Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 346: Truth

The car smelled like leather and something sharper beneath it, antiseptic, faint but present, as if the air itself had been wiped down and told to behave.

Outside the tinted windows, the convoy kept its shape with quiet discipline in black vehicles pacing them like shadows with engines. Chris could feel it even without looking: the attention, the perimeter, the invisible net being held taut around them.

And under all of it, like a second layer of protection no camera could catch, Dax’s pheromones threaded through the cabin to mark everything around him.

Dax sat close, knee brushing Chris’s, as if closeness could turn lying into a harmless habit.

His hand was properly bandaged now. Gauze, tape, and the neat efficiency of someone else’s hands on him, most likely Nadia’s, because Dax would rather bleed in secret than admit he needed assistance unless it came from someone he trusted to be ruthless about it.

The injury itself looked ridiculous.

A scratch. A shallow cut along the palm. The kind of thing that should have earned nothing more than a hiss and a curse and a continued day.

Which meant, of course, it wasn’t about the cut.

Chris looked at it once more, then at Dax’s face.

And then he moved with that confidence he had when he’d already decided the distance between them was unnecessary. He shifted, one knee coming up on the seat, then the other, until he was straddling Dax’s lap, close enough that the leather creaked softly under the change of weight.

The convoy kept its line. The road kept unspooling. No one in the front compartment reacted. The king’s car was built for privacy, for worse things than this.

Dax’s hands came up instinctively, one settling at Chris’s waist, the bandaged one hovering for a fraction of a second before finding balance against Chris’s side. His breath hitched, and a smile brightened his face.

Now they were at the same eye level.

Now the bond had nowhere to diffuse.

Chris lifted both hands and cupped Dax’s face, thumbs resting just below his cheekbones, fingers warm against skin that had faced battlefields and councils and execution chambers without flinching.

His touch was gentle.

His gaze was not.

"Spill it," Chris said simply.

Dax let out a slow breath. "It’s a long story, Chris."

"We have time." Chris paused, searching Dax’s face, not for weakness but for honesty. "And I know some things... Start before me. I don’t need every shadow dragged into the light if you’re not ready. I can live with not knowing." His fingers closed around Dax’s bandaged hand, careful and reverent, and he lifted it to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to the gauze. "But I can’t live with you lying to me."

Dax stilled at the contact, at the quiet finality in that sentence.

"How did you get it?" Chris asked, still gentle.

Dax’s mouth curved faintly. "Let’s say a phone didn’t survive today."

"That bad?"

A beat. "It involved Adonis Malek. That’s what I can tell you for now. The rest... I need all the pieces before I speak them. Until then, I’m choosing not to see the full truth myself."

Chris studied him for a long moment, the kind of stillness that meant he was actively choosing restraint instead of violence.

"And what do I get?" he asked softly.

Dax’s eyes lifted. "What do you mean?"

Chris’s thumb brushed once over the edge of the bandage, a light, careful touch that carried more intent than pressure. "What do I get for being a veeery understanding husband?" he murmured. "You know. I need compensation for being exposed to that... bad lie."

A corner of Dax’s mouth twitched despite himself. "You’re bargaining now?"

"I’m negotiating," Chris corrected, calmly. "There’s a difference."

Dax’s hands slid to Chris’s waist, steadying him there, thumbs warm through fabric. "And what are the terms of this negotiation?"

Chris leaned in just enough that their foreheads nearly touched, voice dropping into that intimate register that belonged only to them. "Honesty. Next time, you don’t soften the truth for me. You don’t dress blood up as crystal. You let me decide what I can carry."

Dax’s gaze darkened, not with anger, but with that fierce, private devotion he never bothered to hide from Chris. "That’s not compensation," he said quietly. "That’s a demand."

Chris’s lips curved faintly. "Exactly."

—

The convoy slowed as the iron gates of their manor came into view, old stone and shadow and memory rising out of the evening like something that had always been waiting for them. The manor lights were already on, warm against the cold lines of the road, a quiet promise of walls that had once been a prison and had long since become a sanctuary.

The car rolled to a stop.

Before the door even opened, Dax shifted, one arm sliding firmly around Chris’s back, the other- bandaged, careful but unyielding - hooking beneath his knees.

Chris blinked. "Dax—"

"Compensation," Dax said calmly, already lifting him as if Chris weighed nothing at all. "You negotiated. I’m paying."

The door opened. Cool air rushed in, carrying the scent of stone and cold northern spring.

Dax stepped out with Chris in his arms, holding him close against his chest, possessive and unashamed, like this was exactly where Chris belonged and everyone in the world was welcome to notice.

The guards averted their eyes with professional discipline. The staff pretended not to smile.

Chris let out a quiet, incredulous breath, then relaxed against him despite himself, one hand sliding up to rest against Dax’s collarbone. "You’re enjoying this far too much."

Dax glanced down at him, eyes warm, dangerous, and unmistakably pleased. "I always enjoy having you in my arms."

"You should be punished for lying."

"Well..." Dax’s mouth curved, slow and unapologetic. "You can punish me in the bedroom."

"For fuck’s sake, Dax!"

Dax laughed, low, the sound vibrating through his chest where Chris was pressed. "You’re the one who asked for compensation."

"Not that kind," Chris muttered, though his hand tightened in Dax’s coat all the same.

"Oh, that’s exactly the kind," Dax replied, stepping up the last stair and into the warmth of the manor, carrying him like a promise and a provocation in one.