Chapter 77: Chapter 77: Too late for secrets

The bloodwork came next.

Chris endured it with the same expression one might reserve for dental surgery. The physician tied the band around his arm, searching for a vein, and Chris pretended to be somewhere else entirely, preferably on another continent far away from the alpha hovering just feet away from him.

“Three samples,” the doctor murmured. “And we’re done with this part.”

“Lovely,” Chris said flatly. “I’ll knit you a thank-you card.”

Rowan coughed into his fist, which didn’t quite hide his grin. Dax, still by the observation screen, didn’t react at all, though Chris could feel his attention sharpen, as tangible as the needle sliding into his vein.

When the vials were sealed and labeled, the doctor switched to the next device, a slender scanner that glided across the skin of Chris’s neck and shoulders, reading hormone activity through faint electromagnetic pulses. The hum of the machine was soft, but to Chris’s uncovered senses, it might as well have been an orchestra.

“Your levels are fluctuating,” the doctor said quietly, his tone all professional calm. “You’ve got irregular gland activity and mild inflammation. It’s not dangerous, but it’s a clear sign your body’s recalibrating.”

Chris’s laugh was thin. “That’s a nice way to say I’m chemically confused.”

“Chemically exhausted,” the doctor corrected gently. “Your suppressants were… potent. They’ve been forcing the glands into hibernation. It will take time for them to function normally again.”

Dax’s voice carried from behind, quiet but cutting through the sterile air. “How much time?”

“A month at least,” the doctor said, glancing up. “Longer if there’s scar tissue. We’ll see more once we complete the internal screening.”

Chris froze. “The what?”

“Internal ultrasound,” the physician explained, tone softening. “We need to make sure there’s no lasting damage. Long-term suppressant use can create fibrous adhesions around the uterine tissue. It’s routine, but important.”

Chris’s stomach dropped. “Routine,” he repeated, the word tasting bitter. “Right. And how many routines involve half a dozen strangers and a king?”

The doctor blinked. “His Majesty’s presence is…”

“Unnecessary,” Chris cut in. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp enough to leave a mark. “You want to check for scar tissue? Fine. But not with an audience.”

Rowan straightened immediately, reading the shift in his tone. Dax didn’t move, but Chris felt the focus of him, like gravity itself had decided to lean closer.

The physician hesitated, glancing helplessly between them. “I assure you, the procedure is discreet…”

Chris let out a humorless laugh. “I’m sure it’s fascinating, doctor, but no.” He was already shaking his head, fingers gripping the edge of the chair. His pulse jumped under his skin, hard and fast. “Find another way. I’m not…” He stopped himself before the word ’exposed’ could slip out, but it hung there all the same.

For a few seconds, no one spoke. Then Dax’s voice came, silencing everything else.

“Everyone out.”

The doctor froze. “Sire?”

“Should I repeat myself?” Dax didn’t raise his voice, but it carried command like a pulse. Rowan didn’t argue; he gestured to the staff to clear the room. The shuffle of shoes and soft closing of cabinets filled the silence until only the three of them remained.

Dax moved closer, his steps soundless on the sterile floor. The faint scent of him, dark spice and something like smoke smoothed by warmth, cut through the sharp tang of antiseptic.

“Christopher,” he said softly.

Chris didn’t look up. “Don’t.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to,” Dax said. “But it’s necessary. For your safety.”

Chris’s laugh was brittle. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to know what’s necessary for me.”

Dax’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes, some unguarded flicker, did. He stopped just short of the examination chair, his voice dropping lower. “Then tell me what you need.”

Chris finally met his gaze. “Privacy,” he said hoarsely. “And for you to stop hovering like I’m about to break.”

Dax inclined his head. “Granted.”

The single word held more gravity than a speech. He turned to the physician, who’d paused near the door, uncertain. “You’ll proceed when he says he’s ready,” Dax said. “And only you stay.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the doctor murmured, bowing quickly.

Dax looked back at Chris, softer now. “I’ll wait outside. You have my word.”

Chris opened his mouth, half a protest caught in his throat, but stopped when he realized Dax meant it. The king’s presence, as suffocating as it could be, had shifted to something steadier, protective without being possessive.

He nodded once. “Fine.”

Dax inclined his head, and the gold edge of his cloak brushed the floor as he turned and left the room. The door clicked softly behind him.

The silence that followed felt different, lighter, though it carried the echo of him.

Chris exhaled shakily, pressing a hand over his eyes. “Let’s just get this over with,” he said to the doctor.

The physician nodded gently. “We’ll go slow.”

Outside, through the frosted glass, Dax stood unmoving in the corridor. His reflection was a dark silhouette against the pale light, every inch of him carved in restraint. Rowan stood a few steps away, watching quietly.

“He’s not going to like you for that,” Rowan said under his breath.

“I don’t need him to,” Dax replied, eyes still on the door. “I just need him to heal.”

—

The silence stretched until even the hum of the machines sounded too loud.

Chris lay back slowly, every movement deliberate, his jaw tight enough to ache. The paper under him crackled when he shifted; the sound was obscene in the quiet room.

The physician adjusted the monitor, tone careful and low. “You’ve never had an internal before, have you?”

Chris’s laugh was short, humorless. “That obvious?”

The doctor hesitated. “It’s rare,” he said finally, reaching for the gel and the scanner wand. “But not unheard of.”

“Rare,” Chris repeated, voice flat. “You mean reckless.”

He stared up at the ceiling, refusing to look at the tray, at the sterile instruments or the faint blue light beginning to blink. His throat felt tight. He’d been scanned, tested, and checked for everything that could be seen from the outside, but this was different. Too personal. Too intimate. And it hit him then how long he’d gone pretending this part of himself didn’t exist at all.

The physician must have read something in his face because his tone softened further. “We’ll take it slow. I’ll narrate what I’m doing so there are no surprises.”

Chris nodded once, not trusting his voice.

“This might feel cold,” the doctor warned quietly.

The gel hit his skin like ice. Chris flinched, fingers curling into the sheet. He forced himself to breathe through it, jaw locked.

“You’re doing fine,” the doctor said gently, moving the probe into position. “Good. That’s good.”

Chris stared at the ceiling tiles, counting them, anything to avoid thinking about the feeling, about the vulnerability of it, about the fact that this was the first time anyone had ever looked inside.

“How did you go this long without a full exam?” the physician asked after a moment, tone more curious than accusatory.

Chris swallowed hard. “Because I didn’t want one,” he said. “I didn’t want anyone to know.”

The doctor was quiet for a long beat. “And now?”

Chris’s lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Now it’s a little late for secrets.”

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