CHAPTER 205: CHAPTER 205: CAT-LIKE BEHAVIOR

Dax blinked.

Once.

Slowly.

"...Clemency," he repeated, like Chris had just asked for the moon to be politely rotated ninety degrees.

"Yes," Chris said, far too loudly, as if volume could distract from the sheer desperation behind the request. "Clemency. Mercy. A royal pardon. A divine intervention. Whatever word you want. From..."

He jabbed a trembling finger at the tome on his desk, "That."

Dax followed the gesture.

His eyes moved from Volume One... to Chris... back to the book... then returned to Chris with a look that could only be described as amused, disbelieving, and extremely entertained all at the same time.

"You want clemency," Dax said slowly, "from the etiquette volumes."

"Yes," Chris repeated, very firm, very proud of his emotional survival instincts. "From the seven kinematic textbooks of social torture. I want clemency."

There was a beat of silence.

A long one.

Chris watched Dax’s expression shift. Something softened and warmed, but, Gods, he could see something dangerous unfurled behind those violet eyes.

Because the king understood exactly what Chris was doing. He wasn’t bargaining for himself. He was bargaining to escape Dax, and that was adorable to him.

Dax lowered himself further, a slow hinge of the spine that brought his enormous body closer until he could rest his cheek briefly against the side of Chris’s hair in something that was technically not touching but also absolutely touching.

"Christopher," he murmured, his voice so warm it shook something in Chris’s ribs, "you think I will accept that as your request."

Chris clung to the moment with dignity’s last thread. "Yes."

Dax laughed.

Soft. Quiet. Devastating and so fond, it made Chris’s stomach tighten painfully.

"No," Dax said at last, voice low and certain. "I will not grant clemency."

Chris recoiled like he’d been stabbed. "WHY?!"

Dax lifted his hand, brushing two fingers through the air near Chris’s jaw, not quite touching him, letting the movement alone make his skin burn.

"Because you’re not afraid of the books," Dax said softly. "You’re afraid of why they exist."

Chris froze, confused beyond measure.

Dax continued, gentle and unflinching. "Serathine and Cressida didn’t give you geometry to torment you. They gave you tools."

His voice lowered further. "Tools for protecting and defending yourself. Tools to stop people from ever using politics as a weapon against you."

Chris inhaled, sharp and shaky. "That is bullshit. There was no need for seven... SEVEN books on that."

Dax’s mouth curved in a smile that said he saw through him, and Chris hated how fast that made his stomach flip.

"There was every need," Dax said gently.

"For seven books?!" Chris snapped, voice cracking like a man betrayed. "Seven? That’s not protection... that’s a cry for help. That’s nobles being bored and deciding to weaponize stationery."

Dax huffed a quiet, fond laugh.

"That," he said, leaning closer, "is exactly why you need them."

Chris recoiled. "I need seven books because the aristocracy is chronically unemployed?"

"You need seven books because the aristocracy is dangerous," Dax corrected, his voice dropping into that low, unshakeable register that made Chris’s pulse trip. "They will never challenge me directly. They will challenge you."

Chris opened his mouth... And then closed it.

Because Dax wasn’t saying this like the king.

He was saying it like his mate.

"You are marked," Dax said quietly. "You stand beside me. You will face courts that have sharpened their etiquette with every line of inheritance. Serathine and Cressida know them. They know how they strike."

He paused. "They are preparing you to strike harder."

Chris stared at him, jaw clenched. "Seven books."

"Yes."

"That is excessive."

"It is necessary."

Chris curled his fingers around the chair arms until his knuckles whitened. "Dax... I have survived alone until I met you. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes," Dax said immediately. "It means you survived without scent, without pheromonal cues, without defense, without allies, and without any training."

A muscle jumped in Chris’s cheek.

"This," Dax said, nodding at the books, "is not to overwhelm you. It is to arm you."

"You don’t respect even half of it." Chris narrowed his eyes, trying to start the neurons that got him through his degree in civil engineering while working.

Dax’s smile flickered slow, knowing, and just a little wicked.

"True," he said. "I don’t respect many of the rules written in those volumes."

Chris pointed at him like he’d caught the king in a logic trap. "Exactly. Exactly. You break half of them. You bend the other half. You ignore the majority unless Cressida hisses at you."

Dax tilted his head, amused. "Correct."

"And you expect me to learn all seven books," Chris pressed, "so that I can defend myself in a political environment you don’t even follow?"

Dax stepped a little closer, enough that Chris had to tilt his head back to keep eye contact. Dax’s height was a problem. A divine, ruinous, bone-deep problem.

His voice softened. "Yes."

Chris sputtered. "WHY?"

"Because," Dax murmured, lowering his face until their foreheads nearly brushed, "you deserve to choose which rules to break."

Chris went still. "This is nonsense. I can defend myself and you..." he measured the king with a long look, "can shield the rest."

Dax’s breath hitched audibly... ruined in a deeply undignified, deeply royal way.

The hitched breath that said: ’oh, you’ve just ensured I’m not letting you out of this room for at least an hour.’

Chris realized too late what he’d done.

Dax leaned in until their noses almost touched. "You," he whispered, voice dropping into that velvet-dark register that always announced some kind of goddamn doom, "have no idea what you just said."

Chris absolutely did, and he deeply regretted it.

He threw up both hands between them like a shield. "STOP. No. We had sex five hours ago. Five. HOURS. AGO. It is NINE P.M., DAX."

Dax blinked like a feline showing love before attacking your ankles.

Like Chris had just given him the perfect reason to do the opposite of what he was asking.

"...so?" Dax asked, voice pitched in that low, amused confusion of a man who genuinely didn’t understand why chronometric limitations should apply to him.

"So? So?" Chris sputtered. "You can’t possibly still be..."

He broke off as Dax leaned even closer, scent warming, deepening, and wrapping around him like a velvet trap.

"Christopher," Dax murmured, "I am always like this with you."