The dinner, mercifully, did not begin as a nightmare.
It began as a political opera, muted elegance, quiet hierarchy, expensive crystal, and the soft rustle of diplomats adjusting their mantles with the delusion that they would control the tone of the evening.
Rowan walked one careful step behind Chris, the perfect picture of stoic professionalism, even if internally he was taking notes on every possible angle from which Dax might accidentally, or purposefully, terrify someone.
The East Wing dining hall was understated by Sahan standards: warm lighting, carved sandstone columns, and a long obsidian table that made every attendee look like they had signed an ancient prophecy. Ministers from four bordering nations were already seated, their attendants whispering translations and strategic reminders.
When Dax and Chris entered, the room rose.
They bowed with a tightness that spoke more of caution than etiquette, as if acknowledging both a king and a potential natural disaster. Chris felt the familiar prickle of attention crawling across his skin, but Dax didn’t tighten his grip on his arm, didn’t flare his presence, and didn’t do anything except walk with the quiet, controlled confidence of someone who knew he could level empires and had chosen, for tonight, not to.
Dax released Chris’s arm only when they reached their seats. No theatrics, no overly territorial gesture, just a simple transition into protocol. Chris lowered himself into the chair beside him, posture poised, breathing even, and tried not to overanalyze the fact that his husband was, miraculously, behaving.
Conversation began softly, with measured diplomatic greetings, polite acknowledgments, and the warm hum of political machinery that, for once, did not feel like walking into a furnace.
Rowan observed everything from behind Chris’s right shoulder, noting the restrained alpha signatures, the lack of tension, and the fact that not a single envoy dared to test Dax’s patience. The king’s presence was firm but contained, power hidden behind etiquette. If Rowan hadn’t known him for years, he might have believed it was effortless.
The first course arrived, steam rising gently from delicate ceramic dishes. Dax tasted the broth, nodded approvingly toward the chef that was trembling like a leaf, and returned to the conversation without a hint of distraction.
Chris’s relief was almost physical. He answered questions with ease, offering insights as needed, not overpowering Dax but also not fading into the background. He held himself with dignity exactly the way Sahir and the two matriarchs had drilled into him. And despite Chris’s earlier internal dread, the room responded well to him. Better than well. With respect.
By the time the main course was cleared, the atmosphere had settled into something almost comfortable. Diplomats leaned forward when Chris spoke, ministers exchanged thoughtful glances, and no one seemed on the verge of fainting or fleeing.
Dax remained composed, speaking only when necessary, offering strategic questions rather than commands. He didn’t even glare once.
Rowan mentally marked the date. The staff would not believe him.
Dessert was served, something light, fragrant, and citrus-based meant to signify hospitality, and Chris found himself relaxing into the evening, letting the rhythm of political exchange carry him.
At the close of the meeting, delegates rose with genuine goodwill, bowing in gratitude and exchanging parting courtesies.
And through it all, Dax stayed perfectly behaved.
As they exited into the quieter hallway, the dim lighting softening the gold of Dax’s mantle and the line of Rowan’s shoulders easing, Chris let out a breath he’d been saving since the start of the day.
"That," he murmured, "went shockingly well."
Dax looked at him with a hint of a smile, subtle but undeniably proud. "I gave you my word."
Rowan, behind them, whispered just loud enough for Chris to hear, "He actually kept it. I’m framing this day."
Chris almost laughed, almost, because the night wasn’t over.
He knew it the moment Dax leaned in just a fraction, voice low, warm, and carrying far too much promise for comfort.
"Now," he murmured, "we can discuss what you sensed earlier."
Rowan groaned softly.
Chris immediately put a hand on Dax’s forearm, subtle enough not to draw attention from the retreating diplomats, firm enough to be a warning.
"Not here," he whispered. "Please."
Dax paused, evaluating the battlefield. The corridor wasn’t empty yet; attendants still lingered near doorways, guards shifted in formation, and a pair of junior ministers walked past pretending not to listen.
Chris could practically see the king calculating how loud or soft his territorial instincts would register in an enclosed space.
"Dax," Chris muttered under his breath, "we are not doing this in a hallway full of people."
The king’s eyes narrowed, like he was trying to determine the fastest path to privacy that didn’t involve committing a diplomatic incident.
Rowan, saint of suffering, stepped in quickly. "Your Majesty, we have to move toward the royal wing anyway. The East Wing staff will begin clearing soon. Best to relocate."
Translation: Please don’t terrify government employees while they’re stacking dishes.
Dax’s gaze flicked to Rowan. "I wasn’t going to do anything."
Rowan didn’t bother pretending to believe him. "Of course not, sir."
Chris squeezed Dax’s arm again. "Be patient. Wait until we’re back in our wing. Then we can talk."
Dax looked down at him, the edge of tension in his posture softening just enough to show he was listening, truly listening, to Chris. His shoulders lowered a fraction, and the line of his jaw eased.
"Fine," he said quietly. "But I expect answers."
Chris rolled his eyes. "I didn’t assume we’d return home and meditate in silence."
Dax leaned imperceptibly closer, as if proximity alone might extract truths. "You felt pheromones. Multiple. That is not a small thing."
"And it’s also not an emergency," Chris countered. "No one is dying."
Rowan coughed into his fist. "Some of us almost did."
Both Chris and Dax ignored him.
Chris tugged gently to guide Dax forward before he said anything more incriminating. "Let’s go. Walk. Breathe. Pretend we’re normal for another five minutes."
Dax released a long breath, something held coiled inside him loosening slightly. "For you," he said again, softer this time, more genuine than dangerous. "I can wait."
"That’s all I’m asking," Chris murmured.
They started down the hallway together, steps measured, their shadows long in the warm lamp glow. Rowan followed behind them with the grim determination of a man escorting a giant, territorial predator who had promised not to eat anyone on the way home.
And if Dax walked just a little closer to Chris than necessary, Rowan chose to ignore it.
Five minutes.
Chris had asked for five minutes.
Rowan prayed to every god he knew that Dax could last that long.