Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 413: No Coat

Chris looked at the clock.

He had just enough time to finish pretending to work and then go change into something that would make Rowan look personally betrayed.

He stood, stretching once, careful of the lingering pull low in his abdomen. Better than last week, but the soreness was still there.

Rowan straightened immediately, ready to follow him.

Anna glanced between them, already aware a battle was about to begin and wise enough not to volunteer for casualties.

Chris picked up his phone, slid it into his pocket, and said with a brightness Rowan distrusted on principle, "I’m going to get dressed."

Rowan’s expression didn’t move. "Appropriately."

Chris started toward the private corridor connecting his office to his rooms. "Comfortably."

"Those are not always the same thing."

Chris looked over his shoulder. "Today they are."

Rowan followed at his usual distance, which was to say close enough to intervene in a crisis and far enough to pretend he was not listening to every breath Chris took.

Anna remained in the office and called after them, dry and efficient as ever, "If Nadia asks, I saw nothing."

Chris lifted a hand without turning. "Excellent woman."

By the time he emerged again, late spring sunlight was leaning warm across the room in long, clean bars, and Rowan was standing by the door with the expression of a man bracing for impact.

Chris had changed into a black T-shirt and jeans.

Not distressed, not fashionable in the way stylists called ’effortless’ after three fittings and a crisis, just clean, fitted, and human. The shirt pulled across his shoulders when he moved. The jeans sat low enough to look casual and high enough to avoid commentary from anyone who valued their life. White sneakers. No jacket. No coat.

Rowan stared.

Chris, fully aware of the effect, checked his watch. "We’re late."

"You are underdressed."

"It’s a private outing."

"It is cold."

Chris looked toward the windows, where the gardens were bright and sunlit and offensively beautiful. "It is not."

Rowan stepped forward with the patience of a saint and the dead eyes of a man who had worked for royalty too long. Draped over his arm was a dark coat Chris had not approved. "Late spring does not mean warm. The wind changed an hour ago."

Chris kept walking.

Rowan moved with him. "Your Majesty."

"Rowan."

"A coat."

"No."

"A light coat, then."

Chris hit the corridor and didn’t slow. "I’m wearing a shirt."

"You are wearing optimism."

Chris snorted.

The private wing had relaxed in recent weeks, but the security footprint never disappeared; it only got quieter. Doors opened on approach. Guards nodded and looked away with the disciplined blankness of people who knew exactly when not to notice that the consort of the kingdom was arguing with his head of security like a stubborn university student.

Rowan stayed beside him, coat still extended like a formal accusation.

Chris glanced sideways at the coat and kept going.

"You’re acting like I’m walking into a blizzard."

"I’m acting like you’re post-surgery and determined to test every limit out of spite."

"That is a very rude summary of my personality."

"It is an accurate one."

Chris huffed a laugh and pushed through the next door into the side passage, where sunlight poured across pale stone and the air sharpened a little near the exterior exit.

To him, it was normal.

Cool, yes. Pleasant, even. The kind of late-spring weather that wouldn’t even be worth mentioning in Palatine, where the sea wind could cut through fabric and pride at once.

In Saha, apparently, this counted as a public health risk.

Rowan, vindicated by local culture and not by Chris’s actual comfort, adjusted the coat on his arm and kept pace.

"Your Majesty."

"No."

"A coat."

"No."

"You may not feel cold yet."

Chris looked at him, amused. "I’m from Palatine. This is warm."

Rowan’s face remained neutral, but there was something long-suffering in his silence. "Sahan standards differ."

"Sahan standards are weak."

"That is not a statement I can include in a report."

Chris smiled and kept walking.

They crossed into the final corridor leading toward the private lane. Palace noise thinned behind them, replaced by the softer sounds of the garden side - wind moving through leaves, a fountain somewhere out of sight, and the low shift of security repositioning without drawing attention.

Chris shoved one hand into his pocket and kept his chin up, entirely comfortable and increasingly entertained by the fact that Rowan seemed personally invested in this.

"You do realize," Chris said, "I’m not refusing because I’m stubborn. I’m refusing because I’m fine."

Rowan held the coat out again like a diplomatic offer. "Those are not mutually exclusive."

Chris laughed.

They reached the exterior doors. A guard opened one without a word, eyes fixed somewhere respectfully distant.

Late-spring air moved in - sunlit, clean, and edged with floral sweetness from the gardens.

Chris stepped outside and didn’t even flinch.

Rowan noticed. "It will be colder in the shade," he said.

Chris turned slowly. "Do you hear yourself?"

"I hear responsibility."

"You hear Nadia in your nightmares."

"That too."

The path to the private lane cut along clipped hedges and expensive flowers, trying very hard to look effortless. Security was present in the way palace security always was - hidden in plain sight, invisible only to people with no instincts.

Chris noticed all of it and ignored it on purpose.

He was too busy enjoying himself.

The anticipation sat bright under his ribs now, impossible to miss. It had been too long since he and Dax had done anything that wasn’t about Nero, recovery, or the state. It had been too long since they’d had space that belonged only to them.

Dax had carved one out anyway.

Chris was still smiling at the thought when the private lane came into view.

The car waited where the path opened, sleek and dark and discreet in the way very expensive things liked to pretend they were ordinary.

And beside it stood Dax.

Black shirt. Dark trousers. And over his shoulders, an absurdly expensive heavy coat in dark wool, cut to perfection and worn like an afterthought. It looked tailored for a king because it was. It looked large enough to swallow Chris because it was.

Dax looked up at the sound of their steps.

His gaze fell on Chris first, immediate and focused, taking in the t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers before returning to Chris’s neck, where a silver collar rested.

Then it shifted to Rowan.

Then to the coat still draped over Rowan’s arm.

Chris lifted a hand before either of them could speak. "I’m not cold."

Rowan said, "Not the point."

Chris stared at him for half a beat, then laughed softly, happy and outmatched in equal measure, as the car pulled away.