CHAPTER 229: CHAPTER 229: HIGH ALERT.

Across the palace, three phones buzzed at once.

Killian froze mid-stride in the upper corridor, eyes narrowing at the flashing red priority alert across his screen. Rowan, stationed near the east stairwell, almost dropped the stack of security reports in his hands. Andrew Sink stopped walking entirely, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

The alert read:

ROYAL WING: LOCKDOWN INITIATED.

REASON: KING ENTERING RUT – MATE PRESENT.

DURATION ESTIMATE: 5–7 DAYS.

PROTOCOL: FULL SEAL, LEVEL IV.

Rowan stared at it for two long seconds.

Then he muttered, "Oh for f—"

Rowan muttered a string of curses as he diverted power to the wing’s automated doors, watching each one slam shut one by one with a metallic hiss. Guards sprinted to stations. Security cams locked into a restricted loop. The palace wing was officially sealed.

Andrew cut him a look. "Focus."

"I am focusing," Rowan snapped. "I’m focusing on not imagining whatever is happening in that bed right now."

"Stop imagining it."

"You stop imagining it!"

Andrew growled under his breath and keyed in the final override. "Wing secured."

Rowan exhaled like he’d just finished running a marathon. "I’m not the one on duty for camera feed this time. Not after the balcony."

Andrew’s jaw twitched. "Good. Because I am not cleaning up your psychological damage again."

Rowan glared. "You were the one who suggested therapy!"

"You needed therapy."

"I needed bleach for my eyes!"

Andrew didn’t dignify that with a reply. He turned toward the command room, shoulders tight, expression already shifting from long-suffering guardian to chief of royal security who has to manage an entire government while his king loses his mind for a week.

"Go," he ordered. "Make sure internal patrol is rerouted. No one gets within fifty meters of the royal suite unless their badge says they can die for it."

Rowan saluted sharply. "Yes, sir. And also I am never making eye contact with Chris again."

"Smart," Andrew muttered, already dialing a secondary line.

—

Killian headed straight for the administrative wing like a man walking to his own funeral. He didn’t bother knocking on the Prime Minister’s door, mostly because he enjoyed irritating him, but also because protocol required immediate contact.

The moment Killian stepped inside, Sahir’s pen stopped moving.

Very slowly. Like a predator scenting weakness.

"Why," Sahir said without looking up, "are you in my office after hours? And why do you look like a chicken that escaped the butcher?"

Killian placed his tablet on the desk with absolute politeness, which, between the two of them, was basically an act of war.

"A royal notification has been issued."

Sahir lifted his eyes with a coldness reserved only for Killian.

"And?"

Killian tapped the screen. "His Majesty has entered rut."

Silence.

Sahir blinked once. Twice. Then he leaned back very slowly in his chair.

"...Rut," he repeated, voice dangerously flat. "Your king. The one who can control his ruts like the mad man he is? The one who promised to give me at least one week’s warning. That king?"

"Yes."

Sahir stared.

Killian stared back, perfectly expressionless.

Sahir exhaled sharply. "Unbelievable. He couldn’t warn his own prime minister but he sent a push notification to you?"

Killian’s mouth twitched. "I do outrank you in household hierarchy."

Sahir’s hand curled around his pen in a way that made Killian briefly wonder if he should step back.

"Killian," Sahir said with the voice of an exhausted grandfather, "if you speak one more word, I will personally have the palace draft a new hierarchy with you at the bottom."

Killian resisted the urge to smile. "Perhaps we should move on to the more urgent detail."

Sahir narrowed his eyes. "Which is?"

"Consort Christopher," Killian said, clearing his throat, "has entered heat."

Sahir froze.

Not a normal freeze from surprise or shock, no, a political freeze, the kind that said someone in the palace was about to suffer.

"...Christopher is in heat," he said slowly.

"Yes," Killian replied.

"And the king had no indication of being in his rut this week."

Killian cleared his throat. "Not at the time of the alert, no."

A pulse jumped visibly in Sahir’s temple.

"So what you are telling me," Sahir said, voice dangerously calm, "is that the heat-induction treatment Christopher has been on for more than TWO MONTHS, after nearly TEN YEARS of full suppression, has finally taken effect..."

Killian nodded.

"...and the king reacted like a feral wolf presented with a scented buffet?"

"...yes."

Sahir sat back down very slowly, like his knees had simply abandoned him.

"Oh gods," he whispered. "It’s too early. We’re not ready."

Killian blinked. "For what?"

Sahir slammed both hands flat on the desk. "FOR CHILDREN, KILLIAN."

Killian actually choked. "Sir..."

"Don’t ’sir’ me, you glorified curtain-keeper. Do you know what this means?" Sahir demanded, pacing behind his desk now. "Heat induction working means Chris is fertile again. Fertile means Dax will lose the last scrap of self-control he possesses. And that means..."

Both men said it at the exact same time:

"CHILDREN."

Killian inhaled slowly, as if mentally preparing himself for the size of the political grenade he was about to drop. "Heirs, sir."

Sahir went still. The word echoed through him, settled somewhere heavy in his chest, and then bloomed with a shock of realization that nearly knocked him back into his chair.

"Heirs," he murmured, the tone shifting from disbelief to something dangerously close to reverence. "Real heirs. Not theoretical heirs. Not maybe-next-year heirs. Actual, biological, palace-registered heirs."

Killian, ever the calm one, couldn’t keep his mouth shut. "They are still theoretical until confirmation labs. Well, I will let you deal with the parliament and I will inform Mia and Andrew Malek about the delay in their schedule."

Killian stepped out of Sahir’s office and closed the door behind him just as the prime minister muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "We need three nursery wings, minimum."

Killian ignored it.

One political meltdown down, two Maleks to go.

He walked to the guest wing, knocked once, and the door was immediately yanked open by Mia, who looked like she’d been pacing the room waiting for something dramatic to happen.

Behind her, Andrew stood with perfect posture and a cup of tea he clearly did not trust to survive the next two minutes.

"Killian," Mia said, eyes widening. "Why do you look like a messenger from doom?"

Killian stepped inside. "There is a... necessary update regarding your schedule."

Andrew raised one eyebrow. "Tomorrow’s dinner postponed?"

"No."

Mia squinted. "A scandal? Is it a scandal? It sounds like a scandal."

Killian clasped his hands behind his back. "Consort Christopher is currently unavailable."

Mia froze.

Andrew took a slow sip of tea. "Unavailable how?"

"Heat," Killian said simply.

Mia let out a sharp, dramatic gasp that opera singers are trained for.

"CHRIS IS IN HEAT?!" she shrieked, grabbing Andrew’s arm so hard the cup rattled.

Andrew, to his eternal credit, didn’t flinch. He just sighed. "It was bound to happen."

"Not TODAY!" Mia snapped. "Not when I am emotionally unprepared!"

Andrew set his cup down before she snapped the handle off. "Mia, you don’t exactly have a stellar record of keeping your own heat in check. Don’t forget why Chris met Dax in the first place."

Mia froze.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again in a small miserable wince.

"...Because I didn’t monitor my heat and he had to go to the Fitzgeralt wedding as a waiter instead of me," she muttered, rubbing her face. "Which is where he met the seven-foot military disaster who is now his husband."

"Correct," Andrew said.

Mia huffed. "Fine. FINE. Whatever. How long is this going to take?"

Killian checked his tablet, sighed like a man resigning himself to fate, and looked up at them.

"Five to seven days," he said. "Possibly eight, depending on how aggressively His Majesty reacts."

Mia made a noise between a groan and a dying kettle. "A WEEK? DAX IS GOING TO EAT HIM."

Andrew nudged her shoulder. "That’s not helpful."

"I’m not trying to be helpful, Andrew, I’m trying to process," she hissed.

Killian cleared his throat pointedly. "While you process, there is another matter."

Both siblings stared at him.

Killian tapped the screen once more. "Until the royal wing reopens, you two will need to keep the unwanted Maleks under watch."

Andrew’s face flattened. "Of course."

Mia threw her hands in the air. "Why are there always unwanted Maleks?!"

"Because your extended family," Killian said dryly, "breeds like raccoons in a dumpster."

Andrew hummed in agreement.