Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 312: Before the wedding

The corridors were quiet by the time Dax returned to the private wing, the palace settling into that deep, expensive stillness that only came after midnight. The last reports had been signed, the last calls ended, and the last decisions pushed to tomorrow. For once in the last month, there was nothing urgent pulling at him.

At the entrance to their suite, the white tiger lay stretched across the threshold like a living sentry, massive body curled just enough to fit, tail tucked close, head resting on its paws. It lifted its eyes when Dax approached, its violet gaze calm and alert, the low rumble in its chest more greeting than warning.

"Still on duty," Dax murmured, bending slightly.

He reached out, fingers brushing through thick, incredibly soft fur between the ears. The tiger leaned into the touch at once, pleased, a quiet purr vibrating under Dax’s palm. It was, in an objective sense, an apex predator the size of a small car. In practice, it was a devoted guard who preferred doorways and warmth and the comfort of familiar presence.

"Good," Dax said softly. "Sleep."

The tiger settled again, content, eyes half-closing but not fully losing awareness.

Dax stepped over it carefully and entered the bedroom.

The lights were dimmed low, curtains drawn, and the city beyond reduced to distant glow and silence. The room smelled faintly of tea and clean linen and something unmistakably Christopher. The bed was occupied in the most undignified way possible.

Chris had fallen asleep in a tangle.

One arm was flung above his head, the other curled around a pillow he had clearly stolen in his sleep. His hair was a mess against the sheets, curls escaping in every direction. The blanket was twisted around his legs as if he had fought it and lost. The elegant composure he carried all day was completely absent; this was unguarded, unbothered, and soft in a way he never allowed the world to see.

Dax paused at the doorway, just watching.

There was something quietly calming about this sight. No court, no danger, no politics. Just the man he loved, asleep, breathing slow and even, utterly safe.

He moved closer, careful not to wake him, and sat on the edge of the bed. One large hand brushed lightly over Chris’s hair, smoothing a curl back from his forehead. Chris shifted in his sleep, a small sound leaving him, but he didn’t wake. He only curled a little closer to the warmth, instinctively trusting.

Dax’s expression softened.

"You look like you survived today," he murmured under his breath.

Dax had barely finished the thought when Chris’s hand moved.

It was slow and unfocused, the way the body reached for what it knew before the mind fully surfaced. His fingers found fabric first, then the solid line of Dax’s collar beneath it, curling there. He tugged once.

Dax froze, deeply amused.

Chris shifted closer, eyes still closed, lashes resting against his cheeks, but his grip tightened slightly, drawing Dax down. There was no urgency in it, no conscious intent, only the simple, unguarded instinct of sleep and familiarity.

Dax went.

He leaned in without resistance, letting himself be guided, his large frame bending easily. Their foreheads brushed, breath mingling, and then Chris’s lips found his in a soft, unfocused kiss. A warm, trusting contact, like the body confirming what the heart already knew.

Dax stayed still, letting it happen, letting Chris set the distance and the rhythm. One hand came to rest lightly at the edge of the pillow near his head, close, while the other remained in his hair.

After a moment, Chris sighed against his mouth and relaxed, the tension in his fingers easing. His hand slipped from Dax’s collar and fell back to the pillow, his breathing evening out again as sleep reclaimed him.

Dax lingered a second longer, close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough to be certain.

Then he pressed a quiet kiss to Chris’s forehead and whispered, so softly it barely disturbed the air, "I’m here."

Chris didn’t wake.

But he shifted, just slightly, settling closer, as if he had heard.

—

Dawn hadn’t fully committed to existing yet, and neither had Christopher.

He stood in the center of the dressing room, wrapped in silk and gold and entirely too many opinions, eyes half-lidded, brain running on something between instinct and stubborn will. The robe, the robe, hung on him like a promise and a threat, its deep neckline unapologetic, the embroidery catching the low lamplight in soft, dangerous glimmers. The jewelry at his throat felt heavy in the way that meant important, and his hair had been coaxed into elegant order by hands that refused to take no for an answer.

Serathine circled him like a general inspecting a battlefield. Cressida hovered near the mirror, adjusting a fold of fabric that absolutely did not need adjusting. Mia stood close, trying very hard to be helpful and mostly succeeding by handing over things when asked. And Heather...

Heather was vibrating.

"I think it’s perfect," she announced for the fifth time in ten minutes, eyes shining. "He looks like he’s about to walk into a legend." 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚

Christopher blinked slowly at his reflection, then at the four women around him. "I am about to walk into coffee," he said hoarsely. "Do any of you have coffee?"

"Absolutely not," Cressida replied instantly. "Caffeine before a ceremony is a disaster waiting to happen."

"Everything today is a disaster waiting to happen," Christopher murmured. "It’s just a question of scheduling."

Serathine smiled at him with terrifying fondness. "You’re doing wonderfully, Chris. Stand still."

"I am standing still," he protested weakly, even as she adjusted the fall of his sleeve by a millimeter.

Mia leaned in, studying him with soft awe. "You look... unreal."

Heather nodded vigorously. "Like a saint who could ruin empires."

Christopher closed his eyes for a second. "Please don’t say that where the palace can hear you."

Cressida stepped back to take in the full picture, lips curving in satisfaction. "Oh, Dax is going to lose all remaining composure."

"Good," Heather said, brightly. "He should suffer a little. It’s romantic."

Christopher made a small, exhausted sound. "He will suffer. The furniture will suffer. The state will suffer."

Serathine finally stepped in front of him, lifting his chin gently so he had no choice but to meet her gaze. Her expression softened. "You are ready. You are beautiful. And you are not alone in this."

For a moment, the room quieted.

Then Heather whispered, very sincerely, "I’m still mad you’re not letting me throw flowers."

Christopher’s mouth twitched despite himself. "You will have other opportunities to cause chaos, I promise."

She beamed.

Somewhere beyond the walls, the palace was waking, the world rearranging itself around a ceremony that would bind two forces together. And in the middle of it, wrapped in white silk and gold and too many expectations, Christopher stood groggy and steady, letting himself be held in place by hands that cared.

"Someone," he said softly, "please remind me to breathe."

Mia took his hand. "We will."