Chapter 88: Luxury edition

Chapter 88: Chapter 88: Luxury edition


Chris woke to the faint light that slipped through the curtains, painting soft lines across the room. For a moment, he didn’t move. His body was warm, heavy with a safe feeling he couldn’t explain, and it took a slow, bewildered heartbeat to realize why.


He was pressed against Dax.


The alpha’s arm was draped over him, heavy and protective, his breath a steady rhythm against Chris’s hair. The scent was unmistakable: spice, with faint traces of wine still clinging to his skin. The kind of scent that settled deep, that made the air itself feel heavier.


Chris stared at the expanse of Dax’s chest in front of him, the rise and fall of it, the quiet power even in rest. He should’ve moved. He should’ve pulled away. But his body didn’t seem to understand that, every instinct, every nerve still raw from being off suppressants, leaned into the heat beside him like it was gravity.


He blinked, slow and careful, his mind catching up to what his body already knew. The sheets were soft, cool where they weren’t touching skin, and the faint morning light made the edges of the room blur.


Dax shifted in his sleep, just barely, his hand flexing against Chris’s waist before settling again. The motion drew Chris’s breath to a halt. His pulse tripped once, twice, then steadied, too loud in the quiet room. He told himself to move, to reclaim the inch of space between them, but the thought dissolved the moment Dax exhaled, warm breath brushing against the back of his neck.


’You’re ridiculous,’ Chris thought. ’This is the part where you get up, not melt.’


But he didn’t.


The heat coming off the alpha was a steady, grounding thing that made his boy soft and pliant. The scent of him, that sharp blend of spice and storm, wrapped around Chris like a slow-moving tide. It wasn’t even that his body wanted to stay; it was that every cell in him remembered what safety felt like and didn’t want to give it back.


’Why am I so stubborn?’ He asked himself while getting used to the feeling. ’Dax is respecting my boundaries... Well, not all of them, but what matters.’


He exhaled quietly, trying not to move too much. The last thing he needed was to wake the walking embodiment of temptation behind him.


’You should get up,’ he told himself. ’Go. Shower. Do something productive. Don’t just... marinate here like some kind of pampered housecat.’



But the thought evaporated the moment Dax’s fingers twitched against his hip again, just a reflex, probably, but it sent a current down his spine anyway. His pulse tripped over itself, and he hated how easily his body responded, like it had been waiting for permission.


"Perfect," he muttered under his breath. "Stockholm Syndrome, deluxe edition."


He should’ve moved. That was the logical thing to do. Get up, and go stand somewhere that wasn’t six inches from a man who could make his bones melt with a look. But the moment he tried, Dax’s hand flexed AGAIN against his hip, just slightly, like his body already knew Chris was thinking about leaving.


Chris froze.


’He’s asleep,’ he told himself. ’Definitely asleep. Probably. Please just... stay that way.’


He stayed still in the end. The smart part of him, the one that had survived years of pretending to be a beta, was screaming about boundaries, control, and the long list of reasons this was a bad idea. The rest of him, the newly unmuted, pheromone-confused disaster of an omega, just wanted to sink back into the warmth and pretend the world didn’t exist.


And damn it, the world did feel better like this.


He hated that. The quiet hum in the air wasn’t suffocating anymore. His skin wasn’t crawling. Even the light filtering through the curtains felt softer, like everything that had been clawing at him for days had suddenly been turned down a few notches.


He frowned into the pillow. "Oh no. You’re not going to tell me this is therapy."


Because it was, wasn’t it? Dax’s stupid scent, that steady presence, the way he could make the chaos in Chris’s brain shut up with a single look... it was working. He was the reason everything felt bearable again. Which was... terrifying. And deeply annoying.


’I survived nine years on suppressants,’ he thought, bitter. ’And now my nervous system’s held together by one overgrown alpha and his soap.’


He risked a glance over his shoulder. Dax looked infuriatingly peaceful, with white-blonde hair a mess, jaw relaxed, and full lips curved just slightly. Like he hadn’t almost lost control last night. Like he hadn’t stopped when he could’ve taken everything.


Chris swallowed. His chest tightened. The memory hit him harder than expected... the heat, the weight, the way Dax’s voice had dropped when he said ’alright.’ It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.


He’d seen power before. Cruel, cold, transactional power. But this was different. Dax didn’t need to take. He just was. And when he’d pulled back, when he’d chosen not to, something inside Chris had cracked in the most inconvenient way.


’Don’t fall for that,’ he warned himself. ’That’s how people die in tragic palace romances. You fall for the king, he ruins your life, and then a choir sings about it.’


But even as he thought it, he didn’t move.


Because the truth was, he trusted Dax. Or at least, he was starting to. And that realization was more dangerous than anything else.


He sighed softly, closing his eyes again. "Fine. You win," he whispered under his breath, too quiet to wake him. "But if you break my heart, I’m haunting you."


Dax didn’t answer, still asleep, probably, but his arm tightened just slightly around Chris’s waist.


Chris groaned. "Oh, for fuck’s sake."



Dax had awoken long before the first light hit the curtains; he barely needed sleep to rest, and he was usually already at work, but not today.


The steady warmth pressed against his chest told him everything he needed to know. Chris, his stubborn, sharp-tongued, impossible omega, was still there. Breathing evenly. Wrapped in his arms. Not fighting him.


For a man who had lived half his life surrounded by silence, war rooms, and fear, that single truth felt like the rarest kind of peace.


He’d meant to get up hours ago, go through the reports, and prepare for the departure to Rohan, but somewhere between the quiet rhythm of Chris’s breathing and the faint hum of the palace’s morning systems, the urgency had drained from him. Instead, he stayed still, listening.


And then Chris started talking.


At first, it was just muttering, barely audible, the kind of words people let slip when they think no one’s listening. Dax almost smiled. Then came the sighs, the sarcasm, and the whispered confessions that hit like a blow he didn’t expect.


’Stockholm Syndrome, luxury edition.’


Dax had to bite back a laugh. Gods, he loved this man’s mouth.


But then the words changed. The humor softened. Beneath it, there was something else... something raw and careful. A quiet line of thought about safety, about trust, about him.


Dax didn’t breathe for a full minute. He didn’t dare.