CHAPTER 201: CHAPTER 201: NATURE

Rowan stared at him. At Chris. At the universe.

"...Payment," he repeated slowly, as if trying to confirm reality wasn’t folding in on itself.

"Yes," Chris said, already rising from his chair and brushing at his sleeves like he was preparing for a diplomatic confrontation rather than a meltdown-fueled impulse. "A stipend. A salary. A royal consort compensation package. I don’t care what he calls it, but I want one."

Rowan’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "Chris... you don’t need money."

"I know."

"You don’t even like money."

"I know."

"You have a wardrobe budget bigger than a research grant, a personal staff, catered meals, an education allowance, a collar worth more than a small nation’s GDP, and unrestricted access to the palace vault."

Chris nodded with perfect calm. "Still want payment."

Rowan dragged a hand down his face. "Why?"

Chris’s expression sharpened into something almost serene, the tranquility one reaches only after complete emotional collapse. "Because I stabilized a monarchy just by existing," he said, adjusting his diamond collar with regal finality. "I deserve compensation. Preferably monetary compensation. I like the symbolism."

Rowan stared at him without blinking for a full five seconds. "You are absolutely Lucas’s friend," he murmured. "There’s no denying it anymore."

Chris picked up his tablet and straightened a stack of papers he had no intention of reading. "I’m going to ask him."

He made it three full steps toward the door.

And that was as far as he got.

Serathine’s hand landed on his forearm with the quiet authority of someone who had trained monarchs, toppled social hierarchies, and carried an entire court’s etiquette system on her back. "No, you are not," she said, her voice calm but immovable. "Not like this."

Cressida moved to block the door, posture elegant, smile razor-thin. "Chris, darling, you absolutely cannot discuss compensation in a public council chamber. That is where treaties are made, scandals are born, and alphas lose the ability to pretend to be dignified."

Chris blinked at them in confusion. "When did you get here?"

Cressida folded her hands delicately at her waist. "When you stood up with murder in your eyes and said you were going to ask the king for money. We moved quickly."

Serathine nodded once, unbothered. "We were informed by Rowan’s tone of voice."

Rowan raised a hand. "I didn’t say anything."

"You didn’t have to," Serathine replied. "You radiated the despair of a man watching a toddler approach a power outlet."

Chris frowned. "I am not a toddler."

"No," Cressida agreed, stepping closer with a slow, assessing gaze, "but you are about to walk into a council room and demand payment from an alpha who would, without shame, offer to pay you in..."

"NO," Chris cut in immediately, face blazing. "Do not finish that sentence."

Serathine lifted a brow. "Did he not say it? Because your expression suggests he said it."

"He didn’t," Chris muttered. "But he would."

Rowan nodded vigorously. "Absolutely. He would pay you in nature. Happily. Proudly. With detail."

Chris looked personally betrayed by the universe. "This was supposed to be about fairness."

"It never is with dominant alphas," Cressida said with a soft sigh. "Especially ones in love. They think offering themselves is a form of currency."

"It’s not," Chris snapped.

"It is to them," Serathine corrected. "And Dax in particular does not know how to be subtle. If you ask him for anything in public, he will turn it into a declaration."

Rowan lifted a finger. "And then the ministers will faint. Again."

Chris pressed both hands to his temples. "I just want him to acknowledge I improved the approval ratings."

"He already knows," Serathine said, her voice settling into the patient cadence of someone about to drag a high-ranking official through etiquette drills. "Now, we had something to talk about first."

Chris froze at her words, hands still gripping his temples, suspicion creeping into his expression like a slow-moving storm. "...What do you mean first?"

Cressida’s smile widened by one imperceptible degree. "Oh, Christopher. You didn’t think we came all the way from the East Wing just to stop you from embarrassing yourself in front of the council, did you?"

Rowan made a small sound of betrayal. "That wasn’t your only reason?"

Serathine gave him a cool look. "Rowan, please. You handled the immediate crisis, yes. But we came because Christopher has reached the stage of the morning where he is sufficiently emotionally destabilized to be pliable."

Chris blinked. "Pli... what?"

Cressida stepped closer, tapping his tablet with one lacquered nail. "Before you go storming into a room of ministers to demand compensation from a king who would absolutely offer to ’settle the debt personally,’

we need to discuss something far more pressing."

Rowan perked up. "Is it media? Is it posture? Is it that thing he did with his low-cut collar that nearly caused a diplomatic incident?"

Chris glared. "It was ONE TIME."

"Two," Rowan corrected softly. "If you take the balcony into consideration."

Serathine ignored them both and placed a stack of elegantly bound papers on Chris’s desk, each page crisp, annotated, and terrifyingly organized.

"This," she said, "is your first etiquette dossier."

Chris stared at it like it was a biological hazard. "...My what?"

Cressida clasped her hands. "Your dossier. Prepared jointly by myself and Serathine. It covers your tone, your posture, your public vocabulary, your acceptable number of steps away from the king, how long you may hold eye contact in diplomatic settings without starting a rumor, and the new list of things you must never do again unless you want the nobles to spontaneously combust."

"The what the fuck did I learn in the last month?" Chris asked like a man on the brink of madness.

"Language, dear," Cressida said while patting him on the back. "Those were the basics every noble knows; now, as High Consort, you have other protocols to learn."

Chris stared at the dossier like it was a weapon someone had politely gift-wrapped.

"The basics?" he echoed, incredulous. "You mean the basics I’ve been drilling for a month? With flashcards. And mock dinners. And mock debates. And those thirty-page etiquette summaries you both made me memorize before I was even allowed to wear my robe in public?"

Serathine inclined her head, the faintest edge of sympathy in her expression, faint because she was still Serathine. "Correct. You have mastered foundational protocol: formal greetings, seating hierarchies, the order of address, scent etiquette, and the forty approved variations of a neutral expression. Good. Necessary. Expected."

Cressida stepped closer, tapping the dossier once with a manicured finger. "But being High Consort requires a different skill set entirely, darling. Court etiquette is merely the skeleton. What you learn now is the muscle."

Rowan blinked at that. "That sounds ominous."

"It is," Cressida said sweetly. "But in a productive way."

Chris lifted the cover of the dossier as if it might bite. The title page was embossed in gold ink, crisp and terrifying.

Advanced Consort Protocol, Volume One: Presence, Precision, Power.

His stomach dropped. "Volume... one?"

Serathine nodded. "There are seven."