CHAPTER 214: CHAPTER 214: SURVIVAL INSTINCTS

The west wing conference suite should have been quiet at this hour.

Instead, Chris walked into what felt like a chemical weapons demonstration.

The moment the door opened, the air punched into him thick, sweet-dark, and scorching with the scent of spiced rum, threaded with electric dominance that crackled across his skin. Dax’s pheromones clung to the walls like steam from boiling tar. Even the lights felt affected, dimmed under the weight of it.

Killian slipped inside behind him, took one step in... and immediately backed out again.

"No," Killian said crisply. "Absolutely not. Consort delivered. Goodnight."

"Killian..."

"I cherish my continued existence," he said, pulling the door shut like the room was full of radiation. "Have fun."

Then he was gone. Killian never ran away from his responsibilities or danger, which meant Dax was in a dangerous mood.

Chris swallowed, eyes adjusting to the dim glow of the wall-sized diplomacy screens and the ominous sight of a ceremonial letter opener stabbed through a document labeled MALEK. FAMILY CONTACT HISTORY.

’Yeah, this is bad.’

Dax stood at the far end of the conference table, shoulders tense, posture razor-sharp. He wasn’t pacing now, he had been, clearly, but the stillness was worse.

Chris paused, blinking against the sheer force of it. "Wow. Okay. Air would be nice."

Dax turned at the sound of his voice, eyes darkening the moment he saw Chris standing there trying to breathe in his personal hurricane.

"Christopher."

Hearing his name in that tone sent a pulse through Chris’s spine he refused to acknowledge.

Dax stalked toward him, all alpha power and lethal grace, and Chris’s stupid body reacted before his brain could catch up. His shoulders loosened, his breath went shallow, and his heartbeat kicked up like it recognized its owner.

Dax stopped right in front of him, the pheromones wrapping around Chris like a hot, velvet fog.

"You were stressed," Dax said, voice rough and claiming. "I felt it from across the palace."

Chris flicked a gesture toward the drowning cloud of rum-scented dominance filling the room. "And you decided to gas the conference suite?"

Dax didn’t look even a little apologetic.

"If the room is uninhabitable for everyone except you," he said, voice low and warm against Chris’s skin, "then no one bothers us."

"That’s insane," Chris muttered.

"It’s efficient," Dax countered.

Chris tried to step back for air, but Dax followed him with ease, closing the distance again until Chris’s back met the edge of the nearest table. The heat of Dax’s pheromones seeped into him like liquid fire, curling under his skin, coaxing reactions he absolutely did not want to be having right now.

Chris exhaled sharply. "You’re doing this on purpose."

"Absolutely not," Dax said, which was the least convincing sentence he’d ever spoken. "I am perfectly composed."

Dax stopped right in front of him, the pheromones wrapping around Chris like hot velvet, suffocating and intoxicating all at once.

Chris slapped a hand over his nose. "Okay... okay. No. Absolutely not. Dax, tone it down."

Dax blinked, confused. "Tone what down?"

Chris gestured wildly. "Your pheromones! You are out here running a biological warfare simulation. Open a window before I pass out and they find my body outlined on the carpet."

Dax stared at him like Chris was being unreasonable. But he reached over, flipped the latch, and pushed the tall window open. Cool night air rushed in, cutting through the rum-heavy fog like a mercy.

The smell thinned almost instantly.

Chris sucked in a deep breath, then another. "Thank you. My brain was starting to hum like a short-circuiting transformer."

Dax frowned. "I didn’t realize it was... that strong."

Chris pointed at him. "You never realize it’s that strong. And don’t pretend you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. You basically fumigated the entire wing."

Dax gave a dignified shrug. "If the room is uninhabitable for everyone but us, no one interrupts."

"That is not a normal sentence."

"It is an effective one."

Chris groaned and slid a hand down his face. "Gods. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the Maleks stressing me out wasn’t even the worst part of this week."

Dax’s eyes sharpened. "Tell me."

Chris braced his hands behind him on the table, trying to create at least one millimeter of distance between his lungs and Dax’s pheromone hurricane. "Which part do you want first?" he muttered. "The phone call? The binder? The existential crisis?"

"All of it," Dax said, stepping close again like he hadn’t just opened a window to keep Chris conscious. "Preferably in order."

Chris threw his head back with a groan. "You are the worst person to debrief while drowning in your... atmosphere."

Dax’s brow lifted. "My atmosphere?"

"Yes," Chris snapped lightly, waving at him. "Your scent field. Your alpha fog. Your biochemical chokehold, so take your pick."

A faint, way-too-proud smile tugged at Dax’s mouth. "My biochemical chokehold?"

Chris slapped the table behind him. "Stop enjoying that."

Dax lifted his hands in mock surrender. "I’m only listening."

"And radiating," Chris muttered. "Dear god, you’re radiating."

Dax’s smile widened despite himself.

Chris groaned again. "This is ridiculous. I walked in ready to talk politics. You turned this into a pheromone sauna."

Dax finally sobered, well, mostly. "You were stressed. I felt it. I knew the Maleks had contacted Andrew, and you were trying to handle that alone."

Chris stiffened a little. "I wasn’t alone. Cressida was there."

"Cressida counts as an escalation, not support," Dax answered immediately.

Chris almost choked. "You didn’t just say that."

"I did," Dax said calmly. "And I will stand by it."

Chris scrubbed a hand over his face. "Fine. Yes. The call wasn’t great. The Maleks are coming with their old-blood arrogance, Andrew dropped the Black heir thing like a grenade, and Mia being in the same time zone as them is a threat to public infrastructure."

Dax nodded slowly. "Good. Keep going."

Chris’s eyes narrowed. "You’re very calm."

"I’m not calm," Dax said, and his voice did that low, velvety drop that meant he was absolutely lying. "I’m coping."

Chris snorted. "With aromatherapy and murder?"

"Both are effective," Dax agreed.

Chris dropped his hands, letting them rest at his sides, more resigned than angry. "They’re going to try something dumb, aren’t they?"

"Yes," Dax said without hesitation. "They will walk into this country assuming Palatine nobility outweighs your position here."

Chris gave a humorless laugh. "It doesn’t."

"No," Dax said, stepping closer again, this time slower, eyes locked on Chris like a magnetic pull. "It never did."

Chris looked up at him, chest tightening. "But if they push..."

Dax cut in, voice quiet, dangerous, and infuriatingly controlled. "If they push, they fail. Immediately."

Chris blinked. "Immediately?"

Dax nodded. "Because I do not allow anyone to stress you, much less people who weren’t there when it mattered."

Something twisted warm in Chris’s chest. "You’re taking this personally."

"I am," Dax said softly. "You’re my consort and mate. That is personal."

Chris swallowed. "Well... It’s their fault that I’ve hidden that I’m a dominant omega."

Dax’s whole body went... still, like his brain had slammed a hand over the emergency brake.

He stared at Chris, the shift in the room so sudden even the air felt aware of it. "What do you mean," he said quietly, "their fault?"

Chris hesitated. Just a second. But Dax caught it instantly, his purple eyes darkened, and his jaw tightened the way it did when he sensed something he didn’t like.

"Christopher," Dax said again, softer, but with an edge that meant ’tell me everything right now.’ "What did they do?"