Caught by the Mad Alpha King Chapter 285: Old

The door to their private suite closed behind them with a soft, almost reverent sound, and for the first ti all evening, the palace stopped existing. Everything remained distant and irrelevant on the other side of the walls, including the chandeliers, music, eyes, and politics. In here there was no kingdom demanding anything. No history pressing down on their lungs. Just the quiet hum of light and the warmth of a room that had learned how to breathe with them.

Chris let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was still holding. His shoulders loosened, fingers lifting automatically toward the clasp of his robe. He’d expected to start unwinding piece by piece, carefully shaking off the weight of presence and performance.

But Dax was already behind him.

He stepped in close until Chris could feel the solid heat of him through layers of fabric. One hand settled at his waist, the other resting lightly against his ribs as if reassurance could be conveyed through touch alone. He didn’t say anything at first. Just held him.

For a few monts, that alone was enough.

"...you called old," Dax said eventually, voice low and unbearably aggrieved, like he had been waiting patiently all evening to unveil this particular tragedy.

Chris stilled for a heartbeat, then closed his eyes.

"Dax," he warned, already hearing the direction this was going.

"No," the king replied imdiately, tone soft but absolutely resolute. "You do not get to say my na like everything is fine. Everything is not fine. My husband stood in a ballroom and very calmly established to international royalty that I am a relic, a historical artifact, a relic of ancient dynasties who should probably be preserved in a climate-controlled display case."

Chris made a strangled noise that wanted to be laughter and failed to remain dignified.

"I stated a number," he said, exasperated and fond at the sa ti.

"Yes. A number that incriminates ," Dax continued with all the solemn authority of soone whose word shaped nations. "Now half that ballroom believes archaeologists could excavate from bedrock. Heather will probably file for cultural preservation status in the morning."

That broke Chris. He laughed, openly and helplessly, the sound echoing softly off polished stone and expensive silence. Dax leaned in like he had succeeded at sothing important, letting his mouth brush along the edge of Chris’s jaw, stealing a ghost of warmth just because he could.

"And then," Dax went on, clearly not finished, "you declared I am terrifying. Inefficient. Emotionally irresponsible."

Chris angled his head slightly, amusent warming beneath the surface of his composure.

"You terrify heads of state for entertainnt," he pointed out gently. "That’s not slander. That’s a biography."

"That is called diplomacy," Dax corrected with dignified certainty. "And glaring at a fifteen-year-old until she reconsidered her life trajectory is called leadership."

Chris didn’t even try to stop himself this ti. He simply leaned back into him and laughed again, softer and warr, fondness curling in his chest like sothing that had roots.

The change in Dax was imdiate. The rigid coil beneath his composure eased. His arms tightened instinctively, drawing him closer in a way that said, ’You’re here; that ans I am still sane.’ Breath ward Chris’s ear, and that subtle quiet that belonged only to the two of them settled around them like a cloak.

"She left ," Dax said thoughtfully, as if contemplating a political incident rather than a teenage ltdown. "Declared destiny only three hours ago. Practiced tragic angles for potential photographs. And then she spoke to you once, and suddenly I am obsolete while you are her future."

"She’s fifteen," Chris reminded patiently. "Her future changes three tis a day. And yes, you are absolutely too old for her."

"Yes," Dax agreed without hesitation. Then after a heartbeat, softer, quieter, "But I am not too old for you."

Chris turned toward him fully then, and Dax allowed it instantly, like worship disguised as willingness. Their foreheads brushed, and the room seed to settle around that point. The world had gravity again, and it was centered in a pair of familiar purple eyes.

"I know how old you are," Chris said gently. "And you are exactly where you should be. Still capable of setting entire countries on fire if soone gave you a reason... but also capable of loving without destroying everything in the process."

Dax considered him for a mont, gaze steady, the corner of his mouth tilting with quiet satisfaction.

"Capable," he echoed. "Not unwilling."

Chris smirked. "We’ll count that as growth."

Dax’s mouth brushed his, feather-light at first, as if he was testing whether the world would allow it. Chris breathed out against him, and the kiss lingered, warm, gentle, and full of everything neither of them had said in that ballroom because the world did not earn the right to hear tenderness spoken aloud.

When they pulled back, their foreheads still touching, Dax humd softly.

"Am I forgiven for being ancient?" he murmured.

Chris, utterly malicious, pretended to think.

"...no."

The sound Dax made was so deeply offended that history should have recorded it.

"I have been betrayed," he declared quietly. "Abandoned by youth. Rejected in my pri. "

Chris kissed him.

Whatever outrage had been forming dissolved imdiately. Dax’s hand ca up to cradle his jaw, the other tightening in the fabric at his waist, gathering him closer, like pulling sothing precious back into himself.

When they finally parted, Dax lingered there, a breath away, eyes soft and entirely too human for a man kings feared.

"You always interrupt my suffering," he murmured.

"Yes," Chris replied, smiling faintly. "Intentionally."

—

Sunlight crept along the polished floor of their private sitting room. The palace had already begun its relentless rhythm for the day: distant footsteps, murmurs of staff moving like a living organism, and the soft clink of porcelain as breakfast was delivered.

Dax sat at the small dining table near the window, hair still damp from his shower, shirt sleeves rolled easily to his forearms. Chris, barefoot and infuriatingly pretty even in the morning, had claid the arm of the sofa with a blanket and was happily drinking Dax’s coffee without remorse.

Dax let him.

His own plate sat mostly ignored, but he held a fork loosely anyway, a habit rather than a necessity.

His phone buzzed. Trevor Fitzgeralt.

Dax’s brows lifted slightly. Trevor was disciplined, controlled, and almost never called without a reason. Which ant there was one.

He accepted the call and leaned back casually in his chair.

"Trevor," he drawled, voice lazy with morning calm. "You do realize it’s not even eight? Soone better be dead."