Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 281: Things That Move Quietly

Chapter 281: Chapter 281: Things That Move Quietly
Nestled inside the velvet lay two collars, each one proof that someone with far too much power and far too much taste had decided his husband and mate, Christopher Altera, would wear nothing short of perfection.
The first was sleek black velvet with a breathtaking diamond centerpiece, the kind of beauty that whispered royal. The second was silvered brilliance and layered craftsmanship, luminous stones resting like stars caught around his throat. Both shared the same suspended drop of diamond, a little ridiculous in value, excessively unnecessary, and so sincerely thoughtful it made his chest ache.
"Dax..." Chris breathed, because if he didn’t say something, he might genuinely lose the ability to speak.
Dax’s expression softened in a way the rest of the world never saw. "Good," he murmured. "You’re already quieter. I was worried I hadn’t bought enough diamonds."
Chris laughed, helplessly. "This is obscene."
"It’s appropriate," Dax corrected mildly, like he was explaining math. "You deserve things built to your standard. And also I enjoy spoiling you beyond reason. It calms me."
"Most people use tea," Chris pointed out.
"Yes. And most people are wrong."
Dax lifted the velvet one first and slid closer, large hands settling with astonishing gentleness against Chris’s throat. The world went strangely intimate. Warm fingers. Cool jewel. Soft ribbon tightening at the nape.
The click of the clasp sounded far too loud for such a delicate thing.
Dax’s thumbs brushed the collar once more just because he could. Then he leaned enough to rest his forehead against Chris’s temple, because pretending to be aloof wasn’t in him tonight.
"It sits better," Dax murmured, voice warm velvet. "Won’t rub your skin raw. The weight distributes differently. You can wear this all night without thinking about it."
Chris swallowed, which unfortunately only pressed his throat more firmly into Dax’s palm.
"You designed this, didn’t you?"
Dax didn’t even try to deny it.
"I made suggestions," he said, which was Dax-speak for
yes, I terrorized an entire design house until reality matched the image in my head.
"They sent me a first model. I sent back notes. They sent me a second model. I became extremely impolite. Eventually they accepted defeat."
Chris’s lips curved, helpless affection sliding in under his ribs.
"You’re unbearable."
"You’re expensive," Dax replied simply. "I’m adjusting."
Chris turned toward the mirror and almost startled at his own reflection.
Ivory silk, gold embroidery, and at his throat, quiet devotion disguised as luxury.
He lifted his hand, fingertips brushing the jewel lightly. "I love it."
Dax’s arm immediately curled around his waist from behind, satisfied like a possessive dragon who had successfully hoarded the moon.
"I know," he said contentedly. "You always do when I’m right."
Chris snorted. "That is not how this works."
"It is exactly how this works."
They stood there a moment, Chris sensing being kept, cherished, and deeply, hopelessly known.
Dax finally pressed a kiss to Chris’s hair.
"Now," he murmured, amused and smug and unmistakably pleased with himself. "You have to be beautiful somewhere public so I can suffer in private and question why no one fainted on sight."
Chris laughed, the sound light and dangerously fond.
"I’ll do my best."
—
The palace hall had been transformed into one of those carefully curated miracles that looked effortless only because an army of people had bled anxiety into perfection behind the scenes.
Music threaded through the air, warm and polished. Crystal chandeliers scattered light like it had been domesticated. Nobles drifted in curated constellations, laughter measured, and smiles sharpened into weapon.
Chris stood slightly off-center in the room, close enough to be visible, far enough to remain unreachable. It was a political art form he had learned almost accidentally and never looked back.
The new collar rested comfortably against his throat, a cool weight and claim, catching every stray line of light. He had expected to be acutely aware of it. Instead, it felt like it had always belonged there.
Rowan stood half a step behind him, a wall disguised as a man.
Across the room, Dax existed like inevitability. He moved through conversation politely only because it amused him. Marianne stood nearby, posture straight, expression cool, playing her part with an ease that would irritate Adonis Malek in ways he wouldn’t admit. Adonis himself lingered further off, a glass in hand and calculation in his eyes, seeing exactly what he wanted to see.
Good.
Chris exhaled slowly, not smiling, but not far from it either.
"Your Majesty."
Sahir’s voice approached before the man did, warm and smooth, political in the comfortable way of someone who could have ruled kingdoms if he’d ever bothered to be that disrespectful to Dax’s existence.
"Consort Christopher," Sahir greeted, stopping before him with a small bow that was somehow respectful without ever feeling subservient.
Beside him stood two young alpha males. Not loud ones, Saha rarely tolerated loud incompetence, but solid, disciplined, cut from the same quiet steel as their father. One was slightly taller, with broader shoulders and a posture like a wall that preferred not to be tested. The other leaner, sharper in gaze, curiosity tempered under etiquette.
Both bowed.
"My sons," Sahir said. "Rayan and Idris."
"Your Grace," the older greeted, voice steady.
"An honor," the younger added, with a touch more warmth, a flash of youthful sincerity peeking through practiced restraint.
"Rayan," Chris acknowledged with a nod that matched the man’s steadiness.
"Idris," he added, a fraction softer, indulging that spark of sincerity the younger refused to fully suffocate under etiquette.
Both straightened a little, the barest flicker of pride crossing their faces.
"Welcome," Chris finished. "Enjoy the evening. It promises to be... educational."
The corner of Sahir’s mouth curved.
"Most evenings here are."
The four of them turned their attention back to the center of gravity in the room.
Dax and Marianne.
She stood to his right, posture composed, expression so perfectly arranged it could have been a diplomatic instrument. The dress was the first thing that drew Idris’s breath out of him.
"Is that...?" he whispered, horrified admiration threading through his tone. "They put Marianne Lancaster in a dress."
"Someone convinced her to wear one," Rayan murmured, eyes narrowing in honest bafflement. "That’s... new."
They watched as Marianne shifted her body fractionally closer to Dax, nothing suggestive, but enough for the assumption to bloom. Enough to feed exactly the illusion they wanted Adonis to swallow whole.
Dax inclined his head toward something Marianne said, his expression perfectly balanced between diplomacy and mild entertainment.
That alone was enough to make the room take notice.
Chris watched with a gaze that was calm and deeply, deeply amused.
Rayan noticed it.
"You’re... very calm about this," he said, respectful but honest.
Chris’s mouth tilted, almost dangerously.
"If the world wishes to pretend," he murmured, "I won’t rob it of the fantasy. It helps us."
Idris glanced across the room again at Dax, then at Chris, then back.
"But she’s... Marianne. She eats general staff for breakfast."
"Mm," Sahir hummed thoughtfully. "And yet, look at the room. Everyone thinks this might be real."
"And it’s not?" Idris asked carefully.
Chris didn’t even pretend to hesitate.
"It is theater," he said, soft and certain. "And the king performs for no one... unless I tell him to."
Sahir’s smile sharpened with satisfied approval.
Across the room, Dax’s attention flickered, just once, away from Marianne, away from Adonis’s watchful gaze, and found Chris again.