Chapter 42: Chapter 42: First argument (2)
Chris huffed a frustrated laugh. "What, are you regretting investing in something broken? I’ve never had a heat."
For a moment Dax just watched him, expression unreadable. Then he reached for his wine, took a slow sip and set the glass down again. "No," he said finally, his voice even. "I’m not regretting anything. And you’re not broken."
Chris looked away, jaw tight. "That’s what people say when they’re being polite."
"Do I look like a polite man?" Dax asked. The faintest glint of humor cut through the seriousness of his tone. "Plus, I assume you never stopped taking suppressants until now."
Chris’s fingers curled around his fork. "...No," he admitted after a beat. "Not until you kidnapped me. I didn’t dare."
Dax’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Kidnapped," he repeated, rolling the word slowly as if tasting it. "You make it sound like I dragged you off the street in chains."
"You didn’t have to," Chris shot back. "You snapped your fingers and suddenly I’m in a villa with security I can’t see and no choice about where I go next. Feels close enough."
Dax leaned back in his chair, wine glass cradled loosely in one hand. "If I wanted chains, Christopher, you’d know it." His violet eyes stayed on him, steady, unflinching. "What you call kidnapping, I call keeping you alive. You were already running out of time. The suppressants bought you a few years. Nothing more."
Chris looked down at his plate, jaw working, the fork still gripped in his hand. "So now what? You take me off them, wait for my body to catch up, and hope I don’t fall apart?"
"No," Dax said simply. "I’ll have my physician test every pill you’ve swallowed in the last five years, find out exactly what they’ve done, and make sure you don’t collapse because of them. You’re not broken, Christopher. You’re delayed. And that’s something we can fix."
Chris’s throat tightened, though he covered it with a scoff. "You talk like everything’s a strategy you can solve."
Dax cut another piece of steak, voice even. "That’s because it is." He glanced up, eyes catching his. "And I don’t abandon strategies I’ve chosen."
Chris didn’t say anything. There was no way to reason with this man. He focused on his plate instead, jaw tight.
"Now," Dax said, setting his plate aside and folding his hands on the table, "tell me what clinic prescribed them to you."
"No." Chris’s answer was immediate, sharper than he meant it. He lifted his chin a fraction, bracing for whatever would come next.
For a moment Dax simply regarded him, violet gaze unreadable. The only sounds were the hiss of the wind across the terrace and the muted clink of cutlery from somewhere inside the villa. Then, instead of pushing, Dax reached for his glass and took a slow sip of wine.
"That’s your choice," he said finally, tone low. "But the more you keep back, the harder it will be to undo what they’ve done."
Chris’s fingers tightened on his fork. "I’m not giving you names just because you tell me to. Those people didn’t ask questions; they just sold me what I needed. They’re not your enemies."
"No," Dax said, setting the glass down. "But they’re not your allies either. And if they’ve been feeding you something dangerous, you’ll be the one who pays for it." His voice stayed calm, but there was a thread of steel under it. "Think about that before you decide how long you want to keep me guessing."
"I was the one assuming the dangers," Chris shot back. "I knew what I did and what I could lose." He barely glanced at the server who swept their plates away and set down dessert, small cups of thick chocolate and a plate of sliced fruit. "I never wanted children," he added, voice flat. "Even less when it’s about me carrying them."
Dax’s hand stilled on his spoon. For a heartbeat he didn’t speak, violet eyes fixed on Chris across the table. "You think that’s what this is about?" he said quietly at last.
Chris lifted a shoulder. "Isn’t it? Dominant omega, rare bloodline, perfect for an heir. I’ve heard the pitch before."
"I didn’t bring you here for a pitch," Dax replied, still even but no longer cool. "I brought you here because you’re exposed, because Clara and whoever comes after her won’t care if you want children or not. They’ll care about what you are and how they can use it." He set his spoon down without touching the dessert. "Whether you ever carry a child is not my decision to make. That’s yours."
Chris blinked at him, thrown off by the directness. "You expect me to believe that?"
"I expect you to eat," Dax said, the faintest curl at the edge of his mouth returning. "And to start believing that not everyone who recognizes you wants to put you in a cage." He nudged the plate of fruit a little closer. "Try the strawberries. They’re from Saha. Safer than your clinic."
Chris stared at the fruit for a long moment, suspicion and fatigue warring in his eyes. He picked up a slice almost absently, as if only to have something in his hand. The sweetness burst on his tongue before he could stop himself.
Dax didn’t press the opening. He watched him eat in silence, wine glass resting loosely in his fingers, his posture deceptively relaxed. He could find the clinic later; the paperwork, the pharmacy shipments, and the back-channel lists. For now, pushing would only drive the omega further into himself.
Instead he spoke of something neutral. "The chef calls those berries ’winter sun,’" he said. "They only grow along the southern coast. We fly them in for state dinners."
Chris swallowed, still wary but easing fractionally. "They’re... good," he admitted.
Dax inclined his head slightly. "Good." His voice stayed low, almost conversational. "I’ll be in the office until dinner, but your sister should arrive any time now." As he spoke, he let a little more of his scent drift out, a cool, steady ribbon of alpha pheromones, carefully measured. Nothing obvious, just enough to take the sharpest edge off the tension.
Chris didn’t seem to register it consciously, but the rigid set of his shoulders softened a notch, his grip on the fork loosening. The line of his jaw eased as he reached for another slice of fruit, almost without thinking.
"Use the terrace," Dax added quietly. "Your laptop and tablet are on the side table. If you need anything, tell the staff. They won’t bother you otherwise."
Chris glanced at him, something flickering behind his eyes, suspicion, exhaustion, maybe the first hint of relief. "And if I try to run?"
Dax’s mouth tilted, not quite a smile. "Then you’ll run into a very bored security team at the end of the driveway," he said. "But you won’t. Not until you’ve at least finished dessert."
Chris snorted under his breath at that, took another bite of berry, and let his gaze drift to the sea. The hiss of the wind and the taste of fruit grounded him more than he wanted to admit. Dax picked up his wine again, watching him for a beat longer before standing.
"I’ll leave you to work," he said simply. "Mia will find you here." And with that he turned toward the villa, his soft slippers silent on the stone, leaving behind the faint trace of calm in the air.