CHAPTER 211: CHAPTER 211: YOU

Christopher moved through the glittering crowd, tray balanced easily against his palm, the soft glow of phone screens and the whir of discreet cameras mixing with candlelight and crystal.

He’d done this before: private galas, high‑profile fundraisers, late‑night embassy dinners, blending in, making himself invisible as long as glasses stayed full and no one waited too long for anything. He could do this in his sleep.

And tonight, he needed to.

’Act normal. Just act normal.’

His dark eyes flicked, just once, toward the raised platform at the end of the hall, toward the man lounging with unshakable ease in a tailored midnight suit. Dax, King of Saha, didn’t appear to be looking his way anymore. He was speaking to a cluster of foreign dignitaries, his hand idly resting on the arm of his chair, a faint smile playing on his mouth.

Not with hunger. Not with pursuit.

’Good. That’s exactly what I want.’

Christopher kept moving, weaving through tuxedos and couture gowns, topping off champagne flutes with practiced ease. He kept his posture loose, his expression calm, and every motion smooth and professional even as adrenaline hummed through him.

He’ll see the file, Christopher told himself, gripping that thought like an anchor. Some aide will bring him the registry, it’ll say exactly what it’s always said: Christopher Malek, beta. No flags, no alerts, no affiliations. He’ll mark it down as a mistake. A mix‑up in a hall packed with scents.

And there were a hundred scents tonight, more than that.

Cologne layered with expensive perfumes, the bite of chilled wine, distant smoke from the outdoor heaters curling through the open terrace doors. And underneath it all, the subtle, electric tangle of pheromones that came with a room full of alphas and omegas balancing power like a game of cards.

He’ll forget. He has to.

Christopher caught his own reflection briefly in the black glass of a tall window, plain black server’s jacket, slim black tie, hair tied neatly at his nape. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing to notice. Nothing to chase.

He pivoted, stepping aside for a passing security aide in an earpiece, then angled toward a table of minor nobles debating softly over dessert. A baroness laughed too brightly; Christopher smiled faintly as he refilled her glass, his hand steady even as the thought curled tight in his mind:

’He’s a king. He has bigger things to worry about. Trevor. Lucas. Cameras. The press. He won’t waste time on me.’

Christopher slipped deeper into the crowd, just another shadow moving among bright lights, convincing himself with every step that the sharp violet eyes from earlier had already turned elsewhere.

—

The last of the music had faded into a low, distant hum. Staff moved like quiet ghosts through the now‑dimmed great hall, clearing glasses, folding linens, and resetting the world as if hours ago royalty hadn’t toasted in this very room.

Christopher kept his head down as he stripped off his server’s jacket in the staff wing, handing it over to the coordinator with a murmured thank you. His black tie ended up in his pocket, shirt sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. On the surface, he looked calm, just another freelancer who’d done his shift and was ready to disappear into the night.

The bus for the temporary staff idled at the rear gate, its headlights cutting a muted glow through the trees lining the private road. Christopher boarded with the others, finding a seat near the middle, resting his forearm against the window as the estate receded into the darkness behind them. He watched the gilded sprawl of Fitzgeralt’s property give way to ordinary roads, the shimmer of streetlights and scattered late‑night traffic. His shoulders eased for the first time in hours.

He didn’t call me back. He didn’t care. Good.

Christopher pressed his forehead briefly to the cool glass, closing his eyes for a heartbeat as the bus rumbled into the city.

The guests, as well as the Grand Duke and Duchess, would soon return to their main estates, and the small city would resume its mundane routine.

When the driver called his stop, Christopher stepped off into the soft neon glow of a quiet boulevard. His shoes hit the pavement with a dull thud, the night air thick with the scent of rain on asphalt. He shoved his hands in his pockets, rolling his shoulders, tired enough that the ache in his legs dulled everything else.

Then he saw it.

The car stood out immediately, not just because of what it was, sleek and black with polished chrome that caught every passing light, but because of who was leaning against it.

Dax.

Gone was the ceremonial midnight suit, the layered armor of a king. Instead, he wore a dark fitted shirt with the cuffs pushed casually to his forearms and tailored trousers that still whispered wealth even without the pomp. His posture was lazy, one ankle crossed over the other as he leaned against the hood like he owned the street. Which, in a way, he might as well have.

The violet eyes caught him first, glinting under the streetlamp as they lifted from whatever thought he’d been turning over in silence. And then the faintest smirk curved his mouth.

Christopher froze on the curb, the tiredness bleeding instantly into a sharp spike of adrenaline. ’You’ve got to be kidding me.’

Dax pushed off the car slowly, unhurried, like a predator confident in its stride. "You took your time," he said softly, his voice carrying easily over the hum of the street.

Christopher’s throat went dry, but he didn’t step back. He couldn’t, not here, not with the bus pulling away behind him and no crowd to melt into. "Your Majesty," he managed, his voice even despite the tension coiling in his gut. "Shouldn’t you be at the celebration?"

Dax’s smile deepened, lazy and sharp all at once. "Oh, the celebration goes on just fine without me," he replied, slipping his hands into his pockets as he came closer, every inch the king, even dressed like this. His gaze swept over Christopher, slowly, thoughtfully, until it felt like the night air itself had tightened around them.

"No more crowds," Dax murmured, tilting his head slightly. "No more noise." A beat. "Just you and me now, Malek."

Christopher’s fingers curled faintly in his pockets, nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to meet that violet stare. The street was too quiet, too still. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

’Run?’

No. That would only prove him right. And with those guards hidden in the shadows, he’d never make it far.

So he straightened, jaw set, trying to find that even tone again. "What do you want, Your Majesty?"

Dax’s smile sharpened by a hair, soft enough to be almost kind, dangerous enough to make Christopher’s chest tighten.

"You," Dax said simply, and the night closed in around the words like a secret.