Chapter 50: Chapter 50: On the clock
Chris disappeared into the adjoining room without another word, the soft tread of his slippers fading over the carpet. Dax stayed by the sideboard, glass in hand, watching the faint slice of light spill out from the bedroom.
Through the open door he caught glimpses of him: jacket coming off, dark hair falling forward as he tugged at his tie, the clean line of his throat as he unbuttoned the collar. The small, domestic motions looked out of place against the memory of him standing in the hall like a man bracing for an execution.
Dax’s mouth curved again, this time in something that was half a smile, half a baring of teeth. The omega thought he had banished him to his work, but the bed was warm, the room quiet, and the scent of rain-clean skin threaded through the sheets. If he had to read reports until dawn, he might as well do it anchored by that instead of an empty chair.
He set the glass down, picked up the tablet and the top file from the stack, and crossed the room. By the time Chris slipped beneath the covers, hair damp from the quick shower, Dax was leaning against the headboard on his side of the bed, tablet already lit in his hands.
"I said you could have the couch," Chris murmured, blinking at him from the pillow.
"And I decided the best light is in here," Dax said, not looking up from the screen. "You’ll sleep. I’ll work. Everyone wins."
Chris sighed, rolled onto his side with his back to him, and pulled the blanket higher. "Do whatever you want. Just don’t talk."
Dax’s low laugh rumbled again, pleased, as his fingers flicked across the tablet. "As you wish," he murmured, the reports glowing cold and damning under his hands while the heat of the smaller body beside him seeped slowly through the sheets.
Sometime in the night the glow of the tablet dimmed to its lowest setting and the sea outside became only a hush against stone. Chris drifted in and out of sleep, aware of nothing but warmth and the faint pulse of a heartbeat under his ear.
—
When he blinked awake again, the room was still dark. His cheek was pillowed against something solid and warm; it took him a moment to realize it was Dax’s thigh. The king had shifted sometime after he’d fallen asleep, sitting cross-legged against the headboard with the tablet balanced in one hand. The other hand was in Chris’s hair, slow, absent strokes threading through it while he read.
Dax’s scent curled around him, dark and spiced, like good rum left to warm in the sun, rich enough to coat his lungs and heavy enough to make his limbs feel boneless. Chris’s lashes fluttered but he didn’t move. It was easier to just stay there, eyes half-closed, than to break the moment.
Dax’s thumb brushed a loose strand from his temple without looking away from the screen, the motion as casual as turning a page. "Awake?" he asked, voice low, more vibration than sound.
Chris made a small noise of assent, still not lifting his head. "Mhm... don’t stop," he muttered, words blurred by sleep.
A flicker of amusement crossed Dax’s face, but he didn’t answer. He just kept reading, fingers moving slowly through dark hair, the glow of damning reports lighting his eyes while the warmth and spiced scent between them anchored him to the bed.
—
A cold grey seeped through the terrace doors long before sunrise, soft and thin like smoke. The sea was only a whisper against the rocks below, and somewhere in the villa a clock ticked past 5:30.
Chris surfaced from sleep to the sound of his name spoken low and deliberate. A warm hand settled on his shoulder, shaking once. "Up," Dax said quietly.
Chris groaned, pulling the blanket over his head. "Why?" His voice was thick, still caught between dream and waking. "If I had to be up at five-thirty, why didn’t we just leave last night?"
Dax’s laugh came low, amused and unhurried, brushing against the edges of his irritation. "Because I needed signatures, and because you would’ve been even grumpier after a midnight flight."
Chris poked his head out from under the blanket, hair a mess, eyes narrowed to slits. "Impossible. I am at maximum grump right now."
"Not yet," Dax said, straightening and pulling a shirt over his shoulders. "Give it another twenty minutes."
The scent of him was already in the air and the faint hiss of the shower running in the adjoining room meant he’d been awake for hours. He crossed back to the bed and set a fresh shirt on the edge. "Up. We leave at six."
Chris sat up slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Five-hour flight to Saha, straight into chaos," he muttered. "I should’ve stayed under the blanket."
Dax’s mouth curved, that same dark smile glinting in the half-light. "You can stay under it until the car pulls up. After that, you’re mine to drag."
Chris flopped back for one more second of defiance, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed with a groan. "Fine. But I’m not talking until coffee."
"Fair enough," Dax said, already reaching for his tablet. "Get dressed. We’re on the clock."
—
The car waited at the bottom of the villa’s steps, headlights cutting pale beams through the mist still clinging to the cliffs. The air smelled of salt and early morning rain; somewhere out on the water a gull cried once and went silent again.
Chris stumbled down the last few steps with a paper cup in his hand, steam curling from the lid. The first bitter mouthful of coffee had barely touched his brain. His hair was still damp from a perfunctory shower, his shirt half tucked, and his eyes at half-mast. There was no way he was going to talk yet; he was still dreaming with his eyes open.
Dax, on the other hand, looked like he’d been awake for days and liked it. He moved with the easy precision of a blade sliding back into its sheath, the dark-spiced scent of him crisp against the cool air. The black Sahan suit he wore was deceptively simple but cut to perfection, with silver stitching at the cuffs and collar catching the weak light. He had left the top buttons of his shirt undone, the line of his throat relaxed, but his violet eyes were clear and awake, already on the day ahead.
He held the rear door open and inclined his head. "Inside," he said, tone mild. "We’re on schedule."
Chris climbed in without a word, curling around his coffee like a shield. Dax followed, settling opposite him with the tablet already awake in his hand. As the car pulled away from the villa and began the winding descent toward the private airstrip, the engine’s low hum filled the silence between them.
Through the windows, the sky was just beginning to pale, a wash of iron blue over the sea. Chris leaned his temple against the cool glass and let the rhythm of the road and the scent of coffee anchor him, eyes sliding shut again. Beside him, Dax looked as if he’d stepped out of a portrait, his dark suit immaculate, silver glinting at his cuffs, his expression unreadable as he flicked through reports.
When the car rolled to a stop beside the waiting jet, Dax finally glanced up from the tablet. "Five hours," he said quietly, more to himself than to Chris. "Then the work begins."
Chris only tightened his grip on the coffee cup and made a low noise that could have meant anything. Dax’s mouth curved at that, a flicker of dark amusement, as he stepped out first into the morning wind.