Dax almost growled.
He didn't. He had enough self-control to keep it lodged in his throat, somewhere just behind his pride and barely ahead of his rationality. But it was close.
Too close.
Because Chris smelled like heat and defiance and something far more dangerous than perfume. And he looked like a threat wrapped in silk and smug satisfaction.
The whisper left a phantom sensation against Dax's skin, soft and unrepentant.
'Happy birthday, Your Majesty.'
The orchestra struck up the next refrain, as if the kingdom hadn't just come within a hair's breadth of being burned to the ground by one omega with excellent bone structure and no shame.
Dax exhaled through his nose, barely.
"You planned this," he muttered, too quiet for the crowd but not for Chris, who smiled like he knew.
"I planned to arrive," Chris said, lips barely moving, "in a timely fashion. It's not my fault your staff treats fabric like religion."
