Andrew cleared his throat again, shifting from brother to prosecutor to man-who-is-trying-to-stop-an-avalanche with nothing but coffee and moral exhaustion.
"Alright," he said, "quick rundown before Mia derails us again. The Maleks moved their flight up. They’re already talking about ’representing the family.’ They want visibility, they want association with Saha, and they want proximity to Chris."
Mia stabbed a piece of melon like it had personally offended her. "They want bragging rights. ’Our omega married a king’s blah, blah, power, blah, status, blah, leeching."
Chris sighed. "I hate it when you’re right."
"They’re not dangerous," Andrew added, "not in a military sense. But politically? They’re opportunistic. And loud."
"Very loud," Mia echoed.
Dax listened quietly, fingers tapping once against the table, just once, but it was enough to make the air thicken.
"They will not touch you," he said simply.
Mia blinked. "...That was deeply comforting."
Andrew stood, pushing his chair back. "We should go. Denise and Milo will want to prepare us for... everything. And I’m sure Chris and His Majesty had a schedule too."
Chris raised a brow. "And by prepare, you mean?"
Andrew’s mouth twitched. "Rehearse diplomacy. Coordinate information. Warn us about who will try to manipulate us first."
Mia jumped up. "I love our adoptive parents. They’re so dramatic and organized."
"They’re nobles," Andrew said, looking at the king for a reaction. "It’s their nature." Dax only raised a brow but didn’t say anything.
The siblings leaned in, Mia hugging Chris again, Andrew squeezing his shoulder.
"Get ready," Andrew murmured. "We’ll handle our side. You handle yours."
"And eat," Mia added. "You look like a dehydrated cactus."
Chris flicked her forehead. "Go."
Andrew and Mia left in a flurry of half-whispered strategies and Killian’s long-suffering presence. Their voices drifted down the corridor, with Mia ranting about wardrobe choices for confronting toxic relatives, Andrew arguing about diplomatic etiquette, and Killian muttering prayer-like requests for patience.
When the echoes finally died, the dining room fell into a warm, sunlit hush.
Chris exhaled, his shoulders finally dropping. The room smelled faintly of roasted spices and citrus peel, the steam from the teapot curling lazily in the air. For the first time that morning, he could actually hear himself think.
He didn’t get long.
A large, warm hand slid to the small of his back.
Chris flinched from... muscle memory that came from a week of enforced celibacy and a mate who looked at him like gravity was optional.
Dax stepped behind him, his presence soaking into the air like heat into stone. "Christopher."
Chris didn’t turn yet. "You’re doing the stalking thing again."
"Yes," Dax replied calmly. "It works."
Before Chris could gather any more snark, Dax gently but firmly drew him backward, removing the air from the omega’s lungs. Chris’s back hit Dax’s chest, solid and ridiculously warm. Long, heavy, and undeniably possessive arms closed around his waist.
Dax lowered his face into the curve where Chris’s neck met his shoulder. He inhaled once, deep, like he was grounding himself.
And that? Yeah. That undid Chris a little.
He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. "Okay. Fine. I admit defeat."
Dax did not move. He sounded dangerously soft. "Defeat?"
Chris turned his head just enough to feel Dax’s cheek brush his temple. "The celibacy thing."
Dax went very still.
Chris kept going, because if he stopped, Dax would combust on the spot. "You brought my family to Saha early. You saved them from the Maleks and made this entire palace rearrange itself for them before breakfast."
Dax lifted his head a fraction, eyes narrowing in slow, dangerous hope. "Christopher... are you saying..."
"Yes," Chris cut in, patting his cheek like he was rewarding a very large, very obedient wolf. "You won. Celibacy is over."
Dax blinked once. Twice. A slow, predatory smile curved his mouth.
"Define ’over,’" he murmured, already easing Chris closer.
Chris snorted. "Don’t push it. I said it’s over, not that the dining table is suddenly fair game."
Dax hummed against his skin, something dark and pleased rolling through him like a promise he fully intended to cash in later. His hands settled at Chris’s hips, thumbs brushing lazily, like he was staking territory with minimal effort and maximum effect.
"You end celibacy," Dax said, voice low, "and then deny me a table?"
"It’s an antique," Chris said, deadpan. "And I don’t trust you around furniture."
Dax actually laughed, soft and warm against his neck. He rested his forehead on Chris’s shoulder again, breathing him in like he needed it to live. The shift in him was immediate, the tense king melting into a clingy mate in under a second. Chris felt the weight of it, the sincerity in it, and something in his chest loosened.
"You tortured me," Dax murmured. "For a week."
Chris chuckled. "If someone else heard you, they’d think it had been enforced for years, not just a week."
Dax didn’t even pretend to be ashamed. "It felt like years."
"Drama king," Chris muttered, but his voice softened.
Dax nuzzled the side of his neck like he was trying to burrow into his soul. "You kept walking past me. Sleeping on the opposite side of the bed. Locking the bathroom door. Do you know what that does to a man in rut-adjacent frustration?"
Chris snorted. "You were not rut-adjacent."
"I was emotionally rut-adjacent," Dax corrected, dead serious.
Chris laughed, low and helpless. "That’s not a thing."
"It was for me."
He tightened his arms again, the hold warm and heavy and annoyingly perfect. Chris could feel the slow rise and fall of Dax’s breath, the way he kept pressing his forehead to his shoulder like he didn’t trust the world enough to let go yet.
"You’re ridiculous," Chris whispered.
"And you’re cruel," Dax answered without missing a beat. "Beautiful, brilliant, infuriatingly self-controlled... and cruel."
Chris let his head tilt back slightly against Dax’s shoulder. "You’re lucky I like you."
Dax kissed his jaw. "I am lucky."
There was a quiet, warm beat that made Chris’s heart feel weird and full.
Then Dax added, almost sulking, "But you still tortured me."
Chris huffed. "You started it with the etiquette volumes. Continue like this and maybe I will reinforce it."
Dax pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes narrowing like Chris had personally threatened the stability of the Sahan monarchy.
"You wouldn’t," he said, low and scandalized.
Chris raised a brow. "Wouldn’t I?"
Dax’s hands tightened on his waist, instinctive, possessive, like he was ready to negotiate for the fate of his own sanity. "Christopher. You are not weaponizing celibacy again because I tried to educate you on court protocol."
"Oh, educate me?" Chris asked, amused. "Is that what we’re calling your fifty-page lecture on how to sit in a gilded chair?"
"You slouched," Dax said, wounded. "Majestically, but you slouched."
Chris laughed under his breath. "This is exactly why punishment exists."
Dax leaned in dangerously close, his voice a rumble at his ear. "If you reinstate celibacy, I will die."
"Dramatic."
"I will die dramatically," Dax corrected.
Chris turned fully then, hands sliding up his chest until they rested on his shoulders. "Then behave."
Dax blinked. Twice. Like he was recalibrating everything from national policy to breathing.
"I can behave," he said earnestly. "I behaved for days."
"You pouted in doorways."
"It was dignified pouting."
"You glared at my pillow when I slept on the other side of the bed."
"I missed you," Dax said, absolutely unashamed.
Chris gave up on trying to reason with the king and kissed him.