Chapter 292: Chapter 292: Battalion

Permission to speak with the King of Saha did not come with drama in this country. It arrived with a ton of paperwork. Signed. Stamped. Scheduled. Accompanied by an escort that radiated control like oxygen.

Marianne Lancaster followed Killian Frost through the halls with the distinct feeling she was walking through a machine that would never break down unless Dax personally wanted it to.

“Thank you for arranging this so quickly,” she said.

She didn’t bother pretending privacy existed. They were being watched. By Saha, certainly. By Rohan, inevitably. By Maleks, unfortunately. Dax had let certain channels remain “unplugged” on purpose, a silent invitation for spies to keep thinking they were clever while he decided when and how to close the door on their fingers.

“His Majesty prefers clarity,” Killian replied, tone polite, footsteps never breaking cadence with hers. “And he prefers to receive information directly from the source.”

Of course he did.

They stopped before the office doors. Killian waited for the exact minute written on the schedule before knocking. The doors opened on time, the guards at the door keeping their neutral expression.

“Commander Lancaster.”

She stepped inside.

Light spilled across the office in wide, dignified strokes. The windows framed the city like an extension of Dax’s control. Papers sat in neat order. Weapons were not visible, but nobody doubted they existed.

Dax was at his desk.

Christopher was in the room.

Again.

He sat on the sofa, posture relaxed but alert, reading through something that was undoubtedly not trivial. He looked up as she entered, gaze steady, polite, and almost warm.

Marianne bowed.

“Your Majesty.”

Her bow shifted, precise, respectful, and pointedly acknowledging rank and influence both.

“Consort Christopher.”

“Commander,” Chris greeted, gentle and composed. “Welcome.”

“Thank you.” Marianne allowed herself the smallest breath. “Your kingdom remains offensively efficient. It’s unsettling.”

Dax’s mouth curved.

“You’re welcome to file a complaint,” he said mildly.

“I intend to,” she replied smoothly. “In writing. Triplicate. Stamped. I’ve learned the culture.”

“Ah, Killian has tortured you. Good, it builds character,” Dax said, leaning back in his chair like a man thoroughly pleased by other people suffering in the name of order.

“Well, first practice should be the Maleks,” Marianne added, settling gracefully into one of the chairs as if she hadn’t spent days babysitting political chaos. “Adonis contacted me yesterday. And my sources say he already reached Heather through Varlen. They convinced her to ask for a route change in the palace tour your staff so kindly arranged.”

Chris, who had been listening quietly, placed his documents neatly on the coffee table and gave her his full attention.

“And what do they want?” he asked.

“To get you alone with Heather,” Marianne said, not even bothering to sweeten it, “and preferably separated from your security.”

Chris exhaled quietly, his eyes cooling with something thoughtful and deeply unimpressed.

Dax didn’t move.

His fingers stilled on the pen. His posture remained relaxed, but something subtle shifted in the room, as if the walls themselves straightened in response.

“Alone,” he repeated softly.

Marianne nodded once. “Completely alone. What would they do? I don’t know.” She paused. Her jaw tightened faintly, revealing more than her voice did. “But based on Heather’s rambling while that call was going on, I assume the worst.”

She met Dax’s eyes directly.

“The Maleks want to kidnap Christopher.”

Silence.

Chris laughed first, like the people who were created when the universe stopped pretending to be ashamed and simply accepted madness.

“So they’re even crazier than I thought,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Good to know we’re dealing with people who abandoned reason entirely. That helps.”

He meant it jokingly.

Dax did not laugh.

The room’s temperature did not drop, but the intensity of his pheromones made the air thicker around them.

Marianne tried not to flinch under the sheer pressure of them, or worse, react with her own scent.

“Adonis Malek,” Dax said slowly, almost gently, “thought he could take my mate from me.”

He set the pen down with more care than necessary. His long fingers tapped twice on the expensive masterpiece before leaving it on its stand.

“In my country.”

His eyes darkened, purple burning with the territorial rage he was known for before Christopher entered his life.

“In my palace.”

A humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth. “And they call me the mad king.”

Chris’s amusement faded a little at that tone.

“Dax…”

“No, my moon,” Dax said quietly.

There was nothing theatrical about it.

“I can deal with stupid nobles and opportunists, but this is idiotic even for the Maleks.”

Both Chris and Marianne inhaled as if preparing to interrupt, and Dax lifted a hand without looking at either of them.

“I know,” he said. “It’s only a possibility. And if I were acting alone, you wouldn’t be anywhere near anything that might give them hope this plan could exist in the first place.”

Chris sighed with the long-suffering patience of someone who had fallen in love with a man who could and would rearrange nations for him.

“Dax, we agreed to go along with the plan,” he reminded gently. “I am not in danger in the palace. Not with you. Not with ten alphas undercover at any given moment and the rest of the staff on alert.”

Marianne blinked.

Then she blinked again. Slowly.

She turned her head, gaze shifting between the two of them like someone doing increasingly alarming math.

“Ten undercover alphas,” she repeated.

There was a small, thoughtful silence while she visibly counted, recalculated, and then reconsidered her understanding of sanity.

Her brows lifted. “Wait.”

She looked directly at Dax. “You have over twenty alphas watching him at any given time?”

Chris opened his mouth and then closed it again, because arguing technicalities would not help.

Dax, to his credit, didn’t look remotely apologetic.

“Twenty to twenty-eight,” he corrected calmly.

Marianne stared.

She pointed at Chris in disbelief.

“When,” she demanded, “do you let him breathe?”

Chris dragged a hand down his face.

“Apparently never,” he muttered.

Dax tilted his head, his expression maddeningly rational.

“He forgets to.”

“I do not forget to breathe,” Chris insisted, insulted on principle.

Marianne leaned back in her chair, one hand coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose like a woman calculating global stability and finding personal sanity to be the weaker resource.

“You are impossible,” she told Dax flatly. “That is the equivalent of a battalion in lesser kingdoms.”

Dax didn’t even blink.

“Yes.”

There wasn’t shame in it. Just serene acknowledgement, as though she had remarked on the weather or confirmed the presence of a functioning air force.

Chris stared at him.

“Did you just ’yes’ a military-scale security obsession?”

Dax turned his head, unreasonably calm.

“My country has resources. I use them responsibly.”

Marianne let out a quiet, incredulous laugh that sounded like it was desperately trying not to become a scream.

“Responsible?” she repeated. “Dax, those aren’t precautions. Those are occupation forces.”

He considered that.

Then nodded. “Of Christopher.”

Chris made a strangled sound. “I am not a nation!”

“You are my vulnerability,” Dax replied simply. “I treat strategic vulnerabilities with… intensity.”

Marianne pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to applaud and strangle him simultaneously.

“I am beginning to understand why foreign councils drink when your name is mentioned,” she muttered. “This is not how sane monarchies operate.”

Dax tipped his head slightly.

“And yet,” he returned mildly, “my kingdom is stable. My enemies are cautious. My consort is safe. Remind me again which part is failing?”

Marianne opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again. “…unfortunately,” she admitted, “none of those points are incorrect.”

Chris sighed deeply, giving up on dignity in favor of realism.

“Fine,” he said. “You are all insane. And I am apparently heavily militarized property.”

Dax’s voice softened, that dangerous edge melting into something terribly warm.

“You are loved,” he corrected.

Chris went quiet.

Marianne looked away briefly, respectful enough to pretend she hadn’t witnessed the moment.

Then she cleared her throat.

“Well. Since you have a personal battalion breathing alongside him anyway,” she said dryly, pushing the conversation forward, “we will use it. Let the Maleks believe they are clever. Let Heather think she is dramatic and brave. And when they reach for him…”

Her gaze sharpened.

“…you close your hand.”

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