Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 242: Just assisting today

Andrew’s mouth curved faintly. "Just remember, education works best when it’s witnessed."

"I’m counting on it," Chris said.

Andrew checked his tablet, then straightened. "I’ll let you finish getting ready. Dax should be back shortly."

"Lucky me," Chris replied dryly.

Andrew paused at the door. "For what it’s worth, you handled this exactly right."

Chris inclined his head. "Coming from you, I’ll take that."

The door closed behind Andrew, leaving the room quiet again.

Chris turned toward the wardrobe and, with a resigned sigh, reached for the suit laid out for him. ’Normal’ was a generous term. It was tailored within an inch of its life, dark and understated in color, the kind of thing that cost more than his first apartment but pretended it didn’t. He pulled it on carefully, adjusting the jacket, smoothing the line of the trousers, and then reached for the diamond collar resting on its velvet stand.

He fastened it last. The familiar weight settled at his throat.

"You know," Chris muttered to his reflection, "one day I’m going to own something without gemstones."

The door opened quietly behind him.

Dax stepped in, coat already discarded, sleeves rolled, the faint scent of morning air clinging to him. He stopped short when he took in the sight: Chris in the suit, composed, collar catching the light.

"Well," Dax said after a beat, voice low. "That answers several questions."

Chris glanced at him in the mirror. "Good morning to you too."

Dax crossed the room without hurry and came to a stop behind him, gaze fixed on the collar. He lifted a hand, fingers brushing the rows of diamonds with care, as if confirming they were real. Then he activated the pheromone lock with a faint hum.

"This looks unreal on you," Dax murmured, mostly to himself, leaning his head in and kissing the skin between the collar and Chris’s chin. "But you need something less ceremonial."

Dax’s breath lingered warm at his throat for a second longer than strictly necessary before he straightened.

"I’ll commission another," he added, fingers still resting lightly at the back of the collar. "Same mechanism. Fewer diamonds. Something you can wear without looking like you’re about to ratify a constitution."

Chris snorted. "I am about to attend meetings with people who think spreadsheets are a personality."

"Exactly," Dax said. "You should look dangerous, not decorative."

"Dax..." Chris’s words got lost as Dax pulled him in his arms. "You know, people already think I’m more dangerous than you because..."

"Because?" Dax was almost purring.

"Because they think I tamed you."

Dax froze for half a second.

Then he laughed, low, warm, and unguarded, a sound that never made it into public halls or official transcripts. His arms tightened around Chris without creasing the suit.

"Tamed me," he repeated thoughtfully. "Is that what they think?"

Chris’s cheek pressed against Dax’s chest, close enough to hear the calming rhythm beneath. "Apparently. There’s a rumor circulating that I domesticated you with affection and better sleep."

Dax hummed, amused. "Blatant misinformation."

"You do sleep more," Chris pointed out.

"Because I trust you," Dax replied without hesitation. Then, quieter, edged with something sharper, "And because anyone who thinks I’m tamed has misunderstood both of us."

Chris tilted his head back just enough to meet his eyes. "Should I be offended or flattered?"

"Neither," Dax said. "You didn’t tame me. You made me selective."

That landed harder than Chris expected.

Dax brushed his thumb along the line of the collar again. "They’re afraid because you didn’t weaken me. You stabilized me."

Chris exhaled slowly. "Good. I was worried I’d accidentally become a fairy tale trope."

Dax leaned down, forehead resting briefly against his. "You became a variable they can’t predict."

"Andrew called me a catalyst."

"He’s correct," Dax said. "And that terrifies people who rely on inertia."

Chris smiled faintly. "Then I’ll keep wearing the expensive suit and pretending I don’t notice."

Dax’s mouth curved. "That might be your most dangerous skill yet."

He stepped back just enough to look Chris over once more. "Ready?"

"As I’ll ever be," Chris said. "If anyone asks, I’m here to observe."

"And if anyone forgets that," Dax added, calm and absolute, "they’ll remember."

Chris huffed softly. "You’re enjoying this."

"A little," Dax admitted.

He offered his arm and Chris took it.

—

The meeting was not violent, but Chris learned, very quickly, that this was worse.

He sat slightly behind and to Dax’s right, tablet on his lap, posture attentive, expression neutral. The room itself was immaculate, glass, stone, a table polished to the point of vanity, but the people around it had turned stubbornness into an art form.

Two parties. One issue. Zero willingness to bend.

They argued in circles, each side repeating the same points with different vocabulary, as if volume and phrasing might substitute for movement. Data was presented, dismissed, then reintroduced ten minutes later by the opposing side as if it were new. Objections were raised not because they mattered, but because conceding anything felt like loss.

Chris watched Dax closely.

The King did not interrupt. He let them talk. Let them dig. Let them exhaust themselves on their own certainty. His stillness was intentional, almost predatory, not the coiled violence Chris had imagined, but something colder. Patience honed into a weapon.

And suddenly, it made sense.

This... this endless, grinding refusal to engage in reality was what pushed Dax toward force. The fatigue came from watching intelligent people choose obstruction over resolution simply because they could.

Chris felt it creeping into his own bones.

By the second hour, he caught himself thinking, distantly, that being decorative had its appeal. Smiling, nodding, letting Dax handle the heavy lifting. At least then he wouldn’t have to think. Wouldn’t have to track which argument was genuine and which was performance. Wouldn’t have to calculate the cost of every word.

’Don’t be stupid; you can be decorative only if you keep your mouth shut.’ Chris thought and that reminded him he has a bad history of not keeping his mouth shut. So he opened it before the idea of killing an arrogant man already spitting while talking would be reasonable.

"I’m sorry for the interruption." Chris started, folding his hands over his tablet. "But can you be any stupider?"