Chapter 27: Chapter 27: Inside the Lion’s Den
The marble hall stretched around them, too quiet, too polished, the air heavy with the faint sweetness of lilies arranged in tall crystal vases. Chris’s gaze flicked from the grand piano to the endless windows to the silent staff at the edges of his vision. Every detail screamed wealth, power, and permanence.
And then Dax’s voice cut through, low and certain.
"Have you eaten?"
Chris blinked, caught off guard. Of all the things to come out of the king’s mouth, that question felt too ordinary, too human against the weight of the villa. His stomach knotted, empty and aching, but his jaw locked reflexively. Black eyes flicked away.
’I’m not giving you that,’ he thought. ’You don’t get to sound normal after calling me a queen.’
It was nearly midnight. The staff here would move at a finger snap, no doubt, but he wasn’t going to be the one who snapped. He’d gone without before. He could do it again.
So he said nothing.
Dax’s smirk deepened, as though the silence itself were an answer. His hand shifted, settling at the small of Chris’s back, light enough to seem polite, firm enough to steer.
"Come," he said simply, already guiding Chris across the marble floor and toward the curved staircase.
"You know... this is basically kidnapping," Chris muttered, reluctant, his voice dry. His heels burned with every step. ’Great. Even if I wanted to run, I can’t...’ He bit down on the thought, jaw tightening.
Dax only glanced sidelong at him, violet eyes glinting, smirk intact. "If it were kidnapping, Malek, you’d be over my shoulder," he said mildly. "This is you walking."
Chris snorted under his breath but kept moving. "Fantastic distinction."
The suite opened on command, attendants pushing the doors wide before bowing out of sight. The air inside was warmer, darker, and touched with the faint spice of expensive cologne.
Chris hesitated at the threshold, his body locking.
This was Dax’s room, suite, or whatever you wanted to call it, but the scent, his scent, was strong enough to bleed straight through the suppressants. It threaded into the air with the same quiet authority as the man himself.
’Great,’ Chris thought, jaw tight. ’Walk right into the lion’s den, why don’t you? At least you’ll smell nice when you die.’
Behind him, Dax didn’t pause. "Inside," he said, leaving Chris no opening for debate. He didn’t push, but the weight of his presence made stepping back feel impossible.
Chris forced his feet to move. The slippers whispered against the marble as he crossed the threshold, the door closing behind him like the soft click of a trap. Moonlight poured across the bed, across shelves lined with books and weapons, and across furniture too sleek to be anything but custom. Even the shadows were symmetrical here.
He stayed just inside, hands in his pockets, eyes darting from the tall windows to the carved ceiling, every nerve on alert. "Nice room," he said finally, voice dry enough to cut glass. "Very subtle. Totally not intimidating at all."
Dax’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. "It isn’t meant to be subtle," he said. "It’s meant to be mine."
Chris swallowed the bitter laugh trying to claw its way up his throat. "Yeah," he muttered, black eyes narrowing. "That much is obvious."
Dax didn’t slow. He guided him inside with the same calm certainty as before. "Dinner will be ready shortly. Something light," he said, as if the decision had already been made and carried out. "You’ll shower first."
Chris’s head snapped toward him, black eyes sharp. "I didn’t ask for..."
"You don’t have to." Dax’s tone cut smooth and final. His violet gaze slid over Chris, unbothered, as though the matter had already been settled the moment he opened his mouth.
The words landed like a lock turning.
Chris’s jaw worked, a bitter laugh bubbling up and dying before it could make it past his lips. "Right. Silly me. Forgot the part where free will gets checked at the door."
Dax tilted his head slightly, that smirk curving deeper, almost amused. "Free will brought you in," he said evenly. "Survival will keep you here."
Chris turned to Dax, one dark brow arched. "Your Majesty..."
"Dax," he cut in, the correction smooth but absolute.
Chris exhaled hard through his nose, the sound halfway between a sigh and a scoff. "Fine. Dax. This—" he gestured to the soaring ceiling, the marble floor, his sneakers dangling from his hand like a prop in the wrong play—"has nothing to do with my free will."
"You could have tried to run." Dax’s head tilted again, violet eyes glinting, clearly entertained.
Chris gave a short, sharp laugh with no humor in it. "Oh, sure. Because running from a seven-foot-three king with a private army always ends well." He shifted his weight off his aching heels, sneering faintly. "That’s if I even make it three steps before my feet start bleeding again."
Dax’s smirk deepened, like a cat stretching before the pounce. "You sound like a man trying to negotiate with his own feet," he murmured, voice silk over steel. "Come on, Malek. I can hear your stomach over your sarcasm."
Chris’s black eyes snapped to his, heat flickering there. "You’ve got good ears. Congratulations. Doesn’t mean I’m about to roll over because you’re offering me a plate."
Dax chuckled, low and warm. It rumbled through the space between them like a soft engine, more coaxing than mocking. "No rolling over required," he said, taking a step closer, one hand sliding into his pocket, the other gesturing vaguely toward the inner doors. "You’ll shower. There are clothes in your size waiting. By the time you’re finished, something light will be on the table. That’s it."
Chris crossed his arms, sneakers still dangling from one hand, and tilted his head, dark hair falling across his forehead. "And if I don’t?"
Dax leaned down just slightly, enough for his voice to drop lower, almost intimate. "Then you’ll still smell like a ballroom and eat with blisters on your feet," he said, violet eyes gleaming with that same lazy certainty. "But I’d rather you didn’t."
Chris snorted, looking away, but his pulse jumped under his skin. He hated how reasonable the man sounded and hated that the soft push of command felt more like an invitation than an order. "You really don’t stop, do you?"
"No," Dax said easily. "I don’t." A pause. "Shower. Eat. Then we’ll talk. I promise no crown or throne speeches. Just a meal."
Chris hesitated at the threshold of the adjoining bath, the faint scent of marble and steam already drifting out from behind the door. He turned back, still bristling. "You’re unbelievable."
"I’ve been called worse," Dax replied, still smiling. He reached past him to open the bathroom door wider, his voice soft and sure. "Go on, Malek. Before you work yourself into another argument."
Chris muttered something under his breath that might have been a curse and stepped through, sneakers thumping once against the tile. The door swung quietly shut behind him, leaving Dax leaning against the doorframe, violet eyes glinting like a man who’d just coaxed a wild thing a little closer.