Chapter 142: Chapter 142: Not fine

Dax reached the foot of the bed and stopped, water still glinting across his skin where the towel hadn’t quite done its job. The sunlight that cut through the open terrace doors seemed to bend around him, tracing every impossible line of strength and control in quiet reverence.

Chris swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, which made no sense, because the air in the room was already humid from the shower.

The towel on his shoulders was doing exactly nothing to help the situation.

It wasn’t even covering him. Just there, draped, decorative, and totally useless. His skin still damp, golden in the morning light, a single drop of water sliding down from his collarbone all the way to where… ’nope,’ Chris’s brain cut out before it could finish that line of observation.

For a good ten seconds, nothing happened.

No thoughts. No coherent language. Just the faint ringing of mental static and the unhelpful observation that the human nervous system should come with an emergency shutdown protocol for visual stimuli of this magnitude.

When his brain finally restarted, it was only to deliver a calm, scientific verdict:

’That part of him looks like it needs its own postal code.’

Then another thought, equally useless:

’There is no way that’s regulation size.’

He wanted to bury himself under the mattress and never resurface.

’Okay. Breathe. It’s fine. He’s just standing there, naked, existing like some violation of engineering ethics. You’re an adult. You’ve built buildings. You’ve rebuilt bridges under pressure. You can survive one… nope, you can’t. That’s too much physics in one man.’

Dax tilted his head slightly, watching him. “You’re very quiet,” he said, voice low and amused.

’Because I’ve lost the ability to form words, that’s why.’

Chris tried to sit up straighter, which only made things worse because now his line of sight was… yeah. That.

His scent spiked before he could stop it, sharp and warm, dominant omega pheromones tangled with the faint burn of embarrassment. Dax caught it instantly; of course he did. His purple pupils flared, and the air shifted, that subtle pulse of alpha pheromones rolling out like a heat wave.

“Chris,” he said quietly, and his tone was low, aware, and dangerous in the same way that gravity was.

“Nope,” Chris blurted before his self-control died completely. “Don’t you dare.”

“Don’t I dare what?” Dax asked, far too calm for someone standing completely naked in front of another person’s unraveling sanity.

“You’re…” Chris gestured weakly, words failing him. “You’re just… look, you can’t exist like that before breakfast; it’s a public safety issue.”

Dax’s smile was slow, all teeth and amusement. “You’re looking.”

“I’m not…” Chris started, then realized he was, in fact, absolutely looking, and groaned into his hands. ’Fantastic. Supreme mental failure. All those years of higher education and I’ve been undone by a man with a towel accessory.’

Dax’s scent deepened, brushing against his own in the air. It was instinctive, unintentional maybe, but Chris felt it in every inch of his body, that low, ancient rhythm of alpha and omega pheromones syncing before the conscious mind could intervene.

His body reacted first: pulse rising, breath catching, a warmth curling low in his stomach that he refused to acknowledge under any circumstances. His rational brain screamed no, his biology whispered yes

, and the rest of him just sat there internally filing for divorce.

“You smell better,” Dax murmured, stepping closer.

“Don’t say things like that,” Chris hissed. “It sounds indecent when you say it.”

“It’s a compliment.”

“It’s an HR violation,” Chris snapped back.

The alpha laughed low, soft, and pleased. A sound that made Chris’s body react even harder. “You’re not running,” he observed.

“I’m thinking about it,” Chris said through gritted teeth.

“You won’t.”

He hated that he was right. Every instinct told him to move, but his body had already decided it wanted to be exactly where it was. His pheromones had evened out, matching Dax’s in some impossible, biological rhythm that made the air feel heavy and almost sweet.

’Perfect. This is great. I’m officially scent-bonding with a naked monarch before breakfast. Totally fine. Completely normal.’

“Fine,” he muttered, flopping back against the pillows and dragging the sheet over his head. “You win. Put on some clothes before my DNA commits treason.”

Dax chuckled, releasing a deep, unhurried sound that echoed through the air. “I think your DNA made its decision the moment I walked in.”

“Congratulations,” Chris shot back from under the blanket. “You’ve seduced my genome. Must feel nice.”

Dax leaned down just enough that Chris could see the amused glint in his eyes. “It does.”

Chris groaned. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine. I deeply disapprove of your lack of pants.”

Dax’s smile turned quiet, warmer somehow. “Then I’ll make it up to you later.”

Chris peeked at him from under the sheet, exasperated and shaken in equal measure. “You’re naked and impossible.”

“And you,” Dax said softly, “are reacting beautifully.”

That was it. That was the end of coherent thought.

’Civilized, my ass,’ Chris thought, heart thundering. ’I’m in danger.’

Chris sat there for exactly three seconds after that, blanket halfway up his face, before his brain screamed a single, clear directive: ’Retreat.’

He bolted upright, tripping over the sheet in his haste to reclaim what little dignity evolution had left him. “I’m taking a shower,” he said, voice impressively steady for someone currently experiencing spontaneous pheromone combustion.

Dax blinked once, looking far too pleased with himself. “You already took one last night.”

“I’m taking another,” Chris said, already halfway to the bathroom, snatching up the first robe he could find… one that, judging by its size, clearly belonged to Dax. The fabric practically swallowed him whole. Great. Just what he needed: olfactory torture by borrowed bathrobe.

Behind him, Dax’s tone dripped amusement. “Running away before breakfast? That’s new.”

“I’m not running,” Chris lied, fumbling with the tie. ’I’m tactically repositioning to preserve sanity and prevent potential international incidents.’

He made it to the bathroom door. ’Safe at last.’ The steam inside still clung to the air, enveloping him in the ghost of Dax’s scent: spice, alpha, and infuriatingly grounded.

“Perfect,” he muttered. “Even the humidity is conspiring.”

He slammed the door shut with a little too much force. The echo bounced around the marble walls like an accusation. Leaning back against it, he exhaled hard, his head thudding softly against the wood.

“Okay,” he told himself. “You’re fine. You’re an adult. You’re just experiencing a biochemical response to pheromonal saturation. That’s all. You are dealing with pheromones without suppressants.”

A pause. Then, under his breath: “You’re so not fine.”

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