Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 232: More

Chris tried to breathe. Really breathe, not pant, whine, or melt.

Just breathe.

But the second he opened his mouth to speak, to say ’wait’ or ’slow down’ or ’give me a second,’ nothing coherent came out. A faint sound rasped in his throat, thin and broken, sliding straight back into a moan the moment Dax’s scent washed over him again.

He swallowed hard, forcing the words out anyway.

"Dax... I need... I need to think..."

Bad idea. Very bad idea.

Because the second he said ’need,’ Dax’s entire body tensed behind him like someone had pulled a trigger. The alpha shifted upright, still seated deep inside him, rut simmering just beneath skin. His hands clamped on Chris’s hips, pulling him back into his lap with a firmness that shut down any idea Chris had of reclaiming thought.

"You don’t think during heat," Dax growled against the side of his throat, voice vibrating straight into Chris’s bones. "You feel."

Chris sucked in a breath, fists gathering in the sheets. "I’m... trying... to talk..."

Dax didn’t let him finish.

His mouth latched onto Chris’s shoulder, marking again. Long, hot drags of tongue trailed along sweat-damp skin, followed by slow nips that sent sparks down Chris’s spine. His rut sharpened into something territorial, almost frantic, and he buried his face in the curve of Chris’s neck like he was trying to drown in the scent.

Chris shivered, chest tightening. "Dax... what are you..."

He didn’t get an answer. Just another deep inhale against his gland. Another low, involuntary growl.

Then Dax’s hands moved.

One slid up Chris’s spine, pressing between his shoulder blades until Chris’s body curved, neck exposed. The other clamped on his hip, possessive enough to bruise. The pressure lit up every nerve in Chris’s body, dragging him back under, drowning the last fragile bit of clarity he’d clawed toward.

"I can smell myself on you," Dax murmured into his skin, voice thick and feral. "But it’s not enough."

Chris’s breath caught. "What?"

Dax didn’t explain, he pushed Chris gently forward onto his hands, still inside him, his chest flush against Chris’s back. His scent glands brushed Chris’s shoulder as he began marking again, dragging his jaw across skin, leaving faint, reddened trails in a pattern only instinct knew.

Chris whimpered and he tried again to speak.

"Dax, I’m... I’m trying... to..."

"You’re trying to leave your heat," Dax growled, pressing a harder claim into the side of Chris’s neck. "And I won’t let you."

His hips rolled forward slowly, keeping Chris filled, grounding him deeper into the mattress. Chris’s breath hitched, hips trembling, mind fogging over as heat surged back, relentless.

He collapsed onto his forearms with a soft, helpless sound. "Dax... please, I can’t... I can’t think..."

Dax followed him down, chest molding over his back, golden eyes half-lidded and hungry as his scent glands brushed Chris’s cheek.

"That’s the point, my moon," Dax whispered, voice a molten rasp. "You don’t think. I take care of you."

His lips pressed behind Chris’s ear, possessive and gentle in the same breath.

"And until this heat ends, you don’t go anywhere."

Chris shuddered, overwhelmed, overstimulated, and already leaning back into the next thrust he knew was coming.

Because instinct had won, and Dax wasn’t going to let him come up for air until the fire in both of them burned itself out.

—

The first day was fire.

Chris couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. The first wave of heat hit so violently that he clawed at anything within reach, the couch cushions, the sheets, Dax’s shoulders, the alpha’s hair, anything that kept him from being swept away. Slick soaked through fabric and skin. His muscles spasmed with desperate, pulsing need.

Dax was on him instantly, like every instinct he had was tuned to Chris alone. He guided Chris through each wave, holding him up, pinning him down, and easing him open. Every time Chris broke, Dax’s voice dragged him back:

"Breathe for me."

"I’ve got you."

"Let go."

The whole day burned. Chris begged, cursed, and writhed. Dax answered every sound with his hands, his mouth, and his body until the room smelled thick enough to choke on.

No one slept.

The second day was worse.

Chris woke gasping. The fever spiked so hard his vision swam, his thighs shaking even before Dax touched him. Sweat matted his fringe to his temples; his throat felt scraped raw.

Dax hovered over him like a dark, steady heat.

"Drink," he murmured, guiding a glass to Chris’s lips.

Chris tried to shove him away, failed, and muttered something like "bossy asshole."

Dax only brushed a kiss to his temple and whispered, "Drink."

Between rounds, he cooled Chris with wet towels and, wiped slick from his thighs with slow, careful hands, and steadied him when cramps made his body curl tight. He fed him spoonfuls of broth even as Chris hissed, "stop fussing."

"You need strength," Dax said, voice calm despite the rut simmering beneath his skin. "Let me."

Chris didn’t let go, but he leaned into the touches he claimed to hate.

By the third day, Chris wasn’t just yielding, he was wanting. Really wanting. He didn’t hesitate anymore, didn’t pretend he could manage the heat alone or push Dax away out of pride. Whenever Dax shifted even slightly out of reach, Chris caught his wrist or the front of his shirt and pulled him back in.

He leaned into every touch, every kiss, every breath of scent against his throat. When Dax lifted him into his lap, Chris wrapped his legs around him without a flicker of restraint, rolling his hips with a need that made Dax groan. He opened for him instinctively, his body soft, and he didn’t bother hiding how badly he craved the closeness.

More than anything, he demanded Dax’s presence, hands on him, lips on him, voice grounding him through the haze. Every time he gasped out "more," it came with the unmistakable expectation that Dax would give exactly that. And he did.

Chris wasn’t fighting anymore. Reaching for Dax, like the one thing in the room that could stop the world spinning under his skin.

By the fourth day, the edge of desperation shifted into something more peaceful but no less consuming. Chris clung to Dax with an instinctive trust he didn’t have the energy to question. The cramps still came, sharp, dragging through his lower belly until his breath broke, but Dax held him through every one, murmuring low reassurances into his hair, smoothing his palms over Chris’s stomach until the ache eased.

Chris nuzzled into his throat now without hesitation, seeking the scent that dulled the frantic burn under his skin. He would grab the back of Dax’s neck and pull him down whenever the fever spiked, half-pleading, half-commanding. Whenever Dax tried to shift away to grab water or a towel, Chris would tighten his grip with a soft, frustrated sound that told Dax exactly who he wanted as a tether.

Their bodies moved together slowly sometimes, when Chris’s muscles trembled too much to take more. Deep other times, when his heat surged until he could barely breathe. He muttered curses into Dax’s shoulder whenever it hurt, then whimpered for more the second Dax tried to ease off. It was a spiral neither of them fought anymore.

The world outside didn’t exist. Only heat, rut, and the rough of Dax’s hands and the quiet, instinctive way Chris clung to him.

By the fifth day, the worst had burned itself out.

Chris lay sprawled across fresh sheets, breaths soft and uneven, his hair still damp from the cool towels Dax had been using to lower his temperature. He didn’t bother pretending he had energy to spare. When Dax lifted him slightly to sip water, Chris leaned into the touch, eyes half-closed, a faint tremor still running through him.

Dax changed the linens again, moving around him with surprising gentleness for someone who had spent days in rut. He wiped Chris’s inner thighs clean, smoothing soothing lotion over any rubbed-raw skin. He brushed stray strands of hair from Chris’s forehead, checking for fever with the back of his fingers. Chris didn’t protest any of it. He simply curled closer, seeking the warmth of Dax’s body without the frantic edge of the earlier days.

When Dax finally eased down beside him, Chris breathed out, a thin, fragile sound, and tucked his face against Dax’s collarbone. The words slipped out before he could stop them, quiet and raw.

"...You stayed."

Dax’s arms slid around him immediately, drawing him in. His voice was rough from exhaustion but warm.

"I always will."

The reassurance settled deep, somewhere even heat couldn’t touch. Chris didn’t try to answer. He let his body soften entirely against Dax, his breath evening out, his fever finally breaking. As he drifted into the first real sleep he’d had in days, Dax held him close, his own rut ebbing into bone-deep protectiveness.

It wasn’t the end of the heat cycle, but it was the first moment they both drew breath without fire.