Chris stared at the wall like he’d just been handed a prophecy he absolutely did not sign up for.
Andrew’s voice, steady and prosecutor-calm, cut through the growing panic. "Christopher... breathe. I’m telling you so you’re prepared, not so you collapse onto the nearest expensive carpet."
"I’m two seconds away from doing exactly that," Chris muttered.
Cressida made a proud little hum, as if collapsing gracefully was a skill she could train him in next.
Chris ignored her and focused on the phone. "Okay. So they know I’m a consort now. They know you’re a Black. And they’re smelling opportunity."
"They’re smelling blood," Andrew corrected. "But they’re too arrogant to realize it’s their own."
Chris blinked. "That’s... almost comforting?"
"It should be," Andrew said. "Because for the first time in our lives, they’re the ones walking into a political arena they can’t control. You’re a royal consort. I’m heir to the Blacks. Mia has three noble houses ready to snap teeth at anyone who tries something stupid."
Chris exhaled slowly, tension unspooling in small, reluctant threads. "I just... didn’t expect all this to land at once."
"You never do," Andrew said, not unkindly. "That’s why I’m calling."
Chris leaned his shoulder against the window frame, letting the cool glass anchor him. Cressida had set down her teacup entirely, watching him with that sharp, almost maternal focus she pretended not to have.
"Chris," Andrew added, softer now, "this isn’t as dangerous as when our parents died. I know why you hid your secondary gender, but now for once, we’re not the ones at the bottom."
Chris’s voice dropped to something hoarse. "It still feels like being seventeen again, you know? Them circling like vultures."
"I know," Andrew said. "But you’re not seventeen. You’re a crowned consort in everything but ceremony. And you have an alpha who’d wage war if anyone looked at you wrong."
Chris glanced at the binder in his hands: the stupid, heavy, meticulously prepared binder Dax made for him and despite himself, a laugh broke out. A tired one, but real.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I do."
"And Christopher?" Andrew added, tone dry but warm.
"Mm?"
"Don’t worry about the Maleks." Andrew drawled. "They’re about to learn you’re not the one who needs protecting."
Cressida’s eyes gleamed with approval so bright it was borderline smug.
Chris rubbed his face again. "Andrew, I’m hanging up before you boost my ego enough to get me assassinated."
"Good. Go study your binder."
"Fuck you."
"Love you too."
The call ended.
Chris lowered the phone, heartbeat still a little fast, brain still overwhelmed, but steadier.
Cressida raised her tea in salute. "Well," she said, grinning like a wolf, "this will be fun."
Chris groaned. "Please don’t say that like you’re already planning the seating chart."
"I absolutely am."
—
Chris barely had time to sigh before a soft knock broke the quiet. "Oh, no."
The door opened a second later without waiting for permission, because Killian never waited for permission when it came to the royal consort, and the man stepped in with the calm, unbothered stride of someone who had lived through three coups and a kitchen fire.
"His Majesty requests your presence in the west wing conference area," Killian said smoothly. His voice was calm, but his brows gave the tiniest twitch, the twitch that meant he already knew everything.
Chris narrowed his eyes. "Killian... did you monitor my personal line?"
Killian didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even breathe differently.
"Consort, your personal line routes through palace security," he replied in that patient tone adults used on small children. "I do not monitor it. I simply receive automatic alerts when conversations involve political hostilities, familial threats, notable emotional spikes, or the word ’shitstorm’ said more than three times."
Chris stared at him. "I didn’t say ’shitstorm.’"
"You thought it quite loudly."
Cressida let out a delighted, wheezing little laugh behind her teacup.
Chris opened his mouth, closed it, then lifted the binder like a shield. "Okay. Next question. Does Dax know? Did he overhear the call?"
Killian clasped his hands behind his back in his classic brace-yourself, consort gesture.
"His Majesty was briefed."
Chris felt the blood drain from his face. "Briefed how?"
Killian paused, just for a heartbeat, but it was enough to confirm the disaster.
"Killian," Chris said, voice climbing.
"...Immediately."
Chris squeaked. "You told him immediately?!"
"It was prudent," Killian answered with a faint sigh. "The Maleks are attempting to... assess your new status. His Majesty prefers to preempt any attempts at manipulation. Or contact. Or breathing in your general direction without permission."
Cressida muttered, "Ah. So we’re in a ’flip a table, then flip the entire palace’ situation."
Killian inclined his head. "Correct."
Chris groaned into his binder. "Why the west wing? That’s where he meets generals."
"Yes," Killian said. "It is also where his tempers are least likely to destroy load-bearing structures. The east wing has more glass."
Cressida perked up. "See? Practical."
"Is he angry?" Chris asked, already wincing.
Killian considered that like a man selecting between two poisons.
"He is... focused."
"Oh hell."
"And pacing," Killian added.
"Oh hell no."
"And sharpening a letter opener."
Chris slapped a hand over his face. "Killian..."
"It is ceremonial." A beat. "Mostly."
Cressida set down her teacup with the glee of a woman watching her favorite drama unfold live. "I do love a man who accessorizes for battle."
Chris pushed himself off the window frame, shoulders tense. "Fine. I’ll go. Before he decides to knock down the east wing doors himself."
"That would be unfortunate," Killian murmured. "I only just repaired them from the last incident."
Chris froze. "What last incident?"
Killian cleared his throat politely. "The balcony episode with Minister Draven."
Chris’s soul left his body for a second. "Killian, I swear..."
Killian cut him off gently. "His Majesty is not angry at you, Consort. He is... highly motivated to address the situation."
Chris blinked. "Because of my relatives?"
Killian’s expression softened just a fraction, the closest Killian ever got to affection.
"No, Christopher. Because someone caused you distress."
The words hung in the air like a lit fuse.
He continued, almost conversational:
"And the King of Saha does not tolerate that. Ever."
Cressida let out a sparkling, delighted laugh. "This is going to be delicious."
Chris groaned into the hallway as Killian gestured for him to follow. "If he breaks another wall, Cressida, I’m calling Sahir and making you sit through the repair budget meeting."
Cressida just smirked like destruction was foreplay.
Killian opened the door wider.
"Shall we, Consort? His Majesty is... pacing with purpose."
"Oh great," Chris muttered. "He’s in that mood."
Killian’s lips twitched. "Indeed. The mood where he rearranges the political world."
"And the furniture," Chris grumbled.
"And occasionally the walls," Killian acknowledged.
Chris groaned. "Take me to him before he decides to annex the Malek family home."
Killian nodded once. "As you wish."