Chapter 85: Chapter 85: Lured with dessert
Dax’s mouth curved in a dashing smile that only confirmed Chris’s words. "That’s one way to name it," he said. "The military had less poetic terms. They called it strategic control."
Chris huffed a sound halfway between disbelief and a laugh. "Strategic control. That’s elegant for suffocating entire battalions."
"It saved more of my men than it killed," Dax answered, tone quiet but unflinching. "And it ends wars faster than politics ever could."
He took a slow sip of his drink, eyes never leaving Chris’s. "You think I’m proud of it."
"I think you’re used to it." Chris answered while balancing his silver spoon on the edge of the bowl.
"That too."
Chris tilted his head slightly, breaking the stare before it could become something heavier. "And you can use it anytime you want? Wouldn’t that make you a target?"
Dax’s smile lingered, but something in it cooled. "No, there is a limit; you will understand when you have yours," he said. "As for the target on my back, it was always there."
He set the glass down, fingers brushing the rim once before pulling away. "There’s always someone who wants to test the limits of a weapon they can’t control. Ministers, generals, foreign kings... they all try eventually. That’s why I never let anyone close enough to feel it."
Chris looked up at that, black eyes narrowing slightly. "And yet here I am. Sitting across from you. Breathing just fine."
"Are you?" Dax asked softly.
The question landed between them like a spark in dry air. Chris didn’t answer right away; the faint hum of the regulators filled the pause, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
"I don’t see anyone choking," Chris said at last, his tone lighter than he felt.
"No," Dax murmured, "but you would if I let go for even a moment." His gaze drifted to the faint steam curling from Chris’s bowl. "This conversation is awfully serious."
Chris’s spoon stilled mid-circle. "You started it."
"Did I?" Dax leaned back, the chair creaking softly beneath his weight. "You asked the question."
"I didn’t expect a demonstration manual as an answer." He frowns at the audacity of this man.
"Then you haven’t been paying attention," Dax said, voice low, amused again but edged with something quieter. "I don’t do half-truths when I’m this tired."
Chris hummed under his breath, neither in agreement nor in denial. "You should try them sometime. They make people less nervous."
The king’s smile returned, slow and deliberate. "You’re not nervous."
"I’m reassessing my life choices."
"Still not nervous." Dax picked up his glass again, studying the reflection of the lanterns rippling across the surface. "But you’re right. It’s too serious a night for this kind of talk."
"Which means you’re about to make it worse."
"Possibly." He set the glass down, eyes flicking back to him. "Tell me something lighter then. What do you actually do when no one’s looking? Read? Plot my assassination? Steal the staff’s desserts?"
Chris snorted despite himself. "I sleep like a cursed painting on your couch. Now my turn, what are you doing in Rohan?"
"Do you want the political answer or the real one?"
"Depends on how serious it gets again." Chris said with a low chuckle that made Dax’s eyes warm.
Dax’s mouth curved, faint but genuine this time. "Political answer: trade negotiations, infrastructure inspections, and a string of border meetings where too many men pretend they know logistics better than they do." He rolled his shoulders slightly, as if trying to shed the weight of the title clinging to him. "Real answer? The southern routes are failing. Fuel costs have tripled in the past quarter, and the smaller provinces are already rationing heat."
Chris blinked. That wasn’t the kind of statement Dax usually gave without press waiting to record it.
Dax’s gaze flicked up. "If we can secure the Rohan corridor, we cut freight time by half. Food, medicine, wages, it all moves faster and cheaper. People stop choosing between rent and light." He paused, fingers tracing the condensation on his glass. "That’s worth a few sleepless nights."
Chris watched him quietly, studying the ease with which the king spoke of it, no grand speech, no demand for recognition, just blunt practicality edged with care. It didn’t fit the man the tabloids painted: the mad, golden king who ruled by fear and whim.
"So you’re doing it to make life cheaper," he said finally, voice softer than before.
"To make it livable," Dax corrected. His tone stayed low, unembellished. "No empire survives if its people can’t afford to breathe in it."
For a moment, neither spoke. The hum of the temperature regulators filled the space between them, rhythmic and oddly grounding. Chris looked down at his bowl again, the steam curling up into the dim amber light, and for the first time that evening, he didn’t feel like arguing.
"You could’ve just said you care about them," he muttered.
"I could have," Dax said, a trace of amusement threading through his exhaustion. "But that would’ve sounded suspicious coming from me."
Chris smiled despite himself. "You’re infuriating."
"So I’ve been told," Dax murmured. "Usually right before people stop pretending they don’t trust me."
He leaned back slightly, eyes softening as they met Chris’s. "Don’t mistake me for a saint, Christopher. I just know the numbers. And I’ve seen what happens when they turn red for too long."
"Hmm... I could trust you more if I got more dessert." Chris said, eyeing the still untouched dessert in front of Dax.
Dax’s gaze followed his, then drifted back with quiet amusement. "You can’t eat sugar yet," he said. "Doctor’s orders."
"Doctor’s orders also said I shouldn’t be walking around," Chris replied, tipping his head slightly, voice soft but challenging. "And yet, here I am. Miraculously upright."
"That’s because I didn’t let you walk farther than the dining room," Dax countered.
Chris hummed, pretending to study the dessert in front of Dax, layers of pastry, honey, and something dusted green at the edges. "Then consider this physical therapy."
"You had soup," Dax reminded him. "You survived two whole spoons without complaint. That’s progress."
"I’ll file it under character development."
A faint smile ghosted over Dax’s mouth before he reached for the untouched dessert, sliding the plate between them. "If you’re so determined to test limits," he said, his tone dropping to something almost coaxing, "you can have it upstairs. Fewer witnesses when you faint again."
Chris’s eyes narrowed. "That’s manipulation."
"That’s logistics," Dax corrected, rising from his chair. His height filled the space easily, his voice dipping into that warm, commanding register that made everything sound like an order dressed as a suggestion. "Come on, little moon. You’ll get your dessert and a couch that isn’t trying to murder your spine."
"I’m not tired."
"I didn’t say you were," Dax murmured, stepping around the table to stand behind him. The faint brush of his hand against Chris’s shoulder was too casual to be accidental. "But I’ll feel better if you rest somewhere I can keep an eye on you."
Chris looked up at him, expression caught somewhere between suspicion and something softer. "You’re using dessert to get me into bed."
"Correct," Dax said without shame. "And it’s working."
He took the spoon from in front of Chris, holding it out like a promise. "Upstairs?"
Chris hesitated, then sighed, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "If I die of sugar shock, it’s your fault."
"I’ll take the blame," Dax said, offering his hand. "Gladly."
And when Chris finally took it, the king’s grip was steady and warm enough to make the thought of returning to the suite feel a little less like manipulation and a little more like home.