Chapter 327: Chapter 327: How far?

Chris was in an absurdly soft bathrobe that swallowed him whole and smelled faintly of bergamot and spice, favored by Dax because it made the suite feel like theirs rather than borrowed territory. His hair was still damp, curls clinging to his temples, and he was leaning against the arm of a chair with the casual sprawl of someone who knew an entire security detail stood between him and the rest of the city.

Rowan stood a few steps away, arms crossed, watching him with open, poorly concealed amusement.

A year ago, the consort had been polite. Reserved. Carefully measured in every word and movement, as if afraid to take up too much space beside a king.

Now he was lounging in a bathrobe, sending unhinged messages over a secure channel while organized crime was being dismantled in real time.

Rowan cleared his throat. “You know,” he said mildly, “if someone had told me a year ago that you’d be using that encrypted military line to torment His Majesty while wrapped in hotel linen, I would have assumed they were unwell.”

Chris didn’t even look at him. “Shut up.”

Rowan’s mouth twitched. “With respect, no.”

Chris finally glanced over, eyes bright with mischief. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“I’m enjoying your character development,” Rowan corrected. “It’s been… dramatic.”

Chris huffed and shifted, his robe falling a little looser around his shoulders. “I have always had character. I just used to waste it on etiquette lessons with Cressida.”

There was a brief pause, then he tilted his head, considering something.

“Rowan.”

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“Hypothetical question.”

Rowan braced himself. “I already regret this.”

“Is there,” Chris asked calmly, “a catalogue? For… adult goods. That the palace uses.”

Silence.

Then Rowan blinked. Once. Twice.

“…There is,” he admitted.

Chris’s brows lifted with interest, and a wide grin illuminated his face. “Of course there is.”

“Procurement, medical wing, stress management, diplomatic gifts – don’t ask,” Rowan said dryly. “Why?”

Chris’s grin widened alarmingly. “Because I am bored, my husband is being terrifying several kilometers away, and I am exploring productive ways to pass the time.”

Rowan stared at him for a long second, then let out a resigned breath. “I miss the polite, reserved version of you.”

Chris smiled sweetly. “He married a king. This is the upgraded edition.”

Rowan stared at him for a heartbeat longer, then sighed in the way of a man who had long since accepted that his life involved enabling chaos at the highest level of state security.

“Stay here,” he said, already turning toward the adjoining office. “And don’t touch anything classified while I’m gone.”

Chris lifted a hand in a lazy salute. “I make no promises.”

Rowan returned a minute later with a thin, matte-black tablet, its surface marked only with a discreet silver seal. He handed it over with the air of someone passing a loaded weapon.

“Palace procurement. Restricted access. Filtered by category,” he said. “And before you ask, yes, there is a section you will find… educational.”

Chris accepted it with reverence entirely out of proportion to the object. “You are a national treasure, Rowan.”

“I am regretting every career choice that led me here.”

Chris’s eyes were already skimming the screen. His brows lifted. Then his smile turned slow and dangerous.

“Oh, this is a catalogue catalogue,” he murmured. “They have covers. Branding. Aesthetic choices.”

Rowan leaned back against the wall, arms crossing again, watching with thinly veiled amusement. “Please remember that everything in that system is logged.”

Chris tilted the tablet so the cover filled the screen: minimalist, elegant, and discreetly suggestive without being explicit. He raised his own device, snapped a photo of it, and then, with deliberate mischief, opened the secure channel.

The message went out accompanied by the image.

Chris: ’Since you’re busy being terrifying, I thought I’d do some… research. Tell me, Your Majesty, do you have a preference for suppliers?’

He sent it, then leaned back into the chair, bathrobe pooling around him, curls still damp, eyes bright with the wicked satisfaction of a man who knew exactly what kind of distraction he was providing.

Rowan closed his eyes. “A year ago, you would have blushed at the word ’catalogue’ in this context.”

“A year ago,” Chris replied pleasantly, “I had just been kidnapped by a king and was coming off ten years of suppressants. This,” he gestured at himself in the oversized bathrobe and the tablet balanced on his knee, “is the unfiltered version. I’ve always been like this. I just used to be… chemically polite.”

He scrolled, brows lifting in open amusement as the first pages passed. The corners of his mouth curved, slow and wicked, a smile that made it very clear he was enjoying himself far too much.

“And don’t tell me you’re some delicate, virtuous little thing who’s never opened this section,” he added, glancing up. “You don’t survive royal security without curiosity.”

Rowan sighed, but the sound was more resigned than scandalized and undeniably amused. “I do.”

Chris’s eyes lit up. “See? Kindred spirits.”

He tilted the tablet slightly, considering another page, then hummed in satisfaction. “Good. Then you won’t judge me for… research.”

—

The image came through while Dax was still on the docks, the operation shifting from arrest to consolidation, Verdan’s people being moved to secure transport, evidence catalogued, and the perimeter tightening like a net drawn closed.

His comm vibrated once.

Then again. He glanced down. A picture.

The cover of a sleek, discreet catalogue, all minimalist lines and subtle implication, the kind of thing that pretended to be tasteful while promising absolutely none of that in practice.

For a second, he simply stared.

Then the accompanying message loaded.

Chris: ’Since you’re busy being terrifying, I thought I’d do some… research. Tell me, Your Majesty, do you have a preference for suppliers?’

The corner of Dax’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous.

Around him, the docks smelled of salt, oil, and cold water. Men moved in disciplined patterns, voices low, the machinery of power grinding forward exactly as he had intended. Belvare was beginning to understand what it meant to be under royal attention.

And in the middle of it, his consort was in a bathrobe, flipping through an adult catalogue and deliberately sending him photographic evidence.

Dax let out a low sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a growl.

“You are impossible,” he murmured, more fond than the words suggested.

He typed back with one hand, eyes still tracking the movement of his security teams.

Dax: ’Page 34, section 3, item number: 34456’

—

The message hung on Chris’s screen for a full second before his brain caught up.

He blinked.

Then he laughed. A full, delighted sound that made Rowan glance over with wary interest.

“Oh,” Chris breathed, eyes lighting up as he leaned forward, fingers already moving to cross-reference the code. “Oh, you do have a preference.”

Rowan arched a brow. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“You should be,” Chris said cheerfully, scrolling. “Because this is either going to confirm that my husband is far more prepared than he lets on, or that palace procurement has been enabling him for years.”

The item loaded. Discreet description. Impeccable branding. The language promised luxury, control, and far too much confidence for an object that claimed to be merely “ribbed for your pleasure.”

Chris’s grin turned incandescent.

He lifted his own device again and snapped a second picture, this time of the product page itself, the elegant lines, and the carefully vague promises.

Then he sent it.

Chris: ’You didn’t even hesitate. I see. So this is what “royal taste” looks like.’

A beat.

Chris: ’Noted, Your Majesty. Very… noted.’

Rowan watched him, arms crossed, amusement deepening. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely,” Chris replied, settling back into the chair, bathrobe pooling around him, curls still damp, eyes bright with wicked satisfaction. “He thinks he’s testing how far I’ll go.”

He glanced at the screen again, at the quiet confidence of Dax’s reply, at the way his husband had stepped into the game without missing a beat.

“He’s about to learn,” Chris added softly, “that I don’t back down first.”

He ordered it.

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