Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 315: The dragon lets them talk

Dax’s gaze darkened, slow and intent, and then he began to move.

He circled the space the way he had circled battlefields, the way he had once circled threats, his entire body and pheromones circling his target. The distance between them shifted with each step, the air grew heavy with his scent, and the sense of being hunted and cherished at the same time wrapped around Chris like a second layer of silk.

Chris watched him openly, laughter slipping from his throat, soft and delighted, entirely unrepentant.

"You’re glaring at me like I committed a strategic offense," he teased.

"You did," Dax replied evenly. "You did all of this intentionally to provoke me."

Chris laughed, bright and fearless. "You make it too easy with all that possessiveness. I just..." He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "...like to poke the dragon and see how much fire he’s holding back."

Dax’s eyes darkened at the word ’dragon,’ something in his posture shifting as the restraint he wore so carefully frayed at the edges. He closed the last bit of distance between them, not touching yet, but close enough that Chris could feel the heat of him, the promise of it.

"Careful," Dax murmured, voice low, threaded with something far more intense than amusement. "You are very good at waking things that do not go back to sleep easily."

Chris only smiled, unabashed, enjoying the way Dax’s control showed in the precise stillness of his hands, in the way his shoulders held tension like coiled steel. "I married the dragon," he said lightly. "I assume a little fire comes with the title."

Dax smiled, his purple eyes gleaming in the light of the chandeliers. He leaned in just enough for the words to brush the space near Chris’s ear. "You married the one creature in this world who will always burn for you."

The air between them was charged, intimate, on the verge of tipping into something far less composed...

When there was a sharp, discreet knock.

Both of them froze.

Killian’s voice followed, impeccable and unflappable. "Your Majesties. Apologies, but protocol requires immediate retrieval of the ceremonial garments for preservation. The archivists are... very insistent."

Chris let out a soft laugh, the tension breaking into something warm and real. Dax closed his eyes for a brief second, as if accepting a tactical interruption with heroic patience.

"Of course they are," Chris said. "They heard what you did to the last two robes I wore."

Killian cleared his throat softly and stepped inside, eyes fixed with admirable discipline on a point somewhere above shoulder level, as if nothing in this room could possibly be inappropriate if he simply refused to acknowledge it.

"Your Majesties," he said, perfectly composed. "The preservation team is ready."

Chris’s smile turned wicked for half a second. Then, like a man who knew exactly when to retreat for strategic advantage, he took the opportunity and slipped past Dax, the hem of that infuriating robe brushing the alpha’s wrist as he went.

"Right," Chris said lightly. "Before history steals my clothes, I’m stealing a shower."

He headed straight for the wardrobe, already unfastening the first clasp with practiced ease, moving with the kind of unhurried confidence that came from knowing exactly who was watching him.

Dax didn’t stop him.

He leaned back against the edge of the table instead, arms folding loosely, gaze following every step, every movement, lazy in posture and anything but in attention. The predator had not gone anywhere. He had simply decided to observe.

Killian busied himself with summoning attendants and garment cases, speaking in low, efficient tones about silk weights, embroidery protection, and humidity control, as if the atmosphere in the room were not charged with something far less archival.

Chris disappeared behind the screen and into the bathroom, the sound of water beginning to run a moment later.

Dax’s eyes remained fixed in that direction, a faint, knowing curve to his mouth.

They would sleep in the same bed tonight.

Chris would come back to it.

And Dax had all the time in the world.

—

Killian remained by the door for a moment after the attendants withdrew, hands folded behind his back, posture still perfect. His gaze flicked once toward the bathroom, where the sound of water carried faintly through the suite, then back to Dax.

"There is one more matter," he said quietly. "The media and several noble houses have already begun speculating. They seem particularly interested in the royal couple’s ability... to procreate."

Dax huffed, not impressed. "I was expecting something like this, more so after Chris’s encounter with those omegas."

Killian’s mouth twitched, just barely. "Yes. That incident has been... extensively discussed. The narrative is already shifting from romance to legacy."

Dax’s gaze remained fixed on the closed bathroom door, expression calm and unbothered, the way it was when he assessed a threat and found it irrelevant.

"Of course they have."

"They are... enthusiastic," Killian added with diplomatic restraint. "Some are testing how far they may speak."

"For now," Dax went on evenly, "I permit it. Let them talk. Let them measure shadows and imagine futures. It keeps them occupied and reminds them that the line of succession is strong."

His eyes flicked once toward the bathroom door, where the sound of water still murmured. The edge in his voice sharpened, just a fraction.

"But their permission to speak exists only as long as my husband remains untouched by their expectations. The moment their curiosity becomes pressure, or their interest becomes intrusion, they will learn how quickly enthusiasm turns into silence."

Killian inclined his head, understanding perfectly. "I will ensure that any discussion remains... distant from His Royal Consort."

"See that it does," Dax said quietly.

There was nothing more to add. Killian gave a final, respectful bow and withdrew, closing the door behind him with the same perfection he brought to everything.

Left alone, Dax stood for a moment, listening to the faint rush of water, to the quiet of a suite that no longer needed witnesses.

Then he moved toward the bathroom with the unhurried confidence of a man who knew exactly where he belonged and who intended to join his husband soon enough.