They ate without ceremony. Rowan sat a little off to one side, making himself small and quiet, letting the two of them trade remarks about Marta’s sandwiches and the absurdity of the garden topiary. By the time the basket was half-empty, the edge in Chris’s posture had dulled; he was still prickly and still dry in his humor, but he hadn’t pulled back into silence. Dax matched him line for line, careful not to press, savoring each small flash of expression as if it were rarer than the food.
When Chris finally pushed his plate away and reached for his water, the sun had slipped lower, setting the fountain’s spray alight in copper. Dax wiped his fingers on a napkin and stood, rolling his sleeves down again. "Thank you," he said, tone mild but sincere. "Marta can claim victory for this one."
Chris didn’t look at him directly. "Tell her yourself. I’m just the hostage."
Dax smiled at that but said nothing. He nodded once to Rowan, a silent instruction to stay with Chris, and turned back toward the hedge door. The moment he passed under its shadow, the hum of the palace began to close in again: staff waiting, voices low, schedules already lined up.
He felt it then, a strange weight in his chest that wasn’t the aftertaste of adrenaline. Chris hadn’t accused him of anything. He hadn’t snapped about the blood or about cages. The first thing out of his mouth had been, ’Are you hurt?’ The memory of it sat warm and unexpected under Dax’s ribs, as if someone had slipped a coal there. Shameless as he was, he wanted more. More of that Chris, sharp, wary, but caring despite himself. More lunches without walls, more questions asked without barbs.
Inside his office Tyler was already waiting with a stack of folders. Dax waved him out with a flick of his fingers and crossed to the desk, leaning both hands on the edge for a moment, eyes half-closed. The warmth in his chest lingered, and with it a decision.
"Get me John," he said quietly.
The guard at the door bowed and slipped away. Dax straightened, mouth curving a fraction as he pictured Chris out there in the sun, smart mouth working again, no silence between them. He liked the feeling. He wanted more. And he wasn’t about to leave it to chance.
He turned back to his desk. The afternoon light was slanting across the polished wood, picking out the edges of the folders Tyler had left in neat stacks: trade agreements, security updates, and final signatures for the next week’s delegation. He dropped into the chair, rolled his sleeves once more to his elbows and began working methodically. Pen scratching, page turning, each signature an anchor pulling him back from the picture of Chris at the fountain. Every few minutes he caught himself staring at the blank blotter, thoughts drifting back to the omega’s first question: ’Are you hurt?’
’Who asked me if I’m hurt?’ Nobody asked him if he was the one hurt when he had blood on his hands, nobody but Christopher.
A knock at the doorframe. "Come."
John stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The older man carried a thin black folder, his expression as tight as Dax had ever seen it. "Your Majesty," he said, bowing slightly. "The report on the suppressants, as you requested. It includes the labs we ran when the consort arrived in Saha."
Dax leaned back, pen still between his fingers. "Go on."
John opened the folder, the paper whispering. "After the anaphylactic incident with the unprocessed poppy seeds, we drew a full panel. No other allergies surfaced. However..." He hesitated, glancing at the page. "The labs confirm severe iron deficiency and multiple vitamin deficiencies. He’s running mostly on fumes."
Dax’s jaw tightened. "And the suppressants?"
John’s mouth compressed into a thin line. "Unregulated. The dosage varies widely from pill to pill. Several are laced with secondary compounds designed to increase dependency and blunt withdrawal symptoms. It’s obvious now, looking at the data, that he’s been kept on them deliberately. The pattern is consistent with someone trying to create a chemical leash."
Dax’s pen tapped once, twice, against the blotter. "You’re certain?"
"Yes, sire. It’s not just sloppy supply. It’s intentional." John closed the folder and set it on the desk. "He’s been functioning on a mix that would knock most people flat. The fact that he’s upright is... remarkable."
Dax exhaled through his nose and rose from his seat. "I expect his fertility to be affected too."
John shifted his weight, fingers still resting on the edge of the folder. "We can’t give you a definitive answer on that, Your Majesty," he said quietly. "He’s been taking these pills for more than eight years. Each batch is different. They’re small enough to smuggle and easy to relabel, and by the time we analyzed them, most of the active compounds had already broken down in his blood. Without full imaging, hormone panels, and ultrasounds of his glands and uterus, we’re only guessing."
Dax’s violet gaze flicked up. "That’s why I scheduled the appointment for tomorrow."
John inclined his head. "Yes, sire. Everything is set. Once we have the scans, we’ll know how much damage has been done and whether it’s reversible."
Dax turned to the window, jaw tight. Outside, the last light stretched across the hedges, catching a pale shape at the fountain. Chris, still sitting with Rowan, is still unaware of the folder on the desk. "Almost nine years of unregulated pills," he said under his breath. "And he’s still standing."
John nodded.
Dax drew a slow breath, forcing his voice level. "Make sure that any meds he takes from now on are delivered by the royal staff."
John nodded once. "We’ve already removed the bottles from his rooms. Nothing he hasn’t cleared through our team will reach him."
"Good." Dax turned back from the window and returned to his chair, palms flat on the desk. The folder lay open in front of him, black and silent as a wound. "After tomorrow I want a full protocol, food, and supplements, and infusions if you have to. Not just stabilizing him; I want him rebuilt."
"We’ll be ready," John said. "The panel and imaging will give us a baseline. From there I can draft a plan with the palace physician. It won’t be overnight, but... we can undo much of what’s been done."
Dax’s fingers drummed once on the blotter. "Undo it," he said quietly. "All of it. I didn’t invest hundreds of millions in medicine to hear that you can’t."
John bowed his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Dax stayed seated as the man left, the door closing with a soft click. For a long moment he stared at the empty space where John had been. Outside, through the open window, he could just make out Chris’s profile by the fountain, Rowan talking with his hands, and the picnic basket still open between them. The warmth under his ribs deepened, slow and steady, more dangerous than the anger. He had blood on his hands and signatures still waiting on his desk, but all he could think about was the dry, startled voice asking, ’Are you hurt?’
He slid the pen into its holder and pushed the folder aside. Tomorrow the tests would start, and after that the rebuilding. Whatever had been slipped into those pills, whatever leash had been wrapped around Chris for nearly nine years, would be cut here. And Dax, shameless as he was, intended to be the one holding the knife.