Chapter 379: Chapter 379: Sleepy

Chris did, in fact, start taking advantage of his pregnancy.

Not in a way the court could smell yet, but privately, yes. He delegated with the ruthless relief of a man who had finally been handed an excuse sharp enough to cut through his own habits.

Dax absorbed an unreasonable amount of it without complaint, which was alarming on its own. Killian took over entire chains of approvals with a serenity that suggested he’d been waiting his whole life for Chris to stop fighting rest like it was a moral failing. Sahir pretended he wasn’t pleased, which meant he was deeply pleased, and began moving meetings around with the grim efficiency of someone preparing a city for siege.

The plan – agreed upon in that quiet, careful way important decisions were made between mates – was to wait until it was stable. To keep the circle small. To let only the people who would rather die than let anything happen to Chris know first: Rowan, Andrew the Chief of Security, Killian, and Sahir.

Everyone else could find out when Chris was ready to let the world touch the news without taking pieces of it.

Chris didn’t have dramatic symptoms. No public fainting. No tragic nausea. No theatrical weakness that would make him hate himself.

Mostly, he was just… sleepy.

Sleepy in a way that felt indecent. Like his body had suddenly decided consciousness was optional and work was a rude suggestion. He would sit down for ’five minutes,’ blink once, and wake up an hour later with Dax watching him like he’d been holding the entire room together by force of will.

Right now, he was sprawled on the couch in their private sitting room, freshly fed, robe loose, hair a little messy from running his hands through it while insisting that he could absolutely finish ’one more’ report.

He hadn’t finished anything. He’d fallen asleep mid-sentence.

Dax sat behind him, one leg stretched out, the other bent, posture relaxed in the way kings never were unless they trusted the space completely. His long fingers = adorned with rings that could have been weapons and probably were – threaded through Chris’s black hair in slow, steady strokes.

He huffed softly, disbelieving.

As if he was still adjusting to the fact that Chris, who could out-stare a parliament into silence, could be defeated by a meal and a warm room.

At their feet, Tania had made herself into a small, furry decree.

Curled on the thick carpet, tail tucked close, eyes half-lidded but alert enough to track every breath Chris took. She’d been following Chris everywhere for days now, appearing in doorways like a private guard, slipping into rooms with silent determination, as if she’d appointed herself the official warden of the baby and the palace had simply failed to update the paperwork.

Dax’s fingers slowed when Chris’s breathing deepened.

Then he leaned down slightly, careful not to shift Chris too much, and pressed his mouth to the top of Chris’s head.

Then, because he couldn’t help himself, his gaze flicked toward the door.

Rowan appeared a second later. The man had the timing of someone who lived with predators and had learned to knock with his whole soul.

He stopped just inside, took in the scene, and his expression did something complicated: relief first, then amusement, then the familiar resigned horror of a guard realizing his king had turned into a domestic animal.

Rowan lowered his voice. “He’s out?”

Dax didn’t look away from Chris. “Yes.”

Rowan’s gaze dropped to Tania.

Tania stared back without blinking.

Rowan hesitated, then took one cautious step to the side so he wouldn’t cross her line of sight, like that mattered.

Dax’s mouth twitched faintly.

Rowan noticed. “She’s… guarding.”

“She’s appointed herself,” Dax murmured.

Rowan exhaled quietly. “So this is our life now.”

Dax hummed, almost content. “Yes.”

Rowan’s eyes shifted to Chris again, his tone turning practical despite the softness in it. “Andrew’s in the outer office. He says there’s been movement.”

Dax’s hand came to a halt for a half-second, his focus sharpening as the world reorganized into threat and non-threat categories.

“Where?” Dax asked quietly.

Rowan shook his head once. “Nothing inside the palace. Outside. Two unfamiliar faces on the route Chris usually takes between the consort’s office and the west wing. They are only watching. Andrew’s team tailed them until they disappeared into the market district.”

Dax’s fingers resumed their slow combing motion through Chris’s hair, but his eyes had gone colder. “Bring Andrew in.”

Rowan nodded once, then paused, as if weighing whether to add something that might get him killed.

He chose life. Mostly.

“You’re going to have to be careful,” Rowan said, voice still low. “Not… about security. About you.”

Dax’s gaze slid to him.

Rowan held it firmly. “If people start noticing the King is personally escorting Chris to everything, clearing corridors, doubling guards… they’ll start asking why. And once they start asking why, they’ll start guessing.”

Dax’s jaw tightened slightly.

Rowan added, blunt and helpless, “You can’t intimidate suspicion away.”

Dax’s eyes narrowed.

Rowan sighed. “You can. But it won’t work long-term.”

Dax looked down at Chris again.

At the soft line of his mouth, at the way his lashes rested against his cheeks, at how sleep had stolen the sharpness from him and left only something unbearably precious.

Then Dax spoke, and the words were quiet and controlled.

“I will not gamble.”

Rowan’s expression softened, just a fraction. “I know.”

Dax’s thumb brushed Chris’s temple gently, like he was anchoring himself to the fact that Chris was here. “The court has seen me possessive before,” he murmured. “Nothing changes. Keep security alert and leave the rest in my hands.”

Rowan’s mouth twitched like he wanted to argue that everything had, in fact, changed.

He didn’t, because Chris shifted in his sleep, and Dax’s entire attention snapped back to him with that terrifying gentleness.

Then the door opened.

Sahir stepped in like he owned the schedule of the universe – mantle draped perfectly, expression already set into polite irritation, eyebrows lifted with the weary patience of a man who had just watched an entire council calendar shift for no stated reason.

He was mid-breath, clearly ready to demand where Chris was, ready to complain about absorbing half a consort’s workload while the man still had the audacity to be late…

And then he met the room.

Chris asleep on the couch, robe loosened, hair everywhere.

Dax seated behind him like a throne made of restraint.

Rowan standing to the side like a weapon that had learned how to speak politely.

And Tania at their feet, curled on the carpet like a small furry landmine, eyes half-open and judging.

Sahir’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Because three separate predators looked at him at once, daring him to make a sound and to wake the omega.

Killian followed him in and stopped just inside the door with the expression of a man watching someone walk into a trap he’d politely warned them about.

His gaze slid to Sahir.

’I told you not to enter,’ it said, without a single word.

Sahir froze, then slowly lowered his voice like the air itself might report him.

“What,” he whispered, offended even while whispering, “is happening?”

Dax didn’t look up. “Leave.”

Sahir’s eyes narrowed. “I have a briefing.”

Rowan’s tone was mild. “You had a briefing.”

Sahir’s gaze flicked to Rowan. “Don’t you start.”

Killian, infuriatingly serene, folded his hands behind his back. “Prime Minister,” he said softly, “you’re standing in a room where the consort is sleeping.”

Sahir hissed back, “I can see that.”

Killian’s mouth twitched. “So you understand the danger.”

Sahir stared at him like he wanted to throw him into the sea.

Then Sahir’s gaze slid back to Chris.

The irritation on his face faltered because Chris looked… tired in a way that wasn’t theatrical. Tired, like his body had finally demanded payment.

Sahir swallowed. “He’s never late.”

Dax’s hand continued moving through Chris’s hair, slow and steady. “He’s not late,” he said quietly. “He’s resting.”

“That’s the same thing,” Sahir whispered, scandalized.

Rowan’s mouth twitched. “Apparently not anymore.”

Sahir’s eyes narrowed again. He looked at Killian. “Why are you smiling?”

“I am not smiling,” Killian replied smoothly.

“You are,” Sahir said, furious in a whisper. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen on you.”

Killian’s smugness deepened by one microscopic degree. “I am pleased.”

Sahir’s voice went colder. “Tell me why.”

Killian’s gaze flicked to Dax. To Rowan. To Chris asleep.

Then, with the dramatic restraint of a man who enjoyed withholding information in controlled doses, he said, “His Majesty asked me to take over several items on the consort’s schedule.”

Sahir’s brow furrowed. “That doesn’t explain—”

Rowan cut in, tone even. “Prime Minister.”

Sahir’s gaze snapped to him.

Rowan held eye contact and said the words quietly, carefully, as if placing glass on stone.

“He’s pregnant.” Dax murmured.

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