The streetlamp buzzed faintly overhead, the night too still for comfort. Christopher kept his hands in his pockets, forcing his shoulders not to tense under the weight of that violet gaze.
Dax took another step closer, stopping just at the edge of Christopher's space. Up close, the casual attire did nothing to blunt the aura he carried, the easy command of a man who had ordered armies to move with a word.
"Get in," Dax said softly, tilting his head toward the sleek car behind him. "We have something to discuss."
It wasn't a request.
'Fuck.'
Christopher's pulse jumped. His mind raced through every option, every escape route, every excuse and discarded them all. Running would be suicide; a king's pride was one thing, but this king's fury was something else entirely. Dax of Saha, the man whose name was whispered in the same breath as violent negotiations and broken treaties, wasn't someone you defied and walked away from unscathed.
