CHAPTER 117: CHAPTER 117: CORNERED (WIN-WIN)

The palace had a rhythm, and Chris hated how easily it kept going without Dax in it.

The air smelled the same, sterilized and faintly floral from the vents, but the silence underneath had changed. Dax left the day he returned from Rohan, with a memory of a kiss and... Chris thinking he is losing his fucking mind.

He was at war with Hanna and if he thought that before was bad, now, after five days without Dax or Killian, Chris contemplated that trying to run, even if futile, would be better than this hellhole.

His hands were gripping the edge of the bassinet until his knuckles went white. He stared into the mirror across the room at the black eyes that didn’t look like his anymore. Hollow. Tired. Over everything else. The patch on his arm pulsed in quiet, traitorous rhythm, cycling through colors that weren’t purple. Which meant Nadia would find him soon.

"Alright, Malek," he muttered under his breath. "You’re not hormonal or mad. These people are losing their collective mind and don’t understand boundaries."

The reflection didn’t answer. It looked the same way he felt... cornered.

He’d spent the night before trying to sleep and failing, because every sound felt amplified. The hum of the vents. The click of footsteps outside the door. Even the soft beep of the patch when his heart rate spiked. He’d covered it with a towel just to stop seeing it. It hadn’t helped.

Nadia said that the patch was there to "monitor his recovery," and he knew it, but the last five days felt like it was an excuse for Hanna’s obsessive comportment.

She was repeating that the war on his wardrobe was "His Majesty’s order," and that required him to just deal with it.

Rowan didn’t say anything at all, just hovered, making sure that he wouldn’t try anything stupid while losing his fucking mind.

They all had the same tone now. That clinical, careful way people spoke to unstable patients. He wasn’t unstable. He was furious. And lonely enough that he’d almost rather be yelled at than managed.

He turned toward the wardrobe, jaw tight. The only things inside were the ceremonial robes Hanna kept rotating out like a priestess offering sacrifices to fashion. The colors changed daily, but they all looked the same: gold-threaded, heavy, and foreign. They smelled like starch and someone else’s perfume.

He couldn’t wear it even if there was nothing else; at this point he would rather die than give them the satisfaction that he was just a hormonal omega.

So he’d gone looking again, down the north corridor, past the wing that was supposed to be sealed. He found the suite by accident, tucked behind a door that had no label. Dax’s old wardrobe. He’d known it the second he’d opened the door. The air hit like a memory: spice, rum, and something darker underneath.

He’d stood there a long time before touching anything. It felt like walking into someone’s absence.

The first shirt he pulled out still smelled faintly like him. It didn’t fit right; the fabric hung too loose across his shoulders, the sleeves brushing his wrists, but it grounded him. He put it on like armor, rolled up the cuffs, and ignored the way Hanna’s eyes widened when she saw him in it.

"You can’t wear that," she’d said. "It’s not meant for you." At this point the woman was ready to sedate him only to see Chris in those damned robes.

"It’s clean," he’d replied, deadpan.

"Chris..."

"Don’t start. I’m not putting on robes. Not now, not ever."

Her expression had softened then, just enough to make him uneasy. "He’d want you to. You know that."

He’d stared at her. "Would he?"

Hanna’s voice dropped to something almost kind. "He left instructions."

That was the moment something inside him cracked, not loudly, but enough to let the cold in.

Now, standing in front of the mirror, he pressed his palm over the blinking patch again, harder this time. "You’re lying," he said quietly, though he wasn’t sure if it was meant for Hanna, or Nadia, or himself.

The patch blinked green. Then yellow.

There was a knock at the door.

"Chris?" Nadia’s voice, soft but firm. "Your vitals just spiked again. Can I come in?"

"No," he said automatically.

"Please. I just need to..."

"Go away, Nadia."

He waited a few more minutes, making sure that there were no footsteps outside the bathroom.

The phone on the nightstand lit up, a message in the Glass Crackers group chat. Most likely Lucas was sending another meme or Mia was losing her mind that she was promoted from specialist in communications to the inner circle of the most powerful nobles in Palatine.

He didn’t reach for it but took a set of pajamas that somehow escaped Hanna’s relentless inventory, changed, grabbed his phone, and headed for his usual spot in the sitting room, the one with the laptop and Ethan’s documents waiting.

The door was cracked open; before he could touch it, three voices broke the silence.

"Can you chill?" Rowan’s voice, low and sharp, carried through the hall. He stood near the center, arms crossed over his chest, his dark red hair slicked back.

"I am calm," Hanna replied, her tone clipped. "But you can’t expect the household to function without discipline. His Grace refuses basic protocols, attire, and schedule. My job is to ensure stability, and I’m doing it."

Rowan gave her a look that was almost a laugh and almost a threat. "You’re ensuring obedience, not stability."

"Semantics," Hanna said, folding her arms. "He’s refusing to cooperate. There are expectations attached to his position. When the King returns, he’ll want to see order, not rebellion."

Nadia’s voice cut in then, quiet but sharp enough to slice through their words. "He’s not rebelling. He’s exhausted."

Hanna’s gaze flicked toward her, cool and assessing. "Then perhaps the nurse should make sure he’s following his regimen instead of letting him starve himself out of spite."

"That’s not what’s happening," Nadia said. The steadiness of her voice was impressive; Chris could hear the effort behind it. "He’s sick. His hormones are collapsing because he’s under stress, not because he’s defiant."

"Stress he creates himself," Hanna countered. "Every day I give him structure and every day he resists. What exactly do you expect me to do? Let the royal consort wander around looking like a stray student?"

Rowan’s tone dropped a note. "He’s not your project, Hanna."

"I’m responsible for the domestic household," she snapped. "That includes His Grace’s welfare, environment, and presentation. If he refuses to follow basic standards, then I’ll enforce them. That’s my duty."

"And mine," Rowan said evenly, "is to make sure your duty doesn’t cross into coercion."

Silence stretched long enough for Chris to picture the three of them, Hanna standing straight and polished as ever, Rowan unmoved, and Nadia clutching her tablet, caught between authority and helplessness.

Finally, Hanna spoke again, her voice smooth as glass. "We all have our roles. You’re chief of security, not moral arbiter. And Nadia is a nurse, not a psychiatrist. I’m following orders. If either of you has a problem with that, you can take it up with them when they return."

Rowan’s jaw tightened. "We intend to."

"That’s not a threat I’d repeat," Hanna said softly. "Especially when he finds out how little progress has been made here."

"Progress?" Nadia echoed. "You call this progress? He hasn’t eaten properly in a week. His vitals are dropping. The patch shows erratic sleep, rising cortisol, heart rate spikes, and temperature imbalance. If he keeps this up, he’ll crash, hard."

Hanna tilted her head. "Then sedate him. That’s within your jurisdiction, isn’t it?"

Chris heard the sharp inhale, Nadia, outraged but restraining it. "I don’t sedate people because their environment is killing them."

Rowan spoke before Hanna could respond. "Enough. All of you, enough." His voice was calm, but the authority in it left no room for argument. "You both report to me when the king’s away, and I say this ends now. No more changes to the suite and no new orders. He stays as he is until I get confirmation from Dax or Killian. Understood?"

Hanna’s silence was long and cold. "That’s not your call to make."

"It is until someone higher says otherwise," Rowan said and left the room.