Chapter 65: Suppressants

Chapter 65: Chapter 65: Suppressants

By the time they returned to his suite, the sun was already sliding lower, washing the latticed windows in copper light. Chris’s head was full of corridors, secret security rotations, and the faint ache of walking more than he’d realized. Marta had left him with a tray of fruit, bread, and a pot of coffee, promising a proper meal later; Rowan took up his post outside the door with the patience of a statue.

On the low table lay a single folded note stamped with Dax’s seal. Chris broke it open with a thumb and read the short message:

’Meetings dragged. Will be busy until late. Don’t wait up.’

There was no signature, just the heavy script, clear but oddly elegant, every stroke deliberate. And the scent of dark spice with a warm undertone.

Chris stared at the paper. ’He could’ve just texted,’ he thought. ’He had my number. He’s got a dozen secure channels. But no, he sends a note like it’s the 18th century so his scent will sit on it when I touch it.’ He let the paper dangle between his fingers, aware of how easily it could have been a simple ping on his phone instead of something that curled around him like a ghost of his presence. ’He’s doing it on purpose. Even busy, he wants me to feel him here.’

He set the note down, the suite strangely quiet without that dark-spice presence humming in the corners. ’Second night here and already alone in his bed,’

He stripped down to a T-shirt and shorts, brushed his teeth, and slid under the cool sheets. The mattress felt enormous without Dax’s heat pressed along his back. He lay on his side, staring at the carved ceiling for a long time, the day’s tour looping in his mind like a map he couldn’t stop redrawing.

Ten ghosts in the walls. Marta’s careful questions. Rowan’s blunt honesty. Dax’s violet eyes caught his just before leaving.

Chris rolled onto his back and exhaled. ’I should try to understand the cage before I decide how to live in it.’

Outside, the palace settled into its night rhythm: muted voices, the distant echo of a closing door, and the low hum of ventilation. Chris closed his eyes; the faint scent of the note still clinging to his fingers until, despite himself, he drifted into sleep alone on the vast bed.

—

The next morning broke in a pale wash of light through the latticed windows. Chris blinked awake, his hand sliding over cool sheets. The bed was immaculate on Dax’s side, untouched, as though no one had slept there at all.

He lay still for a moment, listening. From somewhere deeper in the suite came the faint hiss of water, steady and muted behind a door. A shower. And there was only one person in the palace who would be in his shower at this hour.

Chris pushed himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face. ’Didn’t even come back to sleep,’ he thought. ’Or he did and didn’t bother to lie down.’

He slid out of bed and crossed to the dresser he’d claimed as his. The bottom drawer gave a soft creak as he pulled it open. Nestled under folded T-shirts sat the orange pill bottle. Suppressants. He’d had it since the Fitzgeralt wedding, a habit too old to break. He’d skipped doses in Palatine after meeting Dax, but the last two days had been a haze of heat and layered scents, and his fingers reached for it automatically.

Nine years of reaching without thinking. Twist, shake, swallow, breathe.

He popped the cap with a practiced flick, the pill rattling against the plastic. Before he could tilt it into his palm, another hand closed over his, large and warm from the hot water and impossible to remove.

Chris froze.

Dax’s scent rolled in first, stronger now with the steam from the bathroom still clinging to his skin. His hair was damp, pale strands darkened to silver-gold at the roots. He didn’t raise his voice. He just wrapped his fingers around Chris’s wrist and the bottle, his violet eyes unreadable. "What," he said quietly, "are you doing?"

The pill sat in the neck of the bottle between them, a single dot of habit and history. Chris’s heart thudded against his ribs; the routine shattered under the weight of that grip and the question.

He sighed. "I’m taking a suppressant," he answered at last, eyes fixed on the big hand covering his. "I’m overwhelmed by scents and pheromones."

Dax didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Water still beaded on his collarbones where the edge of a towel clung to his hips, his damp hair falling in pale strands over his forehead. The sight of the bottle in Chris’s hand, so small and ordinary, had wiped the lazy amusement from his face. His thumb stroked once along Chris’s knuckles, not soothing, but deliberate. "Those," he said quietly, "aren’t prescribed by my physicians."

Chris’s throat tightened. "No. I’ve... had them since the Fitzgeralt wedding." He tried to pull his hand back but Dax’s fingers only flexed, gentle but firm. "I’ve been on them for years. It’s just a routine."

"Years," Dax repeated, as if tasting the word. Chris had told him about the suppressants, but seeing him take them into his home was like a punch in the gut. His violet eyes lifted from the bottle to Chris’s face, heat banked into something more serious. "You’ve been numbing yourself through this for nine years, and you think swallowing another one in my bed is going to help?"

Chris tried for sarcasm but his voice came out thinner than he wanted. "It helps me not feel like I’m drowning."

Dax tilted his head slightly, the movement almost catlike. "You’re not drowning," he murmured. "You’re breathing my air. There’s a difference."

He plucked the bottle from Chris’s hand with a slow, deliberate motion, setting it on the dresser out of reach but not letting go of Chris’s wrist yet. "John will run your labs and tell you what’s safe. Until then, no more of these." His tone stayed soft, but Chris almost shivered at the finality of the order. "If you’re overwhelmed, you tell me. You don’t poison yourself blind."

"I..." Chris started, but the word cracked before he could shape the rest.

Dax moved before he could retreat. One smooth pull and Chris was against him, the towel-warm weight of the alpha closing around his smaller frame. Damp hair brushed his temple; the scent of dark spice and clean water wrapped around him until the room disappeared. Dax’s head dipped, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, the gesture strangely gentle for all its possessiveness.

"You took one yesterday." It wasn’t a question. The words were low against Chris’s skin, almost a purr, but the edge underneath made his pulse jump.