed, breathing hard, eyes like lit coals, and Dax nearly lost his mind.
He leaned in, one hand braced on the cabinet, the other cradling Chris’s jaw with something dangerously close to reverence.
Chris reached up, his hands tangling in Dax’s hair, pulling him down into a searing kiss. Their tongues met, a fierce, passionate dance that left them both breathless. Chris could feel the rough texture of Dax’s tongue, the wet heat of his mouth, and the way his teeth lightly grazed his lower lip.
Dax’s hands roamed over Chris’s body, tracing the lines of his muscles, the curve of his hips, and the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Each touch was intense, sending jolts of pleasure through Chris’s body. He could feel the hard length of Dax’s arousal pressing against him, bigger than before. Chris’s clothes were forgotten, discarded on the floor, leaving them skin to skin, their bodies pressed together.
"You’re mine," he said, voice rough, "and I’m not waiting anymore."
