Chapter 58: Chapter 58: Run feeling

Chris sat propped in the chair where the physicians had left him, IV out now, a bandage taped neatly to the crook of his arm. The rush of adrenaline had long since burned off, leaving only a low ache in his muscles and a faint tremor in his hands. Killian stood a pace behind, still and watchful, the violet shawl draped over one hand catching the sterile light. He hadn’t said much beyond a few dry observations, but his presence felt like a wall between Chris and everything else in the room.

The door whispered open and every white coat in the medical wing straightened. Dax stepped in without breaking stride. The dark-spiced scent of him hit before his shadow did, the hum of command following him like a second skin. His violet gaze flicked once to Killian, who inclined his head, then fixed on Chris.

“You’re done here,” Dax said quietly, already moving toward him. “Come.”

Chris pushed himself up, a little too quickly. “I can walk.”

A single brow rose. “If you insist.” But his hand stayed close enough to catch an elbow if needed. Killian shifted minutely to one side, giving them space as Chris took a few testing steps. The physicians melted back, eyes down.

They left the medical wing together, Killian falling in behind them. The modern corridors of Altera Palace blurred past, glass walls, pale stone, polished chrome, until Dax led them through a carved doorway where the air changed. Light softened, scents deepened; the palace’s sleek lines gave way to older stone and wood, archways cut with lacework patterns, and floors covered in heavy mosaic rugs. Brass lamps glowed in niches along the walls, throwing warm light over deep blue and gold.

For a moment, the suite was too much.

Too much decoration and too heavy with the scent of sandalwood and the faint scent of Dax.

Chris’s breath hitched as the corridor opened into Dax’s wing. Everything here was heavier: carved arches, dark wood, glinting brass, the air thick with sandalwood and the faint, unmistakable spice of the alpha behind him. It wasn’t just the décor. It was the realization, sudden and cold under his skin, that he was inside Dax’s space. Inside the part of the palace that wasn’t for ministers or guests or cameras. Inside the place where he would be kept.

His chest pulled tight. The faint tremor left from the adrenaline spiked into a full, thin wire of panic. ’I need air. I need to get out of here. NOW.’ Before he’d thought it through, he was moving, bare feet soundless on the rug, eyes locked on the gilded doors they had just passed. His fingers were already lifting toward the handle.

The arm around his middle came out of nowhere. A palm settled flat across his stomach, warm and steady as a locked gate. Dark spice and sandalwood curled up around his senses, stronger now, filling every inch of him.

“Chris,” Dax said quietly. “Stop.”

Chris froze, pulse hammering. He could feel the steady rise and fall of the king’s chest at his back, the inevitability of that hold. For a heartbeat he thought he might choke on it.

“I’m not locking you in,” Dax murmured, his breath warm at Chris’s ear. “Easy…” Something subtle and warm slid into the air, like a low tide pulling at his nerves. Chris’s shoulders loosened before he realized it was happening.

“I don’t…” he started, but his voice came out hoarse and thin.

“I know,” Dax said, a little softer now. “You’re running on bad coffee and adrenaline. Come on, you need air and fresh food.”

Chris hesitated, fingers still hovering near the handle. The carved doors blurred; the scent of sandalwood and spice pressed closer, steadier now, like a hand smoothing down his spine. He blinked hard, forcing air into his lungs, and let the handle go.

“Good,” Dax murmured. His hand slid from Chris’s waist to the small of his back, guiding him gently away from the door. “This way.”

They stepped through the last archway and light spilled around them. The balcony opened out over the city, morning sun glancing off domes and minarets. A low table had been set near the balustrade, silver lids hiding steaming dishes, chilled water gleaming in cut crystal, and fruit cut into delicate slices. The breeze coming off the gardens smelled of green things and salt.

Chris stopped at the threshold, still wary, but the open air broke some of the pressure in his chest. “This is…” he muttered, unable to finish.

Dax’s thumb brushed a slow arc at his back. “Just a balcony,” he said quietly. “And dinner.”

’I need to calm down. This isn’t me.’

Chris dragged his fingers through his hair, trying to anchor himself. “Fuck…” He inhaled, trying to find his footing, his dry irony. “I’m sorry for this…” He sat down, the cool stone under his palms grounding him. “How did your urgent work go?”

Dax settled opposite him without the usual ceremony, rolling his cuffs once as though shaking off the day. “Contained,” he said simply. “But I’d rather speak about something else with you.”

“I would rather forget that I was almost dying a few hours ago.” Chris shot dryly.

“Fair point.” Dax lifted the lid off one of the dishes and slid it a little closer. Steam rose, rich with butter and herbs. “Then humor me. Eat a little, answer a few questions. Nothing heavy.”

Chris eyed him warily but picked up a fork. “Like what?”

“Like what you can’t stand on a plate,” Dax said lightly, pouring water into both their glasses. “Everybody talks about what they love. I want to know what you hate.”

Chris chewed on a bite of bread, then tilted his head. “There’s not much. I’ll eat almost anything if I’m hungry. But…” he hesitated, a faint grimace twisting his mouth. “Lamb. Can’t stand the smell.”

Dax’s brows lifted. “Lamb?”

Chris nodded, taking a sip of water. “I’ve tried it more than once. Different places, different recipes. For me it always tastes and smells like… rotting meat.”

Violet eyes glinted. “Then you’ve only ever had it ruined before it reached your plate.”

Chris gave him a flat look. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

“I’m sure of sahan lamb,” Dax said, leaning back a little. “Our shepherds treat it like gold. If it smells like rot, someone cooked it like an amateur.”

Chris snorted, but there was the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. “You’re going to try to convert me, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to feed you properly and see what happens,” Dax corrected, a hint of a smile flickering. Then, still smiling, he turned his head slightly toward the inner doors and spoke in sahan, low and clear. The guards outside straightened at once.

Chris blinked. “You didn’t…”

Dax’s mouth curved into a full, shameless grin. “I just ordered lamb for dinner tomorrow. Prepared the way it should be.”

Chris dropped his head into his hands with a groan. “I should have known.”

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