Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 100: Royal consort wardrobe

Chapter 100: Chapter 100: Royal consort wardrobe
But oh, they had.
Someone, probably Hanna, possibly the gods, had reorganized his entire wardrobe while he wasn’t looking.
Half the drawers had plaques engraved with his name now, as if that made it better:
CHRISTOPHER MALEK — ROYAL CONSORT WARDROBE.
He stared at the label like it personally offended him.
"This is treason," he muttered.
He yanked open another drawer. More robes. Even fancier than before, the gold embroidery was so detailed it looked alive under the lights. Another drawer. More silk. More gold.
He shut it fast, like it might bite him.
"This is not normal," he told the air. "This is not a healthy working environment."
He tried the storage trunk near the mirror, praying for something familiar, jeans, shirts, or even a plain black sweater. He’d have worn a potato sack at this point.
But no.
Inside were shoes. Dax’s shoes. Lined up by height, shine, and what Chris suspected was the phase of the moon.
He pressed a hand over his mouth and let out the smallest, most dignified groan possible for a man on the edge of hysteria.
"So this is how I die," he muttered. "Death by wardrobe."
He turned to the full-length mirror, half expecting the reflection to mock him. There he was: barefoot, wearing one of the simple dark bathrobes and staring like someone who’d lost a duel to interior design.
"Great," he told himself. "Fantastic. No clothes, no dignity, just royal couture and a hormonal crisis."
Chris stared at the mirror a moment longer, then pointed at his own reflection like it was personally responsible.
"No," he said flatly. "I’m not doing it. I’m not wearing the royal drapes. I don’t care if it’s handwoven by angels or if it hums the national anthem when you walk... no."
The mirror, unhelpfully, said nothing.
The longer he stood there, the more the silence began to feel judgmental. He reached for the nearest thing that looked remotely wearable, one of Dax’s black shirts, left carelessly draped over a chair. It was far too big, the collar slipping low on one shoulder, the sleeves hanging almost past his fingertips, but it smelled faintly of smoke and spice instead of self-righteous gold thread.
’Perfect.’
He shoved his arms through it, muttering the entire time. "Symbolic unity, my ass. You can’t force cultural assimilation through fashion. That’s tyranny with embroidery."
By the time he managed to button it halfway, wrong, because the shirt could have fit two of him, he heard the sound of footsteps, the crisp, sharp,
I’m-about-to-kill-you
kind of steps.
Hanna.
She appeared in the doorway like divine retribution in heels. "What," she began, her voice dangerously calm, "are you wearing?"
Chris blinked innocently. "Clothes."
"That is not what I brought you."
"I noticed," he said brightly, gesturing to the glittering rows of robes behind him. "You brought an entire textile industry instead."
Her eyes narrowed to slits. "His Majesty’s orders were explicit..."
"His Majesty’s orders," Chris cut in, "did not include stripping my wardrobe of everything that doesn’t sparkle like a chandelier."
"It’s tradition."
"It’s ridiculous."
For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the royal tailor and the omega who had no interest in being dressed like a collectible doll.
Finally, Hanna exhaled through her nose, muttering something that sounded very much like an insult in three languages. "You can’t appear in public like that," she said. "That shirt is twice your size."
"Then it’s an artistic statement," Chris said dryly. "Oversized masculinity."
"Don’t test me, Christopher."
"Too late," he said.
There was a long, taut pause, Hanna looking like she was deciding between homicide and professionalism, Chris crossing his arms like he’d already won.
Then, to his faint surprise, she sighed. "Fine," she said through her teeth. "If you insist on embarrassing the monarchy, at least wear something that doesn’t look stolen."
Chris blinked. "Wait, really?"
"I’ll have some of your old clothes returned," she said, already turning toward the door. "But don’t think for a second that this means you’ve won. When His Majesty returns, he’ll have opinions."
Chris didn’t doubt that for a second.
"Fantastic," he said. "I’ll prepare a defense speech."
"Prepare an apology," Hanna shot back. "And burn that shirt before the press sees it."
When she was gone, the air felt lighter, if only slightly. Chris caught sight of himself in the mirror again: Dax’s shirt hanging off him, collarbones visible, sleeves swallowing his hands.
He sighed, half resigned, half defiant.
"Yeah," he muttered, tugging the fabric tighter around his waist. "Let him have opinions."
Because between wearing Dax’s clothes and being shoved into ceremonial silk, he’d rather face the king’s wrath than give Hanna, or whoever was behind her, that satisfaction.
It was spite. But spite, as it turned out, was an excellent survival instinct.
And as Chris sank onto the edge of the bed, glaring at the golden robes glittering in the corner, one thought cut through the chaos like a blade:
’I would not give Dax Altera the pleasure of seeing me dressed like property. Not now. Not ever.’
—
The hum of the engines was the only sound left to fill the cabin. Smooth, constant, and blessedly Rohan-free.
Dax leaned back in his seat, fingers resting loosely against the armrest as the diplomatic aircraft sliced through a stretch of thin white cloud. Outside, the world was a wash of sunlight and sky, endless, and exactly what he needed after five days of perfumed diplomacy and thinly veiled extortion.
He exhaled through his nose, at last, he was leaving Rohan and its useless king behind.
Varlen’s oily laughter still echoed faintly in his head. The man had the political spine of a jellyfish and the moral restraint of a drunk duck. Dax had endured his banquets, his "offers," and his ridiculous speeches about unity. He’d shaken hands with people who should’ve been dragged out in irons. But now... now, at least, he was in the air. Above it.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the low vibration of the cabin settle through him. The tension in his shoulders began to fade.
Then, suddenly, he felt it.
A ripple, a shift crawling up the back of his neck like the ghost of a storm. He opened his eyes. Someone, somewhere, was thinking about him. Hard.
He frowned slightly. He’d learned over the years to trust that feeling. And the distinct flavor of irritation laced through it told him everything he needed to know.
Christopher Malek was awake. And furious.
Dax’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous, into something close to a smile.
He could almost see it: Chris pacing the suite, muttering to himself, possibly throwing something. Maybe the tailor or Nadia was involved. He’d bet his crown on the tailor. Hanna had a way of provoking people to the brink of homicide with nothing more than fabric and etiquette.
Dax reached for the glass of water on the table beside him, rolling it absently between his hands.
"What did she do this time?" he murmured to no one in particular.
The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom, low and formal. "Your Majesty, we’ll be crossing into Sahan airspace in approximately three hours. Smooth flight from here."
"Good," Dax said, setting the glass down. "Keep it that way."
He leaned back again, letting the hum of the engines swallow the cabin once more. His mind, however, refused to stay quiet. It circled back to the palace, to the ridiculous omega who had somehow made himself both a problem and a necessity.
He’d left Chris with a call that had ended too softly, a tone that didn’t match the reputation of the man who ruled a kingdom. And now, with the weight of distance pressing against his chest, he felt it, that strange, irrational tug that made him want to land faster.
"Three hours," he said under his breath.
He almost sounded amused.
"Try not to burn the place down before I get there, Christopher."