Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 325: Dangerous thoughts

The armored car cut through Belvare’s night with smooth, silent efficiency, water and neon blurring past the tinted windows. Inside, the air was cool, filtered, and heavy with the faint residual trace of Dax’s pheromones and the sharper scent of metal and leather.

A tactical display hovered above the fold-out screen in front of him.

Two families.

Old money. Older blood. The kind that had survived three regimes by never standing too close to the throne and never too far from the knives.

House Verdan. Dock controllers, shipping unions, "logistics."

House Morcant. Warehouses, customs, private security, and a charming habit of losing containers and finding them again full of weapons or people.

They had staged a meeting at the docks under the pretense of a territorial dispute.

Which meant they were coordinating.

Dax’s purple eyes tracked lines of data without hurry. Locations. Names. Financial flows. Who had lost influence in the capital after his reforms. Who had retreated here. Who had begun paying mercenaries instead of politicians.

They were not negotiating with each other. They were aligning against him.

The car turned. A bridge loomed. Water reflected city lights like broken glass.

Then, on the secure console to his right, a notification pulsed.

An inactive channel. One he had not seen light up in weeks. One that had, until recently, been very, very quiet.

CHRIS – SECURE / PRIVATE

Status: Active

Dax paused.

Then another message came in.

Chris: ’So.’

’Hypothetically.’

’If one’s husband were currently walking into a den of criminals who want him dead...’

’...would it be inappropriate to say I miss his mouth?’

Dax lifted his brow, his mood shifting from irritated that his night had been interrupted to amused by the outcome.

The cars kept moving. The guards kept their eyes forward, tensed and ready to shoot anyone that looked remotely suspicious.

Another message.

Chris: ’Because I do. Objectively. Scientifically. I miss it.’

A third.

Chris: ’Also his hands. And his stupid, overconfident posture. And the way he smells like trouble and rum and bad decisions.’

Dax leaned back slightly in his seat, one hand resting on the edge of the display, eyes still on the tactical map even as the corner of his mouth twitched.

The channel had been dead for months. He kept it solely because of Chris’ previous messages while he was away in Rohan or dismantling the church. His omega didn’t take his absence well, which pleased him beyond words.

Another message arrived.

Chris: ’You know, I was going to be dignified and say something supportive. Like "be careful" or "come back safe." But then I remembered you read my journal. So now you get honesty.’

A pause followed, one that Dax used to let his pheromones seep out of the car, but his husband chose emotional warfare.

Chris: ’I’m annoyed. I’m horny. I’m surrounded by an army and Rowan’s judgmental silence. And you owe me a continuation of what you interrupted.’

Dax let out a low, silent breath through his nose.

The file on House Morcant scrolled to the next page. Weapons routes. Offshore accounts. A meeting room overlooking Pier Seven.

Chris: ’Also, for the record, if you get shot, I will personally resurrect you just to yell at you. This is not a threat. It’s a promise.’

The corner of Dax’s mouth curved into a wicked grin.

One more message, the typing indicator flickering longer this time, as if Chris were pacing while composing it.

Chris: ’Do not make me wait. I am in a secured suite. In a city that hates you. On our honeymoon. With a bed that is criminally underused.’

Dax’s eyes darkened with desire and the determination to make this mission as fast as possible.

He tapped the screen once, opening the channel fully, allowing himself a single line of response.

Dax: ’Behave.’

The reply came instantly.

Chris: ’No.’

A beat. Then another message, slower this time, as if he were choosing every word with deliberate mischief.

Chris: ’Actually... Let’s do something better.’

The typing indicator blinked. Paused. Started again.

Chris: ’Let’s play a game.’

Dax’s gaze flicked to the side screen, then back to the tactical map, jaw tightening not with irritation, but with interest.

Dax: ’This is not the time.’

Chris: ’It’s exactly the time. You’re walking into danger. I’m locked in a modern fortress with nothing but time and imagination. Which means the universe has clearly decided we need a distraction.’

Another pause followed, longer this time, the kind that suggested Chris was pacing while he typed.

Chris: ’Rules are simple. You focus on your job. I distract you just enough to remind you what you’re coming back to.’

Dax’s fingers stilled on the edge of the console.

Outside, the docks unfolded in steel and shadow. Cranes loomed over black water like skeletal giants, and the warehouse on Pier Seven burned with too many lights for a meeting that claimed to be private. His men were already in place, scattered through the dark like patient ghosts, every approach owned, every exit quietly sealed.

The perimeter was already sealed when Dax stepped out of the car.

Men in black moved with silent precision along the docks, spreading through shadows and container rows, eyes on scopes, comms murmuring in clipped, efficient bursts.

Dax hadn’t come to throw the first blow. He had come to see which families believed he was distant enough, distracted enough, and soft enough because of marriage and peace and reform to test the edges of his reach.

To put faces to the idea of rebellion. To decide who would still exist when the night was over.

He stood back, hands clasped loosely behind him, posture relaxed in a way that only ever meant danger. Purple eyes tracked the movement of his people, the flow of traffic on the water, and the faint glow of a warehouse where two rival groups had very carefully chosen to "negotiate" in public view.

Then his comm buzzed again.

Chris: ’I just realized something important.’

Dax glanced down.

Chris: ’You left me unsatisfied, in a city full of people who want you dead, with nothing to do but think.’

Another message followed immediately.

Chris: ’This is either extremely dangerous for them or extremely educational for you.’

A third.

Chris: ’Also, hypothetical question: if an omega is pacing, overthinking, hyper-aware of his bond, and fixated on his alpha’s scent and hands and mouth... is that a heat thing, or an "I was interrupted and I am holding a grudge" thing?’

Dax’s mouth twitched despite himself.

He keyed a response with one hand, never taking his eyes off the warehouse.

Dax: ’Which do you think it is?’

The answer came too fast.

Chris: ’I think it’s both. And I think you’re going to regret leaving me alone with my thoughts.’