Chris woke to movement and muted voices. For a heartbeat he thought he was still dreaming, with the low vibration under his feet and the spiced-dark scent of Dax filling his lungs. Then the car door swung open and dawn broke over a wall of bodies.
Outside, the private strip was already alive. Lines of men in black uniforms and mirrored sunglasses stood shoulder to shoulder, forming a corridor from the car to the waiting jet. All of them were alphas, big, hard-edged, their heat rolling off them in disciplined waves that still made Chris’s skin prickle. Even half-asleep, he could feel the weight of them. Every one of them was taller than him. Dax stepped out first and somehow managed to look taller still, his black-and-silver Sahan suit cutting a sharper figure than their uniforms.
Chris clutched his coffee and followed, blinking into the light. It was early enough that the sky was still the color of iron, and the only sound was the steady thrum of the engines and the measured footfalls of the guards as they closed ranks behind them. Cameras and long lenses glittered in the distance, but the army of alphas made sure no one got close.
At the base of the stairs Chris finally lifted his eyes to the jet and blinked again. It didn’t look like a plane so much as a palace caught mid-flight: cream and pale gold carpeting patterned with curling vines, mirrored tables with silver trays, armchairs instead of rows of seats, and crystal lamps glowing along the windows. There was even a muted screen built into the forward bulkhead, its image reflecting from a gilded mirror on the ceiling.
Inside, the air was cool and faintly perfumed, the hum of the engines muffled by thick carpeting. Chris felt the shift of pressure as the door sealed behind them, shutting out the world and the press.
He sank into the nearest armchair, coffee still in hand, eyes travelling from the patterned rug to the glittering crystal lamps to the enormous sofa at the far end. It was all too much to take in at once. He muttered something under his breath that might have been a curse.
Dax walked past him like he owned the sky, violet eyes already flicking over the tablet he’d picked up from the attendant. The dark-spiced scent of him curled through the cabin, rich as rum. "Buckle up," he said mildly, settling opposite him. "Five hours."
Chris just hunched around his coffee and stared at the impossible interior, still half in a dream.
Chris slumped deeper into the armchair, coffee cupped between his palms like it might wake him by osmosis. The carpet under his shoes was so soft it felt like he was stepping on clouds. Above him a crystal lamp threw tiny sparks of light across the mirrored ceiling.
He squinted at it. "This isn’t a plane," he muttered. "This is... I don’t even know. A flying hotel lobby. I’m definitely still asleep."
Across from him Dax glanced up from his tablet, one brow rising. "You’re awake. You’re just grumpy."
Chris stared at the gilded trim running along the window frames. "Nope. Dreaming. Because there’s no way there’s a sofa with throw pillows on a plane. Or a rug with flowers. Or..." he waved his free hand vaguely at the crystal lamps, "whatever those are."
"Lights," Dax said dryly.
"Dream lights," Chris corrected. "And you’re not here either. My subconscious just dressed you up in a suit and made you taller to torment me."
That earned him a low, amused sound. Dax set the tablet on his knee, violet eyes glinting. "If this is your dream, your subconscious has excellent taste in aircraft."
Chris blinked at him, still not lifting his head from the back of the chair. "My subconscious also apparently made coffee taste like burnt motor oil."
"That’s because you grabbed the attendant’s pot before she had time to finish it," Dax said, tone mild. "Drink enough of it and you might wake up."
Chris tilted the cup and gave him a flat look. "You’re disturbingly perky for a figment of my imagination."
"I’m disturbingly perky for a king at six thirty in the morning," Dax corrected, lips curving. "Finish the coffee. In twenty minutes we’re wheels up, and you’ll still think you’re dreaming when we land."
Chris made a noncommittal noise and shut his eyes again. "Fine. But if I wake up and you’re actually on my couch in my real apartment, I’m suing you."
Dax’s laugh rolled low and pleased, vibrating through the gold-lined cabin. "By all means," he said. "Just don’t spill the coffee on my rug while you do it."
Chris slumped deeper into the armchair. "I refuse to believe that this is real."
Across from him Dax glanced up from his tablet, one brow rising. His mouth curved into that dangerous, lazy smile Chris had already learned to distrust. He’d wanted to see if Chris could speak Sahan the other night at dinner, but the interruption had robbed him of the chance. Now, with the omega half-asleep and unguarded, it was the perfect moment.
"Are you still dreaming, my heart?" he said in a low roll of Sahan, the vowels soft and spiced, like his scent.
Chris’s eyelids cracked open. He stared at him for a long beat, then answered back before he could stop himself, his own accent rough but clear. "If this is a dream, it’s a strange one."
Dax’s grin widened, shameless. "Strange dreams tell the truth. Tell me, my heart, what is it you reach for when you need comfort?"
Chris blinked, still hugging his coffee. "Testing me already?" he muttered in imperial, then sighed. "Pasta. Fresh, hot, drowning in butter. And I cook when I want to calm down."
Dax leaned back, violet eyes glinting like a predator who’d just sprung a trap. "Good. You speak it," he murmured, still in Sahan. "I thought so."
Chris froze halfway through another sip of coffee, the words sinking in. "Wait..." He lowered the cup slowly. "You were testing me?"
"Of course." Dax’s tone stayed lazy but triumphant as he switched back to imperial. "I suspected you understood Sahan. Now I know."
Chris groaned and dropped his head back against the seat. "Unbelievable. It’s six-thirty in the morning and you’re running language traps on me?"
Dax’s low laugh rumbled through the gold-lined cabin, pleased and shameless. "Better than letting you sleep," he said, flicking back to his tablet. "Now, little moon, I know exactly what words to use to wake you up."
"Dax, you could have asked." Chris set the bitter coffee down on the table between them, fingers rubbing at his temple.
"Yes, but where is the fun in that?" Dax’s violet eyes glinted over the rim of the tablet. He lowered it just enough to watch him. "If I’d asked, you would’ve lied or given me the polite answer. This way I get to see what you do when you’re half-asleep and honest."
Chris snorted, dragging a hand down his face. "You’re impossible."
"Shameless," Dax corrected, that slow, dark smile ghosting over his mouth. "And wide awake. Unlike you."
Chris reached for the latte an attendant had quietly set down to replace the bad coffee and muttered, "I’m not answering any more questions until I’ve had at least three sips of this."
Dax leaned back, tablet balanced in one hand, still watching him like a cat playing with a sleepy bird. "Then drink fast," he murmured. "We still have more than four hours to go. And I plan to use them well, my heart."