CHAPTER 195: CHAPTER 195: AGONY

Chris didn’t remember how they made it out of the shower.

He remembered warm water sliding over his back, Dax’s arms still around him because his legs were refusing to operate as anything other than damp decorative accessories, and the vague sensation of being carried with ease he found deeply offensive in theory but was far too exhausted to protest in practice.

Now, he was on the bed. Horizontal. Barely conscious.

A very expensive towel had been thrown over him like an afterthought, half covering his hips and one thigh, the rest abandoned in messy folds. His hair was still damp. His breathing hadn’t fully settled. His entire body felt like someone had unplugged him from reality and then plugged him back in with reversed polarity.

The bond was a warm hum at the base of his spine, curling lazily around his ribs like it was purring.

Somewhere in the quiet of the room, he heard Dax moving, dressing, drying his hair, and fastening something metallic with decisive clicks. The embodiment of a man who had just committed a war crime and would now attend a meeting as if nothing had happened.

Chris forced his eyes open.

Dax stood near the mirror, sliding the gold clasp onto the high collar of his formal jacket. His hair was mostly dry, slicked back in a way that made him look royal and lethal and in absolutely no distress. His skin held a faint flush, his jaw still shadowed with signs of earlier abandon, but otherwise?

Perfect.

A king preparing for his council in fifteen minutes.

A man who had just...

Chris groaned and buried his face in the pillow.

Dax caught the movement in the reflection and smiled softly, with a warmth that reached the corners of his eyes. He stepped away from the mirror and came to the foot of the bed.

Chris did not uncover his face.

"Are you alive?" Dax asked gently.

Chris responded into the pillow. "No."

Chris felt the mattress dip near his hip, the warmth of Dax’s body at the edge of the bed, and, much to his horror and no surprise, the unmistakable shift in the air that meant Dax was still far from composed.

Chris didn’t lift his head from the pillow. He didn’t dare. He could feel the stare. That heavy, molten, predator-still-hungry stare.

Dax let out a soft exhale, low and controlled in a way that did nothing to hide the heat simmering beneath it. "Chris," he said again, quieter, as though coaxing a startled animal. "Look at me."

Chris made a noise that could have meant ’no,’ or ’go away,’ or ’bury me alive, that would be easier than this.’

Dax leaned down a little, voice dipping even lower, the edges roughened by restraint that seemed to be holding on by a single, trembling thread. "...Please?"

Against his will, because the universe hated him, Chris lifted his head.

And immediately regretted it.

Dax was not composed. Not even close.

His pupils were blown wide, flooding his violet irises with darkness. His collar was fastened perfectly, but the top button strained just slightly over the rise and fall of his breath. The long lines of his body were controlled, yes, but in the rigid, barely-leashed way of a man actively keeping himself from climbing back into a bed he absolutely did not trust himself around.

And the way he looked at Chris... Gods.

Chris felt heat crawl up his neck. "Dax," he warned, voice still hoarse.

"Yes?"

Dax’s tone was pure velvet and sin.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you’re about to..." Chris gestured vaguely with one limp hand, "do things."

A gentle huff of air, almost a laugh. Almost.

Not quite enough to cool anything.

"I am about to do things," Dax murmured, getting closer, his hand sliding to Chris’s ankle in a touch far too gentle to match the look in his eyes. "I am about to walk into a meeting while still thinking about you in this bed, flushed and warm and wearing nothing but a towel that looks ready to fall off if I breathe too hard."

Chris yanked his leg back under the towel. "No. No, you’re not thinking about anything. You’re thinking about the meeting with Dr. Bird..." He stilled and side-eyed the king.

"Are you in a rut?"

Chris watched Dax carefully, suspicion sharpening through the remaining haze of exhaustion. Dax’s pupils were blown wide, his breathing uneven, and his posture rigid, but rut was dangerous, rut was unpredictable, and rut was something Dax had promised would never happen without consent.

So if this wasn’t rut...

Then Dax was simply like this. Like that.

Dax blinked once, slowly, as if personally offended by the question.

"No," he said, flat and decisive. "I’m not in rut."

Chris squinted at him. "Really?"

"Yes."

"You’re sure?"

"Yes."

"You’re absolutely sure?"

Dax leaned forward, closing the space between them until Chris could feel the heat of him against his shin. His voice dropped to a low, rough murmur that vibrated straight down Chris’s spine.

"Chris," he said slowly, "if I were in rut, you would not be conscious right now."

Chris choked on air. "That is, in no way, reassuring!"

Dax didn’t even pretend to be apologetic.

He sat up straighter, exhaling once through his nose like he was trying to force reason back into his bloodstream. "I am not in rut," he repeated. "I am on suppressants. Strong ones. You know that."

"Suppressants," Chris muttered, gesturing vaguely at the very visible evidence of Dax’s enthusiasm, "do not look like they’re... working."

Dax glanced down at himself, then back up at Chris with a mixture of pride and helplessness. "Suppressants prevent breeding instincts. Not desire."

"That is actually much worse," Chris said, shoving his face back into the pillow. "So you’re just like this? Naturally? Always?"

"Yes," Dax replied without hesitation. "When it comes to you."

Chris kicked his feet under the towel like an indignant toddler. "Unfair."

Dax leaned closer, bracing both hands on the bed beside Chris’s hips, effectively caging him without touching him. His breath warmed the back of Chris’s neck.

"Chris," he murmured, voice sinking even lower, "I’m trying to go."

"You’re not trying hard enough."

Dax made a low, frustrated sound that had no business being as attractive as it was. "You don’t understand what you look like."

"Yes, I do," Chris said from under the pillow. "Wet. Exhausted. Nearly paralyzed. Like someone who should be left alone."

Dax’s hand slid to the small of Chris’s back, his thumb brushing bare skin above the towel.

"You look," Dax said, "like the reason I am going to walk into a formal council meeting in a state no king should ever be in."

Chris lifted his head an inch and glared. "Have some self-control!"

"I used all of it," Dax replied, "on you. In the shower."

Chris’s ears burned so hot he could feel the heat in his scalp. "We have duties," he insisted, grabbing desperately at the last thread of sanity left in the room. "You have a council meeting. I have training. Someone has to be the logical one."

"I agree," Dax said, leaning even closer. "And it should not be you."

"Why?"

"Because you’re lying on a bed wearing nothing but a towel," Dax growled. "Logic is gone."

Chris slapped his shoulder, because touching him was a terrible idea, but letting him stand there with that look was even worse.

"Dax, Meeting. Now."

Dax closed his eyes like the words physically hurt him. He stayed frozen for three full seconds, tension rolling through him like a live wire...

Then finally, painfully, he straightened. He smoothed out his jacket, adjusted his collar, and breathed deeply through his nose.

He looked at Chris one last time, gaze still molten.

"I will be back."

"Not like this you won’t," Chris shot back, tugging the towel tighter.

Dax hesitated at the door, jaw tense, breathing harder than any man preparing for a council should be.

Then he muttered, under his breath, with the defeated misery of a king in love:

"This is agony."

Chris flopped back into the pillows, both aroused and deeply exasperated.

"Welcome to marriage," he muttered.

The bond purred.

Chris groaned into the sheets.