CHAPTER 196: CHAPTER 196: THE KING IS BACK

The door to their private wing slid open with a dignified hiss, a stark, almost comical contrast to the chaos Chris was left behind in bed.

And Dax stepped out, not as the molten, post-bond disaster Chris had been wrestling into self-control minutes ago.

Not the shameless, hungry, "this is agony" king who had nearly cancelled national duties for round two.

No.

This was King Dax Altera and his expression was carved from royal stone.

Every trace of earlier feral heat was locked away like it had been a hallucination.

Rowan, who had been leaning on the opposite wall looking like a man whose soul had left his body three times today alone, snapped to attention so fast he choked on nothing.

"Majesty...!" Rowan squeaked, immediately regretting the pitch of his own voice.

Dax paused mid-stride and turned his head.

Rowan froze.

Because Dax’s eyes were no longer blown wide with hunger or glazed with post-shower delirium. They were sharp, violet, and cold, layered with that calm, lethal authority that once made a foreign diplomat faint.

"...Rowan," Dax said.

"You..."

Rowan swallowed hard.

"You..." he tried again, voice stabilizing, "you look normal."

It came out like an accusation.

Dax raised one eyebrow. "I am normal."

Rowan stared at him with the expression of a man who had definitely heard something deeply intimate through a sound-sealed door and would never emotionally recover from it.

"...Majesty," Rowan said slowly, "five minutes ago you sounded like you were wrestling a divine beast in there."

Dax didn’t blink. "I don’t know what you’re referring to."

Rowan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

A silent debate unfolded in his eyes:

’Tell the truth and die?’

’Lie and live?’

’Choose chaos and hope the gods intervene?’

He settled on chaos.

Dax stared at Rowan.

Rowan stared back, eyes wide, soul half-floating out of his body like a startled ghost.

"I’m not deleting another surveillance footage," Rowan blurted, hands flying up as if defending himself from an accusation no one made. "Please, for the love of God, stay off the balcony this time."

A muscle in Dax’s jaw twitched.

"Rowan," he said very slowly, every syllable the exact weight of a warning, "there is no surveillance footage."

"There would have been," Rowan hissed, leaning forward, "if I hadn’t sprinted down the hall like a man escaping divine judgment and manually shut off every external feed in a three-room radius."

Dax blinked. Once. "That was unnecessary."

"Unnecessary?" Rowan choked. "Majesty, I heard noises. Noises. Things that rearranged my understanding of human anatomy."

Dax exhaled calmly. "Rowan. You heard nothing."

Rowan pointed at his own ear. "This ear heard EVERYTHING."

"You heard nothing," Dax repeated, tone dropping an octave.

A long beat.

Rowan cleared his throat, tugged his jacket straight, and reset his posture like a soldier being reloaded.

"...I heard nothing," he recited obediently.

"Good."

"But," Rowan whispered, leaning closer, "if you lean Chris over a balcony rail again, I’m calling Killian. And a priest. And maybe an engineer because the railing won’t survive it."

Dax closed his eyes for a single, pained second that looked very much like a man counting backward from ten.

Then he spoke, clipped and regal.

"I have no intention of returning to the balcony with Chris."

Rowan nodded hard. "Good. Perfect. Great. Therapy saved."

"But," Dax added, eyes opening in that slow, terrifying way kings do when they are remembering something delicious, "I make no promises about walls."

Rowan made a small, strangled noise and slapped a hand over his own mouth.

"I’ll just... shut up now," he mumbled behind his fingers.

"Yes," Dax agreed.

Rowan dropped his hand and straightened once more. "Where to, Majesty?"

"Council room," Dax replied, all lethal grace again as he stepped down the corridor. "We are late."

Rowan glanced at the closed door behind them, behind which Chris was almost certainly face-down in a towel regretting his life choices, then hurried after the king like a man bracing for the next cosmic catastrophe.

"Understood," Rowan said, falling into step. "But just to confirm, you are currently stable, logical, and..."

Dax cut Rowan a sideways glance, the kind of glance that reminded everyone, bonded, blissed-out, or borderline feral, that he was still a king forged out of discipline and lethal composure. The look froze Rowan mid-sentence and mid-breath, his spine straightening as though someone had pulled a string.

They walked ten more steps down the long marble corridor before the soft echo of approaching footsteps signaled reinforcements.

Killian rounded the far corner first, immaculate as always, mantle crisp, expression polished to a professional neutrality that could intimidate half a senate. Three steps behind him was Andrew, taller, broader, with that steady, assessing calm only the Chief of Security carried in his bones.

The moment the two men saw Dax, they fell into step without a word, Killian on his right, Andrew on his left, like dutiful shadows sliding into their natural orbit.

"Majesty," Killian greeted softly, giving a small bow of the head that radiated respect without theatrics.

"Sir," Andrew added, voice low, his eyes flicking briefly over Dax’s posture, checking for tension, irregularity... or signs that the king might still be seconds away from sprinting back into the private wing like a man possessed.

Whatever he saw must have reassured him or terrified him, because Andrew’s shoulders stiffened another degree.

"You’re late," Killian said in that perfectly neutral tone that somehow managed to sound like a reprimand from the heavens themselves.

"I am aware," Dax replied coolly, not breaking stride.

Andrew’s brows drew together, just slightly. "Is the consort safe?"

Rowan choked.

Dax didn’t even blink. "He is resting."

Rowan made a noise like someone trying not to scream.

Killian cleared his throat, as if sensing the atmosphere needed stabilizing before Rowan had a full cardiac event. "Dr. Bird has arrived and is already preparing the materials for review with Secretary Tyler Bell."

"Good," Dax said, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with calm movements, far calmer than any man who had been a disaster ten minutes earlier had any right to be.

They continued through the long hallway in practiced formation, the king in the center, Rowan slightly behind on the left, Killian on the right, and Andrew just behind and to the rear, a perfect triangle of protection and authority.

But Rowan, because he was Rowan and life had broken him into a permanently unhinged creature, leaned slightly toward Killian and whispered:

"He’s stable."

Killian didn’t look at him. "He is the king. He is always stable."

Rowan gave him the dead-eyed stare of a man who had personally heard evidence to the contrary through a supposedly sound-sealed door.

Andrew, ever perceptive, glanced at Rowan. "What happened?"

Rowan shook his head violently. "Don’t ask. Do not ask. If you ask, I’ll have to remember."

Andrew’s jaw twitched. "Understood."

Killian exhaled through his nose. "Majesty," he said once they neared the large double doors of the council room, "before we enter, do you require any adjustments to the schedule given your... delay?"

Rowan subtly flailed behind them in a silent panic.

Dax answered with the kind of regal calm that would later make Chris swear he must be part god.

"No adjustments," he said. "Proceed as planned."

He lifted his chin, shoulders straightening into flawless royal posture. By the time he reached the council doors, every trace of earlier chaos had been buried, locked, and cemented beneath the impenetrable armor of the crown.

Killian stepped ahead to open the door.

Andrew held his position behind him, posture alert.

Rowan whispered a prayer.

And King Dax Altera walked into the council chamber like he hadn’t spent the last thirty minutes being the reason Chris was face-down in a towel rethinking every decision he had ever made.