Chris woke to the unmistakable ache of being thoroughly ruined.
The sheets felt too soft. The light filtering through the East Wing’s tall windows was far too forgiving. And the ache in his hips, his spine, and the back of his throat left absolutely no room for denial.
He groaned.
The sound wasn’t dramatic; it was the honest, low rasp of someone whose body had been worked to its limit and then coaxed further, just because the man responsible didn’t want to stop.
The bed was large, imperial by design, and reinforced because apparently Dax didn’t do anything at half capacity. Chris lay on his stomach, stretched across it like discarded treasure, one arm flung lazily across the pillow, his mouth dry and every inch of his skin marked with proof of what had happened.
And gods, it had happened.
Chris groaned again. That same pitiful rasp scraped out of his throat as he forced one eye open, then the other. The ceiling looked unchanged. The bed felt like a war zone. His body felt like a crime scene.
He turned his head slowly, very slowly, toward the sound of movement.
Dax stood near the balcony doors, dressed in nothing but dark lounge pants, a loose robe hanging off his frame like it couldn’t quite decide if it was part of royalty or aftermath. His white-blonde hair was loose around his shoulders, faintly tangled, and caught the early light like silk drenched in moonlight.
Chris squinted.
It wasn’t the royal vision in front of him.
It was the eyes.
Purple, deep purple now, almost black around the outer edges, darkened from their usual amethyst brightness. And beneath that perfect cheekbone, barely visible in the soft light, a faint smudge of bruising traced the hinge of Dax’s jaw.
Chris blinked again. His brain, fogged with sleep and whatever endorphin hurricane had leveled him the night before, tried to do the math.
Chris narrowed his eyes again.
"You... shifted."
Dax raised a brow. "Of course I did."
"No, I mean..." Chris struggled upright, wincing as his hips protested. "You shifted. Your canines... your jaw. Your eyes."
Dax tilted his head slightly. "It happens."
Chris stared harder. "You didn’t tell me it would."
Dax exhaled slowly, walking over. "It only happens to dominant alphas when they fully bond. When the instinct settles in too deep, and the body catches up."
"You didn’t warn me," Chris muttered. "You just bit me and turned into a creature."
"I was already a creature," Dax said mildly, but the bruise on his jaw tugged at Chris’s attention again.
He reached up without thinking and brushed his thumb along it.
Dax didn’t flinch, but he stilled, just enough for Chris to notice.
"You’re in pain."
Dax’s eyes flicked away. "Some pressure. It’s normal."
Chris squinted. "You’re lying."
"I’m managing," Dax corrected. "Knotting takes a toll on us too. But you were already halfway unconscious, so I thought it best not to mention I could barely move."
Chris blinked. "You collapsed on me."
"I was multitasking," Dax said calmly. "And I don’t regret it."
Chris snorted weakly. "After four times after the balcony, of course you don’t."
"Five..." Dax tried to correct him, only to see the man upright despite his pain.
"Balcony... Dax... what the fuck did you do?"
"Language," Dax said smoothly, as though he hadn’t just been accused of breaking the War Convention in silk lounge pants.
Chris didn’t even blink. "Balcony," he repeated, each syllable flat with disbelief. "Dax. What. The fuck. Did you do?"
Dax spread his hands like he was presenting a solution instead of a confession. "You were already half gone. I thought it would be... memorable."
"Memorable?" Chris stared at him like he’d grown horns. "You shifted, knotted me on imperial stone, and then kept going like we were in a fever dream. That’s not memorable. That’s criminal."
"You told me not to stop unless the bed broke."
"That was... I was... " Chris faltered, clutching the sheet to his chest like it could protect him from this man’s audacity. "That was before you decided to go full apex predator. Before your eyes changed. Before you fucking imprinted me onto a balcony railing like a war banner!"
Dax raised a brow. "It was a very flattering angle. And in my defense, you were already marked, and I shifted before the balcony."
Chris’s mouth dropped open. "You’re using logic to defend balcony knotting."
"I’m using context," Dax said, calm and composed, as if he were presenting economic policy instead of post-bonding sex crimes. "You told me I could do anything I wanted."
"I was delirious," Chris snapped. "I would’ve agreed to a full-scale invasion if you’d asked nicely."
"Noted," Dax murmured, filing that away like it was useful.
Chris made a choking sound that might’ve been a scream if he weren’t so hoarse from the night before.
"Gods, I can feel the mark still pulsing," he muttered, rubbing at the base of his neck like it might dull the phantom heat. "You bit me like I was your last meal."
"You were," Dax said, unbothered. "And you will be again. Regularly."
Chris leveled him with a look.
Dax smiled. Smiled.
Chris pointed at him with slow, intentional venom. "I am going to push you off that balcony."
Dax stepped closer. "And you’ll miss me the moment I land."
"You’re deranged."
"You’re radiant."
Chris flinched at the word. "Don’t you dare compliment me while I’m still leaking from you."
Dax blinked. "That was surprisingly poetic."
Chris groaned and flopped backward with a wince, eyes to the ceiling, one hand splayed across his forehead like a prince in exile. "I am never walking again."
Dax didn’t argue. He just sat beside him on the bed, his voice dropping to something gentler. "Your body will adjust."
Chris peeked over. "You’re limping."
Dax paused, as if caught in the act of appearing too perfect. "...I prefer to call it a dignified stiffness."
Chris snorted. "A what?"
"A regal delay in full extension."
"You bruised your own jaw. How do you bruise your own jaw?"
"I bit down too hard when I came," Dax said, and didn’t even flinch when Chris grabbed the pillow and smacked him in the face with it.