Chris slid the lock into place, because somehow that small click made him feel safer, even though he knew damn well that if Dax wanted to, he could probably just walk straight through the door.
Still, the illusion helped.
Steam ghosted around the edges of the mirror, softening his reflection. He looked pale. Flushed, actually. ’Fantastic,’ he thought. ’Pheromone glow-up. Just what I needed on a quiet morning of denial.’
He turned the water on, hot, almost scalding, and stepped in without waiting for it to settle. The sound filled the room, loud and forgiving, masking the chaos in his head.
"Right," he muttered, palms braced against the cool marble. "Reset. Control. Deep breaths. We are not animals; we are the proud result of millions of years of evolution, which, apparently, all went to waste because one naked alpha smiled."
The water hit his shoulders and slid down his back, but even that didn’t wash away the faint, electric hum of Dax’s scent that clung to him. The warmth in his chest refused to fade; his pulse kept misbehaving, spiking every time his mind replayed that damn moment.
He closed his eyes. "No. We are not thinking about physics or proportional mass distribution again."
It didn’t help. The memory of Dax’s scent, that steady, commanding pulse of alpha pheromones, hung in the air of his mind like a shadow. Every inhale seemed to make his body remember. Every exhale reminded him just how much control it took not to react.
His body didn’t care that he’d been treated for suppressant withdrawal or that he was a dominant omega that never reacted to pheromones until now. It cared about one thing: that Dax was close again.
Chris groaned quietly, tipping his head forward so the water ran over his hair. "Saints help me, I’ve survived my life, assassination attempts, and his own pheromones, but apparently not him."
When he finally sank down into the bath, the tension in his chest unwound slightly.
His mind kept wandering, unhelpfully, back to the collar. That same ornate piece of silver and light. Rows of delicate metalwork, set with tiny stones that caught the faintest glint of morning sun. An obscene amount of money for jewelry.
’Don’t you dare think about it while you’re leaking because of that smug man. Don’t!’
Who was he lying to? He wanted it back now; he knew full well that if Dax didn’t rush to place it on his neck because of Hanna, he would have accepted it.
’You are weak, Malek.’
But Dax was unreasonably handsome. Chris groaned and got out of the bath now clean... ish.
’On the bright side, if you ask him to do it, he will be struck for at least a few seconds, and there will be silence.’
—
Chris stepped out of the bathroom, towel hanging loose around his neck, hair still damp from the steam.
The room smelled faintly of coffee and clean linen now, a mercy, and for a fleeting second, he thought maybe, maybe, the morning had reset itself into something manageable.
Then he saw Dax.
The man sat in the armchair near the window, the sunlight falling over him like it was a damn spotlight. His shirt was white, open at the collar, with sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms. His pale hair was now dried and styled back, giving the king an even more composed appearance. Composure stemmed from knowing he’d pushed someone else to the brink and found it entertaining.
Chris froze for half a second.
’Wonderful. He’s dressed. The crisis is technically over. Except now he looks like a painting. A smug, breathing, six-foot-three painting.’
He cleared his throat. "You’re wearing clothes. Thank the Saints."
Dax glanced up from the tablet in his hand, eyes glinting violet in the light. "Would you prefer I wasn’t?"
"I’d prefer you shut up for five consecutive minutes," Chris muttered, walking past him before his own scent betrayed how much that low voice still affected him.
Dax hummed, amused. "You look calmer."
’Yes, because I nearly boiled myself alive,’ Chris thought but didn’t say. Instead, he stopped by the window. The collar sat exactly where he’d left it, silver catching the light, cruelly beautiful.
He reached for it, his fingers brushing the metal. It was cool, heavier than he remembered. The intricate bands of tiny stones shimmered faintly, the center clasp shaped like the crest of Saha. It shouldn’t have made his pulse jump, but it did.
"Chris," Dax said quietly behind him. "You don’t have to force yourself."
Chris’s hand stilled over the collar. The metal gleamed against his skin, cold and perfect, mocking him with how easy it would be to just... put it on.
He didn’t turn. "Who said I was forcing anything?"
Dax didn’t answer immediately, which was unusual enough to make Chris glance over his shoulder. The alpha sat exactly as before, one elbow on the armrest, fingers idly tracing the tablet’s edge, but his gaze had shifted, softer now, unreadable.
"You don’t hide your scent well when you’re lying," Dax said simply.
Chris let out a short laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. "You’re unbelievable. You think everything I do is about you."
"It usually is."
’Of course it is,’ Chris thought, suppressing the urge to throw something. Preferably the collar. Preferably at him.
He turned fully now, the metal gleaming between his fingers. "You said it’s supposed to be a shield and calm me," he said evenly.
Dax inclined his head slightly. "It does."
"So it’s a tool, not a symbol."
Dax’s mouth curved faintly. "That depends on who’s wearing it."
There it was again, that infuriating calm. That patience made Chris’s skin prickle and his instincts stir, because Dax wasn’t trying to dominate him, he was waiting for him to choose. And that, somehow, was worse.
"That doesn’t help your cause. Do you want me to ask you to put it on or throw it at your head?"
Dax finally looked up, really looked up, tablet forgotten in his lap. The faintest trace of amusement ghosted over his face, but beneath it was something dangerously close to satisfaction.
"I’d prefer the first," he said, voice smooth, as if Chris hadn’t just offered him both violence and intimacy in the same breath.
Chris huffed, crossing his arms. "Of course you would."
"You’re not the type to throw things," Dax said mildly. "You like precision and control. "Asking would be intentional."
"And throwing it would be cathartic," Chris shot back. "Which, at this point, sounds better."
Dax’s lips twitched. "You’re trembling."
"I am not trembling," Chris snapped automatically, before realizing, traitorously, that his hand actually was. Just a fraction. Just enough that the collar shifted faintly in his grip and caught the light.
Dax’s gaze flicked to it, then back to him. "It’s still attuned to you," he said quietly, his tone losing its edge. "Even without contact, it reacts. It knows what’s yours."
Chris rolled his eyes. "Oh good, sentient jewelry. That’s definitely what I needed in my life."
"It’s protection," Dax reminded him, calm as ever, while closing the space between them.
Dax’s steps were unhurried, the quiet, predatory grace that made every inch of the room feel smaller. The faint hint of his cologne, smoke, and leather, and his scent folded over Chris’s sharper, unsettled one until the air between them was almost tactile.
"Protection," Chris echoed dryly, though his voice didn’t quite hold. "Right. Because nothing says safety like you standing this close."
Dax’s mouth curved. "You’re still shaking."
"I am not..."
But Dax was already close enough to see for himself. The omega’s pulse beat visibly at his throat, quick and uneven, just beneath the skin.
He lifted the collar from Chris’s hand without asking. The metal caught the light as it left Chris’s fingers, gleaming like a promise... or a trap.
"Turn around," Dax said softly.