Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 406: Spiral

Chris exhaled. "Stop me from what? Standing in a bathroom? Menacing my own reflection? It’s a hobby."

Dax’s gaze dropped again, slower this time. Just... watching, like he remembered every day. Chris had carried Nero; every hour his body had done something impossible and then been cut open for it.

Chris felt the phantom of the mirror behind him: scar, stretch marks, proof, proof, proof.

His mind tried to turn it into something clever, because if he made it funny, it wouldn’t be vulnerable.

"I’m fine," Chris said, and his voice almost made it convincing.

Dax leaned in just enough that Chris had to look at him instead of anywhere else.

"No," Dax said softly. "You’re physically healed."

Chris blinked once.

It should have been the same sentence.

Dax kept his hand on the robe belt, steady. Possessive without theatrics. Dangerous in the way only calm predators were.

"You’re allowed to be healed," Dax continued, "and still hate what it cost you."

Chris swallowed. "I don’t hate it."

Dax’s eyes sharpened. "You hate the proof."

Chris’s mouth opened, and nothing elegant came out.

Because it was true in a way that made him feel stupid. It wasn’t Nero. It wasn’t the birth. It wasn’t even the pain, not anymore.

It was the way his body had betrayed the illusion that he could stay unchanged if he was simply careful enough.

Chris tried anyway. "It’s... strange."

Dax’s expression barely shifted. "Yes."

Chris’s gaze flicked, involuntarily, toward the mirror again.

Dax caught it.

His hand slid from the belt to Chris’s waist, then lower, firm enough to remind Chris that he was here, that he was real, that the room did not belong to Chris’s thoughts.

"Don’t," Dax murmured.

Chris’s breath hitched despite himself. "Don’t what?"

"Don’t go back in there," Dax said, voice almost bored, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Not alone."

Chris scoffed automatically, because if he didn’t scoff, he might...

"I’m not going to faint over a scar, Dax."

Dax’s eyes lifted. The amusement was there, faint, but the rest of him was all iron.

"I’m not worried you’ll faint," he said.

Chris froze, because that meant...

Dax’s fingers tightened at Chris’s waist. "I’m worried you’ll punish yourself quietly," Dax continued, "and call it control."

Chris’s laugh came out thin. "You’re being dramatic."

"I’m being precise." Dax leaned closer, their foreheads almost brushing. "If you were fully healed - if Nadia wasn’t still glaring at me like she’d stab me with a thermometer - I would carry you to bed, and you wouldn’t leave it until you forgot mirrors existed."

Chris’s laugh sharpened into something almost real. "Your solution to my spiral is sex?"

It was a challenge disguised as amusement, and Dax, infuriatingly, accepted it as a gift.

"Yes," Dax said, smiling with the pure confidence of a man who had never once doubted his own effectiveness. "And proximity. And force. In that order."

Chris’s eyes glinted. He looked pleased with himself, which was always when he was the most dangerous. "That’s not a treatment plan."

"It is in my kingdom," Dax replied, and the grin he gave him was bright enough to qualify as a policy. "You can’t spiral if you’re thinking about me and your mind is drowned in pheromones."

Chris’s breath caught, because the thing about Dax was that he could say something outrageous and still make it sound like a logistical truth.

"And therapy too," Dax added, voice light, like he was being generous. "You will have to do something while not being able to use your legs."

Chris stared.

Then he laughed again, shorter, warmer, and far more offended. "Did you just casually schedule my rehabilitation around your fantasy of immobilizing me?"

Dax’s gaze dropped to Chris’s mouth, then to his throat, then back to his eyes.

"Yes."

Chris scoffed. "You’re insane."

Dax hummed, pleased. "I’m motivated."

"Motivated," Chris repeated, like he was tasting the word to see if it was poison. "That’s what we’re calling it."

Dax leaned in until their foreheads nearly touched. His smile softened, and it made the whole thing worse, because the softness wasn’t a joke.

"I am calling it care," Dax corrected quietly. "You do it by thinking until you bleed in places no one can see. I do it by making sure you don’t get the chance."

Chris’s throat tightened. He refused to show it.

So he did what he always did when he felt cornered: he tried to turn it into sport.

"You realize," Chris murmured, voice smooth, "that if you ever said that in front of Nadia, she’d actually stab you."

Dax’s smile widened, delighted. "With a thermometer."

"With a scalpel," Chris corrected.

Dax shrugged, unbothered. "Either would be deserved."

Chris tilted his head. "You’re awfully accepting of medical violence for a king."

"I’m accepting of Nadia," Dax said simply, and then his eyes sharpened again, the humor tightening into something that belonged to the bond. "I’m not accepting of you standing in front of a mirror and deciding you’re a stranger."

Chris went still.

His gaze flicked, half a heartbeat, toward the mirror behind him.

Dax’s hand came up and caught his jaw gently, turning his face back as if the mirror didn’t exist. As if it didn’t get a vote.

"Look at me," Dax said.

Chris’s smile tried to survive. It failed.

"I am looking," Chris muttered, stubborn.

"Good." Dax’s thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, slow enough to be intimate, measured enough to be a warning. "Keep doing it."

Chris swallowed. "You’re very confident for someone whose entire plan is... pheromones and hostage therapy."

Dax’s eyes lit with smug approval, like Chris had just given him a title.

"Yes," he agreed. "Because it works."

Chris snorted. "You’re lucky I like you."

Dax leaned closer, voice dropping into something that belonged in a locked room. "You’re lucky I’m still obeying Nadia."

Chris blinked once. "That’s a threat."

"It’s a promise," Dax corrected, kissing him briefly and carefully, as if to reset Chris’s brain like a switch.

When he pulled back, Chris’s lashes fluttered once, annoyed at himself for it.

Dax watched him like he was reading a screen only he had clearance for.

"You don’t get to punish your body for surviving," Dax said, softer. "Not when it made me a father. Not when it made him."

Chris’s mouth opened. Closed.

He tried to find something sharp again and came up with nothing but the truth, which was always the worst weapon.

"...I don’t know how to stop thinking about it," Chris admitted, barely audible.

Dax didn’t smile this time.

He just leaned in and pressed his forehead to Chris’s

"Then I will do it for you," Dax said. "Until your mind learns a new habit."

Chris let out a slow breath, like he hated the relief even as he took it.

"Fine," he whispered. "But if I end up in therapy because you broke my pride, I’m sending you the bill."

Dax’s mouth curved again, pleased.

"I’ll pay it," he said. "With interest."

Chris rolled his eyes.

Dax’s hand slid to Chris’s waist, anchoring him there, and his voice went mild again.

"And when Nadia clears you," Dax added, like he was discussing tomorrow’s schedule, "I’m going to carry you to bed. You’re going to glare at me. You’re going to call me a tyrant."

Chris’s pulse jumped. "And then?"

Dax’s smile turned sharp.

"And then you’re not going to remember mirrors," he said. "Because I’ll make sure the only thing you can think about is me."

Chris stared at him for a long second, dark eyes bright with something that was dangerously close to happiness.

"...God," he muttered, like it was a complaint.

Dax kissed his temple, gentle as a vow.

"Yes," he said, and sounded entirely too confident about it.