Chapter 109: Chapter 109: Away from home (Win-Win)
The estate was quiet except for the ticking of the clock and the low hum of the communication relay.
This place was from the older part of the capital, made of stone and silence, tucked high in the hills above the capital. One of his private properties, inherited from a line of kings who’d preferred solitude to spectacle. It was his grandfather’s private estate, one that he passed down directly to Dax.
From the window, Dax could see their spires rising over the district, gilded, beautiful, and rotting from within. He’d chosen this place on purpose: close enough to the clergy’s heart that he could smell the smoke of their hypocrisy.
The desk before him was covered in files, some paper, some digital, all of them smelling faintly of incense and rot. Reports from the Intelligence Bureau. Medical ledgers cross-referenced with clergy donations. Letters stamped with the seal of the Ministry of Health.
He should’ve been home.
He should’ve been with him.
Instead, he was surrounded by paperwork that smelled of death and ink. Organ registers. Donor ledgers. The same stamped seals appear repeatedly for the Health Ministry, Clerical Aid Division, and Holy Relief Trust, with each circle feeding into the next.
He stared at the latest report until the words blurred. His hands were shaking before he realized it.
They used the temples and hospitals like the lives within were theirs to trade. They called it mercy work.
He heard a sharp creak of wood beneath his grip. The pen cracked in his hand. Ink spread down his palm like a bruise. He didn’t bother wiping it off.
He leaned back in the chair and exhaled slowly, forcing himself to breathe through the anger. But it didn’t help. The image that came to mind wasn’t of the ministers or the priests. It was of Chris half-dressed, flushed, breath catching against his mouth, with the faint taste of tea and something sweeter on his tongue.
He closed his eyes. The memory hit too easily.
He hadn’t planned to kiss him. He’d only meant to quiet him to stop that nervous retreating, the muttering, and the way Chris refused to meet his eyes. But then Chris had looked up, defiant and trembling, and the space between them had dissolved like it was never there.
And when Dax had kissed him, Chris hadn’t fought it. His hands had caught at Dax’s shoulders, his breath had hitched, and the sharp, fragile tension in him had melted. The taste of his skin, the warmth under his palms, it was too easy to crave more.
If Killian hadn’t walked in...
Dax let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but too bitter to be one.
He’d been seconds away from losing the control he prided himself on. Seconds away from showing his omega, his omega, exactly how much he wanted him. And Chris had wanted it too. Dax had felt it, the way his body had softened against him, the faint shiver of surrender and the faint sweet scent of a willing omega.
He’d wanted to keep going until the world outside stopped existing.
And instead, he’d been dragged out of his home to chase priests and politicians who treated lives like currency.
The console blinked on the desk and he almost ignored it, but the sight of Chris’s name stopped him.
He opened it, and there it was, that quiet stream of messages written like a private journal.
"Nadia says I’m getting better. The labs say otherwise. I say they’re all wrong."
"Rowan’s guarding the door again. I told him to take a break. He didn’t even blink. Pretty sure he’s part furniture now."
"You’d probably tell me to rest too. You always do. Funny how it’s easier to listen when you’re not here to see me ignore it."
Dax’s throat tightened. Gods, he could almost hear him, the dryness in his tone, the half-swallowed laughter, and the tiny pauses where he tried not to sound worried.
He scrolled down.
"You left your towel. I didn’t wash it. Consider that my rebellion for the day."
That one made him smile. A real, unguarded thing that softened the edges of his anger.
"Stubborn creature," he murmured. "You’d start a war over laundry if I let you."
He leaned back again, staring at the spires outside. The city lights pulsed like distant embers through the smoke. Somewhere in those temples, the men responsible were still sleeping soundly... for now.
Then another message appeared, timestamped a few minutes later
"It still smells like you. I tried to sleep on the other side of the bed, but it didn’t help."
Dax went still.
His pulse kicked once, hard enough to make his fingers twitch. The sound that left him was low and rough, half a groan, half a curse.
He pushed back from the desk, one hand gripping the edge until the old wood creaked. His mind didn’t stay in that room, it went straight back to the night before his departure to Rohan, to the faint light spilling through the palace curtains, to the warmth of Chris’s skin beneath his palms.
He hadn’t meant for it to go that far. He’d only wanted to hold him, to ease the tremors left by the suppressants, but the moment Chris had relaxed in his arms, everything in him had shifted.
The scent of rain, the quiet sound of his breath, and the small, startled sounds when Dax’s lips trailed along his neck all made every instinct in his body go silent and hungry at the same time.
And then Chris had whispered, no. He sounded so uncertain and fragile in a way that made Dax’s chest ache.
He had stopped immediately. Waited, soothed him, and held him until sleep finally came.
But gods, it hadn’t left him since.
Even now, standing in this silent house, with blood and politics staining every corner of his mind, he could still remember the weight of that body against his. The warmth. The way Chris’s voice had broken softly when he’d said his name.
Dax exhaled through his teeth and raked a hand through his hair. The ache behind his ribs was unbearable, a mix of desire, longing, and restraint.
He returned his gaze to the screen. That single message sat there, small and unassuming.
"It still smells like you."
He wanted to write back. To say, ’don’t wash it.’ To say ’I’ll be home soon.’
But he didn’t.
Dax hadn’t moved in a while. His collar was unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up, and ink was still streaked across his knuckles.
The city beyond the windows flickered faintly, but the air here was still, the quiet before the storm.
The console blinked again. That last message, ’it still smells like you,’ lingered at the edge of his thoughts like a heartbeat that refused to fade.
He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temple. He needed to think, to plan the arrests, and to write the next orders before dawn. Instead, all he could hear was Chris’s voice, sharp and tired and alive, cutting through the static in his memory.
Dax reached for the communicator before he could stop himself. His thumb hovered for a second. Then he pressed connect.
The line opened with a soft chime, followed by a long, quiet stretch of static. For a heartbeat, he thought the connection had failed. Then...