The morning of the summit found Chris standing in front of the tall mirror of their suite, the fog of Belvare curling around the windows like it was trying to be dramatic.
He looked unfairly good.
Black tailored suit, crisp white shirt, open at the throat just enough to be dangerous, hair styled with infuriating elegance. The kind of look that said diplomat and heartbreaker and problem for three separate ministries.
And, very intentionally… No collar.
He admired himself for half a second.
Then Dax walked in.
The temperature in the room dropped approximately five degrees.
Chris saw the reaction in the mirror first: the stillness, the slow narrowing of purple eyes, and the way a predator realizes something in its territory has been rearranged without permission.
"You forgot something," Dax said, voice deceptively mild.
Chris smiled sweetly. "My coffee."
Dax didn't blink. "Your throat is naked."
"Scandalous, I know."
"This is not a fashion show."
