CHAPTER 220: CHAPTER 220: CLINGY KING AND DIPLOMATIC DINNERS.

Dax froze for half a beat, like Chris had short-circuited whatever royal self-control he pretended to possess, then he kissed back with quiet, hungry relief like a man who had been waiting far too long for something this simple.

Chris’s fingers curled at the back of Dax’s neck, pulling him in just a little more. Dax followed instantly, hands sliding up Chris’s ribs, holding him like he was afraid the moment might vanish if he didn’t anchor it properly.

The kiss stayed soft, slow, and warm in a way that made Chris’s chest feel uncomfortably tight.

When they finally pulled apart, Dax breathed out like someone who had been underwater.

"...Christopher," he whispered, voice low and wrecked, "if you do that again, I’m going to forget every meeting today."

Chris snorted, forehead leaning against his. "You already forgot them."

"Correct," Dax admitted, lips brushing his lightly again. "Give me another and I’ll cancel the entire schedule."

Chris laughed under his breath. "Absolutely not."

Dax gathered him closer anyway, his hands settling back at Chris’s waist as if they belonged there. "Then don’t kiss me like that," he murmured, voice a warm growl. "I can’t think when you do."

Chris rolled his eyes but didn’t move away. "You never think when I do."

The universe, naturally, chose that exact moment to break the peace.

The door opened with the soft precision of a man who had seen too much, survived too much, and truly did not want to be here for this.

Killian stepped inside, stopped dead, closed his eyes, and mouthed something that was probably a silent prayer or a profanity.

"Your Majesty," he said carefully, like he was approaching a volatile magical artifact, "your next appointment is waiting."

Dax didn’t even twitch.

Killian tried again. "Your Majesty."

Nothing.

Chris jabbed Dax lightly in the ribs. "He’s talking to you, oh mighty short-term-amnesiac."

Dax reluctantly lifted his head, clearly seconds away from hissing like a cornered dragon. "What."

Killian did not flinch. Long life had beaten the fear out of him years ago. Well, he wasn’t afraid of this version of the King.

"You have a briefing with the Trade Council in fifteen minutes," Killian recited. "And after that, Consort Malek has his weekly medical check-up with Nadia and Dr. Bird regarding the microdose adjustments."

Chris blinked. "That’s today?"

Killian nodded. "As every week, Consort. The dosage increases have to be monitored precisely. Nadia reminded me that missing an appointment is not an option." He paused. "Her exact wording was ’unless the king wants to never see his mate’s heat.’"

Chris groaned. "God, she’s so dramatic. I’m fine."

"It is not fine," Dax said, voice dropping into that low, territorial place that made Killian look briefly at the ceiling for strength. "Killian, make sure he gets there in time."

"I’m not a child, I promised I would go. Will I see you at dinner?" Chris asked, trying to peel himself from the territorial dominant alpha.

Dax didn’t budge. If anything, his grip tightened like Chris had just suggested crossing a battlefield alone. "No, I’ve sacrificed it for this breakfast; I have a diplomatic dinner..."

Chris blinked. "You... what?"

Dax finally loosened his hold just enough to look him in the face, purple eyes cool, a little guilty, and a little stubborn. "They moved the negotiations up because of the Maleks’ early arrival. I had to take the dinner." Then, more gently, "But it’s diplomatic enough that you belong there."

Chris didn’t argue. He just let out a long, resigned sigh remembering the dossier he was reading the other day.

He rubbed a hand over his face. "Right. Yeah. That’s part of the job."

Dax watched him carefully, as if waiting for annoyance or fear or refusal. Instead, Chris just shrugged lightly. "I’ll attend."

Dax’s shoulders eased just enough to be noticeable. "Good. I didn’t want to leave you alone while the Maleks are here."

Chris shot him a flat look. "You weren’t going to leave me alone. You freed your entire schedule just to stalk me through breakfast."

Dax didn’t even deny it. "Yes."

Killian pinched the bridge of his nose in the background.

Chris huffed a tired laugh and shook his head. "Fine. Diplomatic dinner. I’ll be there."

Dax softened instantly. "With me."

"Obviously," Chris murmured, already mentally rearranging his afternoon. "That’s what consorts do."

"And what my consort does," Dax added, tugging him back in for one last, stubborn, possessive touch to his waist, "is sit beside me."

Chris gave him a look that said you’re impossible, but he didn’t pull away. Because, well... this was the life he had agreed to.

Killian clapped his hands once, all business. "Excellent. Your Majesty, briefing. Consort, medical wing. Let’s get through today without medical or political emergencies, please."

Chris sighed again, but this time it carried a hint of a smile.

"Lead the way, Rowan," he muttered as he stepped in the hall.

—

By the time evening settled over the palace, Chris felt... mostly normal.

Nadia had prodded, poked, lectured, raised an eyebrow at his sarcasm, and finally declared his body was "adjusting predictably," which for her meant acceptable and for Chris meant surprisingly not terrible.

Rowan had escorted him back with the same silent vigilance he always used when Chris looked a little pale after appointments. The man hovered just close enough to leap into action but far enough that Chris didn’t feel smothered.

Now it was nearly time for the diplomatic dinner.

Chris stood in front of the tall mirror in his room, adjusting the lapels of his black suit with subtle Sahan crests at the cuffs. He looked... official, capable, and a little tired. But very much like someone who belonged beside a king.

"You look good," Rowan said from his post near the door, voice even.

Chris glanced at him in the mirror. "You legally have to say that. You’re my guard."

Rowan’s mouth barely twitched. "No, Consort. If you looked bad, I’d tell you to fix it before the newspapers did."

Chris snorted. "Comforting."

Rowan stepped forward and offered a discreet nod. "If you’re ready, we should head to the East Wing dining hall. His Majesty is coming from the War Office. I was told his schedule today was... complicated."

Chris arched a brow. "Complicated?"

Rowan’s silence said military nightmare without using the words.

Right.

Dax had crammed three days of meetings into one because of the Maleks’ early arrival. Chris wasn’t sure how the king was still conscious.

They stepped into the corridor, Rowan walking a half-step behind and to the side. Chris could already hear the echo of servants, the soft clink of glasses being set, guards shifting positions, and the faint drone of arriving ministers.

The East Wing dining hall loomed ahead, warm light spilling through the open doors, voices murmuring inside. A formal but manageable crowd.

Rowan paused beside him. "When His Majesty enters, you’ll be seated at his right."

Chris nodded. "Standard protocol."

"And," Rowan added, lowering his voice, "half the room is aware the Maleks arrived early. They’ll be watching to see how united you and His Majesty appear."

Chris exhaled. "Great. No pressure."