Caught by the Mad Alpha King Chapter 162: Sentiment and lunch

The air conditioning in the suite humd low, just enough to keep the heat from pressing in too heavily through the tall windows. Outside, the sumr light was sharp and golden, making the palace gardens look almost too pristine, like a photo soone had edited to sell the illusion of control.

Chris stood barefoot on the warm stone floor, a navy shirt draped over one shoulder, arms crossed as he stared at the row of clothes lined up in front of him like they might start judging him if he took too long.

Rowan sat silently behind him on the edge of the side bench, dressed in standard palace security staff black. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe too loudly. He didn’t say a word.

"Are you malfunctioning?" Chris asked, voice dry, as he held up one of the shirts like it had personally offended him.

Rowan didn’t answer right away. Just blinked, slowly. "I think I’m in shock."

Chris gave him a sideways glance.

"You got Killian to help you with the robes and keep it secret from the King," Rowan clarified, like repeating it out loud might help him believe it.

Chris sighed. "Technically, Killian offered."

Rowan blinked. "That’s worse."

Chris held the shirt up again, frowned at it like it had betrayed him, and dropped it onto the bed with the rest of the traitors. "He said it was a matter of sentint. And then he personally rewrote three staff rosters and secured two atelier appointnts without blinking."

"Killian doesn’t do sentint," Rowan said, a little too reverently. "He does threat assessnts and national protocol."

Chris pulled another shirt off the rack, sothing slate grey and sumr-weight, with buttons that didn’t shine too obviously. "Apparently, I’ve been upgraded from ’unstable foreign variable’ to ’sentintal risk worth protecting.’"

"Congratulations," Rowan said solemnly. "You’re now a walking security exception."

Chris turned back to the mirror and narrowed his eyes. "This feels like preparation for eting a head of state. Not lunch."

Rowan stood, fixing the crease at his sleeve. "You are eting the head of state."

Chris groaned and ran a hand through his hair. "I hate it when you’re right."

"I’m always right," Rowan said automatically, then added, "And you’re also eting the closest thing Dax has to a father figure. You sure you don’t want to go back to bed and pretend this was a dream?"

Chris paused, watching his reflection. The shirt was clean, and the line of the collar was structured but not formal. The fabric moved easily. Nothing about it scread royal, but it didn’t scream civilian caught in palace gossip either. It was... quiet. Present.

He nodded once. "No. I’m going."

Rowan handed him his shoes. "You’re sure?"

"No," Chris said honestly. "But if I wait any longer, I’ll spiral and end up wearing a t-shirt with passive-aggressive embroidery."

Rowan snorted. "Killian would have a stroke."

Chris smirked faintly. "He’d pretend to cough and then schedule a private execution."

They moved toward the door. Chris paused before opening it.

"Thanks for not being annoying this morning," he said.

Rowan gave a dry smile. "You’re welco. I’m saving all my comntary for after Sahir either loves you or files paperwork against you."

Chris didn’t dignify that with a response. He just stepped out into the hall and began walking.

—

The private lounge was a sunlit room on the palace’s west side, all pale stone and glass, softened by woven rugs and cool-toned linen drapes that fluttered slightly in the breeze. A polished low table sat at the center of the room, flanked by three slim chairs with high backs and no padding, like posture mattered more than comfort here.

The scent of citrus tea lingered faintly in the air.

Chris stepped inside, heartbeat steady but not relaxed. He hadn’t seen Dax yet. That wasn’t entirely surprising; the morning brief had warned he’d be in back-to-back sessions until mid-afternoon, but so part of Chris still expected to hear his voice.

He didn’t.

Because Dax wasn’t here.

Only one figure stood near the table, tall and composed in traditional Sahan wear, clean-lined and silver-embroidered, not a wrinkle in sight.

Sahir Admane.

The Pri Minister of Saha.

His white hair was neatly combed, his icy blue eyes impossible to read. He looked up as Chris entered, no flicker of surprise, just a slight nod, the kind that could either an ’welco’ or ’the evaluation begins now.’

Chris stopped just inside the door.

The silence stretched for a beat too long.

Then Sahir said, evenly, "His Majesty is still detained in the Defense Review."

Chris blinked. ’His Majesty. Right. Dax.’

Chris nodded once, a subtle tilt of his head that acknowledged both the statent and the weight behind it.

"Of course," he said, voice steady. "He said it might run long."

Sahir gestured to the nearest chair with the barest movent of his hand, as though it were both a suggestion and an order. "Sit."

Chris did, lowering himself with deliberate care, posture perfect in a way that would have made Killian and Cresida proud or suspicious.

Sahir studied him with the kind of gaze that didn’t blink unnecessarily. Chris didn’t fidget. He’d already been warned: this man had stood beside two kings, dismantled a rebellion with nothing but policy, and once made a Crown Prince cry using only parliantary procedure.

So. No pressure.

Sahir poured tea without asking. The faint clink of porcelain was the only sound.

Chris accepted the cup when it was offered, fingers brushing the edge. "Thank you."

A pause. Then, without inflection: "You’re younger than I expected."

Chris looked up, eting Sahir’s eyes. "People usually say that. Sotis right before telling I’m not qualified."

"Civil engineer?"

Chris nodded, fingers tightening just slightly around the cup. "Structures. Freelance, mostly."

Sahir arched a single brow. "Freelance. That’s uncommon in your domain."

Chris tilted his head, not quite defensively. "I needed flexibility."

Sahir’s gaze flicked down, toward the way Chris sat so precisely composed in a space clearly not built for him, and then back up.

"Flexibility," the Pri Minister repeated. "For what?"

Chris didn’t flinch. "To keep people from asking why I never settled with a firm. Or why did I spend a fortune on suppressants while I’m registered as beta. But that didn’t matter; Dax sniffed the mont I entered his general area."

Sahir’s mouth didn’t move, but sothing in the stillness of his expression shifted, just enough to suggest that he’d already suspected as much. That perhaps this wasn’t news, just confirmation.

"So you were hiding," he said.

Chris didn’t look away. "I was surviving. There’s a difference."

The white-haired man studied him in silence, the full, asured weight of his gaze settling like a ledger being written behind his eyes.

"And now?"