Chapter 92: Chapter 92: Where it belongs

For a moment, the air between the two dominant alphas crackled with the familiarity of their rivalry.

He hadn’t seen her in almost a year, yet the familiarity slid back into place too easily: the measured tone, the way she squared her shoulders when she wanted to hide emotion, and the distance she always kept between respect and rebellion.

Dax was aware of Marianne Lancaster’s hidden feelings from the moment they formed, but he never gave her the opportunity to express them. He respected her too much to let emotion destroy their relationship.

“Something like that,” she repeated, her voice steady even as her jaw flexed. “Your scent was rum and spice, but now… you have a touch of rain on you.”

Dax’s lips curved slightly. “You’ve always had an exceptional sense of smell.”

“I’ve always had an exceptional sense of you,” she replied, the words slipping out before she could temper them. Her gaze flicked away, toward the horizon, where the Rohan banners stirred in the wind. “But I suppose I was never the one meant to understand this side of you.”

“Perhaps not,” Dax said evenly. His tone was kind, but the distance in it was merciless.

Marianne exhaled, slow and quiet, her gloved hands tightening behind her back. “First Trevor, now you. Both of you find dominant omegas and call it fate. Neither of you gave me the chance to fight.” Her voice didn’t waver, but something raw slipped through it: old exhaustion and unconfessed longing. “I waited for a war that never came, Dax. And you went and found peace without me.”

“Would you give up on something that is making your madness back away?” Dax asked, his eyes glinting with his usual cruelty, something that was smothered by Chris’s presence until now.

“Fair.” Marianne said, raising her hands in mock surrender. She knew when to back away from Dax. “Your embassy is ready to receive you,” she signaled to the Sahan diplomats just a few feet away, “our king will be greeting you at the party this evening.”

Dax nodded once, the motion elegant and controlled, but his gaze lingered on her for a fraction longer than protocol required. “Then I’ll see you there, Commander.”

His voice carried the weight of finality, the quiet conclusion to something that had never begun.

Marianne inclined her head, her expression the perfect mask of military composure, though her pulse betrayed her. She could feel it, the faint echo of the omega still clinging to him, rain, ozone, and warmth beneath the spice. It wasn’t overpowering, but it was present, threading through every exhale like a brand. Whoever it was, Dax hadn’t just claimed them. He was claimed back.

The realization hit her like a well-aimed strike to the ribs. For years, she’d seen Dax as untouchable, too sharp, fierce, and wild to ever belong to anyone. Yet now, standing in the sun, she saw the proof: he was no longer just the king of Saha. He was someone’s.

Her jaw tightened. “Enjoy your peace, Dax,” she said, the name barely above a whisper, meant to sound teasing but breaking somewhere in the middle. “Though it’s strange seeing you wear it like armor.”

Dax’s lips twitched. “Peace doesn’t last without armor.”

“Neither does love,” she countered.

For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward her, unreadable, that dangerous stillness he carried before battles, the kind that made people forget to breathe. “Then it’s fortunate that I don’t need love to win wars.”

“Maybe,” she said, her smile sharp and tired. “But it looks like it’s already winning you.”

She saw it in the way his expression faltered, just slightly, before he turned toward the waiting convoy. Killian was already holding the car door open, Tyler murmuring into his comm beside him.

Dax’s tone dropped, quiet but final. “You should stop waiting for a fight, Marianne. It’s over.”

She gave a small, humorless laugh. “You say that as if I know how.”

He didn’t respond. He simply entered the car, the movement smooth, detached and with him went the last flicker of warmth she’d held onto for years.

When the door closed, the faint scent of rain and spice drifted past her again, teasing and distant, like a storm moving out to sea. She stood there long after the engines faded, the sun sharp on her uniform, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

“You always did leave the battlefield too clean,” she murmured under her breath, her voice swallowed by the Rohan wind.

Then, straightening her shoulders, Commander Marianne Lancaster turned on her heel and walked back toward the hangars, back to her duty, back to pretending that her chest wasn’t full of ghosts.

—

Dax hadn’t said much since he entered the car. He didn’t need to, the grin sitting comfortably on his face spoke louder than words.

Killian sat across from him, impeccable as always, dressed in a tailored black suit with a faint shimmer to the silk shawl draped over his right shoulder. His silver eyes betrayed nothing, though the minute twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested he was deeply, almost spiritually, done with his king’s antics. He had been silent for the entire flight, likely praying that Dax would forget what had happened that morning.

Dax had no such intention.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Dax said at last, voice smooth, clearly satisfied with how the day was going. He leaned back into the leather seat, one arm lazily stretched along the backrest, every inch of him composed of indulgence. “Did something about this morning shock you?”

Killian’s tone was polite, immaculate. “Shock, no, Your Majesty. Traumatize me, perhaps.”

Dax’s grin deepened, the kind of smile that made diplomats sweat. “You walked in at the wrong time.”

“I walked in at the exact moment,” Killian corrected crisply, closing the leather folder on his lap. “And forgive my lack of courtly excitement, but it’s difficult to appreciate fine timing when I’m being greeted by the sound of my sovereign being devoured alive.”

“Devoured?” Dax echoed, amused. “You make it sound far less romantic than it was.”

Killian’s brow twitched, the butler’s equivalent of shouting. “Your Majesty, it was six in the morning.”

“And?”

“There were linens involved.”

“Expensive ones.” Dax smirked. “You should be proud of the efficiency with which you maintain my image.”

Killian inhaled slowly, the kind of deep, measured breath that usually preceded long-suffering silence. “Shall I add ’early-morning theatrics’ to the daily schedule, then? Right after ’state correspondence’ and before ’diplomatic brunch’?”

Dax’s laugh rolled low in his chest, unbothered, thoroughly pleased with himself. “You were the one insisting I take more omegas last month.”

Killian’s composure faltered just enough for his smirk to show. “I was talking about your rut, not entering the royal quarters unarmed.” He adjusted his cufflinks even when they were perfect, his voice smooth as silk. “I should issue a memo: no staff enters before eight. The king, after all, might execute anyone who interrupts his time with the feisty omega.”

Dax’s grin widened, sharp and shameless. “Feisty suits him.”

Killian allowed himself a quiet hum of amusement. “I’m impressed, though. Less than two weeks, and he’s already given in.”

“He didn’t give in,” Dax corrected, voice dropping into something dark and almost reverent. “He chose.”

Killian tilted his head slightly, silver eyes flicking up in a gesture that mixed curiosity and warning. “And now that he’s chosen, do you still plan to give him the collar?”

Dax stilled. The lazy grin remained on his lips, but something in his eyes changed. For a moment, even Killian, who had seen the man through bloodshed and coronation, felt a quiet prickle of unease crawl along his spine.

Dax turned his gaze toward the car window, where his reflection flickered faintly in the tinted glass, violet eyes gleaming, framed by the faintest curve of satisfaction. “Of course.”

“Of course,” Killian echoed, his tone deliberately mild. “You’ll have it sent ahead, then?”

“No.”

Dax turned his head slightly, his smile still in place but colder now, possessive in a way that didn’t need words.

“I’ll close it myself,” Dax said softly. “Around his neck. Where it belongs.”

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