Caught by the Mad Alpha King Chapter 160: West Terrace

The West Terrace was bathed in the soft warmth of late sumr, with the air feeling slow and golden. Light spilled through white sheer curtains, stirring faintly in the breeze that carried the scent of distant citrus gardens and warm stone.

Dax was there already.

His coat, black with intricate gold threading and the royal mantle draped like a commandnt, hung neatly over the back of his chair, abandoned in favor of comfort. The king himself lounged on the long ivory sofa, legs stretched out with no hurry, a glass of iced tea balanced loosely in one hand.

He was in a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows and collar open at the throat, exposed skin warm from the sun, gold rings glinting whenever he shifted his grip.

He looked relaxed.

Which was the most dangerous thing Dax ever was, because it ant he was not performing for anyone.

He was just himself.

Chris stood in the doorway for a second longer than he should have, trying to rember how to breathe like a normal person.

"I could hear your footsteps from the balcony stairs," he said without raising his eyes, voice low, the faintest trace of amusent curling around it. "You were thinking very loudly."

Chris decided to lean into the fra, arms crossed over his chest, the fabric of his shirt pulling on his arms. "I’ve had a eting with Cressida and Serathine. It’s impossible to leave unscathed." He was really trying to hide the insanity from earlier.

Dax’s laugh was not so much a sound as a breath.

"Yes," he said, finally lifting his gaze to him. "They tend to have that effect. Sit with ."

Chris caught himself losing in those deep purple eyes and would have been right if it were the first ti, but it started to happen more often than his sanity allowed him to accept.

Chris’s pulse kicked in his throat.

"I’m fine here," he said, leaning harder into the doorway fra, as though it might absorb him into its grain.

Dax studied him for a beat, expression unreadable but soft around the edges.

"Christopher."

Chris straightened imdiately, which only made the humiliation more complete.

"No," he said quickly, which was the wrong word and they both knew it. "I... I an... I’m good. Perfectly good. Excellent, actually. Standing. Very stable."

Dax raised one eyebrow.

Chris nearly cursed aloud.

The king set his glass down painfully slow, in Chris’s opinion, the ice chiming gently.

He shifted, uncurling from the sofa with the kind of effortless grace that should be outlawed, and leaned forward just slightly, elbows on his knees.

Sunlight touched his cheekbones and shadows traced his throat.

He looked like temptation carved into a person.

"Co here," Dax said again, his tone warm.

Chris’s brain made a noise similar to dial-up internet.

"I... Dax.... I am currently undergoing a mild emotional restructuring and if I sit over there, I will lose structural integrity and collapse into your body and we will both experience consequences." He blurred everything out and regretted everything.

Dax blinked once, then smiled slowly, unconcerned by Chris’s words.

"That seems acceptable."

Chris made a small, strangled sound. Like a bird that had flown into a window. "Can you..." He made a vague gesture with his hands, "be less handso?"

Dax’s smile deepened, quietly pleased in a way that made everything worse.

"No," he said simply.

As if beauty were not sothing he had but sothing he chose.

Chris looked at the ceiling. "Of course not. Why would the universe ever give anything in moderation?"

Dax laughed again, the sound low and warm, and extended his right hand toward Chris with the unspoken certainty of a man who rarely expected to be refused.

Chris looked at the hand, at the long fingers and the glint of gold rings catching the soft sunlight, and felt the humiliating realization that his heart had begun beating sowhere near the back of his throat. Every rational part of him wanted to retreat, to fold back into composure and distance and the small, sharp dignity he lived inside like armor.

But his body leaned before his mind could stop it. He stepped forward and placed his hand in Dax’s.

Chris felt the pull of it imdiately.

Dax’s hand was warm, like the sun had claid him first and everything else had to follow. The tal of the rings was cool against the inside of Chris’s fingers, a contrast that sent a sharp, bright awareness up the back of his spine. The breeze shifted as he stepped closer, stirring the sheer curtains and carrying the faint scent of citrus blossoms from the gardens below.

And beneath that was Dax, the natural scent that clung to him, heat and spice and darker notes softened by the faint cologne he’d chosen, sothing warm that settled low in Chris’s belly.

Chris’s own scent slipped in response, rain-warm and edged with heat, before he could even think of stopping it.

He didn’t entirely register the mont where Dax shifted him, just the smooth, easy motion of being guided closer, the couch dipping, and then the unmistakable feel of Dax’s thigh beneath him.

Chris blinked, one brow lifting as he realized he was sitting squarely in the king’s lap, held there with an ease that suggested Dax had not only expected this outco but had planned for it.

"...Bold," Chris said, voice dry, more surprised than offended.

Dax’s mouth curved, then shifted into a slow, unmistakably smug smile that revealed just enough teeth to make the point clear.

"You were falling."

Chris stared at him, unimpressed, unimpressed in the way soone is only when they are very aware they are losing the argunt but refuse to acknowledge it.

"I was standing," he repeated, slower this ti, enunciated like he was correcting a small child.

"Mhm."

Dax didn’t even try to look convinced.

The breeze moved past them again, warr now, catching on Chris’s shirt where it had tightened across his back, catching on the loose strands of Dax’s hair that the heat had softened around his temples. The scents around them settled deeper, the clean rain warmth of Chris’s skin pressed against the spice-and-rum heat of Dax’s chest, the citrus of the garden mixing with the cold peach-sweetness of the sweating iced tea glass on the table.

Chris narrowed his eyes.

"Are you enjoying this?"

Dax did not hesitate.

"Yes."

Chris exhaled like soone being personally tornted by God and decided, in a mont of sheer stubborn survival instinct, to change the terms of the situation before Dax’s composure could swallow him whole.

If he couldn’t regain dignity, he could at least choose how he lost it.

He raised both hands, sliding them up to fra Dax’s jaw, thumbs pressing lightly along the warm line of bone, fingers curving into his hair, and kissed him.