Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 334: Summit

The morning of the summit found Chris standing in front of the tall mirror of their suite, the fog of Belvare curling around the windows like it was trying to be dramatic.

He looked unfairly good.

Black tailored suit, crisp white shirt, open at the throat just enough to be dangerous, hair styled with infuriating elegance. The kind of look that said diplomat and heartbreaker and problem for three separate ministries.

And, very intentionally... No collar.

He admired himself for half a second.

Then Dax walked in.

The temperature in the room dropped approximately five degrees.

Chris saw the reaction in the mirror first: the stillness, the slow narrowing of purple eyes, and the way a predator realizes something in its territory has been rearranged without permission.

"You forgot something," Dax said, voice deceptively mild.

Chris smiled sweetly. "My coffee."

Dax didn’t blink. "Your throat is naked."

"Scandalous, I know."

"This is not a fashion show."

"It absolutely is," Chris replied. "It’s a summit. I’m being elegant. Neutral. Unclaimed-looking."

Dax closed the door behind him with a very soft, very ominous click. "You are not neutral. You are not unclaimed. And you are not leaving this room like that."

Chris turned to face him. "You cannot possibly expect me to walk into a hall full of diplomats and criminals with a visible mating mark accessory like I’m a very expensive piece of furniture."

"I expect you," Dax said calmly, "to walk into a hall full of predators with a clear sign that you already belong to the worst one."

Chris stared. "That is not reassuring."

Dax reached the nightstand and pulled out the thin, elegant private collar, one only he could call ’private’. The looks-like-jewelry-but-is-absolutely-not one.

Chris groaned. "Oh, come on. This one is basically screaming ’claimed’ in three alphabets and two pheromonal frequencies."

Dax lifted it. "Put it on."

Chris folded his arms. "Put it yourself."

Dax’s brow lifted a fraction at that.

"Oh, I intend to," he said.

Chris rolled his eyes dramatically. "You know, I truly believed that marrying you in every legal, political, spiritual, and metaphysical way possible would finally absolve me from mandatory neck accessories."

Dax stepped closer, collar dangling between his fingers. "Sahan tradition does not vanish because you filed paperwork."

"It should," Chris muttered. "I signed a lot of it."

Dax raised the collar toward his throat. Chris tilted his head back with theatrical suffering.

"This is discrimination against well-dressed omegas," he complained. "I look powerful. Independent. Untethered."

"You look like a challenge," Dax corrected. "I am removing the temptation."

Chris snorted. "Sahir doesn’t wear one."

Dax paused.

Then slowly looked at him.

"Sahir," he said evenly, "had three husbands."

"Yes, and?" Chris pressed.

"All of them," Dax continued, "died in circumstances that were officially tragic, unofficially suspicious, and privately categorized as statistically impressive."

Chris froze. "That is not a counterargument; that is a threat."

"It is a reminder," Dax said calmly, fastening the clasp behind his neck, "that Sahir’s survival is not evidence that collars are unnecessary. It is evidence that Sahir is terrifying."

The collar clicked closed.

Chris glared at his reflection. The thin band rested perfectly against his skin, elegant and infuriatingly intimate.

"I hope you know," he said, "that this means I will walk into that summit radiating ’possessed’ energy."

"Good," Dax replied. "Let them understand the hierarchy immediately."

Chris sighed. "I married a walking territorial policy."

Dax leaned in, brushing his lips near his ear. "And I married a man who keeps trying to test it."

Chris huffed. "...You’re lucky I’m fond of you."

Dax smiled.

—

The summit hall was all marble, glass, and carefully engineered openness, a space designed to feel transparent while ensuring that every movement could be seen, measured, and quietly catalogued.

Chris felt the attention the instant they crossed the threshold.

It settled on his skin like a change in pressure, a subtle tightening of the air that had nothing to do with temperature. Conversations wavered, then resumed in lower, more controlled tones. Heads turned. Eyes followed. Not in a single dramatic sweep, but in layers, one after another, like ripples moving outward across still water.

Every remaining power figure in Belvare was there. The ones who had survived the purge, the arrests, and the sudden and very final disappearances. Men who had once ruled docks, shipping lanes, unions, banks, and entire districts through money and fear and the quiet understanding that some things were never spoken aloud.

And they were not looking at Dax.

They were looking at him.

The collar rested warm against his throat, a line of dark elegance that caught the light whenever he moved. It existed with the calm authority of ownership and warning both, the kind of symbol that required no explanation in a room full of predators.

Dax’s hand at the small of his back was light, almost casual, but its meaning was anything but.

Chris walked with easy composure, shoulders relaxed, spine straight, and expression serenely unreadable. He had learned that stillness from watching Dax in rooms like this, how power did not need to perform when it was already acknowledged. How confidence could be quieter than arrogance and far more unsettling.

Around them, old money breathed in slow, cautious rhythms. Men who had once believed themselves untouchable studied him openly now, their gazes sharp with calculation. Some were curious. Some were irritated. A few wore the wary look of those who had just realized that the rules they understood had shifted while they were still trying to play the old game.

Whispers slid through the hall in careful fragments.

Chris heard them without reacting, letting the sound wash past like background noise. He had long since learned that attention only became a weapon if you flinched under it.

Dax leaned in slightly, his voice low enough to be for him alone. "They are measuring you."

Chris’s lips curved in the barest hint of a smile. "Let them."

"They will decide what you are to them."

His gaze moved calmly over the room, over the carefully controlled faces, the disciplined stillness, and the men who had lost too much to still pretend they were fearless. "Oh, for fuck’s sake."