Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 401: Grandpa Clearance (1)

Chris stayed very still, like if he didn’t move, the idea would lose interest and walk back out the door on its own.

Dax, unfortunately, had never met an idea he didn’t want to adopt, crown, and parade through the palace with drums.

"No," Chris said again, flat and immediate.

Dax’s expression remained calm in that infuriating way it did when he’d already decided the outcome and was now just being polite about the illusion of choice. "Yes."

Nero made a tiny sound against Chris’s chest, a sleepy little sigh that felt like commentary. His pale lashes fluttered once, then settled again, and his mouth relaxed as if he’d found the exact angle of comfort he’d been searching for his whole six-week-old life.

Chris’s hand tightened slightly on the blanket. "He’s sleeping."

"I can see that," Dax murmured, as if Chris had kindly pointed out the sky was up. His gaze flicked to Nero and softened so fast it was almost offensive. Then he looked back at Chris with that same quiet certainty. "Sahir will be composed."

Chris’s eyes narrowed. "That’s a lie."

Dax’s mouth twitched. "It’s... an aspiration."

Tania’s head lifted a fraction from the foot of the bed, pale eyes tracking the conversation like a tribunal. Her tail moved once, slow and displeased.

Chris aimed a look at Dax that had ended negotiations in courtrooms. "He doesn’t get to come in here and have feelings at me. I am still stitched together in places I do not want to discuss."

Dax leaned closer, lowering his voice instinctively, like the walls might gossip. "He’s not coming for you. He’s coming for the child."

"That’s worse," Chris muttered. "He’ll look at Nero and start reciting prayers, and suddenly I’ll be trapped in a ceremonial naming ritual with incense."

Dax looked faintly pleased. "That would be appropriate."

Chris stared at him. "I will throw a pillow at you."

"You can try," Dax said, amused in that gentle, dangerous way. "But your arms are occupied by the prince."

Chris glanced down at Nero’s tiny fist still fisted in Chris’s shirt, as if the fabric belonged to him by law. The baby hadn’t even woken through the argument, just breathed slow and warm, pressed against Chris like a decision.

Chris exhaled through his nose, then looked back at Dax. "How many people have you already told?"

Dax’s eyes glittered. "Only those who would die for us."

Chris’s voice went even flatter. "That’s not a number, Dax."

Dax considered, as if counting bodies was a hobby. "Seven."

Chris blinked. "Seven..."

"And Nadia," Dax added.

Chris stared. "Nadia doesn’t count. Nadia is already inside my walls."

Nadia’s voice drifted from the sitting room, sharp and satisfied without being invited into the discussion. "I always count." 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

Chris swallowed his irritation, because it never won against Nadia. "Fine. Nadia counts. That makes eight. You’re building a choir."

Dax leaned in closer, hand hovering near Nero’s back without touching, careful the way he’d learned to be careful, like the child was something holy and breakable and entirely his. "Moon," he said softly, "Sahir has earned this. He has been outside that door for a month. He has not tried to breach security even once."

Chris’s brows lifted. "That’s the bare minimum."

Dax’s eyes warmed. "He has also stopped trying to bribe Rowan."

Chris went still. "He tried to bribe Rowan?"

Rowan’s voice answered from somewhere near the doorway, very tired. "He offered me a budget."

Chris stared at the ceiling. "Of course he did."

Dax’s expression remained serenely triumphant. "He offered Killian a promotion."

Killian, silent as ever, appeared in Chris’s periphery like a shadow that had decided to become a person for exactly one sentence. "I declined."

Chris looked at Dax slowly. "So he’s been attempting a coup."

"A very polite one," Dax said, as if that made it charming.

Chris’s fingers brushed Nero’s blanket again, more out of habit than comfort. The baby’s scent was faint and clean now, not that overwhelming newborn sweetness that had made the physicians hover like they were waiting for an explosion. Nero’s pheromones were dim, almost unfairly subtle for the child that had arrived like a national incident, and he was warm and heavy and very, very sure he belonged exactly here.

Chris hated how much that softened him.

"Five minutes," Chris said finally, like he was agreeing to let a dangerous animal into the room under supervision. "Five minutes. He comes in, he looks, he does not touch without permission, he does not cry on my baby, and he leaves."

Dax’s face lit with a bright, pleased satisfaction, the kind he wore right before he won a war. "Ten."

Chris’s eyes narrowed. "Five."

Dax leaned down until his mouth was near Chris’s ear, voice low and intimate, as if this was a secret between conspirators rather than the king negotiating with his mate. "Moon," he murmured, "he is Grandpa."

Chris froze.

Then, very slowly, he turned his head and stared at Dax like Dax had just committed blasphemy with perfect diction.

"...Grandpa."

Dax nodded once, solemn. "Yes."

Chris’s mouth opened, then shut. His face did something complicated, like the concept offended him and softened him at the same time, like he didn’t want to admit any part of this had roots and permanence and family attached.

"Don’t call him that," Chris muttered.

Dax’s eyes gleamed. "Why not?"

"Because it makes it real," Chris snapped, then immediately regretted the honesty because Dax’s expression softened in that way that was always too intimate.

Dax’s hand came up, brushing a knuckle along Chris’s cheek, careful not to jostle Nero. "It is real," he said simply. "But you don’t have to say it out loud yet."

Chris swallowed, then looked away, like the bed suddenly required his full attention. "Five minutes," he repeated, as if defending himself.

Dax straightened. "Seven."

Chris glared.

Dax sighed, long-suffering. "Six."

Chris exhaled. "Fine. Six. But if he starts praising the gods, I’m kicking him out."

"I wouldn’t dare," Sahir’s voice said from the hallway, dry and controlled.

Chris’s head snapped toward the door.

The man himself stood just outside the threshold, not inside yet, like he was respecting the border the way he’d respect a sacred line. Sahir looked exactly as he always did in public - traditional suit immaculate, mantle sitting on his shoulders like a symbol of office rather than fabric, posture straight, expression composed enough to survive a court full of predators.

Only his eyes gave him away.

They were too bright. Like he’d been holding himself together with willpower and ritual for a month straight, and now the door was finally open.

Rowan stepped aside with the expression of a man releasing a contained storm. "You have clearance," he told Sahir, then added, under his breath, "Try not to combust."