Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 250: Short family history (2) (Win - Win)

Chapter 250: Chapter 250: Short family history (2) (Win - Win)
"Ah... that."
Dax’s tone shifted into a quieter one, as if the subject required a different kind of attention. He reached up, tugged the towel free from his neck, and let it drop onto the back of the chair beside the desk before straightening again.
"My mother’s name is Sophia," he said. "And my grandfather, Asier, raised me."
Chris stilled, interest sharpening. "Asier the Unifier?"
"The same," Dax replied. "He lived past one hundred and twenty. Outlived three councils, two other kings he managed, and every one of his political enemies." A corner of his mouth lifted. "He used to say that spite was excellent for longevity."
"That explains you," Chris murmured.
Dax huffed. "He would have liked you."
He leaned back against the desk, eyes unfocused now, not on the room but on something far older. "Sophia was forced into being a consort. Her family line produced dominants and the marriage was seen as beneficial for both countries. My father wanted another Asier. Another stabilizer. Another weapon, if we’re being honest."
"And he got you," Chris said quietly.
"He got what he wanted," Dax corrected. "Just not what he expected."
Chris watched him carefully. "You sound more like Asier than Dominic."
"So did everyone else," Dax said. "To the point that rumors started early. That I wasn’t Dominic’s son at all, but Asier’s. Same pheromonal profile. Same tolerance for pressure. Same refusal to accept corruption as inevitable."
He shrugged, unconcerned by the old gossip. "Sophia hated the palace. Hated the compromises. She wanted to take me and leave after my father died, before everything collapsed. She couldn’t stand watching the country rot."
Chris’s brow furrowed. "But she didn’t."
"No," Dax said. "Because I asked her to leave me here and live her life as she wanted. She was seventeen when she married Dominic and gave birth at nineteen. Sahir promised to keep me safe, but we both lied to her."
Chris absorbed that in silence, then asked, carefully, "Did you ever see her again? Or try to?"
Dax shook his head once. "No. Not after she left." His voice stayed even, but something in it went flat. "There were letters for a few years. Short ones, and then emails even shorter. She tried, in the way someone tries when they don’t know how to stay still long enough to be a parent."
He glanced toward the window, not looking at anything in particular. "Sophia was young. Brilliant, restless, and furious at the world for taking her choices before she understood what they were. She loved me. I don’t doubt that. But she was impatient with time, with protocol, with the idea that raising a child meant enduring years instead of making a single decisive escape."
Chris didn’t interrupt.
"In practice," Dax continued, "I was raised by Asier, Sahir, and Cressida." A brief pause. "Asier taught me how to rule. Sahir taught me how to survive it. Cressida taught me what people are capable of when they think they’re unseen."
"That’s... a lineup," Chris said quietly.
"It was sufficient," Dax replied. "Asier believed consistency mattered more than affection. Sahir compensated where he could. Cressida ensured I was never naïve." His mouth twitched. "Between the three of them, I lacked very little that the throne required."
Chris leaned back slightly. "And what about what you required?"
Dax was quiet for a moment. "That was never part of the discussion," he said at last. "Asier believed children adapted. Sahir believed feelings could wait. Cressida believed anything unattended became leverage."
"That sounds... efficient," Chris said.
"It was," Dax replied. Then, after a pause, "It was also incomplete."
Chris’s gaze stayed on him, steady. "Did Sophia ever come back? Even once?"
"No," Dax said. "She moved cities twice, changed careers, and dropped every remaining title. The last email I got was when I was fifteen. Three lines. She said she was proud. She said she hoped I was happy. She said she didn’t know how to be anything other than what she was."
"And you?" Chris asked.
Dax’s shoulders shifted, a small release of tension. "I learned early that stability doesn’t come from people staying. It comes from systems holding."
"That’s a very kingly answer," Chris said.
Dax looked at him then, expression sharpening with something closer to candor. "It’s also a child’s answer."
He straightened, then rolled his shoulders, muscles moving under his white t-shirt. "I came to take you to dinner, but if you have more questions... I can settle for eating you for dinner."
Chris froze for a fraction of a second, then turned his head slowly. "You are really shameless," he said. "How did you pivot from childhood abandonment trauma to sexual innuendo in one breath?"
Dax’s expression did not change. If anything, it steadied. "Efficiency," he replied. Then, after a beat, "And honesty."
Chris stared at him, searching for irony and finding very little. "That was not an invitation."
"No," Dax agreed. "It was an option."
Heat crept up Chris’s neck despite himself. "You’re impossible."
"Frequently," Dax said. His gaze held, intent but unpressured. "I came to take you to dinner. You’re the one who kept asking questions."
"And now?"
"And now," Dax said calmly, "I am hungry on multiple levels."
Chris exhaled, a short, incredulous sound. "We are getting actual food."
Dax’s mouth curved, slow and restrained. "Of course."
He stepped aside, reaching for his discarded towel. "I’m patient."
Chris paused at the door and glanced back once. "That might be the most threatening thing you’ve said all night."
Dax did not answer. He closed the distance instead.
One arm slid around Chris’s back, the other hooking under his knees before Chris could finish forming a protest. The lift was smooth, leaving the omega out of breath.
"Dax!" Chris started, more reflex than resistance.
"I know," Dax said quietly, already turning toward the corridor.
Chris inhaled, then stopped himself. There was no leverage here, no point to pushing against a body that moved like stone given mobility. The heat of Dax’s chest seeped through the thin fabric of his clothes, steady and grounding, the familiar weight of his mate’s presence settling something restless inside him.
He adjusted instead, one hand curling into Dax’s shirt, his forehead resting briefly against the line of his shoulder.
"Kidnapping," Chris muttered.
"Relocation," Dax corrected, unbothered. "You’re coming willingly."
Chris huffed, then leaned in properly, surrendering to the warmth and the quiet inevitability of it. The palace corridor passed in a blur of soft lighting and muted footsteps, the world narrowing to the slow rhythm of Dax’s stride and the solid promise of arms that did not waver.
When the suite doors opened, Chris no longer bothered pretending he meant to walk.