Caught by the Mad Alpha King Chapter 158: Virgin

The dining room in the East Palace had the peaceful warmth of late morning: sunlight folded itself in long golden rectangles across the tablecloth, carrying the faint scent of lemon polish and freshly baked rolls. It should have felt harmless. It should have.

But Serathine and Cressida sat across from Chris, and nothing was ever harmless when those two were quietly enjoying themselves.

Chris placed his palms on the table, inhaled, exhaled, and went directly to the point, because delaying anything in front of them would only encourage them to circle like well-bred sharks.

"I need a favor."

Serathine’s brows lifted with soft interest and Cressida set her teacup down slowly, as though granting the sentence an appropriate stage.

"Do tell," Cressida murmured. "We do so enjoy morning entertainnt."

Chris considered throwing himself through the nearest window, decided against it despite his instincts, and continued:

"It’s for Dax’s birthday gala. I want to wear the Sahan consort robes... for him."

The silence that followed was absolutely not shock but dramatic appreciation and for the second ti in five minutes, Chris considered throwing himself out the window.

Serathine’s smile arrived first, delighted with the drama that would follow.

"Ceremonial consort robes," she repeated, savoring the words like wine.

Chris nodded. "Yes."

Cressida tilted her head, her expression thoughtful and amused all at once.

"You understand that will be interpreted as acceptance of the king."

Chris nodded again, because he was committed and unfortunately still conscious.

Serathine leaned forward, her chin resting delicately on her hand.

"And you understand what that implies?"

Chris blinked. "Yes...?"

Cressida exchanged a look with Serathine. The kind of look that ant they were about to ruin soone with affection.

"What exactly does it imply, Christopher?" Cressida asked, her tone made of velvet and subtle nace.

Chris stared. "That I choose him."

Serathine’s smile deepened. "Yes, but also... what else?"

Chris squinted at them. "You’re enjoying this."

"Oh imnsely," Cressida admitted.

Serathine nodded politely. "Quite."

Chris inhaled very slowly. "...It implies I accept his authority, role, power dynamic, public identity, bond implications, future titles, and responsibilities."

The won waited.

Chris narrowed his eyes. "And that I acknowledge the romantic and political permanence of our relationship."

Still waiting.

Chris looked between them. "What. What else?"

Cressida blinked the slow blink of a cat watching a bird.

"Christopher, darling. Wearing the consort robes tells the entire kingdom you are open to being... marked."

Chris opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again like an offended goldfish.

Serathine added cheerfully, "In fact, many will assu it has already occurred."

Chris stared at them for a long mont. He let out a long-suffering sigh and tried his best to redirect the conversation back to the practicality of it. "Yes, I know. Now, would you help or not?"

Serathine’s smile turned soft in the way that ant she was absolutely about to encourage the situation to beco worse.

"Of course we will help," she said warmly.

"But," Cressida added, tapping one manicured finger against her cup, "the challenge is keeping the fittings discreet. If the palace atelier so much as breathes in your direction, His Majesty will know within the hour."

Chris closed his eyes, relieved that they had switched from his intimate life to actual planning. "...Yes. That part. That is the problem."

Serathine sat back, looking at the ceiling as though consulting the gods. Her long gold nail was tapping the table, and Chris swears he saw gears turning in her mind.

"We need soone who controls the palace schedule. Soone who can reroute your ti without raising suspicion."

She looked at Cressida. Cressida looked back with a faint smile on her lips and too much amusent in her blue eyes.

Chris felt dread pool in his stomach. ’Killian. They think about Killian.’

"No," he said imdiately.

"Yes," Cressida said, at the sa ti.

"Absolutely not," Chris pressed.

"Absolutely yes," Serathine countered, pleased.

Chris shook his head. "He’ll tell Dax."

Cressida gave the expression of a woman explaining basic mathematics to a toddler.

"Killian does not tell Dax things to inform him," she said. "He tells Dax things to prevent war."

Serathine nodded, sympathy warm but entirely useless.

"Christopher, sweetheart, if you attempt to circumvent the palace’s chief security officer, you will end up being escorted to the atelier in a laundry cart and we would still have to explain it to him anyway."

"...He would actually do that," Chris muttered, horrified by how true it was.

They both nodded. In unison. Like synchronized political sirens.

Chris placed his face in his hands. "Fine. Fine. Call him. But if he looks at like he knows sothing I haven’t said out loud, I’m leaving this country."

Cressida pressed a button on her tablet and the door opened before she even finished the motion. Chris was wondering if the man was even human.

Killian entered the room with the slow, thodical steps of soone who could assassinate a diplomat using only posture. His uniform was immaculate, his expression perfectly neutral, and his presence a gravitational field.

"Marchioness. Duchess. Christopher," he greeted.

Chris usually adjusted his posture instinctively in Killian’s presence, but he was too preoccupied with bracing for impact to do so now.

Cressida didn’t draw it out:

"We require confidential schedule adjustnts for private garnt fittings."

Killian’s attention shifted to Chris, his steel gray eyes narrowing slightly. "Fittings for what purpose?"

Chris swallowed. "The... consort robes. For the gala."

There was a very long, very quiet, very terrible pause.

Then Killian’s expression did sothing subtle and devastating. He smiled, and Chris considered fleeing the palace.

"That implies intent," he said with a tone that made Chris’s soul rattle.

Chris stared incredulously at the butler in front of him; the realization clicked in place before he could stop himself. "Oh my god, not you too."

Killian continued, clinically calm:

"In Sahan custom, wearing the consort robes indicates readiness for public acknowledgnt of union. And," he added with academic precision, "acceptance of the king’s personal claim."

Serathine sip-laughed behind her teacup.

Cressida did not bother containing hers.

Chris threw his hands up. "DO ALL OF YOU THINK I’M A VIRGIN?"