The East Wing dining hall was already full.
Long windows let in the last of the summer light, gilding the table’s polished surface with a warm glow. At the far end sat Sahir in his silver mantle, flanked by two deputy ministers, quietly discussing something in clipped tones. Serathine was already reclined in her seat like a social general surveying the terrain, while Cressida sat with perfect posture, fork poised mid-air like a weapon. Several members of the inner circle wore deep violet, each of them turning subtly as the doors opened.
Silence bloomed.
Dax didn’t pause. He strode forward with the quiet certainty of a man who knew he was both expected and feared. Chris matched him step for step, not glancing at the stares he could feel press like heat against his skin. The scent in the air was wrong. Or rather, it was Dax. Woven through the room like a threaded warning: he is mine.
Dax stopped halfway down the table, just before the head.
His voice, when it came, was low and smooth. Clear enough to carry.
"For those of you who’ve not had the honor," he said, not quite smiling, "this is Christopher Malek."
There was a beat of stillness, just long enough for a name to land.
Dax’s gaze swept the table. "My mate."
Chris didn’t blink, but his stomach did something that felt distinctly illegal.
Dax’s hand didn’t leave his arm.
"And your future queen," Dax added, calm as if he were noting the time.
If someone dropped a fork, Chris didn’t hear it. But he saw Sahir’s brows rise in slow, thoughtful interest. Serathine’s lips curved, like she’d won a bet. Cressida gave a small sigh, lifted her wine glass, and muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like finally.
Chris couldn’t react. Couldn’t move. His mouth had gone dry in the worst possible way and the collar at his throat felt suddenly more like a brand.
He managed a nod, just enough to count as a greeting. His voice, when it came, was even.
"Thank you for having me."
Sahir cleared his throat, blue eyes bright behind his glasses. "It is our privilege," he said, meaningfully. "Though I confess I thought we’d be warned before another national announcement."
Serathine didn’t even pretend to be surprised. "He had to make it dramatic," she said to no one in particular. "That’s his idea of romance."
"Noted," Cressida added, dryly. "I’ll alert the florists that we’re skipping subtlety this season."
Dax pulled out Chris’s chair with infuriating grace and seated him before taking his own. "If I wanted subtlety," he said, "I wouldn’t have picked him."
There were a few quiet laughs.
Chris just sat there, back straight, trying not to combust or tackle Dax.
The seat to his right was empty, but only for a moment. Killian stepped forward silently and filled it, shielding Chris from further questions like a well-dressed firewall.
"Drink?" the butler murmured.
"Yes," Chris said immediately. "Something strong."
"Water it is," Killian replied, unbothered.
Across the table, Sahir was already whispering something to one of the ministers. Serathine and Cressida leaned toward each other like twin storms colliding in slow motion.
’God help me before I defect to some unknown land.’ He thought while letting out a long breath.
Dinner began with little ceremony, but it didn’t need any. Courses arrived with silent coordination, waitstaff moving like a tide: clear soup with lemongrass and ginger, small bites of marinated fish wrapped in herbs, then heavier dishes, braised lamb, saffron rice, and roasted vegetables glazed to a shine. It all looked beautiful and smelled better, and Chris tasted almost none of it.
He chewed mechanically, nodded when spoken to, laughed once when Serathine made a cutting comment about the Minister of Agriculture’s obsession with topiaries, and let Killian refill his glass three times without asking.
Conversation wove itself around him in layers. Policy. Security briefings. Royal engagements. Someone mentioned drought planning. Someone else joked about the king’s notoriously fast vetoes. Chris caught a sentence about border instability in the north and another about a proposed trade expansion with Karelian provinces. Dax responded once or twice, but mostly, he let the others speak.
Chris kept his expression smooth. His fingers never curled too tightly on the stem of his glass. His shoulders stayed square.
He only faltered once.
The man seated four places down the table, one of the deputy ministers beside Sahir, had not looked away from him.
Not once.
Chris didn’t recognize him. Mid-fifties, hair gone steel-grey at the temples, face like a map carved from angles. His colors were pale, not silver like Sahir’s, not the purple of Dax’s court, but a washed-out green that meant maybe Trade and economic council, but that was supposed to be emerald.
Chris met his gaze head-on, once, and received nothing in return. No nod. No change in expression. Just that calm, unnerving attention.
It wasn’t leering. It wasn’t hostile either. Just... watchful.
And Chris had learned, the hard way, that watchful people were the most dangerous.
But nothing happened.
The man eventually turned back to Sahir, leaned in to say something, and the thread snapped. Chris glanced at Dax, wondering if he’d noticed, but Dax’s eyes were on his plate, movements deceptively lazy as he pushed a piece of lamb with his fork and said something low to Serathine. His scent hadn’t shifted.
So Chris let it go.
Dinner moved on. Plates were cleared. Wine flowed. Voices rose slightly with the easing of formality, splintering into smaller, comfortable groups. Sahir had drawn two advisors into a quiet huddle by the window. Serathine was laughing now, real laughter, rare and sharp, as Cressida told some story about a failed royal procession involving an alpaca, a cardinal, and a heatwave.
Killian had turned his body subtly, screening Chris from view again. It was an act of kindness. But it didn’t help the weight pressing under Chris’s collar.
He needed air.
Carefully, casually, he pushed back his chair and leaned toward Killian. "Excuse me," he said, quiet enough not to draw attention. "Bathroom."
Killian nodded without a word, adjusting his posture to stand if needed, but Chris shook his head. "I can find it."
He caught Dax’s eye as he stepped away from the table, and, true to form, Dax didn’t say a word. Just tilted his head, the message clear even without pheromones: If you’re gone too long, I’ll come find you.
Chris nodded once, then turned and walked out.
No one stopped him. No one asked. And the scent cloud he left behind, Dax’s, thick and territorial, was enough to ensure no one dared follow.
Or so he thought.