The knock ca precisely three tis, asured, polite, and entirely too confident for soone who valued self-preservation.
Chris groaned into his pillow. "If this is the gods coming for , tell them I’m in hell already."
"It isn’t," ca Killian’s voice from the other side of the door, smooth, patient, and utterly unbothered. "Though, given the state of your schedule, I might recomnd early retirent."
Dax’s amused hum was the only warning before he said, "Enter."
The door opened with the quiet efficiency of a man who had seen too much and judged none of it, outwardly, at least. Killian stepped inside, posture immaculate, steel-gray eyes sweeping the room once. He paused for a fraction of a second, taking in the disarray of the bed, the half-draped sheets, and the faint shimr of golden light still hanging in the air like afterburn, before looking back to Dax as if nothing were amiss.
"Your Majesty," he said evenly. "You’re positively radiant today."
Chris made a noise that could only be described as suffering.
Killian didn’t wait for permission to continue. "The post-bond protocol begins with dical verification. The palace physician will arrive shortly to assess gland stabilization, physical strain markers, and scent compatibility."
Chris, face still mashed into the pillow, let out a muffled, "Absolutely not."
Killian blinked. "It’s standard procedure."
"I’m not consenting to anything that requires standing, swabbing, or rembering last night," Chris mumbled. "And if anyone tries to evaluate , I swear I will pass away on this mattress."
Killian glanced at Dax. "Shall I return when the consort is dressed?"
"I’m always dressed in outrage," Chris snapped.
Dax cleared his throat.
Chris turned his head. "What? I’m not wearing anything more than a bathrobe for an entire week."
"Robes," Dax said thoughtfully, as if the realization was both new and damning.
Chris blinked. "What do my robe have to do with..."
And then Dax stood very still. Very still.
"The gala," he murmured, more to himself. "The robes. The knotting."
Chris raised a brow. "Dax?"
Dax’s eye twitched.
"I need to burn them."
Chris stared.
"Dax..."
"I need to incinerate them. With fire. And salt. Possibly on sacred ground."
Killian blinked once. "If this is regarding the ceremonial consort set..."
"It’s a biohazard," Dax said, already striding toward the wardrobe like a man on a mission from a very dramatic god.
Chris dragged a hand down his face. "You folded it."
"I panicked," Dax muttered, flinging the doors open and entering the apartnt they called wardrobe. "I was compromised. I was hormonal. My instincts were... shut up."
"I didn’t say anything," Chris said sweetly, not moving an inch. "But since we’re revisiting cris, may I remind you that you bit and then kept going like it was a triathlon?"
Killian cleared his throat. "As you are both currently off-duty, may I suggest channeling your energy into fulfilling post-bond requirents? The physician will arrive shortly for the initial assessnt."
Chris didn’t lift his head. "That’s rich. No one told about that during the thirty hours of gala prep. You people shoved into heels and embroidery and prayed for structural integrity."
Killian blinked, then nodded once while fighting the urge to smile. "Ah. The robe distraction."
Chris groaned again. "There were pearls, Killian. Pearl clasps."
"Well... you chose them." Killian reminded Chris without sha and with a wish to see the world burn today.
Dax found the robe and froze. Not like a man hesitating, but like a predator who had just rediscovered the thing that started the war.
Chris tilted his head just far enough to see him. "What?"
Dax didn’t answer. His gaze was locked on the robe, folded with reverence, still lined with bronze embroidery, smugly undamaged by the chaos it had caused.
"The gala," he said under his breath. "The robe. The platform. The heels. The balcony." He repeated again like he was losing his mind in real ti.
Chris’s brow furrowed. "Dax."
But he was already moving.
Killian stepped aside, letting the King of Saha pass like this was just another executive decision, which, in a way, it was.
"You’re on break," Chris reminded him. "Officially. You can’t execute fabric on your ti off."
Dax didn’t dignify that with an answer.
He opened the hearth grate in the corner of the room, still faintly warm from the late sumr morning, and dropped the robe inside like it had personally offended his ancestors.
Then he reached into the inner pocket of his robe and pulled out a small, gleaming object, gold, sharp-edged, and clearly custom.
Chris blinked. "You have a gold lighter? You don’t even smoke!"
Dax didn’t look up.
"It was a gift," he said with grim purpose, flicking it open with a click that sounded entirely too ceremonial. "From Sahir. For diplomatic ergencies."
Chris blinked slowly. "What kind of diplomatic ergencies??"
Dax struck the fla. "It’s post-diplomatic damage control."
The fire caught instantly. Silk curled, bronze thread sizzled, and the ornate embroidery, hand-stitched by the imperial tailors over the course of ten maddening days, crumbled like treason made tangible. The scent of burning perfu and expensive guilt filled the room.
Killian, to his credit, didn’t comnt. He simply tilted his head to ensure the fla wouldn’t trigger the eastern smoke sensors.
Chris pushed himself halfway upright, the sheets slipping down to reveal one bruised shoulder. "You’re overreacting; it was only a gift for you."
"I’m going to use it to warm myself then," Dax replied.
"It was a robe," Chris snapped.
"It was a threat to national stability."
Chris let out a slow exhale. "Dax. It had pearls."
"It had intent," Dax corrected. "You arrived in it, smiled, and tortured with that cleavage for over three hours of official events at the gala."
Chris squinted. "You’re still hormonal."
"I am mourning my restraint," Dax growled.
The robe collapsed into ash, and the king stood motionless in front of the fire, watching the last of the bronze thread disintegrate like the final straw on a very, very loaded cal.
The robe collapsed into ash, and the king stood motionless in front of the fire, watching the last of the bronze thread disintegrate like the final straw on a very, very overloaded cal.
Chris was quiet for a mont.
Then, dryly: "So. Next ti I give you a gift, I should aim for less cleavage."
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