Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 324: For fun

Dax’s scent, those intoxicating spiced rum pheromones, rolled out from him in a tangible wave of unadulterated possession. It was the scent of an alpha claiming what was his, and it washed over Chris, making his skin flush and his thoughts go pleasantly fuzzy. His body went pliant, a soft, surrendering sigh escaping his lips before he could stop it.

"Stand up," Dax said, a command woven into the very essence of his scent and will.

Chris’s body obeyed before his mind could even process the words. He was on his feet, swaying slightly, his eyes wide and dark with submission and desire. Dax closed the final inch between them. His hands came up to frame Chris’s face, calloused palms against smooth skin. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Chris’s ear.

"Now," Dax murmured, the command lifting but the dominance in his tone unwavering, "show me what my consort needs."

With a soft, guiding pressure on his jaw, Dax tilted Chris’s head back. The angle was steep, forcing Chris to look straight up, his throat exposed. Dax lowered his head slowly, and the world narrowed to the space between them. The intoxicating wave of spiced rum pheromones was even stronger this close, and Chris’s thoughts went blissfully blank.

Then Dax’s lips were on his. Dax’s mouth was firm and hot, his tongue tracing the seam of Chris’s lips, leaving him trembling. Chris parted his lips instantly, a soft sigh of surrender swallowed by the alpha’s advance.

The kiss deepened, Dax’s tongue sweeping in to claim and explore, and Chris met him with a desperate, hungry fervor. His hands, which had been hanging at his sides, flew up to grip Dax’s broad shoulders for stability, his fingers barely wrapping around the thick muscle. 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

Dax’s hand slid from his jaw to the nape of his neck, his fingers easily encircling it, holding him in place as he devoured him. Chris was completely lost, drowning in the sensation of Dax’s mouth, his scent, and the sheer, delicious power of his size.

For a few seconds, Belvare, the criminal dynasties, and the looming threats, all of it fell away.

Then came a knock.

Sharp. Professional. Unfortunately, well-timed.

"Your Majesty," Tyler Bell’s voice carried through the door, composed and painfully polite. "Apologies for the interruption, but the regional security briefing has... escalated. We may have a situation at the docks."

Chris let out a long, theatrical groan, head tipping back against Dax’s shoulder as if the universe itself had personally betrayed him.

"Of course it’s the docks," he muttered. "It’s always the docks. No one ever storms a palace library or a flower conservatory. It’s always somewhere wet, industrial, and inconvenient."

Dax laughed softly, a low sound in his chest, still warm from the moment and very clearly not in the mood to be professional. The amusement didn’t quite hide the irritation in his eyes, though; the king in him was already shifting back into place.

"Timing," he said dryly, brushing his thumb once along Chris’s jaw in a last, grounding touch. "Is a curse."

Outside, Tyler waited with the careful stillness of a man who had just interrupted an alpha in the middle of claiming his mate and was acutely aware of his own mortality.

Dax turned his head slightly. "I’ll be there in five."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The footsteps retreated.

Chris sighed again, more quietly this time. "I assume this means the honeymoon is temporarily postponed by organized crime."

"Postponed," Dax agreed. "Not canceled."

Then his tone shifted, gentler but threaded with obvious authority.

"You’re staying here."

Chris blinked. "What?"

"With Rowan," Dax continued, already reaching for the comm. "This is a localized escalation. There’s no reason for you to be anywhere near the docks, and every reason for you to remain in a secured location."

"I can handle..."

"I know you can," Dax cut in, not harsh, just absolute. "That is not the point. You are not an asset to be deployed. You are my consort. You stay where I can be certain you are untouched."

Rowan’s voice answered the call a second later, alert and professional. "Your Majesty?"

"You’re on protective detail. No movement without my authorization. He stays here."

There was a brief pause, then: "Understood."

Chris looked at Dax, half resigned, half fond. "You really don’t do subtle concern, do you?"

Dax leaned in, pressing a brief, firm kiss to his forehead, nothing heated now, just possession and promise. "I don’t do negotiable safety."

Then he straightened, the king fully back in place, but his eyes lingered on Chris for a heartbeat longer.

"Wait for me," he said.

Chris huffed softly. "I don’t exactly have a choice, do I?"

Dax’s mouth curved. "No. You don’t."

—

By the time the door closed and the heavy presence of Dax’s guards settled into a silent perimeter outside, the room felt... too quiet.

"Alone" was a generous word. There were at least a dozen armed men in the corridor, another layer on the outer floor, and drones humming somewhere in the building’s blind spots. But inside the suite, it was just Chris and Rowan.

Rowan leaned against the wall with the air of a man who had accepted that this was now his life: guarding a dramatic omega who had just been mid-honeymoon and mid-almost-kiss when organized crime decided to be inconvenient.

Chris flopped back onto the sofa with a long-suffering sigh. "I was literally in the middle of being appreciated."

Rowan didn’t even blink. "The Empire thanks you for your sacrifice."

"I hate you."

"You don’t," Rowan replied calmly. "You’re just sexually frustrated and politically contained."

Chris glared. "That was unnecessarily accurate."

They sat in silence for a moment, buzzing with unsaid things and the distant awareness of Dax walking into danger with the kind of focus that made everyone else’s heart rate climb.

Chris reached for his tablet, mostly to distract himself, mostly to keep from pacing.

That was when a small notification flickered in the corner of the screen.

A secure channel.

One he hadn’t used in weeks.

One he had, in a moment of irritation and insomnia at the very beginning of this trip, used as a private journal because he’d been convinced it was dead, disconnected, an old encrypted line from before the marriage that no one monitored anymore.

He opened it.

A single line waited at the top of the thread.

’Read. - D.’

Chris froze.

Very slowly, he scrolled.

Every entry. Every annoyed, sharp, emotionally unfiltered thought. Every complaint about Dax being infuriating, overbearing, too intense, too careful, too dangerous, too everything. The grudging affection. The fear. The way he’d written about loving him while wanting to throttle him.

All of it was marked as seen.

Rowan noticed the sudden stillness. "What?"

Chris looked up, eyes bright with something that was not panic.

"Oh," he said softly. "Oh, that bastard."

Rowan straightened. "That doesn’t sound affectionate."

"It’s extremely affectionate," Chris replied. "It’s just also... an opportunity."

"What kind of opportunity?" Rowan asked warily.

Chris’s mouth curved, slow and wicked.

"If Dax has been reading my private, unfiltered, emotionally compromised journal entries," he said, "then he’s about to learn what happens when I start writing them on purpose."

Rowan stared. "You’re going to... what? Emotionally weaponize your own diary?"

"I’m going to psychologically seduce my own husband through a secure military channel while he’s in the middle of dismantling a criminal syndicate," Chris corrected. "For revenge. And fun."

Rowan closed his eyes. "I should have taken a desk job."