Chris was in serious trouble.
The kind of trouble that couldn’t be solved by sarcasm, caffeine, or pretending to be dead under the blanket. He stared at his reflection in the mirror of the bathroom like it had personally betrayed him.
"Oh, no," he muttered, voice thin. "No, no, no... absolutely not."
The reflection did not agree. It looked back at him with that same wide-eyed disbelief, hair a mess, skin flushed in ways he was not prepared to discuss with anyone, and, most damningly, his lower half insisting that yes, this was definitely happening. He could still feel the slick running down his thighs.
It was normal, Nadia had said. Biological recalibration. His body had been dulled by suppressants for years; the removal of those would eventually "allow natural responses to re-emerge." She’d said it like a doctor explaining pollen allergies.
She had not mentioned that "natural responses" meant nearly drowning in shame because one whiff of laundry had short-circuited his brain.
Chris pressed both hands to the counter, breathing hard. On the chair behind him, half folded, sat the problem.
Dax’s shirt.
One of the silk ones, stupidly soft and smelling like spice, rum, and something expensive and unfair. He’d picked it up off the back of a chair from the wardrobe an hour ago, meaning to toss it in the laundry. He’d barely touched it to his face before his entire nervous system decided to file for mutiny.
Now he was standing there, damp, disoriented, and completely out of plausible deniability.
"Oh, perfect," he hissed, glaring at his own reflection. "Fantastic. Evolution really said: surprise, you’re pathetic."
He grabbed the nearest towel and buried his face in it, as if smothering himself in cotton could erase reality. It didn’t help. He could still smell it, the faint warmth of Dax’s skin, that mix of smoke and salt and arrogance. His body responded like it had been waiting years for permission. A new wave of slick began to roll down.
"No," he told it flatly. "We are not doing this. We are civilized. We pay taxes. We..."
He stopped. He didn’t pay taxes anymore. He lived in a palace. On Dax’s budget.
That somehow made it worse.
He turned the faucet on full blast, splashing cold water over his face, chest, wrists, and anywhere that might trick his hormones into retreat. "You are not feral," he muttered through chattering teeth. "You are an adult with self-respect."
That was when Nadia’s voice drifted faintly from the outer room. "Mr. Malek? Breakfast in ten minutes!"
Chris froze. "God hates me."
He could not face anyone like this, not Nadia, not Rowan, and definitely not Hanna, who would probably sense weakness like a shark scenting blood. He was already at war with her over the robe situation from two days ago; showing up looking freshly debauched by a shirt would destroy any illusion of control he had left.
He leaned against the counter, groaning into his hands. His skin was too hot, his heartbeat embarrassingly loud, and he hated that his brain kept replaying fragments from last night, the sound of Dax’s voice, low and calm over the phone, and that steady amusement when he said, "I just wanted to hear you before I sleep." Dax called for a few minutes before Killian dragged him back to his duties.
Chris dropped his head against the cool marble. "You did this," he muttered at the empty air. "You and your ridiculous bathtub diplomacy."
It didn’t help that his body remembered exactly how Dax sounded when amused. The slight rasp, the pause between words, and the tone that slid under the skin like warm honey and stayed there.
He groaned again. "Nadia’s going to kill me. Rowan’s going to laugh. And Hanna... Hanna’s going to burn this shirt as a national threat."
Somewhere between self-pity and crisis, he caught sight of himself again in the mirror. He looked flushed, rumpled, and very obviously omega. The realization landed like a punch. For years, he’d survived by being forgettable, neutral enough that no one looked twice. But now?
Now his biology had apparently remembered what it was supposed to be.
He dragged in a breath and reached for his phone. He hovered over Dax’s name for a full ten seconds before tossing it face-down on the counter. "Absolutely not," he told himself. "I am not texting the man responsible for this war crime."
The phone buzzed immediately with a new message.
From: Rowan
"Breakfast in ten. Nadia says if you don’t show, she’s sending a medical team."
Chris typed back with one hand while clutching the towel like armor.
"Tell her I died. Tell her it was peaceful."
Rowan’s reply came seconds later.
"Told her. She said she’ll resuscitate the corpse."
Chris groaned again, louder this time.
He looked at the shirt, still draped on the chair like a smug accomplice. "You’re going back to the laundry," he warned it, as if threatening fabric could restore order. "You and your... your hormonal terrorism."
Then, because he still had a shred of dignity to maintain, he shoved it into the laundry basket with more force than necessary.
That’s how Nadia found him five minutes later, dressed in a bathrobe, hair damp, trying to look casual while standing suspiciously far from the laundry.
"Rough morning?" she asked mildly.
"You have no idea," Chris muttered.
She smiled that clinical, terrifying smile. "Good. That means your system’s normalizing. Exactly as predicted."
"Define normalizing," he said flatly.
Nadia raised an eyebrow. "You smelled something and reacted?"
"Something."
"Progress," she said cheerfully.
Chris stared at her. "You are a bad person."
"Nurse," she corrected. "Now eat something with protein before you collapse."
He obeyed, mostly because arguing would require oxygen he no longer trusted himself to use responsibly.
And as he picked at breakfast, pretending to be fine, one thought looped through his head like a curse: ’If one shirt did this to me... what would happen when Dax came back?’
Chris wiped his hands on the napkin and pushed the tray away before his brain could betray him again. He needed to move, do something practical, normal, and non-hormonal. Like getting dressed. Clothes were safe. Clean clothes didn’t smell like anyone.
He left the sitting room, determined to forget that his body had gone rogue, and headed for the apartment everyone in the palace affectionately called the wardrobe.
It wasn’t really a wardrobe. It was an entire wing disguised as one. Room after room of mirrored walls, glass cases, and neatly labeled drawers. Dax had more suits than common sense, each arranged by color, season, and probable mood.
Chris pushed the double doors open and walked in. The faint scent of spice and clean linen hit him like a reminder of everything he was trying not to feel.
"Focus," he muttered to himself. "Find a shirt. Preferably one that doesn’t trigger an existential crisis."
He crossed to his usual section, tucked behind one of the mirrored partitions, left side, third row. The safe zone. His clothes.
Except...
He froze.
It was empty.
Every hanger gleamed bare in the filtered light. The few drawers he pulled open contained nothing but carefully folded robes in muted golds, creams, and blacks, Sahan ceremonial wear, all pristine, all unmistakably not his.
Chris blinked. Then blinked again. "No," he whispered. "No, no, no... this is not happening."
He tried the next section. Dax’s, obviously. Rows upon rows of tailored suits, shirts in silk and linen, and the occasional dark robe trimmed in gold thread. All Dax. Every last bit of it radiating that infuriating scent.
Chris ran a hand through his hair, trying to process the absurdity. "They didn’t."