CHAPTER 188: CHAPTER 188: DATE IDEA

The sitting room smelled faintly of cardamom tea and cooling tech; whatever air purifier Dax had commissioned hummed quietly in the wall like a polite ghost, and the low light from the corner lamp threw soft amber shadows across the dark tiles.

Chris sat in the corner of the couch, one leg folded under him, the other half-draped in loose pajama pants. His robe, thin cotton and dark grey, hung open down the front. He’d kicked off his slippers an hour ago. The tablet on the coffee table still showed a paused design mock-up of the gala robes, half-shadowed by a water ring and a barely touched drink.

He didn’t care.

He was scrolling through his phone with the kind of passive defiance reserved for people who knew they were ignoring something important.

Mia: Did you pass out or die? Pick one. I need to know how many seats to reserve.

Lucas: We said no disappearing. Are you sulking or working?

Mia again: Chris. I swear to God.

Lucas: Cressida said you were ’busy.’ That means dangerous. Call me.

He muted the group chat.

Didn’t reply.

Didn’t feel like explaining that nothing was wrong, except maybe everything was a little sideways, and no one could fix it with wine or sarcasm. Not tonight.

He let the phone fall to his lap and leaned his head against the back of the couch.

The collar was still locked at his throat, just tight enough to feel. Chris had asked for it to stay on at night. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was just habit now.

Or maybe it was the only thing keeping his thoughts from falling out of place.

His whole body felt... odd. Like a half-written warning message. Nothing painful. Nothing dramatic. Just that vague hum in the background, like his blood was listening for something.

He hadn’t told anyone about it.

Which was probably why Dax found him like this, half-draped in shadows, legs tucked under him, the collar gleaming too sharply in the lamplight, when the door opened without warning.

Dax paused in the doorway.

Took one look.

And raised a brow.

Chris didn’t move. "Don’t say it."

"I wasn’t going to," Dax replied smoothly, but there was a flicker of something in his voice. "You’re ignoring Lucas and Mia again."

Chris gave him a flat look. "That’s not illegal."

"Not yet."

Dax stepped in, a casual silhouette in black slacks and a navy shirt rolled up at the sleeves. He moved like he had all the time in the world and no one could stop him from using it.

Chris didn’t speak again until Dax sat across from him.

"You look tired," the king said.

"You look expensive," Chris answered, rubbing the back of his neck. "So I guess we’re even."

"You don’t want to know what the media is saying about the gala." Dax said, very much amused.

Chris exhaled, slow and unimpressed. "No, I really don’t. I already have Lucas and Mia threatening violence on three platforms."

Dax leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze steady. "They’re calling it the event of the decade. Apparently, the consort robe design sparked three fashion house feuds and an emergency panel on public broadcasting."

"Was that before or after Sahir threatened to regulate neckline depth?"

"During," Dax said, utterly serious. "Killian sent a transcript. He’s very proud of you."

Chris groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "God. I just wanted a robe. Not a diplomatic incident with tailoring."

Dax hummed and sat beside Chris on the couch. "Well, you gave more than that and the PR team of the royal household wants for us to have a public outing."

"A what? Dax... I barely signed the documents three days ago... and I can walk without limping from yesterday."

Dax only smiled. "Which means you’re healed enough to smile in front of a camera."

Chris stared at him like he’d just been personally betrayed by gravity. "Smile? I just survived your rut, Serathine and Cressida, a Sahir ambush, and the slow emotional death of my group chat. And now you want me to smile?"

Dax reached over, adjusting the fold of Chris’s robe with a maddening calm. "Yes, while you go out with me on a date. I will show you the city."

Chris stared at him. Just stared.

"Let me get this straight," he said finally, voice thin with disbelief. "You want me, your recently maimed, semi-feral consort, who is one trauma away from eating raw cookie dough in the bathtub, to go on a date?"

Dax tilted his head, completely unfazed. "Yes."

"A public date."

"Correct."

"With cameras."

"Most likely drones."

Chris dropped his head into his hands. "How did I get here, and why am I not saying no?"

Dax smiled like it was a personal victory. "Because you love me."

"I tolerate you. Occasionally. With conditions."

Chris sat up, pointing a finger. "Okay, fine... but only if we go casual. And I mean actual casual. No palace convoy. No blacked-out SUVs. No drone escort that makes it look like I’ve been kidnapped by wealth."

Dax leaned against the armrest, mock-thoughtful. "What about a private car and a discreet security perimeter?"

Chris stared. "You mean Rowan in a baseball cap and sunglasses?"

Dax didn’t deny it.

Chris groaned. "God. Fine. But I pick the outfit. And the shoes. And if anyone calls me ’Your Grace’ in line at the café, I will fake a breakdown."

Dax reached over and tugged at the sleeve of Chris’s robe with infuriating gentleness. "You’re very demanding for someone still wearing pajama pants."

Chris didn’t blink. "You’re very smug for someone I haven’t kicked yet."

Dax grinned. "You’ll like the city, plus there is a coffee shop stop."

Chris narrowed his eyes. "You think you can bribe me with caffeine?"

"Yes," Dax said without shame. "And pastries. They have those little pistachio croissants you like."

Chris stared at him like he was doing math in his head and didn’t like the results. "You memorized my pastry preferences."

Dax’s smile turned smug. "Among other things."

"I hate you," Chris muttered, already reaching for his phone to scroll through his outfit photos.

"You picked me."

"I was compromised by hormones and existential dread."

"And yet," Dax said, standing, "here you are. About to wear real pants."

Chris threw a cushion at his back.

Dax caught it one-handed and didn’t even slow down. "I’ll let Killian know we’re leaving in thirty. Wear the sunglasses. The dramatic ones. You know they’re your favorite."

Chris groaned again, louder this time. "If this ends up on a fashion blog with the caption ’consort off-duty,’ I’m going to set something on fire."

"Just smile once," Dax called from the hall. "Make it look like I’m not holding you hostage."

Chris shouted after him, "You are holding me hostage, you tall, scheming menace!"

There was no reply. Just the soft sound of Rowan’s distant, resigned sigh.