Dax’s eyes didn’t flick to the doors this time. He hadn’t ordered the attendants out to protect his image; he’d done it because he wanted Chris to himself. Anyone else in the room would have been scorched to ash by the look he’d given them, but Chris was still sitting there with a mug of coffee in his hands.
"I don’t clear the room to keep up appearances," Dax said, almost idly, as if reading Chris’s thoughts. He leaned back in the carved chair, one ankle resting on his knee, the gold of his shawl sliding down his arm. "I clear it because I don’t like distractions."
Chris’s fingers tightened around the mug. "So it’s not about them thinking you’ve softened?"
Dax’s mouth curved, lazy and dangerous. "I don’t care what they think. They breathe because you’re here. Without you, they’d be on their knees, praying to whatever gods they still remember." His violet gaze held Chris’s, a faint glint of heat flickering behind it. "You’re the only one in this palace who gets to throw barbs at me and keep his head."
Chris blinked, pulse jumping; the coffee suddenly felt too hot against his palms. "Do you... really kill people just because they piss you off?"
Dax’s laugh rolled out low and warm, the sound vibrating in Chris’s chest. "Maybe."
’So yes.’ Chris sighed internally.
The king arched a brow, playful but still unmistakably dangerous. "Relax. I don’t kill staff unless they try first." He shifted the fall of the gold-threaded shawl, the movement as calculated as everything else he did. "Now... finish your coffee. You need to meet your temporary personnel. I’m leaving for Rohan in less than a week. I’ll be away about seven days; if they drag their feet in the negotiations, ten at the most."
Chris’s grip tightened on the mug. "Temporary personnel?" he echoed. "That sounds like you’re handing me a new babysitter."
"It’s called a staff," Dax said, voice still velvet but edged with amusement. "And yes, they’ll be under your command while I’m gone. Think of them as an extension of my will, not a leash for you."
Chris snorted. "Right. Because that sounds so much better."
"I don’t want you tripping over my ministers while I’m away," Dax went on as if he hadn’t heard. He rose from the armchair in one smooth motion, the gold-threaded shawl settling over his shoulders, the lattice windows painting his skin with shifting patterns of light. "I’ll introduce them after breakfast. Pick the ones you can stand. Fire the ones you can’t. No one will question it."
Chris looked up at him, black eyes sharp despite the heat in his cheeks. "You’re serious."
"I’m always serious when it comes to you." Dax’s smile thinned into something almost gentle, almost. "Rohan will test every inch of me. I need to know that while I’m gone this palace will still feel like mine, and that you won’t be cornered."
The words landed heavier than the marble underfoot. Chris set the mug down, trying to make his voice casual. "You’re talking like you’re not coming back."
Dax’s violet gaze met his. "Oh, I am. I even wanted to take you with me."
"And what stopped you?" Chris asked, eyes narrowing.
The gold-threaded shawl slid a fraction down Dax’s arm as his expression cooled. "Two dominant alphas," he said at last, voice dropping. "A woman who trades favors like weapons, and a man in his late forties who’s been circling me for years. In Rohan they don’t see a guest; they see leverage. An unmarked dominant omega at my side?" His jaw flexed. "They’d spend the whole summit trying to take you from me."
Chris blinked, pulse jumping at the flat possessiveness in his tone. ’Fuck.’ For a heartbeat he saw not the lazy king across from him but the predator beneath. "So you’re leaving me here."
"I’m leaving you here," Dax corrected softly, "because the only hands I’ll tolerate on you are mine." His violet gaze held him a moment longer, then eased. "By the time I’m finished with them, you’ll still be here, safe. Still mine."
"Fine." Chris raised his hands in mock surrender. "I’m staying here like a good boy."
Dax’s mouth curved again, lazy and dangerous. "Good. I’ll have the staff brought in now then. After I’m back, there will be interviews for the permanent ones."
He snapped his fingers once, the sharp sound cutting through the hush like a whip crack. The carved door opened almost immediately. Killian slipped back inside, storm-grey eyes flicking between them before settling on the king.
"Your Majesty," he said, bowing just enough.
"Bring them," Dax ordered without looking away from Chris. "Hanna first."
Killian inclined his head and vanished again. A moment later the door opened to a young woman in a dove-grey suit with a tablet hugged to her chest. Hanna’s dark hair was braided neatly back, her expression brisk but respectful. Dax’s voice rolled out low and unhurried:
"She’s responsible for your clothing, jewelry, perfume, and anything you need or want in fashion. Tell her what you like. She’ll handle it."
Hanna gave a small, composed bow. "My lord."
Behind her came a man who filled the doorway much the way Killian did. Rowan was an alpha, as tall as the steward, with dulled red hair and a body built for moving through crowds like a wall. His eyes swept the room once before he dropped a hand to his chest in a brief salute.
"Rowan heads your security," Dax said, still watching Chris. "He’s responsible for you. If you move, he moves."
Last through the door was a compact, smiling omega with a chef’s steadiness about her. Marta dipped a graceful curtsey.
"And Marta," Dax went on. "Household. Anything you want to eat, anything the kitchen needs to know, you go through her."
The three lined up, a silent cordon of competence waiting for his nod. Chris ducked his head to hide a flicker of relief. Alone. For the first time since he’d been dragged into this gilded cage, he’d have a few days without Dax’s overwhelming presence breathing down his neck. Out loud he managed only, "Guess I’ll try not to burn the place down while you’re gone."
Dax’s mouth curved again, the smile that was both promise and warning. "See that you don’t," he murmured. "Rowan’s job just got interesting."
Chris let the mug rest against his palm, feeling all their eyes on him and trying not to smile at the thought of actual breathing space, even if it came wrapped in a king’s hand-picked guards.