Chris woke to an empty expanse of mattress.
The heat was still there, the sheets warm, the air faintly scented with dark silk and wine, but the arm was gone. He blinked up at the carved ceiling, momentarily disoriented. For a second he thought he’d dreamed it: the wedding, the car, the king in silk pajamas. Then the size of the bed registered. He’d never been in one so big; it felt like a small country with pillows.
And that, he thought grimly, said something. He wasn’t a street urchin. He had a perfectly good two-bedroom apartment back in the city, paid off in full, and he’d been content with it. This wasn’t his world. This was absurd.
He rolled onto his side. The indentation where Dax had been was still visible, the covers slightly rumpled, with faint traces of his scent clinging to the cotton. Chris pushed himself upright slowly, palms pressed to the sheet. Pale morning light filtered through the heavy drapes, picking out gleams in the marble floor.
His first instinct was not to explore but to find the bathroom. He padded across the thick carpet on sore heels and slipped through an inner door. The bathroom was as ridiculous as the bedroom, but at the far end sat a neat array of toiletries. Towels, a toothbrush, a razor, everything laid out like a hotel suite that had known exactly who was coming. He stared at the lineup for a beat, a strange mix of irritation and reluctant gratitude creeping over him.
After splashing water on his face and brushing his teeth, he returned to the bedroom. That’s when he noticed.
His feet were wrapped in fresh white bandages.
For a heartbeat he just stared at them, the memory of the blisters a dull ache somewhere beneath the cotton. He hadn’t done that. He hadn’t had the strength to stand, let alone rummage through a first-aid kit. Which meant...
"Oh, no," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "Tell me the king of Saha did not play nurse while I was unconscious."
Heat crept up his neck anyway. The idea of Dax, tall, terrifying king, kneeling at the foot of the bed with antiseptic and gauze was almost absurd. Almost. And yet the bandages were neat, and he could feel the balm cooling against the skin. Definitely not a servant’s work.
He turned toward the door, expecting guards or some kind of silent sentinel. Nothing. No one on the balcony. No one in the sitting room beyond. The hall was empty.
Then his eyes caught the small black lenses tucked into the corners of the ceiling and the faint green wink of a biometric reader at the handle. Cameras in the moldings. Panels that only opened with a palm print.
Chris let out a slow breath, testing his weight gingerly on his bandaged feet. The pain was dulled but still there. He padded into the sitting room, glancing at the balcony doors and at the discreet panels on the walls. No guards in sight, just a very polite, very invisible net.
He huffed under his breath. "Congratulations, Malek. You’ve upgraded from a waiter to a princess in the tower."
He’d just finished a slow circuit of the sitting room, balcony doors, hidden readers, discreet cameras tucked into the cornices when the soft click of the inner door made him stiffen.
A tall man in his sixties stepped in with the kind of silent authority that only years of service gave. His hair was iron-grey, combed neatly back from a high forehead, and his dark suit was perfectly pressed. Behind him came a younger maid in a crisp uniform, arms full of neatly folded clothing.
"Good morning, Mr. Malek," the butler said smoothly, as if Chris had always woken up in royal apartments. His voice was low, polite, without the tiniest hint of surprise at finding him barefoot. "His Majesty asked that you be provided with something more suitable."
The maid dipped her head and crossed to the nearest chair, laying out the clothes diligently: soft linen trousers, a light shirt, and even underwear and socks folded with military neatness. Chris glanced at them, then at the old man, feeling the blush rise again at the thought of Dax organizing his wardrobe like a five-star hotel.
"Breakfast will be served here shortly," the butler continued. "His Majesty gave instructions that you’re not to be disturbed until then. If you have any preferences, the kitchen is at your disposal."
Chris cleared his throat, trying to marshal a veneer of calm. "You’re... the butler?"
The man inclined his head slightly. "Alfred Smith, sir. House steward." He gestured lightly toward the clothes. "The bath is at your disposal; the balcony doors remain unlocked. Security measures are for your safety, not confinement. And if you require anything before breakfast arrives, please ring."
Chris managed a dry little smile. "That’s very... thorough."
Alfred’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. "We strive to be."
With a small bow he stepped aside to let the maid pass. She slipped in with a shallow curtsey, arms full of neatly folded clothing, and crossed to the nearest chair.
"Breakfast will be served here within the quarter hour," Alfred said. "If you need anything else, ring once for the kitchen, twice for me."
Chris gave a vague nod, the back of his neck prickling. "Right. Thanks."
The butler and maid withdrew as quietly as they had come, the door clicking shut behind them. Chris looked at the clothes, then at the empty room. Everything smelled faintly of polish and citrus. No guards, no footsteps; just cameras glinting discreetly from the ceiling corners and a biometric panel glowing faintly at the main door.
He dressed quickly in the fresh clothes, testing the linen with a small, incredulous tug. Too soft to be anything but expensive. "Great," he muttered to himself. "Wardrobe by the king of Saha. Next up, breakfast in bed."
As if on cue, the door opened again. The same maid pushed in a low cart loaded with covered dishes, the scent of warm bread and fresh coffee drifting ahead of her. She began setting the table with quiet precision while Chris finished buttoning the shirt.
He padded over, glancing at the silver pot. "Do you... have milk for the coffee?" he asked, trying to sound casual. Under his breath he added, "I’d kill for a latte."
The maid’s head tilted slightly. "Of course, sir." She lifted the pot and cup at once and vanished out the door without another word.
Chris blinked at the empty space. "I didn’t mean literally..." he muttered.
Minutes later she returned, this time setting down a tall cup crowned with a faint curl of steam and the unmistakable scent of espresso and warm milk. "Your latte, sir," she said simply.
Chris wrapped his hands around it, blinking at the perfect foam. "Right," he muttered, taking a cautious sip. "Definitely a dream."