Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 356: The type of Consort

The short honeymoon had been exactly what Chris wanted.

Cuddles with a giant king and their equally giant albino tiger. It had been an escape from the world, from headlines, from court schedules, from that damn journal, and from everything Chris had learned in the last few weeks about power and dominance and what people thought it entitled them to.

He’d learned that Dax was more dangerous than half the world, and the other half only survived because Dax allowed it.

He’d learned there was another dominant alpha, his cousin from Alamina, strong enough to stand in the same category without flinching. And then there was Trevor Fitzgeralt, second in reach, or third if someone wanted to be petty about rank. There were others, too, men at the same level who didn’t fight for ideals so much as they fought for a person: Otto of Alamina... or Dax himself.

Then the honeymoon ended, and reality returned like a boot to the door.

Rehearsals.

Meetings that weren’t called meetings because the palace liked to pretend it didn’t run on controlled panic.

Chris found himself standing in front of mirrors while people adjusted fabric and measured hems and told him where to stand like he was a ceremonial object. By the third rehearsal, Chris was considering keeping a shovel in his office. Not because he planned to use it. Mostly.

Or maybe he was just... comfortable now, in a way he hadn’t been at the beginning. Like the filter Serathine and Cressida had worked so hard to place on him was finally slipping. Chris wasn’t becoming cruel.

He was becoming honest with how he actually was.

Killian accepted the changes with a single nod, like this was simply the natural evolution of anyone mated to Dax. No comment or lectures. Just quiet adjustments to protocol so the palace could survive Chris’s mood.

Rowan coped with humor, because Rowan had twenty alphas under his command, an entire security apparatus, and now also a bristly dominant omega to watch like the world’s sharpest glass ornament.

He complained constantly.

He loved his job anyway.

He was paid so well he could retire in two hours if he wanted, and instead he was here, in a ceremonial hall, in dress uniform, looking at Chris like he was watching history happen in real time and trying not to let his face show it.

Because that was the thing no one said out loud.

Chris didn’t look like a consort today.

He looked like a crown would fit him.

Rowan stood near the front line of security, eyes sweeping the room by habit even as the ceremony began. Ministers. Foreign delegations. Nobility. Cameras. A thousand ways to turn one moment into a disaster.

Dax was already on the dais, perfectly postured.

Expression controlled in that way that made everyone in the room remember they had manners. The king didn’t smile for them.

And then Chris entered.

He walked like he belonged here, which was the most dangerous thing a consort could do in a room full of people who wanted him to stay decorative.

Rowan watched the crowd track him. He watched the subtle shifts - the ones that meant calculation, not admiration. He watched the alphas in the foreign delegations measure Chris like they were trying to decide where the leverage was.

’Good luck,’ Rowan thought, flatly. ’There is no leverage. There is only death.’

Chris reached his mark. The ceremonial official started speaking. The words were practiced, traditional, meant to sound eternal even in a modern world.

Rowan barely heard them.

He watched Dax.

Because Dax wasn’t looking at the crowd.

Dax was looking at Chris the way a man looked at the only thing in the room that mattered. Not possessive in a vulgar way. Possessive in a factual way, like: this is mine to protect, mine to honor, mine to stand beside.

Chris didn’t look at the crowd either. His gaze stayed forward, shoulders squared, chin lifted.

Rowan had seen Chris furious. He’d seen him playful. He’d seen him exhausted.

This was different.

This was Chris choosing restraint in public and promising violence in private.

The crown was presented.

A symbolic object with a ridiculous weight, because symbolism was always heavy in Saha.

Chris didn’t flinch when it came near his head. He didn’t bow like he was grateful. He didn’t look like he was asking permission.

He simply held still, allowing the ritual to complete, like he was letting the world catch up to what was already true.

When the crown settled, Rowan felt the room react in a subtle wave. 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚

Then Chris turned his head slightly and looked at Dax.

It was a small movement, almost nothing, but Rowan saw Dax’s expression shift just enough to be readable.

Satisfaction. Pride. That quiet, dangerous joy that came from finally having the one thing he’d wanted placed where no one could contest it.

Rowan exhaled through his nose.

And then, because the universe couldn’t resist being annoying, the room found a new point of focus: the consort was crowned, and now everyone wanted to see what kind of Queen he would be.

Chris answered that question without speaking.

When it was his turn, he stepped forward and faced the assembly with the most bored look he could muster.

Rowan almost laughed, because yes - there it was. The shovel energy. The "I’m done filtering" energy. The "I will bury you socially and you’ll thank me for the grave" energy.

Chris spoke, and his voice carried cleanly through the hall.

"Today I stand beside the people of Saha," he said, calm. "And I will continue to stand for as long as I breathe."

Rowan watched the first row react in small, involuntary ways with some relief, some calculation, a few faces tightening as if they’d realized too late that this wasn’t going to be a decorative consort era.

Dax didn’t move. The king stood there like a wall, but his eyes were on Chris with a focus that made it clear the room could collapse and he still wouldn’t look away.

Chris continued, gaze forward.

I didn’t come here to be a symbol. I came here to work."

A small ripple went through the first rows, relief in some faces, calculation in others.

"And I won’t pretend duty is soft," Chris added. "Duty costs. But it also protects. It makes sure no one gets to decide behind closed doors who matters and who doesn’t."

Rowan watched a few ministers shift at that.

"So if you’re wondering what kind of consort I’ll be," Chris finished, voice level, "this is it."

Applause rose, controlled to the second. Dax stepped forward just enough to pull the room back into order, and the procession began to move.

Rowan stayed on the flank, comms quiet in his ear, eyes sweeping. On the far side of the aisle he caught a man drifting too close.

Rowan signaled two guards. Dax’s gaze cut toward the man like a warning.

The man froze.

Rowan stepped into the angle smoothly, blocking with a polite smile. "Sir, this corridor is restricted."

The man mumbled congratulations and backed away.

Chris never broke stride. Neither did Dax.

Rowan escorted them out, the doors closing behind them, and only then let himself breathe.

"Route green," someone murmured in his earpiece.

Rowan didn’t smile. "Sweep again," he ordered. "Nobody gets close."