Chapter 74: Chapter 74: Bad labs
By the time the sky over the gardens had deepened to a muted amber, Chris felt the thin edge of the afternoon wearing at him. The food had taken the worst of the headache away, but it hadn’t done much for the weight in his limbs. He gathered his empty glass and stood; Rowan automatically reached for the basket and fell in beside him as they headed back toward the private wing.
"See?" Rowan said, nudging the basket with his hip. "Sunlight. Actual air. Didn’t kill you."
"Yet," Chris muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Give it time."
They had almost reached the side door when Rowan’s phone buzzed, a muted chime that broke the hush of the corridor. He glanced down at the screen; the teasing line of his mouth flattened. "Schedule for tomorrow," he said quietly.
Chris glanced sideways. "And?"
Rowan hesitated, thumb sliding over the screen. Then, without a word, he turned the device and held it out. The appointment notice sat at the top: full panel, imaging, hormone, and gland scans. Below it, attached, is the summary of his last lab work.
Chris took the phone, scanning it with quick, detached eyes. Numbers, acronyms, and flags in red. He felt his stomach tilt, but his face didn’t move. "Is it bad?" he asked at last, voice flat.
Rowan stared at him. "How are you even standing?" he said before he could stop himself. "No wonder he was dead set on the suppressants this morning. Those numbers..." He broke off and shook his head once. "Christopher..."
Chris looked away, heat creeping up the back of his neck. "Guess I’m just efficient," he muttered, trying for a joke and failing. The screen blurred a little in his hands; he handed it back to Rowan before it could slip.
Rowan tucked the phone away, still watching him with an expression Chris couldn’t read, part exasperation, part reluctant admiration. "You shouldn’t even be walking around," he said, quieter now. "And you’re cracking jokes."
Chris gave a small, awkward shrug. "What else am I supposed to do?"
The corridor was quiet again. Marta’s voice drifted faintly from somewhere deeper in the wing. Chris kept walking, suddenly very aware of his own thin wrists and the weight of Rowan’s gaze on him.
—
Later, alone in the rooms Dax had given him, the numbers refused to leave his head. They lined up behind his eyelids like tiny soldiers, all flagged red: iron, folate, and cortisol. Severe deficiency. Chronic use. Dependency. Lovely bedtime reading. He had known he was tired, had felt it in his bones, but seeing it rendered in clinical ink was a different sort of punch. A neat medical translation of ’you’re a wreck,’ and now the king had the translation too.
He lay on his side, staring at the faint glow of the clock on the nightstand. Everything out here was hushed. Marta had gone quiet, and Rowan had disappeared into whatever corner he vanished to at night. The palace was asleep. All except, of course, the man who ran it.
He could picture Dax perfectly without trying: sleeves rolled, collar open, hair falling over his brow, pen moving like a weapon over paper. Probably with a glass of something strong next to him, because of course he could survive on ink and adrenaline alone. ’And they call me the unhealthy one,’ Chris thought, lips quirking despite himself.
He should roll over, close his eyes, and let it go. Pretend the scan tomorrow wasn’t looming, pretend the man who had just wiped blood off his hands hours ago wasn’t now drafting a rescue plan. That would be sensible. Sensible and silent. He was good at that.
His hand was already reaching for the phone. ’Don’t,’ he told himself, thumb hovering over the call button. ’Don’t be the idiot who calls the king to nag him about sleep. Don’t give him another opening.’
He pressed anyway.
The line clicked once before it connected. A low, rough voice: "Christopher?"
Chris shut his eyes. ’Well, congratulations. You’ve just become that idiot.’ Aloud he said, "Are you planning to not sleep again?" The words came out softer than he’d meant, halfway between a question and a rebuke.
There was a beat of silence on the other end. Then Dax’s laugh, a low, surprised huff. "Caught me," he murmured. "Should I take that as an order?"
Chris snorted quietly into the pillow. ’Yes, Your Majesty, consider it a royal decree from your malnourished hostage.’ "Take it however you want," he said. "Just don’t collapse before tomorrow."
Another pause. "Are you in bed?" Dax asked, voice quieter.
"Yes," Chris said, and hated how it sounded, too domestic, too much like an answer a lover would give. ’Perfect,’ he thought. ’Now he’s picturing me tucked in while he signs decrees. My humiliation is complete.’
"Good," Dax murmured. "Stay there. I’ll come by when I’m finished."
The line went dead. Chris stared at the phone a long moment before setting it back on the nightstand. The palace was still quiet, but the numbers behind his eyelids had lost some of their bite, replaced by the image of violet eyes warming in the sun. ’Brilliant. You’ve just invited a seven-foot king with a murder towel into your bedroom. You’re a genius, Christopher.’ He pulled the blanket over his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched anyway.
—
The palace had long since fallen silent. Even the guards outside the wing were just shadows against the paneled walls, their boots barely whispering on the marble. Dax’s stride was soundless as he crossed the last stretch of corridor, sleeves rolled down, folders finally left on his desk. The faint scent of ink and soap still clung to his skin.
He let himself into the suite without knocking. The sitting room was dark, the laptop closed on the low table like a sealed wound. Beyond the half-open door, the bedroom glowed faintly from the lamp left on its lowest setting.
Chris was curled on his side, one arm thrown across the pillow, hair a dark slash against the sheets. The phone lay on the nightstand where he’d left it, screen dark. His breathing was slow, a little uneven from exhaustion but steady enough to soothe.
Dax stopped at the threshold, the warmth under his ribs sharpening. This was the first time all day Chris had been completely unguarded; no glare, nor thin jokes. Just a too-thin body under a blanket, the edges of his face softened by sleep.
He moved closer, quiet as a big animal, until he could see the faint hollows at Chris’s temples, the bruised shadows under his eyes. The lab numbers from John’s report flickered unbidden through his mind. ’Severe deficiency. Chronic use. Dependency.’ And still the omega had sat with him at the fountain, matching him line for line, asking if he was hurt.
For a moment Dax just stood there, hands loose at his sides, breathing in the scent of soap and the faintest trace of rain-clean omega under the suppressant haze. He didn’t touch him. He only reached over, tugged the blanket a little higher over Chris’s shoulder, and brushed the edge of the lamp switch so the light dimmed to nothing.
"You asked if I was hurt," he murmured, too low for the sleeping omega to hear. "Not anymore."
He straightened, backing toward the door with the same silent care he used in war rooms. In the sitting room he paused once, glancing back at the closed door, before turning and disappearing into the corridor again, leaving only the echo of his pheromones and a warm blanket behind.