Sirius had delivered the word like a blade sliding between ribs and then had the misfortune of still being in the room for what came after.
Dax didn't raise his voice. He didn't lunge. He didn't even shift in his chair in any way that would count as visible anger.
He simply… changed.
It was subtle at first, like the air remembered it belonged to him. The room thinned, the warmth of the food turned irrelevant, and Sirius's instincts - trained on court politics and assassination attempts and the quiet cruelty of imperial halls - registered something older than any of that.
A dominant alpha deciding that mercy was a luxury.
Dax's gaze remained focused on him, bright and calm, and the calm was the problem. It felt like you were standing in front of a cliff edge and hadn't noticed until your heel had found nothing.
Sirius found himself measuring the distance to the door without meaning to.
Not because he thought Dax would hurt him.
