CHAPTER 122: CHAPTER 122: QUIET AND PEACE

Dax didn’t remember leaving the suite. One moment he was standing in front of Christopher, his omega, his mate, his everything, and the next, he was walking through the palace corridors, the world bleeding around the edges.

The marble echoed under his boots, the movement so loud that it hurt. He didn’t bother restraining his scent. It poured out of him in waves, sharp and volatile, filling the air with the unmistakable weight of an alpha who’d lost control.

Guards froze as he passed. Courtiers pressed themselves against the walls. Somewhere, a servant dropped a tray, the crash of porcelain scattering like panic itself. No one spoke. No one dared.

The air grew thicker with every step he took. His pheromones were spice and smoke, still threaded with the priest’s blood, the promise of violence barely contained. The palace, so accustomed to his measured calm from the last month, remembered how Dax really was in the absence of his omega.

By the time Dax reached his office, the gold-trimmed doors had already swung open. Someone, probably Killian, had sensed him coming and cleared the way. The moment he entered, the heavy doors slammed shut behind him.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Dax’s hand hit the desk first. Papers scattered, reports slid to the floor, and the edge of a crystal decanter cracked under his palm. He didn’t care. His control was gone. He could still see Christopher’s face, those hollow eyes, that voice drained of all warmth. ’You win, Dax.’

He had seen soldiers die without flinching and cities burn without blinking, but that? That had undone him.

He pressed both hands against the desk and forced his breathing to even out. It didn’t help. The air still hummed, his pheromones saturating every inch of the office until even the ventilation system whined under the strain.

A soft knock came, cautious and measured. Then Killian’s voice: "Your Majesty."

"Leave."

Killian didn’t. He stepped inside without waiting for permission, closing the door behind him. His posture was perfect, but the faint flicker in his gaze betrayed how careful he was being.

"Your Majesty, you need to shower," he said calmly. "You are still reeking of blood and smoke. Don’t let Christopher see you like this."

Dax didn’t respond at first. His knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of the desk, veins standing sharp against the skin. The scent of iron still clung to him. He could feel it coating his throat every time he breathed.

Killian took a few steps closer, boots silent on the marble. "You won’t help him like this," he said quietly. "You’ll only make it worse. For a while he needs quiet and peace."

That word, quiet, seemed to slice through the haze for a moment. Dax’s eyes lifted, purple rimmed with red, pupils still wide and unfocused. "He said I win," he muttered, the words tasting like iron and ash. "He said I win, and I..." His voice faltered. He dragged a hand down his face, as if trying to wipe away the image burned behind his eyes. "This isn’t him. His last medical report points to heightened stress levels... sleep deprivation, suppressed pheromonal stability... and every spike happened when I was away from him."

His tone dropped, low and dangerous. "Killian, find out who the fuck is doing this to him."

He paused, breath uneven, memories colliding: the moment Hanna tried to fasten that so-called necklace around Christopher’s throat, the quiet defiance in his omega’s eyes, and the one thing sacred between mates in Saha turned into an instrument of humiliation.

"Bring Hanna Osler to me," he said finally, each word cold like ice.

Killian’s expression didn’t shift, but the smallest twitch of muscle near his jaw betrayed tension. He had expected this order and dreaded it.

"Your Majesty," he said carefully, "not tonight."

Dax’s head turned toward him, the purple in his eyes catching the dim light like molten glass. "That wasn’t a request."

Killian held his ground. "You’re covered in blood and exhaustion, and the entire south corridor smells of you. If you summon her now, she won’t make it past the threshold alive. And Christopher..." He stopped himself, then continued more quietly. "Christopher will hear about it. You’ll undo everything you’ve tried to rebuild with him. You have already done enough damage."

The air between them tightened. Dax straightened, the edge of command settling back into his frame, but his voice came out rough. "She touched what was mine. She tried to collar my mate as if he were some pet to parade around. You think I’ll sleep knowing she’s breathing freely in my palace?"

"I think," Killian said, calm as stone, "you’ll handle it better after you’ve washed and eaten. You’ve been sleeping for three nights in three weeks, Your Majesty. You’ve fought priests and storms. Right now, you’re running on instinct and that’s exactly what your enemies want."

That gave Dax pause, a single flicker of rationality threading through the storm. His gaze drifted to the cracked decanter, to the amber liquid pooling on the marble like blood. "You’re saying I’m being baited."

"I’m saying," Killian replied evenly, "that whoever’s behind this wants you to lose control. They can’t reach Christopher directly, so they’ll reach you through him. Don’t give them that satisfaction."

Killian took a measured step closer. "The guest wing is empty. You’ll stay there for the night, shower, and rest. I’ll have Hanna detained in one of the secured rooms. At dawn, you can speak to her. I’ll have the full report ready by then."

Dax’s gaze flicked toward the tall doors leading to the adjoining bath, his private one, built into the suite of the imperial office. For a moment, he said nothing, his expression unreadable. Then, with the smallest shift of tone, almost dry, he murmured, "The guest wing will remain empty. I’ll use the one here."

Killian straightened slightly. "Your Majesty..."

"I said I’ll stay here." The king’s voice carried no heat now, just a low, immovable finality. "I won’t hide from my own palace."

Killian hesitated, then inclined his head, recognizing the boundary for what it was. "Then at least bathe here. I’ll send someone with clean towels and a bottle of something strong."

"That," Dax said, finally moving away from the desk, "I’ll accept."

He stripped off his jacket as he crossed the room, the dark fabric stiff with blood and dust. The scent of metal rose faintly as it hit the back of a chair. For all the effortless power he carried, there was a strange weariness in the way he unbuttoned his cuffs, mechanically, as though each motion was part of keeping himself from breaking something else.

The door to the adjoining bath closed behind him with a soft click. A moment later, the sound of running water filled the silence, deep and steady.

Killian stood there for a beat, then moved toward the desk, gathering the scattered pages into neat stacks. A few of them were marked with drops of red. He ignored that and tapped his comm. "Bring a bottle of sahan whiskey from the cellar, a clean set of towels to His Majesty’s office suite and the clothes I will give you to deliver. No one enters without my clearance."

The confirmation came instantly.