Chapter 75: Chapter 75: Loud world
By the time the pale light slipped past the curtains, the palace was already stirring. Someone was moving through the sitting room; there was the muted clink of glass and the rustle of fabric, and Chris knew, even before the door opened, that his brief peace had ended.
"Up," Rowan said, voice too brisk for the hour. "We’re late."
Chris groaned into the pillow. "You’re early."
"Technically true," Rowan said, unimpressed. "Now move." The curtains were drawn wider, flooding the room with gold. Chris hissed like a vampire and rolled onto his stomach.
"Go away."
Rowan sighed, long-suffering. "You’re due in the clinic wing in forty minutes. Shower, dress, and for the love of everything, don’t faint halfway there."
Chris made a noncommittal noise that might have been agreement or might have been his soul leaving his body. He only cracked an eye open when the scent of coffee reached him. It was suspiciously dark and that presented no interest to Chris’s palate of drinking only milk coffee.
"You can’t have anything but water. This is mine."
Chris made a muffled noise into the pillow. "Torture," he muttered. "This is actual torture."
Rowan didn’t dignify that with an answer. He simply set his mug down on the dresser with a quiet clink and crossed to the bed, tugging the blanket down with all the tenderness of someone unwrapping contraband.
"Sit up."
"No."
"Yes."
Chris cracked one eye open, then the other. "You’re very bossy for someone who isn’t even on the payroll I agreed to."
Rowan arched a brow. "If you collapse before the full panel, it’s my head, not yours. Up."
Grumbling, Chris pushed himself upright, the blanket pooling at his waist. The palace felt louder today, every creak of the floor and every clatter from the sitting room was too sharp, like the volume had been turned up overnight. His head throbbed. His skin buzzed.
He reached automatically for the nightstand, then remembered: no pills. Nothing until after the panel. He curled his fingers into a fist instead.
"You’re cruel," he said, voice flat.
"I’m efficient," Rowan corrected. He held out a bottle of water like an olive branch. "Sip. Slowly."
Chris took it, feeling absurdly like a cat being coaxed out from under a bed. "I hate this."
"I know."
The water was cool against his tongue, but even that felt strange, the textures too crisp, the taste metallic. He swallowed and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Everything smells weird."
Rowan gave him a sidelong glance. "You’ve been muted for years. This is your baseline. It just feels wrong because you’re not used to it."
Chris stared at him over the rim of the bottle. "You make it sound like I’m going through puberty at twenty-something."
Rowan’s mouth quirked. "Not far off."
Before Chris could retort, the latch clicked.
The scent hit first, dark and spiced, maddeningly dark and warm. It rolled through the room like smoke, cutting through every other smell until it was the only thing left.
Chris’s lungs stuttered. His fingers tightened on the bottle. He’d known Dax’s scent and had learned to read its thickness the way one reads a storm coming. But this was different; he felt like drawing in it.
Rowan straightened, a flicker of alarm in his expression.
Dax stepped through the doorway like a shadow given shape. His jacket was unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, and eyes still half in whatever war room he’d left behind. "Morning," he said, voice low and warm enough to scrape.
Chris couldn’t answer. The sound vibrated against his ribs, and the scent pressed into his skin. Without suppressants, it hit him like a truck, heady and overwhelming, sweet and dangerous, like someone had pulled the rug out from under his nerves.
Rowan cleared his throat carefully. "He hasn’t taken anything yet, sire."
Dax’s gaze shifted to Chris, sharp and assessing, then softened with something quieter. He stayed where he was, but the weight of him still filled the room.
Chris pressed his palm to his forehead. "I’m fine," he said, which was a lie, and they both knew it.
The king didn’t move, but his voice came softer this time, pitched like a hand held out. "Christopher."
Chris shut his eyes. The rum-smoke scent swelled against his senses again, dark and sweet, and his pulse tripped. He’d never been taught how to live like this, how to manage this flood without medicine, only how to shut it off.
"Don’t come closer," he managed, voice frayed.
Dax’s expression didn’t change, but the air shifted subtly as he drew his pheromones back, leashing them with visible effort. "Alright," he murmured. "Now it should be better."
Chris’s shoulders sagged with relief the instant the air thinned. It didn’t vanish, Dax’s scent lingered like the echo of warmth after fire, but at least he could breathe without his lungs hitching. The metallic taste in his mouth faded into something almost sweet, and that was somehow worse.
He opened his eyes. "You’re terrifying," he said hoarsely, trying for a joke and missing by a few inches.
Dax’s mouth curved. "Didn’t you know that?"
"Yeah, but this time I actually felt it." Chris rubbed at his temple. His body still hadn’t caught up with his brain. The pheromone shift had left him shaky, as if his own pulse had forgotten its rhythm. "God, I hate this. It’s like the world got too loud overnight."
"That’s what happens when you stop drugging yourself half to death," Rowan said, moving to collect the empty water bottle. "You’ll get used to it."
Chris glared at him. "How inspiring."
"Be inspired in the shower," Rowan said, setting the bottle down. "We’re leaving in twenty."
Dax’s gaze flicked toward Rowan, then back to Chris. "Make it thirty," he said quietly.
Rowan hesitated. He looked like he wanted to argue, thought better of it, and nodded once before disappearing into the sitting room. The door shut behind him with a discreet click.
The silence that followed was not silence at all, it thrummed, thick and charged, filled with the residual hum of Dax’s pheromones and the echo of Chris’s heartbeat.
"You didn’t sleep much," Dax said, stepping just far enough into the light that it brushed over the edge of his jaw.
"Neither did you," Chris shot back, because deflection was easier than admitting how close he was to unraveling. "And before you say it, yes, I called you last night like an idiot."
Dax’s eyes softened. "You did."
"And you came anyway."
A faint smile tugged at Dax’s mouth. "You told me not to collapse before tomorrow. I took it as an order."
Chris groaned and buried his face in his hands. "You’re impossible."
"Perhaps," Dax murmured. His tone had shifted, gentler now and careful, and Chris could feel the difference, not just hear it. The air wasn’t crushing anymore; it was warm, dense with something that made his skin prickle and his stomach twist in equal measure.
"I didn’t know it was like this," Chris said after a moment, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "Smelling things. Feeling them. It’s like..." He hesitated, searching for the right comparison. "...like everything is touching me at once."
Dax’s voice dropped low. "It’s supposed to be. You’ve just never been allowed to feel it."
"That’s not comforting."
"Wasn’t meant to be," Dax said simply.
Chris looked up at him, eyes still slightly unfocused. "You’re enjoying this."
"I’m not," Dax said, though the faint glint in his eyes suggested otherwise. "I’m...relieved."