Dax's eyes didn't flick to the doors this time. He hadn't ordered the attendants out to protect his image; he'd done it because he wanted Chris to himself. Anyone else in the room would have been scorched to ash by the look he'd given them, but Chris was still sitting there with a mug of coffee in his hands.
"I don't clear the room to keep up appearances," Dax said, almost idly, as if reading Chris's thoughts. He leaned back in the carved chair, one ankle resting on his knee, the gold of his shawl sliding down his arm. "I clear it because I don't like distractions."
Chris's fingers tightened around the mug. "So it's not about them thinking you've softened?"
