CHAPTER 104: CHAPTER 104: I CAN PLAY TOO.

Chris spent the better part of the next half hour pretending he wasn’t shaking. He’d already been kissed senseless by a king wrapped in a towel. That should have been the apex of humiliation, where any self-respecting person would pack up their dignity and flee the country. He liked it in the end and decided to accept whatever was going to happen between them from now on.

But somehow, fate decided to double down.

The scent of ironed silk hit him before the sight did. Hanna was waiting in the corridor near the tailoring hall, posture sharp enough to slice fabric. The way she looked at him, composed and politely furious, told him she’d already spoken to someone.

"Mr. Malek," she began, her voice a perfect imitation of civility. "I’ve just come from Lord Killian. His Majesty’s order has been confirmed."

Chris blinked once, wary. "Which order?"

"The one regarding your attire," she said simply, gesturing to the rack of ceremonial robes behind her. The gold thread caught the light, glinting like a trap. "As of today, you’re to wear the prescribed garments for all appearances and formal hours."

He stared at her. "You’re joking."

"I assure you, I’m not," Hanna said, her tone clipped but sweet, the kind of sweetness that could gut someone cleanly if you weren’t paying attention.

Chris let out a small, incredulous laugh. "So let me get this straight... you’re telling me Dax ordered me to wear these?"

"His Majesty was quite clear."

"He was also home for five minutes," Chris snapped. "Amazing how he found the time to dictate my wardrobe in between nearly giving me a heart attack and... whatever that was."

She lifted an eyebrow. "It’s tradition, Mr. Malek."

"It’s ridiculous," he shot back, voice tightening. "I’m not dressing up like a royal ornament so you can parade me through the corridors."

"You are the royal consort," she said softly, like the words might calm him.

Chris’s jaw locked. "I am Christopher Malek, civil engineer, unemployed, hormonal, and currently one minor inconvenience away from burning those things for warmth."

Hanna didn’t even blink. "The order came from His Majesty’s personal office, not me."

"Oh, don’t do that," he said, sharper now. "Don’t hide behind his seal and your clipboard. If Dax wants me to play dress-up for the press, he can tell me himself. I’m done following orders passed through intermediaries."

"Careful," she warned, her tone low. "You may not like how he responds."

"Maybe I won’t," Chris said. "But at least I’d respect him for saying it to my face."

The silence that followed was thick. Even the assistants nearby stopped pretending to measure fabric. Hanna didn’t reply, only watched him for a long, assessing second before turning slightly toward the rack of robes.

"They were tailored to your measurements," she said quietly, like a concession.

"Then sell them," he said, already turning away. "Someone else can enjoy their gilded cage."

He didn’t wait for her to respond. His chest felt too tight, his pulse too loud. The anger was heavy and slow-burning, the kind that came after weeks of yielding to things he hadn’t chosen. His job. His independence. His damn wardrobe. He’d been patient. He’d been quiet. A good omega, for once in his life.

And this... this... was the thanks he got.

By the time he reached the royal suite, his thoughts were tangled, looping between frustration and something too raw to name. The guards at the entrance straightened as he passed, and he barely acknowledged them. The doors were open.

He stepped inside, ready to argue, ready to throw words like sharp stones if that’s what it took to make Dax understand that he wasn’t some decorative acquisition. But the rooms were empty.

The faint smell of soap and steam lingered. Dax’s towel was draped over the chair, his presence stamped across the space like a shadow that hadn’t faded yet.

Chris’s breath caught. He didn’t have to ask. The silence told him everything.

He was gone.

For a moment, all the air seemed to leave the room. The anger flickered, caught between humiliation and something dangerously close to hurt. He let out a quiet, shaky laugh, pressing a hand to his face. "Of course," he muttered. "Of course he left."

Chris moved to the console by the bed and pressed the button he had avoided like the plague until now.

Killian appeared, his usual stone expression in place.

"Mister Malek. How can I help?"

"Where is His Majesty?" He asked without hiding his frustration.

"He had to leave for an urgent matter with the clergy. He will be back in a few days."

Chris blinked at him, once, twice, as if the words needed a second to land.

A few days.

He stared past Killian, at the quiet room that still smelled faintly like steam and spice and the arrogance of a man who thought the world moved at his command. The towel was still on the chair. The sheets were still rumpled. His heartbeat, annoyingly, was still too fast.

"A few days," Chris repeated flatly. "Of course."

"Yes, Mr. Malek." Killian’s tone was professional and careful, the kind reserved for handling both explosives and irritated royal consorts. "His Majesty asked me to ensure you were comfortable in his absence."

Chris’s laugh came out brittle. "Comfortable." He gestured vaguely toward the heap of golden robes still draped over the armchair. "Yes, nothing says comfort like being abandoned in a tailor’s fever dream."

Killian’s expression didn’t change, but his silence said enough: He’s heard worse. Possibly from Dax himself.

"Anything else, Mr. Malek?"

Chris hesitated for half a second, then asked anyway. "Did he leave a message?"

Killian shook his head once. "No written message. Only instructions that you were to rest."

"Rest," Chris echoed, his voice flat, quiet. "Right. Because clearly I’m the one who needed time off after he started the argument."

Killian, wisely, didn’t respond.

Chris rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling through his teeth. "You can go, Killian."

"Very well." The butler inclined his head with mechanical grace. "Dinner will be served at eight. I’ll inform the kitchen that you’ll dine here."

"I won’t be hungry."

"Understood."

Killian disappeared as efficiently as he’d arrived, the door shutting behind him with a soft hiss that left the room too large and too quiet again.

Chris stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, the faint reflection of himself in the glass of the console.

Of course Dax had left. Of course he hadn’t said anything. The man could charm a court into silence and then vanish mid-sentence, leaving chaos to ferment in his wake.

Chris turned toward the chair, picked up one of the robes, and let the silk run between his fingers. It was absurdly fine, cool, impossibly light, and shot through with threads that shimmered when they caught the light. A piece of art, really. A cage disguised as craftsmanship.

He dropped it again.

"Fine," he muttered to the empty room. "You want to play politics, Altera? I can play, too."