Chapter 96: Chapter 96: Phone Call at 4 a.m.
The bathwater steamed faintly, the scent of cedar and bergamot clinging to the marble walls. The embassy’s private suite had been built to impress visiting heads of state, with black stone polished to a mirror sheen, golden fixtures gleaming under soft lamplight, and every inch a declaration of wealth and excess. Dax sank deeper into the tub, the water sliding over his shoulders, washing away three days of diplomacy and the bitter aftertaste of restraint.
He had dismissed Killian half an hour ago. The man had lingered, as he always did, making sure the towels were warm and the teapot stayed within reach before leaving with a quiet bow and the faint disapproval of someone who had long accepted that his king did not know how to rest properly.
Dax let the silence settle. The water rippled faintly as he flexed his hands, the tendons standing out under skin that felt too tight. His reflection on the surface looked wrong. too sharp and tired, eyes ringed with sleeplessness and something dangerously close to longing.
He reached for the phone on the marble ledge. Dax leaned his head back against the rim of the tub, water lapping at his collarbones. His fingers hovered over the screen. He hesitated for exactly five seconds before tapping the call icon.
The line rang once. Twice. Then...
A muffled thud, the faint sound of shuffling, and Chris’s voice, low and half-asleep: "If this is Rowan trying to bully me into vitamins again, I swear to God..."
"It’s not Rowan."
There was a beat of silence, the kind that made the air itself hold its breath.
"...You."
"Me," Dax said, his tone deceptively calm. "I did warn you I’d call tonight."
Another pause. Then, dry as paper: "I thought that was a diplomatic lie."
"Apparently, you’re not the only one with bad judgment."
The sound that followed was something between a laugh and an exhale. Chris must have been sitting up now; Dax could hear the rustle of fabric and the faint, lazy hum of the ventilation system on his end.
"It’s four a.m. in the morning."
"Well, here is nine p.m."
Chris groaned, the kind of noise that came from equal parts disbelief and resignation. "Time zones are a scam. Who lets kings make international calls at four a.m.?"
"I do," Dax said simply, sinking a little lower into the water. The quiet splash on his end was followed by the faint sound of him exhaling. "You’re awake now."
"I was asleep, Your Majesty. Key word... past tense." The way Chris said it, gruff and scratchy with sleep, made Dax’s mouth twitch. He could picture him perfectly: hair a mess, shirt twisted, probably squinting against the light of his phone, stubbornly clinging to irritation because it was easier than admitting anything else.
"Then consider this an early start," Dax said. "You always complain about wasting mornings."
"I complain about mornings in general," Chris corrected. "You calling from a bathtub?"
Dax didn’t answer immediately. He reached for the teacup on the marble tray beside him, steam curling up and fogging the edges of his reflection. "Yes."
"Of course you are," Chris muttered. "Diplomatic crisis one minute, spa commercial the next."
"I’m relaxing," Dax said dryly. "I’ve barely restrained myself when there was a child bride involved. You think I’m mad, but these people are at another level."
Chris went quiet, the kind of silence that meant he was both horrified and trying not to show it. "You’re joking."
"I wish I were." Dax’s tone was steady, though the memory flickered sharp behind his eyes: the girl’s trembling hands, the weight of too much gold around a too-small neck, and the way Varlen had smiled as if the offer were a compliment. "Fourteen. He called it diplomacy. I called it an insult."
A low breath hissed through the line. "And you didn’t strangle him because...?"
"Because I’m civilized," Dax said, swirling the tea once before setting it back on the tray. "And because killing a foreign head of state tends to ruin dinner."
Chris made a soft, incredulous noise. "You’re unbelievable."
"I’ve been told."
"I meant that as an insult."
"I accepted it as fact."
The sound that followed was faint but unmistakable, a stifled laugh, half-hidden behind a sigh. It slipped through the phone, quieter than the water lapping against the tub.
"Are you sure you’re allowed to talk about that?" Chris asked after a moment. "Rowan told me that you usually vanish behind six layers of protocol whenever you travel."
"Rohan doesn’t deserve protocol," Dax replied. "They deserve a lesson in basic decency."
"That’s still politics," Chris pointed out, voice softening despite himself. "And you shouldn’t be calling me about politics. You sound... tired."
"I’m fine," Dax said, though the word came out heavier than intended. He leaned back, the water rising around him again, a muted hush filling the room. "I just wanted to hear you before I try to sleep."
"If you ask for a lullaby..."
"...I’ll hang up," Chris finished, his tone caught somewhere between a warning and a yawn.
Dax’s mouth curved faintly. "I was going to ask for silence. You ruined it."
"Good. I’d hate to set a precedent."
"Too late for that."
There was a rustle on the other end, blankets shifting, and a quiet groan as Chris moved. Dax could picture him now, slumped back against the pillows, hair sticking up at odd angles, the kind of half-awake expression that made his sarcasm sound even more lethal.
"You’re impossible," Chris muttered. "You call at four in the morning, talk about child marriage and politics, and then... what? Expect small talk until you pass out in a bubble bath?"
"I didn’t say there were bubbles," Dax replied, amused.
"Tragic oversight. Would’ve suited the image. I can’t believe Killian forgot about something."
Dax let out a low hum. "Are you imagining it now?"
"Don’t flatter yourself."
"Mhmm... Well, you were very hands-on with that kiss before I left. Are you sure you are not imagining anything? I don’t judge."
There was a sharp inhale on the other end, the kind that sounded like someone sitting bolt upright and regretting it immediately.
"Excuse me?" Chris’s voice cracked halfway through the word, somewhere between scandalized and too awake for his own good.
Dax smiled into the steam. "You heard me."
"Unbelievable," Chris muttered, but it didn’t have much bite. "You disappear for three days, call in the middle of the night, and this is your choice of conversation?"
"You brought up the bath," Dax reminded him, tone soft, measured, the verbal equivalent of running a thumb over bruised pride. "I was simply continuing your line of thought."
"That was sarcasm, not an invitation."
"I took it as both."
"Of course you did."
The sheets rustled again, sharper this time. Dax could almost see it: Chris shoving a hand through his hair, glaring at the ceiling as if it could save him from the conversation he’d started.
"Take care of yourself and sleep," Chris said finally.
Dax hummed, the sound low and noncommittal. "You’re giving me orders now?"
"Someone has to," Chris replied, the words soft but steady. "And you don’t seem inclined to listen to anyone else."
"True," Dax admitted, letting the smallest hint of a smile touch his voice. "But I only listen when I want to."
"Then pretend you do," Chris shot back, though the edge had dulled. He was too tired to spar properly, his words rounding at the corners.
"Filed and ignored," Dax said, and Chris huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if he weren’t already half-asleep.
The sound faded into a small, human quiet, the kind that existed only between two people who’d stopped pretending they weren’t thinking about each other.
"Go to sleep, Dax," Chris said again, but softer this time. Less an order, more a request.
"I’ll manage," Dax said. "Eventually."
The silence that followed was longer, gentler. Dax tilted his head back against the marble, listening to the faint sound of Chris breathing.
When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to something quiet and unguarded. "Sleep well, Christopher."
Chris’s reply came after a pause, the words blurring with the edges of exhaustion. "Goodnight, Dax. Try not to declare war before breakfast."
A small, helpless smile ghosted across Dax’s face. "No promises."