Chapter 16: Chapter 16: Best night ever

Dax lingered at the railing, gaze fixed on the path below long after the line of staff had disappeared under the overhang. The air still carried it, faint, clean, and impossible to ignore.

What struck him wasn’t only the scent itself, sharp enough to cut through the perfume of lilies and the faint chemical burn of polish and disinfectant. It was the silence around it.

There were alphas everywhere tonight. Guards at the perimeter. Advisors pacing through Trevor’s endless planning sessions. Even the drivers milling near the garages had their instincts tuned tight, bristling under the weight of ceremony. Yet not a single one had flinched. Not a glance. Not a twitch of recognition.

That told him enough. Whatever had brushed past him wasn’t being read as a threat, or even as what it truly was. His own body, running hotter and closer to the edge every month, had recognized it first.

Dax’s mouth curved, a faint expression that never reached his eyes. He drew his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket, thumbing it awake with a flick of his thumb. One message was enough:

’Find out who the server in the grey jacket with black hair was in the last group through the west gate. Make sure he’s assigned to the main hall. My section.’

He didn’t bother adding a name. His staff knew better than to ask questions.

Sliding the phone back into his jacket, he exhaled once, steady. Then he straightened from the railing and turned back toward the study, the polished mask of a visiting monarch settling over him again. The wedding would go on with its rehearsed splendor and endless speeches, but now, threaded through the logistics and security reports, was a new note of anticipation.

For the first time in weeks, Dax was curious about something other than war or politics. Curious about an omega who smelled like rain on stone, walking unnoticed through a house full of alphas.

—

Chris had just finished straightening a row of glasses along the buffet when a shadow fell across his shoulder. One of the manor’s coordinators, stiff collar, clipboard clutched like a weapon, tilted his head toward him.

“You,” the man said in a low voice, pitched not to carry. “Shift to the west wing section. We’ve had complaints about staff coverage near the high nobles’ seating. You’ll serve there until further notice.”

Chris blinked. Complaints. Of course. Nothing screamed nobility like whining about wine before they’d even had any.

“Got it,” he said easily, slipping the tray he’d been arranging back into place. It wasn’t like he cared where he stood tonight, so long as it wasn’t outside with Clara and her theatrics. At least in the high-noble section, he wouldn’t risk her tugging on his sleeve begging for favors.

He fell into step behind the coordinator, weaving between polished shoes and velvet skirts, expression smooth and unbothered. It wasn’t personal, he reminded himself. Nobles wanted staff shuffled like furniture, and the only sane way to survive was to let yourself be moved.

Still, as he adjusted his cuffs and glanced at the gilded tables now within reach, he couldn’t help a dry thought: ’If this is their idea of “short-staffed,” I’d hate to see what overkill looks like.’

The hum of the hall shifted the moment the couple appeared. A ripple of applause, polite and rehearsed, spread like a tide as Trevor Fitzgeralt and Lucas entered arm in arm, a picture of composure.

For Chris, it was the signal to move. Servers fanned out in practiced formation, trays balanced, bottles uncorked, and dishes delivered on cue. Timing was everything; there was no room for error, no chance to fall behind.

His uniform shoes, polished to a mirror shine, pinched with every step. ’Beautiful torture devices,’ he thought grimly, shifting his weight as he maneuvered around a cluster of chairs. They were clearly expensive, part of the whole Fitzgeralt illusion of seamless service, but gods, his feet were on fire. If he survived the night without limping, it would be a miracle worthy of a commemorative plaque.

Still, the rhythm of the work settled into him quickly. Napkins folded with precision, glasses refilled before anyone noticed the emptiness, trays carried high enough to avoid silks that probably cost more than his rent for the year. The hall itself was a gleaming stage, every surface reflecting the cream-and-gold motif, polished marble underfoot, chandeliers dripping light like molten glass, and flowers sculpted into perfect arrangements that would wilt before morning but looked immortal under the glow.

And yet, through the haze of motion, one presence pressed at the edge of his awareness. A man seated not far from the center dais, posture loose in a way that screamed power rather than laziness. His hair caught the light like pale metal, his violet eyes were sharper than any blade, and his expression was easy and faintly amused.

Chris adjusted the balanced tray in his hand, the weight steady despite the shoes sawing at his heels. He glanced once, then looked away before the moment could linger. ’So that’s Dax,’ he thought, moving to refill another glass. ’The King of Saha in the flesh.’

Of course he’d stand out. Kings always did. And if Chris felt something like static under his skin, a taut awareness that dragged his gaze back again, he dismissed it as simple interest in the spectacle. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to watch a man who was practically a legend move like he was just another guest at a wedding. Nothing more.

He focused on the tray again, muttering under his breath as another pinch from the shoes threatened to undo his composure. ’History in the making, and I’ll remember it as the night I lost both feet to fashion.’

Snippets of gossip cut the air as sharply as the clink of crystal, even through Chris’s’ thoughts.

“…did you see how he looks at him? Like Trevor can’t breathe unless Lucas does first…”

“Dominant omega, and not hidden away. My gods, if my husband so much as looked that protective…”

“…rumor is Saha’s king sent half his retinue back because he didn’t want anyone competing with him for attention…”

Chris bit back a smirk, tucking it down into the neutral line of his mouth. Same old nobles, talking danger while pretending admiration. Still, under the chatter, something gnawed at him. The air was thick tonight, heavier, almost cloying.

Pheromones.

He knew the scent of them; he wasn’t new to this. But usually the inhibitors dulled it to background noise, manageable, like passing cologne in a subway car. Tonight it pressed sharper against the edge of his awareness, enough that the hairs on his arms lifted. Too strong. Either my dose is slipping, or every alpha in the room decided to show off at once.

His shoes burned with every step, his head buzzed with every breath, and the tray suddenly felt like it was lined with lead. He caught sight of another server, made a small hand signal, and passed the load off with professional ease.

“Two minutes,” he muttered, voice steady but tight. The other man nodded, already moving to cover.

Chris ducked out through the side corridor, past the swing doors into the service hall, and pushed through into the small courtyard set aside for staff breaks. The “smoking area,” though half the people here just came to breathe. He braced a hand against the cool stone and dragged the pill he took with him just in case. It clicked against his teeth before he swallowed it dry.

He exhaled long, shoulders loosening a fraction. ’Better to catch it early than risk anything stupid,’ he reminded himself. He’d built his entire adult life on being careful, on staying invisible, and a wedding full of kings and dukes was not the time to gamble.

Behind him, laughter drifted from the open window of the hall, smooth and oblivious. Chris rolled his shoulders, the taste of chalk still on his tongue, and told himself to last the rest of the shift without incident.

Feet on fire, pheromones in the air, ex in the city. Best night ever.

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