Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 335: Stupid people

The Belvare delegation had arranged the hall the way people always did when they wanted to pretend they were civilized: bright light, open space, glossy marble, and glass walls that promised transparency while making everyone feel watched. Long tables dressed in pale linen. Water pitchers. Carefully placed microphones. Flags standing in polite little rows like a threat dressed as décor.

And under it all, the pressure.

Not pheromones this time, Belvare had never been a place that respected the old instincts the way Saha did. The pressure came from men who’d spent years learning how to smile while they sharpened knives under the table.

A host in a dark suit approached with the careful enthusiasm of someone who had been given very specific instructions.

"Your Majesty," he began, voice warm. "Consort. Welcome to Belvare. We are honored—"

Dax’s gaze moved over him once, assessing, in that quiet, predatory way that made the word ’welcome’ sound like a joke.

"We will begin," Dax said simply.

The host’s smile strained for a fraction of a second, then returned, rehearsed and bright. "Of course. Please. If you will follow me."

Chris felt it again, how eyes tracked him, lingering on the collar, the line of his throat, and the way the clasp sat perfectly at the nape like a private warning. In this room, it was a statement. In this room, it was an invitation for idiots to test what they thought was possible.

Dax’s hand stayed casually at the small of his back. A touch that could’ve been affectionate, if Chris didn’t know what it meant in Saha’s language.

’I am letting them see you.’

’I am also letting them see what happens if they try.’

They moved toward the central table. Seats had been arranged with diplomatic expertise that always meant someone had argued for days about who deserved to be three chairs closer to power.

Dax’s chair was positioned at the head. Chris’s was beside him, slightly back, just enough to be "protocol," just enough to be strategic.

’My God, these people are stupid.’ He thought as Dax never once let him be considered lesser than him.

Chris sat like he belonged anywhere he decided to exist.

He let the room settle into its own performance. Let the murmurs fade into that careful hush that always came right before something official happened. Across the table, men in tailored suits leaned in to each other, trading soft words behind polite expressions. Old union bosses. Corporate kings. "Civic leaders" whose hands had once signed orders that made people disappear.

And then there was the man two seats down, on the Belvare side, who had been too eager from the moment Chris walked in.

He was middle-aged, silver at the temples, and his smile was too smooth. Earlier, during the greeting cluster by the entrance, he had approached Chris like he was approaching a prize: hand outstretched, eyes bright with a familiarity they hadn’t earned.

"Consort Malek," he’d said, voice honeyed, and he had held Chris’s hand for a beat too long, thumb pressing lightly where skin met pulse. "Belvare has heard quite a bit about you."

Chris had smiled back with the sweet, empty politeness he saved for men who thought charm was a weapon. Malek was a name used for Chris to understand that these men knew everything they needed. Too bad for them that Chris didn’t really care about their hidden threats. "Belvare has too much free time."

The man had laughed like it was delightful. Like it wasn’t a warning.

Now, seated, the same man kept glancing at Chris. Like someone savoring a forbidden idea.

Dax hadn’t looked at him once, but only a fool would take that as permission. And the room was full of stupid people.

The summit began with speeches, of course. Statements about cooperation and stability and "shared interests." Words dressed up as bridges. Everyone took turns pretending they weren’t here because Belvare’s power structure was cracking and they didn’t know if the King of Saha had come to negotiate or to put a boot on their throat.

Chris listened and watched.

He watched the hands. Who fidgeted. Who didn’t drink the water. Who leaned back too far like they were trying to look relaxed. He watched the doorways. The glass panels. The reflections that allowed you to see what was behind you without turning.

Rowan stood near the side entrance, unobtrusive in a dark suit that made him look like any other security detail - if you ignored the fact that his eyes missed nothing and his posture screamed trained to kill in silence.

Chris didn’t look at him often. You didn’t look at your own safety net when you were trying to convince a room you didn’t need one.

Dax spoke when it was his turn.

The room leaned toward him without even realizing it.

"We are not here to be entertained," Dax said, tone even. "We are here to conclude what you have postponed out of pride and fear."

A few people stiffened. The host smiled too hard. The silver-templed man’s eyes gleamed.

Chris kept his expression neutral, but he could feel the shift - the subtle rearrangement of the room around Dax’s presence, the way the air seemed to thin, like everyone had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.

Then came the break. People stood, moved, and clustered into polite circles with predatory intent. The sound rose again: soft laughter, quiet negotiations, and the whisper of expensive shoes over marble.

Chris rose too, stretching his fingers once, pretending he wasn’t already bored and irritated and hyperaware all at the same time.

Dax stayed beside him, a silent wall.

The silver-templed man drifted closer again, smile in place.

"Consort," he said, and it was almost intimate, almost familiar. "I had hoped to speak with you privately for a moment."

Chris blinked slowly, like a cat contemplating whether to bite. "Privately."

"Yes." The man’s gaze flicked toward Dax, then back to Chris, as if Dax were a formality. "There are... community concerns. Misunderstandings. You might be able to help soften..."

Dax turned his head.

That was all. Just a slight shift of attention.

The man faltered for half a beat, then recovered, laughing softly. "Your Majesty. No offense intended. I merely thought..."

"You thought," Dax repeated, voice flat.

Chris could practically hear the man’s survival instincts slamming into a wall.

Chris leaned in slightly, his smile sweet enough to poison. "If you have something to say, say it with the King standing right here. It saves time."

The man’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. Then he smiled wider, too polite. "Of course. Of course."

He stepped back.

And that was when Rowan moved. Just a subtle tilt of his head, and his hand brushed the edge of his cuff, two quick taps, like he was adjusting a sleeve.

Chris’s spine went cold.