Chapter 40: Chapter 40: Lunch

Chris ended the call and let the phone slide from his palm to the table, the screen going dark. For a moment he just sat there, thumb brushing absently along the edge of the case. The latte beside him had long since gotten cold. The breakfast tray, croissant, fruit, and a little dish of honey sat untouched. His stomach was a knot; he couldn’t force himself to eat. Not after his talk with Andrew and Mia, not after feeling guilty about hiding what he was from his own small family.

He leaned back in the chair, phone still in his hand, staring at nothing. ’Survivor, not martyr,’ he’d said. The words echoed in his head, but his fingers felt cold.

A soft click broke the silence.

Dax stepped into the room, his tread so quiet it was almost a whisper; he wore soft, dark house slippers, a concession to the villa’s polished floors. He had changed out of his travelling clothes into a black shirt cut in the Sahan style, with a high stand-up collar and straight lines over the shoulders, the fabric matte and heavy enough to hold its shape. The collar and cuffs were picked out with fine gold embroidery, a subtle lattice of geometric knots and curling leaves that caught the light when he moved. Simple black trousers, perfectly tailored, were held by a leather belt with a silver buckle, understated but unmistakably made for a king.

His violet eyes flicked first to the tray. Untouched. Then to Chris.

“You didn’t eat,” he said, leaning onto the door frame, arms crossed with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

Chris straightened a little, his hand tightening around the phone. “I’m not hungry,” he said, the words dry.

Dax pushed himself off the doorframe and crossed the room, the soft slippers making no sound on the polished floor. Up close the gold threads at his cuffs caught and released the light like tiny sparks. He stopped beside the table, his gaze moving from the coffee to Chris’s bandaged feet, then back to his face.

“You should try,” he said quietly, not quite an order. “Coffee on an empty stomach is not the best decision.”

Chris’s thumb worried at the edge of his phone case. “I’m fine,” he said, though the words came out flatter than he meant. “I’ve worked through worse on less.”

Dax hummed low in his throat and set a broad, warm hand against the small of Chris’s back. He half-expected the younger man to flinch or snap, and he would have let him. But Chris didn’t. He stayed still under the touch, tension humming but not hostile. That alone told Dax enough: he wasn’t angry, just wound tight.

“Come,” Dax said, voice quiet. “Let’s have a meal on the terrace. I brought your laptop and tablet up. I’ll be in meetings until dinner; you can work if you want.”

Chris’s head tipped a little, eyes flicking up. “You did?”

A faint smile touched Dax’s mouth. “I did. And your sister Mia will be joining us for dinner.” He pressed lightly at Chris’s back, not pushing so much as steering. “So let’s eat before I get accused of starving you.”

That drew the barest ghost of a laugh from Chris. The phone sagged in his hand.

Dax used the opening to coax him further. “The view’s better outside,” he added, still in that low, even tone.

As they moved toward the door, he let a whisper of his scent unfurl, a thin ribbon of alpha pheromones, clean and steady, the equivalent of a deep breath. It rolled into the space between them like cool water. Chris’s shoulders eased almost imperceptibly, his grip on the phone loosening.

By the time they stepped onto the terrace, the light had softened; the table was set, steam was curling from fresh coffee, and a second tray was waiting with fruit and bread. Dax guided Chris to a chair, his hand still a quiet weight between his shoulder blades.

“Sit,” he said, not as a command but as an invitation. “Eat a little. Let the world wait for a few minutes.”

Chris glanced at the food, then at Dax, sensing but not naming the calm settling over him. “You are oddly charming for a kidnapper.”

A faint sound that might have been a laugh slipped out of Dax. “I’m not a kidnapper,” he said, taking the chair opposite. “I’m just terrible at first impressions.”

He reached for the coffee pot and poured a fresh cup, the dark liquid steaming in the cool air. “Try this one,” he said, sliding it toward Chris. “Hot.”

Chris hesitated, then wrapped his hands around the cup. The warmth bled slowly into his fingers. The table between them looked nothing like the ones he’d served at weddings or banquets: no towers of sugar, no silver domes, just a wooden board with sliced bread, a dish of butter and honey, a plate of berries, a bowl of soft cheese, and two cups of coffee. Simple, almost domestic.

He tore off a corner of bread more out of politeness than hunger, but the smell, still warm, faintly yeasty, made his stomach give a small, traitorous lurch. He took a bite. Not bad. Better than he’d expected.

Across from him, Dax buttered a piece of bread without looking down, his eyes instead on the horizon where the sea broke in pale spray. “This is more or less what I eat when I’m home,” he said. “The rest of the performance belongs to the palace.”

Chris chewed, swallowed, and muttered, “I thought kings lived on pretentious canapés.”

“That’s for the guests.” Dax lifted his cup. “I prefer taste over impressions.” He took a sip, then added with a faint curl of his mouth, “Most palace chefs would faint if they had to feed me anyway.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know, Your Majesty,” he said with an amused tone.

Dax’s laugh rolled out a few seconds later, low and warm. “I’m talking about the quantity. I can’t be fed with bird food.”

Chris snorted softly into his coffee. “You look like you could clear a buffet.”

“I have,” Dax said mildly, drizzling honey onto his bread. “That’s why the kitchen keeps three shifts.”

By then the staff had moved like ghosts, whisking away plates and setting the next course down without a sound. A thick, perfectly cooked steak arrived with grilled vegetables and a dark gravy that sent up a savory steam. It was simple, hearty food, and the first bite loosened something in Chris’s shoulders; he felt himself sink back a little, almost in spite of himself.

Dax picked up his freshly poured red wine, rolling it once in the glass before taking a sip. “We’re departing for Saha in two days,” he said, tone even, as if he’d just mentioned the weather.

Chris choked on his water, set the glass down with a clatter and stared at him. “I beg your FINEST pardon?!”

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