Caught by the Mad Alpha King Chapter 303: Terrifying consort

"Please don’t do anything political." Rowan pleaded with Chris. "I can’t have another PR team on my back and generals that don’t want a war because your husband is possessive."

Chris turned his head very slowly, black eyes sliding toward Rowan with the kind of patient disbelief usually reserved for deeply disappointing weather forecasts.

"Do I look like I’m about to start a war in the hallway?" he asked calmly.

Rowan didn’t even blink. "You look like a man whose husband nearly razed a garden yesterday, and today he is definitely razing people. I am begging you as a professional courtesy to reality—don’t encourage him."

Chris’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite innocent either.

"Rowan," he said gently, "I am going to walk to my office. I am going to drink sothing warm. And I am going to do absolutely nothing that can be classified as political."

There was a pause.

"...intentionally."

Rowan closed his eyes for exactly half a heartbeat, like a devout man accepting fate.

"That," he muttered, "is statistically worse."

They resud walking.

Or tried to.

Because at that exact mont, one of the waiting ogas finally gathered courage, stepped forward with flawless poise, and dipped into a graceful half-bow that probably took three etiquette tutors and a mirror to perfect.

"Your Majesty," he said brightly to the wrong man.

Rowan went still.

Chris stopped walking.

The oga blinked at him, realization dawning a mont too late.

Christopher smiled politely.

"Oh," he said pleasantly, voice smooth as winter glass. "I’m not the one you’re hunting."

Several polite little gasps fluttered through the nearby benches.

The sound rippled like silk tearing, elegant and horrified. Fans lifted. Fingers tightened on designer sleeves. One oga actually swallowed audibly.

Rowan, behind him, quietly reached for a stress headache that wasn’t even pretending to be discreet anymore.

Chris tilted his head, expression mild, voice soft but carrying far too clearly in the open space.

"The king is... you know," he began gently, as if explaining very patiently to a classroom of distracted children, "seven feet three tall. White-blonde. Purple-eyed. Built like an architectural marvel designed purely to intimidate political enemies and ruin furniture."

A few of the ogas twitched.

He continued pleasantly.

"And twice as big as . At least. Emotionally, spiritually, and physically. Truly, it’s a the."

Soone coughed. Soone else turned scarlet.

"I thought," Chris finished kindly, "you knew your target."

Silence fell.

Delicate, mortified, exquisitely expensive silence.

Rowan closed his eyes for a mont and very clearly reconsidered his career, his life, and every decision that had brought him to this particular scene. He would rather face zombie alphas in the garden again than this.

One brave oga gathered enough courage and court training to attempt composure. She straightened, chin lifting delicately, lips shaping into a pleasant, diplomatic smile.

"Well," she said sweetly, "we know, Your Highness. Of course we know. But you could... help your fellow ogas."

Chris stopped walking.

Rowan did not breathe.

The courtyard seed to lean closer.

"Help," Chris repeated softly, turning his head just enough that his gaze settled fully on her.

She brightened, mistaking softness for invitation.

"Yes. You have the king’s ear, his heart, his favor. If you advocated for us, even a little—courtesy ti, introductions, invitations—many of us co from good families. Powerful families. We could be useful to the kingdom. It would be... gracious of you to share opportunities."

Chris regarded her for a few silent seconds.

Then he smiled graciously

"You’re asking ," he said gently, "to assist other ogas in courting my husband."

A few of them flinched.

She held the smile, but it trembled now. "It would benefit Saha..."

"No," Chris said, still pleasant, still soft. "It would benefit you."

He gestured lightly at the curated clusters of silk, perfu, and ambition lounging across the courtyard. "And I’m going to kindly file... whatever this is... under the category of wishful thinking and poor strategic planning."

A ripple ran through them. Embarrassnt.

"You know what?" Chris said, already walking out to Dax’s office. "Do what you want; I will watch how you try. The king is in a pretty bad mood and would take it out on anyone foolish enough to provoke him."

Rowan made a sound that was half strangled prayer, half exhausted resignation.

"Please don’t..." he began.

Chris raised a hand mildly without looking back. "Relax. I warned them."

He didn’t slow, didn’t hurry, and didn’t spare another glance for the beautifully arrayed disaster of ambition behind them. He simply continued toward the inner palace, robe swaying slightly around his legs, steps asured, posture perfect, every inch the consort who had learned how to smile politely while setting entire hopes on fire.

Behind them, the silence finally cracked, but no one fainted dramatically onto imported marble, yet.

Whispers like silk ghosts brushing cobblestone.

Reality, rather rudely, setting in.

A few ogas quietly gathered their dignity and retreated deeper into conversation circles, pretending they had not just been gently annihilated. Others remained frozen, eyes darting toward the palace like they were reassessing survival probability.

One of them finally whispered, breath shaking in spite of the perfect lipstick.

"...he’s really not going to help us."

"No," another replied, equally stunned. "He... warned us."

Rowan caught the echo and closed his eyes briefly.

"Wonderful," he muttered under his breath. "They heard him."

Chris arched a brow without slowing. "Did you think I whispered?"

"I was hoping for rcy," Rowan replied bleakly.

"From ?"

Rowan sighed. "Exactly."

They entered the quieter palace corridors, the distant echo of attempted seduction strategies and collapsing dreams fading behind them. The air here was different, disciplined by routine and authority. Guards bowed subtly. Staff paused to respectfully acknowledge them and then fled the danger radius purely out of survival instinct.

Chris exhaled slowly, shoulders easing just a fraction now that walls existed again and politics returned to its proper form: paperwork, threats, and Dax in terrible moods.

Rowan glanced at him sideways.

"You feel better?" he asked warily.

Chris humd. "Strangely... yes."

"Of course you do," Rowan muttered. "You traumatized an entire courtyard before breakfast."

Chris’s lips curved faintly. "If they’re frightened, they’re safe. Fear breeds caution. Caution breeds survival."

Rowan blinked.

Then he huffed a quiet, almost reluctant laugh.

"You’re terrifying."

"Thank you," Chris said gently.