CHAPTER 224: CHAPTER 224: INTOXICATING

By the time they reached the carved archway marking the start of the royal wing, Rowan’s shoulders finally loosened. The guards lining the hallway saluted quietly; Dax barely acknowledged them, too focused on Chris, who was walking like a man bracing for impact.

Once they passed the threshold of their private wing, Rowan slowed his steps, drifting back the way a man might when backing away from a sleeping dragon.

"Your Grace," he murmured to Chris in a low voice, "if you need assistance, shout. I’ll... pretend not to hear it."

Chris gave him an unimpressed look. "Thank you, Rowan. Useless as always."

Rowan bowed with theatrical dignity. "I try."

Dax didn’t even glance at him; he simply dismissed Rowan with a small flick of his fingers. "You may go."

Rowan bowed again, though this time with the air of someone retreating from a sacred ritual that he absolutely did not want to witness.

"Goodnight, Your Majesties."

He vanished down the hallway, and Chris heard him mutter, "Please don’t break the furniture."

Then it was just the two of them.

The quiet inside their private suite felt heavier, thicker, and warmer. Dax locked the door out of instinct, and Chris swallowed hard at the sound of a low metallic click that somehow made the room feel smaller.

Dax walked toward the center of the suite with the slow, measured movements of a man shedding the persona of king to reveal the mate beneath.

First came the mantle.

He unclasped the heavy golden fastenings on his shoulder, letting the regal fabric fall into his arms before setting it neatly over the back of a chair. The room seemed to lighten without its weight.

Then the outer layer of his ceremonial coat, black with gold-threaded geometric patterns. He slid it off with patience, as if peeling away the last remnants of public restraint.

Chris watched him, throat tight, trying not to show it.

Dax dropped the coat beside the mantle, revealing the fitted black shirt beneath, soft, tailored, and embroidered subtly across the chest and cuffs with golden arcs that caught the lamplight whenever he moved.

The king looked comfortable and dangerously attractive.

Chris crossed his arms, mostly to stop himself from fidgeting. "You’re... getting comfortable."

"I am," Dax said softly, finally meeting his eyes. "We are home."

Chris swallowed. "And now you want answers."

"I do."

Dax stepped close enough that Chris felt the warmth radiating from him. The king had discarded every symbol of authority except the quiet, unwavering weight of his attention.

It was almost worse than the dominance he’d shown earlier.

Dax’s voice lowered. "Now let’s test the extent of your senses."

Chris immediately held up a hand like he was stopping a large, stubborn animal from charging.

"No. We are not testing anything. I already told you. You know I could feel only your pheromones until now."

Dax stopped, but only in the physical sense. His expression did not match the act of stopping.

"Christopher," he said slowly, "you thought you felt them."

Chris frowned. "I did feel them. They are warm, familiar, and definitely bond-adjacent. Obviously yours."

Dax’s eyes softened in a way that was somehow worse than anger. "That wasn’t my pheromone signature. Not truly."

Chris blinked. "It... what?"

"Bond resonance," Dax explained. "You felt what tied us together. What your body recognized as safe. But you did not feel my actual pheromones the way another omega would."

Chris stared at him. "Are you telling me I’ve been... pheromone-blind to you this whole time?"

"Not blind," Dax corrected gently, stepping closer. "Muted. You sensed the shape of it, the warmth, and the echo of my bond on your skin, but you never reacted to me the way an omega would react to a dominant alpha’s scent. Not even when I pushed."

Chris blinked again. "Pushed?"

Dax’s voice dipped into low honesty. "I pheromone showered you multiple times. You should have been on your knees the first week you got here."

Chris made a strangled sound. "Excuse me?"

"Most omegas beg," Dax clarified, like he was discussing weather, not ruining Chris’s ability to function. "They tremble, fold, and can’t breathe around a dominant’s full scent signature."

Chris opened his mouth, closed it, and then pointed a finger at him. "And I just... wasn’t?"

"You were mildly attracted," Dax said. "Interested. You looked at me. You touched me. You kissed me. But nothing in you ever spiraled. Not once."

Chris processed that. Slowly. Painfully.

"So basically," he said, "you’re telling me that everything between us? None of it was pheromone-induced."

Dax nodded once. "You liked me because you liked me. Not because your body demanded you obey."

Chris stared at him in pure shock.

Then a grin, small, smug, and absolutely delighted, curled at his mouth.

"Well," he said, folding his arms with the pride he usually only felt in a well-organized planner, "at least you know I didn’t fall for you because my biology malfunctioned."

Dax’s lips twitched, as if fighting a smile he refused to let show. "I knew," he said quietly. "That is why I waited."

Chris blinked, startled by the weight of that truth.

Dax’s voice dropped further. "But now that your senses are waking... I want to know what my actual pheromones do to you."

Chris swatted his arm. "Dax. That sounds like a threat."

"It’s not a threat," Dax said, leaning in just a little, warmth brushing Chris’s cheek. "It’s science."

"That makes it worse."

Dax hummed, amused. "Christopher. Tell me what you sensed from Rowan. And Hale."

Chris looked away. "Rowan smelled like dessert."

Dax’s eyebrow arched. "Dessert?"

"Shut up."

"And Hale?"

"Expensive wood furniture that could commit violence," Chris muttered.

Dax stepped closer, posture easing into something predatory but patient. "And me?"

Chris hesitated, because saying it out loud felt like stepping onto a ledge with no railing.

He’d expected Dax to push, to crowd him, to overwhelm him with the weight of his presence. But instead the king simply stood there, close enough for heat to drift between them, close enough for Chris to feel his breath, but not touching.

He took in a slow breath, and the scent rose again, dark and rich. Spiced. Golden heat edging into something deeper and sinful enough to make his pulse jump each time he inhaled without meaning to.

"Dax..." Chris muttered, already annoyed that his voice sounded softer than intended.

"Christopher," Dax returned, perfectly calm on the outside, but his eyes weren’t calm at all.

Chris licked his lips, bracing himself. "You smell like... black spiced rum."

Dax did not blink.

Chris kept going because stopping now was impossible. "Warm. Strong. The type that burns if you consume too much of it too quickly. And there’s something else. Something... sharp under it. Like it could cut if I’m not careful."

He regretted the honesty the second it left his mouth.

Dax’s pupils dilated slowly, almost engulfing his purple irises.

"Black... spiced rum," he repeated, voice dropping into a place that made Chris’s knees consider giving up on life.

"It’s just a smell," Chris snapped quickly, defensive and flustered and absolutely lying to himself. "Don’t make it into some... some alpha thing."

Dax tilted his head slightly, studying him the way a predator studies movement. "So you find my scent intoxicating."

Chris nearly choked. "I did not say intoxicating!"

"You described intoxicating," Dax corrected. "You used metaphors involving consumption, addiction, and danger."

Chris made a strangled noise. "You smell like alcohol, Dax! That’s all!"