Caught by the Mad Alpha King

Chapter 493: The last question.

"Caught," Dax said. "Not condemned."

That wiped some of the amusement from Nero’s face, which was, in Dax’s opinion, useful.

Because yes, he approved.

He approved of the fact that Nero had loved one person long enough for it to stop being impulse and become character. Ten years, in one form or another, was not a passing fixation. It was not court boredom, youthful vanity, or the kind of hunger that mistook possession for depth. It had survived age, timing, humiliation, distance, and enough reasons to die quietly three times over.

Dax respected that.

He respected, too, that Nero had not tried to replace the feeling with something easier. He had chosen the more difficult path and remained on it with all the stubborn patience Dax himself had never possessed.

That part, unfortunately, was Chris.

Dax had found out Chris was an omega and kidnapped him that same night.

There was no prettier word for it.

No useful lie to place over the shape of the memory.

He had wanted, claimed, forced proximity, and called it certainty because he had not yet learned the difference between taking and being chosen. He had made enough mistakes in those early days to nearly lose any future in which Chris loved him freely. The fact that he had not lost it was not proof of wisdom. It was mercy, luck, and the brutal patience of the man he had eventually learned to deserve.

Nero, for all his faults, had not made that mistake.

Dax turned the black diamond ring once around his finger. "You took your patience from your mother. That remains unnatural to watch."

For a moment the office held only late light and silence.

Then Dax said, more plainly, "I’m not trying to stop you."

Nero stilled.

Dax continued, "If I wanted this stopped, it would already be stopped."

Nero knew that too. That was the whole point. Dax did not need implication when he had decided on prohibition. He did not circle. He removed. Reassigned. Cut routes. Closed doors. Ended options. The fact that none of that had happened was its own statement.

So Nero only said, "I know."

Dax watched him for another beat. "What I am doing is making sure you don’t push him past what he can actually carry."

Nero’s expression changed, amusement leaving it properly now. "I know what he can handle."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

That answer came without hesitation, and Dax believed it.

"You were the one," Dax said, "who added pheromonal medical control before every dispatch."

Nero’s face did not change. "Yes."

"You put stabilization support in place before anyone asked."

"Yes."

"You adjusted response windows, added medical oversight, and made sure someone qualified was present before the worst sectors rotated."

"Yes."

Dax’s gaze stayed on him. "Good."

That landed harder than if he had shouted.

Because that was approval.

Nero looked at him with more caution now than before. "You’re not angry."

Dax almost smiled. "No. I’m checking whether you’re being foolish with his body or only strategic with his schedule."

That drew a brief breath of laughter out of Nero despite himself. "That’s a terrible sentence."

"It’s a necessary one."

Nero inclined his head slightly. "Then no. I’m not being foolish with his body."

Dax nodded once. "Good. Because if you were, we’d be having a different conversation."

They both knew exactly what that meant.

The office stayed quiet for a second longer until Nero said, lower now, "I wasn’t trying to break him."

"No," Dax said. "You were trying to make sure he’d come to you before he broke."

"He will," Nero said honestly.

—

Two years later - Palatine - Zion’s wedding

The palace was full.

Music moved through the reception halls in long, polished currents. Glass caught gold light. Nobles drifted between rooms in silk, jewels, and political appetite. Somewhere deeper in the western wing, Zion was being congratulated for the hundredth time by people who would later claim they had always believed in love, diplomacy, and this exact match in that exact order.

Nero had left the ballroom ten minutes ago.

Palatine’s old palace had too many corridors and too much history to ever truly offer silence, but one of the private marble washrooms off the eastern gallery came close. The corridor outside it was dimmer than the reception rooms, the music from the wedding softened by distance and thick walls.

The bathroom door stood half-open.

Nero stopped.

Inside, under cold white light and a wall of tall mirrors, Sebastian Fitzgeralt braced both hands on the marble sink and coughed blood into it.

Sebastian’s shoulders were rigid beneath his formal black suit, one hand tightening against the edge of the counter hard enough to blanch the knuckles. His head was bowed for a second, dark hair fallen slightly forward, the line of his neck drawn tight with effort. When he lifted his face at last, his green eyes met the mirror first, not the doorway.

Nero did not move.

He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe instead, easy as sin, and watched.

Sebastian looked at Nero through the mirror with the exhausted fury of a man who no longer had the energy to pretend ignorance was still possible.

There was a towel near the sink already marked red.

A glass of water untouched beside it.

On the marble counter, near the base of the mirror, lay a small silver case Nero recognized at once: suppressant tablets, medical-grade, half used.

Too late for them tonight, then.

The infection-control fronts in Alamina had not become easier over the last two years. Neither had the pheromonal beast lines. Sebastian had continued to go where he was most useful, which had remained a punishing occupation for dominant alphas who pushed too far, too often, and for too long without the proper stabilization.

Nero had stopped touching the dispatches.

That had not changed the world nearly as much as some men liked to imagine.

Sebastian spat blood into the sink again, rinsed his mouth once, and then placed both hands flat on the marble, as if he had deliberately chosen not to fold.

The mirror held them both.

Sebastian in the bright cold light, pale now beneath the olive undertone of his skin, green eyes cutting and raw.

Nero behind him in the doorway, taller, broader, beautifully composed, dressed for a royal wedding, and looking more like the end of a long argument than any proper guest had a right to.

Neither spoke.

The music beyond the walls swelled faintly and fell away again.

When Sebastian finally lifted his head fully, his gaze in the mirror was pure venom.

Nero found that almost reassuring.

"You look terrible," Sebastian said, his voice roughened slightly by the blood and the effort of keeping it steady.

Nero’s mouth moved by a fraction. "You’re the one bleeding into expensive stone."

"That is not your concern."

Nero only hummed.

Sebastian’s jaw tightened in pain.

And still... still he looked at Nero like a challenge rather than a plea.

"You shouldn’t be here," Sebastian said.

"At Zion’s wedding?"

"In this room."

Nero stepped fully inside at last and let the door fall almost shut behind him.

The sound of the latch settling into place was very small.

Sebastian’s eyes flicked to it and back, not bothering to hide his anger.

"You were always going to come," Sebastian said.

"Yes."

"You are insufferable."

"Yes."

"And disgustingly pleased with yourself."

That, finally, drew something nearer to a smile from Nero. "Maybe."

Sebastian laughed once, and the sound ended badly enough that he had to turn his head and breathe through it. When he looked back, the fury in him had only sharpened.

Nero’s eyes dropped once, briefly, to the red in the sink and then returned to Sebastian’s face. "You should stop pretending you didn’t know."

Sebastian knew exactly what Nero was.

What he could offer and what it would mean if Sebastian took even one full step toward him now.

The mirror showed them the shape of everything: blood, marble, evening clothes, the effects of too much work, and the last, clear, and hateful timing.

Nero stopped a few feet away.

Not close enough to touch.

Close enough that Sebastian would feel the edge of him anyway, the contained power under perfect control, the thing Nero had spent years learning not to spill carelessly into rooms.

He only stood there and made Sebastian look at the choice.

The silence stretched.

Then Nero asked, softly enough that the words barely disturbed the air, "Do you accept me now?"

In the mirror, Sebastian’s green eyes lifted and met Nero’s with such concentrated hatred that it bordered on intimacy.

His pupils were still blown wide from pain. There was still a red smear of blood on his mouth that was too small to be graceful and too bright to miss. The glare he sent Nero through the reflection was magnificent - murderous, exhausted, fully aware, and so fiercely alive in its resistance that for one suspended second it made him look younger than thirty-one and older than every choice that had brought them here.

Nero looked back with a soft smile that proves he never stopped and never will.

The end.