Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 384: Diplomatic (4)

Lunch was set in the smaller dining room off the conference corridor in one of those rooms that existed specifically for conversations meant to be civil, private, and quietly decisive.

The table had been laid with Sahan traditional food in a way that bordered on ceremonial: warm flatbreads brushed with oil and herbs, small bowls of spiced yogurt and roasted peppers, grilled lamb cut into neat portions, rice fragrant with saffron, pickled vegetables arranged like jeweled offerings, and a platter of sweets that looked harmless until you remembered Saha didn’t do harmless.

Wine waited in pre-poured dark and expensive glasses.

Sirius arrived first, posture controlled, expression diplomatic, the kind of composure that had been drilled into him until it lived under his skin.

Dax entered like the room had been built for him.

He did not carry tension in the same way that other rulers did, tight and sharp, visibly angry at the world. Dax moved with that easygoing, dangerous confidence that made people forget to breathe - not because he appeared to be about to strike, but because striking seemed effortless, almost boring.

He was dressed in full traditional Sahan clothing, tailored to perfection, the fabric dark and rich, the cut perfectly showing his statuesque frame. A gold-embroidered mantle draped over his right arm, elegantly covering his hand. Rings gleamed at his fingers, heavy and ornate enough to look like pure decoration, until you realized the edges were too sharp and the designs too precise, and Sirius caught himself wondering whether they were jewelry or weapons.

Probably both.

Dax took his seat with theatrical grace, as if sitting down was a performance he’d mastered just to mock the concept of effort. He glanced at the wine with a faintly amused expression, then at the table, then back to Sirius.

The staff moved in silence - placing the final dishes, adjusting cutlery, and checking nothing twice because they’d already checked it three times - then retired without needing to be told.

The doors closed, and the room became private.

And Dax, still looking like a man who could smile while starting a war, tilted his head slightly and asked, almost conversationally:

"What do you want?"

Sirius blinked.

Then he laughed quietly, genuinely and so unexpectedly humanly that it almost felt offensive.

Dax’s faintly amused expression didn’t change. If anything, it sharpened by a hair, like he enjoyed being reminded that other heirs could still act like people.

Sirius’s laughter eased into a slow breath. He took his seat, smoothing his cuffs with that automatic, ingrained control that never truly left him, even when he tried to set it down.

"Easy," Sirius said, a hint of warmth still lingering at the edges of his voice. "I’ll let you return to your mate fast enough that no one feels the need to start preparing for war."

Dax’s mouth curved the slightest bit, more acknowledgment than amusement. He lifted his glass, not to drink, just to let the wine catch the light like a prop he didn’t need but enjoyed having anyway.

"You have a very flattering opinion of my domestic instability," he said, tone easy.

Sirius’s smile flickered. "I have a realistic opinion of it."

Dax let out a soft huff through his nose and finally set the glass down. He reached for the flatbread with unhurried elegance, tore a piece with clean fingers, and dipped it into the spiced yogurt like this was not, in fact, a lunch that could decide whether borders stayed quiet.

For a moment, they ate in silence. Two rulers used time as a weapon against themselves, deciding how much truth to bleed onto a table.

Dax looked up again, eyes bright under the theater of his expression.

"So," he said lightly, "has Caelan mellowed?"

Sirius blinked once. The question was delivered casually, but it was not meant casually.

Dax continued, tone still conversational. "Now that Zion is healthy. Now that he’s an alpha."

The word ’alpha’ landed with the weight it deserved. It was the kind of status that soothed old imperial anxieties. Men like Caelan would usually preen rather than recoil when they saw this kind of label.

Sirius’s gaze dropped to his plate for half a second.

When he looked back up, the sincerity in his eyes was almost jarring. He didn’t soften the truth.

"No," Sirius said.

Dax’s brows lifted slightly, as if he’d expected something else. "No?"

Sirius’s jaw tightened. "He didn’t change," he said quietly. "If anything, he’s worse. He treats the child like a plague."

The room felt colder by an invisible degree.

Dax’s posture didn’t shift. He still looked easy, still looked like he’d been born to this kind of conversation. But his attention turned predatory.

Sirius went on, voice steady and controlled, but the restraint tasted bitter. "So I don’t take Zion anywhere Caelan will be. There’s no point. There’s no point in my son suffering because of an old, bitter man who can’t stand the sight of anything that didn’t come from his own ego."

Dax watched him for a beat, then leaned back slightly, head tilted, a ringed finger idly tracing the stem of his glass.

"That can’t be that bad," Dax said, brows raised as if the idea was absurd. As if he were inviting Sirius to correct him.

Sirius’s mouth twitched.

He stared at Dax for a moment, and the twitch almost became a laugh.

Then it died.

"It isn’t," Sirius said softly.

Dax’s expression remained faintly amused, but the air around him thinned. "Good."

Sirius’s gaze held his, and something in it stalled, like he’d reached the edge of what could be said casually and was now choosing whether to jump.

He swallowed once.

His hand moved to his cutlery and then stopped, because he wasn’t hungry anymore.

Dax waited.

The king of Saha didn’t rush men when they were about to confess something that mattered. He let them feel the weight of it. He let them decide to carry it across the line on their own.

Sirius’s voice came again, quieter. "It isn’t... in the way you think."

Dax’s brow lifted a fraction higher. "Then how is it?"

Sirius’s gaze dropped for a second; it was the simple fact that some words felt like admitting defeat.

He breathed in slowly.

Then he looked up.

"I found out where Caelan keeps Adonis," Sirius said.

Dax didn’t move.

He didn’t show the reaction anyone in his court would’ve expected from their king.

He only went very still, the way predators did when something finally stopped running.

Even the theater in his posture paused, like the performance had been interrupted by something real enough to command silence.

Sirius held his gaze through it, because Sirius was brave in the only way that mattered: he didn’t look away when he delivered the truth.

"He’s keeping him," Sirius continued, voice controlled, "not because he doesn’t know what to do with him."

Dax’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. A ring glinted as his fingers stilled on the table.

Sirius’s mouth tightened. "He’s keeping him because he thinks Adonis is a negotiation."

Dax didn’t blink.

Sirius finished, quiet and sharp. "He thinks he can trade him to you when it suits him. When he needs something from Saha. When he needs to remind you that Palatine can still reach into your life and take something you care about."

The room felt like it held its breath.

Dax’s gaze stayed on Sirius.

Then, very calmly, Dax set his flatbread down.

He reached for his wine, only to secure the glass in his hand as a form of control.

When he spoke, his voice was still easy, like he was asking about the weather, like he was asking about procedure.

"Where?"