Caught by the Mad Alpha King Chapter 273: Timing

The parliant building did not look particularly intimidating from the outside. That was the problem.

It stood in the heart of Palatine’s Capital, Altera, like a monunt to restraint, all pale stone, glass, and clean architecture. It had no grand statues, no ostentatious carvings ant to remind visitors of their smallness. It pretended to be reasonable, humane, and approachable.

Chris knew better.

He had only been inside twice before. Once as a carefully managed guest. Once as a political accessory to Dax. Both tis, he’d been escorted, watched over, smiled at, entertained, and then politely removed before anything resembling true governance could bleed into his experience.

This ti, he walked here as soone expected to sit among them.

His chest felt too small for his lungs. Until now, most of his responsibilities had unfolded in smaller rooms: etings with various departnts, policy briefings, project reviews, and work he could approach pragmatically.

Things he could treat like any engineering project if he focused hard enough. He did well there. He understood structure and systems. And between his own stubborn professionalism, the terrifying competence of the matriarchs, and the relentless discipline Dax and Sahir had drilled into him, he had learned to function.

This was different.

He wasn’t afraid of the parliant session itself, speaking, being stared at, or protocol. He had survived worse things. But sothing else sat in his chest now, heavier and quieter than fear. The slow realization that he was no longer just Dax’s mate, not simply the person who kept a dangerous king from setting countries on fire out of sheer irritation. He was becoming soone public. Soone seated close enough to power that his voice might one day decide whether people lived or died.

"You’re doing it again," Dax said, without looking up from the tablet in his hand. The golden mantle rested over his right shoulder, catching the light every ti he shifted.

Chris blinked. "Doing what?"

"Overthinking like you’re about to be tried for treason instead of mildly interrogated by a room full of insufferably polite bureaucrats." Dax’s tone was casual, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, softening just barely. "Your breathing changes."

Chris scoffed, because that was easier than admitting he’d been caught. "I’m breathing normally."

"Mhm, if that makes you feel better," Dax replied, still not looking up. "Your scent shifted too, it’s colder."

"Dax."

"Yes, my moon?"

"Shut up or I’m running away."

Dax finally looked up at that. Slow enough to imply he was carefully considering every life decision that had led him to fall in love with a creature who threatened treason and public scandal before breakfast.

"You won’t," he said, infuriatingly certain.

Chris lifted his chin. "Try ."

Dax’s eyes ward, the faintest gleam of amusent threading through his calm. "You won’t run," he continued calmly, "because you’re stubborn, you’re annoyingly responsible, and you hate letting people down even more than you hate being here."

Chris glared. "Stop sounding like you know ."

Fortunately for Chris, the car stopped, and Rowan opened the door on his side before Dax could open his mouth again.

Air rushed in first, cool, edged with city noise and contained anticipation. The controlled murmur of the gathered crowd rolled across the barricades, layered with cara shutters and the rhythmic cadence of security commands. Light slid across polished car paint and royal insignia, and for a mont everything outside felt both impossibly large and sharply focused.

Rowan inclined his head slightly. "Clear."

Dax ignored Rowan and looked at Chris, who had made the mistake of loving him and now had to deal with the consequences of being deeply, permanently known.

"Ready?" he asked, quiet and annoyingly sincere.

Chris swallowed whatever snide response had been forming and nodded. "Yes."

Dax’s mouth softened like he wanted to say sothing else, sothing undoubtedly humiliatingly supportive, and Chris decided survival depended on escaping before that could happen. He stepped out first.

Applause swelled, controlled yet undeniably heartfelt. Beyond the security line, people lifted flags, hands, phones, and faces bright and open in a way Chris would never quite understand. His na surfaced in the noise, threaded with affection, repeated like sothing familiar and reassuring.

Dax followed, and the air changed into sothing more serious, a presence that reshaped the atmosphere on instinct alone. The cheers deepened, not louder, just... firr. Respect layered over fondness.

Security tightened flawlessly around them. Rowan shifted forward. Killian walked half a step ahead on Dax’s side, expression carved from patient iron. Agents coordinated along the line like well-trained shadows, scanning, signaling, and guiding.

Chris walked.

Dax’s hand brushed against the small of his back again, ignoring anyone who judged it and ready to kill anyone who comnted on it.

Then the massive doors of Parliant opened.

Sound dimd as though swallowed by architecture. They stepped inside, steps muted on thick carpet, light thinning into dignified coolness, and all the noise from outside folded neatly behind them.

They moved through corridors that had seen wars declared, laws written, and leaders fall apart trying to hold onto sothing bigger than themselves. Staff bowed as they passed.

And then the chamber opened ahead of them.

Rows of seated delegates curving in watchful semi-circles. Papers rustling, then stilling. Every gaze shifted toward them with displays of restraint that still failed to hide genuine anticipation.

And there, at the heart of it...

The two thrones waited beside the main table.

Dax moved forward with the confidence of soone who had lived with authority so long it no longer scraped against him.

Chris matched his stride.

Because apparently, that was who he was now.

Soone who didn’t falter. Soone who walked into expectation and let it settle around him without bowing his head. Soone who t eyes instead of avoiding them.

—

The session opened with ceremony, protocol unfolded with quiet efficiency: nas acknowledged, formal greetings exchanged, and the dignified choreography Parliant loved because it made chaos feel orderly.

Chris listened with the calm face he’d practiced in mirrors and state etings alike, spine straight, palms resting lightly on the carved arms of his throne. He felt Dax beside him and Sahir in the front row with a calm, reassuring expression.

The Speaker stood. "Your Majesties," he began, voice steady, carrying easily through the chamber. "The primary purpose of today’s session is to conclude the matter of scheduling the state wedding and subsequent coronation ceremony."

Expectation rippled through the hall, quiet but palpable. They were waiting for confirmation of sothing they already believed belonged to them but now wanted formalized, written, and inevitable.

Dax inclined his head for the Speaker to continue.

"The nation awaits celebration," the Speaker said carefully, "and clarity. With all due respect, patience does not last forever, even when granted willingly."

That earned him the faintest laugh from a few ministers.

All eyes turned to Dax.

"The wedding will take place in two months."

The murmur that spread through the hall felt like relief, like a held breath released with gratitude.

Chris exhaled slowly, though he kept his expression as composed as he could. They had agreed privately over the timing. He wasn’t sure he’d ever feel prepared, not in the way fairy tales promised, but he was ready to move the relationship forward.

"And the coronation?" the Speaker asked, though everyone already leaned forward for the answer.

Dax paused because he always considered the power of his words before speaking them out loud.

"Five months after the wedding," he said.

That ti, the murmur wasn’t relief like a few minutes ago.

The Parliant didn’t bother hiding their reaction. They wanted it sooner. They didn’t even bother pretending otherwise. Ministers shifted and exchanged glances. Hands folded across docunts. Even the Speaker’s composure tightened by a barely perceptible degree.

A senior minister rose.

"With respect, Your Majesty," he said evenly, "by then His Grace will have completed over a year of service equivalent to the crown’s consort. He holds etings, manages departnts, assists in state decisions, and represents the crown publicly. The people already treat him as their queen. There is little value in pretending he is not."

Another minister followed, younger but no less determined.

"Delaying formal authority leaves the state in unnecessary symbolic limbo. With the current geopolitical climate, clarity is stability. And His Grace has proven himself more than capable."

A third voice joined.

"And the civilians... adore him. They see him as theirs already. Granting official recognition sooner would not rely appease policy, but it would honor the will of the people too."

The hall quieted instinctively, as if every experienced parliantarian recognized the signs of Dax not wanting to negotiate. He was about to speak and remind them that timing was his call, that Parliant advised, and that the throne decided.

Before Dax could open his mouth, Chris spoke as the minister was right.

"I agree," he said.

The ripple through the hall with every head turning to him.

Even Dax did.

Chris did not look at him, keeping his eyes forward and his voice calm.

"I understand why His Majesty proposed the delay," he continued, asured and honest. "He has always made my adjustnt a priority and I have needed that ti. I still need so of it." A faint breath escaped him. "But I agree with the Parliant."

The Speaker leaned forward just slightly.

"In truth," Chris went on, "waiting an additional five months after the wedding does little except reassure personally, and while that’s very kind... it isn’t a good enough reason to delay the nation."

That earned him a flicker of warmth in a few carefully neutral parliantary expressions.

He swallowed gently and finished:

"The earliest I am willing to accept is three months after the wedding."

The room held the silence carefully, as if afraid to startle it.

Then the Speaker nodded, slow and deliberate, like acknowledging a line drawn with clarity.

"That would be acceptable to Parliant."