Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 341: Royal visit

Chris stepped down first, because he was not waiting another second.

The convoy waited in perfect formation. Dark vehicles, polished to the point of insult, engines humming low. Fitzgeralt security stood like statues, eyes alert, and faces calm in that way men were only calm when they were trained and paid to be terrifying.

Chris didn’t care.

He wanted Lucas. He wanted to see the baby. He wanted to see something soft and alive that wasn’t a treaty clause.

Behind him, Dax stepped off the train with the same unbothered grace he carried into war rooms. His suit looked freshly tailored, his hair perfect, and his eyes clear. He moved like a man who had slept through the night and had no shame about it.

Chris didn’t speak to him about this crime. He simply walked.

Eryx stumbled out next, rubbing his eyes, hair disheveled, guards closing in around him instantly. He opened his mouth as if to announce something important to the morning.

Chris didn’t look back.

Rowan did.

Eryx, remarkably, shut his mouth.

Progress.

Chris was guided into the nearest vehicle. Dax took the seat opposite him with the calm of a king who viewed cars as moving rooms and borders as suggestions. Eryx was placed in a separate vehicle; because he was in Palatine for school, they wouldn’t see him again for a while, which Chris regarded as a personal gift from the universe.

The ride was short. That was the only mercy.

Fitzgeralt lands unfolded like a controlled painting outside the tinted glass: private roads, manicured lines of trees, and watch posts placed at angles that told you someone had thought very hard about sniper routes. The manor appeared with the same quiet arrogance Trevor wore, beautiful, enormous, and not interested in your feelings.

Chris’s jaw unclenched the moment they crossed the final gate.

Home-adjacent. Safe-adjacent. Lucas-adjacent.

He could work with that.

They were ushered inside with the kind of silent speed that implied the staff had been warned: the King of Saha was arriving, and his consort was operating on fumes and spite.

Chris curled on one end of the velvet sofa like a cat who hadn’t slept in a week and had also personally fought each hour that passed. His collar was the only thing properly arranged - Dax had fixed it before exiting the car - with one cuff unbuttoned, no coat, wrinkled shirt, and his eyes had the distinct, dull glaze of a man who had considered murder, war, and divorce sometime between 3 and 4 a.m.

He barely looked up when they entered.

Dax, on the other hand, looked entirely too awake.

He was stretched out on the opposite end of the sofa, one ankle resting on his opposite knee, arms draped casually along the backrest like he owned the palace. He probably did. Not this one, but certainly the mood. His dark slacks were tailored within an inch of sin, and the open collar of his shirt framed his throat like an invitation. His white-blond hair was tied back with casual elegance, and his violet eyes gleamed like he knew exactly why Chris looked like he’d been emotionally run over by a diplomatic envoy and then dragged through two state dinners.

Trevor, holding Sebastian like the crown jewel of the Empire, stepped forward first. "You are late. The party was the other night."

Chris blinked once, slowly, like it took conscious effort to reboot.

"I’m aware," he said, voice dry and vaguely murderous. "The party ended. The delegations didn’t."

Lucas walked in behind Trevor, adjusting the cuff of his own shirt, which, unlike Chris’s, was ironed, buttoned, and worn by someone who hadn’t just lost a fistfight with foreign policy. "Did you even sleep?"

Chris looked at him flatly. "I napped in a moving train between a screaming prince and a commerce minister with a deviated septum. Does that count?"

Sebastian cooed in Trevor’s arms, cheerfully unaware of the ruin around him.

Trevor grinned, walking over to Chris and gently placing the baby in his lap. "It does now."

Chris melted instantly, all ire vanishing as Sebastian squirmed and nestled into his chest like a well-trained diplomatic weapon. "Oh. You’re the only person I like right now," he whispered, nuzzling the baby’s dark hair. "And you don’t make trade threats in your sleep."

Dax hummed from his corner. "I could."

Chris didn’t even look at him. "Don’t."

Lucas sat on the armrest beside Chris, one leg drawn up beneath him. "You look like you’ve been rolling in international disappointment."

"Because I have been," Chris muttered, adjusting Sebastian carefully. "And that man," he jerked his chin in Dax’s direction without looking, "had the nerve to call it character building."

Trevor sank onto the nearby armchair, stretching out with the well-earned relaxation of a man who had slept and had no shame about it. "And here I thought this was supposed to be your honeymoon visit."

"We’re technically still on it," Dax said helpfully, flashing Lucas a grin that was far too satisfied. "We just included ten foreign dignitaries, four military councils, and two minor uprisings. Very intimate."

Chris exhaled slowly. "You forgot the allergic reaction to Sahan olives and the ambassador who cried when I corrected his math."

Lucas blinked. "Was he a delegate from...?"

"Yes," Chris said before he finished. "And no, I’m not apologizing. He tried to round 3.2 million to four and called it a rounding error."

Dax looked unbothered. "He learned something. That’s what matters."

"Why the train, though? Did you get bored of the luxury of your jet?" Lucas asked while reaching for a pastry from the coffee table.

Chris narrowed his eyes just enough to imply war crimes.

"I liked the jet," he said bitterly. "But someone thought it would be more ’grounded’ and ’humanizing’ to take the scenic rail route." He didn’t want to elaborate that after correcting the math of said minister, there was a bloodbath in Belvare.

Lucas froze, half-bit into the pastry. "Oh no."

Dax didn’t even flinch. "It built character."

"You already have character," Chris muttered. "It’s labeled ’danger to diplomatic relations.’"

Trevor leaned back with the ease of a man who’d dodged this particular firestorm. "Wasn’t that label formally added after the seafood summit incident?"

"Yes, before I had a partner in crime," Dax said, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Please leave me out of your plans. We still have my coronation in two months, and I’m thinking that it was a mistake to give in; also, Caelan wants to see us." Chris said, placing a kiss on Sebastian’s hair.

Chris glared down at the message on his comm again, like it might rewrite itself if he looked disappointed enough.

Trevor raised a brow. "Caelan? As in our Emperor and my personal limit for how many titles one man can have in a single name?"

Chris nodded slowly, the movement barely perceptible under the weight of exhaustion. "Yes, that Caelan. Emperor of Palatine, ally to Saha, and frequent emotional burden. He sent a message at dawn. Just one line: ’Bring your mate, and come prepared.’ He felt us entering Palatine; I’m sure of that."

Lucas blinked. "Let me guess. He didn’t send it to Dax directly."

Chris gave him a flat look. "Of course not. He used me like a fancy, sleepless pigeon."

Trevor sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "He’s been doing that since you two married. He just upgraded the leash from me to you."

"I’m not on a leash," Chris muttered. "I’m the warning sign. The bright red one with ’Do Not Engage’ etched across the border."

Dax, who had not stopped looking far too pleased with himself, leaned back against the sofa and offered a slow smile. "He’s scared of me."

"He should be," Trevor said, reaching for a cup of tea that was somehow still warm. "And he keeps thinking he can manage you through marriage alliances."

Chris muttered, "First Trevor, now me."

Lucas made a sympathetic sound and stole another pastry. "How’s that working out for him?"

Chris didn’t answer, but Dax did, his tone smooth as silk. "He now owns three new diplomatic clauses, a broken ceremonial vase, and the emotional scars of watching me redecorate his treaty room in Sahan purple."

Trevor snorted. "He’s trying to keep Saha close without admitting he’s too proud to ask."

"And so he sends me," Chris said, resting his cheek against Sebastian’s head with the resignation of a man carrying an empire on four hours of sleep and two hours of glaring. "Because apparently I’m less likely to cause an incident."

Dax made a noncommittal sound. "He’s wrong."

"You proved that three border disputes ago," Trevor said, deadpan.

Lucas tilted his head. "So what does he want now? More alliance terms? Some crisis no one else can handle? Another wedding?"

Chris didn’t even flinch. "If he asks me to host a royal summit again, I’ll start throwing people out of windows. And I’m not even the consort of his empire."

Dax looked thoughtful. "Do you think it’s about the trade dispute or the crown prince being..."

"Don’t finish that sentence," Trevor said, voice sharp. "I like plausible deniability."

Chris exhaled, then looked up slowly. "We’re seeing him tomorrow. East Wing. Private audience. I don’t know if it’s about politics, security, or his latest need to flex imperial dominance through the use of his personal trauma magnets."

’Or Ethan, again.’ He thought to himself.

Dax raised a brow. "I’m not dressing up."

Chris didn’t blink. "You’ll wear something court-appropriate, or I swear to every god in the Sahan pantheon, I will personally sew you into a ceremonial robe while you sleep."

Trevor raised his cup. "He means it."

Lucas looked between all of them and murmured, "This might be the most functional diplomatic delegation I’ve ever seen."

No one disagreed.