Chapter 175: Chapter 175: The gala (2) (Win-Win)

Dax almost growled.

He didn’t. He had enough self-control to keep it lodged in his throat, somewhere just behind his pride and barely ahead of his rationality. But it was close.

Too close.

Because Chris smelled like heat and defiance and something far more dangerous than perfume. And he looked like a threat wrapped in silk and smug satisfaction.

The whisper left a phantom sensation against Dax’s skin, soft and unrepentant.

’Happy birthday, Your Majesty.’

The orchestra struck up the next refrain, as if the kingdom hadn’t just come within a hair’s breadth of being burned to the ground by one omega with excellent bone structure and no shame.

Dax exhaled through his nose, barely.

“You planned this,” he muttered, too quiet for the crowd but not for Chris, who smiled like he knew.

“I planned to arrive,” Chris said, lips barely moving, “in a timely fashion. It’s not my fault your staff treats fabric like religion.”

Dax didn’t look at the court, ambassadors, or at the camera feeds he knew were recording this from every holy angle.

He looked only at Chris.

And then, still with a hand gripped tight at his side, he asked in a voice that should’ve been outlawed:

“Was the neckline really necessary?”

Chris’s eyes gleamed.

“Oh,” he said softly, “absolutely.”

Dax’s nostrils flared. He didn’t say anything for a full beat. Not because he didn’t have words, he had so many, but because none of them were appropriate for the royal dais. Or for a gala broadcast across the continent.

His gaze dipped.

Just briefly.

And Chris smirked.

It was small. Barely there. But devastating.

“You do remember this is public,” Dax said, his voice clipped, trying for kingly and landing somewhere in the realm of possessive threat wearing a crown.

Chris’s shoulder lifted half an inch in the most blasé shrug ever committed on palace marble. “I’m dressed by protocol,” he said, lying. “Ask Sahir if you don’t believe me.”

Dax would ask Sahir.

Later.

Preferably while strangling him.

For now, he swallowed everything, his instincts, his pride, and the unbearable urge to bend Chris over the nearest polished surface, and turned back to the crowd.

He had to be king for another few hours.

Just a few.

Chris stood beside him like nothing was wrong, expression placid, one hand resting lightly against the bronze-embroidered trim of his robe, catching the light like some cruelly divined creature straight out of a courtship myth.

’Be king,’ Dax told himself, teeth clenched.

Do your job. Survive the next few speeches. And then…

Chris shifted just slightly, and the neckline dipped again.

Dax’s hand twitched.

He was going to burn the robe.

He was going to burn the robe, the shoes, the platform that dared to elevate Chris like that, and maybe the whole east wing just to be safe.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Chris murmured, still smiling at the crowd, voice silked with trouble.

“Stop wearing war crimes,” Dax shot back through gritted teeth.

Chris didn’t stop smiling.

Didn’t even blink.

“I’ll take it off,” he said lightly, “if you say please.”

Dax did not say please.

But the look he gave in return would’ve made lesser men flinch, and gods help the next noble who tried to start a conversation.

Because the King of Saha was on fire.

And the only thing keeping the flames from consuming the whole ballroom was the man standing beside him.

The man with the collarbone exposed like an invitation to war.

The man who planned this.

Dax adjusted the fall of his mantle with too much care and addressed the crowd with the confidence of someone who was going to absolutely lose his mind the moment this gala was over.

Only Chris would turn a court ceremony into emotional torture with a dress code.

And Dax, King of Saha, The Mad King, undefeated in war, was going to let him.

For now.

—

From across the ballroom, Cressida sipped her wine with an expression that bordered on delighted contempt.

“Did you know,” she said idly, turning her head toward Sahir without actually looking at him, “that velvet drapes better over rage than over fear?”

Sahir didn’t blink. “I had a theory.”

The two stood by the marble balustrade on the west side of the ballroom, perfectly positioned to observe everything and pretend it was a coincidence. For the first time in a very long time, their conversation didn’t carry barbs, just quiet, mutual respect wrapped in dry amusement.

“You let him out like that on purpose,” Cressida said, watching the way Dax’s posture had locked with militaristic control.

“Like you didn’t add the heels and pearls.” Sahir said, swirling his wine with soft movements.

“Well, we did a marvelous job, if I say so myself,” Serathine added as she joined them with the unhurried grace only matriarchs and executioners could pull off at court.

Her smile was unapologetically pleased, deep red lipstick untouched despite a full hour of social warfare.

Sahir didn’t argue.

Cressida gave her a side glance, brow arched like a finely honed blade. “You made him look like an imperial sin.”

Serathine hummed. “He is one.”

They all looked toward the dais.

Chris stood like royalty molded from dusk and quiet defiance, spine poised, eyes half-lidded, the very picture of elegant insubordination. Dax had not moved, but his energy rippled like a held storm.

The distance between them was less than a breath.

The space around them? Nuclear.

Cressida tilted her glass toward the royal couple. “He’s going to combust.”

“Not here,” Sahir murmured. “But yes.”

Serathine didn’t even pretend to disapprove. “As long as they wait until the corridor.”

Sahir raised one brow. “They won’t.”

Cressida finished her wine. “They never do.”

—

Rowan, stationed ten paces back from the main guard line, lifted one finger to the small comms pin at his collar. His voice was calm, but there was a smile hiding behind every word.

“Activate east wing clearance in around three hours.”

There was a pause, just long enough for someone on the other end to check the gala schedule.

Then Andrew’s voice crackled back through the line. “Three hours? That late?”

Rowan’s smile deepened. “He’s trying to behave.”

“Trying?” Andrew echoed, like that was the most optimistic lie he’d heard all week.

Rowan’s gaze flicked to the dais where Dax was standing too still, his hand just a fraction too tight at his side. Chris shifted beside him, expression calm, eyes weaponized.

“Give it three hours,” Rowan said again, quieter this time. “He will end the gala in time.”

“Huh.”

There was the sound of someone exhaling, probably Andrew leaning back in his post with all the resignation of a man who’d seen this kingdom through dozens of failed assassination attempts and still found this the most dangerous situation yet.

Rowan adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, eyes tracking the slow tilt of Dax’s head toward Chris like gravity was no longer optional.

“Confirm route secured?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Andrew replied without hesitation. “North corridor, east elevator, private access. No civilians, no press. Medical staff on standby in case the King forgets his limbs are not in fact detachable.”

Rowan let out a low breath, something close to a laugh. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“You’re asking me to evacuate two wings and reroute the orchestra,” Andrew said dryly. “Dramatic already left the building in heels and bronze embroidery.”

Across the ballroom, Chris shifted again, just enough for the neckline to slide half an inch lower.

Dax twitched like someone had dropped a war declaration.

Rowan touched the comms again. “Make it two and a half hours.”

A beat of silence.

“…Noted.”

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