Chapter 83: Chapter 83: Better
By the time the medicine had settled, the world wasn’t screaming anymore but humming faintly at the edge of his mind.
A small miracle, really.
The air didn’t slice through him when he breathed, the light no longer clawed behind his eyes, and the steady pulse in his wrist felt like something human again instead of a warning sign. He could still hear everything, the quiet click of the vent, the murmur of voices from the hall, and the faint drag of the stylus against Nadia’s tablet, but it was tolerable.
When he finally tried to move, sitting at the edge of the couch, the room tilted, then steadied. ’Progress.’
Nadia was watching from the chair near the couch, one leg crossed neatly over the other. She didn’t say ’I told you so,’ but her expression did.
"How do you feel?"
"Like someone peeled me out of my own skin and handed me a new one three sizes too small," Chris said. "So, you know. Better."
"That’s progress," she said, writing something down.
"Your definition of progress worries me."
She smiled faintly, unbothered. "If you can still be sarcastic, you’re improving."
He let out a low breath, running a hand through his hair. "Sarcasm’s the only thing keeping me from crying in public."
She didn’t disagree.
When he stood, his knees reminded him that gravity existed. Still, the dizziness didn’t hit as hard as before. Across the sitting room, a folded set of clothes waited on the low armchair near the window, black trousers, a dark green shirt, and everything else underneath, he was sure of it. Next to them, a small card.
Hanna’s handwriting was easy to recognize, even though he had never seen it before. Every letter was a thin, elegant threat, and even Chris, who was sedated, could see her disdain for his existence.
’The king said dinner. Try to make an effort.
– H.’
Chris stared at it for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. "God, I hate her."
"She’s good at her job," Nadia said mildly, though there was the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
"She’s a wasp with couture privileges," he muttered. "How does anyone survive her?"
"By not arguing," Nadia replied, standing. "Take a shower. You’ll feel better."
He wanted to argue, mostly out of principle, but the faint stickiness of hospital-grade IV tape tugged at his skin, and the faint scent of Dax’s soap still lingered from the corridor. The thought of actual hot water almost sounded like peace.
So he went.
The bathroom was still warm from earlier, Dax’s earlier, to be exact. The mirror fogged along the edges, and the faint trace of sandalwood and spiced rum clung to the air like something planned. Of course it did. The man could leave a battlefield and somehow still smell like sin and old luxury.
Chris stepped under the shower and immediately regretted nothing. The water was hot and soothing to his fried receptors. It hit the back of his neck in a solid stream that made him groan quietly in relief. For the first time in days, his body didn’t feel like a foreign object.
He braced his palms against the wall, eyes half-closed. His breathing slowed and deepened. The scent of Dax’s soap and pheromones worked under his skin in a way he didn’t want to think about too hard.
"Of course," he muttered. "He even smells territorial."
Still, he didn’t turn away from it.
When he finally stepped out, the fogged mirror threw back a version of himself that looked almost alive. Damp hair. Color in his face again. Eyes still tired but less sunken.
Maybe a little human, finally.
He dressed slowly. Hanna’s clothes fit perfectly because, of course, her work was perfect; he suspected it was a cover-up for her rude behavior. The shirt was deep green, expensive enough to make him self-conscious, and soft enough to feel like a bribe. The black pants matched the shirt too well; the coordination screamed Dax picked the palette, and she picked the attitude.
He didn’t need to read between the seams to understand Hanna’s message: ’You may live here, but you’ll never belong here.’ And unfortunately, Chris felt the same.
He buttoned the shirt to his collarbone, then stopped. The top two buttons stayed open, out of defiance if nothing else.
"Eat your heart out, fashion witch," he muttered at the mirror.
When he stepped back into the sitting room, Nadia looked up from her notes. She blinked once in professional surprise.
"Good," she said. "You look better."
"High bar," he said. "You should’ve seen me last week after a fight with poppy seeds, very Victorian invalid chic."
Rowan appeared a few moments later, already in his uniform, earpiece in place, one hand behind his back. He gave Chris a once-over, assessing, probably checking for signs of collapse.
"Still breathing?" he asked.
"For now," Chris said. "Apparently that’s a requirement for dinner."
Rowan’s mouth curved faintly. "You clean up well."
"Tell that to Hanna," Chris said. "She’d rather die than admit I own a shirt that fits."
"I think that’s mutual," Rowan said, tone dry.
"Tragic," Chris replied. "Imagine all the affection we could’ve shared over mutual disdain."
Nadia stepped aside, gesturing toward the corridor that led to the private dining room. "Go slow. No stairs. No heroics."
Chris glanced down at himself, at the expensive fabric, damp hair, and a small blinking patch still stuck to his arm.
"No promises," he said.
Rowan opened the door for him, the faintest hum of Dax’s scent already drifting from the other side of the corridor, the spiced warmth threaded with something richer. The kind of scent that made his pulse stumble even though he’d just gotten it under control.
"Dinner with royalty," Chris muttered under his breath. "And I’m half-drugged, overdressed, and emotionally unstable. Perfect."
Rowan’s voice came from just behind him. "You’ll be fine."
Chris huffed. "That’s what everyone says right before things go to hell."
"Then you’ll feel right at home," Rowan said, and the door shut quietly behind them.