Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 235: Public again

The palace buzzed with the muted tension of a public day, guards shifting into formation, distant voices echoing through vaulted halls, and the whole building stretching awake in ceremony.

Chris, meanwhile, was very deliberately not thinking about the disaster zone beneath his clothes.

He stood before the tall mirror while fastening the last hook of the high inner collar of soft cream fabric rising all the way to his jaw, hiding every single incriminating bite Dax had left on his neck, collarbone, shoulders, chest... pretty much everywhere.

The diamond collar piece sat over it, elegant, shining enough to distract anyone from wondering why Chris looked like a man who needed a week of bed rest.

His outer robe was pale with bronze embroidery, flowing like something out of a royal painting.

Exactly the opposite of how he felt.

Behind him, Dax stared like he was witnessing a holy event.

"You’re staring," Chris muttered, fussing with the collar.

"I am," Dax said without shame. "And I will continue to."

Chris’s ears warmed. "Well... Good. You should."

Dax took a step closer, fixing a fold near Chris’s waist with irritatingly gentle fingers. "I told you yesterday, we have to be respectable. But I didn’t expect you to look like..." He exhaled, almost losing the thread. "Like this."

Chris glanced at him through the mirror.

Dax wore a dark suit cut close to his shoulders, perfect lines, perfect gloom, and the gold mantle draped over his right shoulder like royalty carved from dusk. It fell nearly to the floor, heavy with embroidery, each thread catching the light when he moved. Beside that, Chris looked softer, like spring beside a storm.

"You look like you’re going to a coronation," Chris said lightly.

"I am," Dax murmured, stepping behind him, hands closing over Chris’s hips. "Yours."

Chris huffed a breath, trying and failing to stay unimpressed when Dax pressed close enough that Chris could feel the warmth of his chest along his back.

"Stop trying to seduce me before a public event," Chris muttered.

"Impossible," Dax said. "Have you seen yourself?"

He angled Chris toward him, letting his thumb sweep along the edge of the robe. "Bronze suits you. You look like a painting."

Chris swallowed, trying to hide how the praise crawled under his skin in the best way. "You’re dramatic."

"I’m honest," Dax corrected. His eyes softened to that violet shade Chris was starting to recognize as another form of touch. "And very proud."

Chris’s breath hitched. "Of... me?"

"Of who you were yesterday," Dax said. "Of who you are today. And of the fact that you’re stepping out there with me, willingly, after everything."

Chris lowered his gaze, fingers brushing Dax’s mantle. The embroidery was warm under his touch, as if it carried his scent.

"I’m fine, still sore, but that won’t stop me from being by your side too," Chris said, surprised at how true it sounded.

Dax’s hands softened on his hips, as if the words had knocked something loose in him.

"Thank you," he murmured. "It means more than you can think."

"You are welcome. Now let’s go before I’m dragged back to bed by a seven-foot-three alpha.

Dax’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close, the kind of expression that meant Chris had hit him somewhere soft.

"You say that like it would be difficult for me," Dax murmured, voice dropping.

Chris shot him a flat look. "Don’t start. I’m held together by caffeine and sheer spite right now."

"You’re standing," Dax countered, amused. "That’s enough to tempt me."

Chris nudged him with an elbow, very lightly, because his ribs absolutely remembered days two through five. "Behave."

Dax steadied him instantly, hands firm at his waist. The touch was gentle and possessive, exactly the sort of thing Chris tried very hard not to react to.

"I’ll behave," Dax said, leaning in just enough that Chris felt the warmth of his breath on the shell of his ear. "But only because you asked."

Chris flushed under the high collar. "Good. Great. Perfect. Now take me to this event before I lose the ability to walk again."

"Yes, my moon."

—

The afternoon blurred into ceremony.

The palace courtyard had been transformed into a polished stage with flags, dignitaries, and reporters pretending not to lean forward for better angles. Dax handled it exactly as expected: calm, with no trace of the madman his opponents attempted to portray him as. His speech was short and blessedly free of political theatrics.

He simply spoke, and the crowd listened because they had to. Dax’s voice carried the weight of someone who could reshape a country if he felt bored enough.

And Chris?

Chris followed consort etiquette so perfectly that half the council nearly fainted.

Two steps behind when required. To his left when standing as a representative.

Hands folded, shoulders back, expression serene, the image of a royal figure untouched and unshaken.

No one would guess he was held together by stubbornness, mild nausea, and a high collar hiding a battlefield.

He bowed when he should. Nodded where etiquette demanded. Didn’t trip once.

Dax was proud. Chris could feel it in every sideways glance.

By evening, they were ushered into the opera house, a sleek, modern building with glass walls and light installations meant to look "avant-garde." The director nearly tripped over his own feet greeting Dax, who barely acknowledged him aside from a polite nod.

Dax cared for zero percent of this.

This was just a public duty, a required appearance to seem cultured and accessible.

Chris, however, cared about exactly one thing: Not throwing up.

He lowered himself into the plush seat beside Dax and immediately reached for the glass of water with lemon an attendant placed at his elbow. He sipped carefully, because anything stronger than flavored water would send his stomach on strike.

Dax glanced over, brow lifting ever so slightly. "How’s your stomach?"

"Negotiating terms," Chris muttered, straightening his robe so it didn’t wrinkle. "Apparently lemon water is the only thing preventing a diplomatic incident."

"No coffee," Dax reminded, voice gentle but firm.

Chris glared at him weakly. "You banned me from latte. You banned me."

"You tried to drink one this morning and nearly folded over the sink."

Chris took another delicate sip. "That was one time. And I wasn’t folding, I was bracing."

"Mhm."

Chris elbowed him lightly. "Shut up. We’re at an opera."

They both looked at the stage, a minimalist set, strange neon backdrops, dancers suspended on wires, and someone warming up a violin with increasingly questionable enthusiasm.

"Do you like opera?" Chris whispered.

"No."

"Same," Chris said with relief. "This one looks... aggressively interpretive."

The lights dimmed. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

Dax leaned slightly toward him. "If you feel unwell, we leave. Immediately."

Chris blinked. "And start a national scandal?"

"Let them scandalize," Dax replied. "I’m not sitting through three hours of metaphorical skydiving if you’re in pain."

Chris’s chest warmed at that. "I’m fine," he whispered. "Just tired. And trying to look dignified."

"You do," Dax murmured.

Chris rolled his eyes, but his cheeks warmed. "You’re biased."

"Yes."

The overture began with heavy drums, distorted violins, and dramatic lighting. The director leaned forward in visible anticipation, waiting for Dax’s reaction.

Dax did not react. At all. He sat there like a carved guardian statue who had seen every opera in the universe and found none of them worth emotional investment.

Chris sipped his lemon water like a suffering nobleman. "This is going to be a long night."

Dax’s hand, subtle, hidden between their seats, brushed his knuckles.

"You’re doing perfectly," he murmured.

Chris straightened a little.

"Thanks," he whispered back.

And for the first time that day, he allowed himself to lean a fraction of an inch closer to his king.