The West Terrace was bathed in the soft warmth of late summer, with the air feeling slow and golden. Light spilled through white sheer curtains, stirring faintly in the breeze that carried the scent of distant citrus gardens and warm stone.
Dax was there already.
His coat, black with intricate gold threading and the royal mantle draped like a commandment, hung neatly over the back of his chair, abandoned in favor of comfort. The king himself lounged on the long ivory sofa, legs stretched out with no hurry, a glass of iced tea balanced loosely in one hand.
He was in a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows and collar open at the throat, exposed skin warm from the sun, gold rings glinting whenever he shifted his grip.
He looked relaxed.
Which was the most dangerous thing Dax ever was, because it meant he was not performing for anyone.
He was just himself.
Chris stood in the doorway for a second longer than he should have, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
