The word still rang in his skull.
Queen.
It sat heavy in his chest, sharper than a threat, heavier than a promise. Dax had said it with the calm of a man ordering the weather to change, certain the skies would obey.
Chris’s throat burned. His jaw clenched, then unclenched, teeth grinding as his pulse roared in his ears. He forced his eyes back to the window, to the blur of pale streetlights bleeding across glass. ’He’s insane. Completely unhinged. He doesn’t mean it. He can’t mean it.’
The silence pressed too close, every breath scraping against the walls of his chest. He tried to hold onto reason, to logic, to anything that could make the moment smaller, dismissing it as posturing.
’It’s a game. That’s all this is. He’s pulling threads because he can.’
But the knot in his stomach didn’t loosen. It only twisted tighter, because deep down he knew Dax hadn’t been playing. Those violet eyes hadn’t held amusement but certainty.
Chris dragged a hand over his mouth, the tremor in his fingers betraying him. He hated the sound of his own breath hitching and hated the weight of his heart hammering hard enough to bruise his ribs.
"You are mad."
The words came out harsher than Chris meant, his own voice cracking at the edges. He heard it, hated it, but couldn’t reel it back in. The car felt too small, too warm; the leather under his palms was slick where sweat had gathered. His chest rose and fell in short, shallow breaths. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, willing the tremor out of them, but it stayed.
"Mad," he said again, quieter this time, almost a laugh, almost a gasp. "You don’t even hear yourself. Queen? Me?" A sharp breath. "You’re..." He bit the rest off, jaw tightening until it hurt. ’Stop. Stop talking. Before you hang yourself with your own mouth.’
Across from him Dax sat exactly as before, his long frame stretched comfortably in the opposite seat, one arm draped along the backrest as though this were a casual midnight drive instead of a confrontation. In the shifting glow of streetlights, his violet eyes gleamed like polished stone, unreadable but faintly amused.
Chris felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck. His body was screaming at him to run, to fight, to do something, but his brain was stuck, caught between panic and fury. He dug his fingers into his thighs until they hurt, focusing on the sting.
Dax tilted his head slightly, that small, knowing smile flickering again. "Finished?" he asked softly, the question so mild it almost sounded polite.
Chris let out a breath that was closer to a hiss. He couldn’t even look at him. "You’re..." His voice faltered. "You’re insane."
"Mm." Dax’s hum was low, almost approving. "I’ve been called worse."
The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of a tall building. Outside, the streetlamp buzzed over an empty stretch of cobblestone. Without hurry, Dax rose, unfolding himself from the seat in one fluid motion. Seven foot three of unshakable calm, shoulder-length pale hair catching the sodium glow like spun metal, dark shirt stretched over broad shoulders but soft at the cuffs. He shut his door with a quiet click and came around.
Chris watched him through the tinted glass, heart hammering. He had the sudden, irrational thought of a lion leaving its cage only to open the gate for you.
The rear door swung open. Dax stood there, one hand on the frame, the other slipping into his pocket. The night air rolled in, cool and damp, a relief and a warning all at once.
"Come on," Dax murmured, tone easy, almost amused. "Before you work yourself into a panic."
Chris stayed frozen for a heartbeat longer, fingers gripping the seat. His pulse thundered in his ears. Then, with a muttered curse under his breath, he slid across the leather and stepped out into the night, the king’s shadow falling over him like a net.
"Do I at least get to go back and pack my things?" he asked, his voice level though his throat was tight. "I have my own apartment and all my work’s in there. Engineering sketches, drafts, and a laptop. I’d rather not have some stranger shove them into a box and call it good."
Dax’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite a threat. The night breeze tugged a loose strand of pale hair across his cheek; he smoothed it back absently, violet eyes steady on Chris’s face. "You’re practical," he said quietly, as if it were a compliment. "Good. You’ll need that."
Chris folded his arms, trying to mask the tremor in his hands with attitude. "So that’s a no?"
"It’s a yes," Dax replied at once, the softness of his tone making it more dangerous, not less. "But you’re not walking back there on your own tonight." He extended a hand, palm open, big enough to dwarf Chris’s. "I’ll send my people. They’ll pack everything exactly as it is and catalog everything and bring it to you untouched. You’ll find it all waiting for you when you’re ready."
Chris stared at the hand, heat crawling up his neck. The words were polite enough, but under them was the truth: his freedom was already gone. Dax wasn’t offering; he was closing the net with a sparkling bow.
"I’m not luggage," Chris muttered, but his voice was low. "And I don’t like being handled."
Dax’s faint smile deepened. "Then don’t think of it as being handled," he said, leaning a little closer, still holding out his hand. "Think of it as being... guarded. Until you decide what you want to do with all those teeth you keep trying to hide from me."
Chris snorted under his breath, bitter and incredulous at how easily the king dressed up possession as care. ’He’s good,’ he thought grimly. ’Too good.’
But his fingers still twitched. The night was cool and damp, the street empty, and behind him the car door yawned like a trap. He could pull back. He could spit another line. He didn’t.
With a muttered curse, he slipped his hand into Dax’s. Warm, firm, steady. He hated how solid it felt, how easily Dax’s fingers closed around his.
"Good," Dax murmured, voice almost fond. "Now, come inside."