Chapter 68: Chapter 68: Will of the King (1)

“So you’ll force your will onto me?” Chris asked. His dark eyes lit with irritation, the heat finally breaking through the smooth mask he’d been holding.

Dax’s gaze didn’t flicker. The faintest curve stayed at the corner of his mouth; it was the look of a man who had spent his life expecting defiance and taking it as a sign of life, not rebellion. “I will force safety,” he said quietly. “I will force time for you to breathe. You can fight me over everything else.”

He leaned forward a little, scent sliding between them, but his voice stayed soft. “I don’t need another shadow at my table, little moon. I brought you here. All claws and teeth. But if you hand me your throat by swallowing poison, there’s nothing left to fight over.”

“I don’t want to be here,” Chris said without thinking. The words slipped out raw, sharper than he meant them to. Great, he thought immediately, now we’re both mad.

For the first time Dax’s expression flickered, not anger, but something darker and older that moved under the surface of his composure. “And I didn’t want to hunt my mate down, Christopher,” he said, voice still low but edged. “We don’t get what we want. Even when I’m the king.”

The last sentence hung between them like a blade. The scent of dark spice thickened for a heartbeat before easing again, a controlled pullback rather than a loss of temper. Dax’s thumb stopped its circle on the table and simply rested there, motionless.

Chris stared at him, latte cooling in his hands, pulse hammering in his throat. He sounds tired. ’He’s not even sorry, just…tired.’ Aloud he said, quieter but still steady, “Then stop pretending I had a choice. Stop pretending this is anything but what it is.”

Dax’s violet gaze lifted to meet his, something unreadable burning in it. “I never said you had a choice,” he murmured. “I thought that was clear.”

“It… is.” Chris said. This time he looked out the window, the lattice of light blurring as he blinked hard, trying his best to not let tears win. ’Don’t give him that. Don’t give him the satisfaction.’

Dax watched him for a long moment, thumb still resting motionless on the table. Then he exhaled once through his nose and the dark-spice scent around him shifted, drawing back until it was only a faint trace again. When he spoke, his tone was velvet over iron, but softer than before.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Then drink your coffee and get dressed. Marta will have breakfast ready in fifteen minutes.” He rose from the sofa in one smooth motion, rolling his shoulders as the dark shirt settled back into place. “Eat, Christopher. You’ll need your strength. And it’s easier to think on a full stomach.”

He crossed back toward the dresser, picking up the tablet without looking at it, violet eyes lingering on Chris for one last heartbeat. “Go on,” he added, the command gentle but unmistakable. “Get dressed for breakfast.”

Chris rose, the latte still warm in his hand, and reached automatically for the nearest set of clothes laid out on the chair. Soft grey shirt, dark trousers, and underwear already folded beneath, a complete outfit, perfectly his size, waiting. He didn’t remember asking for it; he didn’t remember choosing it.

’Of course not,’ he thought, fingers brushing the fine fabric. ’Hanna or one of the others made the choice for me before I even opened the wardrobe. And Dax didn’t bother to sugarcoat it.’

He tugged the shirt over his head, the fabric sliding across his still-damp skin. The clothes fit exactly, like everything else in this wing, as if someone had measured and mapped him before he arrived. ’They did,’ he realized. ’They’ve been measuring me since the moment I crossed the border.’

Behind him Dax’s presence still filled the room, silent but heavy, a man reading messages on a tablet but still aware of every movement Chris made. Chris buttoned the shirt, jaw tight, and thought, ’You can fit me into your clothes, your palace, your schedule. It doesn’t mean you own what’s inside.’

He smoothed the cuffs once, drew a steadying breath, and turned toward the door. “Ready,” he said, his voice almost casual. Inside, though, his heart beat a little harder against the fabric that fit him too well.

—

The breakfast room smelled faintly of toasted bread and spiced honey. Pale light poured through the high windows, catching on the polished steel of the coffee machine and the long, low table already set for two. A carafe of hot milk steamed beside a pot of espresso; Marta had remembered.

Chris sat where the staff gestured, hands around his mug. The latte dulled the edge of the morning, but it didn’t dull the sense of being moved from room to room like a piece on a board. Hanna was already there, tablet hugged against her chest, expression polite but cool; now that the king was present, she’d drifted back like a shadow. Marta and Rowan stood at the edge of the room, watching without watching, and Chris could feel that they’d clocked the shift in his mood. They didn’t comment.

Dax entered, hair now combed back, dark shirt open at the throat. He dropped a brief touch to the back of Chris’s chair as he passed, a territorial flick of fingers before taking his own seat at the head of the table. His violet eyes skimmed the spread once before landing on Killian, who appeared a heartbeat later with his ever-present tablet.

“Program the full medical panel with John Bird,” Dax said quietly. “My next free window. I want to be there.”

Killian’s stylus hovered once over the screen, then flicked downward in a neat stroke. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Chris sipped his latte, the steam ghosting against his cheek. ’Of course he wants to be there. Even my bloodwork’s an event.’ He didn’t say anything. Instead, he unlocked his phone under the table with a thumbprint and scrolled through the messages that had stacked up overnight.

Ethan had sent a string of photos from a construction site back in Palatine: beam cracks, a mislabeled cross-section, and a question about load paths. Chris’s shoulders loosened a fraction. ’Finally. Something I know how to fix.’ He bent his head over the screen, tapping out a quick response about moment connections and shear transfer. The technical jargon felt like a language he still owned, a small, solid world that Dax couldn’t arrange by decree.

Across the table, Marta placed a fresh plate of fruit beside him. Rowan moved a little closer to the wall, a silent cordon between Chris and the door. Hanna’s tablet chimed softly as she updated something to do with wardrobe measurements.

Chris didn’t look up. He let himself sink into Ethan’s questions instead, a quiet thread of normality while, above the rim of his mug, his life was being scheduled and shaped around the king’s will.

“Christopher.”

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