Chapter 89: Chapter 89: Comfortable morning [Win-Win Bonus]
Chris thought he was asleep, and that made every word hit deeper. The self-mockery, the reluctant surrender, the quiet, whispered ’you win.’ It sank into Dax’s chest like warmth after frostbite.
He hadn’t expected this and never allowed himself to hope for it. He had spent years being the monster in the story, the king who took what he wanted and left nothing standing. But Chris didn’t see a monster. He saw a man, he saw him, Dax.
That realization scared him more than battle ever had.
Dax closed his eyes again, letting himself breathe through the ache that came with it. The scent of the room was a mix of them now: spice and rain and something faintly sweet, a note that had to be Chris. He didn’t mark him, but he showered the omega in his scent.
He could feel the tremor of Chris’s heartbeat through his arm, steady now, less frantic than the days before. The omega was getting used to his pheromones, adapting faster than anyone predicted. Dax wondered, not for the first time, what his ability would be when his body fully remembered itself. He could feel some dormant storm beneath his skin waiting to wake.
And gods, Dax wanted to be there when it did.
Chris shifted slightly, his head brushing Dax’s collarbone. The soft sound he made pulled something in Dax’s chest so tight it hurt.
He should have moved. Should have gotten up. But instead, he stayed exactly where he was, his chin resting lightly against Chris’s hair, his arm still anchored at his waist.
He could command nations, end bloodlines, and silence armies with a word, but here, he just wanted to stay still long enough to memorize this. The quiet. The warmth. The impossible reality that someone like him could be held and trusted like this.
His omega, without knowing, had just given him the one thing he hadn’t felt since childhood.
Home.
Chris exhaled in his sleep, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like "If you break my heart, I’m haunting you."
Dax’s lips curved, barely a ghost of a smile. "Then I’ll never sleep again," he murmured, too quiet for even the room to keep.
He stayed like that for a few more minutes, breathing in sync, his hand rising and falling with the rhythm of Chris’s chest. The peace was fragile, the kind that belonged to moments stolen from time rather than granted by it. He let himself have it anyway.
Then, when the light began to shift, creeping brighter through the curtains, brushing against the edges of the bed like a reminder, he finally stirred.
The motion was slow, careful. He flexed his fingers once, as if testing the air, then inhaled deeply, the sound deliberate enough to pass for waking. His arm tightened instinctively around the smaller body in front of him before withdrawing, a lazy stretch following, as though nothing at all had happened before this.
Chris made a small, disgruntled sound at the sudden movement, the kind of noise that lived somewhere between a sigh and a protest. Dax almost laughed. He caught himself before it could escape.
"Morning," he said, his voice still rough from sleep, or at least, convincingly so.
Chris tensed for half a second, then shifted just enough to glance back at him. His hair was a mess, his eyes bleary, and there was that look again, the half-alert wariness of someone who’d rather bite than admit he was comfortable.
"You’re awake," Chris said flatly, as if Dax had committed a personal betrayal by existing.
"I am," Dax replied, his tone all unbothered calm and nuzzled his face in Chris’s crook of neck. "I have to prepare for Rohan."
"You sound very enthusiastic about it."
Dax hummed against his skin, the low vibration trailing down Chris’s neck like a secret. "You sound like you think I should be."
Chris tilted his head slightly, half to breathe, half to glare. "You’re the king. Isn’t that, like, part of the job description? Endless enthusiasm, dramatic speeches, inspiring terror?"
"Only on weekdays," Dax said dryly, voice still low, still too close. His breath was warm, his tone unhurried in that way that made Chris feel like time existed solely for Dax to toy with. "Rohan is... necessary."
"Translation: you’d rather be anywhere else."
"Here, for instance." Dax didn’t bother to hide the truth in that. His hand moved lazily across Chris’s hip, the touch unhurried but intentional, calming rather than possessive. "Unfortunately, my council doesn’t appreciate when I govern from bed."
Chris tried to pull back, just enough to put space between them, but the movement had barely started before a strong arm slid around his waist and stopped him cold.
"Little moon," Dax murmured, his breath warm against the shell of Chris’s ear. "If you move much, I can guarantee I’ll listen this time."
The words came out soft, almost lazy, but the weight behind them was unmistakable.
Chris froze. The faintest shift of his hips had already told him enough, Dax was hard against him, the evidence of it pressed through thin layers of fabric and heat. His throat went dry, his pulse jumping in a way he hated.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
The air seemed to thicken, heavy with pheromones, warmth, and the kind of tension that blurred every clean thought Chris had left. His pulse tripped somewhere between ’get out’ and ’don’t you dare move.’
"Noted," he managed, his voice rougher than he wanted it to be. "Staying perfectly still. Statue mode. Very regal of me."
Dax chuckled low against his skin, the sound dark and pleased, rolling through Chris’s nerves like distant thunder. "You make everything sound like mockery," he murmured. "Even when you’re trembling."
"I’m not..." Chris stopped, realizing too late that the denial came out breathless.
’Perfect. Add that to the list of humiliations: trembling statue, caught in bed with the king of Saha, trying not to combust.’
Dax shifted slightly, just enough for the movement to make its point. "You are," he said quietly. "But I’ll forgive it."
Chris’s breath caught. He didn’t need to look to know Dax was smiling, that infuriating, dangerous smile that meant he was completely in control.
"Dax," Chris said finally, voice thin but steady enough to sound like a warning. "If you’re trying to make your farewell memorable, congratulations. I’ll be traumatized for days."
The laugh that followed was quiet and unhurried, vibrating against the side of his neck. "You keep saying that word," Dax murmured, "but somehow, you never sound afraid."
"That’s because I’m too tired to be."
"Liar."