Chris blinked and the room narrowed a fraction; Dax’s question had the annoying habit of rearranging the furniture in his head. "That’s not in the curriculum," he said, because it gave him something to do besides look at the king.
"It should be," Dax responded in a dry tone that sounded like both a suggestion and an order at the same time.
Chris frowned, wary. "You want me to guess?"
"I’m curious," Dax said. "You’re inventive. I’d like to see what you come up with."
Chris considered just asking for a beat, but he was feeling nice enough today to give Dax at least a minute of his brain searching for what the fuck a king would want. He stared at the wine, at the way the red caught the candlelight, and at how the dining room had somehow become smaller in the past thirty seconds.
He exhaled slowly. "You have entire vaults full of priceless artifacts. Anything I get you will look like I robbed a duty-free kiosk."
Dax’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. "That depends on the intent."
Chris gave him a flat look. "Please do not tell me we are now grading emotional symbolism."
"We always have been," Dax said mildly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Chris rubbed the side of his thumb against his jaw, trying to think. ’Books? Too impersonal. Jewelry? Too cliché. A car? He’s the king. He probably owns the factory.’ His mind stalled there, a hard stop against the one answer he didn’t want to acknowledge.
’Malek don’t... Don’t think about that.’ But he was thinking about it; he was thinking about the collar , its value, and the peace he didn’t want to think about, provided by Dax’s pheromones.
"Dax... there is not much I can offer to a king with a spending problem of twenty-seven million crowns."
Chris didn’t look up when he said it. The number sat between them like a dare. The collar around his throat felt suddenly heavier.
It still amazed him that something that expensive, something museum-grade and internationally insured, could sit against his skin like it had always belonged there.
Dax’s expression didn’t shift. He didn’t defend the expense or dismiss it as symbolic or ceremonial. He only answered:
"It’s not a spending problem if it was worth the price."
Chris’s jaw tightened. "And that’s exactly the kind of thing that should make me run."
"And yet," Dax replied, "you’re still here."
He wasn’t wrong, which was annoying.
Chris leaned back, trying to appear unaffected, which was another failing performance. "You really terrify economists."
"I terrify everyone except you," Dax corrected. "Which is... refreshing."
Chris snorted. "You terrify me too; I just don’t show it..."
"Christopher, my little moon, are you done stalling?" Dax asked while resting his chin in his hand, his golden watch glimmering in the light.
Chris stilled, his fingers stopping in the mid-motion of playing with his glass. "You are... unreasonable." He managed to say in the end with a long sigh. "Fine. I know you want me as your mate... but that isn’t something I can wrap and give to you."
"Took you long enough to say it; now, try the lamb, you failed the last question." Dax said with deceptive charm.
Chris opened his mouth and then closed it, as there was no use in arguing with Dax.
Chris stared at the plate like it contained a biohazard.
Dax tried to force Chris into it, but he simply cut his own portion with graceful movements as if he had all the time in the world.
Which was worse, because Chris could already feel the patience radiating off him like heat. Dax didn’t need to command obedience. He expected it, and Chris normally would have fought or rebelled, but not this time.
Chris exhaled through his teeth. "You are absolutely enjoying this."
"Yes," Dax said without hesitation. "Immensely."
Chris narrowed his eyes. "I hope the lamb is raw."
"It’s medium." Dax’s tone softened just barely. "You’ll be fine."
Chris cut the smallest possible piece, maybe the smallest a human could physically cut while still calling it a "bite." The lamb smelled of warm, dense oil and bad memories. Chris once described lamb as "meat that regretted its existence," and today was no different.
He put it in his mouth.
Chewed.
And made a face so small and so controlled that only someone who had watched him eat every meal for the past two months would notice it.
Someone like Dax.
"It’s not that bad," Dax said, which was objectively a lie.
"The condiments and everything are... fine. It just tastes like my liver is going to fight me."
The words were dry, clipped, and almost flippant, but the way Chris set his fork down was overly careful and controlled, as he only became when he was trying not to react to something else entirely.
Dax tilted his head and the low light made his hair look like molten gold. "Hmm... I should send you to the medical wing."
"Why the fuck would you do that?"
"Language, my little moon."
Chris rolled his eyes, which, given the collar and the setting, felt like some kind of micro-mutiny.
"Language," he echoed in a quiet mockery. "Dax, I’m not dying. I just don’t like lamb. Nadia said everything’s normal."
"Careful now," Dax said, his fork pausing mid-air. "I let you off the hook in terms of etiquette, but that doesn’t mean I tolerate mockery."
Chris didn’t flinch, but his hand stilled on the napkin. There was a difference between teasing Dax and poking the side of a sleeping predator. This was flirting with the latter.
He dialed back by one shade. Not submissive, just... measured.
"I’m not mocking you," he said, tone level. "Just pointing out that the lamb thing isn’t a crisis. Nadia said I’m fine. Bloodwork is fine. Hormones are fine. If I were secretly dying, she’d have staged a medical coup."
Dax didn’t smile, but something in his eyes warmed, an irritated affection that felt like attention was pinning him to the table.
"You know, I start to see that you and Cressida are a little stuck up."
Dax narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
"Let me talk as I want."
Chris held his ground, though his pulse flickered once at his throat.
"I do let you speak as you wish," Dax replied, voice low, almost thoughtful. "But there is a difference between speaking freely and speaking carelessly."
"Aha, well, you said you want me. That includes the engineer language pack," Chris said, calmer now, though his thumb tapped lightly once against the napkin.
Dax leaned back slightly, watching him with an expression that was neither offended nor amused, simply attentive. "I did say I want you," he replied, tone steady. "And I mean all of you. The reasoning, the specificity, the way you address things directly. But excessive profanity is rarely precise. It is not your insight speaking. It is your instinct to shield yourself."
"Dax... Don’t be a hypocrite. You swear too." Chris said, his tone charged with challenge.