Chapter 76: Chapter 76: Good job, Malek.
"Relieved," Chris echoed, suspicious.
"That you’re finally living in your own skin," Dax said.
Chris opened his mouth, then closed it again. The retort that should’ve come never did; his throat had gone dry. The warmth in the air pulsed again, subtle and restrained, but it was there, pressing softly against the edge of his senses like an invitation he didn’t know how to refuse.
He turned away before his thoughts could betray him. "You should go before I melt into the carpet."
"I’ll wait in the corridor," Dax said, his voice still quiet, still too steady for how much control it carried. "Take your time."
When he left, the air lightened, though not entirely. Chris exhaled shakily, fingers curling against the sheets.
’You’re finally living in your own skin.’
The words shouldn’t have mattered, but they did. They lodged under his ribs, uncomfortably close to hope.
’I’m so easy. Falling in love in less than a week. Good job Malek.’
Chris dragged both hands down his face, as if he could wipe the thought away.
It didn’t work.
The scent still lingered, faint, smoky, and maddening, and so did the echo of Dax’s voice. The bastard had left it there like a signature, as though even his absence needed to occupy space.
He groaned and flopped back against the mattress. "Fantastic. Now I’m hallucinating emotional depth. Next I’ll start journaling."
The ceiling offered no sympathy. Neither did Rowan’s muffled voice from the sitting room, murmuring something to the staff. The world was still loud, every sound threading through his bare senses: footsteps down the corridor, the shift of fabric, and the distant rhythm of doors opening and closing somewhere in the east wing. He’d forgotten what unfiltered felt like. It was too much. It was everything.
And underneath all of it, that stupid, warm line of thought kept pulsing through him.
You’re finally living in your own skin.
He rolled onto his side, groaning again. "That’s not fair," he muttered into the pillow. "You don’t get to say things like that with a face like yours."
No response, obviously. But if he closed his eyes, he could picture the exact shade of violet that voice came with, the way Dax had looked at him with that infuriating certainty of a man that had everything at his fingertips.
It made his stomach twist in that dangerous, traitorous way. The kind that meant trouble.
He exhaled sharply, forcing his mind back into its usual rhythm of sarcasm and survival. "Right. Get up, don’t faint, and don’t flirt with monarchy. Easy list. Totally manageable."
His feet hit the floor. The rug was soft, warm, and tickling. He stood, swaying a little as his balance adjusted. Every heartbeat still hummed against the edges of Dax’s scent, faint but persistent, like the ghost of heat after a storm.
"Loud world," he whispered, testing the words on his tongue. They tasted like surrender and salt. "I hate it already."
From the corridor came the softest knock; it was Rowan again, patient as ever.
"Five minutes, Your Highness," he called through the door.
Chris sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "If I survive this appointment, I’m writing a book. How to Fall Apart Gracefully.
Forward by the man who caused it."He didn’t expect an answer, but the faint rumble of laughter that echoed from the corridor told him someone had heard.
And of course, it was Dax.
—
The ride down to the clinic wing passed in a haze of motion and filtered light. By the time the elevator doors slid open, the scent of antiseptic and polished metal was already making Chris’s skin crawl. Everything was too sharp, the air conditioning bit cold against his wrists, and the hum of machinery was loud enough to drill into his skull.
Rowan walked half a step ahead, his steady voice murmuring greetings to the staff that turned as they passed. Chris focused on the rhythm of his shoes against the marble, counting each sound until it almost drowned out the rest. Almost.
Then the scent hit him.
Not antiseptic this time. Something darker. Familiar.
He looked up, and there was Dax.
The king stood near the wide observation window that overlooked the clinic hall, a figure carved in contrast: dark attire cut with military precision, the weight of a gold-patterned drape trailing from one shoulder like sunlight tethered to shadow. His hair caught the overhead light, silver-blond and impossibly immaculate, but it was the stillness that struck Chris, the controlled poise of someone born to command both war rooms and coronations.
It would have been easier if Dax looked like a tyrant. Instead, he looked like temptation wrapped in civility.
Rowan cleared his throat softly. "Your Majesty. The patient’s ready."
Dax’s gaze flicked from the reports in his hand to Chris, and for a split second the composure faltered, just long enough for something warm to spark in his eyes. "Good," he said quietly. "Bring him in."
The words shouldn’t have felt like anything, but they did. They brushed along Chris’s skin like a second pulse. He squared his shoulders, pretending not to feel it, and stepped inside.
The clinic’s lighting was too white, too clean. A physician, young, alert, and smelling faintly of saline and lavender, approached with a polite bow. "We’ll begin with the baseline vitals, then proceed with the gland scan. His system’s completely clear, correct?"
"Yes," Rowan said before Chris could speak.
Chris muttered, "Unfortunately."
The physician smiled as if he’d heard that a dozen times before and gestured toward the reclining examination chair. "Please sit. It’ll only take a moment."
Chris obeyed, though his nerves thrummed the second he touched the cold leather. Electrodes clicked against his skin; sensors came alive with soft beeps. His pheromones were a ghost compared to the storm still echoing in Dax’s. He could feel the difference like static between two radio channels, his sharp, uncertain rhythm against the king’s steady hum.
"Heart rate’s elevated," the physician said, adjusting a dial.
"Because you’re staring at me like I’m an exotic pet," Chris muttered.
Dax’s voice came from somewhere near his shoulder, low and smooth. "Behave."
Chris turned his head just enough to meet that violet gaze. "Make me."
Rowan, somewhere behind them, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like don’t encourage him.
The physician pretended not to notice, scribbling notes on a tablet. "Cortisol remains high," he said softly. "Expected, given the suppression withdrawal. There’s also early sensitivity in the scent receptors; we’ll need to monitor that closely."
Chris shut his eyes. "Translation: everything smells too much."
"That’s accurate," the physician said, far too cheerful for someone announcing misery.
Dax folded his arms, cloak shifting against the gold embroidery. "How long until it stabilizes?"
"Difficult to say, sire. A week, perhaps two. His system needs to relearn balance. The brain adjusts last."
Chris snorted. "My brain gave up years ago."
The faintest ghost of a smile flickered across Dax’s mouth. "Then we’ll start over."
Something in the tone made the physician look up, startled. Chris didn’t look at either of them. He was too busy pretending he didn’t like the way Dax’s words settled under his skin, threading through the static until the noise didn’t seem quite so unbearable.
When the scan began, he focused on the rhythm of the machine and not the man watching from a breath away.
And for the first time that morning, the world didn’t feel as loud.