Chapter 22: Chapter 22: You

Christopher moved through the glittering crowd, tray balanced easily against his palm, the soft glow of phone screens and the whir of discreet cameras mixing with candlelight and crystal.

He’d done this before: private galas, high-profile fundraisers, and embassy dinners that stretched into dawn. Keep the glasses full, keep the smile faint, and no one looked twice. Invisibility paid better than presence, and tonight, he needed it to.

’Act normal. Just act normal.’

His dark eyes flicked, just once, toward the raised platform at the end of the hall, where a man lounged with unshakable ease in a tailored midnight suit. Dax, King of Saha, taller than god, crueler than prophecy, and, apparently, very, very interested in him.

Christopher’s jaw tightened, but he poured another flute of champagne like nothing in the world was wrong.

For now Dax wasn’t looking for or hunting him. Just smiling faintly at foreign dignitaries as if he hadn’t flayed Christopher alive with a single sentence earlier.

’Good. That’s what I want.’

’He’ll see the file,’ Christopher told himself, clinging to the thought like an anchor. Some aide will pull the registry; it’ll say what it always has: ’Christopher Malek, beta. No red flags. No affiliations. Just another face with no teeth.’

And gods, there were enough scents in here to drown anyone’s senses: alphas, omegas, perfume layered over cologne, wine chilled sharp enough to sting the air, and smoke curling in from the terrace heaters. If he was lucky, the King would forget him by the time dessert ended.

He caught his reflection in the glossy black of a tall window: a plain black server’s jacket, slim tie, and hair cropped short. Nothing worth remembering. Nothing worth chasing. He looked exactly like what he wanted to be… replaceable.

’He’s a king. He has bigger things to worry about. Trevor. Lucas. Cameras. The press. He won’t waste time on me.’

Christopher slipped deeper into the crowd, just another shadow among the bright lights, convincing himself with every step that violet eyes had already turned elsewhere.

The music bled into a low, distant hum. Staff moved like ghosts through the dimmed hall, folding linens, stacking glasses, and erasing the memory of royalty as though it had never been here.

By the time the cake was boxed and the last toast fizzled out, the hall no longer looked like a wedding but a set being struck after a play. Candles winked out one by one, petals were swept from the marble, and silver was collected in silent handfuls. The cream-and-gold grandeur that had framed Trevor and Lucas like a coronation blurred into stacks of crates and plastic bins.

Christopher kept moving, hands steady even as his feet throbbed inside the shoes. He guided trays back to the service corridor, lifted chair covers, and rolled up linen. He’d done this a hundred times; glamour always dissolved the same way, into garbage bags and whispered directions. By the time dawn came, no one would remember the faces behind the service doors.

He slipped into the staff vestibule with the others, the air thick with starch and sweat instead of perfume. His jacket went across the counter without a word, his badge slid onto a tray, and the clerk stamped his slip “cleared.” Nobody asked his name. Nobody told him to wait.

In the cramped changing room he tugged on his own clothes, changing his shoes but the damage was already done. The relief of flat soles under his aching feet almost made him light-headed. He slung his bag over his shoulder, shoulders hunching as if to make himself smaller.

No one stopped him. No one asked him to return to meet Dax. No summons. No orders. Just the murmur of organizers and cleaning crews erasing the night.

Christopher stepped out into the garden, cool air hitting his overheated skin like water. The manor behind him still blazed with light, chandeliers flickering through the tall windows like captive stars. Out here it smelled of damp earth and clipped hedges again, the hiss of sprinklers covering the last scraps of music.

He started down the gravel path toward the staff gate, sneakers whispering against the stones. The cool night burned in his lungs, but his chest felt lighter with every step, even as, somewhere behind those windows, violet eyes tracked him and men in plain black kept his shadow pinned to the map of Trevor Fitzgeralt’s estate.

The bus idled at the rear gate, headlights cutting a muted glow through the trees. He boarded, found a middle seat, and leaned his forehead against the glass. The estate blurred into neon and asphalt, the city swallowing it whole.

’He didn’t call me back. He didn’t care. Good.’

For the first time in hours, his shoulders loosened.

When the driver called his stop, Christopher stepped down into the soft neon haze of a quiet boulevard. The air smelled of rain-soaked asphalt, streetlights humming against the dark. He shoved his hands in his pockets, rolling his shoulders against the ache of too many hours on his feet.

And froze.

The car stood out immediately, sleek and black with chrome that caught every passing light. Not just because of what it was, but because of who leaned against it.

Dax.

Gone was the ceremonial suit and the polished crown of the gala. A fitted dark shirt with sleeves pushed to his forearms, tailored trousers, and posture easy and lethal as he lounged against the hood like he owned the street. Which, in a way, he probably did.

The violet eyes caught him first, gleaming under the streetlamp. Then the faintest smirk curved his mouth.

Christopher’s pulse spiked, his body already coiled before his mind caught up. ’You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’

Dax pushed off the car slowly, every movement carved with the patience of a predator that never needed to run. “You took your time,” he said softly, his voice sliding through the hum of the boulevard.

Christopher didn’t step back. Couldn’t. The bus was gone, the street empty. No crowd to melt into, no noise to drown in. Just him and the man he never should’ve caught the attention of.

“Your Majesty,” he said evenly, the sarcasm threading through in spite of himself. “Shouldn’t you be at the celebration? I hear they’re serving unpoisoned wine.”

Dax’s smile deepened, lazy and sharp at once. “The celebration goes on just fine without me.” Hands in his pockets, he closed the distance with the same unshakable ease as before, gaze sweeping over Christopher like he had all the time in the world.

“No more crowds,” Dax murmured, tilting his head. “No more noise.” A beat, quiet and heavy. “Just you and me now, Malek.”

Christopher’s nails dug into his palms inside his pockets. His heartbeat filled the silence, loud enough to drown the city itself. Run? No. That would only prove him right. And the guards lurking in the shadows would cut that attempt short before he took two steps.

So he straightened, jaw tight, sarcasm his only armor. “What do you want, Your Majesty? An autograph? A refill?”

The king’s smile edged sharper, soft enough to be dangerous, warm enough to chill the blood in Christopher’s veins.

“You,” Dax said simply.

And the night folded in around the word like a trap.

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