Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 337: Grounded

By the time Belvare finished bleeding itself clean enough to pretend it had always been civilized, Chris had reached a very specific, very brittle stage of exhaustion, one that made your bones feel too loud inside your skin and every polite sentence become an act of violence you choose not to commit.

The airspace had been sealed "for security reasons," which was a diplomatic way of saying there were still bodies to account for, glass to replace, and a list of names that needed to be rewritten before anyone allowed a plane to cross the sky over the city again. Belvare’s officials had smiled through it, hands shaking, offering apologies like pastries. Their eyes kept flicking to Dax whenever they thought he wasn’t looking, as if the King of Saha might decide to finish the job out of boredom.

Dax hadn’t even looked tired.

Chris had never hated someone more lovingly in his life.

"You could simply... fly anyway," Chris muttered at some point, standing in a marble corridor that still smelled faintly of antiseptic and panic, watching staff scrub at an invisible stain as if they could erase the memory by polishing hard enough.

Dax glanced at him, purple eyes calm. "And teach them that closed airspace is a suggestion."

"Yes," Chris said immediately. "Exactly. I support that lesson."

Dax smiled fondly. "We will take the train."

Chris blinked once. Twice.

"A train," he repeated, like he needed to hear the word in full to understand the joke.

"It avoids their air restrictions," Dax said. "It is secure. It moves through controlled territory. And it will reach Fitzgeralt lands in time to respect our promise."

Chris imagined a quiet, private cabin. Dim lights. The rhythm of wheels on tracks. A journey that didn’t involve screaming, blood, or being stared at like he was a political artifact people wanted to touch.

He exhaled.

"...Fine," he said. "I’m on board with it."

Dax’s gaze lingered on him a fraction longer than necessary, like he’d caught the tone behind the words. "Good."

It should have been warning enough that he didn’t elaborate.

—

The train was not public.

It wasn’t even "luxury" in the traditional sense. It was Sahan luxury: seamless, armored, and designed by people who assumed assassination attempts were a weather pattern. Dark wood, muted lighting, thick soundproofing, and windows that looked like crystal but felt like a promise you couldn’t break.

Rowan moved ahead with the security detail, checking every corridor, every joint, and every door as if the train might develop treason while stationary. Sahan soldiers stood at measured distances, just quietly lethal, the men who didn’t need to look intimidating because their calm did it for them.

Chris walked behind Dax, collar warm against his throat, his suit still immaculate because chaos had learned not to touch him without permission. He wanted a shower. He wanted a nap. He wanted a full day where nobody tried to kill them, negotiate with them, or breathe too loudly in their direction.

He wanted Lucas’s kitchen and Trevor’s smug wealth and someone inevitably asking a question that would make Chris stare into the middle distance like a man reconsidering literacy.

He wanted, in short, home-adjacent peace.

They reached their carriage.

Dax stepped inside first, as always, scanning without looking like he was scanning. Chris followed, eyes already searching for the promised quiet...

And stopped.

Because sitting on the plush bench in the center of the cabin was a child.

Not a random child. Not an accident, not with Dax’s security. A prince child.

He had the posture of someone trained to sit like he owned space, despite being twelve and having the knees of someone who hadn’t yet realized his limbs belonged to him. His hair was a pale silver-blond tied back with a dark ribbon, his clothes immaculate in that foreign-court way where every seam looked like it had been ironed into obedience. Two Draxilian guards stood behind him with the rigid stillness of men who were absolutely not enjoying their assignment.

The boy looked up.

His blue eyes lit up with the joy that was only possible in people who had never been truly afraid of consequence.

"Consort Malek!" he said brightly, like Chris was a personal friend and not a politically dangerous married man who had just watched half a summit die.

Chris stared, trying not to swear at the fact that he was never Consort Malek, but people kept using his former name.

Dax, meanwhile, barely reacted beyond a slight pause, the way a mountain pauses when a bird lands on it.

"Prince," Dax acknowledged.

The boy turned his gaze to Dax, smiled politely, then turned back to Chris with immediate, shameless preference. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

Chris’s expression stayed smooth out of professional habit. Internally, he felt something inside him wilt.

"Why," Chris asked, very softly, "is there a small royal on our train?"

Dax took off his coat with unhurried calm and handed it to an aide. "The Draxilian delegation requested transit."

"That doesn’t answer the question," Chris said.

Dax’s eyes flicked to him. "They were not granted air clearance."

Chris closed his eyes for half a second, as if that could undo the past.

"Of course," he said. "Naturally. Because the universe is... balanced."

The boy leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin lifted. "I asked to ride with you."

Chris’s eyes opened again. "You asked."

"Yes," the prince said, and smiled wider. "I wanted to see you."

Chris made a very careful effort to keep his face from doing anything impolite.

"I’m flattered," he managed, voice dry. "Truly. I’m also - how do I say this in a way that doesn’t start an international incident - tired."

The boy blinked, then waved that concept away with the confidence of someone who had never been allowed to stay tired for long in a room full of adults. "You can be tired and interesting."

Chris’s mouth twitched. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or throw himself out a window.