CHAPTER 202: CHAPTER 202: INTERESTING DEBT

Chris stared at the embossed title as if it personally owed him money.

"Volume... one?" he repeated, voice thin.

Serathine nodded with the serenity of someone who had already buried two monarchs’ egos. "There are seven."

Chris made a noise that started as a breath and ended somewhere closer to an exorcism. Rowan took one unconscious step back, like he expected the High Consort to combust.

"Seven volumes?" Chris whispered. "Seven whole... how many pages is this?"

Cressida tilted her head, thoughtful. "Each volume is between two and four hundred pages. Mostly examples, case studies, historic notes, and behavioral maps for dealing with nobles, ambassadors, military personnel, and..." she paused delicately, "alphas with poor impulse control."

"...So all of Saha," Chris said flatly.

"Yes, dear," Cressida replied. "All of Saha."

Rowan took one look at Volume One, then at Chris’s face, then at the two matriarchs settling in like executioners preparing their tools.

And he made the only sane decision available.

He stood up slowly.

Then he backed toward the door with the same careful gait one would use when escaping a sleeping dragon.

"I will... leave you to this," he said, voice pitched higher than intended. "Chris, good luck. Matriarchs... condolences."

Serathine gave him a single glance. He scattered.

By the time he cleared the hallway, Rowan had already pulled out his phone with the speed of a seasoned gossip soldier.

ROWAN:

You awake?

Chris is about to ask the King for PAYMENT.

Money. Salary. Compensation. The alpha will combust.

Andrew’s reply was instant.

ANDREW:

He’s going to WHAT?

Rowan thumbed back a response as he speed-walked toward the security wing.

ROWAN:

He stabilized the monarchy and now wants a stipend. I’m telling you before he reaches Dax so you can prepare the medical staff.

—

On the other side of the palace, Andrew was following Dax to the next meeting while he was talking about the specifics with Tyler.

Andrew made the mistake of snorting at Rowan’s message. One involuntary pfft of disbelief slipped out as he read the words "Chris" and "payment" in the same sentence.

Unfortunately, Dax was a dominant alpha with the hearing of a divine predator and the reflexes of someone who had spent his adolescence dodging assassination attempts for sport.

He stopped mid-stride.

Tyler, still talking about border logistics, walked three steps ahead before realizing the king was no longer beside him. He froze in place like someone trying to outrun consequences.

Andrew, pale now, lowered his phone very slowly.

Dax turned his head with the controlled authority of royalty and danger combined. His violet eyes narrowed by one calculated degree.

"Andrew," he said quietly. "What was that."

Andrew cleared his throat. "A... sound, Majesty."

"A sound," Dax repeated, as if testing whether the words themselves offended him.

Tyler silently mouthed, ’Good luck.’

"What kind of sound," Dax continued, "makes you laugh in the middle of a briefing about northern troop rotations?"

Andrew considered lying.

Then remembered Dax could smell lies, fear, and probably even bad financial decisions on people.

"It was Rowan," he admitted.

A single muscle tightened in Dax’s jaw. "Rowan."

"Yes, Majesty."

"What did he send?"

Andrew debated every life choice that led him here. "A message, Majesty."

"Yes," Dax said, voice dangerously patient. "I assumed that much. About what could he message you on duty that made you react?"

Andrew stood a little straighter, as if better posture might stop the inevitable.

"It concerns the High Consort," he said carefully.

Dax’s attention sharpened instantly. The air shifted the way it always did when the conversation turned toward Chris, like gravity itself had chosen a new center.

"What," he asked, tone low and expectant.

Andrew’s fingers tightened around his phone. "He... intends to request something."

Dax’s eyes narrowed another fraction. "Christopher never requests anything. He either endures it or glares at it until it surrenders."

Andrew winced. "Yes, Majesty."

"So?" Dax pressed, his voice patient like a barrel to a temple. "What does he want?"

Andrew opened and closed his mouth once, realizing too late there was no safe phrasing in any language.

"A... compensation package."

Silence snapped across the hallway.

Tyler visibly braced for divine lightning.

Dax blinked once, like a man recalibrating his entire worldview in three seconds.

"Compensation," he repeated.

"Yes, Majesty," Andrew said, already regretting every decision since sunrise.

"For what?"

Andrew swallowed. "For improving your approval rating."

Dax went still, perfectly still, the way a hunting cat pauses before deciding whether to pounce or laugh. Then, to Andrew’s mounting horror, a slow smile curved across the king’s face.

A terrifying, molten, pleased smile with enough heat to make the marble floor consider melting.

"...Good," Dax murmured.

Andrew blinked. "Good?"

"Yes," Dax said, adjusting his cufflink with unnecessary flourish. "He wants something from me. He is coming to me."

Tyler made a faint choke beside him.

Andrew tried to hang onto sanity. "Majesty... please keep in mind this request was not... how to say... emotionally stable."

Dax did not care. At all. If anything, that made him brighter.

"Christopher is emotional today," Dax said with blatant fondness. "That only means he’ll be honest."

Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose. "Majesty, he might actually demand a stipend."

Dax hummed. "There is nothing scheduled after the next meeting." He turned to Andrew. "Inform Rowan to keep Christopher in his office until I finish with this."

Dax hummed. "There is nothing scheduled after the next meeting."

He turned to Andrew, his expression settling into something calm, controlled, and devastatingly intent.

"Inform Rowan to keep Christopher in his office until I finish with this."

Andrew froze. "Majesty, with respect... Rowan cannot keep Chris anywhere."

Dax gave him a slow look that made grown diplomats apologize for things they hadn’t even done.

"He can stall him," Dax said, voice measured. "And if he cannot stall him, he can at least warn me before Christopher attempts to storm a council room demanding wages like an underpaid accountant."

Tyler made a strangled sound that he disguised poorly as a cough.

Andrew hurried to type, praying to every existing deity that Rowan could manage even one of those tasks.